#it was very sweet but i have trouble believing her because 1. she drinks heavily and 2. just got out of a long term relationship lol

[larentslovechaos]

You had a daaaaate? 🥺👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

hiii yes I guess you could call it that! 🥺

I just hung out at the bar with a girl I dated when we were pretty much just kids lol (we were like 13). but we've been very good friends/also a recurring situationship for a very long time. we were just hanging out with her friends, but she did buy my drinks, so yeah i guess you could call that a date, right?

i did sleep over her house the other night though, which was very nice. I'd like to think things haven't been *this* serious with us before. but I could be wrong. at many points over the years we were very much a recurring situationship, but this feels different. guess we'll see where it goes..

#she never talks about her feelings with me but actually has been this time around #it's very strange and different lol #the way she just didn't care about anyone else around us at the bar was crazy #like she literally told me ''it's always been you'' 🥹🥺🥹 #and basically said '' nobody else in this room matters'' #it was very sweet but i have trouble believing her because 1. she drinks heavily and 2. just got out of a long term relationship lol #she also told me she was talking to another girl that was there #so i'm being very.... cautious #it very much feels like she just says what she thinks i want to hear #i've never felt anything for anyone that compares to what i feel for her #for suchhh a long time too like we didn't talk for almost 2 years and we're... like this now🥲 #so sorry for rambling sjfjdksk #but thank you for asking 🥹💖💖 #katelyn rambles in the tags #personal post

[imagining-in-the-margins]

I'm here! Finally answering these Anon Asks!

1. It is real (for now) 😅 It'll be very different than before - exclusive to Paramount+, not including all of the original cast*, only 10 episodes, and will be focused on one case rather than a procedural.

* The main S15 cast was invited back. Kirsten is not returning, and I think Daniel Henney will be busy on his new show. Matthew mentioned not really wanting to, but he was willing to reconsider. Paget and Joe have been very vocal supporters of the reboot, but Paget has been calling for fans to support her in negotiations.

We'll see. Not much has been decided yet. You can read more here.

2. You're my favorite and I hope you get all the hugs and kisses you desire, friend 😚

3. Yeah... I really blame the writers. They clearly wanted her to be some weird, stereotypical "spunky" girl. But, naturally, the writing team is riddled with misogyny and a deep misunderstanding of women, lmao. RLC is an amazing actress. I don't know what she could have done to save that mess of a character.

I really think her character was unnecessary on top of all of that. Spencer's final arc was about how he spent his whole life basing his worth and purpose on the women in his life (his Mother, JJ, Maeve, Cat). Date Night would have been a lot more meaningful if, after he got closure with Cat, he realized that he was still his own person, and would continue to exist after she was gone, and that he was going to be okay.

They could've done something great... but, alas...

4. Awe, of course! Like I mentioned before, I am planning on collecting Dad!Spencer fics to post on Father's Day. I hope that they all comfort you and reassure you that, even though your Father failed you, there are still so many people who will love and appreciate you, and we want you to know it!

5. So, there is a sequel to the book (which I have not read!) where he ends up in a remarkably similar situation. Here is the summary:

A month after narrowly surviving the most harrowing night of his life, Chip Taylor is living in a seedy, pay-by-the-week motel in a sleepy coastal town in Florida. He still has most of the 68 grand he and his crazy ex-girlfriend stole back in Tennessee, but he's a man living at loose ends, directionless and without a plan. He's drinking too much and surrendering to too many of the same temptations that landed him in so much trouble in the first place. It isn't long before Chip finds himself wrapped up in another nightmarish descent into bloody madness and chaos. And this time his survival is more in doubt than ever.

That is, obviously, super depressing, lmao. Probably realistic, too, honestly. I personally like to believe that he got a decent job and lived a modest life. He met a very sweet person that treated him well. He got therapy and spent the rest of his life being perfectly mediocre and happy about it. But to be honest, I haven't thought about it a lot!

6. Angst is a category of literature, although the term is usually used exclusively in fanfiction. Here is a simple definition from Urban Dictionary that, I feel, summarizes it well:

An adjective describing a situation or literary piece which contains dark, depressing, angry, and/or brooding emotions from the participating characters.

7. Ugh, I'm so sorry that you had a bad experience. Medications can be so hard. For you for take steps, even in such a state, to try to self-soothe is extremely impressive and you should be proud of yourself!

I'm glad you exist, too, and I'm so happy to hear that my mindless Spotify collections provided you some comfort in such an awful time.

I hope you have a wonderful day, too. Long-term medication regimens are seriously exhausting, and you are doing a great job. Keep it up, friend! You deserve so much happiness in life, and I'm so proud of you for taking care of yourself the best you can.

8. [NSFW] Hi friend! I can't say much on this subject, as I'm not a lesbian myself, but I do want to assure you that I've heard other lesbians, gay men, and aroace people express similar sentiments!

The truth is, to me, erotica is completely different aspect of enjoyment than the physical acts of sex. There are many things I enjoy reading or watching that I would never engage in physically. When you view erotica as a form of expression, separate from the expression of physicality, you might find that the true divide isn't the gender of the characters, but the emotions and connections established.

TL;DR, I'm very sorry you're feeling confused, but I know a ton of lesbians who enjoy reading het erotica, and you shouldn't necessarily feel like you are less valid of a lesbian because you like erotica works (written predominantly by women, mind you!).

Also, if your friends mock you for reading fanfiction, they kind of sound like jerks. There isn't much difference between fanfic and published works such as Outlander, which have remarkable success. You could always just say you read that (the smut scenes are, IMO, significantly less cringy in Outlander than other mainstream erotica, such as 50 Shades).

I hope that you get some relief from the frustration you're feeling. If you decide that you're bisexual and just heavily lean to women, I am happy to celebrate that with you, but I'm just as excited to celebrate if you decide that you are still a lesbian! 💕

Best of luck, friend. I'm happy you're here no matter what ☺️

#answer #answered

[agduna-central]

First Love

An Agduna story i wrote as Secret Santa on our Agduna Discord server for @itsmecollington

I had the choice between three wishes: 1. teen Agduna sharing a sweet moment outside as the sun sets over the fjord’s water 2. teen Agduna holding hands as Gale floats them gently in the air (like in the deleted scene but relaxed) (setting is up to you!) 3. teen Agduna drinking hot chocolate and laughing together

And then i thought why not take all of them for the story. This is the result and i hope you like it. Enjoy.

***

Agnarr

Both were exhausted and stopped breathing heavily. He stood bent over and had his hands on his knees while he did not let Iduna out of his sight. Iduna, however, only wiped the sweat from her forehead and had a triumphant expression on her face. They had been playing hide and seek during the last hour, giving each other nothing. He didn't give up and kept chasing after her, touching her according to the rules of the game. But she was quick, fled from him and skillfully avoided all his attempts to pat her down. However, Iduna had help from this magical being and took advantage of this benefit mercilessly. So he was clearly at a disadvantage. She smiled at him.

"Well, have you had enough now?"

"Of course not! But let me first catch my breath a little, then we'll continue. I'll get you soon enough," he replied and looked at her with a slightly angry look. "If you didn't have the help of this...wind...thing, the whole thing would look very different, believe me."

"This wind thing, as you call it, is named Gale and is one of the four Spirits. Gale is my friend," Iduna explained to him and proudly crossed her arms in front of her chest.

He straightened up and looked at her while he slowly recovered. She was so different from the girls in Arendelle; he thought. So confident, resolved and bold. He liked her, although she behaved so disrespectfully to him, the Prince of Arendelle. But beyond that, he liked her too. She looked so sweet when she smiled.

"The way you...made Gale twirl me around in the air earlier and then let me plop to the ground in this degrading way was really unfair. You had your fun with me, it was obvious," he lamented and looked at her as determinedly as she was looking at him right now. But on the other hand, he also had a lot of fun.

This feeling of floating in the air high up near the treetops had been incredibly exciting. His heart was pounding in his chest as he looked down with nothing but air under his feet and the surrounding world revolved around him. In the end, she had given him a nudge on the nose and grinningly said "Boop!" She had clearly won the game, but he couldn't blame her for that. He wanted more of it.

Iduna just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. For a moment they just stood there and assessed each other with glances. Then he sighed.

"Do you think Gale would listen to me, too?" he asked. "I mean, can I get this Wind Spirit to make me float as you can?"

Iduna raised her eyebrows and thought for a second. Then she shook her head.

"I don't think that's possible. But I can tell him that he will just lift us both up and let us both float quietly for a while."

He nodded, "All right. But no tricks this time. Promise?"

"Promise!" she said and then shouted loudly for Gale. A moment later, leaves spun up, circled around her and played with her long hair. She giggled because it apparently tickled her neck. A few leaves now floated in front of her face, circling around an imaginary spot in the air. She held one hand next to her mouth and whispered something to the leaves that he could not understand. It looked kind of strange what she was doing. Then the leaves suddenly came towards him and he automatically took a few steps back.

'Now don't be such a coward, he thought, and stopped expectantly. A powerful air stream whirled around him and he felt the power behind it. Slowly Gale pushed him upwards and his feet came off the ground. He floated now and immediately this euphoric feeling was back. His clothes fluttered around him and the wind whizzed through his hair. He spread his arms wide and laughed. This time it went very slowly and he climbed more and more. Iduna floated up with him and, smiling, came closer at the same height. They climbed further and further and his heartbeat raced. This time, however, with joy. Then they passed the tops of the trees and were suddenly above the forest.

He hadn't expected this sight, and he hadn't imagined that they would both climb so high. Frightened, he rowed with his arms, but there was nothing to hold on to. Only air. Iduna noticed his fear and let herself be carried even closer to him. She grabbed his hands and stabilized him, giving him the support he needed. He looked at her gratefully and smiled. Then he could look around in peace. What an incredible experience; he thought. The view from up here was simply phenomenal.

The wind rustled in his ears and so he was a little louder than he wanted to be.

"That's fantastic, Iduna!" he shouted.

Iduna bent to his ear, "Not so loud, Agnarr! We don't want to draw attention to ourselves, do you hear?"

He opened his eyes and nodded violently when the situation became clear to him. No imagining what would happen if his father saw him like that. He now concentrated fully on Iduna and felt the safe, warm grip of her hands. They were now very close and their faces were only a handbreadth apart. He looked deeply into her eyes and began to sink into them. She held his gaze and smiled at him. Something was happening between the two of them as they floated silently on the spot. There was suddenly a completely new feeling inside him and he felt it in his stomach. It was like a swarm of butterflies and warmth was spreading inside.

He experienced a strong affection for her, an attraction he had never felt before. He could not name it, but he knew in that moment that he wanted to be near her all the time. A deep desire made him tilt his head towards her, but then he hesitated. He couldn't just kiss a strange girl, high up and floating in the air. Embarrassed, he lowered his gaze, saw their feet dangling freely in the air, and the ground below suddenly seemed to be infinitely far away. It would have been better if he hadn't done that now; he suddenly became aware of it, and the butterflies in his stomach had suddenly become something else. Something that wanted to go up by force, through his throat and out.

He noticed that Iduna looked at him as he began to turn green in the face, causing Gale to gently slide them both down.

"Do not look down, Agnarr! Just look at me, okay?"

He nodded and followed her advice. His grip on her hands became tighter and he swallowed hard. 'Just don't throw up now', he thought. He closed his eyes and opened them again as soon as he realized that this only made things worse. She giggled and he just found the situation even more embarrassing.

When they were back down on safe ground he took a few deep breaths in and out. A gentle breeze cooled his face and only now did he realize that he was a little cold. Unlike Iduna in her warm reindeer skin clothing, he only wore his thin city clothes and they were not made for this climate, especially not for situations like this. But slowly he started to feel better again.

"Thank you, Iduna, for this extraordinary experience! It just got a little cold up there and I could use a cup or two of hot chocolate. It warms so nicely from the inside."

Iduna looked at him questioningly, "Hot chocolate? What is it?"

"Hold on, you do not know chocolate? For real? Oh, man, you really missed something. This is the best taste you can ever imagine. Sweet and melt-in-the-mouth. As hot chocolate, it's just dreamy."

"We don't have anything like that here. Apart from honey, we don't have anything sweet here and even that we don't eat very often, because wild honey is not so easy to come by," Iduna said and shrugged her shoulders regretfully.

"We absolutely must remedy that. I can have this drink made for you in our camp. You will be thrilled," Agnarr replied eagerly, looking forward to returning the favor and spending more time with her.

But Iduna shook her head, she even looked a bit frightened; he thought as he believed to recognize in her facial expression.

"I am not allowed in your camp. If I'm seen there, I'll be in big trouble.

"Well, I'll bring you a cup of it," he said understandingly. "Just wait there at the edge of the forest for my return. It won't take very long."

Iduna swayed her head and thought for a moment. Then she finally smiled and nodded. "All right. I'll wait for you there."

"I'll be right back. I promise!" Then he turned around and hurried off.

***

Nevertheless, the following events took a completely different course and his memories became blurred. The first thing he remembered was waking up in his bed in Arendelle and the doctors of the castle taking care of him. What had happened before remained hidden from him. There was only a blurry image in his head, the face of a pretty young girl on a cart beside him, and he thought he remembered handing her a bar of chocolate.

***

Iduna

More than a month had passed and she now lived in Arendelle in the orphanage and had daily classes in the castle. She wanted to look around the town a bit more today and after that she wanted to go for a walk by the fjord.

She just had passed a store where chocolate was sold and immediately memories came back to her. Memories of a promise that unfortunately could not be kept due to the events of that time. Worse of all, Agnarr did not remember their experience together with Gale, her friend the Wind Spirit. She had recognized this from his behavior during her last encounters. Ever since he hit his head on that rock, he didn't even know who and most importantly, what she was. And it was better that way; she thought.

She walked on, deeply lost in thought, and only then did she realize that she was almost at the fjord when she arrived at the great weir wall. She looked up at the wall and saw the reddish glow in the clouds above. The sun set soon and it had already become late. But now she was already here and could just as well watch the sunset at the fjord.

She entered the gate and the city guard let her pass. Once outside, she looked around for a suitable place to sit down comfortably. But the most comfortable place seemed to be already occupied and it was the young king Agnarr, of all people, who sat there and two guards, who leaned against the wall far enough away but still within shouting distance behind him and talked.

She hesitated. Should she simply walk over to Agnarr or turn around and go back to the city? His guards had already noticed her, too, and were now looking at her suspiciously. She was already about to turn her back to the fjord when Agnarr saw her and waved to her.

"Iduna!"

The guards relaxed again, and she couldn't just walk away again now that the young king had noticed her. It would be more than just rude; she thought. She sighed softly and marched towards him with measured steps.

"Your Majesty," she said with a slight bow as she reached him, and he pointed beside her to offer her a seat. She sat down next to him on his blanket and nervousness blossomed in her. Here on the fjord the air had become quite cool at this time of day and a light breeze was tugging at her hair.

"Iduna, you know you don't have to talk to me like that when we're alone."

"I know, Agnarr. It's just because of your two guards who keep an eye on us."

He took a quick look back, smiled at her, and waved. "Don't worry about them. So you have the same idea today as I did... to enjoy the sunset on the Arenfjord. I am very happy that destiny brought us together here."

She didn't know what to answer. Sitting here with the young king on the shore made her a bit nervous. She couldn't handle him as well as she did in the forest thus admit that they had known each other for a long time and had feelings for each other. So she just nodded and looked at him a bit shyly.

Agnarr smiled. "May I perhaps offer you something to drink?" he asked and reached into a basket behind him. "It will warm us a little from the inside, now that it is already getting colder at the fjord."

"What is it?" she asked and followed his hand with her gaze. He opened the lid, took out a clay cup and handed it to her. Then he pulled out a small bulbous carafe from under a blanket in the basket and unplugged it. It steamed from the opening into the cool air above. "I love hot tea. Thank you, Agnarr," she said with a smile and held the cup out to him.

"No tea, Iduna. Much better! It's hot chocolate."

She almost dropped the mug and was speechless. He had kept his old promise and did not even know it. She stared at him and the sweet smell of chocolate wafted over to her. The taste of chocolate was familiar to her by now, he had finally given her a bar of it on the cart and it tasted heavenly. But in liquid form? She stretched out her hand and he poured the dark liquid into her cup.

She gently sipped it and then took a bigger gulp. Agnarr watched her closely and his grin grew wider and wider. "Hmm...," she hummed in delight and closed her eyes.

"Well, did I promise too much?" he asked.

"It tastes heavenly," she replied and drank the cup empty. He laughed.

"More?"

She nodded vehemently and held the cup out to him. "Aren't you drinking with us?" she asked while he gave her a refill.

"Well, I hadn't expected visitors and so I only took one drinking vessel with me. But that's no problem, I drink it quite often in the castle. But you don't seem to know it yet and I'm glad that we have the same taste. So you are welcome to drink the carafe empty while the chocolate is still warm," he said and put the vessel back into the basket.

"Thank you, Agnarr, that's sweet of you," she replied smiling and took another sip.

The sun was already very low and its reddish ball was reflected glittering in the rippling water of the fjord. It had become quiet and even the two guards had interrupted their conversation and now enjoyed the picturesque sight as much as they did.

Agnarr slipped back a bit to give her a better view and his hand landed on hers. They looked at each other and after a few moments she turned her hand around and enclosed his. No words were necessary. Both enjoyed the presence of the other and at some point Agnarr slid closer to her and put his arm around her. She smiled and after a while her head sank contentedly on his shoulder and both watched the sun slowly sink.

***

#frozen #agduna #fanfic #mine #myedit #young agnarr #young iduna #gale #king agnarr #hot chocolate #fjord sunset #holding hands

[dragonologist-phd]

OC Interview

I was tagged by @risualto a while back for this!! I decided to use Desta, of course!

And I’ll tag @rannadylin @lunarowena @serenbach86 @haileyoc if y’all wanna do it!

Pick three companions who know your OC/muse well. Answer the questions from at least one of their companions’ points of view.  Name the three companions who will be answering here:

Siobhan- Kind Wayfarer mentor

Aloth- love interest

Tekehu- best friend

Are they ready to be candid with their responses? Don’t worry, this is totally private. Desta will never read it.

1. First Impressions. What was the first impression you had of Desta?

Siobhan: “She was a young thing, fresh on the road- you could tell because she didn’t know the first thing about handling a weapon. But she looked up at me with these big pleading eyes and I couldn’t turn her away. Plus she nearly got eaten by a drake and didn’t let that scare her off, so I at least knew she had some guts. So I took her under my wing and began showing her the ropes of the paladins.”

Aloth: “She helped me out of a rather unpleasant situation with some fellows in Gilded Vale. And I was grateful, of course. But aside from that I didn’t know what to make of her. She was a heavily armed stranger who appeared out of nowhere and was rambling about visions...despite being glad for a friendly face, I was still a bit wary. Luckily our relationship only improved from there.”

Tekehu: “I was quite enchanted to meet another one of the gods’ chosen! She probably wouldn’t appreciate my wording it that way, but that’s the truth. Not to say I didn’t also appreciate that she was an interesting, well-traveled newcomer with a refreshing irreverence for authority. I was quite enticed by the idea of getting to knew her better-“

Aloth: *frowns disapprovingly*

Tekehu: “-as a friend, seeing as it was soon clear that was all she desired between us.”

2. Desta walks into a bar. No, it’s not a joke - what does she order? If you give her a credit for the jukebox, what kind of music would she put on?

Siobhan: "Ha, you wouldn’t think it, but that girl has an iron stomach! Still, she’d probably stick to something lighter, and some upbeat music to go with it.”

Aloth: “She’s not a heavy drinker- she prefers sweet drinks, or perhaps a cider. And she likes dancing music, despite not being much of a dancer herself.”

Tekehu: "If this bar is in the Deadfire, there’s a pineapple drink I introduced her to that she quite enjoyed! As for music, she appreciates a good beat!”

3. How does Desta spend a day off from work?

Siobhan: "She’d still be off getting into trouble somewhere- that’s her idea of relaxing, which is probably why she fit in so well with the Wayfarers. We’re all a little bit like that.”

Aloth: "You’d probably find her out in her garden, if she’s at Caed Nua. When she doesn’t have that to distract her, however, she can’t stand days off. She usually ends up either exploring or helping people out with odd jobs, which are both technically still her job description.”

Tekehu: "Finding more work to do! I try to get her to relax more- I even offered to pay for a day at the Luminous Bathhouse. She simply has a restless soul.“

4. What silly superstitions or funny traditions does she observe?

Siobhan: "Nothing funnier than the other paladins. Most of us had good luck charms and things like that we carry around- Desta liked to make her own, these little flower chains that she would weave together. Not sure if she learned it from someone else or if it’s a Desta original.”

Aloth: "She still makes those flower charms! She also likes to make special meals for every new year that she says are good luck, which isn’t that strange- we do something not dissimilar in Aedyr. It’s simply that the food she makes involves a certain dish with beans that is...not very good. But please don’t tell her I said that. I don’t think she believes much in luck, but she seems to enjoy the cooking.”

Tekehu: “I taught her a few Deadfire traditions in our time together- she likes hearing about them, although I doubt she keeps up with any of them now.”

5. What does Desta wear to bed? And just how do you know that?

Siobhan: “When you’re on long journeys and sleeping in tents, you get to know what people wear to bed. Desta usually just fell asleep in whatever she happened to be wearing under her armor that day.”

Aloth: "When we travel, she can fall asleep in any position and in any clothing. When we’re not traveling- which is rare- she’s rather fond of roomy, comfortable clothing. (Modern AU: She has a collection of old sweatshirts, all at least one size too large, that she loves sleeping in.”

Tekehu: "I rarely see her out of some form of practical clothing, so I can only assume that is what she sleeps in. Ship life doesn’t offer much privacy, and yet I’ve never seen her in specific sleepwear of any kind. Also, our friend Aloth neglected to answer the second part of the question.”

Aloth: *flushes* “Well, I should think it goes without saying. We do not all have the need to be so...flagrant about our sleeping arrangements.”

6. Your favorite memory of Desta?

Siobhan: "I still remember the first time she managed to summon paladin flames through her weapon. You should have seen her face- I think she actually scared herself! But after the initial shock she was so excited...it was rather sweet, really.”

Aloth: “Well, there’s quite a few. It’s difficult to narrow it down. If I had to choose...I believe it would the first time I told her I loved her. And that was a private conversation, so that is all I will say on the matter.”

Tekehu: "We had many good adventures, but finding Ukaizo- that was a moment that cannot be outdone. And I never would have been there if not for Desta.”

7. A time you very nearly almost kissed Desta?

Siobhan: “Uh, no.”

Aloth: “Oh. Well, I suppose there were a few times before I actually did that I wanted to. One that sticks in my mind is before I left Caed Nua all those years ago...I knew by then how I felt for her, but I couldn’t do that to her right before I had to leave.”

Tekehu: “I admit, there have been occasions where the thought crossed my mind! She is a lovely woman, and very kind- our first trip to the Gullet, she was very comforting, and for a moment-”

Aloth: *disapproving frown intensifies*

Tekehu: “-I did nothing at all and we remained fast friends. I say, my companion here appears to coming down with some sort of affliction.”

8. Vacation time! Where do you take Desta for some R&R?

Siobhan: "Anywhere exciting! I heard tale of a nearby mountain cave being guarded by a dragon, I’m sure she’d love that!”

Aloth: “That sounds neither restful nor relaxing.”

Siobhan: “It is for us!”

Aloth: “That...explains quite a bit. In that vein, it’s difficult to imagine somewhere new she hasn’t been yet. It might be nice to take her to Aedyr. Perhaps not to meet my family- I’m not quite that comfortable with them yet- but there is some lovely scenery I could show her,”

Tekehu: "There are some lovely island we could visit, if she can stand the extra sailing time. But they are shores that haven’t seen explorers in many years, and I believe she would enjoy the experience!“

9. Desta’s sense of humor -is it dry, immature, sarcastic, self-deprecating, physical, witty, dark, or…?

Siobhan: "She was always an excitable girl- she finds just about anything funny. All in a very sweet way thought, she’s not prone to sarcasm or mockery.”

Aloth: "Desta appreciates puns. Originally I did not share that appreciation, but...I admit, her sense of humor has rubbed off on me, just a bit. Normally I would call it silly, but she has a talent for making me laugh no matter what mood I’m in.”

Tekehu: "Ah, yes, her puns are wonderful! She’s simply an entertaining person to be around- she tells hilarious stories!”

#thanks for the tag! #this was really fun! #ch: desta

[horsepriest]

I did this OC meme on Twitter and got “Do all 40 and ramble on” as a response.  Here is the entire questionnaire and character sheet for Warlord Gresham.  This is fairly spoiler-free for Glimpse and is a snapshot of who he is now.   Content warning for sadism, torture, and Gresham basically being a sick fuck overall. 

Warlord Gresham

Basic stats:

Name: Gresham,     AKA The TwinHorn

Serial Number: W.03-c.017

Gender/Pronouns: Cis Male He/Him

Height: Approx.     15ft at shoulder. Nearly 20ft standing.

Species: Heavily     modified Liberated Vactyr with signs of Other corruption

Size Class: Titan     (Does not meet 20,000lbs requirement for Colossus Size Class)

Sexuality: Undefined

Romance: Undefined

Birthday: Jan.     17

Age: 42

Occupation: Warlord of the Firmament-Highest rank of the Off-world Military and direct servant of Adelie.

Weapons:  Gresham is a pack hunter with a constantly rotating squad of Lost under his direct command.  He keeps a few contained within the large metal pack upon his back, some strapped with weaponry and explosives for the rare times he’s in a pinch.  He is heavily armoured and has a wide range of attack with his long sweeping horns.  Not many are willing to fight him. He is rarely taken out of battle for long- no one’s quite sure what he keeps in his medic bag. Personality:  Overbearing, proud, and sadistic.  He is the spoiled pet of a capricious “goddess” who encouraged every depraved impulse from a young age.   For his twisted sense of loyalty to Adelie, he was gifted the title of Warlord, and thus dominion over a massive slice of the Liberated hordes.  Despite his quadrupedal stance and bestial appearance, Gresham is smarter than one would think.  This makes him a dangerous adversary as he can manage his pack with ease.

 OC Question Meme

1.       How easy is it to make them angry? Do they show their anger or hide it? It is difficult to make Gresham legitimately angry.  Disobedience would probably be the best way to anger him, except it grants him the ability to dole out punishment as he deems fit.  If anything, he gets giddy when one would expect him to be angry. If someone manages to piss him off, he would not be able to hide it and that person will have a fight on their hands.

2.       Do they believe in soulmates? The idea of soulmates is a foreign concept to him.  Love does not mean much to him due to his unique upbringing.  Of course, he has seen other Liberated pair off to be mates but the rationalizes it as purely a mutually selfish interaction that has shaky longevity at best (and he goes out of his way to ruin the relationship, if possible.).

3.       Do they have any pet peeves? Laziness, weakness, and sneakiness irritate him.  He picks on the lazy and those he views as weak through forcing them into training and hard labour.  He’ll focus intensely on subordinates that show signs of sneakiness or insubordination.

4.       Do they have a happy place?  Somewhere to go to in their heads when they need to relax? His happy place is his room and the memories of his activities there keep him relaxed and generally happy.  Gresham is also happy when around Adelie.  She showers him with attention and praise which he drinks up.  Gresham is a good boy.  In her soulless pits she calls eyes anyways.

5.       At what stage of their life were they the happiest? Right after he killed his brother in public combat and proved he was the best and strongest out of the two.  His secondary set of horns were torn from his brother’s corpse as trophies.  He could stand somewhat normally at this stage and still could see.  He looked like a normal, but exceptionally large Liberated.

6.       At what stage of their life were they the least happy? Same stage of life as “Glimpse Beyond the Illusion.”  His life is painful- trouble breathing and generally functioning as his body has mostly broken down. He relies on his pack for basic needs like getting dressed and keeping clean.  He is also suffering from the effects of █████ ██████████ which is different from Mortus’s knowledge of ██████████.  Lastly, Adelie takes frequent control of his Liberation to form him to her liking, on top of the changes from █████ ██████████.  Due to both of these, he has been barred from ever receiving a breeding permit.

7.       At a bar/tavern/pub are they more likely to buy someone a drink, or have someone buy them a drink? He would buy someone a drink, but it’s a trap. Don’t ever accept a drink from Gresham.

8.       Have they ever broken any bones?  If yes, how? Oh definitely.  The guy’s a living tank that takes joy in brutalizing beings on foreign planets and has most definitely broken more bones than your average peaceful human.  Due to his medic kit, there isn’t much sign of this on his body.  The most obvious broken bone is his docked tail, taken when he reached adulthood.

9.       Do they have any memories/experiences they’d rather forget? Not really.  Most of the painful memories are washed over by the rewards he has been given as a result of being a twisted ghoul of a being.  There are probably quiet moments where he ponders how his life would have been if he were never taken under Adelie’s wing, but they are shoved back down into the dark abyss he dares not look into.  

10.   What is their favourite memory from their childhood? Earning his first pack of Lost. Little and loyal and they tended to his needs without question.  Free friends, captive to him and too stupid to disobey.  At first, he regarded them as tools and took good care of them. Once he accidentally killed one (maybe not accidentally), it was replaced.  Now they are regarded as intelligent playthings and extensions of himself.

11.   Do they have a “type” they are usually attracted to? No explicit type.  Any form of love that Gresham is capable of experiencing is extremely toxic and sickening.  He is an abject abuser and sadist; he doesn’t understand love.  Gresham is capable of obsession and his main obsession is Adelie.

12.   Do they have any favourite possessions? His survival knife, his jar of Flow, and his pack of Lost.  

13.   Do they have any tattoos? If no, would they ever consider getting one? They are not traditional tattoos, but he has faint stripes down his back.  They are short and function like Rictus’s, just without most of Rictus’s extra abilities.  For instance, Gresham cannot rebuild objects with them.

14.   Do they have any piercings? If no, would they ever consider getting one? The thought hasn’t occurred to him, so no piercings.  He might not get one, but I could see him forcing them on others in uncomfortable places.

15.   What is their dream house like? He would live closer to Adelie with more space to be able to move around comfortably.  A space that’s easy to clean and sort his pack into their own cubbies. A much more robust torture chamber with more tools would also be nice.

16.   What is something about them that people would not expect just by looking at them? He is intelligent.  Gresham is calculated in how he handles his affairs and prepares for most situations ahead of time.  For instance, he’ll set out his Lost to lead his quarry to him-typically in a pretty narrow place to discourage retreat.

17.   How good are they at choosing gifts for others? Don’t ever take a gift from Gresham, it’s a trap.

18.   Do they have a certain skill that they’re particularly proud of? He is insanely gifted with his knife work and butchery.  He is proud that he hasn’t yet broken the “Warlord W.03-c.017 is not entitled to cull stud XXX-XXXX” part of his special permits, despite getting his “playthings” very, very, very close to that point. He is also proud of how easily he can take what he wants.

19.   How would a stranger they just met describe them? Creepy, pushy, off-putting.  They may complain of the smell of his breath and body odour.  

20.   How would a close friend they’ve known for a long time describe them? A sweet, loyal dog.  Trustworthy and cute, in an ugly way. (Adelie)

21.   Do they have any personal insecurities? Being caught in a vulnerable position by someone that can then gossip about it.  There are a few pilots that lack tongues for this reason.  Others (presumably because their mouths were too damned small) are just tortured into silence.

22.   What is their highest physical stat? (strength, stamina, defense, speed, etc.) and their highest non-physical stat? (intelligence, perception, charisma, luck, etc)? Easily strength and intelligence.  Defense and Perception are second highest. Gresham lacks Stamina or Charisma.

23.   How would they react to finding out someone lied to them, even if it was for their own safety/well-being? Gresham wouldn’t like it as it would be a form of insubordination, but insubordination also leads to punishment which is fun for him.  He’d let the person lie, then set a trap to catch them.

24.   Do they prefer cold weather or warm weather? For █████ ██████████ reasons, he isn’t too bothered by temperature extremes.  If given the option, he’d pick colder.

25.   How easy is it for them to say “I love you”? See number 2.  Any proclamation of love isn’t actual love: Gresham doesn’t understand it.  Though, he probably tells his playthings that he loves them.  

26.   How easy is it for them to tell someone about their worries? He would not be close enough to most beings to talk about his worries, but he monologues with the Lost about his thoughts. Much like number 21, those that have caught him in these monologues suffer grave consequences.

27.   Have they ever witnessed someone die? Yes, and he takes a perverse joy in it each time.

28.   Are they ticklish? No.  If he ever was, he got desensitized to it by the Lost climbing him.

29.   How high/low is their pain tolerance? Very high.  Even before he started developing chronic pain from his many augments, he is still a Vactyr in the Titan size-class.  

30.   Is there something they secretly wish they could do, but are too afraid to? Getting closer to Adelie.

31.   Are they a messy eater or a neat eater? Due to his lack of cheeks and stretched snout, he is a very messy eater.  Thankfully, the most common food available to him is the same soylent available to all Liberated.  However, when he has access to problematic meat, he eats like a T-Rex.  Large chunks swallowed whole.

32.   What moment of their life made them feel most unloved? When he’s reminded of his place in the universe.  While he is one of the few top-ranked Liberated, he is below every Hirudian.  Forgetting this disappoints Adelie who forces him back into his place through her ability to utterly control his Liberation.  She is willing to loan that control to other Hirudians, including Hivemind (but never Argiope), much to his great humiliation and shame.

33.   What moment of their made them feel most loved? The time leading up to and after getting his augments.  Yes, he lost his vision at this point, but he had Adelie’s entire attention as he was prepared for and eventually recovered from the surgery.

34.   Which of the senses would they hate to lose the most: vision, hearing, smell, taste, or touch? Gresham already cannot see, and his sense of smell is affected by his helmet.  He relies mostly on hearing and the secondary Flow-sense that is boosted by his augments and █████ ██████████ - he can sense where organic and Other beings are.

35.   Are they good at small talk? No, not really.  He’s a bit too busy to socialize and lacks the ability to fit in with the Liberated Ranks for socialization.  His off-putting personality and sadistic nature also pushed them away, many of the pilots carry some trauma from being targeted by him and thus naturally avoid him.

36.   If they could ask anyone one question and get the absolute truth, who and what would they ask? To some all-knowing being (so maybe Hivemind): “Am I good?”

37.   If they had the chance, would they prefer to travel to the past or to the future? The past.  Killing his brother again sounds fun and potentially going back to just before his augment so he can be close to Adelie again.

38.   Who had the biggest impact in their life, both positive and negative? Elite Adelie, for obvious reasons. But, Mortus comes to a close second in the next chapter of Glimpse.

39.   Would they rather life a life always surrounded by people, or always alone? He requires his Lost to live and takes a perverse joy in ruining other beings’ lives.  So, while he could potentially find happiness in a life of solitude if he ever had a chance at a normal upbringing… he would pick having others around.  

40.   Is there anyone or anything that immediately instills fear in them? He fears a loss of control to a being not worthy of his loyalty.  He is purely loyal to Adelie and enjoys his rule over others.  Gresham is aware of how easily Adelie can abandon him, he has witnessed her throwing away her other experiments for petty reasons.  In some cases, he was how she threw them away.  He eventually develops a skittishness around electricity.

#oc meme #the moonlit path #sadism cw #torture cw #violence cw #Gresham is toxic so keep that in mind.

[rosemary-morgan]

Josiah Trelawny x F.Reader: You deserve better - Part 5

(Pictures found on Pinterest)

Good day, dear ones 🌹💗 Here comes the new chapter of “You deserve better” I would like to thank everyone for the feedback and likes. It means a lot to me 🤗💗 

I would like to thank @gangofgunslingers​  at this point! Thank you for helping me and for taking the time to read and edit my text, dear 💗😘

(¯`v´¯)                                                      (¯`v´¯) `*.¸.*´                                                        `*.¸.*´ ¸.•´¸.•*¨) ¸.•*¨) (`’·.¸(`’·.¸  ¸.·’´) ¸.·’´)  (¨*•.¸ (¨*•.¸`•.¸ (¸.•´ (¸.•´ .•´ ¸¸.•¨¯`•               •`¯¨• ¸¸ `•. `•.¸) `•.¸) `*.¸.*´                                                       `*.¸.*´ 

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 /Part 6

You deserve better - Part 5

"Please, forgive me, Josiah." You were so sorry to have hurt him. He was a wonderful man who didn't deserve this. You just had not the courage to tell him the truth. Neither did you have the right to ask him to listen to your words! You once had your opportunity and you didn't take it. This was your punishment now. Josiah looked at you very sadly before he looked down and bit his jaw firmly. He could hardly stand to look at you. The feeling that you would never be his was awful. He felt like an idiot. He was very much in love with you and it would take him a long time before he could get over you. But he had no choice but to forget you. "Josiah, I'm sorry..." "What are you sorry for, Y/N?" Josiah looked at you and this time it was you who lowered eyes to the ground. You couldn't put into words how much you were ashamed of yourself right now. You wanted him as much as he wanted you, but Henry would never let that happen. "Are you sorry you made a fool of me?" Josiah didn't sound angry, and he didn't speak to you in a strict tone. But on the contrary. He was very calm, but you also saw how hurt and disappointed he was with you. "It wasn't like that, Josiah..." You knew that words couldn´t calm this situation. But you wanted him to know that your feelings for him were real and that you hadn't played with him. "Then tell me how it was, Y/N." Josiah swallowed hard and he shook his head as he looked away from you again. Josiah believed you but you seem to be hiding something from him. The way you stood in front of him - distant, nervous, even scared, confirmed the magician that something was wrong. You took a few steps towards him while you played nervously with your fingers. Your eyes searched for his, but Josiah wasn't looking at you which hurts. But you couldn't blame him for that. "I... I'm married, Josiah." Josiah's heart was torn into a thousand pieces. He swallowed firm, hardly believing what he was hearing. You were a married woman?! This time he frowned at you as he shook his head. "You are married?!" With a silent nod, you confirmed it again - yes, you were a married woman. "Oh, good lord. I wish you would have told me this from the beginning, Y/N!" Now it was too late but you would at least try to explain the situation. If Josiah would listen to you. "I know I made a big mistake and I'm so sorry. But Josiah, I don't love this man." But Josiah no longer knew what to believe, and without a word, he continued to listen to you. "He is...” You stopped and you sighed softly “When you met me in Lakay back then, I..." You startled when you suddenly saw your husband standing on the stairs that led from the ballroom up to the first floor. He seemed to be looking for you, at least you thought so. You had completely forgotten the time. But you also didn't expect your husband to be looking for you. He probably wanted to make sure you weren't having fun with any other man while he would drink and smoke with his great friends from New York. Josiah looked at you a little confused since you had stopped talking to him. Following your gaze, he saw the blond man. A sound of a faint sigh escaped from his lips knowing there was nothing he could do against the bout of jealousy he was feeling right now.

Henry hadn't seen you yet and you thanked God for it. But you had to get out of here immediately. "I- I have to go now, Josiah!" You looked at him apologetically as the magician could see the tears in your eyes. He was confused and he gently reached for your wrist when you were about to run away in panic. "Y/N? Wait!" You looked at Josiah in fear because this was the wrong moment. You were so scared that Henry would see you. "Please let me go, Josiah! Henry could see us! Please!" Not wanting you to beg him, Josiah unwillingly let go of your wrist. You hurried away without words and Josiah seemed confused and worried at the same time. My God, there was so much fear in your eyes that Josiah could only guess how your husband was intimidating you. But he sincerely hoped it wasn't so. The attractive magician tried to get a look at you. When he saw you he immediately noticed that something was wrong. Henry didn't seem to have noticed Josiah at all, especially since Josiah was standing outside on the terrace and he was with you in the house. Josiah couldn’t hear what Henry said to you as the music was too loud but by the facial expression, he could tell that your husband was angry about something. Josiah frowned and he couldn't get rid of the feeling that he should keep an eye on you tonight. And you hoped that Henry wouldn´t cause trouble tonight and that Josiah would stay out of your business - if something would happen. But knowing Henry, he would never touch you in public. At least he had never done that before. "You leave me alone like an idiot? My friends are already making fun of me because I have no control over my wife!" You knew that Henry would punish you later for your offense as his grip on your arm tightened. "I´m sorry, Henry! But I just needed some fresh air. It was so sticking in that room!" Henry sighed annoyed, rolling his eyes. "Come on now! Don´t make me angry even more!" Henry dragged you along before you glanced over your shoulder to see if Josiah could see you both. And he could. Of course... he saw you both very well. You could see the shock in his beautiful eyes. What did Josiah think of you now? Was he wondering why you let your husband treat you like this? Or were you just pitiful? You didn't know and you felt ashamed. Maybe you were to blame for this situation yourself. If you hadn't decided to marry Henry two years ago, you wouldn't have to experience all of this. But nobody could anticipate their own fate...

Henry dragged you down the stairs as you tried to free yourself from his rough grip. "Come on, damn it!" When Josiah saw how this man treated you, he growled deeply. Josiah didn't hesitate long and he hurried after you, but you both had already disappeared into the crowd. "Shit..." Why hadn't he reacted earlier? He stroked through his black hair and some of his strands got messed up, but he didn't care at the moment. "Josiah! There you are!" Dutch appeared out of nowhere and Josiah closed his eyes, sighing annoyed. He had no nerve for Dutch's plan at the moment. A plan that was in vain anyway. So far, no gambling had taken place that evening. At least there was no money involved. Josiah had seen simple, meaningless card games. No more. "Josiah, heard anything?" Josiah sighed softly at the question and he shook his head. "No, Dutch. Nothing." "Shit... Hosea was probably right. But we have time. We just need to be patient." "If you say so, Dutch. But I hardly think anything is going on here. The only thing I can do is make myself useful as a pickpocket." Dutch didn’t like the irony in Josiah’s voice, which Josiah immediately noticed. "Excuse me, Dutch!" Josiah walked past him as Dutch frowned with scrutiny at him. "Josiah! You know what to do, so stick to this goddamn plan! Did you understand me?!" Josiah stopped, looking over his shoulder at Dutch, then nodded silently. Dutch couldn't know what is going on with Josiah right now, so Josiah couldn't blame him. Josiah only wished he had met you in other circumstances tonight. But on the other hand, he was glad to finally know the truth about you.

(¸.•´ (¸.•´ .•´(¸.•´ (¸.•´ .•´

It was getting late and Dutch finally had to realize that there was no illegal gambling here. He had found some interesting documents related to Leviticus Cornwall, but this was another story...

Josiah and Arthur stood on a terrace, smoking together. Josiah had told Arthur what had happened. Nobody could understand it better how bad Josiah must felt right now than Arthur. His heart was broken many years ago because the woman he loved had chosen another man. The two men smoked silently side by side. This silence felt good - apart from the music. Arthur slowly blew the smoke out of his lungs, watched it rising into the dark sky. Then he glanced at the magician. Josiah was looking down at the crowd and he felt like shit. He was not allowed to spend time with you and he couldn´t handle that. He was worried about you. You hurt his feelings - but he was still the man who loved you! Josiah was angry at the thought of how badly your husband had treated you.   "Try to forget her."Arthur placed his hand on Josiah's shoulder. "You should keep your hands off her. She already belongs to someone else." Josiah blew out the smoke, slowly shaking his head, looking at Arthur. "Arthur, you don't understand! I saw how rough this asshole treated her!" But Josiah didn't know half of what was happened behind closed doors... "I want to keep an eye on her, but I can´t find her!" Josiah sighed heavily and looked down at the laughing people but he didn't feel any satisfaction this evening. "I can't be angry with her, dear boy. She... she means a lot to me and I don't want to forget her." Arthur could understand Josiah's feelings very well. "What are you going to do?", he asked Josiah, smoking the tobacco then slowly blowing it out of his mouth. "I don't want to lose her, Arthur. He didn't deserve Y/N!" You had literally fled from Josiah when you saw your husband. And Josiah wasn't an idiot! A woman who is mistreated by her husband would flee at some point.  "I can't just forget about our time. She is a wonderful woman, Arthur. She is beautiful, intelligent and sweet as honey. She is a little shy, but I love that about her so much."

Arthur had to chuckle softly when he heard that. Josiah seemed to be very in love with you. "Well then, Josiah!" Arthur threw his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his foot before looking at the magician. "Find her. You have a chance to do something. Don't miss this chance." Josiah nodded and he hoped that he would have the opportunity to speak to you. And Josiah was very anxious about you. He wanted to be sure that you were well. Together with Arthur, he made his way to the ballroom. The guests danced to a famous classical piece of music and seemed to be enjoying themselves. Josiah looked into the dancing crowd and tried to find you among them. It wasn´t that easy since many people had gathered on the dance floor. As he saw you dancing with Henry, he took a deep breath feeling the jealousy blazed like fire in his chest. Arthur noticed Josiah's staring gaze. The only thing Josiah had to do now was waiting for an opportunity. But Josiah's presence was not long hidden from you. You had been looking for him all the time and now when you saw him your heart was beating like crazy. This man had an incredible impression on you. His gaze made your knees tremble and you felt the desire to lie in his arms and let him kiss you passionately. God, you wanted this man so much. Neither you nor Josiah broke eye contact while you danced with Henry. Josiah's eyes burned with desire - He had never looked at you like this before. Josiah's desire for you grew immeasurably. The longer he saw you in Henry's arms, the more Josiah cursed that bastard. HE should dance with you! Not Henry! One of the waiters offered Josiah a glass of champagne, which he gratefully took and while he drank it in peace, his sea-green eyes rested on you. Oh, you just wanted to run away from Henry! Right in Josiah's arms - in front of everyone present. That was a nice dream and that was the only thing you wanted. You saw that this sight was not pleasant for Josiah and you were sorry that he had to go through this. This dance seemed like an eternity and you hoped that the music would end soon. Henry's closeness was unbearable to you and also the fact that he enjoyed breathing in your fragrance and feeling the soft skin of yours. Suddenly, he leaned forward and when you heard the words he whispered in your ear, your body froze in fear. "I should drag you to a corner and tear your dress off your beautiful body." Henry laughed softly after saying that and then kissed your cheek. Your eyes searched for Josiah and he saw your sad face expression. Josiah crossed his arms and bit his jaw sharply as he watched this scene between you and Henry. He frowned and he was waiting for an opportunity to be alone with you. But as long as your husband was with you, Josiah couldn´t approach you. "You have no idea what I'm going to do with you tonight, dear." "Henry, please..." The way he spoke to you was outrageous as always and you felt humiliated by him. And eventually, Henry knew which power he had on you and that you fear him. He spoke to you as he wanted and he treated you like dirt - And he enjoyed it. Feeling that he had power over you gave him strength. "What's the matter, Y/N? Do I have to be rough again?" That was too much for you and you just wanted to get away from this demon. "I - I'm sorry, Henry." God, how much you hated apologizing to him. You knew that there was no reason, but you just told him what he wanted to hear. Fortunately, the music ended and you immediately think of an excuse to get out of here but Henry had other plans for you. He held your wrist tightly and you looked up at him imploringly "Where do you want to go?" "Please... just five minutes. I need fresh air, Henry. I don't feel well!" Henry looked at you closely, still holding you tightly. It was like he didn't want to believe that you were bad and you were just looking for an excuse to not be with him. But finally, Henry let you go. "Only five minutes, Y/N!" "Yes..." You glanced at Josiah before forcing yourself through the crowd into freedom. Josiah looked after you, waiting a few more minutes before leaving this room too. Josiah kept an eye on Henry and when he saw that he was talking to another man the magician took his chance. He left this place and went out into the garden.

He immediately searched for you. You stood alone in a beautiful pavilion - away from all the noise and music. Josiah sighed softly as he moved towards you, taking another look at his surroundings to make sure he would be undisturbed with you. "Y/N..." Josiah slowly climbed the three steps to the pavilion, walking towards you. He didn't take his green eyes from you. The concerned expression on his face clearly showed that your tears hurt him a lot. How could he still be mad at you? This whole situation seemed to hurt you the most. You looked up at Josiah uncertainly and you asked yourself how angry he had to be with you. But you saw no trace of anger on his face. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have learned the truth this way..." "It's okay", he said in a soft voice as he came closer and you felt the warmth of his body. When Josiah smiled softly, you sobbed, and tears ran down your cheeks. "Hey... it´s okay, my dear." The attractive magician took your hands, led them to his mouth to press gentle kisses on your knuckles while his sea-green eyes looked at you with compassion. "You were afraid to tell me the truth about your husband, weren't you?" You nodded silently and your tears just couldn't be stopped. Josiah took a deep breath, feeling a sharp pain in his soul when he saw you crying. He hadn't seen the full extent of Henry's brutality but what he saw right now was enough. Your tears told their own story. "I was afraid to tell you that I´m already married. I was afraid that you wouldn't want to see me anymore. And when we started to meet, it became even more difficult for me to tell you the truth." Your eyes looked directly into his soul mirrors and Josiah listened to you attentively. "I didn't want to lose what I had been looking for years, Josiah." A good man. A man who would make you laugh, one who would give you a good time. A man, like Josiah who treated you with respect. "Y/N..." Your words made Josiah smile - desperately willing to pull you into his arms and kiss you. But the thought to get you in trouble overcome his desire. He didn´t want you to get in trouble. A soft sigh came from his lips as he breathed in your seductive scent and he had to hold back himself not to touch you in public. God, it was so painful and it wasn't easy for you either. You longed for his tenderness and you dreamed of this moment for so long. In the end, you couldn´t resist him. You stepped closer to him. Your feminine body snuggled into his masculine body, causing Josiah to close his eyes for a moment as a lustful sigh came over his lips - followed by yours while your arms were around his neck. Josiah wrapped his arms around your waist and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathed in your sensual fragrance. "Y/N..." As beautiful as this moment was, you had to remind yourself that you weren´t alone and that Henry could catch you at any time. "Josiah, we can´t..." "I know..." Josiah placed his hand on your cheek and he gently stroked your skin with his thumb. Your eyes closed and you leaned into his touch. His touches were so delicious, so smooth. It felt so damn good. No man has ever touched you so tenderly and you are enjoying this moment. Your sensual lips were slightly open and Josiah's eyes were fixed on it. "You are so beautiful, Y/N. So beautiful." He admired the tender skin of your shoulders, your flawless neck. Your seductive neckline that had robbed him of his mind. Josiah swallowed nervously as he looked at you. "I'd love to kiss you, Y/N..." His words made you smile and when you opened your eyes you put your hand on his cheek. "I want it to, Josiah. But..."

You slowly broke the embrace to pull Josiah further into the pavilion, into the darkest corner while your heart was pounding like crazy. Josiah was surprised, but he followed you. And when you disappeared far enough in the shadows you placed your hand on Josiah's neck and pulled him down to you. This pavilion was not illuminated and the only light source was the lights of the house - not enough to illuminate the entire garden. And you used this occasion. "Josiah..." You could hardly see each other - but instead, you could perceive this moment more intensely with your other senses. His breath tickled your lips, as your body pressed desperately against his, causing Josiah to come closer. You were caught between him and the jamb behind you. "Kiss me, darling", you whispered on his mouth and when your tongue glides lightly over his lips, the magician gasped with pleasure. He didn't hesitate to kiss you. God, this was so pleasant and you had been longing for this for so long. His kiss was gentle, slow, yet full of pleasure. His mustache tickled you a little while kissing. His lips were delicious, so soft... God, you felt the heat between your thighs, the seductive wetness that made you moan lustily. And Josiah's right hand rested on your hip, while the other hand was on your cheek as he intensified this kiss. His tongue slid over your full lips and you open your sensual mouth to welcome him. The light taste of champagne and mint was on his tongue. Oh, this combination was marvelous. The thought of how this evening should end made you despair because you knew it wasn´t possible to leave this place with Josiah. And this certainty made you feel terrible. Your place was on Josiah's side. Josiah had no idea how much you wanted him. As your mouth slowly loosened from his, Josiah ran his thumb over your soft lips, knowing that you would soon leave. A low gasp was heard from both of you and a last, tender kiss ended your secret game. "I have to go now, Josiah. Henry will be looking for me soon." A soft sigh came from Josiah's lips. How long would he have to be without you? When would he be able to see you again? It was hard for him to let you go. "My love... please tell me... When will we meet again?" His sea-green eyes looked were full of love for you. "I don't want to go either, Josiah... But I have to." Josiah cupped your cheeks, kissed your forehead to be able to spend a few more moments with you. Your stomach tingled, your legs became so weak. "Y/N, your husband... he treats you badly, doesn't he?" A soft sigh came from your lips when you looked down. Josiah didn't want to hurt you with his words and he knew he had to be careful with what he was going to say. Suddenly he heard your soft sobs. Josiah realized that there were many secrets behind your marriage that you didn't want to reveal. It was hard for him to see you like this, but he respected your decision to remain silent. "I don't want to be with him anymore, Josiah..." Josiah slowly wiped the tears from your cheeks. "Then come with me! Now!" "I need some important things. I have money. It's hard-earned money, Josiah and I don't want to give it to him." You worked for a tailor once and you keep this money hidden from Henry. Otherwise, he would have used this for gambling. But Josiah didn't think it was a good idea to let you go back to Henry. "My dear, please! It would be better if you come with me. We'll get your things together. I don't want you to go back to him!" You could see the worry on his face. With a soft smile, you leaned forward and you kissed his cheek. "I'll be with you tomorrow, Josiah. Don't worry. I'll be fine. I promise." Josiah gasped nervously as he looked at you worried. This was a bad idea. "Okay..." "I have to go now." You walked past him in slow steps and you let your hand slide slowly out of his while you gave him an intense look until you turned around, leaving him for Henry. Josiah looked after you and he hoped to see you as soon as possible. "I love you...", Josiah whispered. But you hadn't heard his words. You had already gone back to the mayor's estate. "I love you so much, Y/N."

#josiah trelawny #josiah trelawny x reader #josiah trelawny x female reader #rdr2 #fanfiction #love #lovers

[lynelovespopculture]

The Wedding Night-Sequel to the Wedding I worked like a dog to get this up before Part 3.

The Wedding Night

 Holding hands, the lovers laughed as they ran across the lawn and up the stairs. They kissed passionately by the door.

“I can’t believe we finally did it! Did we just get married?” Diana asked with a golden smile.

Edward laughed. “Oh, believe it, Mrs. Spellman. You’re stuck with me now. Let’s see, I believe the mortal tradition goes like this-“

Diana laughed deeply as Edward scooped her up in his arms and crossed the threshold after he magically opened the door. It wasn’t until they were inside and he put Diana down that Edward noticed that there was a fire in the front sitting room.

“Hilda? Zelda? ”

But it wasn’t either of his sisters. Edward moved more into the room. Edward would know those nails and that hare topped walking stick anywhere.

“I know that man” Diana whispered to her husband. “He was at the wedding. When he wasn’t glaring at us, he was staring at Zelda. Do you know him?”

“Only half of my life,” Edward mumbled. “Go upstairs, Diana. I’ll be up soon.” Edward kissed his wife’s cheek to reassure her.

Diana left and Edward went to greet his guest. “Hello, Faustus.  I was happy to see you at my wedding. I wasn’t sure you be able to make it.” Edward poured 2 brandys and handed Faustus a glass.

“I had to come,” Faustus replied. “I had to see for myself if you had the sheer nerve to betray your own people.”

Edward sat down, threw his head back and sighed. So much for the polite and friendly approach. “I didn’t betray anyone. I just got married.”

“To a moral!” The other man leaned forward heavily on his cane. “Just because you’re high priest doesn’t mean you cannot do whatever you want. There are rules!”

 “And I have followed the rules! Diana and I pushed back our wedding a year before  Enoch gave permission.”

“Enoch is one of your biggest fans. Of course, he gave you permission. The man is also an idiot.”

“You dare call the anti-pope an idiot?”  Demanded Edward.

Faustus considered this. “When it comes to you? Yes. What will you ask for next? The world?”

“Enough!” Edward got up and downed his drink in 1 shot. “What do you have against mortals anyway? What did they ever do to you?”

Faustus chuckled. “I know I haven’t been your teacher in a very long time but here’s a quick history lesson. When witches are exposed to mortals, witches die. Think about Salem or even the 13.”

“I can’t have this fight with you again!” Edward threw up his hands. “Besides, this is not the time for anger.  You see, I heard about Constance’s miscarriage-“

“No!” Faustus jumped up. “You don’t get to pretend to care about anyone’s happiness but your own. Not with me. We know that miscarriages occur when marriages displease the dark lord. How can  my marriage please the dark lord when it doesn’t  even please me?”

Edward rolled his eyes. “Oh, sweet hell, not again.”

“You marry a mortal and almost no one bats an eye, yet you forced me to marry Constance.”

“I did not.” Edward objected. “I   gave you a choice.”

“Some choice! “Faustus spat. “You knew I worked on my thesis for decades, but you suddenly decided not to publish it until I married Constance, who just moved to Greendale, within a  month! As you may recall, I almost stormed out of your office, refusing to whore myself for my work. Before I could reach the door, you told me of Zelda’s recent elopement with an English warlock and you even showed me a framed picture of the happy couple. You knew I would’ve married any witch you put in front of me after that and you could understand my shock when after my honeymoon, I walked into the school only to come face to face with Zelda’s new husband,  mopping the floor! I asked around and I came to decide that either Zelda had married the academy’s new janitor, or you lied to me. It was confirmed  when I sneaked into your office, found the exact picture you showed me, but it was only Zelda and Hilda, who  both came home about 2 weeks later.”

“That’s all  history now.” Edward dismissed. “What’s your point?”

“You’re married to the mortal you’re smitten with. I can barely stand being in the same room as my wife and both your sisters are unmarried and wasting their lives delivering other people’s children when they should be having babies of their own.”

“Hey, my sisters are allowed to marry whoever and whenever they want.”

“Anyone but me that is. Why Edward, why?”

“You really want to know? I’ll tell you. It’s because  I don’t trust you, Faustus. I can’t really put my finger on as to why,  but there’s something dark and dangerous inside you. Plus, I still remember when I was still a student and you took home and I will never forget how your father treated, what was it? Your 7th stepmother.”

“I am nothing like my father!” Faustus objected violently. “I never met a man I hated more until I met you!”

Edward shook his head. “You didn’t always hate me. We used to be friends.”

“True.” Faustus agreed. “I thought we were friends the first time I asked for Zelda’s hand in marriage and you rebuked me. I only slightly disliked when you were first made high priest and I begged you to marry Zelda and again you refused me. I  only really started to hate you when you married me off and then you started to play matchmaker between Zelda and every single warlock in the coven.”

Edward advanced.  “Well, hate this. I don’t think Zelda will be single for much longer. You see, my sister has been away from the house more and more lately. I think she’s finally found the man for her.” Faustus laughed. “What’s so funny?” Edward demanded.

“I’m that man,” Faustus informed him.

“You and Zelda are having an  affair?”

“Only in my dreams. But we have been talking more. Unlike the rest of you Spellmans, Zelda actually respects witch law and is having trouble accepting your marriage and didn’t want to trouble her darling brother.”

“You’re lying. I know my sister; she would have gone to Hilda.”

“Wrong. Hilda is getting so chummy with your moral that poor Zelda feels that she’s losing her sister.”

“So, she turned to you?” Edward shook his head, walked out of the room and started up the stairs.

Faustus followed. “What are you going to do? Yell at Zelda for speaking to an old friend?”

“No. I’m going up to my wife. I suggest you go home to yours and accept that you will never have my sister.”

Faustus’s hand tightened around his cane. “Go to heaven, Edward! After this marriage, where else would you go?” Faustus turned and left.

“Faustus! Faustus!”

Faustus Blackwood opened his eyes as he felt someone shaking his knee. His neck felt a little sore as he lifted his  head up from the soft leather of the limo’s backseat.

“What is it, Peter?” He asked of the monk who woke him.

“Sorry to wake you, but we can’t decide what to do.” Peter explained.   “You see, the road has been washed out by the storm.”

“Storm?” Faustus looked out the window and sure enough, he saw big,  fat drops of rain coming down so hard that Faustus couldn’t even see the road. “How long have I  been asleep?”

“About 2 hours, Brother Faustus, and it’s been raining for 1. It’s been getting worse ever since.”

“We’ve been thinking about turning around and stopping at a hotel in the town we just passed.”

“We can’t!” Faustus objected. “We’ll miss our plane to Rome.”

“The driver is on the phone to the airport right now and if the plane is grounded, we may have no choice.” Said another monk.

Then there It was a strange noise.

“I’m sorry.” Peter said while rubbing his stomach. “I didn’t eat dinner.”

“Most of us didn’t. I’m hungry too.” Faustus confessed.

They were interrupted by the driver, who informed them that indeed that the flight to Rome would be grounded until the storm passed.

“Cheer up.” Peter said when he looked at Faustus’s face. “Did you really want to spend your wedding night on an airplane?”

“Good point.” Faustus smiled as he sat and looked at his new bride.  Zelda was asleep, resting her head against her window. Faustus couldn’t help but let his eyes roamed all over her. Her perfect legs were crossed. She was still snuggled up in 1 of  Judas’s baby blanket that Faustus tucked her in himself.

Satan, she’s beautiful,  Faustus thought. And she’s finally mine, truly mine. My Zelda,  my wife. At long last!

The limo took a sharp turn and a sleeping Zelda landed with her head on her husband’s shoulder. He put an arm around her and played with her hair.

 “Damn it!”  Roy, the night manager of the Dreamland Hotel slammed down the phone and looked up to see most of his teenage staff putting on their jackets. “Where  do y’all think you’re going?”

“Home,  boss.” Said a boy whose name escaped Roy. “Shift’s over.”

Roy shook his head. “I don’t think so. That call was about a party of 16. They’ll be here in about 20 minutes.  They want dinner and rooms for the night.”

“Dinner?!” The boy objected “It’s almost midnight!”

“Relax. There 24-hour take-out place around the corner. We’ll just put the noodles on plates.”

“Why should we stay?” asked a girl.

“Because they’re willing to pay 3 times the normal amount for any inconvenience.”

 The teens cheered while Roy smiled. He never said he would be sharing the money, dumb kids.

When the hotel’s lighted sign came into view, Faustus decided to wake up his wife. “Zelda? Sweetheart?” He gently shook her and then he placed a kiss on her lips, only then did Zelda awake.

She was groggy. “Are we already at the airport?”

Faustus smiled. “No, dearest. A storm came and had to change to our plans since no one has a  weather spell on them.”

“We’re here.” Announced Peter,  who got out of the car.

Zelda leaned forward to look out the limo’s window. “And where is here?”

“Just a hotel, dearest. A place for food, sleep and” Faustus whispered in her ear. “Other wedding night type things.”

“Splendid.” Zelda reached for her purse.

Faustus smiled. “Which? The food, sleep, or sex?”

“All” Zelda smiled.

 Roy was at the front desk when the limo pulled up. The party of  16 ranged from some very old men, adults, some teens, and even an infant. Roy noticed that they were all dressed in black, even the baby! Like a cult! 16 freaks.

 Correction, Roy thought as soon as he saw her, 15 freaks and 1 smoking hot redhead!

Some of them were going into the rec hall for their requested meal  but most were heading to the restrooms. Roy snapped his fingers and placed a bellhop at the desk. He tried to cut off the redhead before she went to the restroom. He was too late, so he waited outside the bathroom for the redhead to come out. Finally, after what seemed like a million flushes and like 8 people coming out, some gave him weird looks, he saw the redhead. She had taken off her cloak, hat, and gloves and carried it all in her arms. Roy quickly looked down at her hand, no ring,  good.

“Hey there!”

The redhead barely looked at him. “Hello.”

She turned away but Roy fell in step beside her. “You know, if I could rearrange the alphabet, I put you and me together.”

“I think you mean you and I. Me is a word, not a letter.”

The redhead was walking a bit faster, but Roy got in front of the woman, his hand on the wall, blocking her way.  “What are you? A teacher or something?”.

“Yes.” She said simply and then ducked under his arm.

Roy didn’t or wouldn’t take the hint and was beside her again.

“So, what’s your name, pretty lady?”

However, pretty lady was more   interested in the the woman coming toward them and stopped her.  “Louise, do you know if we smoke on this floor?”

“I don’t think so, Sister Zelda.”

“Great.” She muttered.

“Zelda, huh? Well, you can call me Link baby, you can be my princess anytime.”  He caught her hand and bought it up to his lips.

“You’re still here?” It was Zelda’s only comment.

“Why are you so rude?” Roy advanced and Zelda’s back was against the wall.

“I’m not rude.” Zelda was as calm as ever. “I’m tired, and even more than that, I’m hungry. I only had an apple to eat today.”

“Why didn’t you say so, beautiful? You see, I’m the manager here and I can open the kitchen just for you and you can pick anything you want from the menu and we’ll have a nice, quiet meal in my office. It’s a much better offer than the cold noodles I’m feeding the freaks.”

Zelda stared at him. “Freaks? You dare call my people  freaks?” She shoved him away, harder than Roy thought possible.

“Hey!” Roy caught her arm as Zelda walked away or tried to.

“Excuse me.” Came a new, male voice. “Is there a problem here?”

Roy looked up to see a tall man, in a  suit. To Roy, he looked like a vampire. “What’s wrong, Count Dracula, out of hair gel? You need to  mind your own business!”

The man took a  step forward. “My wife is my business!”

“She’s not married, dude! I checked her hand!”

Zelda chuckled, shook herself free and shuffled her things to her other hand to hold up the hand with a  wedding ring on it. “Wrong hand, idiot.”

“Step away from my wife, mortal.”

“Mortal?  Who talks like that? Who are you, guys?”

Zelda rolled her eyes. “Faustus, my dear, you need to learn how to act with the outside world. I’m a little groggy to use magic right now but now I have no choice.”

Roy looked from one to the other. “Mortal? Magic? What the hell-“

“Never mind!” Zelda held a palm and Roy was in a trace. “Now, Link was it? You already behave like a child so why not play like a child? Go outside and play in the puddles.” Zelda ordered.

Faustus smiled. “You know it might rain all night?”

“All the better” His wife took his arm. “More puddles for him to find.”

 By the time, Zelda sat down to supper  in the rec hall, some of the party  had already finished and left. Cold Chinese was hardly a favorite, but she truly was starving so she ate everything on her plate. As she nursed her wine, Zelda watched   more and more people leave and Zelda longed to withdraw herself but knew as Lady Blackwood, she had to play hostess to the monks who barely spoke a word to her.

After a respectable hour, Zelda rose. “Gentlemen, by  your kind permission, I wish to withdraw.”

Zelda got the permission when the men rose and bowed to her.

“I’ll be up  as soon as I can,” Faustus whispered before he kissed her, and she nodded.

They rented out a whole floor and as the honeymoon suite was already taken so Faustus and Zelda was placed in another suite at the end of the hall. Zelda opened the door and heard Louise, a teacher at the academy scolding some schoolgirls.

“You three were brought along  to attend to Lady Blackwood, not to play with some mortal   boy’s minds.”

“What’s going on here?” Demanded  Zelda, her hand on her hip.

The girls leaped up. “Lady Blackwood.”

“These girls were found playing with some mortal  boys from the hotel staff  when they were supposed to be preparing your room,” Louise told her.

“I’d my fill of mortals for 1 night. It has been a very long day for all of us. Why don’t you girls go to find your rooms and go to bed? The girls fled.

“You’ll just let those girls off the hook.” Louise frowned.

“The room seems fine and I don’t feel like being a teacher right now.” Zelda took off her jewelry. “All I want is a warm bath before Faustus comes up.”

“Should I run it for you?”

“What for?” Zelda smiled as both witches heard the water running.

“Showoff! I’ll just find your nightgown and leave it on the bed.

“Thank you.” Zelda grabbed a cigarette from her purse and the ashtray and headed into the bathroom. She turned off the tap and stripped. It felt so good to lower her body into the water and took a puff. 20 minutes later, Zelda toweled off and was putting on her nightgown when she heard a  baby cry. She went into the next room to find another schoolgirl having trouble calming Judas. Zelda settled the girl and then took both bassinette and baby back to her own room. She changed him fed him and rock him to sleep while she sat by the fire.

“There, my little one, all you wanted was food and sleep. Just like the rest of  us.”

 2 hours! It took 2 hours for Faustus to escape that damn rec hall! It’s amazing how a little free-flowing wine could turn silent monks into huge asses! They could do whatever they wanted but he had a bride and a baby waiting for him.   Faustus doubled checked that everyone was where they should be before he dismissed the boys. He walked into his room and stopped at the breathtaking scene. His baby boy, asleep and happy and in the arms of the woman who should have borne him, the only woman Faustus Blackwood had ever and would ever love. The light of the fire bounced off Zelda’s wedding ring.

Are you seeing this, Edward? Faustus wondered to himself. He had seen and heard a lot of Edward Spellman’s ghost lately. Even today, at the wedding, he knew it was Sabrina,  because her father was already there, off to the side, glaring at even him before Zelda came down the aisle.  It was just too ironic that it was the same glare that Faustus had used when Edward had married him to Constance. What he never told Edward, what Faustus never told anyone that he had only been able to complete that farce wedding to Constance by mentally transforming the bride’s ebony skin to ivory and her black hair to red. Faustus had said his marriage vows to Zelda that day, not Constance. The fantasy was over, however, as soon as Zelda opened her mouth and spoke with Constance’s voice. That day, Faustus lost something truly precious. He tried to get it back by sleeping with half the coven, but he only ever came close when he saw Zelda, be it at mass or around Greendale. He never felt whole again until that night he kissed Zelda by the fire. He was reborn at that moment. After making love, he vowed never to lose Zelda again. It was right after that night that Edward started to pop up everywhere.  Faustus didn’t understand why until after Constance died that it became clear; not even Edward Spellman, hell’s own golden boy, the man who had broken all the rules and gotten away with it, could cheat  Faustus of his fate and that fate was Zelda. True, this wedding day had not gone according to plan, but he couldn’t blame Edward for it. No, that blame went to Edward’s blond brat. It that girl had, for once,  minded her own business and not gave Enoch Edward’s manifesto which had appeared out of nowhere after 16 years, Faustus wouldn’t have had to kill that Edward fanatic and could have actually enjoyed his wedding day instead of dodging Spellmans left and right and wedding the love of his life in the everyday setting of his office but none of that mattered now. The only Spellman who truly mattered was now a Blackwood and was asleep in the chair before him. Faustus knelt before them, trying to commit this perfect memory of his sleeping wife and son to his mind forever. When Judas began to fuss, Faustus stood and tried to ease him from Zelda’s lap without waking her. He was unsuccessful.

“Oh!” Zelda woke with a start.

“Hi. It’s okay, I got him.” He smiled and kissed her.

“Okay.” She kissed him back.

He put his already back to sleep son in his bassinet and carried it over to the bed. “Dearest, why didn’t you relax in bed? You would have been  more comfortable.”

Zelda got up and followed him. “Faustus, I realized that nothing about our wedding day was traditional, but I’ll be damned if I went to bed alone on my wedding night.”

He went to her. “In that case, Lady Blackwood, you’re overdressed.” He pushed back her robe and kissed her neck as the robe fell the floor. He did love her neck. Zelda teased him more than once about being a vampire because he was always kissing or sucking on her neck. So much so that if he spotted Zelda wearing a heavy necklace or a high collar, he knew she was hiding a hickey. They undressed each other and made love as passionately as they were still having a secret affair. Faustus didn’t remember falling asleep, but the baby’s cries woke him. He got up, settled the infant and then turned and stared at  Zelda, naked in bed, her red hair fanned out on her pillow and best of all, his ring on her finger. Why is the love of my life Edward’s sister? Faustus wondered for the millionth time. Why must she be a Spellman? Faustus wasn’t a fool. To destroy Edward’s family, once he returned to Greendale, Faustus knew that he had to remove Zelda, the true Zelda, from the situation, at least for a little while and that was a huge risk and his greatest fear. He pushed the thought away and as he got back in bed, Faustus noticed his wedding ring and smiled. He had convinced Constance that he just wasn’t a ring person, but the truth was that his 1st marriage was no true union. Now, he would proudly wear Zelda’s ring for the rest of his life. It was only now, this moment in time, in a dark hotel room, with rain falling on the roof, with his son 3 feet away and his wife in his arms, that Faustus Blackwood was truly happy.

#the chilling tales of sabrina #caos #fanfic #sequel #spellwood #zelda spellman #faustus blackwood #zelda x faustus

[foreverwayward]

“Lost in You” Part 3

Jensen Ackles x Reader

Word Count: 2538

Warnings: none? Possible fluff. Language.

SideBar: A/U where Jensen is single.

Summary: You and your best friend (Y/BF/N) go to a Supernatural convention. It was supposed to just be a fun day; nothing too crazy. That is…until he saw you.

Part 1   Part 2

Back in your room, you and Y/BF/N packed your luggage and got ready to go. Your head was still swimming out of control over the whirlwind that had been your last twenty-four hours. The high you were still riding had you feeling more alive than you had in a long time. The two of you were practically giddy with excitement that you were going to the “Supernatural” set and that you and Jensen clearly had something between you.

You pulled out your phone as you sat on the edge of your bed and smiled as you texted Jensen. “Well, looks like we’re ready to go. What’s the plan?”

It didn’t take more than a minute for him to text back, his eagerness making you even more excited. “Lemme make a quick call :)”

While you were fixing your hair, your phone chimed with Jensen’s next text. “Alright! It’s all set. Head on down to the lobby and call me.”

“Okay,” you messaged back, unsure of what was to come. Turning to Y/BF/N you popped up the handle on your luggage, ready to roll it out. “He said to go to the lobby and call him when we’re down there.”

Your friend shrugged. “He’s the boss.”

------

The cool air from the lobby A/C helped your anxious growing nerves; though your fidgeting hands didn’t help you hide it. Even after spending time with Jensen, calling him was still beyond terrifying. So, with a deep breath, you dialed his number and closed your eyes tightly as you felt on the verge of vomiting.

“Hey!” that familiar gruff voice answered. “You guys ready?”

Trying to sound as cool and collected as your shaking voice would let you, you told him, “yep! We’re down in the lobby by the front door.”

“Perfect. I want you to go out the front to the car loop. Let me know when you’re there.”

“Okay,” you answered with a nervous chuckle as you nodded toward your friend to head out. Once you stepped outside, the two of you stood waiting for your next instruction. “Alright, we’re here.”

“Okay, do you see a black SUV out there?” As you scanned the area, you listened to Jensen go on. “There’ll be a driver waiting for you.”

Turning to the right, you saw the car and the gentleman waving you in his direction. “I see him.”

“Alright.” You couldn’t see the smile that was growing on Jensen’s face as he talked you through the plan. “Stay on the phone with me until you get settled in.”

“Will do.”

Walking up to the car, the driver stood by the passenger door and opened it. “Y/N?”

“Uh--that’s me.”

“I’m Frank. Mr. Ackles has instructed me to take you to the airport. Are you ready to go?”

You and Y/BF/N tried not to squeal with excitement and you nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Frank is fine.” The driver offered a hand to take your luggage and you both obliged as you got into the back.

The black car smelled of new leather and had soft rock music playing. All of the windows were heavily tinted and gentle, cool air flowed around you. Once you were settled in, you held the phone to your ear once more. “Okay, we’re in.”

“Awesome,” Jensen said with obvious enthusiasm. “So, Frank’s gonna take care of you guys. His job is to make sure you get here and everything has been handled. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Unsure of how the day was going to go, you chuckled nervously. “Uh--okay. You know you didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“Who said it was any trouble?” His tone reminded you of the one he used when he would get that pleased smirk on his face. “I told you...I got it.”

“Alright. Well, I guess that means I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Jensen sighed through a sweet laugh. “Can’t wait.”

------

“Aren’t we supposed to go check in?” Y/BF/N asked leaning in toward Frank as he drove through the back of the airport.

Very nonchalantly, Frank pulled onto the tarmac of the opposite side of the airport. “Everything’s been taken care of.”

“Where are we going?” she whispered to you.

All you could do was shrug. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

The car stopped and Frank got out before heading to your side. He opened your door and as you stepped out, you gasped. Once Y/BF/N followed quickly behind, she too shared the same shocked sound.

“Oh...my...god.” There was a private plane only fifty or so feet away; the stairs down and ready to board. “This is for us?”

“Yup.” Frank went to the trunk and grabbed your bags before heading for the plane. “This way, ladies.”

Your friend took your hand and you both walked together with giant grins on your face. The whole experience was more than you could have possibly dreamed. It was far from the coach seat on a commercial flight that you had expected.

Inside, five comfortable chairs and a sofa sat in the heart of the plane. It too smelled of leather and what you could have sworn it smelled like to be rich. It was stylish and modern with a black and white motif.

“Look at this!” Y/BF/N exclaimed excitedly as she picked up a pillow. “We’re on a plane that has fucking decorative pillows.” She squeezed it to her chest and hummed. “Oh, it’s soft.”

You found your seat and with a heavy, content sigh, you collapsed into it. “I can’t believe he did all of this.”

“Yeah! For you! You sure you didn’t sleep with him?” she teased.

Picking up one of the pillows yourself, you chucked it in her direction with a giggle. “Shut up.”

Your phone alerted you and you took it out of your pocket. Of course, it was a text from your newest favorite person. “Frank said you guys made it there okay. Do you have everything you need?”

“Jensen, this is crazy. You didn’t have to do all of this.”

“I know. I wanted to. :) Have a safe flight!”

“We will. And, Jensen...thank you for everything.”

“Just get here. That’s all the thanks I need. xoxo”

Did he just “kiss-hug” you? Your head was spinning with such grand gestures and all Jensen had done for you. But that “xoxo” made your entire day.

Frank went to the back of the aircraft and made himself comfortable as he made a few phone calls before take off.

As you tucked your cellphone back into your pocket, the flight attendant came out in a skirt, heels, and silk blouse. She was beautiful; far too beautiful to be a flight attendant. “Welcome aboard. We’ll be making a straight, nonstop flight to Vancouver, Canada. We will be in the air for approximately five hours, so please don’t hesitate to let us know if you need anything at all.” The attendant grabbed two small menus and handed them to you and Y/BF/N.

Glancing over it, you saw a list of delicious-sounding cocktails and top-shelf booze. You and your friend shared a look of excitement as the captain walked onboard.

“Welcome, aboard. Shall we get you two to Vancouver?”

------

The flight felt like it drug on forever, but only because of your excitement to see Jensen again. You and Y/BF/N had the time of your lives on that plane right though. The two of you shared drinks, delicious appetizers and watched movies while talking nonstop about the thrill of everything happening. It was like a fantasy.

It was late into the night when you landed and you eagerly looked out the windows just excited to be there.

The door opened and the stairs lowered before you and your friend headed out. You were laughing and having more fun than either of you imagined, and the trip had only started.

Ahead of you, was Frank, with yet another large tinted vehicle. Your luggage was already loaded and ready to go as he opened the doors for you both. “Welcome to Vancouver.”

Still buzzing, you and Y/BF/N crawled into the car. Grinning like her face would get stuck that way, she turned to you. “This is insanity, Y/N.”

“I know!”

And then your phone chimed again. Quickly, you unlocked it and saw Jensen’s newest text. “Welcome to Canada :)”

“Thanks! Jensen, this whole trip has been crazy. I can’t believe you did all of this.”

“I can’t believe you don’t think you’re worth every bit of it.”

Your heart stopped then and there; you were sure of it. Nothing you could say would be the appropriate response and your fingers danced over the screen trying to figure out what to say. But he beat you to it and another text came through.

“See you in an hour. :)”

“Seatbelts, ladies,” Frank told you over his shoulder from the driver’s seat as he started up the large SUV.

------

An hour that felt like an eternity; that’s the only way to explain that car drive. You were practically having to keep yourself from jumping up and down with nerves and your best friend took your hand.

“You’re freaking out now, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, only to see Frank look at you through the rearview mirror before you hushed yourself. “Of course, I’m freaking out. Is this just too fucking crazy? Should I not have done this?”

She grabbed your face and forced you to look at her. “As your best friend, I have to tell you to snap the hell out of it. This is the coolest thing that has ever happened to either of us and I demand that you let yourself enjoy every second.”

Your breathing slowed as she held you in place. “Okay. Okay. I can do this.”

“Fuck yeah, you can.”

It was only shortly after that you pulled in front of a beautiful building. Even in the dark, it was well lit and the exterior alone showed you the place was clearly beyond your lifetime budget.

Again, the doors began to open and you turned to get out. Only this time, your stomach jumped as you saw Jensen standing there holding the door for you with a massive grin.

“Hey, beautiful.”

“Hey,” you replied with a nervous smile. 

With you both out of the car, Jensen closed the door behind you and he turned to Frank. “Hey, man. Thanks for handling everything today.”

“Not a problem, Jensen.” And with that, Frank went to grab your things and bring them inside.

And that was when he finally had a moment to look into your eyes again. Jensen pushed back that strand of hair from your face that he began to know and love all too well. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He pulled you in for a hug and you wrapped your arms around him. You could have sworn that the man smelled better every single time you saw him. Closing your eyes, and feeling the warmth from his solid chest, you soaked him in. Jensen was your newest drug of choice; one you had no intention of finding sobriety from.

When he pulled away, he smiled before hugging Y/BF/N. “Thank you so much for making the trip with Y/N.”

She looked up at him and beamed. “What can I say?” she shrugged and feigned a dramatic sigh. “The things I do for my best friend.” Jensen chuckled and Y/BF/N and resituated the purse on her shoulder. “But seriously, thank you for everything. This whole trip has been incredible.”

“Well, it’s only getting started.” Jensen spun around to you and licked his bottom lip flirtatiously. “Come on, lemme show you around.” Taking your hand in yours, he began to lead you on.

You gulped hard at the feel of his large but soft grip and your eyes met Y/BF/N’s. “Oh, my god,” she mouthed as you all headed up toward the main entrance.

Once you had gone up the steps, Jensen led you both through the lobby and directly to the elevator. He put a key into the system before pushing the button. With Frank in tow with the luggage, you all went up to the nineteenth floor. The elevator doors opened and your jaw nearly dropped when you saw it led you right into a beautiful condo.

With Jensen still holding your hand, he led you all inside. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” you chuckled through a scoff in awe. “Jensen, this is amazing.”

“I’m so glad you like it. I thought you two would like your own space while you’re here.” He dropped the key into your hand and smiled. “And Frank is gonna be around to help you with whatever you need while you’re here.” As Y/BF/N went inside like a kid in a candy store, Jensen held you back. His voice was low and he took both of your hands in his. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you came.”

“Me too.” Lost in his green eyes that you’ve fallen so hard for, you sighed feeling complete now that you were with him again.

Jensen tilted down and put his forehead to yours. “You’ve had a long day. Get some rest. We start shooting super early but feel free to head over whenever you want. I hate that I got to see you so little tonight, but we can make up for it tomorrow.”

“Promise?” you asked sweetly.

He hummed softly and chuckled deep in his chest. “You better believe it.” Once again, he kissed your head and waved to Y/BF/N. “Have a good night!”

“Oh,” Y/BF/N said with enthusiasm. “We will.”

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

You felt a mild sadness come over you as your hands slipped apart while he walked away. “Tomorrow.”

Jensen got into the elevator with Frank and looked back at you once more with a flirty wink before the doors closed and he disappeared.

Once he was gone, you and Y/BF/N waited a moment before squealing like excited teenage girls and hugged each other while jumping up and down.

“I’m so lucky that my best friend’s so damn hot!” your friend yelled out playfully.

You looked around and saw the large double doors off to the side and gave her a sly smirk before darting off in their direction. “First one in gets to pick their bed!”

“You cheat!” The two of you laughed as you disappeared into your beautiful room.

You and Y/BF/N had been on one hell of a ride in less than two days, and you were nowhere near ready to let it end. But as fun as it all was, all that mattered to you was that you would soon be with Jensen again. You would have been happy with a room at the Hyatt or whatever, just as long as it meant time with him. That’s all the trip truly was for you; a chance to be with the man of your dreams.

------

Forever Taglist: @gemini0410  @huntersociopathavenger @paintballkid711 @crystallstaircase @love-nakamura @da5haexowin @flamencodiva @salt-n-burn-em-all @spnbaby-67 @sandycub @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk @akshi8278 @maddiepants @deansenwackles @lauravic @mrsjenniferwinchester @sea040561@sister-winchesters99 @rosey1981 @titty-teetee @a--1--1--3 @winchestergirl82 @screechingartisancashbailiff @my-proof-is-you @x-waywardaf-x @deans-baby-momma @shadows-and-padlocked-hearts @rainflowermoon @princessizzy36 @jensendeanlover317 @iamabeautifulperson18 @alwaysdreamingforthebest @bitterstar88 @mynightmaresstuff @themoonandotherslikeit @monkeymcpoopoo @calaofnoldor

#supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #mini series #series #jensen ackles #jensen x reader #reader insert #jensen Ackles x reader #you #jensen x you #love #new #chapter

[mnemememory]

sweet little lamb

(part 1)

beauty in the beast au; where jester is a teapot, caleb is a candelabra, and yasha is an evil demon (except she's really not)

.

Beau exists in a perpetual state of making bad decisions. 

At least, according to her mother. Beau’s gotten good at tuning out the rants about coming home late, coming home drunk, coming home with hickeys on her neck or not bothering to even come home at all. Beau spends most of her nights crashing on couches with people she hadn’t known before that evening. The village of Kamordah is small, but the city located just an hour out certainly isn’t. Every time Beau leaves behind the stink of a thousand people, she feels a little less herself.

Still. She hadn’t actually expected them to kick her out.

“Hey,” she yells, banging on the door. The locked door. They even moved the spare key out from under the doormat. “I’m back! Let me in!”

Nothing.

Beau scowls and kicks at the doorframe one more time, before turning and stuffing her hands into her pockets. She looks around at the street. Thankfully, it’s still early enough that no one was out and about to witness her inglorious disownment. Apparent disownment. If they want to get rid of Beau, they’re going to have to look her in the eyes and say it. If anything, she wants to be able to punch someone before the village police are called.

The neighbourhood is already fairly used to bursts of random shouting coming from wherever Beau turns out to be, so no one rushes out to demand Why are you awake at this ungodly hour of the morning? The answer is, obviously, Beau is drunk off her ass and wanted a nice place to sleep tonight. It is her birthday, after all.

Well. It had been her birthday, right up until midnight last night. She is officially eighteen years and one day old. Hurray.

Beau can just imagine what her mother would say now: “I can’t believe you’ve managed to survive this long.” Even in Beau’s imagination, she’s dressed immaculately, holding tight to her little brother’s hand. “Given how often you’ve tried to drink yourself – and us – into an early grave.”

Beau doesn’t drink that much. Her mother tends to overexaggerate for comedic effect, especially when the neighbours were involved. Beau can’t count how many times she’s hidden at the top of the staircase as her mother entertained guests, listening to the horrible things they said about each other. Your daughter certainly is a handful, was often the topic of conversation. I heard she –

It was different, every time, but the tone never changed. Beau always thought it funny how different they sounded when they thought no one was listening.

“I can’t believe this,” she says, kicking at the sidewalk and stubbing her toe. She spits out a few curses that her mother would have killed her for had she uttered them around her baby brother, and then collapses onto the hard ground. She spreads her limbs out like a starfish. Beau is just intoxicated enough to know that this is a bad idea but not particularly care. If someone runs me over with a cart, she thinks, then at least my death will be as messy and inconvenient as possible.

She wonders what her parents would tell her little brother. Maybe he’d wake up early, like he always seemed to do. Maybe they wouldn’t catch him fast enough to stop him from looking at her mangled corpse. People died all the time in villages like hers, where hygiene came in the form of bi-weekly bathes and soap strong enough to give sensitive skin chemical burns, but her little brother hadn’t really been in the forefront of all that.

Beau stares up at the stars. She counts the specks of light until she loses track, until the sunlight starts to bleach the sky pale. It’s cloudless and beautiful. The weather is perfect. Of course it is.

(It had been raining yesterday. Beau can already feel the water pooling in-between the cobblestone cracks, soaking into her jacket and chilling her to the bone.

Of course the weather was perfect for her little brother’s birthday, but not for hers. Of course).

“You’re looking rather down, young lady,” someone says.

Beau opens her eyes. There is a man standing above her, silhouetted by the rising sun. He’s a drow, his long tattered black cloak pulled loosely around a set of grey leather armour. There’s a blue cloth wrapped around the lower half of his face, obscuring everything but his eyes. Yellow eyes.

Very slowly, Beau sits up. There’s still no one around, which is odd but not unusual. It’s the day after a festival, after all. People were probably still nursing off their hangovers in the comfortable cool darkness of their own homes.

“What do you want?” she says, reaching up to press a hand to her forehead. Gah. That was such a bad idea. Now the world is spinning. As much fun as it would be to get robbed just outside her parents house, she doesn’t exactly feel like mugging some poor random to get back whatever shreds of her dignity remained.

The man seems to smile down at her. It’s a little hard to tell, with the only reference she has being the slight upward curve of his glowing eyes. “I was just passing through,” he says. “Thought you might be in a bit of trouble.”

Urgh. “No,” Beau says, bracing herself. She jumps to her feet without too much wooziness, which she’s going to count as a win. “Everything’s fine. Nothing to see here.”

“Is that so,” the man says.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” Beau says, flexing her fingers. She bends down again to grab her staff. “You here for the festival?”

“You could say that,” the man says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Beau says. “I don’t speak bullshit.”

“On the contrary, I expect that’s the only language you do speak.”

Beau lunges forward. “Excuse –”

He’s gone.

Beau whirls around at the sound of mocking laughter. The drow is standing behind her, eyes in half-moons, arms crossed. He’s leaning casually against the pole of a streetlamp.

Twirling her staff, Beau rushes him. She lands a blow with a sickening crack, following up with her fists –

Only to hit the pole. Beau’s knuckles bounce off the metal, numb.

“I’m here to collect a debt,” the man says. He’s still behind her. How did he manage to get behind her again?

“I don’t owe you shit,” Beau says. “I don’t even know who you are.”

The man tuts. “I think you owe quite a few people you don’t know quite a few things,” he says. “That speakeasy you opened up in the city certainly hasn’t been making bank on generous donations from wealthy benefactors, after all.”

“You’re here about the Mighty Nein?” Beau says, clenching her teeth. “What are you, a tax collector?”

“Well, you certainly don’t pay for all that alcohol,” he says. “But no. In this, you’re not incorrect. You don’t know who I am. But I certainly know who you are, Miss Lionett.”

Beau briefly closes her eyes. She shifts around her grip on her staff. “Is this something Dad owes you?”

The man lifts up his hand, like he’s ringing an imaginary bell. “Ding! And your father insisted on you being slow. No, I think you’re just the intelligence level I need for this.”

“For what?” Beau says, and then snaps into a flurry of blows. He’s gone before she can even land a glancing hit, which is nothing if not a blow to her pride.

“Just a little job I need done,” he says. Beau doesn’t turn around this time. She looks from side to side, mind frantically working out some new strategy. There’s still no one outside, despite the sun being well above the buildings by now. Festival or no festival, the harvest must be tended. Beau’s father would skin anyone who thought about skipping a day of work because of too much late-night partying. Beau would know. She’s borne the brunt of one-too-many early-morning shouting matches over that exact situation.

“I don’t work for assholes,” Beau says.

“And yet you work for your father,” he says.

Beau grins into the distance, sharp as a knife. “I wouldn’t say I work for him exactly.”

The man snaps his fingers. “Of course! What I meant was ‘embezzle’! But that’s not important right now, Miss Lionett. I’m here because I was promised something very valuable in return for services rendered, say – hmm. Eighteen years ago?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Beau says.

“Why doesn’t it surprise me that Thoreau Lionett never mentioned how he came into his wealth?”

Beau stops short. “You can’t be.”

“Oh, he did mention me. How delightful.”

Beau spins on her heel to stare at him. “You were the one who told him to come here. To start making wine.”

“And oh, how he has prospered,” he says, holding out his arms wide to encompass the buildings behind him. “And all I asked in return was a promise for help. Eighteen years later, and here I am, seeking to have that promise fulfilled.”

“I didn’t promise you shit,” Beau says.

“But your father did, when I talked to him last night,” the man says. “He suggested that you might be more than capable of killing the beast that hunts in the dark forest. You are decent with that weapon of yours, am I correct? Decent enough to kill a monster?”

Beau narrows her eyes.

“You want me to kill something,” she says. “That’s your repayment. Eighteen years ago, you looked at my Dad – who is pathetic when it comes to weapons – and thought, gee, this guy looks like just the man for the job.”

“I didn’t know I wanted this beast killed eighteen years ago,” the man says. “Now I do.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to believe me,” the man says. He snaps his fingers. His eyes flare an intense gold, and for a split-second Beau can almost see the misshapen shadows of wings burned into the wall behind him. Then the wall is gone, the ground is gone, everything is gone. Beau unbalances and falls down onto her knees, staff automatically digging into – into something to stabilise herself. She blinks heavily and looks around.

They are no longer in the village. Beau cautiously gets to her feet, head still pounding, and looks around at the dense forest that stretches out as far as she can see – which isn’t very far. The trees are packed so closely together that it’s impossible to make out anything from more than three feet away. She takes a step forward and gets her foot tangled up in a web of tree-roots that are just sort of chilling on top of the dirt.

“Find the monster and kill it,” the man says. Beau looks up. He’s sitting in the branches of a tree, lounging casually. “All your father’s debts will be repaid, and I will never trouble your doorstep again.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” Beau howls, stumbling over to kick viciously at the tree trunk. She peels off some sodden, moss-covered bark, but the rest of it is healthy. Mostly she just gets wet for the effort.

“Who knows,” the man says. He sounds almost amused, the jerk. “Maybe it will kill you first. That would certainly be entertaining, if inconvenient.”

“Take – me – back!”

The man snaps his fingers, and he’s gone.

.

Beau would like to say that she handles the situation with maturity and poise.

What she does is yell out every swear-word known to man (and a few only known to halflings) and kick at things until her ankles are swollen and her knees are bloody and damp. It takes her a good ten minutes to calm down. By then, she’s already figured out that she’s probably scared off all the small game in the area and attracted this “monster” for an easy feast.

“What a dick,” she says, trudging in – a direction. A random direction. There are no signs of anything monstrous anywhere, Beau is literally faking this whole thing until she can make it. “What was Dad thinking, listening to someone who won’t even show his face – it’s shady, that’s what it is, and I know Dad isn’t as stupid as he pretends to be –”

Beau keeps walking. And walking. And walking.

There’s some part of her that thinks that maybe she should just – stop? For a little while? Take a break, try to get some bearing on her surroundings. Climb a tree, yeah, that’d be a good idea. Beau is too irritated to be thinking logically, though. Maybe in half an hour. Maybe in an hour.

(It takes two hours and twenty minutes).

“Okay,” Beau says to herself when she’s finally calmed down from her impromptu temper tantrum. She limbers up and looks around for the nearest sturdy-looking tree, which is all of them. There are so many trees here. Beau is starting to feel claustrophobic just thinking about it. “Here I go –”

And then she’s shooting towards the sky.

There’s nothing quite so freeing as parkouring up a tree. Beau can’t quite stop herself from laughing as she twists mid-air, catching onto a low-hanging branch and propelling herself up. She’s at the top almost too soon, but she hasn’t even broken the canopy, so she just jumps onto the closest trunk and keeps going.

It takes a while to find somewhere she can get a decent view from. She clings to the bendy part of the top of the tree and sways with the wind. The sun is already settled comfortably into the centre of the sky, heat tickling the back of Beau’s neck. The view is incredible.

And also – unfortunately – familiar.

“Oh fuck,” Beau says, staring in dismay at the castle which emerges out of the canopy in the distance. It looms, dark even in the sunlight. “That’s what he meant by monster.”

.

Once upon a time…

(“Why do you always start your stories like that, grandpa? Can’t you just tell me when it happened?”

“I don’t always know that. And shh, stop interrupting you impertinent girl. It’ll be worth your while.”)

…there was a girl.

These things always seem to start with a girl. She was beautiful, because all good heroines must be beautiful, and brave, because they must always be brave too. And she fell in love, as beautiful brave girls do, and everything was right in the world.

Only, she fell in love with the wrong person.

Destiny is a funny thing, little girl. She fell in love with teeth and claws and bloodstained blades. There was a Creature stalking in the night, and the girl went outside and made it her friend.

(“That’s stupid. Who would fall in love with something like that?”

“Hush, it’s only a story.”)

And when the time came for the girl to be married to the man chosen for her, she repudiated him and instead ran to the comfort of her Creature. Her family, fearing the worst, hurried after her, and –

(“And? And what? You can’t end things like that!”

“It’s getting late, Beau. I’ll finish this story tomorrow night.”

“Please? Please? Tomorrow is so far away, grandpa.”

“What do you want me to say? The girl dies and the Creature forever haunts the forest. The end.”

“That’s a horrible end.”

“That’s the one I was told, and the one I’m telling you.”

“Make up a better ending, then.”

“Go to sleep, Beau.”)

.

There are stories about the castle.

Of course there are stories about the castle. Kamordah is a small village. There are stories about the well being haunted. There are stories about how Miss-So-And-So definitely killed Mister-So-And-So at that crossroads over there, and if you look on the night of a full moon, you can still see the bloodstains. There are stories about the castle.

Kamordah is surrounded by a forest, as all good villages are want to do. Beau has to trudge through an endless expanse of greenery to get to the city, and has to trudge right back through to return. As with any forest that encompasses more than sixty square feet of shrubbery, people get lost.

It happens. The village has learned to accept that sometimes, people walk too far into the trees and don’t come back for a good few days. Maybe even weeks, depending on how stupid they are. They come back wild-eyed and so scared.

(some of them stay scared for the rest of their lives).

“There’s – there’s something in there,” people say, shaking. Always shaking. “A beast – a monster – I was walking for hours – days – lifetimes – and then there it was. A castle, right out of a fairy tale. Tall enough to touch the sky. Spiked to stab the sun. And there was nothing else, no other way out. I turned around and walked away and it was still there in front of me. And eventually I had to go to the gate.”

Beau used to hide on the side of the staircase, half-hidden by wine barrels and the railing. Her father was the unofficial-official leader of the village, and the police always brought crazy people to his house when they reappeared.

Her father had never seemed surprised at any of the insane ramblings. Beau would peek out between the slats and stare at him, and the policeman, and whatever person for that month was hunched over in a chair.

“Wings,” they would say. “Bat wings – skeletal wings – eyes right out of the fires of hell. A bloodless face.”

“And what happened to you when you went inside?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Beau heard a thousand times. “No matter how far I ran, the castle would always be waiting for me. I opened the gate and that – that thing was there, and it spoke to me, but I can’t remember what it said. It was too horrifying. I passed out.”

(Or, sometimes, if they were more foolish than fearful, it was:

“I opened the gate and it was there, the creature. It spoke, but I don’t remember what it said. Then it led me into the castle. I don’t remember what happened after that, only that it was – it was horrifying beyond words. Please. Please. Don’t make me think about it anymore.”)

They would all walk free the next day, unrestricted by wounds, barely a half-hours straight walk from the village. And they could not stop shaking.

Here’s what everyone knows:

There’s a monster in the castle.

It’ll get you if you wander too far.

.

“Looks like I’m caught,” Beau says to herself, leaning back against the tree and closing her eyes.

That was something everyone had agreed on. Once you saw the castle, there was no escape.

She slides down the trunk and lands on the ground with her knees bent. She doesn’t immediately straighten up, just looks down at the ground with pursed lips and balances her elbows against her knees. She has to think this through.

On one hand – the monster has never really killed anyone. Traumatised, yes. Ruined lives, absolutely. But not necessarily killed.

There’s something she’s missing here. Something that man doesn’t want her to know.

On the other hand…maybe this would do it. Maybe this would be the thing that stopped her father from looking through her. Maybe he would finally see that he fucking owed her for throwing her under the cart like this. Maybe –

Beau leans back and collapses into a cross-legged position, laughing.

“Sure,” she says, grinning up into the green-dappled light of the canopy. “Yeah, that’s gonna do it. Let’s wash the slate clean.” She rolls her eyes.

Beau gets up and brushes herself off. She’s spent the last few years bouncing off from person to person, learning what she could and stealing what she couldn’t. She’s gotten good at reading people, is what she’s saying. And that man had wanted nothing good from her, or from her family. In the loosest sense of the word, of course.

She starts walking forward. It doesn’t matter if she’s walking towards the castle, or away from it. According to the stories, it’ll find her eventually.

And it does.

Beau isn’t surprised when she looks up and sees the castle. Still, it’s a little jarring – she’s been periodically checking the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of anything off in the distance. There aren’t too many clear spaces between the branches, so she’s working with a very limited amount of vision. She’s careful, and methodical, and it still manages to catch her off guard.

The castle is large. It imposes itself between the spaces of the forest, dark and ominous despite the light. The bricks are old obsidian, chiselled smooth and worn rough. The walls are crumbling in on themselves, the edges uneven and covered in thick layers of ivy. At the front there is a gatehouse, tall and spiked, framed by the two separate towers built into the far edges.

Beau breaks free of the forest and into the clearing, stopping at the edge of the still lake that surrounds the building. Around the sides, the trees are reflected almost perfectly against the dark waters. The only entrance to the castle is the long, thinly arched walkway leading to the front gate.

She wets her lips and unslings her staff from across her back. Okay. Okay. The castle has stepped out of her dreams and made itself stone, surreal and beautiful and imposing.

Beau walks forward.

.

Beau doesn’t remember walking across the moat.

It’s like she’s in a dream, already being pulled too many ways. She’s following flawed logic. The closer she gets, the more muddled her thoughts become, until she’s a hazy mess of thoughts and images. She leans forward, and back, forward, and back, and keeps moving. The Creature who greets her is tall and solidly built, with sad eyes hiding beneath a white mask.

“Beauregard,” it says. “You’ve returned.”

Beau blinks a few times, but nothing comes into focus. She tries to say something, but the words don’t want to come out. All of a sudden, she’s drowning. Her lungs strain under the thick weight of the air.

What’s happening to me? she thinks.

The Creature steps forward as soon as Beau’s feet hit the end of the moat, lifting Beau like she weighs nothing (which is certainly not true, it’s all muscle) and carrying her back towards the Castle.

“It will wear off in a few hours,” it says.

Beau makes a noise in the back of her throat. Mostly she’s trying not to vomit.

“I’ll leave you with Jester until then.”

Which means nothing to Beau. She grabs onto the Creature’s fur coat with all the strength in her inexplicably weakened body. Leaning up into the Creature’s ear, she hisses: “What the hell is going on?”

The Creature stares down at her through the expressionless mask. There are no wings. There is no fire, or blood, or ice. Beau is almost let down by the lack of melodrama – or she would be, if her head would stop spinning.

“You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” the Creature says. “You’ll want to sleep off the nausea before you do that. I’ve heard it’s rather unpleasant.”

Beau punches the Creature. Tries to.

Embarrassingly enough, she faints.

.

#critical role #critical role campaign 2 #beauyasha #part 1 #beauty and the beast au #beau #yasha #fanfic #critical role fanfiction #my writing #4k

[timelordthirteen]

In All Things 8/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit (eventually)

Summary: A Rumbelle arranged marriage AU.

Chapter Summary: Gold arrives home from the palace, in a less than pleasant mood, and asks a very important favor of Jefferson.

Notes: I promise Gold and Belle are going to start getting closer soon, and we're going to get a bit more of Jefferson's backstory as well. For the 31 Days prompt #8: snow.

[AO3]

Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

The trip home from his visit, four days later, did nothing for Gold’s mood.

His leg was killing him, and he longed to stretch out in his own space and drink tea made in his own house. The previous night had seen a chilling rain move through the region, leaving some portions of the road even bumpier than usual, and with an added slickness that made the carriage slow to a crawl at several points. He grumbled about it, but an injured horse was the last thing he needed, so he told himself to stuff his impatience and keep quiet.

Thornhill was a welcome site as they came around the bend, and he sighed. He was not fit company at the moment, but Bae was already out front, waving as the carriage rolled through the gate. Jefferson was next to him, but no one else, and he felt a small tinge of disappointment that Belle wasn’t there as well. No doubt she was glad to be rid of him for the week, and it was just as well, since there was now the matter of sorting out what had gone on between her and her previous fiance, Sir Gaston, that triggered a slew of rumors being spread around the royal court.

The scowl on his face must have conveyed all the information that was needed, because his own son took a step back, suddenly shy and nervous in the presence of his father, and Jefferson was suspiciously reticent.

“Bae,” Gold said tiredly, holding out his arm. Bae came forward and hugged him tight, and he exhaled heavily. “Did you miss me?” Bae shrugged, the corner of his mouth turning up, and Gold bent to kiss the top of his head. “Of course not, probably too busy causing trouble with Moreen and Grace.”

That perked Bae up a bit, and he immediately stepped back, shaking his head and looking affronted. “Nuh-uh, it was Grace who broke the dish, not me!”

Gold raised his eyebrows and shifted his gaze to Jefferson, who hung his head and sighed. The weight on his shoulders lightened a bit as he laughed, and Bae giggled too as wrapped his arms around Gold’s waist again and squeezed. Gold let out a grunt and feigned injury, but he was smiling too wide for it to be believed.

Coming home to his son had always been a balm for his soul, no matter how arduous the journey.

“Sir,” Jefferson said, “There’s a small matter that needs your attention; a letter that’s arrived from Mr. Humbert, but other than the incident with the plate, it’s been quiet.”

“Good,” Gold mumbled, reaching into the carriage to take out his satchel while his cases were unloaded from the back of the carriage. “Have those taken to the laundry. I need to change and freshen up, and then I’ll see you in my library, yes?”

Jefferson gave a short nod and a half bow as Gold strode into the manor.

A brief wash and a change of clothes made Gold feel marginally better.

Jefferson came to see him after an hour, at which point he’d already read through the letter from Graham Humbert, caretaker of one of his properties to the west, and reviewed the rest of the correspondence that had come in while he was gone.

“So it seems the issues with the orchard are continuing,” Gold said with a sigh as he let the letter fall to the desk.

Jefferson nodded glumly and mirrored him from the sofa near the fireplace. “At this point, we’re not sure what we can do. We may have to let some of it go fallow for the next year and see if it improves.”

Gold frowned. “That will reduce the yield even further. The King will not be pleased.”

“It’s already at a five year low,” Jefferson said with a shrug. “And the King, as you’ve said before, can ‘sod off unless he’s willing to get down in the dirt with the regular people.’”

That earned Jefferson a momentary smirk. “We have extra stores and extra funds, but we may need most of it to get through the winter. They’re still saying it will be one of the worst in a decade.”

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, until Gold stood up. He moved to the fireplace and prodded at the logs as Jefferson watched him thoughtfully.

“Let’s hear it,” Jefferson said, stretching his arms out along the back of the lounge.

Gold frowned over his shoulder and then set the iron poker aside. “Hear what?”

Jefferson gave him an exasperated look. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you. It’s been evident since you returned.”

Gold exhaled and nodded, then moved to sit across from Jefferson in a high backed leather chair where he put his feet up on the ottoman.

“King George, he - he mentioned Lady Belle’s first engagement.”

Jefferson’s head tilted. They had both known that Belle was supposed to be married to Sir Gaston and that after only two months the whole thing had fallen through, but the particulars had never been divulged. Gold laid out every detail of what the King had said, his hand curling into a tight fist as he recounted the implication that Belle had taken other suitors and perhaps tried to entrap multiple eligible men into marrying her by getting pregnant.

“Ridiculous,” Jefferson said, his usually gentle voice sharpened by derision and irritation. “Lady Belle is far too sweet for any of that nonsense. She doesn’t have a manipulative bone in her body!”

Gold’s fingers tapped against the leather arms, drumming lightly on the brass rivets that went along the sides and front. He wanted to believe Jefferson was right, but something was nagging at him about the whole situation, beyond that his new wife was being talked about at court so distastefully.

“You don’t believe it, do you?” Jefferson sat forward, frowning. “You can’t, it’s - it’s -”

“Undetermined,” Gold finished.

Jefferson sprang to his feet, flipping his long coat out behind him. “What?”

Gold raised a hand to settle his friend and stared into the fire. “Something happened between her and Gaston, and now Gaston is spreading lascivious rumors, but -”

“But what?” Jefferson nudged Gold’s feet aside and sat down on the ottoman, facing him. “It bothers you that you don’t know the truth, and you won’t feel like you can trust her until you do?”

He huffed out a breath and closed his eyes before nodding slowly. “I don’t like it, but I can’t shake it.”

“You could ask her you know.” Gold looked up, eyes wide, and Jefferson shook his head. “It’s the simplest solution, and she has a right to know that she’s being slandered.”

“Yes, I’m sure that will go over well.” He looked from Jefferson back to the fireplace. “My Lady would you be so kind as to tell me all the terrible details of how your first engagement was broken and nearly ruined your family for good?”

Jefferson snorted. “Well, I imagined you’d be a little more tactful and eloquent than that, but if you want her to throw a teapot at your head, then so be it.”

Gold swallowed and looked down at his hands as he fiddled with his ring. “You could do it.”

“Pardon?” Jefferson leaned forward and dipped his head to catch Gold’s gaze. “I’m sure you’re joking.”

“You’ve done it before, it’s -”

“No.” Jefferson stood again and crossed his arms. “We agreed that was over. No.”

“Jefferson, please -”

“Cameron!” he hissed.

Jefferson’s eyes were wide and pleading, and Gold felt a pang in his chest. He knew that asking this might damage their friendship forever, but he needed to know the truth if he was going to trust Belle with everything. With his son. More than that, he felt an obligation to protect her reputation, now that he’d participated in sullying it. If there was something in her past that could be used to harm her in the future, and it brought harm to Bae as well, he’d never forgive himself.

“This is for Baeden, not me,” Gold said softly. “I have to know. I don’t want anything to be used against her, and if it’s all bollocks as we think it is, then I want Gaston to pay for whatever he’s done to her.”

Jefferson took a breath and leaned against the mantle, resting his head on his forearm. The heat from the flames warmed his leather boots until they felt like they might melt before he straightened and then turned to Gold.

“Fine,” he said evenly. “But this is absolutely the last time.”

Gold inclined his head. “Agreed.”

“And,” he continued, “Grace gets Hampton House.”

Gold’s eyebrows lifted and his mouth opened in a soft ‘oh.’ “Making a deal, dearie?” Jefferson’s glare could have stopped a bear in its tracks, and Gold sighed. “Fine, yes.”

Jefferson gave a quick nod and tugged on the lapels of his jacket. “Good.”

His steps were sharp as he walked to the door of the study, and Gold sagged in his chair. “It was going to be hers anyway.”

Jefferson stopped at the door and turned around, meeting Gold’s gaze as he leaned around the side of the chair. “Hampton House. I was going to wait until she was sixteen and sign it over to her. Pretty young girl, with a sharp wit, a house, and an inheritance all her own? She could marry anyone she wanted.”

Gold pushed up and stood to face Jefferson. “I just want my boy safe and cared for, the same as you want for Grace.”

“And Belle?”

Jefferson’s stare was hard, and Gold nodded solemnly. “Her too.”

They seemed to agree on that, and Jefferson left without another word. Gold dropped back into the chair and leaned forward, his face in his hands as he breathed in and out steadily. He hated asking his friend to do such a thing, especially after their shared history, but he needed to know the truth and Jefferson was the only one he trusted to do it discreetly and thoroughly.

With another heavy sigh, he pushed to his feet and rang the bell for the maid. He would take his dinner in his room as he was even less fit for company now than when he arrived.

Jefferson stewed for two days before he got down to the business of making inquiries about Lady Belle and Sir Gaston’s engagement.

He started by trying to prod Belle into just telling him what had happened, but all his subtle hints went unnoticed, and he was afraid to be more blunt for fear of pushing her away. He had come to respect and care for Belle in a very short time and was happy to consider her a friend. One day he was certain they’d be dear friends, and he was glad that Bae and Grace would have her in their lives. Both children had lost their mothers young, and while he and Gold did they best they could as fathers, he knew having a mother was a different thing entirely. He hoped that Belle might be that for them, the kind, strong, and caring figure they needed later in life.

He did manage to find out that Belle’s mother had also died when she was young, barely passed eleven, and it solidified even more that whatever stories were being told about her were untrue. She was far too good for all of that nonsense, but there was a hint of something in her countenance that was closed to him. He began to understand where Gold’s fear had originated, but he got the sense that whatever it was, it wasn’t known to anyone but herself.

That morning, he sent out letters to a few key contacts at the royal court, making small inquiries after Sir Gaston. He knew the man wasn’t well liked overall, and assumed it would be easy to find where the bodies were buried, hopefully only metaphorically.

He had just finished calculating the staff’s wages for the month, when Belle came into the downstairs study.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, starting to back out of the room.

“No, no, do come in.” He set the ledger book aside and returned the pen to its holder. “I was just finishing up.”

She eased back into the room, and he smiled. Her dress was a delightfully bright and springy yellow with white piping at the edges and a scrolling pattern of pearls around the bodice. The lace around the hem had clearly seen better days, but that was easily remedied. Ms. Potts was an excellent seamstress, as were two of the younger ladies, but he thought that fairly soon, she’d probably have a whole new wardrobe if she wanted it.

“So,” she started, drawing out the ‘oh’ sound, “how are you?”

“I’m well, you?” He moved from the desk to a chair near the window and gestured for her to take the other.

Belle shrugged. “Well, I suppose.”

He frowned. “That’s not very convincing. Would you like to try again?”

She gave a short laugh and then sighed. “I haven’t seen, um, Gold today. Or yesterday. I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me.”

Jefferson sat back, the fingers of his left hand fiddling with the buckle at the top of his boot as he absorbed that bit of information and made a mental note to speak to Gold. “He’s always a bit grumpy when he comes back from the palace, I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“It’s a bit hard not to,” she admitted. “Is he...grumpy often?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Only a little more than everyone else. There’s a lot of...pressure from the King to help keep things in order.”

“Ah.”

Jefferson remained silent for a long moment, but when she didn’t say anything more, he reached for her hand. She startled at bit at his touch, and he gave her a small smile.

“Are you alright?”

She took a breath, and then pulled her hand away. “I’m fine.”

“Again, not very convincing,” he said, starting to grin. “You would make a terrible actress.”

Belle gave him a momentarily scowl and then shook her head. “I’ve never been good at lying, I couldn’t get away with so much as a muddy shoe print on the rug as a child, and I had no siblings to blame it on.”

Jefferson laughed softly. “I’m afraid that at one time in my life, lying was as easy to me as breathing.” Belle frowned at him and he sighed. “That, I am happy to say, is all behind me.”

She smiled and rested her hand on his, giving it a light squeeze, and he felt his stomach sink. Lying was still entirely too easy for him, it was just that he actually felt the effects of it now, the guilt of it all burning its way through his soul. He reminded himself that this was better for all of them in the long run.

“The other day,” she began, “last week, actually, when - when we met in the garden?”

Jefferson swallowed. “Yes?”

“I, um - well, before that, I came out of my room and I heard - I heard you and - and Lord Gold.”

He blinked and something clicked into place as she nibbled on her bottom lip. He and Gold had one of their spirited arguments that everyone at Thornhill was more than used to, but it occurred to him that someone new such as Belle wouldn’t know the kind of relationship he had with his friend and employer. She wouldn’t understand that Gold’s snappishness and sarcasm was well matched with his own, and that there was never any offense meant. He’d only been trying to coax Gold into being honest with Belle about his situation and Bae’s, which he’d given up on for now.

“Ah,” he said finally. “Well, that explains things.”

Her head tilted. “I don’t understand. He was so -”

“Loud?” he offered. “Abrasive? Rude?”

Belle shifted in her seat. “Um…”

Jefferson chuckled. “All three?” She gave him a sideways look and then nodded. “Oh, darling, don’t mind him. We’ve always been like that with each other, and truly there is no offense meant or taken. I was pushing him to do something, and he was pushing back, that’s all.”

She seemed uncertain and began to pick at a loose thread on her skirt. “Oh. Well, I’m sorry I overheard.”

“Did it...scare you?” he asked, sitting forward.

“A bit, maybe.” She looked out the window and then back to him. “I barely know him, and I didn’t know what to think.”

His look was soft and sympathetic, and he reached for her hand, pressing it between both of his. “His bark is far worse than his bite, that I can promise you. He’s like an old toothless dog.”

That made her laugh, and he grinned, basking in the lovely sound. Lady Belle of Avonlea was truly a gem, and he knew that once they dealt with this nasty business with Gaston, that all would be well.

“I was actually looking for him earlier,” she said. “I was hoping we could - we could talk.”

He patted the back of her hand and agreed. “Yes, I think that would be a very good idea.

Belle leaned her forehead against the cold glass, watching as the little puffs of breath from her nose fogged the window.

What Jefferson had said about his relationship with Gold seemed truthful, and she felt better having said something about what she heard, even if it she had yet to broach the subject with Gold. Since he’d returned from King George’s palace, he’d been keeping to himself and the few times she tried to seek him out, he seemed to be well secluded somewhere in the house.

Jefferson insisted that if she was honest with Gold, he would be honest with her, and while she had no reason to doubt it, the thought of confronting Lord Cameron Gold about anything seemed daunting.

Do the brave thing, her mother’s voice echoed.

She let out a heavy sigh, obscuring the view momentarily. At the bottom of the window, snow had begun to accumulate, and she shivered before turning away from the window to draw the curtains.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #belle x mr. gold #in all things #my rumbelle fic #fic #31 days of fandomas #fandomas 2019

[mcwriting]

starstruck (4)

Here it is... finally! It’s ~angsty~ but it was really fun to write. 

I will say, I realized while writing this that the timeline of this fic is sooooo short but hey, its fiction, so I guess anything can happen lol. I tried to resolve it in later chapters but it’s definitely quick moving in these initial chapters. 

There’s a lot of italics in this one lol

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

Fandom: Thomas Stanley Holland

Ship: Tom Holland x Reader (eventual)

Setting: LA in general

Word Count: 2240 yeet

Warnings: angst, some mild language

Rating: still k+ right now

Last time on starstruck...

“Hey what’s going on? Uh huh. No, we actually have it handled. I might or might not be with her right now… no it’s fine. Seriously, we are laying low! We’re on the way to the hotel right now. Alright, alright I’ll see what I can do. See you in a few.”

And with that, he hung up, turned to you, and said, “That was my manager. Apparently we’ve got a problem.”

                            __________________________________

You pulled underneath the awning of the posh hotel Tom was boarding at, the kind of place you only dreamed of staying.

Sure, your family wasn’t poor, but your parents definitely weren’t the type of people to spend a lot of money on hotels. They claimed to enjoy spending more money on the “fun” parts of vacations than where you slept at night.

To each their own, you supposed.

Tom wanted you to come inside, per request of his manager, so you figured you would drop him off and park so you wouldn’t be seen together. 

The valet had other plans, however, pulling you out of the car and exchanging your keys with a numbered slip of paper. 

It all happened so fast that for a moment you just stood there, stunned. You snapped out of it when the man began to drive off and Tom grabbed you to lead you inside.

The lobby was massive and covered with marble flooring. A large, plush rug covered many of the tiles and on top of it sat some luxurious couches and armchairs, framing a huge TV on the wall. 

On the other side was a long marble counter that seated hotel staff, who stood at the ready upon seeing Tom.

You also couldn’t help but note the smell, a light, sweet floral scent wafting through the air pleasantly. 

This must be rich people scent you thought to yourself.

Due to the nature of it being midday, very few people were seen in the lobby, and Tom led you straight through to a hallway and past the main elevators, his hand resting on your lower back the entire time.

“I have access to a service lift so less people will see,” he explained, as if he’d just read your confused mind.

You walked briskly with Tom through the winding hall, finally ending up at the alternate elevator, where he swiped his key card and the doors slid open with a few creaks.

You tapped your foot nervously as you passed floor by floor, letting go of a breath you didn’t realize you were holding upon reaching the top.

Once again, you followed behind Tom through the hall and to his room. You stood awkwardly in the doorway, clenching onto the straps of your beach bag, as he entered to find more suitable clothing.

After disappearing for a moment, he popped his head back out.

“You can come in, you know. This might take a few minutes.”

You stepped further into his suite, making your way to the sliding doors attached to a balcony. Looking out you could see Los Angeles in full light, the people and cars below feeling so out of reach, like nothing you had ever experienced in your city.

You seemed so out of place in the heavily decorated room still in beach clothing and legs covered in sand.

You could hear Tom rummaging through the drawers and walked over, giving a gentle knock on the open door.

“Having trouble, twinkle toes?” you joked at the way he pillaged through his clothes. He smiled at your commentary.

“Maybe a bit. Do you need anything? A drink, snack? The fridge is stocked so take anything you like.”

You were surprised at his generosity and at how little he cared about paying for that stuff. In your family, everything in the hotel room was off limits if it wasn’t free.

“I think I’m good but do you mind if I use your restroom? I really need to rinse this sand off and put on some real clothes.”

“Go right ahead,” he gestured to the bathroom door.

The bathroom was also massive, especially for a hotel. The shower thankfully had a handheld spray head so you were able to just target and rinse your legs. You tugged on some athletic shorts and a loose tank top to replace your former garments.

You quickly used the toilet too and went to wash your hands, not believing how many fancy soaps and lotions covered the counter. 

As you lathered, a small bottle caught the corner of your eye. It was a light yellowish color and read “OBSESSION for men.” 

Of course he would wear Calvin Klein cologne. Now I know.

You finished up and made a final once over in the mirror, fixing some stray hairs in your ponytail and opening up the door. 

You stopped in your tracks as your eyes laid upon Tom, who was shirtless with his back to you, the elastic of his underwear poking out of his pants’ waistline.

“You’re a pretty big fan of Calvin Klein, huh?” you asked, referring to both the cologne and his boxers. He turned around, giving you a view of his bare chest, which didn’t disappoint, a fact that you pretended was annoying.

“Hah, yeah. I really want to do an ad campaign with them if you couldn’t tell,” he bent over to pick up a shirt from the bed and toss it on. 

“Well with the cologne and underwear you’re pretty much a walking billboard.”

“You like the cologne?” he asked, causing your face to heat up. You knew a blush was present and probably obvious, so you decided not to lie. 

“Yeah, actually I do. It’s a nice scent. It also happens to be all over my bed right now thanks to a certain someone,” you tipped down your chin and raised an eyebrow accusingly. 

“You want it? The company actually sent me like… eight bottles and a bunch of clothes not too long ago after I posted on Instagram about them. I can’t get rid of them fast enough,” he offered, walking towards you.

“What? No! I couldn’t just take that from you. What would I tell my friends when they see men’s cologne bottle in my room? I can’t say ‘oh yeah Tom Holland gave it to me’ and it would be majorly out of character to tell everyone that it’s what you wear.”

He went past you into the bathroom and rummaged through a toiletry bag, muttering an “aha!” when he pulled out another bottle identical to the one on the counter, except this was sealed and full.

“Seriously Tom I can’t just tak-” you started when he dropped the bottle into your bag.

“Whoops,” he quipped, “no take backs. Now your bed can forever smell like me”

You were ready to argue again (with an undeniable smile on your face) when there was a loud rapping on the main door.

Tom grimaced at you to wordlessly send a message of ‘prepare yourself’ as he took a deep breath in and headed out of his bedroom. You silently followed into the living room and watched Tom open the door, where a well dressed man and woman pair stood talking.  

                            __________________________________

At first you and Tom together discussed the plan you had made at the beach with his manager and publicist, neither of whom seemed to like the idea very much.

They asked to speak with Tom privately, so you relocated back into the bedroom and sat on the side of his bed, reminiscing on how the roles were almost reversed compared to only two evenings prior. 

You were only in there for about ten minutes, but it seemed like hours. You were too anxious to mess with your phone and instead looked out his window.

There was a quiet knock on the door before Tom opened it. You recognized the steely look in his eyes and the way his jaw was clenched. 

He motioned for you to come out, and almost immediately after stepping into the living room his manager started talking to you.

“So, y/n, right? I’m gonna have to give this to you straight. You cannot be seen with my client ever again,” she stated bluntly, “it’s nothing against you, of course, but Tom here needs to maintain a ‘single’ rep until this movie is no longer in theatres and frankly you’re jeopardizing the whole thing.”

Your eyebrows shot up and you weren’t happy to hear this woman’s feigned criticisms.

“I’m sorry, but Tom is the one who sought me out. I never liked him, you could ask any person who knows me and they would tell you the same. I’m only here because Tom asked me to meet him about getting rid of this whole ‘scandal’ or whatever you want to call it. So if anyone is jeopardizing Tom, it’s himself.”

The publicist took a step forward.

“Look, miss y/n, it’s really nothing against you, we just want to maintain his image, and the best way to do so would be for us to go online and tell everyone he helped you get medical attention for an injury, which we all know is true, and end it at that. It makes Tom look like a hero, and you’ll be popular for weeks with your peers I’m sure,” he explained, angering you further. 

“I never asked for this. I don’t want attention. I don’t want the world, or more importantly my best friend, to find out I’ve been lying about the guy I used to hate. Do you realize how many rumors this will fuel? This is ridiculous and I can’t allow you to put out my information like this.”

“Oh, well. Too bad. I just sent the tip to TMZ and they’re posting the story tonight,” he replied, “and Tom is going live on Instagram at 4:00 to address it the way we told him to and you two can’t be seen together again. Text all you want like you have been, but no public contact. Unless of course we want to do a ‘girl saved by hero reunites with him’ thing. Oh man would that look so good-”

“I’m done. This is so sick. Tom,” you looked directly into his eyes, “never contact me again, you disgusting cheap sellout bastard,” you spat, a fire in your own eyes like nothing anyone had ever seen from you.

“Y/n I-“ he began, but you were already heading to the door. You could hear footsteps behind you and the door slam shut but you kept power walking towards the main elevators, hoping they were the opposite direction from which you and Tom initially came.

“Wait!” he cried out, finally catching up and grabbing your elbow.

You threw his hand off but stopped moving forward and instead spun around to face him. Tears had made their way down your cheeks by now and you weren’t any happier to be so vulnerable in front of Tom. 

Never in your life did or expect the next (or even last) guy you’d cry over would be Tom Holland.

“Y/n, please listen,” he pleaded, his face was also red, as if he were going to cry himself. You stood firm and gave him an expectant glare, so he continued.

“I don’t want to do this, I really don’t. Please understand that I have to, though, no matter how much this hurts. We can still talk. I was so drawn to you the second I saw you in that crowd just last week and I could’ve never imagined how close you could become in the short amount of time we’ve known each other. Please, babe, I don’t want to lose you.”

Anger flashed inside of you again and you felt your chest tighten at the bomb he’d just dropped..

“Do you really, Tom? Do you really care? Because to me it sounds like you actually have a choice here, but you’re too much of a pushover to do what’s right. If you really cared, you wouldn’t do this to me. I was serious back there. Don’t talk to me again, and definitely don’t call me babe if you do.” 

 “I’m so, so sorry, y/n,” Tom’s voice finally broke, and you could see the way his lip quivered as he continued, “I’m sorry I ever got you into this mess.”

“Me too,” you whispered. 

You wiped more stray tears and turned, looking back one last time into the face of the broken-hearted celebrity, hoping it was the last time you would ever see his face, but knowing it wouldn’t be the end of it.

                            __________________________________

You exited the elevator, which you were glad was empty. More tears had fallen on the journey down and you mustered up everything you could to stop them, at least until you were off the premises of the hotel. 

Though knowing you looked like a wreck, you walked through the hotel lobby with head held high, looking straight forward at the large front doors. 

Your numbered ticket was in hand and you gladly gave it to the valet so he could pull up your car.

It was getting harder to hold it together as you waited. Finally, he appeared and parked the car in front of you.

He held out the keys and then stood directly in front of you, silently pleading for a tip, even though he could probably see the obvious anguish on your face. 

Finally, you gave in, rolling your eyes as you dug through your bag for a spare $5 bill and slapped it into his hand with disdain.

“How kind. Have a nice day, ma’am!” he voiced cheerily.

You fought the urge to flip him off as you sat down in the driver’s seat and began the journey back home, dread filling your stomach the closer home became.

                           __________________________________

A/N: yeehaw that was a fun time. Next chapter is angsty too sorry I don’t make the rules... :)

Tag List: @marvel-lously, @jackiehollanderr, @one-big-fangirl

#starstruck #tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland dancing #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #spider-man #spiderman #spider man #Spider Man: Homecoming #tom holland spider man #SPIDER MAN: FAR FROM HOME #SPIDER MAN FAR FROM HOME #sm:ffh #MARVEL FANDOM #marvel

[cupidsmusings]

The Affair That Never Happened

Description: It was here third and final and final year at Seishun High School. A year that was coveted by most and looked back on with cherished memories. For this particular student though, she found herself in a peculiar situation that set a catalyst for things to come.

Rating: PG-13

Series: The Affair That Never Happened

Chapter 3: To Pen and Paper and Out the Door

Couples: Eventual reader x Shinichi, unrequited reader x Chiharu

Author’s note: In Japan, some love hotels have age restrictions while others do not. In Tokyo, the legal age is 20, which is why the MC is worried about entering a love hotel. Another thing, most love hotels don’t have your normal front desk workers and instead have a touch screen TV in the front lobby to pick which room you’d like. Most staff working in the love hotel are never seen, which is why none were included in seeing her enter the place.

Chapters: 1, 2

   Fuck. Literally what the fuck. She would be finding the entire situation hysterical if it weren’t for the fact that she was almost about to piss herself from fright. What was she supposed to do? Thank God he looked too concerned with keeping himself from vomiting again to take notice of her.

   “Sorry,” Was all he managed to say and held out his hand to her.

   What did he want? Was he having trouble standing and needed help? Moving to the side of him, she grasped his other arm and threw it over her shoulders so he could properly lean against the side that wasn’t covered in vomit. Wait… This could become an even more troublesome predicament. She couldn’t take him back to the dorms. He was drunk as a skunk and she doubted she could handle a fifteen-minute walk back with a grown man basically leaning atop her. Also, it seemed that he hadn’t noticed her, so if she thrust him into a cheap hotel room for him to sleep everything off, she’d be able to leave quickly and return back to the dorms without trouble.

   “Just hang on okay, I’ll find you a hotel for you to stay at tonight.” She told him gently and started to walk forward.

   He released a noise and made a heavy thrust of his head. What an interesting way to nod, but to each their own. The two of them walked at what felt like a snail’s pace and {Name} found herself more and more agitated as the minutes passed. Where was a damn hotel that wouldn’t suck the life out of her wallet?

   “I’m sorry for taking so long,” she apologized and made sure to keep her face out of view of his gaze as she looked about them. “It seems that I’m having trouble finding you a cheap hotel.”

   Without a word, he tightened his grip on her shoulders and guided them down the streets of Tokyo. Despite not being aware of where she was being taken she let herself be guided to a row of hotels. Love hotels. Oh wow. She looked up at him and was fairly amused by the triumphant smirk on his face.

   “Found some.” He slurred, and she couldn’t hold back her laughter.

   “I can see that.” She hummed and looked at the prices listed outside.

   Indeed, love hotels were cheap. What worried her was that she was underage. What would she do if they asked her for her ID? Well, maybe not? A high-school student wouldn’t be out so late with a drunk man. With forced bravado, she guided the two through the entrance of what she thought to be the cheapest hotel amongst them. And when she went to the front desk, she found herself curious about the “themed” rooms mentioned. Imagining the ever so serious Kagari-sensei waking up in a ludicrous room was far too tempting to pass up.

   “What kind of themed rooms do you have?” She found herself asking with a kittenish smirk.

   She clicked the themed rooms button at the top of the touch screen panel and found herself abuzz with excitement. Which one should she pick? The Princess Room? Carnival Room? Medieval Room? A heavy S&M inspired room?

   “Which room would make you squirm the most?” She asked him with a cock of her head.

   He didn’t say anything, and she didn’t expect him to, but when he pressed a button on the Carnival Room, she stared at him with widened eyes.

   “I can’t believe you’re afraid of Carnivals.” She whispered in slight disbelief.

   “Not scared,” he shrugged, or at least tried to but it honestly just looked like he had gotten a cold chill. “It’s just girls like Carnivals, right?”

   That’s when he was staring down at her and she was so stupefied by his answer she forgot to look away. The key-card popping out for them to retrieve was what broke her attention.

   “Well, whatever, let’s hurry up.” She grumbled, a little saddened that she couldn’t choose the S&M room for him.

   The two made their way to the elevator and once on their respected floor, the black tile lit up, pointing them in the direction they needed to go. That was pretty neat.

   “Love hotels are kinda cool, huh?” She commented as they walked to the door of their room. She rummaged through her purse for her wallet, but the large man that might as well have been a large child moved to go through his own pockets.

   “Calm down, I’m paying for it.” She said and tried to swipe her card, but he shoved her hand away with his own so he could swipe his.

   “A gentleman should pay.” He said.

   What a weirdo. It wasn’t as if she was going to stay the night with him, so he didn’t have to act like he was paying for both of them. It made sense for him to pay for it, she knew this because he would be the one staying the night after all. But her stubbornness roared its ugly head and she was more determined than ever to pay for his stay. She shoved his hand away and went to swipe her card, but he, in retaliation to her retaliation, took her wrist in his free hand and moved it sluggishly away so he could successfully swipe his own card.

   Again, that stupid smug smirk was plastered on his face once more. She rolled her eyes and patted him between his shoulder blades.

   “Good job, you true gentleman you.” She commented dryly as she swiped the key card in the door to open it.

   What greeted her was cotton candy-colored walls with large surgery sweets painted on them. The floor was a sparkly pink with blotches of see-through glass randomly placed atop it. Upon further inspection, she could make out glass confections in the shape of balloons and wrapped candies that were surrounded by a gentle layer of soft stretched cotton that gave the falsehood of it being cotton candy. The bed was king-sized, with the four posters striking upward all the way until it touched the ceiling. It twisted and turned like a unicorn's horn and was painted rainbow with a sparkle finish. Carved into the backdrop of the bed was a carousel with nude women and men having sex atop the different animals. There was a couch to the right of the bed that was an ungodly bright shade of yellow with hot pink trimmings. The ceiling was covered with sheets that gave the impression that they were inside of an outdoor circus tent.

  “Toilet,” he managed to mutter out before wrenching himself from her to clumsily make it to the bathroom in time.

   She watched him with pity and slight curiosity. What made him go out drinking so heavily in the first place? Was it the sorrows of love? Was he in debt? Did he realize he’d never get a woman with his rude attitude? Well, that last one could be a part of the sorrows of love but it was an extra jab she couldn’t help giving him. With one final once over of the impressive room she walked into the bathroom. She crouched down beside him and ran a soothing hand up and down his back.

   “You sure did drink a lot, huh?” She smiled at him, not bothering to hide her amusement. “Did you get dumped?”

   “No,” he managed to say after he heaved a few junks in the toilet. “Just met up with an old school buddy that wouldn’t let me leave until he had me drink my fill.”

   “You’re an adult, right? You had the choice to say no, so don’t blame it on your friend. You’re not young enough to experience pure pressure anymore.” She laughed and restrained herself from playfully smacking him on the back.

   “What an astute answer.” He couldn’t say much more because he was throwing up before he could.

   “Not astute, just true.” She hummed and went to gently comb her fingers through his hair. When her father was dealing with a hangover, he liked her mother doing it, so she unconsciously assumed it would help him.

   She should remove her fingers, she knew this, but his hair was so soft. She had never felt such feather-like hair. To be fair she wasn’t going around delving her fingers into the hair of strangers, but it was an honest comment none the less. Once it looked like he was finished, she went ahead and used her already dirtied cardigan to wipe away the leftover vomit that coated his lips.

   “Feels nice.” He smiled at her, and oh boy if he smiled like that more often he would definitely have more suitors.

   “Glad to hear it, I guess.”

   She helped him to his feet and dragged him over to the plush comforter and what seemed to be a thousand pillows that decorated the bed. She watched him sit up and laughed as he put on a dramatic show of trying to remove his suit jacket. Not wanting to waste any more time there than she already did, she hurried to help him remove his jacket. Once out, he reached out and with a contradictory of unsteady but firm hands he tried to undo the buttons of her cardigan, to what she guessed was in order to remove it from her person. She very much liked it on her person though, so she gently pinched the foreskin of his hand.

   “Quit it,” she said but he looked up at her with a stern expression.

   “We have to get you out of your dirty clothes.” He told her, his tone matching that of someone who was telling another that they were about to go into battle.

   “You should take a bath as well,” he started just as she opened her mouth to protest. “You got some in your hair.”

   “I what?” She almost snapped but was thankful that her voice came out more confused than shrill.

   “Here.” He said and gently cupped a few strands of her hair underneath his fingers.

   “Well, that’s just disgusting.” She grumbled on the verge of hurling herself.

   “But it wasn’t when I threw up on your cardigan or when you cleaned my lips for me?” He asked, sounding rather amused despite being the source of her problem.

   “That was on my clothes, but my hair is part of my body, so it’s grosser that way.”

   “Is it?”

   “Yes! Yes, it is!”

   Why was he the one sounding amused now? With a huff, she walked over to the bathroom door before turning a sharp glare at him.

   “If you peek I’ll do some not very nice things to your baby maker.” She warned him before she shut the bathroom door.

   She gently peeled her cardigan off her and made sure that no aspect of vomit touched her skin. Time passed and though she only meant to wash her hair, she had been too tempted by the jetted tub. She had never been in one before, so it was purely for curiosity reasons. It was definitely not because she felt weird leaving the bath after a shower in front of her teacher. Because that would just be silly. And she was a mature woman that didn’t get embarrassed by such things.

   She had been soaking in the jetted tub for about ten minutes when the door was thrusted open, with Kagari-sensei running in. He did not run to the toilet and instead went over to where she was.

   “What the hell are you doing?” She growled and sunk her shoulders deep into the water.

   Thankfully the bubbles from the jets prevented the intruder of seeing her nude form.

   “There’s a camera in here. I pressed a button on the remote and the bathroom popped up on the screen.” He explained, but that was it.

   “One: When did you do this and how much of my body have you seen? Two: Why did you feel the need to enter the bathroom while I bathed? It would have been easier to just pretend like it never happened.” She sighed and quirked a brow at him.

   She wasn’t embarrassed, not at all. Because she was a mature woman and mature women didn’t grow nervous over such things such as the bizarre situation she found herself in. Screw it. This was so embarrassing. She wanted to die. Thankfully the room was also quite dim, so she doubted he could make out her face, let alone her body. But still, death would be appreciated at that point in time. Or the power to teleport. Or the power to erase memories. Both would be amazing to be quite honest.

   “But that would be lying.” He stated firmly. “And I don’t lie.”

   “Everyone lies.” She found herself arguing.

   Was now the time to be arguing? No, no it was not. But here she was, naked as the day she was born arguing with her teacher.

   “Not me. Lying is wrong.”

   “It’s also wrong to come barging into a bathroom where a lady is busy trying to clean herself. Especially after it was the said male that came barging in that caused it. You might as well be the one bathing me.” She replied soddenly.

   That was when he knelt beside the bathtub, readying himself to bath her. She looked to the wall opposite of him, clearly mortified. But with him so close she couldn’t take the chance of him seeing her face. But he saw her face before this right? Maybe he was too drunk to notice? He had not made the comment of knowing who she was. That wasn’t the point though. The point was that she was being sarcastic.

   “I wasn’t being serious. You can leave.” For the love of God leave.

   “Oh, alright.”

   She listened to him walk to the door and waited a minute or two after he left to sink her entire head into the warm water. What a nightmare the night turned out to be. When she left the bath she hurriedly dried her body and only dried the bare minimum of her hair, because if she did all of it, it would take way longer than she would have liked. She just wanted to leave. When she dressed herself she didn’t bother putting her cardigan on and instead opted to just hold it.

   Once out of the bathroom, she found Kagari-sensei’s shoes, pants, and shirt strewn about the floor. He was neatly tucked underneath the sheets like a child. All peaceful and blissful in his drunken state. Screw him for that.

   “Alright,” she started and made sure to reframe from saying his name. “I’ll be leaving now, do you think you’ll be okay?”

   “You can stay too, it’s late after all.”

   “Can’t do that.”

   If he found out who she was he would get her expelled from school before resigning himself in shame. He was far too serious for his own good. At least he seemed to let loose at some points in his life, which was interesting. It was then that she considered that perhaps her school’s teacher’s actually had their own lives outside of being prude-y and stuck-up.

   “At least leave your cardigan.” He urged and before she could reply he gripped the front of her shirt.

   “Fine,” she let out a troubled sigh. “I’ll leave it with my phone number so text me when you’re finished washing it or whatever.”

   “Or whatever? What else would I be doing with it?” He asked, amused once more.

   “Just go to sleep.” She snapped and gently smacked her palm against his forehead. “Set your phone alarms so you don’t oversleep. Bye.”

   She laid her cardigan out on the armchair of the couch before she quickly wrote down her number on a napkin from the bedroom’s wet-bar. She put the napkin on the bright pink coffee table and made sure it was in plain view for him. When she looked at her phone and, upon seeing the time, let out a curse.

   She turned to glare all her frustration out onto the bastard that caused her such trouble. He was, of course, peacefully asleep. With gentle steps not to wake him, she walked over to the bed. With care, she removed his glasses from his face and placed them quietly on the night-stand before leaving the room. It wasn’t until 2:20 that she got back to her room on campus.

#voltage inc #after school affairs #shinichi kagari #chiharu utsumi

[angstalottle]

Lana On The Case

Part 1:

The year is 1949 and the war has been won and over for little more than a year now.

Lana McClain has spent much of the past five years away from her home village in the countryside working in the big city despite the protests of her mother and her warnings of bombs.

But still she toughed it out and did her part for the war effort, something that now that she was returning home left her quite bored and longing for something new.

Perhaps that was why she was dreading returning home so much?

A small village in the north of England with a population of only 200 people spread out across the many corn and wheat fields that surrounded the hand full of buildings and shops.

There was only one rail way station manned only by an older gentleman that even during rationing always seemed to have a lolly pop ready to offer to a hungry evacuated child.

This is where Lana currently sat, half melted into the old wooden bench fanning herself with a train schedule and doing her very best to keep as much distance between the sweltering men that she was unfortunately stuck between.

Despite it still only being early spring the weather had been gradually growing hotter by the day until it reached its peak on today of all days when Lana had to wait around in the boiling sun for her best friend to come pick her up on her way home from work.

The man to her left, a slim fellow with dark hair and a full beard that must have been making him all the hotter, he had long since discarded his suit jacket, leaving it over the top of his luggage.

His face was bright red and looked to be suffering from the heat, Lana was about to offer him the use of her makeshift fan when with shaking hands he produced a bottle of water which he quickly opened and removed the plastic film over the top. After looking round for a moment and clearly deciding the effort to get up and place the film in the closest bin he instead tucked inside the bottle cap and took a long drink.

“Mind sharing?” The man to Lana’s right questioned holding his hand out expectantly and was wordlessly handed the water with only a nod of approval.

“Cheers” he muttered taking a small swig before handing it to Lana “here lass ya only a wee thing drink up while ya can” His scottish accent was almost as thick as the stench of cigarettes coming off his well tailored clothes.

Lana smiled subtle wiping at the rim before she troo took a drink and then handed it back to the poor man it actually belonged to “Thanks.”

Again the man only nodded holding the little water left closely as he replaced the lid and swirled the liquid round impatiently.

Lana couldn't blame him for such an attitude, after all they had been sitting in an awkward silence for the last twenty minutes now with no sign of relief to their situation.

Pulling at the high collar of her dress Lana longed for the clouds and rain that she had cursed only a week prior, now that she had to wear essentially her sunday best she would have been grateful for even a drop of rain.

The old conductor wiped the sweat off his brow as he leaned heavily against the moss covered wall of the ticket booth.

Lana couldn't help but feel sorry for him, afterwall she was just waiting to be picked up, while the poor man was likely stuck here until late in the evening.

Just looking at him Lana noted that he was a single gentleman living alone likely in the small house just visible across the other side of the tracks.

How she knew this?

Well lets just say Lana was very good at noticing things others tended to miss out of ignorance or lack of interest. Either way she only needed to note the faded stain on his lapel and the dried mud on the hem of his trousers to come to her conclusion.

“Don't suppose i could trouble you for a drink sonny?” The old man asked smiling at the gentleman with the water.

For a moment the man held the bottle close to his chest like he wanted to savour the last drink for himself, then his eyes seemed to linger on the old man for a few moments before he let out a sigh and handed it over.

What happened next was quite strange for you see the old man died.

One second he was happily drinking the water and the next he was convulsing on the ground with foam coming out of his mouth.

Of course they called the police right away, or well the Scottish man did while Lana attempted to keep the fat man from hyperventilating.

Funny things about calling the police about a sudden and mysterious death, they come much faster than any taxi or friend you have coming to pick you up.

The car pulled up shortly and Detective Coran stepped out and gave the body a quick once over.

“Ah it would appear old Charlie here's dead.”

“Yeah that's kinda why we called you” Lana sighed smiling at the detective. As a child she had quite a few run ins with the police and not all of them good, but over the years she and Coran had developed an odd sort of friendship.

Coran pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe away some of the foma that had formed at the victim's mouth. After giving it a quick sniff he stood up with a sigh “it would appear this poor fellow has been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” The Scottish man asked in alarm “Fecken hell how'd he manage that?”

“Thats what im here to find out now.. What was it i was about to ask?” Coran asked frowning slightly.

“You were about to ask us if we saw anything suspicious” Lana supplied for him “and we would say that everything seemed perfectly normal right up until he collapsed.”

Coran nodded jotting it all down on his little notebook.

The fat man nodded along with what Lana was saying “it's like she says officer nothing out of the ordinary happened”.

He sounded strange, almost like his voice was being forced and lana had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't to do with the current trauma.

“Did you see him eat or drink anything? Anything that could have been laced with poison?” Coran asked not seeming to pick up on the oddness of the man.

“Ah nothing that the three of us didn't also have a swig of” The scottish man shrugged “look can't we deal with this in yer office or something? Im roasting out here and this poor git looks like he's about to keel over.”

Coran nodded “yes i'm sure you all want to get away from the body soon as possible, i've already sent for a car to come collect us all shortly.”

“If it's all the same to you Coran i wouldn't mind having a look at the body… to erm see if it jogs any memories that may be of use to your investigation of course.” Lana took the dismissive wave as permission and began to poke at the body.

There wasn't anything particularly interesting about old Charlie, he was just a kindly  man that worked hard and liked to give sweets to the poor evacuees. Who could ever have a motive for wanting to kill him? Had it been suicide and they simply didn't see him take anything… well then if that was the case surely he would still have whatever he used on his person.

Feeling around his pockets Lana was disappointed to only find his house keys, a pocket watch as a few lollipops.

She was about to replace the contents when she noticed something rather odd about the wrapping of one of the sweets.

Usually the plastic is melted and twisted to seal it, but they, though melted, seemed to be pushed straight down almost as if they were resealed.

Curious Lana removed the wrapper and gave it a taste lick.

She recognized the taste almost instantly, enough sleepless nights of nightmares and terrors that lurched in the dark made her quite accustomed with the taste of sleeping pills.

The only question was why on earth is it in the sweets Charlie gave to the children? “Is this gonna take long? I got my wife and kid waiting for me at home.”

And just like that all the pieces slotted into place.

Lana straightened up and walked over to the fat man smiled at him before promptly kicking him between the legs.

He let out a pained yelp followed by a string of curse words in a very thick scottish accent.

“Detective Coran i do believe i have your murdures” She gestured to the two men who looked up at her with such dissbelief you would think she suggested they were unicorn spies.

“That's a very serious allegation miss McLain, i hope you have proof.” Corans mustache frowned.

“Ah but i do.” She bent down and with a flourish held the dropped water bottle in front of coran “behold the poison.”

“Unless your forgetting lassy we all drank out of that.” The scottish man snarled.

“See i thought that too, if we all drank it then there is no way he should have died and we didn't. Then i realised something, the poison was introduced after we all drank.” the men's eyes widened as she carefully peeled the film from the inside of the bottle cap. “Quite clever really, coat the outside of the film in poison then make sure your seen drinking from it, then all you need to do is place it with the outside facing inwards in the bottle cap shake the water about a bit and boom you have a murder weapon.” Lana replaced the lid and handed it to Coran “I'm sure your guys at the lab will find both their fingerprints on that film.”

“Both?” Coran asked taking the bottle in surprise.

“Of course, the two of them planned it after all. At first it seems like the two of you have nothing in common, even both being scottish doesnt really link you with more than a home land. But then i started thinking about the fact that i have no idea who either of you are. No one comes to this village and everyone knows everyone but not you too. How would you even know about this place? That's when it hit me, your both married with children, children that were evacuated here during the war.”

The fat man began to cry while the other just stared her down.

“But why would they want to kill nice old Charlie here?” Coran asked scratching his head.

Lanas smile dropped as she handed over the lollipop “because Charlie wasn't so nice… he gave out sweets laced with sleeping pills to the evacuees, kids that no one really wanted or had time for, im sure youll find evidence of all sorts of awful things when you search his house.” her gaze shifted to the men “he hurt your kids didn't he? I understand why you did it but… why not just tell the police and have him arrested?”

“We tried to” the fat man sobbed.

“Shut up Mark” the other man hissed elbowing him in the ribs but still he continued.

“My boy was only nine but he knew it was wrong and he marched over to the station soon as he could to tell someone, they laughed in his face and told him that he shouldn't make up such stories.” Marks voice grew steadily quieter “he didn't tell anyone again until he came home… i only found out because i found the letters he was sending to another boy that the bastard hurt… Bens boy”

“My son… he was 12 when it happened… god it would have been his birthday today if… if he had... “ Ben choked on his words.

“The police were useless once so we had to make sure he paid for what he did.” Mark whispered.

Lana kneeled down in front of them “im so sorry… but murder even when justified is still murder… Coran will have to take you to the station and its likely you will be hanged for this.”

Suddenly Ben surged forwards and grabbed Lana by the throat and produced a small knife from his pocket.

Coran had his army issued gun out in an instant.

“No, stop!” Corna yelled as the knife dug into Lanas neck drawing a thin line of blood.

“No one was supposed to know! I was supposed to be going home to ma family tonight but you ruined it!”

His body holding her tight, his breath on her neck and the familiar sensation of pain was all too much for her “While i do have sympathy for you and i believe all monsters like Charlie should be whipped off the face of the Earth” in one fluid motion she elbowed him in the gut and swept her leg under his knocking him to the floor and the knife of of his grasp. “No one gets to touch me like that but Hannah.”

Ben tried to get up but Coran pointed his gun at him “don't even try it son.”

He visibly deflated as he lay on the ground watching the sky “it was supposed to be the perfect kill… but you had to ruin it.”

Lana ignored him in favour of greeting the cars that pulled up, one belonging to the very woman she had missed more than life itself.

Hannah came barreling towards her picking her up in a hug and sobbing “They said someone died! Oh Lana i was so scared something had happened to you!”

Lana chuckled hugging her best friend back “Dont worry im fine… im fine now i'm home.”

#langst #fem lance #1940s detective au #fem hunk #fem hance #lesbians #trigger warning #child abuse mentions

[dancing-with-adventure]

Love Letters To My Wife

JMJ

cc:2010  william c.

                   My Last Love Letter to My Wife

Jacqueline C.

Memoirs of True Love from a soldier

Dear Jacquie,

FOLLOWS IS A U.S. ARMY CLOAKROOM

DEBRIEFING OF THE MISSION BELOW.

*Honors due to the two French Motorcycle

Police Officers who gave their all to

Protect French President Charles De Gaulle*

Subject

Mission: To Prevent the Assassination of President Charles De Gaulle of France 1962

Case Title

ONZE RUE de la croix ROUGE

aka: Cry of the Aliases

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It all started in the small, wonderful, picturesque, historic French village of Chatellerault.  It was a normal very, very, early Friday morning.  The year 1962.

 “I warn you…  I warn you,” screamed the stranger dressed in a 14th century knight’s helmet with sight shield wide open. An Albanian Skerd cigarette hanging on his lower lip and a knight’s metal chest plate partially showing under his blue French work jacket. Knight’s leggings, without codpiece, barely revealing under his modified blue workpants. Black scuffed pointy work shoes.  His screams, “I warn you,” in a South Moscow accent mixed with a curious German peasant drawl seemed hysterically musical as he banged on the wooden door at Onze de la croix Rouge (Street of the Red Cross) with boiling madness early morning, Friday 10 August 1962. Jacqueline April, quickly jerked the door open almost wrenching it off its hinges as she

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blocked a Roundhouse punch that the stranger was just cocking his right arm with clenched fist to blast her as he bellowed, “I warn you.”

Jacquie, Savate (the deadly art of French old shoe fighting) power kicked him in the groin.

The stranger bending over in withering agony, as Jacquie’s follow up lightening Savate heel kick strike smashed him in the open area of his 14th century helmet that exposed his eyes nose and Skerd smoking mouth.  This drove him back into the very foggy, chilly, six-foot wide street, just missing the petit parked fire engine with brown fire ladders on each side, and onto the foot and a half wide sidewalk across the street, hurling the stranger into a neighbor’s house wall. The sound was like a big strong garbageman heaving a heavy metal garbage can back onto the cold sidewalk after its contents was deposited in the garbage truck.

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‘Three Tons of Fun,’…Maurice, Carl and Lou. Retired, medically obese, military Psychological Operations Specialists, are now Weathermen in the London area. And Dorkus Fricate, an international outdoor Drive Inn roller skating waitress from Warningville, Upstate New York blamed this type of cold polarity weather affecting the historic Rue’s of France on the cooling fog of the climate.

Dorkus, is now under exclusive contract with Peewee’s International Drive Inn Diner of Warningville, New York, The Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade, Kushi Japan, Moo’s Diner, Wet Dog Maine and ‘The Ole Communist Bar and Cafe,’ Ingrandes France. Dorkus, also follows the cooling of the planet with her assortment of brown and black caterpillars.

Dorkus, Maurice, Carl and Lou, aside from playing in a band occasionally in Paris at, ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’ are all ‘Laurates’ in accord.  Carl with his

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alleged Nobel Prize winning seven thousand page,‘ one word’ Doctorate thesis ‘Brevity and the Cooling of the Planet’ entitled… “Brrrrrr.”

All four pilgrimage to the Rue de la croix Rouge annually to meditate and recite ancient poetry until they are asked to leave by the Rue’s very patient inhabitants.

Onze Rue de la croix Rouge, located on one of these Rue’s on an enchanting small winding street was right out of the history books and a prime example of this type of ‘Brrrrrr’ ‘Polarity Weather.’ The well-kept house, charming but a little battered. Medieval stone two story buildings with small attic windows topping off the homes as they line the Rue seeming to be standing at Parade Rest.  One might expect to meet Jeanne d’Arc on her way to battle coming down the narrow weaving Rue at any moment.

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Onze de la croix Rouge. A wonderful, glowing, warm kind of magical looking Safe-House in the middle of the Rue has a long narrow back yard and an ancient Maple tree in the middle of the one quarter acre near a spring-fed small pond. The yard was surrounded by high stone walls on three sides as they seem to play some sort of bizarre tag with the back of the home. The noble walls were not that high that would prevent climbing over with some difficulty.

Besides, a loudmouth, bossy, pain in the butt, 80-year-old parrot named Sweet William alias The Black Adder, there is a small flock of angry Geese, several nasty Billy Goats and one continuously ticked off fighting bull from Spain, no matador would fight, that patrolled the yard.

Only Steve Ptah, Jacquie’s ‘Cloakroom’ (The Cloakroom is a small secret U.S. Army agency of covert specialists that fell through the cracks,) to say again, Jacquie’s partner is the only one who

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could go back there without being attacked. Inhabitants of the backyard considered him one of their own. Perhaps even feeling sorry for Steve.

 And, of course, Steve’s drinking buddy, Monsieur Cacahuete, alias ‘Werewolf’ a handsome peanut vendor who allegedly believes he is not a werewolf and fighting not to have a ‘Universal Werewolf Month.’  Heavily muscled and built like a top he is beautifully decorated, battle-injured, retired Legionnaire. The Peanut Vendor, who receives ‘Hazardous Duty Pay,’ and, who enjoys rough housing with his customers is the other exception the animals allow in the backyard.

The animals can’t wait for 11AM every morning to attack Monsieur Cacahuete and ravage his cart as they hear his ‘Call to Battle’ cry, “Getsha Red Hots, Getsha Red Hots Cacahuetes.  He enters the house through the front door with his hot steamin’ peanut cart.  Squeezing by the usual turmoil in the rooms and into the backyard.

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This is always his last morning call because normally Monsieur Cacahuete and his cart had to be taken away, after each visit to Onze de le croix Rouge, by ambulance, to just past the Polish Guards barracks. Then into the charming town of Dange a few kilometers north of Chatellerault to ‘The Bitter Sweetee’ private hospital for Noggin Traumas and for those of all ages who Forgot How to Jump. Not only open to the pubic but is always filled with patients who are celebrities and politicians.

Monsieur Cacahuete brings his Red Hots to Paris one night a week when he and his band (Maurice, Carl, Lou and Dorkus play at the infamous ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’ located deep within Les Halles.

Oh yes. Then there was the beautiful, warmhearted Madame Tata, a mysterious Forever Young, lovely angel who makes sure the animals and inmates of the Safe-House are, tended too.

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Dressed in French fashionable, blue and white clothes is very rarely seen or heard as she ejects herself around the house and yard. She is loved by everyone. She is always smiling.

Unexplained used egg-stained Ouija boards are occasionally fired at passing fire trucks and at Steve. A possibly demented existentialist who thinks he is a troll with serious mental health problems may be hiding somewhere nearby in a small field of daffodils. Or not?

Steve has been trying to get the fire truck halfway hanging on the narrow curb of the Rue moved from the front of the lovely antique home, so the regular morning ambulance and Banana van could get through, without much success.  For some reason, the firemen seem to think there is a fire in the house.

###

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10 AUGUST 1962… FRIDAY… YERY EARLY MORNING:

Back inside the historic picture book home on Onze Rue de la croix Rouge in Chatellerault, France were the sounds of many oboes. Their music drifting in from someplace far away lost in the morning fog. Also seemingly lost in the morning fog was Steve Ptah, U.S. Army Cloakroom Special Operations and Covert Pentagon Anti-Intelligent Agent. His Philosophy of Life being ‘People you go up against must always underestimate what you know and what you can do.’

Steve, standing next to a small stone fireplace with a unique onyx mantle that somehow reflected the fire burning in the hearth and added warmth on this unusually chilly morning.

The modestly furnished antique room had a plain wooden Crucifix on the main wall which drew everyone’s attention who entered.

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In honor of her partner Steve, Jacquie placed a small sign under the Crucifix reading; ‘The Loving God has Mercy on those of us not playing with a full deck.’

The above words under the Crucifix are the same words ‘The Sargent at Arms’ recites at all Secret ‘Closed Door’ ‘Blue Panel’ ‘Intelligence’ meetings the U.S. Congress and Senate and are considered ‘Opening Prayers.’

A Holy Water holder was at the entryway and always filled with Holy Water from Lourdes along with an emergency set of Rosary Beads. Several framed pictures of Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, Angels and Saints were also about. Included is a large painting of Saint Jude, God’s special Saint for Impossible Missions.

A calamity of firemen with unidentified cigarettes held on their bottom lips were running to and fro trying to put out the small fire spots in the wires of

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the newly installed electric doorbell that Steve and his always top notch, handyman, wingman, the honorable Monsieur ‘C’ just put in a few days ago.

A side note: (After the evening’s doorbell’s electrical work was completed Monsieur ‘C’s car, parked outside, well… his car battery caught on fire.)

This morning the usual aroma of French bread baking and French coffee brewing on the black iron oven was replaced by the smell of French cigarette smokes that were roaming the early French sculptured fawn creamy white and brown beamed ceilings due to the smoking firemen and two visitors.  These two visitors, well, some may consider a wee bit strange.

Jock Unita, with recent snow on his boots, (a term used by American, French, and British agents when they work behind the Iron Curtain) has trouble

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with his lineage and has a great fear of accordion players who wear lederhosen.

Jock is a Japanese cut-out (a cut-out is an agent who has no apparent connection with an intelligence agency) and one of Steve’s ace contacts.

Jock claims to be from Angola and is a member of the Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade. The Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade is always angry about something from cooling of the planet to all their women being men… and taller than the Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade men who have been brainwashed into believing they are women by hearing the control words ‘Ah So’ with two hand claps. Then one hand clap turning them back into believing they are men. It’s complicated. Especially when they march protesting the parades they are marching in as they go into their synchronized march ‘Having a Charlie Horse Attack’ routine on stilts.

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Also, Jock has been fined numerous times, by the Brigade, for unauthorized wearing of stilts. Stilts are supposed to be used only when the Angry Brigade march in ’Protest’ of parades they are marching in.

Jock always dresses in a black motorcycle jacket, red sweatshirt, and red woolen pants with matching red sneakers.  Jock is a handsome hombre about five foot six, slim build, bald head, pudgy nose, cold black Jerry Colonna eyes that seem to spin continuously.  Wears a physiognomy aftershave that smells like rotten fruit.

Constantly plagued by all-weather fruit flies.  Some fruit flies, bursting into flames if they swarm too close to Jocks activated cigarettes. Jock, a violent chain smoker, always carries lighted cigarettes behind each ear so he doesn’t have to waste time lighting up.

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Jock is wearing some type of contraption on his forehead held in place with an excruciatingly tight white with red lettering kamikaze style elastic band wrapped around his prominent bean. Speaking Japanese with a heavy Scottish accent Jock drives Jacquie’s partner Steve Ptah looney. Although it is a noticeably short drive for Steve.

Steve Ptah, a most dangerous man.  His only claim to fame, aside from being an unnoticed superb ventriloquist, and a U.S. Army professional enemy terminator, assassin if one prefers, is that he has won top prize on a now defunct radio show, ‘It Pays to be Ignorant.’

With Steve Ptah is a very lissome spy and assassin, Jacqueline April, a nuclear weapon ready to explode, from French Army intelligence, Groupe D’Intervention de le Militarie Nationalerie (GIMN).

15

Jacquie has an IQ so high Steve must remind her to always keep Oxygen tanks with her. Or so he says.

Both Jacquie and Steve also have recent snow on their boots.

“Who was at the door?”  Steve growled in a low warning tone.

“Looked like one of your idiot contacts Steve.” Jacquie replied in a sweet French nonchalant voice yet carried the threat of everyone being immediately pummeled with a baseball bat.

“He kept saying, ‘I warn you.’ As he tried to… How do you Americans say with your strange language? ‘Lay a ‘Haymaker on me?’ I had to neutralize the situation with immediate and painful counter-action.”

“Were you hurt?” Steve mumbled in a low threatening growl.

“Are you kidding?” Jacquie smiled a noncaring glint in her eyes.

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“I warn you?’” Jock questioned in a high-pitched hysterical tone.  “Was he partially dressed as a 14th Century Knight?”

“Oui.” Jacquie said softly, still with her voice carrying the threat of someone about to be severely beaten. “You know the lunatic?”

“Must be my publicist,” Jock squeaked in an extremely high-pitched squeak.  A wine glass broke in the kitchen.  “His name is Party Member 60508.  He believes if he starts every sentence with ‘I warn you,’ as he throws a punch people will pay more attention to him.”

“Publicist? On a covert meeting?” Steve slow barked as if he was biting down on a stale Turkish Taffy candy bar.

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“Oh, what the hell is that you’re wearing on your head Jock?” Steve, a bit over 6 feet tall, slim, lean with a body of hardened steel but is flexible like water asked. His tone was that of a long mean bullwhip being cracked. Attired in a brown suede sports jacket over a dark blue work shirt, well worn, military pressed dungarees and light brown suede cowboy boots.

Running his fingers through his wavy dark brown thick hair with silver streaks cut DA style, (Ducks Ass} Steve whipped on.  “That apparatus on your noggin will draw attention to you. Not to mention a Publicist following you around. Even if he is disguised as a partially dressed 14th Century Knight.

‘Hoot mon on all of you,” Was Jock’s response as he chained smoked Gauloises French cigarettes…

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two sometimes three at a time. His manner of speaking was always in a high sniffing helium tone.  

When Jock became really agitated his head began to tremble and start to turn a wonderful shade of pumpkin orange-‘tealish’ making him increasingly suave and mysterious, especially to women and perhaps to Legions of ‘Woodpeckers,’ or should we say ‘Shrinks.’

“Do not get me angry Steve. You know how angry I can get---”

“Yes Steve, “Lik, Jock’s betrothed, spoke up in her usual ‘ice cracking under one’s feet while crossing a partially frozen lake tone.’ Lik, puffed hatefully on a Gitanes (Gypsy Woman) French cigy.  “Remember Jock and his idiot Publicist are members of the Japanese ‘Angry Army Brigade’ of the Red Sun.  And when Jock gets angry his head begins to rumble and changes color to deep pumpkin orange-painful-teal and begins to swell savagely—”

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“Not swell Lik,’ Jock screeched as a glass picture frame cracked someplace.

“ ‘Expands’ as my brain becomes a Ninja brain  when I get angry or become hopelessly befuddled.”

“Whatever, “Lik responded with applause as she shrugged her shoulders and did an eyeroll. “Some people crack their knuckles… Jock cracks his brain.”

“If he had one,” Jacquie inserted her venomous view into the conversation. “The guy’s a moron, a crackpot a---.”

“Jacquie,” Steve, said in a low chastising tone that sounded almost as if he were agreeing with Jacquie. “Jock has some important info for us about—"

Lik interjected with a kind of depressed glee.  LIK, short for Lethal Intensity Kon-Unita. Her real

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name.  She too has recent snow on her boots.  A pretty girl with a chin jutting out just begging to be

punched. A bit taller than Jock but dresses like him except she does not wear makeup or perfume nor rotting fruit aftershave.

“You should have worn your stilts, Jock.” Lik said coldly as Steve and Jacquie turned around to see if someone was coming from across some partially frozen pond. “Jock is always forgetting his parade stilts so he can always be a little taller than me,” Lik continued, her voice was that of shaved ice being dumped into a stainless-steel mixer “I had them made for him by Uganda jungle Pygmy’s who live in a tree and bake bananas.  They can also be used as throwing weapons.”

“What? The Pygmies?” Jacquie demanded in a sharp tone.

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“No, of course not,” Lik shot back as if she slammed the winning puck into the net at an ice hockey game.  “The stilts. Excellent for throwing.

The stilts I had the banana baking Pygmies make for my Jock.”

“Yes, of course you did.  What a thoughtful gift,” Jacquie commented in a kind sympathetic hard French tone that equaled a beautiful Siren ordering the ‘dragons released.’ Then softly whispering to Steve, “Let me put her out of her misery.”

“What about my misery?”  Steve slammed back.

Lik, wears her heavily used coal bin colored hair spiked a lot off center and to her left which keeps her head in a ‘tilt mode.’ Has double-jointed lips and those freezing cold black eyes that seem always blinking ‘burst’ Morse Code.  Suffers from clinically diagnosed unexpected moments of ‘Berserk Time’ which includes, but not limited to, a lot of skirmish

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type running around at high gallop. Pummeling and loudly reciting the Hokey Pokey

backwards. It is believed that the medical term is ‘Tantrum Macabre’? One of her many endearing qualities.

Lik’s appearance and actions are as if she just exploded out of the Sunday morning comics.

“Lik,” Jock sang out in a high operatic voice, possibly causing eardrum damage.  “You know my chums in the Red Sun Angry Army Brigade, confiscated one of my stilts last month for unauthorized stilt usage at their last meeting.

You all know, The Angry Brigade only wears stilts when they are marching in a parade they are protesting. If I wore stilt’s I could only wear one stilt until my right stilt is released from stilt lock-up. Ninety days or until I produce a troll, I found hiding

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under a bridge. Otherwise, I would have to stilt-hop on one stilt throughout this mission.”

“Perhaps your Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade Army of the Red Sun, or whatever the Hades it is called, would allow you to use a right foot Roller Derby skate with a thick four-inch cork insert in a pretend marching parade.”  Jacquie’s venomous tone made Jock think.

“Hmmm, one stilt and one skate?” Jock screeched aloud as he challenged himself to a thought.

“No stilt hopping, limping or roller derby skating while we are on a mission,” Steve announced in a low menacing tone.

“Jock,” Jacquie demanded reason.  “It’s bad enough we have to work with a guy that looks like he has some kind of plastic toilet seat on his head

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being followed around by a half-dressed 14th Century knight and now hopping on one stilt.

Someone is bound to notice… like the enemy for one.”

“Does anyone else smell smoked rotten fruit?” one of the firemen, Claude Modi, careening through the downstairs rooms, yelled as he blew cigarette smoke circles nervously from his mouth. “It is hampering our ability to smell out new electrical fires in the doorbell electric wires.  Who is the brainless wonder who installed—"

“Aw shut up,” a tiny voice came from outside the front window as something flew by Claude Modi, as fast as its hard-knobbed feet could pitter-patter, in the opposite direction, slinging a used, egg-stained Ouija board, from under its arm, at fireman Claude Modi.

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“Hoot Mon on you Steve, Jacquie and whatever the hell that was that just flew by me,” Jock blew his words out of his mouth as if he were blowing a hot forming glass bubble on the end of a long glass tube in some freakish opera. “You all know I am a blender.  Becoming a Ninja when I get angry or overwhelmed by happenings, like getting too much information overload I blend. No one will even notice me.” Jock ended his defense with a horrible bonsai suicidal attack high note scream.

“What was that scream?” Jock demanded to know.

“It was you…you mor—” Jacquie started to say holding her ears.

“Well, I think it is adorable Jacquie,” Lik drove on.  “I mean Jock’s thingamajig strapped on his bulging hairless…  Adds a sense of romantic mystery to his meaningless cue ball face.”

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Jacquie, wearing a light white turtleneck blouse, dark blue ski vest, midnight blue slacks and fashionably eloquent black, light titanium-toe, boots with almost invisible razorblades pointing outward ever so slightly between the soles of the of the boot and the boot itself. On the feet of an expert Savate master it could cut up an opponent as one shreds coleslaw, or not.

Jacquie, slender, tall, five foot-seven, a stunning brunette with shoulder length hair framing her hauntingly beautiful face and the most remarkable blue-grayish eyes and compassionate hard nature, said softly to Steve in a mesmerizing killer French accent, “Whatever the hell Jock’s contraption is?

But Jock, “Jacquie continued in a biting tone.  “Even a Renaissance man such as yourself Jock… will have to admit the contraption on your head and a Publicist using Martin Borman’s Nazi party number 60508 as a name is a little bizarre.”

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“I admit nothing,” Jock screeched. A fireman, Sava Bastone, complained to other firemen that his watch crystal just shattered as Sava seemed to canter through the room.

“Only you would know Martin Borman’s Nazi party number Jacquie,” Steve smiled sarcastically. His timbre showing the signs of many brutal battles.

“Swine,” Jacquie volleyed back hard and swift.

“Well… if you must know,” Jock said in high Japanese with a heavy Scottish accent.

“Speak English,” Steve ordered harshly in a scary low tone.  “No one can understand your Japanese with that heavy Scottish accent.  If it is Japanese?’

“I can,” Jacquie speared defiantly.

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“Of course, you can,” Steve growled under his breath. Followed by an eyeroll and rubbing his temples.

“Hoot mon on you Steve. This little gadget strapped to the top of my receding hairline (Jock, refuses to believe he is completely bald) forehead is the newest in audio/visual recording-projecting holograms devices.

“It was developed at the U.S. Army’s secret Edgewood Arsenal base in Maryland.  Some guy… Alvin Gored, you know head of the ‘Flat Moon Green Cheese Society invented it…”

“You mean that nut who fools around, with Anti-Gravity experiments, in a rolling biosphere ball and believes he’s a singing Talpid?” Jacquie’s words kneed Jock in the groin.

“Right a Roo Jacquie,” Jock moaned in a splintering high note with tears of painful joy yet an angry

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smile as if the harvest were finished but all the food crops were immediately lost. “The top military scientist at Edgewood Arsenal.”

“Steve,” Jacquie mused, “I heard about this rodent guy who—”

“What the hell is a talpid? Can we stay focused Jacquie?”  Steve rabbit punched his question in French.

“You speak French like a Spanish cow, Steve,”

“I was speaking English for your info—”

“Then you were speaking English like a French cow,” Jacquie’s words carried the force of an uppercut to Steve’s chin as he bobbed and weaved. An occasional occupational habit in Steve’s line of work.

“You guys with your talk of cows make me think of milk-toast,” Lik dry-ice gargled. “I always have nightmares. That is my arch enemy’s Rutherford B.

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Hayes favorite desert. I myself am milk-toast Intolerant.” Lik spoke, holding her cigarette tightly between her lips, in her ice cracking humble tone.  Now staring at her deadly machete, she named

‘Golompi’ after her favorite Polish stew.

“Who cares if you’re ‘Milk-Toast’ intolerant?” Steve’s growl challenged. “Millions of people are milk-toast intolerant and don’t even know it. That’s because they’re not nuts like you.”

“I see you still carry ‘Golompi’ with you,” Jacquie sneered in that soft killer French tone.

“Would not venture out without my baby ‘Golompi.’  Did I tell you how we met behind the Iron Curtain many years back?  Jock and I were in a Polish restaurant, Gookies I believe, when these

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several very nasty Secret Police Agents came to our table.  Naturally, Jock’s head exploded—”

“Naturally,” Jacquie mimicked with raised eyebrows. Did his head explode literally, or figuratively?

“I believe both,” Lik, said in a low, icy, thoughtful tone.

“Who cares?” Steve said in that menacing low tone, his teeth grinding.  “We’ve all heard this story a hundred times.

“Actually 84 times,” Jacquie corrected.

Lik, sat staring at her dearly beloved and very deadly baby ‘Golompi.’ Stopped sharpening the blade against a piece of dried out steel wool.  Heating the machete’s blade up by puffing on her Gitanes to sterilize the cold hard steel head lopper.

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“Get to the point Jock,” Steve demanded sharply while giving Jacquie an annoyed stare.  “I don’t want to hang around this place too long.”

“But you live here,” Lik pointed out very coldly.  Humbly tossing her ‘Golompi’ machete up, down and all around as if she was a Majorette leading a High School parade.  Then suddenly flung it deep into a far wall.  “I thought I saw a caricature of Rutherford B. Hayes, my nemesis, on the wall making faces at me.”

No one seemed to notice or care at Lik’s action or words.

“Yes, I remember now,” Steve seemed confused but only for second or so. “I move around so much I forget where I am.”

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“I don’t even pretend to understand what that means,” Jacquie moaned a French moan shaking her head in the negative with that ‘Another crazy American’ stare mumbling, “Too many blows to the head.  Too many blows to the—. Never

mind. Steve, I can never tell if it is flummery with you or being serious.”

Jock started to speak but the doorbell made a funny dying, fizzing noise immediately starting a series of spot wire fires as the firemen yelled for back-up over their Walkies Talkies pleading to everyone not to ring the doorbell.  Evidently, some enemy agent or poor soul put a sign on the door earlier to ‘Ring the bell if you love Pistachio.’  Madame Tata’s favorite flavor.

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“I’ll get it this time, Steve said in a low dangerous tone as Firemen rushed around trying to find the newly activated hot spots on the doorbell wire.

“May I help you?” Steve asked in a voice so low and hard his sentence was more of a threat than a question.

The young lady was dressed in an old Mother Hubbard pink hat.  A Springtime pink jacket with a lot of straps and buckles hanging from it, white pants, and white slippers. A sparkling white plastic band with some type of mysterious printing on it adorned her left wrist.

“Why were you following me just now?” She demanded to know in a soft, the mouse ran up the clock, nursey rhyme tone.

“Huh?” Steve’s cool repartee-reply dazzled her for a moment.

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“I thought I heard a scream. I am Collette Perinod, a professional passer-by, and I have a blank check drawn on the Bank Nationale. Would you be kind enough to sign it? I wanted to get here before the tour buses start arriving, so I could go and cash it. Your generosity is known all over the planet,”

“Tour buses?  Planet? No tour buses could fit up this Rue,” Steve said looking around. His Jungle green eyes searching up and down and all around as he handed Colette the now signed blank check with Jock Unita’s signature on it. Steve is also a master forger when necessary.

“Thank you a… a, Monsieur… Unita… Jock Unita.”

“De rien, What tour buses?” Steve asked again in a more pleasant tone still reconnoitering with his jungle greens all rooftops and up and down the chilly foggy Rue. Dorkus, Maurice, Carl and Lou were right about the weather again.

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“Oh… The busses are all parked along the Blossac. The tourist then quick-step march four abreast from there to Onze de la croix Rouge,” Collette said shyly with a spooky giggle.

“You are on the Chatellerault ‘Must See’ historic tourist sights.” Collette flung up her tourist map so Steve could see through the almost lifting fog that seems to be settling back down again. “See it reads, ‘Onze de la croix Rouge is a beautiful historic home where strange things seem to happen.’ ”

Collette, continued to read. “Jeanne d’ Arc, stopped here to refresh and more recently a pair of socks someone was wearing in the house… were sucked into the past.  Or maybe it was the future?  Or perhaps they were sucked into the present.”  But how could that be?”

Collette giggled eerily, “Sounds like this reporter has problems.”

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“Wait a minute,” Steve announced angrily. “Are you spouting my theory that the Present, Past and Future existing at the same time and—”

“No,” Collette sounded confused.  “I don’t know what you are babbling about. You sound like a--.  I mean it sounds like the reporter and me are not the only ones that have mental health problems.”

“Then you must be yapping about the time I was taking an emergency nap.”  Steve seemed to be reminiscing as if he was in another world. “And my partner was vacuuming, and she lost control of the vacuum—”

“Yes… of course,” Collette said suspiciously as she jumped-stepped back a bit from Steve and assumed the international ‘Pretzel’ self-defense stance.   “That must be it.  Well, I better… better move on,” Collette lamented sadly to the tune of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star…’  “I think your house is on fire and I see more fire engines and a reporter from the Chatellerault Blast News…

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Oh-oh. Some people with butterfly nets.”  Collette yelled to Steve in a psychotic nursery rhyme of ‘Jack Fell Down and…’ tone as she waved the signed check, “Au voir Monsieur Unita. Merci beaucoup.”

“Steve,” Jacquie snapped as she yanked him inside.  “Who were you talking to?”

“Jacquie, did you know our safe house is on a Chattellerault tourist map as a ‘Must See?”

“Steve, sometimes you really scare me with your leaps from reality to boundless fatuity.  Now Jock what were you about to say?”

“I wear this visual recording-projection hologram device, that is powered by anti-gravity mini-micro molecule chip slowly mixing with regular gravity in miniscule portions.  I am making a yearlong record of my wife’s Lik’s right ear. I am on the cusp of a New Age movement.

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I am also on the cusp of passing out as this plastic- elastic kamikaze strap is cutting off the blood supply to the ole bean.  I call it ‘A Year in the Life of My Wife’s Right Ear.’  Twenty-four Seven.  Three hundred and sixty-four.  Christmas, I always spend with my Angry Chums,” Jock said proudly, in English, knocking off the Scottish accent.

“Sacre Chat. What the blazes did I just run over?” A Frenchman passing the house in a small yellow ‘Banania’ truck could be heard yelling outside the home as the low ground fog was just starting to yield more of its hold to the wakening morning sun. “I think I broke my front axle.  Hey you tin man. What in the name of Blossac Fannie you doing under my banana truck ya bonehead? You want bananas… you will have to wait like everyone else.

Hey firemen, when ya going to move that fire engine so me and my bananas can get by?” Jacard La Fourmi, banana salesman from Ingrandes, raged again. “Is that you Claude Modi in the fog?”

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“No. It’s you.” The fireman yelled back then disappeared into the house.

“Me?” Jacard La Fourmi challenged himself with an unanswerable question.  “But how could that be?”

From under the deflated ‘banania’ truck came a mournful cry, “I warn you.”  Then a thump like flesh hitting metal… then some crying.

Back In the Home:

“It’s my left ear you are recording Jock,” Lik said in a low, ice crunching but still frightening tone as she yanked her machete out of the wall. “Do not make me correct you again.”

Lik started to stab the wall repeatedly as she cried intensely, “Death to all walls.”

“Hey Lik,” Steve said calmly.  “Lay off the plaster.  This is our safe house.”

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“Jock is such a pathetic, happy psycho-sociopath wanting to spend Christmas with his moronic Angry nitwits.” Lik, tee-heed her words, holding her delicate fingers of her left hand over her double-jointed lips as she hurled her machete again, with deadly accuracy across the room once more stopping a small spider prancing up the far wall. Lik, later claimed the spider had the same recognizable limp that Rutherford B. Hayes, her blasted enemy, had when he scurried up walls.

“You know Lik,” Steve deeply mumbled.  “You might want to seek some heavy-duty professional help.  It’s not easy hurling a machete with such force and pin-point accuracy like you do Lik.”

“Oh, Steve,” Lik laughed sounding like the roar of a calving piece of ice breaking off a huge glacier, causing a tingling but also ballistic wave.  “You know Steve, Jock has Post Graduate Degrees in baking cookies among many other medical accolades. As a professional hero with many

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Ph.D.’s.  Jock handles all my deep therapeutic needs.”

“That’s right Steve.  The boys at the U.S. Army’s secret experimental base at Edgewood Arsenal in Maryland.  You know… those crazy guys and gals in building 355 made and wanted me to test it after Doc Alvin Gourd developed it when he was on a singing tour with his talpids,” Jock bragged.

“The machete?” Jacquie interrogated.

“No, no,” Lik spoke up in her ice crackling underfoot tone, “The machete, I mean Golompi. Golompi was made by Polish Partisans in seclusion at Edgewood Arsenal. This video recorder and projector thing on my baby Jock’s bulging but empty forehead was a U.S. Army Edgewood Arsenal idea. They wanted him to test it out in the middle of the desert at… I think it is called ‘White Sands Nuclear Testing Sight’ because of the nano-modified Anti-Gravity chip being tested as a power source.

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But my wonderful Jock chose to test it on this mission with you folks.”

“You are kidding?” Jacquie’s words were more like a plea than a question.

“Hoot Mon Jacquie. Not at all. You know I have no sense of humor. ‘A Year in the Life of my Wife’s Lik’s Left ear’ says it all.”

“Jock?’ It sounds like those halfwits at Edgewood Arsenal are at it again,” Jacquie sighed.  “Steve, building 355?  Were not you brainwashed in that building when those delinquents from some nut factory tested their Menticide experiments on you?” (Menticide is the rape of the mind.}

Steve thought for a moment. “Planters? By Granny, I…I, er believe you are Johnny-on-the-spot with that one.  I was Menticided by them?  Or was it near London at Porton Down Great Britain’s Chemical and Biological Warfare Center by a quorum of Brit Wierdos?”

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“Steve, you are such an idiot,” Jacquie French whipped.

“Correction please Jacquie, I was also at Edgewood Arsenal when building 355 was a halfway house for the Criminally Insane. Graduated top of my class.

Now Jock, what does your video tapping of your wife Lik’s right ear have to do with finding out where REDCOM (REDCOM is two-part Soviet secret operation to be carried out by OAS members in Paris. OAS a Secret French Army Terrorist Organization that may use Jock’s Publicist to advertise.} is going to be activated?

We need to know and confirm when, where and how the Soviet Spetsnaz troops (Spetsnaz are Soviet Special Forces Soldiers} attack is going to happen.  All we know is someplace in Paris and the Russkies are somehow planning to assassinate President De Gaulle by proxy.

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“Who?” Jock asked making a one-word question sounding like fingernails across the blackboard.

“De Gaulle. De Gaulle. De Gaulle, you nitwit,” Jacquie cried out.  “Why do you think we are all here?”  After a moment Jacquie calmed down and continued. “It is so difficult to work with you people. Political assassinations, especially by proxy… whatever the hell that really means, are rarely successful,” Jacquie pointed out in a serious French tone. “Steve I still believe there is an assassin on President De Gaulle’s 7 person-personal security team.”

“Jacquie don’t start that again,” Steve Brooklyn snapped. “An ex-punch-drunk boxing sparring partner that passed numerous background security checks plus other rigorous investigations? Now if he were a politician instead of an ex-punch-drunk boxing sparring partner… Well, that would lend more credence to your hypothesis.”

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“Steve, it is not a hypothesis.  It is a fact. I believe my contact Zizib, alias Canvas Back Zizib—”

“Is CB still fighting?”  Steve questioned in a low Brooklyn tone.  “I thought he was locked up in an asylum someplace in Albania—”

“That is beside the point Steve… anyway he has walking privileges.  And it is not an asylum it is an institution for the…  Never mind. Anyway, there is something else you should know about President De Gaulle--.

“Who?” This time Steve asked, seemingly bewildered as his mind was working on an idea, he had… how to foil REDCOM.

“De Gaulle… De Gaulle… De Gaulle you idiot.”

Only Steve, and Jock and a few thousand others could make his partner Jacquie lose control to the point of madness as she Savate kicked the floor, loosening and cracking a piece of the heavy, ancient shinny hard wood plank.

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“Steve, it is my left ear that is being recorded.”  Lik said somewhat in that ice being cracked tone, as pieces of white plaster flew off the wall. Lik, kept banging her head against the wall where she was assuming Rutherford B. Hayes was hiding.

As the Catholic church bells of St, Jacque, just up the Rue, began to sound, Jock answered Steve’s question about ‘How was recording Lik’s right ear going to help in stopping REDCOM? —

“Nothing that I know of Steve.  What do you know Steve about Holograms, or The Algerian War of Independence?  Why can’t I hear Popcorn pop?  Why me?” Jock pondered aloud.  “But I will tell you this about REDCOM Part One, the Les Halle’s Diversion… and cardboard Spetsnaz soldiers disguised as cardboard cutouts or is it cut-outs…(Remember cut-outs=Military/Intelligence jargon for an agent who has no apparent connection with an Intelligence agency,) Wait.  I feel befuddlement coming on.” Jock’s head seemed to begin the agonizing metamorphosis

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into a giant teal orange colored blimpish pumpkin lifting his body a centimeter or two off the ground.

“Steve,” Jacquie whispered, “you don’t think Jock was serious about an Anti-Gravity chip… I mean one nano of Anti-Gravity touches actual gravity it could destroy—”

“Not to worry Jacquie,” Steve said in a low growly voice.  “Lik said it was ‘modified.”

“Modified?  What the hell does that mean? Anti-Gravity matter? How does one ‘modify’ Anti-Gravity... One would have to…  Wait. Did Jock say Les Halle’s?"

“I’m coming baby,” Lik, shrieked as a baking dish shattered, for some unknown reason, someplace in a storage draw. Placing her Golompi down softly on a table Lik ripped up part of a loose heavy, wooden, historic recently cracked floor plank that must have been, well over, several hundred years old and crashed it over Jock’s head.”

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DEBRIEF 2

PARIS

RESTAURANT TRUFFLES

Off Av, Jean Jaures near

28 Rue de Perigneux

MONDAY 13 AUGUST 1962

MID AFTERNOON

RESTAURANT TRUFFLES is a covert Soviet military hangout open to the elite of Paris and all Intellectuals on the Continent and Around the World. In fact, clientele must answer unanswerable questions, such as, ‘How high up?’ And ‘How long is a piece of string?’ to prove they are ‘Intellectuals’ to be granted admission.

Specialty trained Soviet ‘Spetsnaz’ (Russian Special Forces) troops and KGB agents along with

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Vasaltnicki Soviet agent (Vasaltnicki people are Russian spies acting as waiters, waitresses, Doormen, cashiers, models, politicians’ businesspeople, homeless, Professionals, teachers, professors, neighbors-next-door etc…People you trust or pay no attention to until one morning you wake up in a Gulag.)

Much like the Russian Vasaltnicki agents we have today in New York City, U.S. Senate, Congress, and other places throughout the States.

TRUFFLES is a popular spot for the International ‘IN’ crowd of gourmet-diners, especially the so-called ‘intellectuals,’ who are stupid enough, to order awfully expensive ‘whites of truffle eggs’ but never eat them.

The two owners are Major Miroslav (Short Step) Elias, a short pickpocket, hit man, medically obese KGB agent who at this moment is chocking on a Borscht-soaked Truffle.

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The other owner is KGB Major Frantisek (Creature) Strachovsky, a tall, very successful anorexic ‘who believes he kills by convincing intellectuals they never were born.’ Known to his men as ‘Creature,’ owing to his close resemblance and green pallor.

He has been ordered to wear a special, ‘almost’ fire resistant, slow burning paper bag, with eye holes over his head and set it ablaze just before he enters the dining area.  This way he doesn’t frighten the dining guests.  Both are known affectionately as the ‘Mutt and Jeff’ team of Dzerzhinsky Street. (Western agents called KGB Headquarters in Moscow, Dzerzhinsky Street.)  

For an encore, when Major Creature leaves the dining area, a small group of, large-footed, high-stepping, well trained Spetsnaz soldiers stomp the moving smoldering bag, a fire safety precaution, as Major Creature stumbles away.

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The elite, high society, Intelligencia dining guests believe it is part of the floor show and look forward to it with enthusiastic applause.

“ ‘Sputnik’ to ‘Short Step.’  Will you stop choking?” Major ‘Creature,’ yelled. “It is very annoying to me.  If you did not stuff that gaping hole you call a mouth with all those truffles you would not—"

“You say something ‘Creature’?” Major ‘Short Step’ gargled. “By Stalin’s chicken feed sacks, he used to give himself shoulders, I do believe I am… agh… chocking.”

“Do not call me ‘Creature,’ idiot.  I have enough trouble with my men gossiping behind my back.”

“Idiot?  Remember your date-of-rank Major ‘Creature.’  I out rank you by 32 seconds.”

“31 seconds you—”

“Anyway, when I am eating it cuts off power to my hearing,” Major ‘Short Step’ coughed and gaged each word.  “Hey! Any of you morons know the

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Soviet ‘Kapooie’ method those Boyilaneyt Americans stole from us in 1923 and now called the ‘Heimlich’ maneuver.”

As the ‘Kapooie’ method was being applied by two Spetsnaz soldiers disguised as waiters and a Soviet Vasaltnicki spy named ‘Floozy’ disguised as a floozy, Major ‘Short Step’ gagged in a disturbingly chocking tone.  “And that reminds… me…Stay out of…the dining…area tonight when… the Restaurant opens…  We are running low on those special paper bags you… are ordered to wear over your head.”

And that also reminds me… I cannot breathe.  I think you three idiots just broke two of my favorite ribs… This Soviet… ‘Kapooie’ method sucks… Run out… into the street… and grab the first… … passerby… that… can…  a… perform… a… tracheotomy…”

Major ‘Short Step’ lay chocking on the floor almost passed out. His face turning a shade of ‘Tragic

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Evening Blue’ Stalin’s now Khrushchev’s favorite aftershave.

Exploding on to the small, now crowded, stage area where Major ‘Short Step’ lay, one hundred and fifty-two Russian Vasaltnicki ‘Squat Dancers (Kazachok)’ soldiers started their new ‘Squat’ dance routine accompanied by blasting Russian ‘Squat’ dancing folk music, shouting, high leaping and ear-piercing yells.

Now major ‘Creature’ announced “Let us go over one more time operation REDCOM, our Paris attack plans--.”

“I tell you… you idiots I do not know how to perform a tracheotomy,” Passerby, Emile

La Traille, a tough, suave, handsome intellectual, who for some reason was chasing a large goose down the Rue as he was passing Restaurant TRUFFLES and was dragged in by Floozy and two Soviet Spetsnaz soldiers. “I am Emile La Traille,

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Finder of Missing Geese.  Where is my Goose you head of ham fat?”

“Perform,” ordered Soviet private Soo Poo G-Deh Seveer as he shoved a lighted blow torch in Monsieur La Traille’s hand.

###

DEBRIEF 3

LES HALLES, PARIS Les Jardin du Poubelle aka (Alma Frump’s Dump.)

WEDNESDAY 15 AUGUST 1962

LATE EVENING.

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Les Halles is an immense spreading, noisy 800 plus-year-old, always mobbed with food and everything else market, almost in the center of Paris. Saturated with merchants, buyers, sellers, locals, spies, assassins and the dreaded mimes from every corner of the planet. Tourist of all sorts continuously roving throughout, barely dodging the trucks, horse pulled wagons and different sized unbalanced pushcarts. Many with square worn-down wheels.

Merchants were selling everything. Flowers, wine, fish, French bread, meat carcasses, animals, fruit, classified information. All types of food and everything in between. But the thing one will always remember most is the kaleidoscope of tantalizing yet obnoxious aromas including the drifting of burnt gunpowder of occasional pistol shots and that homey-feel that lingered about.

And the most important place was a Café called ‘Les Jardin du Poubelle’. (Known for its clarion of

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Moulin Rouge and wild Apache dancehall music and familiar to all operatives worldwide as ‘Alma Frump’s Dump.’) Always packed with before-during and after-work locals and the strangest assortment of patrons, shadow-people, bewildered tourist, self-actualizing Intellectual morons, weird performers and even plain-run-of-the mill-morons, such as the writer of this debriefing, etc…  

As the Pederin band blasted music like confetti throughout Café Poubelle, “Steve,” Jacquie called out.  Her tone was that of a stiletto being stabbed into his ear as the Café noise ran a defense that only close piercing contact could infiltrate. “What are we doing here besides meeting with French Intelligence and doing completing a nutty plan you have been working on? A plan I do not think President De Gaulle will go along with. I have been

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detecting avalanching signs of mental stress from you.”

“No time for high-praise from you Jacquie. I’ve been doing a little investigating here.”

“I know… Meeting with French Intelligence is okay. But those other Black Forest people…Those creepy shadow people you have been sequestering with

and paying off your contacts. Jock and Lik’s friends are less stable than they are.”

“You know Jock has not been right-in-the-head since he discovered it was the dish that ran away with the spoon,” Steve jackhammered his voice. I have been doing some follow up. The Ruskies have hired the OAS for De Gaulle’s assassination. And the OAS has hired that idiot ‘The Jackass’ for the assassination plan.”

“Not ‘The Lard Butt,’ alias ‘Little medically obese Eddie Illich Ramirez’ the guy that wobbles if he

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could run.  Alias ‘The Jackal’ alias—” Jacquie sighed.

“Right,” Steve sneered. “Previously known as ‘Fat Eddie Ramirez.  Anybody blows something up the Jackal gets all the credit.”

“He must have a great publicist,” Jacquie stabbed Steve’s ear again with her words. “Wait a minute you do not think the Jackal, alias the ‘Limp’s’ Publicist could be—"

“No. Let’s not go there,” Steve growled a penetrating growl.

Let’s not go wave after wave after wave of ‘The Kackle’s’ many aliases, with that hideous laugh. He’s the only moron who runs flappin’ his arms and bunny hops and can’t sweat.” Steve moaned.

 “I thought the Jackal is still living in his parent’s cellar apartment in Paris selling Hi Fi’s and dungarees from there,” Jacquie stabbed Steve’s ear again as she pushed her hair back.

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Jacquie’s hair is a formal evening coiffure with a turban style bump.  Steve, still coming his hair DA style in the mobbed Cafe.

Steve, answered back in a smashing sledgehammer tone, “and we’re still waiting for Jock and Lik who are supposed to meet those two KGB agents in the reserved booth behind us. You sure it was the dish that ran away with the--?”

“I don’t know, Steve.  Lik, gave Jock one Hades of a clonk on that noggin of his with that broken floor plank to stop his head from swelling and turning pumpkin-teal, orange.”

“Give the guy a break Jacquie.  He was becoming befuddled. Anyway, he was released from that Bittersweetie Noggin Nockers private hospital in Dange.”

“Yes, Jacquie shived her words again into Steve’s ear but this time holding a hanky over her mouth

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as she thought she caught sight of a Maverick Lip Reader in the crowd. “I know, but Lik said they were treating Jock for not being able to jump.  She said he has to carry a 12-volt car battery with him with wires connected to his ears.”

“Oh, big deal,” Steve roared back.  “What’s a few more gadgets hooked up to Jock’s head?”

“Steve, he is carrying a 12-volt car battery around with him. What if his jump shock meter goes off every few minutes like Lik said it is supposed to? I am sure Jock knows how to jump.”

“Forget it Jacquie.  We have more important things to concern ourselves. Lik assured me she disconnected the wires.”

“Like the wires she disconnected in Romania last year when we were tasked to see how many Romanian tanks they had for their surprise ‘October Military Exercise?’  I still cannot hear properly.”

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“So, we found out Lik was colorblind,” Steve shouted. “All those different colored wires.  Any way she insisted we all stand behind Jock… even her. Jock and his imagined nanny took the brunt of the explosion.”

“Steve,” Jacquie said in that stiletto blade tone close-up and personal. “That nanny was not imagined. If I knew then that idiot with Jock and Lik was a Romanian General in charge of the whole Romanian army’s ‘October Surprise’ was a spy disguised as a nanny, I would have… I mean I really would have Savate kicked that nitwit…   Why do I put up with you?”

I can’t look for a couch now.” Steve mumbled in a low growl, “Psychoanalyze yourself later.”

Just at that moment the Pederin British band drummer, Rio went maniac. Began to make horrible faces and plunge his drumsticks into his ears while waving out his tongue Semi Flore style

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sending expletives to the crowd and all the ships at sea.

Carried off the four-foot-high stage, drums and all, by the rest of the Pederin band Boris, Natasherine and Lord Bloat into an always waiting Pederin ‘Fou’ van. (Under International law a Fou Van was required to follow the Pederin’s anyplace they are allowed to perform without strait jackets.)

The chaotic Apache dancers following the Pederin band to the front door flinging their dance partners left and right in some sort of bizarre, demented Conga line.

The crowd Congaed back as soon as the great rock & roller Johnny Halliday started singing accompanied by the one and only immortal singin’ screamer ‘Screamin’ Jay Hawkin’s’ as the Mayhem grew.

Jacquie and Steve tried to fit in with the local inhabitants and the beer and wine flowed with the help of overweight, red-nosed waiters and big

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boned angry waitresses always smiling… the problem was…

Even with Jacquie’s French ‘Les Halles’ type work clothes and the possibility she works in the slingin’ sides of beef on hooks sections of ‘Les Halles’ she couldn’t tone down her drop dead beautiful ‘girl-next-door’ good looks.

Steve, on the other hand looks like he caught a slingin’ side of fast-moving beef with his head… when the baby spotlights were exactly right.

“Listen Steve, there is something I have to tell you about President De Gaulle that only his closest confidants may know. Perhaps he does not know himself. He is—”

“Look Jacquie, if it’s about that idiot punch drunk boxer assassin that you think is on De Gaulle’s personal security team… don’t worry about it. You point the personal security team out to me, and I’ll unmask the miscreant in less than a minute for you.  If there is one?”

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“Oh, shut up flounder brain.  Besides being a great President of France De Gaulle is a multifaceted genius at—”

“Excuse me, Jacquie. You’re so jealous at my winning first prize on that ‘Pays to be Ignorant’ radio program it’s fogging your focus. Plus, this case is open and shut for me. “

“Open and shut? That is because you are an idiot Steve,” Jacquie shouted with sparkling eyes and a disarming smile. “A one hundred percent blooming idiot.”

“Well, it’s about time you recognize my talent,” Steve, started to look for a mirror. But keep your Kudos for me down.  We’re on a covert mission.

A big boned cigarette girl passed by asking if anyone wanted cigarettes, cigars, mirrors, or fuel for smoke signals, (Very popular as an added

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entertainment booster at Alma Frump’s Dump during the gayety days of the early sixties in Paris. All Intellectuals and ‘IN’ crowed people wanted to send smoke signals from their tables to be noticed by others. Thus, so many unexplained fires were the ‘important people’ hang out.}

No one could really hear the big boned cigarette girl in the bedlam.

Jacquie sighed one of those patented sighs that people sigh when they must deal with Steve.

“There is so much freaken smoke in this ‘Dump’ I cannot see—”

“Crapola? Ah yes De Gaulle,” Steve said thoughtfully.  “Jock and Lik are not only going to confirm the exact time and place—”

“We already know the place,” Jacquie hurled a word-Javelin into Steve’s ear as the now Moulin Rouge Dance Music assaulted the jam-packed fast

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moving mob gyrating around the well rutted wooden/saw dusted floor.

“And the Spetznaz Russian soldiers disguised as…” Steve was interrupted.

“Disguised as what?”  Jacquie asked as a fight broke out around their booth. The fight was swiftly swallowed up in a surging pandemonium of screaming French twirling Cancan dancing patrons and the combatants were kicked into Cancan unconsciousness or worse.

“Cardboard cutouts? Or cut-outs?” Jacquie laughed as she and Steve threw off, the last dancers from the fisticuffs that had landed on their table, hurling them back into the swirling mass of stampeding, dancing patrons. The last fisticuffers pleas for mercy and help were extinguished upon vanishing into the swift flowing merciless romping, vortex causing crowd.

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“Was Jock speaking of actual paper and cardboard cutouts, or real intelligence people cut-outs?” Jacquie demanded to know in a tight lip, spitting fire tone.

“Does it really matter?” Steve growled that low warning growl that only beautiful woman and jungle night prowling dangerous beasts can hear. “When it comes down to it, I believe they’re both the same thing.”

Jacquie, shaking her head in the negative, while looking at her white noise watch and covering her lips with a tissue answered, “After all this time as a Cloakroom agent maybe you are right Steve? There may be no difference between ‘Cut-outs’ and regular cardboard cutouts.

I mean Jock is the only person I have ever met that is ‘perhaps’ more stupid than you. As you always say, ‘Let it play out and see.’ “

“There, see,” Steve growled what seemed as it could be an almost happy deadly growl that even

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frightened ‘the Dump’s noise.’ “You feel better already.”

“I said ‘perhaps,” Jacquie, flipped her word in angry French.

“A little louder,” Steve growled, I still don’t think they can hear us at the Kremlin yet.”

“No one is going to hear us with all this noise. Besides, we have our white noise watches on.  I am more concerned about Lip Readers.”

“Lid beaters,” Steve challenged.  “What in the name of ‘Princes Summer Fall Winter Spring’ are you talking about? Lid beaters?”

“I said Lip Readers you… I am paying for the time in the field in Northern Finland when you were doing your morning briefing with those Finnish troops before we were to cross into the Soviet Union trying to locate that Russian defector and I

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forgot to yell ‘Incoming.’  Those Ruskie artillery shells are really loud.”

“What?”  Steve yelled.

“And who is this ’Princes Summer Fall Winter Spring’?” Jacquie demanded to know.  “I don’t remember a Princes with that—”

“Who?” Steve asked. “And who are these Lid beaters?

Jacquie slipped a small, dainty Derringer out from under her sleeve and fired at Steve just as Jock and his little group clambered in the smokey Café door.  At the same instant one of the Apache dancing patrons, who was living in the past not able to change into Moulin Rouge Cancan steps fast enough, was thrown into Steve and Jacquie’s booth with Tornado F-5 wind force.

###

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DEBRIEF 4

15 August 1962

Wednesday.  Almost Midnight.

Café Les Jardin de Poubelle.  Alias ‘Ama Frump’s Dump.’

Les Halles, Paris.

“Hoot mon, am I still bleeding?” Jock asked as his head size stated to return to normal. “Who fired that shot and where did it come from?”

Just then there was a call to prayers wailing somewhere in the distance.

Jock and Lik were dressed normally in their black motorcycle jackets with ‘Lards of Flatbush’ written in ‘Brooklynese’ on the back in phosphorus and, of course, misspelled. Lik, wore her red shawl under her Motorcycle jacket.  And their ensembles

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finished off their signature red woolen sweats and sneakers.

Major’s Short Step and Major Creature who was wearing a paper bag over his head for some reason, were attired in Soviet grey military jackets and grey Soviet military pants with long red stripes on the outside of each pant leg running into their black, spit shined cowboy boots.

Both wearing high, brown Russian thick fur winter hats that someone tried to stomp down to look like French berets. Major Creature looked particularly out of place as his stomped down Beaver fur beret highlighted the paper bag, he was partially wearing over his head.

With the help of ‘The’ 7/10th of a ton Alma Frump herself and her ‘Ally-Oop’ sized club, clubbed their way to their reserved table right behind Steve and Jacquie.

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It took a few moments to dislodge the Philonian patrons who were sitting at the reserved table… but after a few seconds of Lik swinging her Golumpi and Alma beating them to a pulp the intruders lay on the Café floor. All that was left on the table was a blood or red wine trail and a half-finished bottle of Beaujolais until some Big Boned waitresses dragged the limp bodies away into an open but clogged sewer almost outside the Café.

Alma Frump bellowed to no one particular. She had an explosive urge to paint a midnight seascape, but she couldn’t find the right color as she charged into the back room of her establishment following her big boned blockers who forcibly led the way.

“No, my brave hero. The bleeding has stopped. The spent shell only grazed your beautiful vacant bean and damaged the little power box on your elastic kamikaze band wrapped around your

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noggin. The bullet must have ricocheted off something--”

Lik was interrupted as a patron was carried out on a stretcher nursing a Deringer belt buckle wound.

“This is one hell of a tough place,” Jock cried out in his usual high operettic voice causing ear damage within a one-meter zone of pain.

Just at that moment an alarm went off in the car battery Jock was carrying jolting him a few inches off the ground and causing, what looked like, chard hair fuzz to appear on his bald head.

###

DEBRIEF 5

16 August Thursday, 1962.

A little after midnight

PARIS, FRANCE

LES HALLES

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Café Jardin de Poubelle. Alias ‘Alma Frump’s Dump.’

“Ah here we are,” Jock announced in his high-pitched squeak as he an Lik slid into their side of the booth.  Major Miroslave ‘Short Step’ Elias, who needed to sit on a Paris Phone book, slipped into the booth seat right behind Major Frantisek ‘Creature’ Stanchovsky.

“Someone bring me a Citronade you bourgeois swine bar keeps, Major ‘Short Step,’ demanded in British English. “Remember, my name is Lucy Dead. I am a filthy American big-time swine gambler-tourist from the state of Oyeoh.”

“Me too,” Major Frantisek Stanchovsky echoed in a South Moscow Russian accent.  My name is Lucy Dead.  I am a big riverboat gambler from Oyeoh.  My friends, if I had any, would call me

‘Madmick’—”

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“Whaaa?”  Lik challenged, “You both cannot be in disguise as the same person.  And what the hell is a Madmik? For that matter where the hell is Oyeoh?” Lik, nervously started to cradle her Golompi under her red shawl.

“The idiots mean ‘Mavrick’ from an old western TV show from 1959.”  A voice came from Miroslave ‘Short Step” Elias’s winter Russian fur hat, the one that was stomped down into what was supposed to look like a French beret.

“Who said that?” Major Shot Step yelled.

“You did you moron,” the voice sounded off again.

“I did?”  Major Short Step interrogated himself unsuccessfully.  “I did?”

“Yes, I did,” The voice came again this time from Major Short Step himself.

“Okay, If I said so I guess I did,” Major Short Step announced as he agreed with himself guzzling a sip

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of his Citron-aide a Jolly, red nosed, medically obese garcon just brought him. Then yelling in Russian, ‘Russians Go Home.’ “

Lik, just sat there observing as her double-jointed lips began to toss and turn into the most tightened complicated kaleidoscopic designs.

“You said you are from Oyeoh?” Lik’s dry ice crunching words that had a strange sounding rattle to them like a sound you might hear from a frozen rattlesnake just before it delivered an almost thawed strike.  “Do you mean Ohio?  And Lucy is a women’s name.  A name that that displeases me…

Ah So, you are not sure you are related to Misses Rutherford B. Hayes by any draw of the cards?”

Upon hearing the code words ‘Ah so’ and two threatening claps that were meant for the Russian Majors from Lik, Jock began marching in place looking around for a passing parade to protest in.

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‘Who?”  Both Major Short Step and Major Creature spoke at the same time. I thought Lucy is a name winning gamblers use on your American swine river boats that sail up and down Misses Sippie.

“Major Short Step and Major Creature both looking at each other and shaking their heads. Then because they said the same thing at the same time they both said an ole Russian saying.  “What goes up the Chimney?” Before they could answer the question Lik not only twisted her lips but also her eyes into an almost perfect square knot. (Oh, some will argue it was more like a sheepshank knot} Twisting her lips and eyes seperately like an assassin would twist their blade between the third and fourth rib of a target.

“Do you mean ‘Lucky’ by any chance,” Steve, using his ventriloquist voice again asked.

Jock demanded to know with a follow up question also ‘if you hombres have any spare stilts on you?”

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“Now how would we know that”” Major Creature asked sternly.

“Nonsense,” Lik said in that cold sound dry ice makes when one slaps a slab on one’s head for fun.

Lik, crying repeat volumes of the ‘Hokey Pokey in reverse. I suspected you were her when you ordered a Citronade. That is French for Lemonade. You are her. Rutherford B. Hayes wife that only drinks lemonade in your temperance movement. And not only that you are from ‘Oyeoh’… I mean Ohio where she is from.

As Lik attacked Major Short Step unmercifully, but with a seeming elegance, with half a bottle of Beaujolais, Jock began to rant as his head trembled and swelled with an orange bluish tint and a teal glow.

“Wait,” Jock cried out, “I am not an American.  I am Japanese. No…vial Bavarian lederhosen accordion players are filling my head. Great

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Angolan War Lord Agostino Neto is beating a War kettle drum all wearing empty shoe boxes sizes four and a half to 18 triple E…”

In the excitement Jock… well the circumference of his head seemed to expand exponentially as his head turned the color of teal—

‘Wait,’ came another garbled war cry from Alma Frump’s office as she looked out her upstairs office window overseeing the mayhem. Seeing Jock’s swelling head and a teal-ish orange glow.  That color.  That is the color I need for my seascape  midnight painting.  Bring that color to me.” Alma, instead of opening her office door smashed through it. Like a bull elephant in rut. Alma and her big boned waitresses followed by a number of her Jolly; medically obese, red nosed waiters charged toward the teal-ish color sending patrons flying in all directions.  It was ghastly.  Like a human tidal wave of flesh heading toward Jock.

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“Steve,” Jacquie whispered closeup and personal. I just remembered that Major Creature carries around with him vials of acid and magnesium, jellied fire starter when they are mixed.  He does a somersault in here it’s all over.”

Then it’s your job to keep him upright in here,” Steve growled back close, and I must say, under the situation, very professional.

“Idiot,” was Jacquie’s retort.  “Wait,” Jacquie screamed to be heard now.  Pretending to dab her lips with a hankie in case any of those roving gangs of ‘Lip Readers’ were about.  “OAS men coming towards Jock’s and Lik’s table right behind us.”

“That’s Georges Walrus,” Steve said, quietly almost without moving his lips but Jacquie read his mouth.

“Alias ‘The Pygmy Hippo.’ Steve growled in a low warning.

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“You mean Georges Watda… I thought Watda was another alias for the ‘The Jackal’ or ‘the Jackass or something like that?” Jacquie mouthed her question in a way any errant Lip Reader could not read her lips.  “Steve, we are going to have to break this up.”

“No.  Maybe Walrus and his OAS boys will—”

Before Steve could finish Alma Frump and her tsunami of big boned waitresses and medically obese, jolly, red nosed waiters smashed into Jock and Lik’s booth after Jock’s Teal colored enormous ninja head.  Destroying several booths, liquor, splintering wood, sawdust flying and blasting patrons far, far away into other unexplored recesses of the Café.

As Jock’s circumference of his glowing head expanded exponentially so rapidly breaking the kamikaze type of elastic strap launching Jock’s, Deringer bullet-injured recorder/projector power box at incomparable speed causing those who

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were still able to put their hands over their ears to repel the sound of buzzing jets noise turning after burners on as they roared away. Some patrons, big boned waitresses and not so jolly, medically obese red nose waiters being swept away in the vacuum the noise caused, perhaps, never to be found again. Other dazed patrons seem to speed float in half size shoe boxes and disappear in little flashes. Only to return moments later as unconscious lederhosen Bavarian accordion players. Magnesium and acid mixed as flames exploded out of some idiot’s pocket. Then partial ceiling collapse.

###

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DEBRIEF 6

17 AUGUST, FRIDAY 7:00 HOURS

CAFÉ PETIT FOU, ACROSS THE STREET FROM

PETITE-SALPETRIERE HOSPITAL, NEAR THE MAZARIN ENTRANCE. THE OLD CHARENTON ASYLUM FOR THE CTIMIMALLY INSANE (LUNATIC SECTION PARKING ONLY.)   RUE de la BOURRASQUES de (SQUALLS.)

“Steve,” Jacquie asked, after just getting their hearing back somewhat, nursing several bruises. “What in the name of Angles and Saints just happened last night?  I could have sworn there were no accordion players in Alma Frump’s Dump last night when we entered.”

The waitress interrupted bringing two chocolate chauds and two croissants to their window table.

“Then that strange eardrum stinging noise like a squadron of jet aircraft blasting off,” Jacquie continued in that soft killer French accent.

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“Bavarian accordion players. The place was filled with bizarre looking shoe boxes… half sizes shoe boxes floating around.  Jock’s head turning that ghastly teal orange—”

Steve, squinting his eyes, still not sure where he was. “Huh? Jet after burners engaged full throttle, Accordion players disappearing and seconds later appearing.  It was like being inside Jock’s head. All I remember is seeing Jock’s excruciatingly tight kamikaze head band snapping launching at warp speed his recorder/projector into the deep, dark recesses of Alma Frump’s Dump.”

“My head hurts and we’re all covered with soot and sawdust and whatever this sticky stuff is… Steve you sure you do not have any leaking head wounds?

That is it Steve,” Jacquie shouted, hurting their ears. “Your nose and right ear are bleeding.”

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“I’m sorry,” Steve growled.  “I just had a building collapse on me.”

“Steve, you are such a wimp. It was only a ceiling that fell on us… and everyone else in ‘The Dump.’  You do not hear anyone else complaining.”

“That’s because I can’t hear didley. And most of them were unconscious or taken to the hospital across the street.”

“Look, Chowder Head… what you said before, ‘It was like being in Jock’s head.’ What if that box being pressed against his head by the kamikaze elastic band was smashed into smithereens when the kamikaze elastic snapped, and the box flew off into the great unknown of Alma’s Dump—”

“And there really was some antimatter

released— No one really knows what effect a small amount of diluted antimatter would have when it is released into matter… other than destroying the universe.  I think.”

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“No—” Steve started to say as Jacquie felt one of Steve’s soliloquies coming beginning on a subject that he knows nothing about.

This time Jacquie cut Steve off. “Causing those bizarre happenings. No wonder the maniacs at Edgewood Arsenal wanted Jock to test the contraption wrapped around his head at White Sands Proving Grounds. They were not worried about a nuclear explosion, but they were concerned that what was in Jock’s brain might escape. The stupid things he is always thinking about would be worse to civilization as we know it than any nuclear explosion.”

“Well Jacquie, I don’t think half size shoe boxes and mad Bavarian accordion players in lederhosen could actually destroy anything… except possibly the minds off all earthlings?”

“Tell that to the people still missing at Alma Frump’s Dump and the patrons that vanished in flashes of light. Like an invasion of human

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‘Lighting’ bugs.  And how do people reappear before they vanish in flashes of light?”

“You mean ‘Lightening’ bugs,” Steve groaned in pain rubbing his head and dust from his eyes. “In Brooklyn we say ‘Lightening’ bugs.”

“Who cares what they say in Brooklyn,” Jacquie shrugged off Steve’s correction.  “We do not have Lighting bugs in France anyway.”

“Ahh,” Steve throws his right hand up. Well, you did a great job keeping that KGB idiot Major Creature upright so he wouldn’t explode with those magnesium and acid vials he carries.  I don’t think there were any major fires.  No pun intended—”

“I did not do anything to keep Major Creature upright.  I was under that freaking, splintered- ceiling with you and everyone else.  But you know what was strange now that you remind me… I

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thought I saw Alma and her crew charge toward us just before Jock’s elastic kamikaze band snapped sending it, as you said, ‘to the far reaches to previous unknown parts of the Café Poubelle, then everything… everything blew up. But why was Alma Frump and her obese waiters and big boned waitresses attacking--“

“A question hopefully never to be answered,” Steve growled taking a sip of his chocolate chaud. Jock has the ability to bring out the ‘killer’ instinct in a saint.”

“I wonder where Jock and Lik are now.  I hope they made it out of the debris field,” Jacquie said almost thoughtfully as she blew whipped cream off her cinnamon stirrer stick.  “Oh well, if they made it out, they are probably lurking in some shadows on Rue Morgue waiting for their next victims.”

“What I could get out of one of the ambulance drivers and a couple of the firemen—”

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“Firepersons,” Jacquie interrupted.

“Huh?” Steve growled weakly rubbing his head injuries.

“Nothing,” Jacquie coughed.

“Anyway,” Steve continued, his growl coming back. “They’re taking all victims back to the mental hospital across the street for a triage or something? Then police and scientist questioning.”

“Ah, yes the lunatic asylum,” Jacquie said softly looking out across the Rue at the Mental Hospital from the table they were sitting at through a large picture window of the coffee shoppe. “How apropos.”

“Yeah, whatever?” Steve said finishing his Chocolate chaud. “I still feel a little dizzy. But I know Major ‘Short Step’ was taken here. They’re keeping him until he regains consciousness.”

“Those were some pretty heavy duty blows Lik gave him.” Jacquie mumbled with her napkin held

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close to her mouth in case there were some Lip Reader survivors from Alma Frump’s Dump about.

“I’m not sure what happened to that other idiot Major Creature,” Steve growled following Jacquie’s lead as he held a napkin up to his mouth.  Then realizing what he was doing roared, tossed the napkin with prejudice, “What the hell am I doing.  Don’t start that Lid Beater double talk again.”

“How stupid can you be?” Jacquie slashed.  “No,” her words were scorched as she raised her hands. “Do not tell me.  I know you haven’t reached your full potential.”

Steve, ignoring Jacquie’s tribute to him went on. “The last time I saw a smoking Major Creature as they were trying to pull him out of the ruble next to me… the emergency Recue Doc was posturizing, ‘Whatever hit this poor soul in the head had to be traveling so fast it went through his head cauterizing skin, skull and every vital organ causing no concern-able damage… I guess he was lucky he

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was wearing a stomped down Beaver on his head covered a bit with a slow burning paper bag over his head.”

“Jacquie just looked at Steve with an unbelieve stare and said, “Now I believe you reached your full potential.”

“Thanks Jacquie but this is no time for giving me kudos.”

This time it is believed it was Jacquie that growled in unbelievable frustration.

“Listen Steve, we have to get back to Chatellerault to washup and change our clothes. It only takes a couple of hours by train.”

“Regarde Jacquie,” Steve, still a bit unsteady on his feet, growled.  “Over there by the hospital barb wired fence and the criminally insane warning signs, ‘LUNATICS MAY BE LURKING ABOUT.’  That very tall guy with the strange gait, bandaged head

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lurking in the morning shadows.  He’s sneaking off down the street. Do you think that’s the Soviet KGB Major Creature Strachovsky?”

“Of course, it is,” Jacquie’s sarcastic reply ricocheted off the windowpane they were peering through. “Who else could it be? What else walks and runs like that aside from the Jackal? Stiff legged, unable to bend his knees, or arms at the elbow.  Now he is running like that.  After him Steve.”

“Why?” Steve asked.

“I have to get back to Rue de la Croix Rouge to change my clothes—” Jacquie’s explanation was interrupted.

Unfortunately, a rock with paper around it thrown through the window hit Steve on the head as he tried to steady his feet, for the pursuit, rendering him unconscious.

###

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DEBRIEF PART 7

18 AUGUST, SATURDAY 1962

AFTERNOON

ATLANTIC OCEANSIDE SEA RESORT

ROYAN, FRANCE.

HOTEL AU REGAL, 15 RUE PIERRE-LOTI

OFF BOULEVARD ARISTIDE BRIAND, ROYAN 17

TEL 05. 06. 07.                        

After a stop at Onze Rue de la Croix Rouge in Chatellerault for a change of clothes, nuclear powered showers Jacquie put together on the spot and an unexpected stop at the ‘Bittersweet Private Hospital for Dramatic and Traumatic Nuggie Injury and for Individuals Unable to Jump’ located in Dange, France; the specialists there agreed Steve would eventually remember who he was.  But

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there would be short lapses as Steve slips into other identities until the swelling goes down.

On the way to Royan Jacquie had to suffer Steve remembering he was La Mont Cranston alias the ‘Shadow.’  Charles De Gaulle and ‘The Norman Looboff Choir.

Jacquie and Steve finally made their way to a small, charming hotel a bit off the Atlantic Ocean coastal beach resort of Royan, France. Jacquie was about to Savate kick Steve in the head to try and get him to get his memory back with Savate encouragement.

“What is this note you keep talking about?” Steve Mumbled.  “Dud I read it?

“Of course. You read it when you regained consciousness. Lucky the Lunatic hospital was across the street so they could help you tout suite.”

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“Yeah, lucky me. I was seeing double.  I couldn’t make out the scribbling.  Wait till I get my hands on those two morons,” Steve rubbed the left side of his goose-egg head as he groaned.  If they were outside the Café we were in, why didn’t they just come in and hand us the note or just tell us?”

“I do not know Steve.  They are your contacts.  Listen Steve while you are still yourself…”

“Huh?  Wait a minute. This note is for someone named Steve.  My name is… don’t tell me.”

The men in white jackets and carrying butterfly nets. chasing Major ‘Creature seem to know you Steve—”

“Chasing Major ‘Creature.’ Did they get him?”

“No, I do not think so,” Jacquie said softly.  “There was so much excitement and confusion when you got knocked out.  I had to focus on you.  I did not know you could yodel when unconscious… or, conscious for that matter.”

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“Yodel? What are you blabin’ about? Anyway, I have a lot of contacts.”

“You know, now that I think about it, I never met one of your contacts that wasn’t weird.”

“So, what,” Steve replied not realizing he was answering her in slang Swahili.” “Do you think any normal person would be in the kind of work we do?”

“No, I suppose not,” Jacquie answered Steve back in a nonchalant Swahili. “But you have so many contacts in zoos around the world. I mean not only people but all kinds of animals.”

“A contact is a contact,” Steve growled still in slang Swahili.”

“I suppose,” Jacquie said, in a far way scientific tone speaking a more formal Swahili as she inspected Steve’s head for leakage. “Hmmm, Steve have you been in a more recent contact with

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‘more’ sawdust… I mean after the Frump’s Dump?”

DEBRIEF 8

18 AUGUST SATURDAY 1962

EVENING

HOTEL AU REGAL

15 RUE PIERRE – LOTI

OFF BOULEVARD ARISTIDE

BRIAND, 17

SUITE 12 TOP FLOOR

TEL. 05. 06. 07.

“It was a dark, windy almost moonless night. The Merengue dancing tree branches made spooky sounds on the deserted streets below urged on by a low-pressure grid tumbling its way off the Atlantic Ocean as electric lights flicked.

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In suite 12, Jacquie and Steve sat around a large oval table. A giant iron extremely hot pot of Bouillabaisse was simmering on the stove. There were several lighted candles from birthday size to Opera candle size that helped the large room to reek with moving shadows from the breeze entering through the open terrace.

Steve frowned at the aroma of the fish stew, or whatever type of Sea Monsters bubbling away, and the attacking scent being tossed about by the breezy jabs and uppercuts of the percolating stew. Jacquie and Steve are discussing their next move, through the fog of Bouillabaisse horror, as they waited for Jock and Lik to show up.

“I made this Bouillabaisse for its nutritional value in restoring your mind to normal stupidity from being beaned on your head with that rock they threw through the Café window.”

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“I’m going to kill those two before this mission is over.

Now that I’m all better tell me why you insisted on making that foul fish stew,” Steve sneered a growl which is difficult to do for most humans.

“I just told… Never mind,” Jacquie sneered back in that most charming and patient French accent that sounded as if she was ordering a firing squad to open fire.

“All these buildings in Royan look fairly new even in the growing darkness,” Steve said moseying over to the terrace balcony and pushing the blackout curtains all the way aside as he gasped for more air.

“That’s because Royan was bombed by the Allies during the war by mistake. Then rebuilt after the war.

Steve, did you notice the headline on the newspaper?”

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“I notice everything,” Steve said in a low menacing tone as he leaned out over the balcony railing. “What headlines?  For that matter, what paper?”

“Steve do not lean out that far.  “We are four floors up.  ‘STILL NO EXPLANATION WHY TIME SEEMED TO STAND STILL FOR 7 SECONDS LAST NIGHT AROUND LES HALLES IN PARIS!’

And get this… The paper reports… ‘the epicenter was at Les Halles. People seemed to vanish but returned before they disappeared. Many victims report seeing the Café Poubelle, locally known as Alma Frump’s Dump was being flooded by nightmarish Bavarian accordion players in Lederhosen. Also, victims state the, what is now known locally as ‘BAP’ (Bavarian Accordion Players) disappearing before they appeared.’   Steve, how can that be?”

“Who cares. Journalistic sensationalism,” Steve growled as his voice seemed to fade away.

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Then Jacquie heard a terrible scream like a Tarzan call when he swings through the jungle in one of his movies.

‘Steve, what did you say,” Jacquie asked in deadly charming French as she looked up from the newspaper.  “Steve, Steve… Where are you now?”

###

DEBRIEF 9

18 AUGUST SATURDAY 1962

21:45 HOURS

HOTEL AU REGAL

15 RUE PIERRE-LOTI

OFF BOULEVARD ARISTIDE

BRIAND 17,

SUITE 12 TOP FLOOR

TEL. 05. 06. 07.

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“I tell you Jacquie I’m not hurt,” Steve mumbled bitterly. “You forget I’m Lord Greystone or is it Lord Stovepipe? Ah, just call me Tarzan.”

“You fell off the Balcony. Four floors.”

“Nonsense. I leaped. A mere pittance for the Lord of the Jungle,” Steve roared as he sat down on a portable davenport next to the huge table. Jacquie had been reading the newspaper by candlelight.  “Besides the trees broke my fall.”

“You could have been killed… leaving me to explain what happened.  You know what would have happened then. Both the French and American governments would have left me out in the cold.  And I would have been put in… How do you call it?  A Bobbie Hatch.”

“You know Jacquie, for some uncanny reason this reminds me when I fell off the roof of Adverk Castle in Scotland.”

“Idiot.”

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“Wait a minute,” Steve ordered. “I remember. I was looking over the balcony and saw a cat burglar climb out a window across the Boulevard and shadow lurk towards the hotel carrying a mouth full of Sterling silver.”

“Sounds like those trees did not break your fall enough Lord Stovepipe,” Jacquie spoke in a tone of wisdom.”

“Lord who?  Are you okay Jacquie? You sure you weren’t the one who fell off the balcony?”

“Look moron, how do you know he was a cat burglar?”

“I recall he was dressed like a cat?”

“You truly are ‘The’ professional idiot. And do not tell me to save my Kudos or ‘Who cares,’ “Jacquie went back to charting an algorithm of Jock’s thinking progress on the newspaper she had been reading.

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“Now what are you doing,” Steve growled in an exceptionally low voice.”

“More precisely that recorder projector on Jocks head those torturers at Edgewood Arsenal screwed around with. According to the newspaper ‘went through some previously unknown barrier of light or time.’

“Look Jacquie, when Jock’s head expanded exponentially… well mix that with antimatter in your algorithm you come up with… I don’t know.  Stupidity, or disaster like we just experienced.

“Steve, there is something still missing.”

“Did you include Lik’s left ear in your algorithm?  And what the hell is an ‘algorithm’ anyway?  Where did the cat burglar go?” Steve challenged himself.”

“Still there is something missing about Jock’s thinking process. I cannot get it to fit any algorithm,” Jacquie said in a thoughtful French.

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“I’ve always theorized there are speeds faster than light in our universe… even faster than warped-mind speed. And we might even be dealing with ‘Time Inversion.’ Jock’s brain after being bombarded with antimatter may hold the key.  I wonder if his head is still intact?”

“Never was,” Steve mumbled as he got up and searched the street below.

“Stop hanging over the balcony Steve and sit back down.  It may account for the inmates of Café Poubelle returning before they disappeared. Quick Steve, I need more paper for the algorithm formula I am developing.”

“Yeah, right Jacquie,” Steve growled as he gave her a raised eyebrow and eyeroll.

Then there was a knock at the door. Four rapid heavy knocks that meant nothing to anyone.

Moments later Jacquie, Steve, Jock, Lik and someone none of them knew were all sitting

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around the large teak wood table discussing how sorry they were for knocking Steve unconscious with a secret message tied to a rock back at the Petit Fou in Paris.”

“Rock,” Steve roared. “It was a boulder. Morons.  You wiped out the whole Petit Fou place.”

“Let us not exaggerate Steve,” Jacquie smirked in French. “Little damage was done to your head.”

“Baloney.  And who is this Steve you all are yappin’ about?”

“Except for that,” Jacquie smiled as she shrugged her shoulders. “I think he is Lord Stovepipe ‘King of the Jungle.’ “

“Who?” Lik asked in a breaking icy tone.

Jacquie shook her head in the negative. “Forget it. It is of no import.”

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“Anyway,” Jock said angrily in a high pitch tone while blowing smoke from three cigarettes, we have to wait until next year when the folks at Edgewood Arsenal fit me for a new hologram projector recorder with updated antimatter and a better mini secure capture holder so I can record a year in the life of my wife’s left ear.”

“Yes,” Lik said, as if again two icebergs were rubbing against each other as they passed each other somewhere in the North Atlantic.  “The boys at Edgewood Arsenal building 355, you know the criminally insane division are going to have Jock surgically self-implant it between his eyes himself so when he gets angry, or cannot understand what is going on around him and his head expands, we won’t have to concern ourselves with any kamikaze rubber-elastic bands breaking and interfering with any of those stupid space-time continuums.”

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LIk, sitting back in her chair in a relax mode, whipped her Golompi out and flung it up into the ceiling. As they were on the top floor it did penetrate the roof. There seemed to come a yelp from the roof.

Lik continued as Jock’s all-weather fruit flies finally caught up with him and could be heard swarming outside the door or perhaps it was the small neon sign advertising the hotel although I think not.

“All that would happen then would be the projector/recorder sending holograms of what is in my Jock’s head to the ionosphere as recordings of the old American 1950 Cisco Kid TV shows back to Earth did or who knows where.  Did anyone see what I did with my Golompi when I came in?”

“In the ceiling Lik,” Jock said casually in a high-pitched scream that caused everyone slap their hands over their ears. “Is that boiling bouillabaisse I hear?” Jock asked as smoke engulfed his head from new cigarettes, he recently lighted.

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“For dinner,” Jacquie answered softly in French.  I know you all must be hungry.”

Steve seemed to gag a bit.

“Be a big boy Steve,” Jacquie said softly in kind of Pau village French. “I could have made Andouillette.”

“That reminds me of the old Bouillabaisse song, which is the official theme song of Neptune,” Lik said in a matter-of-fact icy way as she catapulted onto the table then leaping high into the air retrieved her Golompi and some pieces of ceiling and roof tar with perhaps a schemer of Epsom Salts on the tip along with some human gluteus maximus flesh and a blood spat?”

“Please Lik, no more.” Steve’s voice sounded like one of the menacing low jungle noises one hears at night but can’t detect where it’s coming from.  “Even I can’t stand it. Now please report on what you two found out about REDCOM and what the Soviets are up to… if it’s not too late already.  At

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least before I seek my revenge for conking me with that stone you threw through that Café window outside the hospital in Paris.”

“Hey, I would like to have one of those things implanted between my eyes.” The masked, around his eye’s only, man, partially dressed to look like a grey cat, demanded in a kind of disturbing meowing tone.  Smoking an American Raleigh cigarette stuck to his upper lip. His face carried a strange Joe E. Brown bazoo. A piece or two of miniature silverware on the side of his mouth dangled before he whipped them to the other side without disturbing his Raleigh.

“Who is this?” Jacquie demanded to know from Jock and Lik.

“Have not the foggiest,” Jock said in another high- pitch scream.

“Nor have I,” Lik’s icy tone caused everyone to chill. “We thought this thing was with you. Said he

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was the hotel’s official greeter… Or was it the official stealer?”

“By any chance are you ladies proposing to me?” the stranger purred?  Then he mumbled something incoherently in a whisper as his head shifted quickly left to right his bazoo dropping a miniature sterling silver dessert spoon.  He interrogated. “But why quibble about dessert?”

“Who cares who he is,” Steve growled low and menacing. “Can we get on with this.”

“I shall make arrangements for a small but elegant double wedding. I am known to the French authorities as –”

“Can you make a souffle Japanese style… you know, without cheese or eggs?” Jock screamed in a tone that was unusually high even for him.

“I am not zee cook you fools.  I am Monsieur Le    ‘Couchon Cnout’ alias ‘The Home Book of Verse’ also known as the ‘World’s Greatest Criminologist.’

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But I demand to know again, why quibble about this dessert. You may call me by my other alias… ‘The Home Book of Verse.’

“Now, I recommend you people stop talking about whatever you idiots are babbling about, order me one of those things you put between your eyes and allow me to recite the poet Robert Owens starting in the middle years and then spreading out in both directions at once. I will give you all comprehensive tests when we finish in two or three wee—”

That’s all he would say as Jacquie smashed his head into the table with a high Savate kick from behind knocking him out. Then shoving a lighted king-size cigarette in his bazoo to replace the Raleigh that was crushed. Pulling his chair and body to a bay window overlooking the dark rainy Blossac so he took on the position of an alert but unconscious Centennial. “

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“We are Wasting time,” Steve growled. “Throw him over.”

“Not to worry Steve,” Lik crackled.  “I Know him. He is The Russian.… Known by his other aliases as the ‘Pygmy Hippo…’ and the ‘Pretend Jackal’

In the back streets of Downtown Moscow. You know by Boris’s---"

“I thought he was alias ‘The Schnauzer” Jock pussyfooted his question in a high fingernail across the blackboard society-snobby manner.

“Who cares?” Steve growled a warning growl that vibrated through everyone. “I don’t know what the hell anyone is talking about.”

“Well anyway,” Lik continued in a voice that sounded like Eliza again crossing the ice but this time with fairy wings. “Whoever the idiot is, or who he reports to… they will make their move, that is, Project REDCOM begins on the 22nd of August starting at Les Halles in mid-morning and

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culminating, with the assassination of De Gaulle, near, Petit Clarmart--.”

“August already past,” Steve argued.  “I think It’s gonna be tough to prevent that.”

“Thank you, Steve, for sharing that bit of stupidity with us.”  Then Jacquie, turning to Jock and Lik said in a sweet French tone, “Obviously I Savateed the wrong persons head into the table.”

“I meant August 1961 passed last year little Miss know-it-all.”  Steve growled as his eyes followed something invisible crossing the ceiling. “I just momentarily forgot what month August is in.”

“Thank you again Steve for sharing your words of wisdom this time. And one cannot end a sentence with ‘is in.’ ” Jacquie purred with a smile “You know it is ‘you guys’ fault for hitting him on the

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head with that rock-message back at the hospital in Paris.”

“Jacquie, how many times do I have to tell you to save your kudos for me until I figure out what’s going on,” Then turning to Jock and Lik whispers, trying to blow away Jock’s smoke and suicidal fruit flies that squeezed through the cracks of the door, and in a low muffled kind of growl, “She has me on this pedestal that no… no man could live up to.”

“Steve,” Lik iced her words, “You have come so close to a dangling participle—”

“And not only that added, “Jacquie added, “as soon as the Russians assassinate President De Gaulle they will make their move to take over West Berlin as the allies will be caught off guard unless we get moving.”

“The Allies are always caught off guard,” Jock said in his angry Japanese/Scottish accent. Grabbing another lit French cigarette from behind his right ear and shoved it in his mouth which made three

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maybe four he was puffing on at the same time.  He still had two more lit ones behind his left ear.

“Knock off that accent,” Jacquie demanded. Her words carried the threat of an unpleasant death.

“Which one?” Jock angrily hit a high note as glass seemed to break someplace. He immediately took up the Gobi Pretzel self-defense position (A bit more sophisticated than the regular International Pretzel Self-Defense position) Jock’s head began to tremble and turn a dark shade of tealish pumpkin orange. Lik, quickly grabbed a small burning candle and shoved it in his mouth twixt the French cigarettes.  Jock seemed not to notice, or at least he calmed down.

“Do you have a confirmed day in August of this year when the assassination takes place?” Steve asked again.

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“No,” Lik stated.   “That is aside from Wednesday

August 22nd and a name of Georges Watda the faux mastermind and also known as ‘The—”

“Stop,” Steve roared, sending shivers throughout all inmates of the hotel.  “No more freakin’ aliases.

I have a hard enough time trying to understand what the hell is going on and I’m the mission leader.  Let us just keep Georges Walrus the faux mastermind. Whatever the hell that is.”

“But Steve, “Jacquie corrected, her words smacking him across the knuckles. His last name is Watda not Walrus.  Georges Watda and he to claims to be ‘The Jackal as well as a ‘Pygmy Hippo.”

“What did I just say Jacquie. No aliases. Just stick with Walrus.  This is beginning to sound like a job for a zoo not a bunch of crack assassins.”

Jock began to spit hot wax and sticky pieces of tobacco out of his mouth. “I resent being called

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‘cracked,’ ” Jock’s words were almost lost in the smoke and pain coming out of his bazoo.

“I said ‘crack,’ “ Steve shot back.

“Quiet Jock. Well Steve,” Lik’s words were again like some fairy tiptoeing across an icy birdbath. “Besides what I just told you the answer to your question is no.  We know nothing. We are ashamed.”

“Soooo,” Jacquie said in that soft killer French accent. “Aside from the date of Operation RedCom, the assassination of President De Gaulle which you said Wednesday August 22nd and a name Georges Watda, excuse me… Walrus for those of us not operating with a full deck. You don’t know when the assassination of President De Gaulle is going to take place and who is the faux mastermind behind the assassination?”

“We cannot know everything,” Jock sputtered in an operatic ear-piercing tone. “Who shoved a burning candle in my mouth when I was not

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looking?” Jock tried to spit out his waxy fire. His high note opera question relaxed him, a bit, from his International Gobi self-defense Pretzel stance,

“Is there anything else you do not know?” Jacquie asked in a pleasing soft French accent.

“Quiet Jock,” Lik said, this time, in a cold cold tone. “All we know Jacquie, or… do not know is our contacts Miroslav Elias and his Russian KGB buddy, the moron that looks and walks like Frankenstein’s creature and a group of about 10 OAS (Secret Army Organization} members have a Russian Look-a-Like of Premier Pompidou who we believe is President De Gaulle himself. They will install the fake in President De Gaulle’s place once he is assassinated by the OAS people. Which will be installing the real De Gaulle in his own place, even though he was assassinated.”

“You see Steve,” Jacquie said softly, “the Russians do not know that De Gaulle already is his own double, and he is also Pompidou.”

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“I don’t get it,” Steve said in a voice someone would use in reporting seeing a flying saucer in a chorus line, “If they assassinate De Gaulle, which we will prevent, why would they put Pompidou in De Gaulle’s place? I’m sure someone would notice. I mean if the fake imposter De Gaulle is, in actuality, the real De Gaulle morphing (quick-changing) into Pompidou the real assassinated De Gaulle… won’t someone the real De Gaulle is dead if Pompidou isn’t moving? Wait a mo.  Which one of you doofuses hit me on my head with a rock back in Paris?”

Jock jumped up, stood at attention almost dropping the three, maybe four, lighted cigarettes he had in his mouth. Bowed politely. Excused himself and ran screaming into the WC, followed by a swarm of suicidal fruit flies, stuck his head in the toilet bowl to put out the burning candle wax fire in his mouth now beginning to rage into flames of destruction.

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“Excuse me,” Lik said, in a ho-hum manner “This has happened before… not being able to reach the flusher chain. In these hotels the flush chain is high above his head. He has congenital slow reflexes when this takes place.” As Lik sashayed toward the WC she slammed her machete into the wall where she was sure one of Rutherford B, Hayes Pinkerton men was hiding.

“Assassinated?” Steve questioned.  His tone verging on ‘Covert Agent’ radicalism rage.  “I mean whom is being assassinated? Pompidou or De Gaulle?”  

Jock, returning to the table as Lik dries his bald head with an electric hair dryer attached to an extendable cord, High Hatted the room as he was refreshed from being flushed on.

“But there is no Georges Pompidou you fool,” Jock screamed out in words of smoke and what sounded like ‘Hysterical High Latin.’

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Lik, let the smoking hot electric hair dryer touch his head causing third degree burns.

Jock went on to painfully explain, “It is De Gaulle that plays both roles and now includes a third role of the Soviets fake De Gaulle.  Have you never noticed De Gaulle and Pompidou walk alike?  Talk alike, speak French, almost the same height.  Look exactly alike… except for that beauty mark De Gaulle has. Take away that beauty mole and you could not tell them apart.”

“Couldn’t tell who apart?  Let me get this straight Jock,” Steve growled in his low deep tone sounding as a man that intended to commit suicide but wasn’t sure how to get out of bed. “You’re saying De Gaulle is his own double?  But the Soviets have a fake De Gaulle look-a-like who, thanks to French Intelligence and us, is the real De Gaulle acting as Pompidou and the Soviets fake De Gaulle?  I mean… I don’t know what the hell I mean. Tell them what I mean Jacquie.”

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“Try to keep up with the conversation Steve,” Jacquie said angrily, “tell me again why you are on this mission with me.”

“What mission?” Steve looked around suspiciously rubbing the now retreating goose-egg on the side of his head where he was knocked unconscious earlier when the Unita’s threw that rock through the Petit Fou Café window front with a message tied to it, back in Paris earlier.

“That is because De Gaulle crouches down a bit when he morphs into Pompidou’s walk.” Lik’s words hung frozen in her icebergs scraping tone. “You always see them together and not necessarily at the same time.”

“Oui,” Jacquie collaborated. Her sweet French tone this time carried the pain of a tire iron across the knuckles.  “I have seen them stand together, walk together, talk together. I have even seen Pompidou sitting while De Gaulle is giving a speech standing next to him.”

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“If De Gaulle and Pompidou and the Soviets fake De Gaulle are one person, how can one bestanding and the other be sitting at the same time,” Steve questioned with angst.

“Mirrors,” Jock spit out the high note scream as if he were spitting out an orange pit.  The WC wall mirror cracked. Thunder began rumbling.

Lik, began applying mustard to Jock’s head burns until Jock passed out from burning head pains.”

“What the hell are you people talking about?” Steve roared as lightning flashed somewhere offshore and a chilly wind blew the balcony dark blue curtains aside.

From somewhere within the hotel came sounds of kettle drums being played as everyone who was conscious in the room looked around cautiously realizing a Mau Mau attack was very possible once the Kettle Drums stopped. (Steve, Jacquie, Lik and Jock had spent too much time in jungles alone.)

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‘Steve,” Jacquie whispered to him almost in rhythm to the hypnotic beat of the kettle drums what was happening on the mission. It was as if she was explaining the ‘Cabra First Test’ to the James gang. (This was a test concerning nuclear powered Xray lasers that scientist first theorized about at the Alamo Testing Grounds…circa 1945.  The James gang refers to Jesse James and his boys.)

LATER THAT NIGHT:

“So, Jock,” Steve growled that low jungle cat warning when someone gets too close to where the big cat is crouching in their fight or flight mode.

Jock who was now conscious and smoking four French cigarettes in his mouth with two new lighted ciggies behind each ear lay sprawled out on a soft blue divan with matching pillow.

“Let me get this straight… again,” Steve continued, “You’re telling us the first part of the Soviets Project REDCOM, the assassination of Charles De

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Gaulle President of France will begin on the morning of 22 August this year by having Soviet Vasaltnicki groups, (Russian Agents disguised as next-door neighbors etc…) who will be told they are making a documentary of Les Halles and will be acting as ‘Smoke Police.’

They will put up ‘No Smoking’ signs all over Les Halles along with Smoke Police Cardboard Cutouts of Gorillas dressed as Gendarmes, so they look more threatening.

I mean the Gorilla cardboard cutouts will be ‘Smoke Police’ along with live action Vasaltnicki Soviet covert soldiers/agents and forcibly disarm Frenchmen of their cigarettes preventing them from smoking.”

“I… I do not remember saying all that, Steve.” Jock pleaded. But yes.  Was I mumbling when I was unconscious?”

“How diabolical.” Jacquie said.

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“Diabolical?” Steve roared.  “Try stupid.”

“You do not understand the French mind do you Steve?” Jacquie interrogated.

“Don’t pull that High School Psychology on me Jacquie.  I don’t even understand my own mind.”

“Jock is a licensed Angolan Psychotherapist,” Lik advised in a burning dry ice tone. “As well as a former Mau-Mau Witch Doctor before he was discovered and chased out of Uganda if that helps Steve.

I remember that night. Idi Amin, we called him Da Da, in his underwear, swinging his ‘Poor Man’s machete, and his merry band of peculiars carrying tubs of tar and live chickens chasing and hobble dancing Jock and I through the night jungle.  Just because Jock accidently hit him with a curse of ‘The Old Man’s Dance.”  

Lik volunteered her story flinging her machete straight up again deep into the ceiling and piercing

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the roof where a tourist Frau Herzlich Wilikommen was taking an unauthorized Sist bath on the roof. There was a scream followed by a long deep roll of thunder.  More like a painful horse Winnie of a frightened mare with a cold makes when startled.

“Look siphon apterous brain,” Jacquie snapped eyeing Steve.

“See,” Steve beamed, “that pedestal Jacquie has me on gets higher and higher.  I’m gonna need a seatbelt at this height. I mean, don’t get me wrong Jacquie. All these Kudos you’re giving me are making my head swell.  No offence Jock.”

“Huh?” Jock screamed with a ‘Knight of the Roundtable’ eloquence.

“And” Steve marched on, “as the commander of this mission, I would even be greater if I knew what the hell you people were talking about.”

Jacquie got up and went over to the kitchen’s Cold Storage door.  Opened it, turned the light on then

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yelled, shook her head, looked around, slammed the light switch down, banged the door shut, regained her composure said to herself ‘And we called him Da Da.”

Returning, she alighted on her chair like a floating elegant leaf. Then continued: “Taking a cigarette away from a Frenchman will cause an explosion the likes not seen since Marie Antoinette allegedly said, ‘Let them eat cake.’  Jock can tell you a thing or two about the Jacobian Club.”

“You go Jacquie,” Jock screeched.

“Shut up moron,” Jacquie responded calmly but posed to attack unmercifully.

“What Jacobian Club?” Steve roared. “Where did that come from?”

“Jacquie’s is right,” Lik said in her usual ice cracking underfoot tone. “It is diabolical and right out of the old 1789 Jacobian playbook. Any French child knows that.

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The French police will be tied up for hours if not days. Riot police squads will be called to Les Halles from all over the country. I am sure the French Government will call out the Army. Even pulling the security details off De Gaulle as he travels.  Leaving the pathways wide open for ‘The Jackass’ or any Alias to strike and allow the Russian propaganda machine to tell the world the French are pulling out of West Berlin weakening the Allies hold on the rest of West Germany.  This confusion may even cause France to pull out of NATO.” (NATO: North Atlantic Treaty Organization.)

“Now wait a mo,” Steve demanded.  Even his deep growl sounded bewildered.  “Let me catch up. The only thing I understood is the name ‘The Jackass.’ ”

There was a deep sigh by the group. Even ‘The Home Book of Verse’ seemed to sigh although he was still unconscious.

“If all this happens,” Steve growled, “that is whatever the hell you guys are yappin’ about, how

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are these disguised Soviet Vasaltnicki undercovers… How are these Smoking Police phonies gonna escape?  Think about it. Copenhagen has a population a bit over nine hundred thousand. If they’re caught it will be soon found out they are Soviet Vasaltnicki troops and that will cause an international incident and will solidify the Allies even more.”

“The sewers of Paris,” Jacquie said in her soft killer French. “The sewers of Paris crisscross under Les Halles going in hundreds of directions and miles.  Not to mention they connect with the catacombs and have many escape tunnels to the Metro.  Even sanitation workers have been lost never to be found.”

“That would be fine if we were in Paris,” Steve growl snapped. “But we’re in Copenhagen.”

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“We are,” Jock’s tone hit one of those torturous  high notes that can cause ears to bleed.  “I thought we are in Paris.”

“Oui. We are,” Jacquie whispered, her ears burning as were the others. “Steve will be back with us in a while.”

“Paris,” Steve questioned in a base voice that seemed to make the table vibrate. “Okay, that’s better.  Then it seems we might have the correct logistics. One will have the detail maps to the nearest manhole covers.  And theoretically so would the Soviet Vasaltnicki troops.”

“Right Steve,” Jock said in a moderate scream timbre.  Now down to smoking two cigarettes at the same time.  Even so his enunciation was quite eloquent. His words showing signs of advanced ‘hyperthermia.’

Thanks to Lik’s machete Golumpi we have copies of the Sewer Escape maps the Soviet Vasaltnicki troops intend to use to make them vanish like a

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herd of stampeding Yak disappearing in the Himalayas as they go over a cliff.  My mouth tastes like wet candle wax.

“Let me see that map, Jacquie ordered in a voice that made everyone at the table figuratively jump to attention.

Perusing the map Jacquie started to say, “This map is—”

Suddenly the divan pillow Jock was resting his head on burst into flames.

“Quick thinking Jacquie and Lik,” Steve said as the ladies carefully lifted the brewing pot of Bouillabaisse over Jock’s head to extinguish the flames over Jock’s screams of drowning in pain. The matching blue Divan pillow is destroyed as was one side of the Divan. The aroma of the fish stew seems to fog their minds.

Jock, now sitting on the other end of the Divan was rocking back and forth mumbling old Johnny

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Holiday Rock and Roll songs to himself in Japanese. Then looking up he said in English “What is that leaking from the sealing?” It tastes like Epsom Salts.

“Thank God,” Lik said with an Icey sigh blessing herself “Jock, that must mean you still have one taste bud left.”

Jacquie, Steve and Lik sat back down at the large table once again after the smoke and the scent of burnt Divan hair cleared a bit and the spilled Bouillabaisse ate up the linoleum in the kitchen area.  Jock was somewhere out in space and not ready to rejoin the group.

“Political assassinations very rarely work,” Jacquie proffered again in a soft ‘by the by’ tone.

“I still don’t understand this double stuff about De Gaulle and Pompidou,” Steve served his words as if he kicked a 3-point field goal. And don’t give me static about not understanding the French mind.

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De Gaulle being his own double and his own Soviet fake double and disguised as Pompidou?

That means if the terrorist succeeds in knocking off Pompidou, they still are knocking off Pompidou… I mean De Gaulle… I think.  I mean they are still accomplishing their goal.

Wouldn’t it be better if Georges Pompidou disguised himself as De Gaulle? Then if, and don’t stop me if I’m wrong, Pompidou disguised as De Gaulle gets knocked off leaving De Gaulle is still alive.”

Jacquie, Lik and even Jock in his bizarre state of mind looked at each other as if Steve missed the whole point.

“Let me try to explain it to you again,” Jacquie said in a voice that would make one feel warm and comfy. “I have been trying to tell you something especially important about De Gaulle since we started on this mission.  But I have difficulty getting through all the cement.

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There is no Pompidou. Imagine you are one of the terrorists about to assassinate De Gaulle as he goes by in his car—”

Lik interrupted: A Citron DS 19. De Gaulle calls it ‘La Deesse.”

“The Goddess,” Jacquie translated.

“I speak and understand French,” Steve’s words gave a warning growl. “At least I did until we started to work together.”

“Really Steve?” Jacquie smiled an understanding smile one uses when a patient Lion tamer tries to teach an unruly man eater to sit up.

“And yes, Lik,” Jacquie added, “the Citron Goddess has a wonderful transmission and suspension system. I rode in De Gaulle’s Goddess limo several times along with his wife and Pompidou who is of course really De Gaulle.”

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“Well… aren’t you so special,” Steve chimed. “And don’t start that De Gaulle being his own double stuff again.

“How I hate you,” Jacquie, slightly shaking her head, served her words with a touch of hemlock. “Anyway,” Jacquie went on. “Make believe you are the terrorist and just as you, the terrorist, is about to squeeze a round off with your Dragonov Soviet sniper protocol rifle you see your own terror leader who organized this assassination plot in the first place in the back seat, where De Gaulle should be sitting as the President in De Gaulle’s limo, the Goddess how would you react?  Would you take the shot?

Or maybe you see yourself in the back seat where De Gaulle sits, or Georges Watda, or in your case Walrus, waving a white hankie at you in a Toddle-Doo manner.”

“Toddle-Doo manner?” Steve growled. “And?”

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“Would that not throw your aim off?” Jacquie’s comment this time was served with sweet thick peach syrup. “But now things get complicated.”

“Now?” Steve challenged.

“Yes, Jacquie snapped French style. “According to Lik and Jock the Soviets have a look-a-like of De Gaulle. So that means there are two De Gaulle’s but only one can morph into Pompidou and—”

“Wait a mo,” Steve stood up at a posture that seemed to be ‘Dress Right Dress.’ “All three including the Soviet De Gaulle are really the real De Gaulle. Jock or Lik or all of you said there’s no Pompidou. De Gaulle is not only himself… Maybe? But he is his own double, and he is Pompidou. Did I say that right?”

Jacquie and Lik looked at each other and shrugged. “We do not know,” Jacquie said cautiously. “The

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French mind is beautiful and occasionally beyond comprehension.”

“One must be married to a French woman to understand the French mind. And it makes no difference,” Lik said in a tone of someone stirring crushed ice in an empty glass.

“Makes no difference,” Steve snarled. “And wait another mo, where did this guy Georges Watda… I mean Walrus come from.  How’d he get into the Goddess limo with himself… and De Gaulle? Why would he be waving a white hanky at me the assassin? And why ain’t I in the limo with everyone else?”

“You are right Jacquie,” Lik continued her tone of crushed ice being stirred in an empty glass. “Steve doesn’t understand the French mind.  I wonder if there is any Bouillabaisse left.”

“You see Steve,” Jacquie tried to, in a soft French accent, and in one syllable words or less, explain. “President De Gaulle, unbeknownst to the general

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public is a master of the ‘quick-change.’ He can be in De Gaulle’s Goddess limo as Pompidou or Watda… Walrus for you Steve… or, as an assassin waiting along the side of the road to shoot himself in his Goddess limo as it passes.”

“Ya know,” Steve growled in a low tone, “this is the first time I realized my whole team is freakin’ insane.  How could I have missed that when I first interviewed you… loonies. I’m swearing off French Fries.

Answer me one thing Jacquie,” an exasperated, yet bewildered Steve asked in an ‘Assassin’s Covert Rage.’ “There’s five people in De Gaulle’s limo driving down the road. De Gaulle’s wife, De Gaulle himself,’ this white hankie waving guy Georges Walrus, De Gaulle’s driver Moreau and Georges Pompidou who is in reality… Wait… don’t tell me.  Ahhh,… I don’t know. And De Gaulle waiting down the road disguised as the terrorist Georges Walrus

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to shoot himself in the limo as he passes himself on the road.

Now he can’t be all these people no matter how fast of a quick-change artist.”

“Theoretically you are correct Steve,” Jacquie said as if she was putting forth some unsolvable equation. “But in practice—”

“But what about Pompidou?” Steve growled in a painful tone as if an overweight Encyclopedia salesperson holding a complete set of the World’s knowledge was standing on Steve’s bootless toes.

“There is no Pompidou,” Jacquie, Lik and a mumbling and crying Jock all yelled.

“That’s right,” Steve bellowed. I forgot about that. I think it’s all beginning to make sense to me in some delusional way?”

There was aloud banging on the door. “It is the ‘Nimrod.’ Open the door.”

###

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DEBRIEF PART  10

18 August 1962

Saturday Night

23:00 HOURS

SAME LOCATION

“Who?” Steve growled.

“The police,” Jacquie said in a harsh tone of ‘What now?’

“Open the door,” the voice on the other side of the door shouted again as if he was calling a garcon to take back his fish dinner.

“It is open,” Steve roared back as he flung open the door… “now,” he continued in a more mellow growl.

Rushing in the police officer in charge said loudly,

“ I am Sargent  Brouillard, ‘IOSOPND.’ “

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“International ‘OffShore’ Ocean Police, Nimrod Division,” Jacquie said gallantly with a smile

“Is there anything you don’t know?” Steve demanded in a surly voice as he gave Jacquie the Brooklyn stare.

“We have had complaints about the strange noises and screams from this suite,” Sergeant Brouillard

Said in a deep, fries frying in a pan voice. And someone staring out your balcony not moving. And smoke coming out of the side open windows on your balcony.

This poor fellow,” pointing at Jock still mumbling and rocking back and forth still smoking his two French cigarettes, “has smoke coming from his hair and ears.”

“How quaint,” Jacquie whispered with a sigh.

‘Can you explain this?” Sergeant Brouillard shouted.

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“No,” Steve growled, “Now if you must bid us Adieu, I am sure you folks can find your own way out.”

“My men will search this place. I demand again have you any explanations? Wait I smell Bouillabaisse.”

“Ah, you changed your mind about leaving,” Steve said disappointedly.

“Hey Sarge, this nonmoving guy all dressed in grey-cat like…, smoking a Raleigh,” Officer Fan Tann said with a rusty throat sound, “but not inhaling starring over the balcony has a two-inch ash hanging on his lip… don’t we know him?”

“Hey Sarge,” IOSOPND Corporal Louiggi Laplander commented. “Let’s set up a pool to see who comes closer to guessing when this cigarette ash falls on this schnooks lap.”

Count me in,” Steve snapped in a low but twig snapping tone.

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“Why you young nitwits this is the famous Cat Burglar of Royan.”

“You mean Sarge he is the—”

“Right Fan Tann… This nitwit is the famous ‘Home Book of Verse.’ Alias ‘The Cat Burglar of Royan.’ His real name is Count Chochon Cnout…  Also alias ‘Puss and Boots’ alias ‘The Umbrella of Cherbourg,’  the greatest criminologist in the world until he went off his rocker. We have been trying to catch him since… Say, are you people part of his gang?”

“That cannot be Sarge,” IOSOPND private Fan Tann interrupted. ‘The Home Book of Verse’ always works alone.”

“Right, you are Fan Tann,’ “Sergeant Brouillard said in a strangely happy tone. “Well, it looks like you people will be getting the reward. Your photos will be in all the newspapers—”

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“Look Chief,” Steve growled, “We don’t want any reward. We didn’t even know he was here. If anyone deserves a reward, it’s private Fan Tann.

Just then a strange, heavy set rotund woman   wearing a bed sheet exploded through their front door with a large white laundry basket over her head screaming, “Police, my unmentionables… Look.”

###

DEBRIEF 11

ROYAN BEACH THE NEXT MORNING

19 AUGUST 1962

SUNDAY 0800 HRS

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“Watch you don’t get sun-burned,” Steve said as he read the Sunday morning funnies.

“Steve, we are under a giant beach umbrella that is big enough for a family… So, Steve, what do you think?

“About what? These Katz and Jammer Kids are just too much.”

“Forget the Sunday Funnies. Madame Trevi’s unmentionables being leaked on by the hole Lik put in that Frau, what’s her name? Frau Herzilch Willkommen’s Sis bath with Lik’s machete she blasted through our ceiling and partly the hotel’s roof.

” Relax, Jacquie. We convinced the Nimrod’s offshore police crew that all the damage was due to the idiot ‘The Home Book of Verse.’

“Oui, I suppose,” Jacquie sighed. “Not only he is going to be hit with all that second story stealing when he wakes up but a large laundry bill for all

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those unmentionables. Medical stitches for those women’s derrieres unmentionables.

And structural damage to the hotel. I do not know why Trevi’s unmentionables were spread out on the roof like that. It was dark?”

“Let alone why Frau Wellkommen was taking a Sis bath on the roof when a storm was coming in from the ocean. And what were the Nimrod offshore division IOSOPD doing on shore in the first place?”

“I admit Steve, when you are around strange thing things cozy up to you.”

“Cozy,” Steve growled the word.”

“Oui, Jacquie challenged. “Is that not an American word.  It means—”

“I know what it means. What I don’t know is… why this mission is starting to get a wee bit strange? That’s another thing I don’t know… where Jock, his stilt and Lik are now?  And come to think of it what the blue blazes are we doing in Royan?”

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“Boy,” Jacquie sighed again in French. “For a leader there is a hell of a lot you do not know.

“And your crack team of… I mean ‘cracked,’ team of security specialist can’t find an ex punch-drunk boxer out of seven suspects.”

“Jock is in the local hospital, Steve, recovering from his wounds as usual. Lik and her Golumpi are out looking for Rutherford Hayes.  ‘The Home Book of Verse’ alias whatever is under Nimrod arrest. Whatever that is?

Listen Steve, we have the Royal Luncheon security meeting at the Chamber of Deputies this Wednesday the 22nd of August, And I mean this August not last August.  

We still have not figured out who the assassin is on President De Gaulle’s security detail.

All I found out from my contact, as I tried to tell you before, was that the assassin on the security team was a contagious punch-drunk ex-boxer and

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sparring partner that has undergone extreme face-lift plastic surgery at some very deep underground Soviet futuristic hospital. The hospital is so deep below ground the rumor is this assassin still suffers aftereffects of the ‘Bends’ for a mishap in the elevator that brought him up to the surface too fast—”

“Wait a mo,” Steve said in a low warning growl. “You still harping on that? You mean your French Intelligence can’t pick out a contagious punch-drunk ex-boxer, suffering from…

‘Elevator Bends,’ ” Steve barked. “If this guy exists, I’ll pick him out at the Royal Luncheon Wednesday the 22nd of August this year not last year. Wait a mo. Contagious for what?”

###

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THE ROYAL FRENCH PRESIDENTIAL LUNCHEON

DEBRIEF 12

Wednesday, 22 August 1962

13:00 HOURS

‘

Paris France

CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES

MAIN DINING ROOM

‘THE GREAT HALL’

Formerly ‘The Robespierre Great Hall.’ Formerly

‘The Thermidorian Great Hall.’ Formerly ‘The Hebertist Great Hall.’

Over ‘The Great Entranceway’ is a quote from Robespierre, just before he tried to Guillotine

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himself without the use of gravity, inscribed into the reddish/gray ‘marbleish’ stone.

(Roughly Translated)

‘REGARDE YA MORONS

YA CANNOT HAVE PEACE AND LIBERTY WITHOUT

TERROR’

In attendance:  Three hundred and fifty-two high ranking government security forces, a dozen or so politicians and their wives. Also, in attendance was a four-hundred-and-fifty-pound undercover sumo wrestler who was also a plumber and a practicing Ninja. For the record. His name was Octavus Uncontous.  He sumo wrestled under the name of ‘Ah So.’ (No relation to the code Ah So.)

Jacquie April, Steve Ptah, Lik (Lethal Intensity Kon) Unita and Jock Unita were all sitting toward the end of one extremely long marble rectangular table covered with beautiful silk tablecloths. Each

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high-back royal oak chair with greenish-blue cushion and backrest.

The service was exceptional except for several hard-working bus boys seemed to be falling behind.

Jacquie, Steve, Lik and Jock, arguing about the Boxer Rebellion and its similarity to the Soviet operation REDCOM set for later this evening were all seated at the far end of the table far away from President De Gaulle and his entourage and security team.

The security team are seated all around President De Gaulle, his lovely wife Yvonne and Georges Pomoidou.

It was strange as it seemed De Gaulle and Pompidou kept changing seats at Herculean speed. Even Madame De Gaulle had to request a neck brace after a while to keep up with the conversation with her husband and Pompidou.

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For some reason, large, thin, almost invisible, possibly ‘Fun House’ distortion mirrors were set up around the President and Pompidou.

***

“How do I look Lik?” Jock, blowing smoke and all-weather fruit flies still attracted to his aftershave, demanded to know. His tone was in the extreme high ultra-sound range only migrating Blue Wales, Lik and wondering forest minstrels could hear.

Jock, dressed in formal high luncheon attire modified tuxedo over a lemon/white shirt, Black leather motorcycle pants and obsidian colored engineer boots completed his ensemble. Jock sighed in escaping helium filled-Scottish breath.

Only Lik seemed to be able to understand Jock… Sometimes when Jock spoke Japanese with a highlander accent… marbles could be heard rolling around his old bean as if they were inside a blown-up balloon.

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“Well, my sweet’s,” Lik said coldly waving her hand in front of her to make a passageway through the fruit flies, smoke and coughing a bit gasped.

Lik, dressed in a white blouse with a red rose design, red shawl, red scarf and still displaying her well off-center coiffure smiled a smile of simplicity and yet of terror that would send cart pulling oxen stampeding to their doom.

Her red scarf hiding her machete ‘Golumpi’. A wide looping black widow skirt, black running ankle boots continued in her usual ice crackling tone.

“Except for the scars caused by the brewing bouillabaisse fish stew Jacquie and I poured over your head to put out the fire on your… your swelling head.  And the three temporary skin graft chewing gum tattoos on the top of your head and ears I Got from Gist and Sons Candy Store… Well, you look as handsome as ever. But to be honest I do miss your one long una-brow eyebrow.”

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“My head does not swell. It blimps into a ninja brain.  But for some reason I cannot get the taste of burnt Epson Salts and melted candle wax out of my mouth.

“Sweetie Jock, not only do you not have whisper of a brain in your antique head, but you are as bald as a cracked white billiard ball.”

“Lik, who is this bald sweetie Jock that you have me mixed up with? Hoot Mon, my name is… er, Jock. Not Sweetie Jock.”

“Steve,” Jacquie whispered into Steve’s ear, “I just received the word that everything is in place to repulse the Soviets operation REDCOM early this evening at Les Halles.”

“What?  How?” Steve hiss growled.  “How did you ‘just receive word?’  I didn’t hear anything. I would like to know how you just got word… Did a bug fly into your ear, or… you are hearing things again?”

“Will you shut-up moron. I will tell you later.”

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“Oh, you always say that, but you never do.  I want to know how you received an idiot message in the middle of the Presidential Royal Luncheon surrounded by hundreds of pompous tushes

and—”

“Never hiss-growl at me again with one of your stupid question or you will be walking backwards for a month.”

“Huh?” Steve’s jerked his eloquent reply that there is no defense against.  “I can’t hear crapola what De Gaulle is saying. Let alone what you are mumbling about. We’re too far away at this end of the table. We might as well be sitting in a fast-moving taxi in the middle of Borneo,” Steve announced in a roar.”

“A fast moving taxi? Steve,” Jacquie spat back, “Just because you are wearing an ‘abnormal psychology 101’ dark-dark tuxedo with black cowboy boots—”

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Applause, from the normal guests interrupted Jacquie.

President De Gaulle just finished up his welcoming his official luncheon Guest, Count Guido Passato of Andorra.  Or, perhaps it was the Honorable Sans Culotte from some unpronounceable, but important in the development of number three artist street-chalk, village in East Wales. There seemed to be some confusion whom the official guest was. It was typical Washington D. C. speak… French style.

“Steve,” Jacquie whispered ignoring Steve’s sparkling repartee about him not being able to hear ‘crapola.’  “When are you going to point out who the traitor is on the President’s security team? They are all up there with him now?”

“Patience Jacquie,” Steve answered in a murmurous growl. “If there is one. The time is not right.”

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“Oui right, like I believe you. Just as I knew. You have no idea who… Hey, is that not that Madame Telelsi and Frau Herzilich Willkommen from Royan?”

“I can’t see that far down the table in this dim chandeliers’ lighting, “Steve grunted angrily.”

“Here Steve. Take my opera glasses,” Jacquie’s words were as sweet and soft as a monarch butterfly making a crash landing on a milkweed. “I keep forgetting how ancient you are.”

“Opera glasses? Who brings opera glasses to a Royal Luncheon?” Steve volleyed back in an amazing two sentence growl. Peering through Jacquie’s opera glasses Steve confirmed the sighting. “They must be the wives of the General’s they’re sitting next to.”

“Wonderful Steve. I often wondered why you are the commander on this mission. Now I know. There were not enough imbeciles on our team,”

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Jacquie announced in another soft butterfly crash landing.

“Hold your kudos for later Jacquie,” Steve growled. “This mission is not over yet. Does this… Arch- Duke Hayes of… crapola ever gonna finish his toast?”

“Who?” Jacquie challenged.

“I hope he knows Jacquie is white-toast intolerant,” Lik whispered in an icy-rain murmur.

“His joint’s must have stiffened-up,” Jock screeched, as the giant Sumo wrestler Ah So (not the code Ah So} got up to stretch then accidentally sat back down on the speaker’s head. The speaker had bent down to deal with an errant shoelace.

“Did you see that?” Jacquie asked rubbing he eyes. “How could that happen.”

“I can’t see crapola,” Steve regurgitated again in a

menacing low grunt.

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“Aw shut up,” Jacquie whispered under her breath. “You are missing the whole mission. I wonder if that was a sign?”

“Is there a doctor here at the Royal Luncheon?” President De Gaulle called out in a loud authoritative voice?”

“I am a doctor. I have a Pygmy following of—"” Jock shouted in a voice so high only animals at the Paris zoo, a few miles away, could possibly hear him. And perhaps a few Telegraph plants at an arboretum over a hundred miles away. Or so goes the later newspaper reports by, Squint News investigative reporter her under the cover name ‘Gallapuchi Pup’ a Rootie Kazooti officiate.

“Sit down moron,” Steve interrupted Jock’s sentence using a warning tone of an annoyed tiger, “We are undercover and there are several doctors attending to Arch-Duke Hayes—”

“Who?” Jacquie asked again. “Steve, where did this Arch-Duke Hayes come from?”

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“From the last war. How do I know.”

“Did someone say they saw Rutherford B. Hayes,” Lik, grabbing her Golumpi, blurted out in a chilling, blizzard-hale tone that could only be explained as a five-hundred-pound icicle breaking off a roof, while hitting, in mid-air, an extremely large flight of high note bells hanging 30 feet below.

“No, no, no. No one said anything about Rutherford B. Hayes,” retorted Jacquie in a hard but restrained din.  

It was too late, Jock and Lik had vanished from their assigned Royal Luncheon seats. The fading song of ‘Put your left hand in and shake it all about’ being sung backwards could barely be made out coming from under the table.

“Oh no,” Jacquie murmured softly but not without hopeless anger. “Lik, is going into her berserk time and with her moronic sidekick.

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“Double teaming like a tag team wrestling match of giant intellects. This is the world’s ‘intelligencia’ represented in action,” Steve’s growls had a grin to them.

“Steve, you might find this stupid but I—”

“I still can’t hear crapola Jacquie. We’re too far—”

Suddenly, giant gongs exploded all over the Great Hall creating vibrating reverberations causing everyone to cup their ears and do a seated shimmy-shimmy.

“Can you hear that moron?” Jacquie snapped with the sharpness of Lik’s machete plunged into Steve’s ear.

“French ‘Great Hall’ guards wearing thick Royal Blue ear protector muffs poured out of every conceivable ‘Great Hall’ orifice. All guards were attired in tall blue hats, blue uniforms and black spit-shined boots. Shouting, giving orders to each

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other which helped in not disarming mass confusion.

The Chef and Sous Chef, the Dessert Chef stepped out of their deeply recessed kitchen as they thought all excitement and noise was applause for their gastronomic delights. A surprise after-dinner celebration for their wonderful Royal Luncheon. Taking bows and blowing kisses to their appreciative panicked diners.

The Chef known as Monsieur Coq Du Beau-Jolais Novay. Madame Sous Chef Shanghai La La Ren-Min-Bi Ptomaine and the Dessert Chef… ‘Miss Candy Bon Bon’ known affectionately as ‘La Fille Au Cul  Doux’ were all immediately arrested and blown away to the old Bastille now a museum by the running to and fro Great Hall guards. No one really understood why the Chefs-Extraordinary were arrested.

The Gongs stopped as fast as they had started.  President De Gaulle, always in-command, was

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informed what had happened and called for order and quiet. Assuring the Royal Luncheon guest that all is well and to return to your seats. With the help of the ‘Great Hall’ guards clubbing into silence a few of the dining guests. Well actually many were clubbed into silence. Calm was eventually restored.

Georges Pompidou stood up and accidently knocking over one of the large, almost invisible, mirrors. Then immediately sat down in a funny blurry way.

President De Gaulle shot up at what looked like at the same time in the same blurry way and explained:

“My Dear, Dear dinning guests.  Those of you who are still conscious. A terracotta priceless butt of Robespierre by Deseine, on loan to the French Government by the Musee de la Revolution Francaise has just been stolen from one of our display holders… Er… What was that Pompidou?”

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“My Dear, dear dinning friends.  Dear, dear Georges Pompidou just corrected me. It will be his last correction. It was not Robespierre’s Terracotta priceless ‘Butt’ that was stolen. It was Robespierre’s Terracotta priceless ‘Bust’ that was stolen. It weighs about 30 kilos and ‘yea’ big. I am afraid this means everyone must be searched.

There was immediate rumbling and leftover fruit cup throwing from the elite dining gusts who were conscious and puffing furiously on their Gauloises and Gitanes possibly effecting their fruit cup aiming.

President De Gaulle and Georges Pompidou taking very quick turns trying to restore order to the insulted guests who were secretly returning silverware to their table. Sliding their Ill-gotten items under their large, crumpled linen napkins.

Jock and Lik who had disappeared during their ‘berserk’ attacks creeped from under the table

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back to their original seats next to Steve and Jacquie.

Jock’s presence still accompanied by dozens of suicidal fruit flies, some still exploding from Jock’s sweat laden head that had the backup lighted ciggies behind each ear igniting the fruit flies seemingly doing battle with Jock’s head. Many fruit flies plummeting in fiery death spirals. Others just suicidally racing full speed, with kind of a ‘ziz’ noise, into Jock’s head and exploding. It was horrible.

“Where were you two?” Steve demanded to know in that Royal deep growl of his. “You missed all the demented excitement.”

L[k, cold as ever, added in a voice of a last plea of a semi frozen pigeon falling out of a tree, “I heard a rumor that Rutherford B. Hayes is about.  I thought I spotted the eternal rascal, but it was only a man with a limp. Now he has the limps on both legs. Right Goulumpi.”

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“You two are freaken insane,” jacquie started to say as she rubbed her face. But before anything really happened like Golumpi answering an out-a-breath Lik, Jock heaved up his words.

“Hoot Mon, Steve hold this.” Jock’s high-pitch squeal in joyous Scottish shoved a weighty, heavily wrapped in burlap object on to Steve’s lap.

“What the?”

“Oh Steve,” Jacquie snapped in a ‘Quelle Surprise’ tone.  “What kind of nincompoopery is this?  Again.”

“Don’t blame Steve,” Lik said in a ’cracking ice cube tray in half’ voice, “my Jock became a French Herbertist… a furnace maker came to power during the French Revolution. The French Reign of Terror about 1793. Jacques Herbert wanted the world to worship furnaces. I suppose because he was a furnace maker.

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Well anyway, there was this indoor tennis court at Versailles where all Jacobians (French Furnace Makers) took an oath to overthrow the King. Jacques Herbert ordered furnace makers and other assorted Jacobians not to disband in 1789 until a new French Constitution was accepted to make sure the French never ran out of wine. Or something like that.

Of course, this teed off the King Louis XV1 to no end. King Louis XV1 was a tea teetotaler like Rutherford B. Hayes wife. Evidently, the Jacobian crowd refused to obey the King’s order to ‘disband and to ‘Knock it off.’

Then the King’s wife added, while eating a piece of cake on the palace terrace above the milling crowd was, “Get lost you pinheads, and find some cake to munch on.” (It loses a bit in translating French into French.)

“It does not loose enough in the translation, you idiots.” Jacquie flash-danced her words across

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their faces. “French into French. Complete morons. And I do not believe Marie Antoinette said, “Go find some cake to munch on.”

“What the hell are you all talking about?” Steve’s roar was of a wounded Grizzly sitting down on a thorny bramble bush. “I didn’t ask for a history lesson. And I’m telling you morons the same thing King Louis said to his people, “Get lost you morons.”  Steve opened the heavy burlap cloth a sweaty Jock had dumped on his lap.

“Steve,” Jacquie re-proclaimed. “What is wrong with you?”

“Me?” Steve questioned indignantly.

“Never mind,” Jacquie’s tone was of French sweetened sadness, “We do not have time for a complete psychoanalytical session. That would take centuries.”

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‘Will you stop talking about yourself,” Steve snapped. We have a mission. Now what the hell is this?  Someone’s head in clay.”

“Did you guys steal this?” Jacquie whispered? “This is what all the ‘gong’ alarms are about and people panicking? Steve wrap it up again before someone sees it.”

“Hoot Mon, Jacquie. I took the bust of my hero Robespierre. I could not help it. I am a Jacobian at heart,” said a puzzled Jock in a soprano tone.

“I thought you are a Heberitist at heart?” Lik murmured in a slow-moving ice jam chill. Taking her Golumpi from under her cloak and with an express train thrust shoved Golumpi into the head of Robespierre’s bust. Obviously, the only place left to hide for the illusive Rutherford B. Hayes.

“A Heberitist? Moi? That was last year,” Jock cried in Angry Red Army Brigade Japanese as his head

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started to expand and turn, this time, a rather strange shade of turquoise-orange. He lit up a stale Jacobian cigarette.

Jock’s head disappeared in a veil of cigarette smoke and immolated wretched fruit flies that all seem to join in a terror-glee obscuring one’s vision.

“Actually, I am thinking of becoming a Thermidorian after reading the Thermidorian Law of 22. And how much I enjoyed my Lobster Thermador.” (Themidorian 22 July 1794 passed by French parliamentary revolt caused ‘The Reign of Terror’ and Robespierre era to eventually collapse.)

“Jock, your lobster bib is on fire,” Lik mentioned nonchalantly in a calm tone of someone stirring shaved ice in a cracked ceramic bowl.

“You know how much the ‘Great Terror’ means to me.” Jock went on as his lobster bib flamed to ashes. Lik threw a jug of water in Jock’s face and on the still smoldering bib ashes.

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Jock continued unaware he was just splashed but the fruit flies weren’t. They became even more furious as they seemed to renew their Blitzkrieg.

“Unfortunately, Jock continued, “Robespierre’s Jacobian, plan egged on by the Jacques Hebert and the Hebertist, was to have everyone in France Guillotined even the executioner. Due to a slight miscalculation Robespierre forgot to have himself guillotined before the executioner guillotined himself.

Try as he might a delusional Robespierre could not get the damn Guillotine to work to guillotine himself.  Of course, his disbelief in gravity from childhood may have worked against him.

Later, Robespierre lost interest in the Revolution and furnaces and became obsessed with stilts.

But I have this Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade Loyalty as all the Red Sun Angry Army Brigade have loyalty to Maximillian Francois Marie Isidor de Robespierre.

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Still, I desire to become a builder of furnaces as Jacque Hebertist. Publish my own revolting newspaper ‘Le Pere Duchesne,’ never run out of wine and be a heroic model for all fictional working-class furnace makers… well I do not have to tell you what that means.” Ending his desires, memoirs hopes and dreams with a Bonsai suicidal scream that was felt throughout the Great Hall.

Fortunately, the pain of Jock’s scream and echo in the Great Hall prevented anyone to exactly target where the great scream came from.

All the Royal Luncheon guest were seen dapping their ears with hankies and tissues to stop little drops of blood from running down the side of their faces. Even the great giant Sumo wrestler Ah So (not the code Ah So) was brought to his knees holding his ears.

“Oui, you do Jock have to tell us what all that means, but not now.  I do not know what the hell you are talking about,” Jacquie snapped as she

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Steve and Lik finally stopped their ears from bleeding.

Jock Unita, still smoking a stale but damp Jacobian, three dripping wet Gauloises at one time and numerous, partially soaked lobster legs, and lit ones behind each ear for backup, spoke his above mesmerizing, ignoble and heroic words as his head expanded a bit more. He was showing head colors of blazing orange, hysterical dark blues, irrational scarlet, and other eye-burning hues perhaps never seen by humans before.

“Who were you yappin’ about? Secondhand furnaces” Steve growled a warning shot across Jock’s brow. “What the hell are you babbling about you—Look out your head is about to—”

Just then Lik grabbed a heavy silver tray from one of the ‘out-a-breath’ bus boys and creamed Jock a stunning blow, that would have put down a 1500 pound charging South African water buffalo in heat, over Jock’s expanding dome causing a

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shallow, hollow metal sound; killing dozens more swarming fruit flies and unfortunately crippling Jock’s ability to count to six.

“Lik,” Jacquie put forth her words as a Raptor might utter a warning to baby Raptors. “You know Jock’s head really does not swell that much when he gets angry or confused. You should stop hitting him on the head with heavy items like steam engine parts.

The colors of deep shaded ghastly Pumpkin orange, irrational scarlet, frigid blue and other strange colors that are not even possible…

Well, just giving the appearance his head is ballooning up.

Not forgetting though the brutal antimatter   bizarre happenings at the Jardin De Poubelle Café the other evening.

Now I have definite proof my hypotheses are correct that other things in the universe are faster

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than light. Although, the alleged release of antimatter should have wiped out our existence as well.”

Steve, looking at Jock’s undercover slumped smoking body hanging partially over their part of the table said in a long deep voice, “Maybe it did Jacquie. Maybe it did.”

“Steve, how stupid can you be?” Jacquie demanded to know. “Wait. How disappointing. We still have not pushed you to your full capacity of stupidity… yet. And I thought we had.”

“Huh?” Steve countered with his famous one-word sledgehammer repartee shield.

“Hmmm,” Jacquie retorted,” I am still working on my hypothesis. But oui, there are things in this universe that are faster than light like—”

“Like stupidity,” Steve mumbled-growled. “One never wants to experiment with antimatter when there are morons about.”

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“Oh, do not be so hard on yourself Steve,” Jacquie sighed in Riviera French. “Almost not everyone thinks you are a moron. I just do not know how I put up with Steve’s martyr complex. Of course, it is Steve’s theory—”

“What? “I don’t have a martyr complex. Nor do I have any theories about anything. I don’t even know why you people are talking about that idiot’s noggin. Stunning colors. Swelling head. What about my problems? Mutinous crew on my mission.  And—”

“Steve,” Jacquie, said sweetly but sternly, “I thought I made it clear about my sage.”

“Whaa?” Steve jungle roared. “Are you saying Jock is your sage?”

“Jock?” Jacquie said somewhat surprised. “Who is talking about idiot Jock? You just mentioned ‘The Noggin.’ My Pen Pal in a place called Cobleskill in the States. Remember, I told you I met ‘The Noggin’ when I became lost on tour, a few years

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back, through Pennsylvania coalmine country. He saved my life once when I was thirsty for water. Minersville, Pennsylvania I believe. I started out from Pottsville and for some reason I ended up in Minersville.

I also seem to remember a headless mule running around. He calls himself ‘The Noggin because he is so brilliant. His head stores so much knowledge there is no room to grow hair.”

“What?  The Headless mule? Jacquie, headless mules don’t have noggins to grow hair,” Steve announced in a fiery blast, and shaking his head. Please don’t crackup on me. I can’t take anymore headless noggin mule Sage moments. We have a mission to complete.”

“Swine,” Jacquie said, “The Noggin is not the headless mule. You do not even understand what is going on.” Jacquie’s words carried the punch of an outta-control-wrecking ball.  

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“Hoot Mon,” Jock cried out pushing himself up from the table and belching French, wet ciggy smoke, what look liked, from every opening he had in his head.

“Jock grabbed for some soggy but still lit cigarettes and lobster legs from behind his ears. Also taking with him dozens of his aftershave fruit flies with his grab.

“Be a good fellow Steve and return this bust of my former hero Robespierre back to the stand I took it from,” Jock spoke in perfect very-high pitch delirious Punjab. Fortunately, Jackie was there to translate. “Being a Jacobian is not as much fun as I thought it would be.” Then Jock passed out again on his part of the table. A big red lump appearing on the top of his ole bean.

“You idiot,” Steve growled shoving the Bust back onto a collapsed Jock’s lap. Jock stated to move and sit up again. “How am I gonna put this ton of Bust…Robespierre’s head back without being seen

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especially now that it has Lik’s Golumpi stuck in your hero’s temple. Pull it out.”

“Former hero,” Jock screeched, blowing French ciggy smoke like a steam engine trying to pull an immovable load even for a ‘Yes I Can’ small steam Choo Choo. Jock tried to re-shove the Bust back to Steve.

“Impress me my hero Jock Unita,” Lik pleaded in her thin ice cracking underfoot timbre as she dislodged Golumpi from Robespierre’s head.

Unfortunately, Lik had to use her two feet pressed against Robespierre ear and with a mighty tug retrieved Golumpi as her Royal Luncheon Chair tipped over backwards spilling Lik, the Bust and Golumpi to the stone floor causing a disturbance again to the guests near them.

“What is wrong with you people?” One of the guests, Major Duisieme Crape-Plait, demanded to know as the rest nearby back area Royal Luncheon guests schooshed them.

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“What’s wrong with us?” Steve growled in that low warning big cat threat. “There isn’t enough time to tell you—”

“I thought this was supposed to be an undercover mission,” Jacquie whispered in sweet soft French.

“Forget it,” Steve shot back.

“Get down on your hands and one good knee Jock,” Lik’s tone was that of deep ice, deep ice.  The kind of ice a submarine reports while traveling under the Arctic Circle and looking for a place to surface. Lik straightened up her chair and secured Golumpi then continued,

“We will help strap it to your back and then crawl back under the table toward President De Gaulle’s chair. Then put the Bust under his seat.

Jump up and scream ‘J’accuse’ as you point to President De Gaulle.  Everyone will think he stole it and tried to blame it on the Royal Luncheon crowd.”

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“That is the length of a soccer field,” Jock screamed in Angolan slang as Jacquie and Steve attempted to reassure the Royal Luncheon’s sitting near them that it is just the way they ‘burp’ in Angola.

“What happened to my lobster bib and why does my face feel wet?” Jock demanded. “Did someone throw a jug of water in my face?”

“Relax Jock, “Jacquie whispered, “It is just your imagination.

“Great plan Lik,’Steve low-balled his ballyhoo. As Steve gently, well almost gently, shoved Jock off his chair and crunched him under the table with Lik’s help.

Through an onslaught of cigarette smoke, fruit flies and ‘Angolan burping’ both Lik and Steve lifted the Jacobian Bust that was now under the table. Pretending to look under the great table for a dropped table napkin. Steve then hoisted the 30-kilo bust onto Jock’s back.

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This caused Jock to collapse immediately.

“Jacquie,” Steve coughing through the French ciggy smoke with watering eyes growled,” don’t just sit

there. Help us get him back in a crawling position.”

“Idiots,” Jacquie exhaled. “There is no drama in this stupid plan. Remind me never again to attend a Royal Luncheon with you morons.”

Jock, complaining and ‘Hoot Mon-ing’ and blowing cigarette smoke and fruit flies out of every conceivable opening in his body chugged his way under the extremely lengthy luncheon, silk linen, table-clothed, great marble Royal Luncheon table toward President De Gaulle’s chair.

“You can do it,” Lik cried out, her head under the table, voice sounding like skates in a hockey match cutting through the ice. “Just keep saying, ‘I think I can,’ ‘I think I can,’. I think… therefore I am. I think…er…What was I saying?”

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“Too bad we couldn’t find a strap for Jock to keep that heavy load balanced on his back,” Steve, growled mumbled.

“Not to worry Steve. My Jock has exceptional balance even with only one fully operational knee.”

MOMENTS LATER:

President De Gaulle, continued his idea with his guests:

Ladies, Gentlemen, Military Officials, Honored Guests, I your President Charles De Gaulle have come up with a better solution for finding the missing Robespierre Bust. I am going to order the lights turned off for 30 seconds.  And all drapes closed. The person or persons who… accidently… er…stole the irreplaceable Bust of Jacobian Robespierre is to place here on my table in front of me the missing Bust. No questions asked.

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The President then turned to Pompidou who was seated next to him and whispered, “Remind me later to check for fingerprints.” (Actually, many people believe he might have been whispering to one of those almost invisible Fun House mirror’s or to himself.)

A few seconds after the lights were turned off and drapes drawn in the Great Hall there were horrific screams in high-pitched Angolan.

Simultaneously, there was a heavy crashing thud and yelling of two elderly female voices. One voice cursing in German, the other in French. One legged hopping could be heard. It was dark in the Royal Great Hall, very dark.

“Turn the lights back on,” Georges Pompidou yelled then coughed.  It was a dignified cough. A cough that sounded familiar to De Gaulle’s closet friends.

“Turn on the lights,” came the words from almost, but not quite, the same sounding voice.

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As the never-ending rows of ceiling chandelier lights came back on, Frau Herzilich and Madame Teleski were hopping around on one foot cursing in German and French. A distorted Bust of Robespierre was laying out in the open. A dent in the side of his head where a machete had been.

Many of the dining guest, being politically correct joining in with hopping of their own in a show of sympathy chanting, ‘We feel your pain.’

“Arrest those two medically obese hopping miscreants,” President De Gaulle cried out. There was a struggle of epic proportions.

Back at Jock’s empty chair Jock’s hands came out from under the table grasping the Royal green blue of his cushion seat.

“Hoot Monnn…Help.”

“What happened?” Lik’s frozen tone of melting ice refreezing asked.

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“I do not know. It felt as if someone hit me over the head with one of those heavy silver bust boy  trays as I was crawling,” Jock moaned a helium swallowed moan.

“But that was a while ago my frayed hero,” Lik’s words were cold and barren.

“Hoot Mon Lik,” I just felt it now when I was crawling under the table. And then… I tell you as I was limp-crawling back someone else was under that table in the dark and threw a jug of water in my face.”

***

PREIDENT De GAULLE CALLED FOR ‘LE SILENCE.’

Except for Madame Teleski and Frau Herzilich who stopped hurling expletives but were still hopping, in pain, on one foot after refusing to be arrested there was only a rumor of silence.

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Then one could only hear in the rumor of silence a single elephant trumpeting softly far, far away. Possibly from the Paris Zoo or even, Les Halles.

“And now for what I promised you Jacquie,” Steve

whispered a whisper-growl that would cause shrieking terror in any normal person where there was now complete silence. Then a pin was heard dropping.

Raising a large metal soup ladle and picking up the now deformed silver tray from the floor that Lik used earlier as a weapon to halt the expansion of Jock’s head.

Steve smashed the ladle into the silver tray in the dead silence producing the sound of a loud bell, one would hear at a boxing match.

One of President De Gaulle’s top seven security guards named Jean Cantelaube sitting at the corner of the large marble-ish table by a standing President De Gaulle and his sitting wife Yvonne

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and a sitting Georges Pompidou, Jean Cantelaube rocketed on to the top of the Royal luncheon table.

Coming out of his corner swinging wildly. Throwing hard punishing punches and yelling in Arabic Egyptian the way only the Zizib Kid could yell before the Zizib Kid hit the canvas, hard like a 75-millimeter shell hitting a cement bunker, for the count.  And bubbling ‘let me at the bum. I will rip him to pieces ‘then giving the final assassin’s salute before being counted out as Jean Cantelaube bent over in pain from elevator Bends and hit the canvas (The Royal Luncheon marble tabletop) like that 75 millimeter hell hitting a cement bunker, we just mentioned above, cracking the Royal Luncheon marble tabletop.

###

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DEBRIEF 13

LES HALLES

DOWNTOWN PARIS

WEDNESDAY

22 AUGUST 1962

1657 HOURS

SOVIET ATTACK REDCOM IS ABOUT TO BE ACTIVATED:

LES HALLES was frantically busy as usual.   Knockout aromas carried by French cigarettes. North African Cigars, British pipe smoke, regurgitating sewers, animal waste, minor unexplained occasion explosions. The scent of the infamous cooking of Andouillette blood sausage stampeded about. All intertwined with what sounded like poor-man’s painful ‘Tarzan Jungle

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Yells.’ (Similar to Steve’s when he fell off the balcony back in Royan.)

Sporadic small arms fire, trucks moving about and burning metal barrels with bizarre looking characters staring into the Penrod-soaked blazing hemp.

People singing the 1958 ‘Beep-Beep’ song by the Playmates. Accompanied now by the Old Timers standing a bit back from the fiery spark smokey spray coming from the red glowing metal barrel as they tried to harmonize with the old French Beep-Beep melody by humming Tchaikovsky, opus 39 Number three.

Strange sounds like loud ricocheting pinballs being battered to and fro. Voices of all timbers and directions blasting and echoing throughout the great marketplace. All participating in shouting battles to be heard.

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Cows, sheep, chickens, some documented Yetis, and other creature’s strange exotic and not so strange or exotic protesting their treatment. All joining into the sounds of metal grinding on metal, cement and wood.

Cars honking all framed by piano music coming from the now, partially being rebuilt by men who seemed to be dressed as trolls, the infamous and famous ‘Jardin de Poubelle Café,’ still known affectionally to international foreign agents as the notorious, ‘Alma Frump’s Dump.’

Three tenths of a ton, Alma Frump herself, in a modified body cast with a straitjacket thrown casually over her shoulders Hollywood director’s style.  Sporting a new permanent wave dyed ‘Tint Hair Number 9’ and being lifted around giving orders from an ambulance type forklift. Signing eight by ten glossies to passing awe struck peculiars with her signature X. Yelling to impatient

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tourist that crowded around her forklift, “If you want my signature go look in a dictionary,”

Yes, the old ‘Jardin de Poubelle’ which just illegally reopened after the curious happenings concerning an alleged ‘speeds faster than light.’ Trashed by hauntings of dissatisfied Spirts and accordion players in short pants. Now the Moulin Rouge music, escaping from ‘Alma Frump’s Dump,’ was amplified.

More tourists were drawn to the rebuilding and remnants of ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’ seeming to crowd out the usual locals. The tourist came to possibly hear splotches of occasional low-grade machinegun fire. Experience outrageous time travel. In hopes to inhale gagging sulfur smells. Perhaps to experience explosions of antimatter being released, unexplained hauntings and dozens of other weird things.

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It was a wonderful time to be in Paris in the early sixties.

Two top KGB Soviet agents, Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias and Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky are just passing a giant metal bin of sheep heads in Les Halles.

“They all look like they are peacefully sleeping, some even smiling at me. Swine sheep,” A twisted and held together by scaffolding ‘Major Creature’ noted as he peered from a smoldering brown paper bag.

A bandaged and scorched ‘Major Short Step,’ under severe Kremlin order’s makes Major ‘Creature’ wear over his head when they are just lurking in public together.

“I would say defiant sheep heads not smiling, rather definitely laughing at you ‘Creature,’ ” said Major ‘Short Step’ in a voice that only those who are in horrible pain of abusing Haldol would use.

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“I told you not to call me ‘Creature’ Miroslav. You know my men call me that behind my back.”

“Everyone calls you ‘Creature,’ Why do you think I order you to wear a slow burning brown paper bag over your head filled with increment when we go out together or accidently tramp through our restaurant Major. Do not forget we are both Majors in the glorious Soviet Union KGB but I outrank you by thirty-two seconds.”

“Ahhh Phooey.  Thirty-one seconds you… I thought I was undercover KGB. Ordering me to wear that brown burning bag over my head in public is an insult to the KGB. After all I am the best of the best.”

“Nonsense you idiot. I cannot stand the horrifying cries for mercy and all the throwing up when people see your face.”

“Surely you jest.”

“Jest? Your troops have the longest morning sick call line in the glorious Soviet Army.”

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Now look Miroslav you short piece of… Oh oh I am getting a nosebleed from my tallness again Major Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky bellowed. I feel my knee joints stiffening. I cannot bend my knees when I walk.  Oh no Miroslav my hands are beginning to turn a green pallor. In the name of Stalin’s Chiken feed stuffed bags he uses to have shoulders. Look, I am having a creature attack. I need another brown burning paper bag.

“You idiot ‘Creature’ I have not received the new brown, slow burning paper bag material yet from Moscow. Our beloved Soviet Union is running out of matches and slow smoldering brown paper bags because of you.”

“Aw, it is just everyone we pass tries to put the smoldering paper bag out by stepping on my head—”

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“Wait,” Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias ordered. It is time.”

“Time?” Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky questioned. Surprise splattered all over pieces of his smoldering brown paper mug.” You mean it is ‘Howdy Doody’ time that Americans watch on their Soviet made televisions about this time? My watch must be fast. I do not understand Miroslav, we are wearing the latest Soviet no hour hand time pieces,” ‘Creature’ asked staring at his Soviet watch. “Oh no. Now my elbows and fingers stiffened up. And my fingers are hard as 7 penny nails.

Slow down ‘Short Step’ I am not able to walk as fast as you even though I am seven times taller than you.”

“No, you moronski,” Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias yelled. “It is not ‘Howdy Doody’ time. Stop watching the latest Hollywood movies on fantastic Soviet TV. It is REDCOM time. A glorious day for

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the hammer and Sickle. And stop sneaking the peaks from under your brown paper bag.

“Ah yes, Hammerski and Sickleski two of my favorite Soviet musical composers. As Major Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky started to whistle the opening tune of ‘The King and I’ one of his favorite Soviet musicals before he was high stomped kicked by one of several hundred fake antismoking police who thought he was smoking under his smoldering brown paper bag.

The fake antismoking Soviet police excreted out of their tourist busses they had hired like a bad phlegm cough.

Many Russian Spetnaz troops, that were not attired in fake antismoking police cardboard uniforms, were dressed in Arab clothing started doing Russian ‘sit-down’ squat dance (Kazachok style) shouting out in Russian accented English

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“Pardon me little lady, the sea is tossing this Missis sippi gambling Riverboat around like the glorious rush to get into Lenin’s tomb.”

The Soviets moved forward spreading out like squat dancing Lemmings about to commit suicide over high cliffs into a hungry sea. All this action to avoid suspicion of them being nuts.

From sewers and manholes in and around Les Halles they swarmed. Sticking up fake life-size cardboard cutouts of Gorillas wearing French police outfits with antismoking police sashes.

Unfortunately, the police uniforms, the mean-looking gorilla cardboard cutouts in police uniforms are uniforms that the police wore in the Napoleonic era. A minor slipup in Soviet political intelligence.

Thanks to Jock, Lik, Jacquie and Steve’s vital REDCOM dossier the real French police, French

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military, French, American and British undercover agents were ready to stop Soviet REDCOM.

Several swat teams of mental health experts from Vienna carrying Sears and Roebucks catalogs were at the ready on the roofs of neighboring buildings. As were several dozen animal shrinks and whisperers and rumor specialist and assorted peculiars parachute ready to leap off rooftops naked if called into action. Also, the Paris Bingo Club providing rooftop refreshments and parlor games.

There were melees in all directions. Running, fighting, screaming, jousting, cursing, calls for medics and Philip Morris’s cigarettes.

Animals making their last-ditch efforts to escape and succeeding. Herds of bovines and non-bovines racing in Les Halles with exotic parrots on their backs seemingly urging the animals the four-

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legged ones onward. Stampeding, snorting animals and humans, enormous tropical parrots riding anything with two or four legs that were charging, squawking, “we’re fwee, we is fwee.”

The notorious Jardin de Poubelle Café (alias ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’) no longer in freefall quickly taking advantage of the chaos putting out yellow signs with red lettering in French, English, Russian and in some type of ancient script reducing the price of their famous Jambon sandwiches and vin rouge, French cigarettes, bird seed and wooden milking stools ‘for this riot only’ were bustling with business and fights.

Many locals broke into ole French ‘Slap and Hurdle’ Apache dancing.  Old French Cancan music could be heard coming in waves from the Café’s inner core.

Thousands of French smokers resisting the fake antismoking Soviet soldiers dressed in their

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Napoleonic era police uniforms. Resisting with extreme force.

The fake antismoking Soviet troops did not expect such brutal, horrible resistance when someone tries to stop a Frenchman from smoking let alone a French woman.

Many of the disguised Soviet troops, even the cardboard cutouts, so it seemed, started looking at their underground escape route maps which were, as Jacquie alluded to earlier, seriously out of date.

Manhole type coverings that had been blocked off for years, some for centuries were pried open thus allowing fumes and sounds of the past to enter the brouhaha.

Many Soviet fake antismoking agents wound up floating in the Seine River. Some locals say the Soviet agents vanished into other dimensions as they floated underground in the crisscrossing

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sewers below the Jardin de Poubelle Café which was ‘Rockin’& Rollin’ away just a few feet above the doomed miscreants.

Other miscreants, it was noted later by rescue teams became permanent guests of the French catacombs. Then things started to get strange.

Hiding in an overturned bins of hog jowls and flowers Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias and a nonfunctioning stiff Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky trying to raise their Soviet ‘Kremlin-at-Large contact on their Walkies Talkies.

“Calling Colonel Zaitsev. Calling Colonel Zaitsev at REDCOM command. This is Major Elias reporting on my Walkies Talkies. Project REDCOM is doing well. There is just one little Agghhhh…”

“We’re fwee. We is fweeee…” came an orchestra of squawking shriek calls from Parrots and

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screaming Macaws and pounding hoof and shoe beats.

“Fwee?” Colonel Zaitsev roared, “Are you two idiots saying, ‘you are defecting?’ “Colonel Zaitsev raged.  “Allo. Allo comrades?”

It was a very good time to be in Paris in the early sixties.

###

DEBRIEF 13

THE ASSASSINATION OF CHARLES De Gaulle

PARIS

22 AUGUST

1850 HOURS

LOCATION: BARRIQUE DE GENDARMERIE GARAGE

CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES GROUNDS

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President Charles De Gaulle and entourage are going to a small airport at Villa Coublay near Petit Clamart South of Paris.

Petit Clamart is a suburb of Paris. The Presidential limousine, an unarmored stretch Citron de 19 La Deesse (The Goddess) had a super hydropneumatics system. Automatically adjusted height that keeps the limo level in almost all terrain and can adjust any sane weight load. The stretch limousine can hold up to 12 persons if necessary but not advised by the manufacturer.

Once fully loaded, The Goddess, held up momentarily after a small weight and balance delay, and the President congratulating Jacqueline April for pointing out the assassin in his security team, departed almost quickly.

The Goddess burned rubber out of the police garage at the Hall of Deputies onto route 306

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heading toward Petit Clamart and Villa Coublay Airport. President De Gaulle wanted to spend a few days at his farm after a very upsetting Royal Luncheon. It was getting dark, and the night was crying.

“Do not look so smug Steve,” Jacquie said in a low poisonous tone. I knew Jean Cantelaube on President De Gaulle’s Security team “was the punch-drunk assassin all the time.”

     “Of course, you did,” Steve said in a low  

       whispering growl and a sly smile.

“I really do hate you,” Jacquie whispered calmly without looking at him. Okay, Honor due. Clever the way you exposed the traitorous assassin.”

“How many people, animals and junk are in this Presidential moving van?” Steve growled scaring the small flock of elite champion

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roosters and chickens President De Gaulle ordered to be taken with them to his hobby farm. Not to mention his prize-winning calf, Elsie.

Jacquie mocked Steve for complaining, “Obviously you have never traveled in a Presidential limousine before.”

Steve did have a point for piled in the Citron stretch DE 19 Goddess was the Chauffer Morrow. Next to him was a marvelous Autumn orange kitchen sink made by El Sink-Ole of Panama City, Panama to be installed in the President’s hobby farm and Dubois ‘The Midget.’

Monsieur Dubois preferred to be known as ‘The Midget’ among his Government Security team because he wanted to strike fear and discipline. The unspoken rumor was that he was just nuts but a top security agent. The

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spoken rumor… well, he is he is a giant that suffered a serious accordion accident.

The Presidential limousine had a small sunroof opening above the latest kitchen sink. Dubois ‘The Midget’ sat on the Autumn colored kitchen sink and peered out the sunroof with his oversized special operation ‘Macho Man’ night goggles.

Dubois ‘The Midget’ kept yelling at Morrow the chauffeur to turn off his headlights as they interfered with Dubois ‘The Midget’s’ night visibility goggles.

“But Monsieur Dubois ‘The Midget,’ ” protested Morrow, “if I turn my headlights off then I cannot see where I am driving.”

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“Ah,” Dubois ‘The Midget’ shouted, “Civilians. Ya got to love them. Then turn off your headlights and just use your dimmest running lights you fool.  And cannot this thing go any faster?”

“But Monsieur ‘The Midget, if I am driving With just the running lights on I need to slow down to see where I am driving.”

As the front seat arguing went on, squeezing in next to the Autumn orange sink and Dubois ‘The Midget’ was Lik Intensive Kon Unita and her partner Jock Unita compressed into the passenger side front door. Sitting on Jock’s lap was a security team member Monsieur Pont Neuf. His head compressed into the windshield.

“What’s all the hysteria about up in the front?” Steve growled. “I can’t see crapola.”

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“What are you growling about Steve?” Jacquie’s stern voice drilled its way through human and animal flesh and heavy cast iron metal Autumn orange sink like a dentist tooth-drilling hitting a major nerve. “You are in the front section.”

“I am?” Steve challenged. “I seem lost in this menagerie of—”

“I need air for a moment,” a loud voice in Japanese blasted like a foghorn in an impenetrable fog as a sound of a side window exploded throughout the Presidential limo. A rush of fresh swamp aroma air fought its way in as the racing vehicle seemed to weave a bit.

“I need air,” came the tortured cry again. Octavus Uncontous, alias Ah So, (no connection with the secret Code Ah So) Sumo wrestler extraordinaire, and hobby farm guest of President De Gaulle bellowed.

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President De Gaulle’s champion calf Elsie, he was also taking to his Getaway farm, started mooing uncontrollably. This mooing caused the small flock a Blue-Ribbon chicken to start to cluck insistently and flap their wings loosing many feathers in the now careening Goddess.

In the back row sitting next to the right-side passenger window was President De Gaulle, his beautiful wife Yvonne. Squeezed in next to her sat Georges Pompidou. We think. President De Gaulle and Georges Pompidou kept changing seats with each other at unbelievable quickness.

Madame De Gaulle passed out from ultra-dizziness. Or, it might have been from the stack of thin Fun House mirrors in front of Madame De Gaulle she was forced to stare at during the trip.

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Jacquie, who wasn’t quite sure where she was sitting in the speeding Goddess, and after the limo hit an outrageous bump realized she was now sitting on Steve’s lap with two other horizontal ‘Team Security’ men.

Somewhere scattered in President De Gaulle’s limo were other ‘Team Security’ people in various positions. Soft cries of help seem to go unanswered.

Rummaging through the crowd but well-behaved mob, coming out of nowhere and unauthorized was the crawling of a lunatic. Party number 60508 Publicist partially attired in his 14th Century Knights outfit hysterically screaming ‘I warn you,’ and snapping blinding flash bulb photos.    

“Someone just punched me,” roared Octavus Uncontous. His huge left arm smashing, this time, the rear most window of the limousine.

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Just then the security car door alarm blared ‘A Car Door is Ajar.’ Followed by a psychedelic blinding light show from inside roof spelling out ‘A Car Door is Ajar.’

“Someone is trying to break in,” Steve blasted out.

“Idiot,” Jacquie quipped, “There is no room for anyone to get in the limo let alone the fact we must be travelling at 120 kilometers an hour moron.

“Always with the unimportant details,” Steve growled.

The calm smooth voice of President De Gaulle came over the speaker, “Remain calm everyone.” Then in an assured tone of peace

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and tranquility addressed the chauffeur Morrow.

“Morrow, use your training of escape driving skills to dislodge anyone attempting to assault the Goddess.”

After 10 minutes of anti-assault maneuvering, driving up back alleys of small unnamed villages, unexplained blinding flash bulbs continuously exploding accompanied by excruciating painful repartee of ‘I warn you.’

Racing across partially moonlit landscapes of heavy forests, high hard bumps on non-existent roads, rickety wooden bridges, President De Gaulle gave the order, over cries of help and mercy, to return to the main road and resume to normal lunatic speed.

“The now broken light on the ceiling stating, ‘A Door is Ajar’ is off. And if you all would notice

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the annoying voice repeatedly sounding ‘A Door is Ajar’ at super-supersonic speed has ceased.

Whomever the scoundrel, or scoundrels were trying to break-in to the Goddess Limo have been eliminated by the quick driving action of my professional security chauffer who has once again saved the day. May I suggest a hefty round of applause. And if you are able give yourself a round also.

All that could be heard were muffled moans and more cries for medics and Veterinarians.

“Morrow,” Georges Pompidou demanded, “Where are we? “I have not the slightest idea Monsieur Pompidou. I do not think I have been driving for the last three minutes. I think Iam in the back seat next to you.”

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“Dubois,” President De Gaulle shouted.  “Where are you?”

“We lost Dubois ‘The Midget’ guy after the first hard bump as he went through the Sunroof.” Morrow gargled.

“Okay then. Everyone is accounted for,” Georges Pompidou announced.

After a few minutes everyone started to settle back down into the chaos before someone or a group of ‘someone’s allegedly tried to break into the speeding limo.

###

AMBUSH DEBRIEF FOLLOWS

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BELOW

AMBUSH DEBRIEF

LOCATION: ON THE ROAD (N306}

APPROACHING PETIT CLAMART

WEDNESDAY

22 AUGUST 1962

2050 hours

“It is past sunset, they should have been here by now,” Georges Watda, a member of the OAS by proxy, known as ‘The Lame Woman,’ alias ‘La Boiteuse.’ Also known as the ‘Jackass’ and ‘The Real Jackal’ and other aliases squeal.

Georges Watda an assassin who likes to dress up in women’s clothes, which for some reason makes him walk pigeon-toe and limp.  Georges Watda also alias ‘The Limp,’ ‘The Lump,’ Clampit Rabinowtz, ‘The Jackass,’ and of course ‘The Real

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Jackal,’ (Not Fat Eddie Illich Ramirez as Fat Eddie’s publicist claims.) complained as they sat on the side of the road in front of the Café Trianon in a yellow Renault Este Fette van in Petit Clamart.

Aside from Bastien Thiry alias ‘The Thorn’ who was the inconsolable boss and supposed to be a shooter and George Watda, a shooter.  Galan de la Tonaye, with an alias that was unpronounceable, another shooter in the yellow van and the driver alias ‘The Driver’ who also handled Walkies Talkies communications with the two other road vehicles. The Lookout car and the chase car incase Georges Watda and the other two shooters miss. In all there were 10 known assassins.

“We should call this whole thing off,” Georges Watda mumbled in non-understandable British to Bastien Thiry, leader of the assassination squad and a member of the Vieil Etat, also a retired

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Major in the French Army and of course, Clinically Depressed.

The Vieil Etat, (The Old Way/Condition) is a clandestine organization within another secret organization the OAS (Organizational Army Secret} with dubious connection to officers in the French Army. To belong to this supersecret Vieil Etat one must have traceable roots that reach back to ‘The Jacobeans’ and Robespierre.  To be an officer in Vieil Etat one must be able to put a furnace or boiler together blindfolded.

“You Vieil Etat and OAS people are incompetent,” Squawked Georges Watda. After all I am the ‘Jackass’… er I mean ‘The Jackal’ the ‘Pigmy Hippo’ if you wish… the best assassin in the world. I must get out of this van so I can breathe.

“Regarde ‘Jackass’…or ‘Jackal’ or whatever the hell your name,” pleaded, Clinically Depressed, Bastian

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Thiry, “Wait… I thought I was ‘The Jackass… I mean ‘The Jackal.’ “

“How many times must I remind you?” Georges Watda yelled, “You are the Red Panda.”

“Red Panda? Where the hell did that come from? I thought I was also ‘The Thorn’?” A clinically depressed Bastien Thiry cried out.

“Bastien Thiry continued, “Listen, you…you ‘Tete de Viande’ Watda, you are being paid beaucoup money to knock off De Gaulle as he passes by. Do you want to by a pair of American Dungarees or HiFi’s? Dirt cheap. I am overstocked back in my bedroom cellar of my parents apartment in Paris.”

“I still do not understand why I am being paid in Japanese Yen,” Georges Watda alias ‘The Jackal’ or ‘Jackass etc… cried out. I will have to carry my payoff in six suitcases.  U.S. dollars Or French or Swiss Francs would be much better.”

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“We went all over that, and I am not getting embroiled with you again,” a still Clinically Depressed Bastien Thiry shouted. “Are you sure I am not ‘The Jackal?’

Bastien Thiry made some bubbling noises with his mouth and insulting gestures with his arm and fingers, but not without Georges Watda returning the same arm and fingers gestures almost missing President De Gaulle’ speeding van, “Now about two hundred meters behind us is our lookout vehicle.  The Hungarian, Palmpilpest alias ‘The Hungarian’—

“Stop Thiry… If you give me one more freaken alias I will assassinate you. Right here.  Right now. I am beginning to feel sorry for De Gaulle.” Georges Watda wailed. In the distance a dog wailed back.

“Okay. Okay,” Bastien Thiry started to cry. “The  

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Idiot Palmpilpest will signal us by Walkies Talkies when he spots De Gaulle’s limousine approaching any minute now. De Gaulle always sits in the back seat on the passenger side. All you have to do with your high-powered rifle is fire into the backseat as he passes.

The Hungarian is in the lookout vehicle, and he will give you plenty of notice. Now if you miss

De Gaulle, we have a chase vehicle.100 yards or so down the road that will chase them and machine gun everyone in the Limousine. No survivors.”

“I do not miss,” Georges Watda snorted defiantly. “You have my money ready.”

“There are six suitcases stuffed with Japanese Yen in the back of this Renault, all for you when De Gaulle is killed,” Jean Bastien Thiry started to cry again.”

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“Japanese Yen,” Georges Watda, alias the Jackass, the Jackal the Pygmy Hippo, or whatever sounded off. “I ought to shoot you morons. Give me my confirmation and reservation for my room for the Wolf Hotel in Munich. Is my grey Deushbowl Citron 2 CV AZLM escape car waiting for me?”

“Oui, as promised,” a bleary-eyed Jean Bastien Thiry alias ‘The Red Panda’ or ‘The Thorn’ sniffed. “Behind the Café. With your phony license plate FL775 and your flip switch to revolve into a different license number.”

“Now where the blazes is De Gaulle? It will be very dark in another half hour,” Georges Watda, alias the Jackass or the Jackal or the Limp, etc… sneered.  “You idiots said he would be here at sunset. We should call this whole thing off.”

The assassin’s Yellow Renault Este Fette van’s Walkies Talkies started to crackle as reports came

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in from the Lookout and the Chase car wondering where the hell is President De Gaulle’s Limo?

Jean Bastien Thiry, laughing like a hysterical, tormented Jackal, thus his alias also, quieted everyone down by saying ‘We are all going to be killed.’  “I am going to wait in the café Trianon. Good Luck.  The driver, alias ‘The Driver’ alias ‘The Fiasco’… will take you to your ‘Jumping Off Point’ behind the Café Trianon place transfer your Yen after you assassinate De Gaulle.

A shot rang out creasing Jean Bastien Thiry’s skull.  

Watda could not believe he only creased Thity’s skull at such a close distance.

“I have to get a drink.” Jean Bastien Thiry left the van in tears due to his morbid clinical depression and morbid grotesque faces he was making holding his bleeding head.

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Georges Watda, still giving Jean Bastian Thiry arm and insulting finger gestures as Thiry stumbled away. Thiry also returning Watda’s insulting gestures.

Watda laughed, blew smoke away from his rifle barrel inside the yellow van.

Jean Bastian Thiry was refused entry to the café Trianon because of his fast deteriorating mental and physical condition. And also, because the large waiter at the café’s entrance thought Thiry was giving him the insulting gestures as Bastien Thiry tried to enter the establishment.

Bastian Thiry wondered onto the main highway toward a TV store across the wide road, stumbling and holding his head.

“Attention…Attention came the excited voice from the lookout vehicle. “Hey Watda, what are you

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doing sitting in the back seat of De Gaulle’s Limo? Looks like you guys are having one hell of a party in the passing limo. A lot of screaming and jumping around inside the passing limo.”

Grorges Watda prepared to fire again, this time at De Gaulle.  He also wondered how he could have missed Thiry’s head at such a close range of six or seven inches. “What are you talking about you moron? I am here in the shooters van ready to fire.

As Watda, fired at the passing Limo, President

De Gaulle’s Limo showed some idiot smashing up and down into the ceiling of the Goddess limo a number of times as he held a 12-volt sparking battery shocking everything in the Presidential Limo.

Simultaneously, flashbulbs kept popping among the shouts of ‘I warn you,’ animal noises, Sumo

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grunts. All like a weird nightmarish celebratory horror dream.

The Presidential Limo started to pass the assassins yellow  onRenault van. Georges Watda and others to open fire, blasting away, the Presidential Limo which swerved to miss some crying stumblebum, holding his head, staggering across the main highway toward a TV store on the other side of the street.

That crying stumblebum, holding his head causing the Presidential Limo to swerve probably saved everyone’s life in the Limo at that point. The was later award ‘The Unknown Pathetic Stumblebum Award’ for saving the President’s Life.

More shots rang out followed by more shooting from the yellow Renault.

“Yikes! That is me sitting in the back seat. I just shot myself,” Georges Watda ‘The ‘Jackal’ alias ‘The Real Jackal’ screamed-cackled.’

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President De Gaulle’s Limo flew by with shattered windows and many bullet holes in it. An ear-piercing suicidal Bonsai scream emanating from the Limo faded as the Presidential Limo shot by.

 After the shooting stopped, there was complete silence. A dark grey ‘Deutsch bowl’ chase car, about twenty meters past the assassin’s rifle smoking yellow Renault van, was parked on the side of the road. The silence broken as the ‘Deutsch’ bowl’s engine tried to turnover and start to no avail. Cursing of several rifle-toting Hungarian men, as they tried to start their car, could be heard.

 A lamppost light showed a tired breeze urging a torn piece of old, damp, dirty Paris newspaper crossing the bullet shell covered road.

The item of interest read in part… “Have You Seen This Man?’ It was an artist sketch of Jock Unita wanted for questioning in a 10 million Franc bank

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checking fraud case. ‘May be disguised as a woman dressed as ‘Mother Hubbard wearing a straitjacket.’

###  END OF DEBRIEF  ###

I’ll always remember the craziness. Love ya kid,

forever…          bill,

ONZE de la croix ROUGE

copyright

19 APRIL   1300 hours 1963 Original cc

02 March 1500 hours 2010: Updated. cc

Classified Material Removed by U.S. Department

of Defense. Section 8 Division.

###

Love letters to follow:

Nanny Lud Has Just Been Murdered… Again.     cc

Hysterical… The Precursor to ISIS.  cc          

Jerkwater U.S.A. cc

The Cobblers Ville Proposition.  cc  

Secrets of The Ancient Stone Forest. cc

Etc…

[clown-thoughts]

Dear, you know who:

It’s been a long time since I wrote out my thoughts about you, but it’s not been long since you’ve been on my mind. I hope that if you ever see this, you read the whole thing. I know it’s insanely long, and you hate me, so I won’t hold my breath. But I think it might be good for you if you do. I’ve thought about you every single day. I tried to distance myself from you by ignoring this new blog of yours for a long time, but I’ve been watching it for a few months now.  I’ve wanted to say something for a long time, but I wasn’t sure how to say it or even what to say. But these past few nights have been even harder than normal and I feel like now I just have to get everything off my chest that I’ve been holding in for all this time. I’m leaving it here, rather than messaging it to you directly, because it’s more about me saying what I’ve needed to say for almost 2 years now, rather than trying to directly confront or talk to you. That said, I will try to make sure you at least have a chance to find this, so you can read this and maybe understand me better, who knows. Maybe it will at least be a good distraction from the new drama in your life. Where to begin? I have so much to say. I’m sure that you’re smart enough to know who I am by now, and if not you will by the end of this.  We are not on speaking terms. The last I heard from you, you hated my fucking guts. And I certainly understand, to a degree. But you also said a bunch of shit about me that I think you must know was not true. I’ve since wondered if you said that just to make yourself look better and justify your own shitty treatment of me.  But that isn’t really what this is about. I want to preface everything, by saying that if you do ever find this and read it, none of this is meant to hurt you, it is meant to give MYSELF closure. But I will be speaking my honest thoughts in detail, and they will probably be kinda harsh at parts. I know that telling you this probably just falls on deaf ears, last I heard, you thought I was some lying, manipulative bastard who used you or some dumb shit. Well I can honestly say that you may think what you want, but everything I’m going to say is the 100% honest truth, as I have known and experienced it this past year and a half or so. I’m sure you won’t listen to it or read it if you ever do find it, and that’s why I’m not sending it directly. But you did always say you wanted me to tell you the truth. So here it is, better late than never I guess. The reason I decided to type this out now is two-fold; 1) Seeing you write about what you’re going through, I saw you describe a lot of the same feelings that I felt, (and in some cases, still feel) and it made me think, that maybe hearing the perspective of someone who was, (or is) in a similar situation would help you process it yourself, as well as understand me better. And, 2) A few days ago, on my birthday, I had a stroke in a movie theater and almost died. And right before I lost consciousness, I found myself thinking of you, in what I thought would be my last thoughts. When I woke up, I knew I needed to say my true feelings about you, because it would be my biggest regret to die without you knowing. The truth is, when we first got together, I still had some very strong, unresolved feelings for someone else I was close to. As time went on, she and I got flirtier, and it was definitely wrong of me, and I regret it immensely. Still, we never did anything physical until you and I split up. You and I were fighting a lot, and I’m not sure if you recall, but you were the one who pushed me and TOLD ME I should dump you. So I did. And I have never made a worse decision than that one. I shouldn’t have listened to you, I should have fought harder for you. But I didn’t, because I was an idiot. But at the time, I thought it was for the best. You were unhappy, and I wasn’t good enough for you. I hated that I was hurting you. And I felt guilty for having feelings for someone else at the same time. So when we split up, I tried not to think of you and I pursued this other girl I cared for. I knew going in, that she was a bad person. She is an extremely manipulative and mentally ill person. She lies for sport it seems like sometimes. She lied about me to her family, lied about her family to me. And she lied about me to you. I warned you, way back when we were together, that’s exactly what she’d do. I don’t know if you still have a relationship with her, but I hope for your sake, it’s nothing deeper than surface level. But again, as I said, I knew this going in, and I still couldn’t help but care for her. I thought I could “fix” her, cure the monster inside her. But I couldn’t. Her heart is pitch black. And when I accepted this... I still stuck by her, because I felt like I deserved it. I was an awful person. I lied about and hid my feelings for her from you. You were so sweet to me and I felt like I was such a letdown compared to you, like I couldn’t give you all the love and kindness you deserved. And because of that, I thought I deserved her; someone who treated me as poorly as I treated you. But when it came to the physical stuff with her, I couldn’t make myself go all the way. I tried to get myself into it by going through the motions, but it felt empty. I couldn’t have sex with her cause she wasn’t you. I tried so hard to push you out of my mind and I couldn’t. I stopped making an effort with her, and after a while she told me to fuck off. Truthfully, I didn’t feel a twinge of sadness to lose her, because at that point, I realized that even after knowing her for 10 years, those feelings weren’t as strong as the feelings I had for you, and whatever romantic feelings I still had for her died that day. When I saw how sad you were, all I could think of was how much I wanted to cheer you up and make you happy. I know it was selfish. And it was even more selfish to lie about me and her, to hide all of that from you. The truth is, I knew you couldn’t handle it, and I chose to selfishly try to forget and pretend it never happened. Now, I don’t know, you seem more grounded, I feel like you might understand better now that you’ve experienced similar things. You did leave me for someone else, after all.  But I regret it so much. I regret fucking up so badly, I regret lying about it. But in the end, it ultimately made me a better person. After that, I never flirted with or looked at another girl again for the entire time we were together. I never wanted anyone else. But you did, eventually, and you left. I was devastated and heartbroken. I made that other blog to vent and talk with you back then.  At the same time, a friend of yours came to me and tried to comfort me. She told me all these things about you, like that you had been cheating on me with the guy you left me for and he had been buying you gifts and shit while we were together. Looking back now, I don’t know if that’s what really happened, or if she was just trying to make me hate you for some ulterior motive. You 2 certainly aren’t friends anymore.  She and I got close. She was very pretty and kind, but what I really liked about her, when it all came down to it, was how much she was like you. Maybe too much like you, cause she cheated on her boyfriend with me, then ditched him for me, then ditched me for another guy who she thought would cause “less drama” at the time. Then the ex boyfriend killed himself because of this and she cheated on the new guy with me too. I felt pretty shitty, but I didn’t know what to do. She was there for me when I had no one. I was there for her when she needed a distraction from her grief I guess. But eventually, she felt better and ditched me again, for good, and I was all alone. So I did what I always do when I’m alone; I reached out to shitty people from my past. I did this the first time we split up too, if you recall, with a certain pink haired girl with a drug problem. But this time I reached out to the same psycho bitch who I used to have feelings for. In my desperation to not be alone, I made the mistake of giving that sociopath ammo. So the next day, she had twisted it into some sort of “proof” of my wrongdoings and told you all sorts of lies about me. It troubled me that you would believe her and form this hate alliance thing so easily, especially since I WARNED you about her doing that EXACT thing back when we were together. But I also had to look myself in the mirror and realize that I was just as dumb for reaching out to her and expecting anything else anyway. Plus I had broken your trust, so it was understandable that you wouldn’t believe me. And you were looking for reasons to hate me anyway, so you wouldn’t feel guilty. That was the last time I ever heard from you. You said so many awful things about me. I don’t know if you truly believed what you said about me, or if you just said them because you were mad at the time. But the main thing that hurt me was that you thought all my feelings were fake. That I never really loved you, that I was using you, all this bullshit that I was sure you knew wasn’t true. I couldn’t reply to you back then, because I knew you wouldn’t listen to or believe me. I doubt you will now either. But I need to say them, if not for you, then at least for myself. My life after that was the worst it has ever been. I had multiple mental breakdowns at work and had to be sent home. I started drinking heavily. I attempted suicide for the first time in my life. I missed more work and my grades started slipping. I tried to move on and find someone else. I tried to have what I had with you with lots of other people. But the hole in my heart is shaped like you,and no one else can fill it. I’ve since given up on ever finding someone I can love like I love you. I don’t even try anymore, because all I know how to do is compare other people to you. They all fall short. Eventually, I got kicked out of school because my grades got so shitty. That meant I lost my financial aid, so I couldn’t afford to live there anymore. I lost my home and my job too. My cats ran away a few days before I had to move out, and I couldn’t find them in time, so I lost them as well. I had them for so many years, and in those final months, they’re the only ones who were there for me. I miss them so much.  On the day I packed up to move out, I found your old key to my house in my yard. I don’t know how long it was there, if you left it while I was there or when I was gone at work, I’m not sure. I remember it had some rust on it. I think I overthought it, but I spent a lot of time wondering about it, and wondering about you. I wondered if you ever remembered anything positive about me. I wondered if you had any happy memories of us. I still do. But I try very hard not to think of them, because those happy memories are the most painful now. I moved back in with my family after all that. Had nowhere else to go. I didn’t have a room or even a bed, I slept on a couch that was way too small for me and woke up every day with chronic back pain. For 6 months. I remember thinking back then, that I hated you. I hated you for hurting me so badly, I hated you for breaking me. I blamed you for all my misery and misfortune.But underneath all that, I really just hated myself. I hated myself for fucking up so bad. I hated myself for not being able to give you everything you deserve. I hated that I wasn’t good enough for you. I went a full year without checking on you. I thought maybe that would make me stop thinking of you. But every other night, I’d see you in my dreams. This didn’t start then, it started soon after we stopped talking. And it still continues til this day. Just last night, I dreamed about you, and I knew I’d need to write this shit all out before I could finally sleep again.  I have all sorts of dreams about you. I have dreams where I’ve forgotten that you aren’t in my life anymore, and things are how they used to be. I have other dreams where we reconnect. Where you tell me all the new things happening in your life, and I tell you about mine.  Waking up from those ones hurts worse for some reason. If you remember much about me, you probably remember that I always tried to be a rational person. Someone who didn’t believe in magic or mysticism. But the truth is, I always had superstitions, especially about dreams. I know it’s stupid, but I felt like we had a psychic link or something in our dreams. I sometimes wondered if you were calling for me, but I know that was just wishful thinking.  I know it’s impossible, but I sometimes wonder if we share the same dreams. If the you in my dreams is really you.  These dreams feel so different than normal dreams. They feel real, like another reality. Sometimes they feel more real than my true reality, and I’m not able to tell what’s real and what’s a dream. I wake up from these dreams in a cold sweat and a sinking feeling in my chest. My heart beats so hard I can actually see movement under my ribs. It feels like something is draining the life out of me whenever I wake up from these dreams. I think you probably know what this feeling is now. You feel it too right? I know I’m not the one in your dreams though, and I’m sorry. I wish I was. I know that it would make a big difference for you to hear something like this from them, and I wish I had the power to make you happy like that, but I don’t. My mental health has improved a lot, believe it or not. I’ve been in therapy and I’m on medication. I don’t drink anymore, (though I guess I didn’t when you knew me either) I no longer associate with diet-Nazi douchebags. I’m much more involved politically. I’m not as nihilistic as I was when you knew me, I care about the world and I want to try to help protect it. By all accounts, I should be happier. I’ve improved my life, I’m not lonely. But I still feel empty without you in my life. I was never an angel. I know that. I’m sure I’m still not. I was controlling, I had such a bad temper. I said so many awful things to you in the heat of the moment that I didn’t mean. I have so many regrets and I’d do literally anything to go back and change it all. I know you aren’t an angel either. You are flawed, just as I am. I do not put you on a pedestal. But I do not believe those flaws define you. I love you for all that you are, flaws and all. I spent so long directing my anger at you. I thought I wanted you to hurt, the way I had been hurting. But seeing you now, so sad and broken, feeling so many of the things I felt and still feel, all I wanted was to hug you and tell you everything would be okay. Despite everything, all the ways you hurt me, I love you and I hate seeing you in pain. I would give anything to make it all better, I’m sorry I can’t. I wish I had to power to heal your broken heart. I wish you didn’t hate me so much, because I want to be there for you as a friend. I don’t want you to feel alone or unloved ever. I miss being able to talk to you about your hobbies. I wish we could talk about the new season of My Hero Academia, or Nier Automata, which I was so happy to hear you liked as much as I did. Sometimes I check your blog and I see things you post that make me smile and laugh. It reminds me of how we used to stay up late at night laughing at stock images and inside jokes about bikes, and I miss laughing with you like that so badly. I know you will probably never forgive me. I don’t forgive me for fucking up as bad as I did. But for what it’s worth, I forgive you, for any pain you caused me. I started typing this at 4am because I couldn’t sleep. It is now 4:10pm. I have not slept or eaten in that span of time and my mind is a complete blur. I don’t know if anything I say is making sense, and I’m sorry.  I know I probably spent all this time for nothing and this is all just gonna fall on deaf ears. I know you hate me, I know you don’t trust me. But I need to say this now because I could die any day and I don’t want to die without you knowing how I really felt. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me. I don’t expect or want for you to come crawling back. I don’t expect you to even believe me, as badly as I want you to. I don’t even expect you to read all of this. I bet if I told you all this to you in person, you’d roll your eyes and laugh in my fucking face.  But if you take anything from this at all, let it be this; I meant it every time I told you I loved you. I meant it every time I told you you were the most beautiful girl in the world and the only one I want. And I am so, so sorry for ever hurting you. I really do love you from the very bottom of my heart. I did then, and I still do now. I’m sorry I did such a shitty job of showing it. And I know you don’t love me back anymore, and that you don’t dream of me, or stay awake late at night thinking of me like I do of you. But I will always love you. You were my whole world. I want you to know that. I want you to know it wasn’t a lie or a trick. I want you to know it isn’t me trying to make you feel bad for me. I just want you to know that I meant every word of it. No matter how much happens, and how much time passes, you will always hold the most important place in my heart. I’m so sorry I couldn’t do a better job of showing you how much I loved you back when I had a chance. And I really truly hope that someday, you find someone who treats you as well as you deserve, as well as I wish I treated you. Please know that I will never stop loving you or caring for you. I hope one day, we can meet again. Maybe in the next life. Until then, I’ll just have to wait until I see you again in my next dream.

[smuttyfairy]

Buttercream :1 (M)

1. | 2. | 3. Genre: Smut/Angst/Fluff Summary: (Previously posted under @suganeedsanap) When you fell in love with Kim Taehyung, it was as sweet as cake and bitter as beer. He made your heart swell, but others disapproved. Those days are over, but memories still linger. Maybe this bachelorette party will help ease your mind. Besides, You’ll be Ms. Jimin Park. But why aren’t you happy? Warnings: Alcohol Use Word count: 4,024 Written by: Smutty Jaefairy

A/N: This is a story I’m moving from my main blog to here. I’m having a hard time finding worth in my work so this is an exercise of me looking at my past work and appreciating my writing. I hope you guys enjoy this story. This is one of my babies. 

"Have you ever believed in love?"  

His warm honey brown hair clung to his forehead as you two ran underneath a large building. The rain fell heavily, scattering the ground like large pebbles. He was taking off his coat and wrapping it around your head, a wide smile on his face. His teeth were white, and his breath smelled of something sweet and mouthwash.

“Have you??” He asked, making sure you were dry. His large hands shook the droplets on your hair away. He shook the side of your dress, taking precautions to be very careful. The cover you two had wasn’t much, if you moved a little too much to the right, you’d get drenched. He knew how much you hated getting soaked. It was charming how much he was trying to make sure you averted from it.

You gazed at Taehyung and shook your head no. At that point in your life you never had time for guys or the possibility of something romantic. This day was your first date. He laughed softly and placed his hand on your head.

“ When I look at you Y/n, I feel like what I think love’s supposed to feel like.” Your face gave a confused expression. How could he say something like that so easily? His smile became warmer and for a moment, you could see the image of a man who fell too deep. You always treated Tae as a child, because honestly he acted like one. He would laugh when there was silence, cry when there was no need and just had no direction. But he was pulled to you, and your magnetic pull brought out something different in him. His dark eyes met yours and clinged to your gaze. He hesitated, giving in a deep sigh. With one last look, a look of earnest, leaned forward. On that sunday afternoon, in the pouring rain, he gave you your first kiss.

-

It would be weird to have guys at your bachelorette party, sure. When you told your small group of girlfriends that a couple of your boys were coming over their first question was “Are they cute?”.You shook a finger before laughing along with them.

Namjoon, Yoongi, and Hoseok were coming over to celebrate your last days as an eligible young lady. You were getting married to your boyfriend of three years, Park Jimin. It was to be a moderate sized wedding. Just close friends, family, and a few business acquaintances. It was perfect. Your friends were all so very happy for you. You were dating a successful choreographer,  and you yourself was in line to become the news editor at a rising entertainment magazine. When people talked about you or saw you two, it was perfect. Every time someone said that you two were perfect, you had this internal feeling of chewing on a razor. Jimin wasn’t a terrible person, in fact he was the best boyfriend anyone could have. You were just bugged by the idea of being a perfect couple.

You sat in the living room, the faint glow from the party lights overhead. Your girlfriends were at the door, ushering Namjoon and Yoongi into the house. Namjoon was a friend of yours from university.You both were in the journalism program and had similar tastes. At that time, you were working at a local convenience store when you weren’t at school. Namjoon came in often late night and would chat it up with you about classes and homework. He introduced you to some of his friends from around the neighborhood and before you knew it, you became close with him and his group of colorful buddies. Yoongi went to the same university as you two, but he was in the music program. Hoseok and Jin worked like you, Hoseok going to an art school in the town over. Jin worked on acting from home and took care of his family.

Yoongi gave you a wide smile and a lazy wave. “Congratulations, Y/n!”

“Thank you!” You were trying to get up from the couch, but one of your girlfriends sat you back down, putting a regular cup in your hand.

“What’s in here?” You asked, the room being too dim to see the cup clearly.

“Minae unni made this bowl of what she calls jungle juice. They made it when she was in America for university.” Your friend, Choi, gave you a tipsy smile and handed a cup to Yoongi. He looked at the cup, shrugged, and gave it a swig. He coughed for a moment, asking if there was alcohol in it.

“Yeah, what are you? A lightweight?” She quipped, eyeing him up and down.

He laughed and poked her nose. “ Hey, I’m older than you. Show some respect, beautiful." he said playfully making Choi blushed, hurrying to the other side of the house, slightly flustered. Yoongi was really popular with your friends, so was Namjoon. Minae already had him in a corner, asking him how he was. His pale blonde hair was slicked back and from the look of the smirk on his face, you could tell he was trying to spit some serious game.

You slipped back into the couch and sipped the sweet drink, Yoongi following suit. “How’s everything going on your side?” You asked, watching him take another drink bracing himself.

“Ah, It’s alright. Jimin is so excited about the wedding.” You smiled for a moment, your mouth retracting into a frown.

“I’m guessing you’re not feeling the same?” He said, his mouth going towards the cup again.

“No, no I am. “ you smiled again. For some reason, you couldn’t keep a smile tonight. The wedding so was so close, you couldn’t be getting cold feet. He looked at you seriously for a moment and sat up, turning towards you.

“ Hey, I need to talk to you about something.”  “You looked at him, his expression serious.

“Okay…” you put your cup down and gave him your undivided attention.

“Namjoon was supposed to tell you as soon as he got here, but seeing as Minae has his attention.. I guess I’ll tell you.” You gave him a concerned look, your stomach tying in knots. You felt a sense of hope in your chest, you knew you shouldn’t expect much, but there was something that sat in the back burner of your heart for three long years. He looked away for a moment, then Yoongi’s intense dark eyes met yours. “Taehyung called Namjoon and Hoseok yesterday night.”

-

Namjoon had also introduced you to Jimin, Jungkook and Taehyung. Jimin you knew somewhat already. He worked at the same convenience store as you, but you never properly had a talk with him. One night Namjoon came in with two younger guys. One had short black hair and was roughhousing with the other. His hair a little longer, just ending at his thick eyebrows. His smile seemed to never end, and he seemed a little...odd. It wasn’t that he was ugly. You thought he was attractive, as well as the other boy, but he was off. As soon as they came in, He walked over to the chip aisle and started stacking random things on each other. Namjoon nodded to you, and you nodded back.

“Hey Joonie. Are you babysitting?”  

“Something like that. Jungkook needs some help with a paper so we came to get some food before studying. Taehyung came along because he was bored..he’s gonna be more trouble than help.“

The young male with the black hair walked to the counter with a few sodas, a bag of cookies and a bowl of instant noodles.

“Hello, are you Y/n?” You nodded and smiled softly.

“That is me, are you Jungkook?” He nodded and bowed, you bowing back.

“Jimin oppa and Namjoon oppa have mentioned you before. They were right. You’re very pretty” He said smiling.

You smiled back, grabbing Namjoon’s shirt. “When did this happen?”

“Hey, we weren’t making fun of you, we were being nice.” While you were bickering with Namjoon, Taehyung had somehow had all the chips on the floor and was rearranging them.

At one point you were taking your shoe off and then you saw the aisle. “Oy, what are you doing? Namjoon what is your friend doing? I’m gonna get fired!”

“ Taehyung, put those back. “ Namjoon said with a long groan.

You walked over, he was hurrying to put everything back. You were about to sass him, then you realized what he was doing. He recovered them and somehow made them look more presentable than before. He turned to you, his face blank and his mouth slightly open.

“Thank you for the help. I was actually suppose to do that tonight before I got off. You saved me some time.” You smiled, kind of relieved your least favorite job was already done. He stood there as if he was frozen. Jungkook walked behind him, shoving him a little bit.

“Hyung, you look like a fool.”  He was broken out of his trance and nodded his head.

“Ah, Kim Taehyung. “

“F/n L/n. Thank you for the help.“ You bowed and raised an eyebrow. You recalled your boss saying there was an opening for the overnight shift and you thought it’d be a good idea to suggest it to him.

“Do you have a job? “ He shook his head wildly and you walked to the counter, looking for an application.

“We have an opening. If you’re not busy with school that is.” Jungkook pushed him towards the counter.

“He’s not doing anything, noona. He’ll do it. “ You rang up Jungkook and Namjoon, Taehyung filling the application out, fumbling a few times with the pen. As he finished and gave it to you, you gave him an apprehensive smile.

“I’ll tell the boss about you, okay?” Namjoon gave you a wave as he left the store, Jungkook following with Taehyung last, giving you a goofy grin and walking backwards out of the store and leaving with the other two. You put the application away, happy to have found someone better at doing the detailed jobs, but you didn’t expect him to impact your life. - You instantly grabbed Yoongi’s cup and downed whatever he had left.

“I’m sorry, what?” you felt your words come out in a harsh whisper.

“Taehyung called Namjoon and Hoseok. Hoseok was much more caring than Namjoon. Namjoon scolded him and told him not to come back.”

You frowned and grabbed your cup, drinking it down. Your body felt warm and prickly.

Yoongi’s watched your expression as it changed a few times. “I knew it. “ he said quietly.

You turned to him , eyes wide. “You don’t love Jimin, You’re still in love with Taehyung..” You shook your head, a grimace on your face.

“What? No!” Yoongi sighed and sat back, shrugging.

“If you say so..oh!” He got up and walked over to Choi who had another cup along with hers. “Can I have that cup?” He asked and she nodded.

He took it from her and smiled before going back to you. “Anyways, he says he’s coming back, and if he does what are you gonna do? “  

Your face was focused on the ground and you tried not to think about Taehyung. That was a long time ago, and you didn’t want to think about him. You didn’t want to think about his dorky smile or his peculiar way of handling conversation. You didn’t want to hear his warm deep voice or think about how his hair felt when your hands were tangled in it.

“Y/n?” You looked up and plastered a fake smile on your face. “ He’s too late. Jimin and I will get married. “

Yoongi gave you a face. You couldn’t tell if he was unimpressed or his resting bitch face had kicked in. “You’re not fooling me. I can read you better than Namjoon.” His voice was slightly slurred and his eyes were a little glossy. He was getting drunk.

“You’re drunk, Yoongi.” He shook his blonde hair and paused before laughing out loud. You laughed back, the alcohol in your system kicking in. Namjoon walked over to you two, placing a piece of paper in his pocket.

“ Already getting numbers, can’t even say hi. “ You say, playfully mad.

“ I was going to say hi, but your friends wouldn’t let me alone!”

“You didn’t want to, Namjoon.”  

“That’s not true, I was just being polite. “

You and Yoongi both let out a long “Mhmmmm.” before you got up and gave him a hug, laughing softly.

“Hey, can I talk to - “

“Oh, Yoongi already told me. “ before he brought it up again, you tried your best to advert the conversation. “Where’s Hobi? I don’t want to start til Hoseok is here!”

“He should have been here before us.” Yoongi said, checking his phone.

There was a loud knock, prompting you to run to the door and answer it. Hoseok was at the door, a large delivery truck behind him. “Y/n! Congratulations!” He gave you a huge hug and spun you around.

Your stomach turned for a moment, sloshing alcohol around in the depths. “Hobi! Put me down.” You pouted and he listened.

“Sorry, sorry! Ah, there’s a delivery here for you. They said they need you to sign it before they bring it in. “ You walk out to the driver in the sunset and signed off on the package, telling them to bring it in the living room.  Minae walked out and squealed. “Everyone! It’s here!”  Your face scrunched up at her. You were hoping it was the one thing you asked her not to do. “I said no strippers, Minae..” “Ah, hush. We know he isn’t as impressive as Jimin oppa. Bring it in!” She handled the package while you went back inside, grabbing a bottle of gin from the table of snacks and drinks.

You trudged back to the couch sitting in between Namjoon and Yoongi. Your girlfriends were giving everyone party hats and party horns. You thought it was kind of silly how they were acting so childish, but you gave up a long time ago. Once you told Minae and Choi they could plan it, it left your hands and landed in their capable ones.

Hoseok was helping the delivery man bring in the package. It was a large box and smelled of buttercream and vanilla. You sighed and took a swig of the bottle.

“This feels more like a birthday party.” You said softly.

“It is a bit juvenile.” Namjoon grinned, a drink now in his hand.

You spaced out and words stumbled out of your mouth before you could even process them. “Taehyung would love this…”

Yoongi and Namjoon looked at you, Yoongi leaning close to you. “ Namjoon has his number.”  

Namjoon cut the air and shook his head. “No. He left all of a sudden giving us a half ass goodbye and he left  without a word to Y/n! You think he deserves to come back as if nothing happened?”

Yoongi took a sip and shook his head. “ He doesn’t , but if she doesn’t love Jimin, why is she marrying him?”

“Oi, Y/n! You don’t want to marry Jimin? What is he saying about you not loving him?”

“Yoongi’s drunk!” You said, pouting. “Yoongi stop exposing me with your lies. “

“I’ll expose more if I keep drinking this..” He lips connected to his drink for the umpteenth time that night.

“If things keep going this way, Yoongi will be your stripper.” Namjoon muttered watching them set up.

A large, cake was displayed. It was pale yellow with white frosting along the edges.

“That wouldn’t be a problem.” Yoongi said while licking his lips. You smacked his arm and he set off in a fit of giggles. Even though he told you the worst news you could have heard at this time, you were glad Yoongi was there to keep you from freaking out. Him, Hoseok and Namjoon were like brothers to you. Namjoon was the one who cared and gave wisdom, but constantly ready to bicker with you about anything and everything.  Yoongi was the one who knew how you were feeling and how to make it better.

As they finished, Hoseok slipped in between you and Namjoon, Yoongi reaching over to give him his drink.

“Hobi, drink this.” He muttered.

“Huh?” He looked at it and drank it down. Hoseok was always calling you to make sure you were eating after long hours at the office, bringing you food for lunch or just there when you needed to vent about something stupid at work.

He gave the cup back to Yoongi and winced. “Too strong for me. Ah, Y/n! You excited about the wedding?” You nodded, feeling the alcohol numb any memories of Taehyung or any feelings of doubt you had.

“Yes! I’m ready to be Mrs. Park Jimin.” you smiled, gin laced in your words.

“You mean Mrs. Kim.” Yoongi was getting another cup from Choi, his eyes slightly glossed over.

“Yoongi, you need to stop!”  You gave him a glare, in which he shrugged and took a sip from his cup.

“Once you stop lying to yourself.”

Hoseok shushed you both, and took your hand. He had a sad smile, but you could see the reassurance in his eyes. “Maybe once you’re sober we can talk about everything. You too, Yoongi.”  

Yoongi sighed, snuggling into the couch. Minae walked up to the cake, knocking the stand it stood on.

“Hey, you ready in there?”  Three knocks answered and she grinned wide. As she stood up, she ran to the speaker system and started searching through her massive collection of music. Choi brought in the other girls, them huddling around the couch. Hoseok got comfortable next to you and Namjoon got up, going over to Minae and helping her pick some music.

“Ah, Hobi this is gonna be embarrassing.” You cover your face and sigh deeply. He rubbed your back and smiled.

“Ah, I’m sure you’ll be able to laugh at this fool, right, Yoongi?” Yoongi's drunk giggle came from the other side of the couch and Hoseok waved him off.

Your mind was hazy at this point and Taehyung’s voice was in your head. It was like a faint whisper, but you knew you didn’t want to be there. You wanted to leave the house, and find him. You wanted to ask him why he left you, where he went, why was he back.

You held your head, the room spinning for a moment. Hoseok glanced at you, a worried look washing over his face. “Y/n? Are you alright? “

Before you could answer, the sound system blasted. ”Falling in love “ by 2ne1 started playing and Minae dimmed the lights more. The girls were screaming and cheering. “We got a special gift for the lucky girl tonight~!” Minae said dancing to the music. You looked at the cake, a grimace on your face. The tiers shook slightly, wobbling some. You sat back, knowing a stripper coming out of a cake was going to be messy. Your chin rested in your hand and you sighed. As the cake deteriorated and a body came out of it, you saw jeans and a naked chest. The room was cheering, and you looked up. It was dark and it was hard to see their face, but as they danced in front of you, the smile looked familiar. It was wide and it seemed to make your heart stutter. They grinded in front of you, and you stood up, getting a better look at their face.

You swore you could have died in that moment.

A loud scream came from your mouth, making Namjoon turn off the music and Minae turn the lights up. Buttercream frosting and small pieces of cake stuck to his honey brown hair. It littered his skin, but his smile stayed intact. Kim Taehyung was standing in front of you, stripping at your bachelorette party. You were stone, the party silent. The startling sound of Yoongi blowing a party horn brought everything back to earth. Yoongi laughed, finished his drink and clapped his pale hands. He seemed to be the only one amused.

“Hobi, you put him up to this didn’t you?” He asked, his hoarse laugh filling the room.

“What?!? No!” Hoseok shook his head, disbelief in what he saw. Namjoon walked over to Taehyung, not waiting to scold him.

“What are you doing?!?” The look of disbelief on Namjoon's face made Taehyung laugh.

“Ah! I called Minae to get in touch with Y/n and she said they were having a surprise party for her! She told me her surprise gift and I wanted to help!”  Minae waved, a guilty look on her face.

“Whoops! I thought it’d be okay!”  You stood there, taking everything about him into your memory.

It was Tae. Your Tae, he was back and Namjoon was yelling at him. It was like nothing changed. The alcohol impaired everything for that few minutes. While everyone was trying to understand what was going on, time slowed down. You remembered everything Taehyung and you went through. Your relationship, how your parents didn’t approve. You went through so many hurdles and he was back. Then Jimin’s face flashed in your eyes. Your chest started to pound thinking of the night he proposed. The tears in his eyes, how his smile was so loving. You were Jimin’s now. Tae left you, he didn’t tell you anything. He just left. You couldn’t say anything to him. All of this was so sudden. You felt hot tears spill from your eyes, and Tae stopped arguing with Namjoon and looked into your eyes.

He held your face, his thumbs wiping away every tear. “What’s wrong, Jagi? Are you not happy to see me?”

“T..” you couldn’t say his name, it hurt to think he was back, and he couldn’t even come in a decent way. But you knew Taehyung. He wasn’t as mature as the rest of you, but he always had his heart in the right place.

“I..” you covered your mouth, and suddenly you felt your stomach gripe from the inside out. You ran out of the room and up the stairs, towards Minae’s spare bedroom. You dashed for the bathroom, Taehyung right behind you.

As you saw the toilet your stomach lurched and you fell to your knees, throwing up. You were a mess. You were crying, puking and Taehyun kneeled behind you, holding your hair. He kissed the back of your head and comforted you.

“Why did you come back? You didn’t even say goodbye..”

“What? What are you talking about?” He said, ripping off a strip of toilet paper and helping you clean your face.

“Do you need water? Should I get you medicine?” You heard the music downstairs start up again and you held your knees, groaning. You stomach was pulsing and you just wanted it to stop.

“I’ll drink water from the tap..I just want this night to be over.  “  He looked down for a moment before looking up, his eyes gazing into yours.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye properly.. I had to leave. I thought you would understand..” Your heart felt like a sharp piece of glass rubbed against it. He smoothed the hair out of your face and kissed your forehead. “Jagiya…”

You cried more, your face feeling grimy by this point. Asking to be left alone he stood up and closed the bathroom door. You got up, walked to the shower and turned it on full blast. The hot, steamy water killed off all the bacteria and salt from your face. You began to cry harder in the bathroom and sat in the tub. You heard your phone’s ringtone, muffled by your clothes. A pulsing, throbbing pain invaded one side of your head, making you cry harder. It had been so long since you cried like this. Your body rejected every feeling you had at that moment. You couldn’t help but feel like things would get worse.

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