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flotus420 · 1 year

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supernatural selection

I wondered, “If people switched lives with mine, would they be bored?”

It felt strange to open the shop at night. The last time I had to fumble in the dark for keys to the building was when I was setting up inside for the first time. Moving in in the dead of night was the only option when I first arrived in the city. The previous landlord was leaving the country - something about having to get out before anyone could tell he was gone - and handed me the keys just before the taxi arrived, ushering him to his redeye flight out of town. Sketchy guy, but it made for cheap fixed rent. Admittedly, the mysterious air of that brief interaction made me feel vindicated. The powers that be certainly had a role in the convenient fate of the shop’s previous tenant. The energy was on my side here; I could shape up this dusty ex-pizza parlor into the alluring storefront of the fortune telling business I had so recently established.

And I did. Thrift stores, arts and crafts sales, and community generosity helped me piece together the beaded-curtain clad space of my visions.

I really just wanted to help people understand themselves better. Therapy is expensive, but words are powerful. The least I could do for humanity and the most I could do without a college degree was give people a peek into their extended future, and suggestions about tools to prepare them for it.

This client was new. I hadn’t read her before. On the phone, the client sounded young. I couldn’t tell if the client was nervous - intuition doesn’t kick in until you can read the energy of the person in the room with you - but the client spoke fast. Perhaps with a sense of urgency, or maybe between appointments was when the client called. I had been thinking about myself when my phone rang in my pocket. I had been thinking, “If people switched lives with mine, would they be bored?” The depressive trail of thought was interrupted by the vibrations against my side, and a new tangent became the main path.

“Is this Psychic on Stout?”, asked the potential client. “I want a reading from you”

The potential client became the client shortly thereafter. She didn’t ask any questions.

The client had requested to meet that same evening, much later than I typically advertised my business hours. I said I didn’t mind scheduling her then, but the client’s request felt more certain of the adjustment being possible. Almost like a demand. Business is running slow right now, so I should feel grateful for the appointment at all. That was my attempt at smothering my microscopic annoyance towards the new client’s subtle impoliteness.

I was reminded of that moment earlier in the day as my keys turned in the lock to the shop. I brushed past the curtain of amethyst beads and, in entering my studio, moved past the previous thought entirely. In the fifteen minutes before the client was scheduled to arrive, I lit some pillar candles and put on an ambient synth CD. The CD player sat behind a velvet room divider, which also sectioned off the portion of the studio that housed my coat rack, aura-cleansing table, and mini fridge. Looking at the aura-cleansing table and the disorganized shelf of crystals and oils that accompanied it reminded me that the client hadn’t specified the type of reading she wanted. Shit - Do I have time to clean this up before she comes?

For the second time that day, my thoughts were again interrupted by the client. The delicate string of bells hanging over the front door were sent flying through the amethyst beads and into the ceiling, a harsh metallic klang announcing the client as she pushed open the front door.

“Hello? I have a 9:30 appointment?”, said the client, already inside the main room. Her energy was tangy, like an orange.

I quickly shuffled to the public side of the curtain, alerted but careful to not trip over the CD player cord.

“Hello, welcome to Psychic on Stout! Thank you for exploring your future with me.” I did my best to give a calming richness to my business voice as I hastily maneuvered between the curtain breaks. “I’ve just been tidying up. I’m glad you found the address without issue, some people forget it’s a one-way street out front.” I smiled warmly before even seeing the client. I noticed that the client was much taller than the average woman; I had to crane my neck slightly to make eye contact. The client was beautiful. She had on a large round pair of plastic sunglasses. They were a gradient between orange and purple, but they were transparent enough to see that she had a favorable bone structure. Funny accessory for this late at night, but I appreciate the aesthetic.

The client curled her lips into a wriggly smile, like a string twisted so many times that it coils over on itself. “Okay.” said the client sweetly. I found the sentiment bitter - like a hard, unripe peach. She really didn’t care. I actively reminded myself to not count this as micro-strike two.

“What’s your name?” “Don’t you already know?”

I grimaced. “I don’t know everything about you - at least not yet” I joked.

Without reacting, I pulled out a plush velvet seat positioned at one of the long ends of the table in the center of the room. “Have a seat here. May I ask how you heard of me?”

The client sat. “Friend of a friend” through the same coiled expression. Botox? Or is this how her face always looks? Perhaps I was less adjusted to the city than i thought.

“I’m glad to hear that. What draws you to a psychic reading so late?”

“I heard it was fun, I need a few good affirmations before bed.”

I couldn't discern how much of that statement was a joke. I had a fear of clients who panicked at the less savory news. “It’s hard to say what ‘good’ news comes right away,” I said . I then asked the question I asked all clients, though this time I truly felt it needed to be said: “Do I have your permission to tell you everything I see, good and bad? I’ll do my best.”

The client squinted her eyes and made what looked like an effort to give a smile of affirmation, as if she had just heard another piece of information she didn’t care much for but owed a reply.

“I noticed that you did not specify the type of reading you wanted over the phone. Would you like me to go over my services?”

The client asked for the cards - “the ones that rhyme with carrot, or whatever”.

Fair enough, thought I . My small relief that the back room could remain disheveled had overpowered my annoyance at the client’s pronunciation.

“That is my specialty.”

I asked the client to remove her purse from the table and, after the client did, began shuffling the deck of cards that sat atop it.

The Fortune Teller felt the energy of the room. She breathed in the scent of the client and the candles and the musk that settles over a deck of well-loved cards. She felt the temperature of the room, the subtle shifts of the client in her seat, and read the connection my intuition was forming with the human across from me. The body knows the truth; the cards provide the language - at least, that’s what Wiki-How said. Regardless of my sources of training, she was good at what she did and she knew it.

Each reading tells a different story, but every client that had experienced my services so far had been grateful. In turn, she felt lucky to help provide and experience a shift in perspective alongside them.

The breathing of both women and the shuffling of the cards layered a blanket of white noise over the ambient music. I was in tune with the energy of the woman in front of me and, one by one, I laid out the cards.

“Um… does that one say Death?”

The client pointed her finger at the Death card, which laid upright in the center of the card formation. I shuddered - she did not like others touching her deck. At least it’s only her acrylic nail, I thought, though I was not much more relieved.

“The cards are mostly symbolic. It’s not a determinant of mortality, per say. The Death card can be one of the most positive cards in the deck.” The client remained tense. I sensed a tremble in her outstretched hand; a waver in her confidence that the card really did bring an omen. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ve been doing this for 5 years. You have nothing to fear - at the end of the day the outcome of my premonitions relies on you.

Let’s start with family. An older figure in your life - they appear maternal - may be entering a period of difficulty in their health. Surgery may be on the table…” I furrowed my brows and searched within my connection to the woman. When she found it, I gave a small sigh of relief. “I’m not getting any complications… but now is the time to be supportive and strengthen your communication with this person.”

The client’s eyebrows furrowed as well. For a moment, her mouth relaxed, and the client seemed to be in deep thought. The moment was short lived, and the client quickly broke the silence. “I thought this reading was about me?”

A tart cherry. This client had an energy like a tart cherry. Thick meat and a hard pit within. “This is about you”, I responded, “Everything and everyone around you is interconnected. This figure - whoever she is - might be a relationship that you have been neglecting,” she gestured to the reversed Empress card on the table, “and an opportunity is opening up to heal. For both of you.”

My empathetic smile (practiced, sure, but true) was reflected back to me in the distortion of the woman’s sunglasses.

“Um… sure. What else?”

“Well… I’m seeing that starting over is a theme for you right now. In your love life, you have taken the backseat for the last… wow, two years. Is that right?” “I thought you were telling me?”

She knew it wasn’t, but it felt personal. “Well, what do you want me to say? I’m just here to read the cards.” I my tongue, hoping the milligram of venom that made its way out with those words was benign.

The client didn’t respond. She folded her arms, signaling to I that she received the venom, but would ignore it. I ’s heart rate increased, but she continued:

“Your previous partners… they made you feel small, but they also made you feel comfortable. It may be a generational pattern, but the Ace of Wands right here… it's telling me that you are in the drivers’ seat. You are in the right position to break this pattern in the coming months and-”

“Months? What about right now?” The client’s hands gripped the table and she leaned towards me mockingly. I felt winded - she just couldn’t connect with this woman.

“Miss, please. I’m just reading the cards. Am I right? If I’m on the wrong track, please just say so.” “Just tell me what’s going to happen now!”

“That’s not something I can do - not exactly.”

A lemon now. The woman’s face puckered, sour. Her glasses nearly slid off her nose. She grunted with frustration and rose from the chair, almost knocking it over. Her height and her demeanor frightened me. She tugged her purse over her shoulder and aggressively fisted it, removing a crumpled twenty dollar bill and tossing it on the table. “Thanks.”

I remained seated, processing the shock that this client on this evening brought upon me. I felt an angry knot form in my stomach. I was afraid that this woman would be quick to type a negative review and decrease the already slow influx of new clients. As fast as she can type with those plastic nails, anyway. I felt personally attacked, though this woman didn’t know a thing about me. I put myself out there, I give them my all - and nothing! What do I get in return? Most of all, I felt grief for the woman. I could not sense exactly why, but I could tell when a soul was in pain, desperate for answers no mortal being could give. I was so deep in the spiral of mixed emotions that I didn’t hear the front door open and shut.

That was short lived as, for the third time that day, the client interrupted my thoughts. Over the course of a few seconds, the volume of tires screeching increased outside, leading into a shattering of glass that punctured the ambient synth music of the shop. The building shook violently. Vibrations rumbled the room from the front corner of the shop, where the string of doorbells and amethyst beads now lay on the floor, draped over the twitching body of the client who had been attempting to cross the one-way street. I had an answer to my question.

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harrison-abbott · 2 years

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DRUMMER

“You seen Drummer around?” I asked the kids.

They were perched on their bikes on the road, drinking juice in the dark. They giggled.

“Yeah, we seen him,” one of them said.

“When?”

“Hours ago.”

“Where?”

“Over there in the park. Drummer’s gone crazy again.”

“Again?” the other boy interjected. “Drummer never stopped being loopy.”

And they both laughed again.

“What do you mean?”

“He had his gun on him again.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“No, he was just walking across the park with his shotgun.”

“Drummer say anything to you?”

“Not a word.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Down into the fields. Who knows? Why you looking for him anyway?”

“I just wanna know.”

“But why?”

“Worried about him.”

“A psycho like him? He belongs in a cell. Why waste your time. You go near him now he’ll probably take a pop at you.”

“Not with me.”

The boy shrugged and then they both zipped their juice bottles up and cycled away.

It was hot and around ten at night. August, so the sun was already down … the month of August especially seemed to hold a midsummer zeal to it, a hushed heat that no other month could own.

I walked across the park and down to the fields and I kept walking.

Must find him. Drummer. I can’t let him go off on another tangent, let him disappear again. He’s not a threat to other people. He has never hurt anybody else; aside from me. But only because I fret about him. What he could do.

I knew the fields well. The paths through them, and knew that Drummer liked them also. I’d take walks here when I was a kid and see him. He’d stop and say hello with his crimson face and greasy hair.

Lots of folks said he was nuts but I never saw him that way. Found him entertaining.

I caught a whiff of woodsmoke. Brilliant smell, a scent I always loved. Came from the woods to the west … so I trundled down the hill towards them. Their dark presence extending as I did so.

On the hillside were many rabbit holes all rubbled up. I wondered what the rabbits looked like underground, whether my boots were loud and booming above them … yeah, probably – the noise of my boots must be terrifying to them.

“Cooooo – hawwww!” there was a human noise. Which made me flinch in the gloom. I jumped. Then paused.

That was a man that made that noise. Drummer. He was calling out, from the woods.

I forgot to ask the kids earlier if he was drunk as well when they saw him with the shotgun. Of course he was.

Then there was this “hahahahahah” which echoed around the trees, wavering, swirling.

“Drummer!” I called. I put my palms in a cup around my mouth, lifted my head, and called, “Drummer! It’s me, Paulie. Where are you?”

Then I heard my words ricochet around the landscape and their echoes frightened me. I waited until they died. Then for Drummer to respond.

And in the hush thereafter I wanted to call out again, because he wasn’t going to cry back … but I didn’t want to break the silence. So I continued down the hill.

Orange.

A glorious orange bobble through the trees, as I came to the woods. Firelight. Unmistakeable, and the tangy woodsmoke got stronger in the nose and then there were waves of physical smoke too.

The fire was quite distant from me. I got into the trees (pines, these stalky, heady affairs). And through their stalks the fiery bobble glimmered and nagged.

I felt quite icily like a child again. You know, that tantalising feeling wherein wonder overwhelms your sentience – the way that kids experience the planet. Following this light in the forest.

“Drummer,” I called out. My voice was feeble. So I raised it a few decibels. “Drummer. It’s Paulie. Is that you?”

BANG.

I flattened.

Hit the floor. And stayed there on the ground. For ten seconds I thought I had been shot. Then for another minute I thought that Drummer had tried to shoot at me. I wondered whether he was trying to aim at me in the woods. So I didn’t want to stand up again unless he saw me and fired.

And for a long, long while I didn’t do anything. Nothing changed.

I stood up.

There was only the firelight between the pines again and I edged closer and closer.

Then a shape appeared before the fire circle.

It was lain back, back on the dead brown needles. Drummer’s body. I could see his legs from my front angle. He’d shot himself in the head and I could see the butt of the shotgun, and the upper half of his body was beyond the firelight, and I didn’t want to go closer.

Beside the fire, which was burning handsomely, in control, was an empty whisky bottle.

I took out my phone.

It didn’t have reception. I’d forgotten that this was often an issue in these fields. If you walked too far down.

So I walked back the way I’d come. Up past the rabbit holes and I kept going until I got a single bar on my reception radar. And called for the authorities.

And this woman with a clean voice spoke to me.

“Police, please,” I answered because I thought that was the best one.

“What’s your situation?”

“My friend isn’t alive anymore.”

“Who is your friend?”

“Drummer …” and then I apologised and told her his real name.

He had the nickname Drummer because he was forever tapping on stuff; whenever he did anything, wherever he went. He always tapped his fingers and feet about. As if there were music in his mind constantly.

But the irony was that he couldn’t keep a beat. He had no timing. Loved music but he just couldn’t concentrate on a tempo. And got bullied ferociously for it. Just as any athlete who longs to be famous. Or anybody else.

It was a mean nickname. Everybody called him it.

#short story #fiction #blog story

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bookblr-simblr-sadblr · 2 years

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first thoughts upon starting to watch Charmed (2018) being “aren’t there supposed to be 3 of you” though I guess I did read I should go into this viewing it as a standalone series

I recall growing up with the original and well... that series was something. I got some of the DVDs from when the local rental store closed ages ago. I no longer have anything to play DVDs on so no I’m not rewatching that.

...I have a feeling some parts probably have not aged well.

Anyway oh dear, time to keep watching. More watchy watchy less tangent tangy

#charmed 2018 #charmed 2018 spoilers

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sweetertangerine · 2 years

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SO. THE BEST VILLAIN IN HLVRV IS CAPITAL M AND HERE'S WHY: A mini ramble Warning: very biased/based on personal interpretation

So. First, I want to talk about everything that this. Character? Self insert? Both? I want to talk about them on their own first, then expand. So, from what we know, Capital M is a villain capable of multiversal travel. They have top of the line technology, and a vast knowledge OF the multiverse. They're kinda lonely, but find company and comfort in their hobbies and their robots. They like to make jokes, and generally just have a good time. They believe that negative experiences can turn someone into something amazing (and usually evil which is totally epic.) These are things we can gather purely from their character interactions, and what they tell us. They don't totally know what they're doing, ofc. At certain points, they're kinda wingin' it. Fuckin around and finding out. And when they appear, you know shit's about to either get really funny or really interesting. Great villain, right? Here's the thing. They only get better when you actually take into account their actions in episode 2. They fooled everyone. We thought they were McDonald's Barney for the longest time. We were all convinced it was Barney. They did this ON PURPOSE. They were AWARE of the events of Episode 1 and In Dreams. They KNEW how to get us, and in a way, Malcom, to trust them. They KIDNAPPED anyone who could mess with the anomaly. They even made the Neo recording to screw with Swap. This is all preplanned, well thought out stuff. Stuff they either had to methodically plan out, or do on the fly. Either way, it was GENIUS. They purposely went out of their way to, in some form, keep Malcom and the Gordons somewhat distant from each other. Malcom was too busy focusing on THEM to realize that he was kinda just. Letting the Gordons do their own thing. It let them get BORED. Let me remind you that Malcom was an unforeseeable obstacle. The Evil legit says that they thought Malcom would count as a Gordon. Malcom's intervention was unexpected, and they handled the unexpected better than any other villain seemed to tbh. When they snatched the Gordons? They didn't force the guys onto the ship. It was an invitation. And with the time they'd kept Malcom busy, he didn't really rebuild any bonds. So, they had no real reason to stay with him. Especially not Swap. Which circles back to the Neo voice decoy which was just. MWAH. These are their villainous actions in the FIRST HALF of episode 2.

Have I mentioned that they have a giant fuck you robot? Have I mentioned that their ship IS the giant fuck you robot??? No??? IT IS. IT IS AND THE IMAGE OF THEIR GIANT FUCK YOU ROBOT GETTIN' READY TO KICK SOME ASS MADE ME SET MY PHONE DOWN AND TAKE A MINUTE.

Now. Let's talk about 2 characters that, to ME, are important to realizing a few things about Capital M.

First. Malcom. You all saw this one coming.

Malcom is the player from Mothra's worldstop au. Malcom, when we meet and read about him at first, is a dude who's alone and bitter. We find out that he didn't know the AI were. Well. ALIVE. He's not a bad PERSON. He did bad things, but he's capable of remorse.

Capital M says he would've become like them, if Malcom would've stayed on the same course. And it's true. It's why Malcom sees the good in Capital M. Good that he had a hard time seeing in himself.

Because Capital M is a good person. A person who doesn't actively want to HURT people. They do bad things, but that doesn't make them a bad person. It makes them a villain.

"But Tangy, wdym they don't wanna hurt people" you may be wondering. After all, look at what they did. And I present to you the fact that they actively avoided hurting anyone unnecessarily. Yes. They emotionally hurt people. But only when they had to, for the sake of their plan.

They didn't hurt Neo to get that audio recording. They didn't hurt Malcom, or the Gordons when backed into a corner.

And they didn't unnecessarily hurt the second character I wanna talk about. Leading Light.

Leading Light escaped his room every chance he got. And Capital M? Didn't like. Beat him up or anything. Hell, they stop trying to keep LL in his room by the end of it. And they clearly find LL annoying, yet stay in his company.

I know what you're about to assume. That I'm gonna go into some mopey talk about loneliness and putting up with someone just to stave off said loneliness.

But no.

Their tolerance of LL as a frenemy is proof of the thing that puts them above EVERY other villain.

LL is entertaining. And they're invested in these characters, and this story, for the same reasons some of us are. For the comfort. To feel less lonely. To feel related to. To be.

Entertained.

Capital M is complex, and deep, and absolutely interesting. But what we know 100% surely, is that they came into this for the same reason we did. To be entertained. Immersed. To be a part of the story. Their motives can be seen in so many different ways, and different lights, and you can see them as a good person or a villain or both and.

Yes, they emotionally hurt people. That's bad. But so did we. Not all of us, but some of us, actively antagonized characters. Went out of our way to upset and hurt them. Think about what created Loverboy back in Y2KVR. That was US. We aren't bad people for it. Because, to many of us, they're fictional. We're just playing around. Being entertained.

We are Malcom. We are Capital M.

Capital M travels the multiverse and studies it. They see these characters and iterations similar to how we do. As characters. Yet when the characters start to show emotion, and fight back? When they show the possibility of wanting to befriend them? M retreats. Because getting to know these iterations would mean accepting that they can feel, and care. A similar revelation to Malcom.

The other main villains are good. They're interesting and entertaining. But Capital M is The Best Villain, just like how Loverboy is the most underestimated.

Keep in mind that a lot of this is just. Purely my interpretation of events and implications Even without the character analysis, their actions and general personality is awesome. Plus they have a giant robot. Have I mentioned the giant robot.

#tangy tangent

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pine-abble · 3 years

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to the tune of “why just look at those peculiarrr markingss....”

(half life scientist voice) Hmmm just smell that tangent scent....

, pine talks

#GOD i KNOW thats not how tangent is used at ALL #I KNOW what tamgent means #my brain just wont shut up abt this #tangy + pungent = tangent #i got this thought in my head #and now it plays on loop #its the uhh #adhd #el oh el #do u smell it??#pine talks

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imtheasssniffer · 4 years

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Staying Home

Trent looked back at you annoyed. You’ve been complaining to him about his stench for the past four days. He hadn’t showered in nearly two weeks, and what made it worse was the fact that Trent worked out everyday, and he always built up a sweat. He didn’t even change his underwear. You loved his musk, but it was getting to be too much. You couldn’t even cuddle with him without gagging at the aroma his body had produced. He’d invite you to bed with him, and as he raised his arms to wrap around you the entire room would fill with his sweaty musk.

You had just gone on another tangent about hygiene, and how he needed to shower, but he just looked back at you with angry eyes. That slowly melted into a smug cockiness.

“Oh you think I smell bad babe?” He asked sarcastically. Slowly balling up his fist and walking towards you.

“Yeah. I can’t even handle it and that’s saying a lot,” you replied getting annoyed as well.

“That is saying a lot seeming as your the one who loves me, and my scent.” Trent stood over you, as you just layed on the bed. You could smell his dick already.

“Your scent is sexy. Don’t get me wrong, but this is borderline toxic.”

“Ah I see,” he said finally. Just before grabbing your head, and roughly shoving it into his balls.

“Babe what the fu-mmmmpph,” you tried to retaliate, but couldn’t due to his semi flaccid bulge rubbing against your mouth.

“Ahhh,” he moaned. Swinging his leg over you and straddling your face. He began to rub your face in his taint. Soaking your face in a painful, yet exhilarating musk that was so strong.

“Oh, if you wanna love me. You gotta love the stink,” he moaned, as he rubbed your face more furiously in his taint. The tangy and sweaty scent of his balls and taint were all you could experience. They completely overpowered your senses. The smell made you feel lightheaded like you were sniffing chemicals, but your dick was having a hay day.

The smell slowly got shittier, as he pushed his ass on your face. At this point he stood over you again. You layed in between his legs staring up at him. He had an obvious bulge, and it blocked your vision of his eyes. You whimpered and that caused a laugh to erupt from him.

“Oh your fucked man.” He turned around, and started lowering his ass towards your face. As he squatted. You could see a brown spot around where his hole was. You went to scream, but it was too late. His ass finished it’s descent on your face. This made you regret the decision to open your mouth, because all you could taste was sweat and shit. You began to scream, but his fat, thick, glorious ass muffled the screams. Next you tried slapping his thighs, but he retaliated, by grabbing your arms, and using them to pull you deeper in his ass. There was no winning for you. You had to except it. And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse,

BbBbBbbRrRrRPpPpTTt

“Ohh yeah,” he chuckled. “How’d that taste. C’mon bitch inhale my gas.” The 7 second blast tasted toxic. It made the shitty smell of his underwear shittier. You could feel it in your mouth, but you didn’t want to swallow it. It’s scent was so strong it almost felt like it was burning your taste buds. Trent began to rub his ass into your face. Truly saturating your face in his ass. He then stood up again. You tried to get out of the bed, but his disgusting feet. Kept you trapped underneath him. You began to plead, but he just ignored you. Trent was busy taking off his briefs. He made sure he did it slowly. Making a show out of it. He pushed them down to his ankles, so they were resting on your chest, and then he sat down again. You weren’t sure if he did it on purpose, but your nose went perfectly in his hole. The grime from the deep caverns of his ass covered your face. All you could feel was the sweat and funk that covered his ass.You felt him shift as he got the underwear off his feet. Thus just causing more ass gunk to cover your face. He sat up again, on his knees. Keeping his ass close to your face. You could feel it’s warmth radiating towards you.

“Open your mouth,” he said

“No,” you replied zealously.

“Listen, if you don’t open your mouth. I won’t shower ‘til I leave the apartment, and this can become a daily thing.” The thought terrified you, but you just replied.

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Fine we’ll do it the hard way,” he said before lowering his ass on your face again. Lining his hole up with your nose once more.

PpPppHHHHhrRrrRBbBbTtT

He let out a 12 second fart that sputtered against your face. It was so rancid. Your eyes began tearing up. After a couple of seconds of trapping it between his ass and your face. Trent sat up again. You began to gasp for air, and that’s when he struck. He stuffed his briefs in your mouth. They were moist, and felt warm. The tasted of must and sweat. But you couldn’t spit them out, because as soon as he shoved them in your mouth he sat back down. You tried to push them out of your mouth, but the more you tried. The more flavors were released. You could taste the sweet taste of cum, as well as the crust of where it had resided in his underwear. Not to mention the skid mark that lined his crack.

bbBbBrRrRrRAAaPpPTt

As you were distracted by the truly horrid taste of his briefs. Trent released a fart that caught you by surprise. The 8 second fart was warm and putrid. Smelling distinctly shittier than any of his other farts. It’s release caused you to cough into his ass. Which was very difficult due to the briefs that filled your mouth.

“Yeahh,” he moaned. As he rubbed your face up and down his crack.

You could feel all his sweat collect on your face. After he rubbed your face. He stood up and let out a satisfying moan as your face fell out of his ass. He then looked down at your face.

“Oh. You need to take a shower babe.”

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bottleofspilledink · 4 years

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God’s Watching, Put on a Show || Chapter XII

Eve arrived at school at exactly seven in the morning, a whole hour before class was supposed to start. She had gotten there in record time too, legs sore with how eager she was to leave the house.

You see, Eve had miscalculated her father’s arrival.

Severely.

Rather than arriving as she had slept, he walked through the door just in time for breakfast. Shirt crumpled, hair ruffled, a sated look in his brown eyes. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. They were too tired for that. Yes, long gone was the happy couple trying to make it all work. In their place, the shell of who they once were, wilting husks with only overwhelming sadness and a want for temporary pleasure filling it.

Breakfast was somehow worse than dinner. Far from suffocating, she felt as if she were choking despite how well she chewed her serving of eggs. The dining room, already nowhere near welcoming before, seemed to taint everything in it, the sour mood permeating it seeping into her orange juice, making it taste as if it had gone bad weeks ago. (It hadn’t, though. She even helped her mother load groceries into the refrigerator. The juice had been there for no more than two days.)

Eve sat on that on a wooden courtyard bench, the very same one she sat on just eleven days ago, legs sore from how fast she pedaled, aching almost as much as she ached to get out of that horrid hou-

“Shut up.” Her mind echoed. It was painful, how hard she hard to try to stop herself from saying things she shouldn’t, from doing things she shouldn’t. “You should be grateful you even have a family. You know how people here feel about broken homes and single moms…”

“Eve!” Elizabeth came up from behind her, slender arms wrapping around her in a hug. She was in a good mood, giggling behind her manicured hands, cheeks tinted the signature pink of love – or simply infatuation. It was hard to tell, really, if your friend truly loved a man when you yourself were incapable of such things, try as she might, no matter how hard she forced herself to.

Nothing came of it. Nothing would ever come of it.

“So, I’m assuming you had a fun night?”

Just because Eve didn’t understand what was so thrilling about kissing boys and all that came after it, didn’t mean she wouldn’t listen to Elizabeth’s excited ramblings of it. She knew what was expected of her. One day, hopefully not one day soon, she would find a boy she could tolerate, a decent one she would at least come to love as a friend; she would marry him and lie with him, as a good wife does and bear his children.

And she would tolerate it.

Just because she was like Lilith, didn’t mean she had to act like her, didn’t mean she had to act on what she felt for her.

“Not just a night!” Elizabeth’s dark eyes twinkled, gesturing wildly and almost obscenely with her hands. “I was with him every night during the weekend and Monday night. I got Mary to vouch for me so we could go out.”

“Out?”

The brunette nodded, clearly deliberate in stating that they went out in order to say: “He just got his driver’s license so we went out on his motorcycle to celebrate!”

“Motorcycle?” Eve perked up, pleasantly surprised her friend wasn’t here to brag about her sex life and the fact that Zachariah could drive. (Really, the last thing she needed was a detailed description of a blowjob, especially considering that her breakfast wasn’t sitting right with her, though that may just be her lingering dread speaking.)

“Yup! Since he’ll be on a scholarship for college next year, he convinced his parents to let him use the money they set aside for it to buy a bike.”

She went on about the boy and the places he’d taken her, a genuine joy in her every motion, in her every word, excitement clear to all who would lay eyes on her.

Oh, Eve could feel her happiness, potent, so close yet completely unattainable to the likes of her. That wasn’t a new realization, not by any means, no, but God, it was different this time; a bitter bile rising in her, leaving the taste of acid and envy and a sorrow not unlike that of resignment, of loss.

But between Elizabeth’s giggles and how nice the boy seemed to be, the taste would soon fade into a sweet sugar cookie sort of fondness.

Only a hint of that resignment remained, a tangy, rotten after taste.

...

Unlike the first day of their newly implemented schedule, today was not so tense.

Rather, the two girls sat next to each other, not even a ruler’s length apart, not tense but tenuous both of them lost in a labyrinth of thoughts and drowning in a sea of emotions either too scary to name or too muddled to be sure of, everything mixing and melding and melting like a soup with a certain ingredient you couldn’t quite place.

The memory of yesterday was burned into their minds, playing again and again on an endless loop for reasons they dare not say, the same words spoken and heard from slightly different perspectives with slightly different thoughts accompanying it.

For Lilith, yesterday was a sign of hope for Eve. She was willing to disobey, allowing herself the occasional indulgence with a bit of coaxing. All Eve needed was a nudge, a gentle push in the right direction. The redhead could imagine it quite vividly, the girl standing before her mother, letting lies slip from her lips, pretending to have been forced into a place of opposition she so evidently wanted to be in. Eve hadn’t even tried to hide the fact that her mother was the only thing keeping her from the club, either too tired to make up an excuse or just feeling comfortable enough to open up about it to her.

For Eve, yesterday was the end of playing dumb, the end of turning a blind eye to her own desires and the undeniable humanity of people… like Lilith. She could hardly believe all that had happened despite it being so clear in her head. Between what see had seen in the locker room and what had happened over lunch and the things she’d willingly done during club time… it was all too much.

Yesterday was the end of life as she knew it. Or rather, it was the beginning of the end.

After all, progress took time and it was by no means linear. Especially not during matters of this nature.

“So what did your mom say?” Lilith said. She was trying to separate what she felt for that woman from her voice, and she was doing well, disdain for her considered. Really, fussing over every little detail of her daughter was one thing but the fact that the concern she displayed was not for said daughter but for her future husband was something she couldn’t forgive. Still, she kept her language plain and her tone neutral. Most people didn’t take kindly to other’s insulting their mothers.

“Oh, I haven’t told her.” The way Eve’s voice trembled when she said that “oh” sent arrows through her heart, the dread palpable and utterly unnerving. “She hasn’t asked yet and I didn’t have a good time to bring it up so I’ll just wait for her to say something. Maybe she’s assuming I joined the book club again?”

A lie by omission was better than an outright one but it was a lie nonetheless and the guilt of it didn’t do much to ease the girl’s tension, though the fact that she would be able to avoid that conversation for a while longer did.

“Speaking of books,” Lilith coughed, deciding to change the topic before Eve withdrew into her mind “what did you guys do in that club? Just read all day and discuss books? Is there even anything good in that library?”

“Well, most of it is theology and reference books, yeah, but those can be good! There are a few volumes of Sherlock Holmes near the history section! It’s not a complete collection at all but definitely better than nothing.”

She could already feel the dopey grin making it’s way onto her face. In the short amount of time they’ve known each other, Lilith would be hard pressed to find a time Eve had been this happy about anything. Unbridled joy was a good look on everyone. The gleam in their eyes that only came from a genuine liking for something, the way they’d gesticulate, unable to contain all their passion.

Granted, Eve didn’t gesture so much as flap her hands about, but while joy looked good on everyone, it also looked different in everyone and Lilith found this eccentricity of hers adorable to no small degree.

“They have Phantom of the Opera tucked away somewhere near this compilation of Edgar Allan Poe I’ve been able to read a few times. A bit macabre but still good! Oh, you know they have books on gardening, too! I can show you next time we go and you can check out one or two if you want! The ones on herbs was fun but I think you’ll find the one on flower language an interesting read. It’s not exactly about gardening, but still. Did you know that the way you tied a bouquet could completely change the meaning of all the flowers you were trying to send?”

She spoke in a mix of short, rapid-fire sentences and long-winded rants, switching with no real pattern, rambling and occasionally straying to go on a tangent about a specific book or mention something about gardening, none of which Lilith understood, being unable to name any flowers by appearance other than rose, daisy, and sunflower, though she listened eagerly nonetheless.

“But back to books! Near the back, just by the cookbook – oh, and um, don’t tell anyone but –” Eve scooted her wooden chair across the wooden floor, mindlessly brushing Lilith’s hair back, placing her lip just two centimeters scant of her ear. “There are books hidden there, by older girls, I think. Ones that graduated a really long time ago.”

Eve’s ivory-like hands cupped the small space around Lilith’s ear, shielding their words from any listening ears, anything that happened behind her hands hidden from prying eyes. In the midst of her whispering, she realized she could kiss Lilith; a gentle peck on the shell of her ear. No one needed to know. Just a quick press of the lips, it wouldn’t take longer than a second… or two.

And though she ignored the impulse, the thought lingered.

“Love poems and romance novels. I’m pretty sure they wrote it all themselves. Two of them are just a bunch of papers with holes punched in the side tied together by string, no cover. Technically more manuscript than book but you know what I mean. The others are leather bound journals, hand-written.”

“No kidding?” The other asked, hushed, nothing anyone further than Eve would catch. She didn’t dare say it louder, both unwilling to let anyone eavesdrop on them and scared that the excessive movement of her jaw would lead Eve farther from her.

“Nope, they’re there.” She pulled away from the girl’s ear but didn’t bother to move her seat back to where it was, their legs pressed together beneath the table they shared. “I haven’t been able to read much of any of them cause I’m scared I’ll get too absorbed to notice anyone walking past but their poems are really good! I can show you sometime, along with the gardening books.”

“We can go there later, during lunch. I’ll keep watch for while you read.”

The offer turned the girl’s waning grin into a megawatt smile, dimpled and rosy cheeked, she looked like a Raphaelite painting, a masterpiece.

“Really?”

“Sure! I’m always up for a bit of casual disobedience.” She replied with a wink and a deep chuckle, using amusement as a cover for endearment.

“Holy cow, thank you so much! But I’m pretty sure we’re not actually breaking any rules, I–”

Smack!

“Everyone bring out your composition notebook! We’re going to use the rest of homeroom to learn how to read sheet music before proceeding to the music room so if you want to fool around on the piano you’d best master this quickly.”

With that, Eve jerked away from Lilith, bringing her chair along with her and causing a loud, grating noise to make it’s way through the now silent room, every head whipping around to face them, the eyes now bearing into them, mostly shocked, some irritated, with one judgmental look from the front, from Sister Bernadette.

“No movement of chairs unless otherwise stated!”

“But-”

“Put the seat back where it was immediately or get detention!”

Lilith then pulled the girl down into her seat, cutting off another protest and brought the seat back to where it was before the nun entered, effectively ridding all the space between them.

Only when the woman turned to face the blackboard did she whisper to Eve: “Don’t argue, even if they’re wrong. They’ll just call it disrespectful and send you to the principal’s.”

“Oh… I’m sorry, I’m just not used to getting yelled at here so I wasn’t sure about– I didn’t know what to do. Sorry, again…”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it.” She gave the blonde a teasing jab along with a soft smile, looking at the girl only from the corner of her sky blue eye so as not to invoke the further ire of the clearly on-edge teacher. “’Sides, the jokes on them. They’re still wrong and we get to stay like this. That’s a win-win if I’ve ever seen one, yeah?”

Eve huffed, a small laugh, in part a sort of thanks for the given consolation, in part a sort of reassurance to the other that she’d be okay, that she’d bounce back.

“Yeah.”

In the end, they weren’t able to go to the music room.

...

The hours passed, only a few words passing between the girls every so often, most of it questions related to the work they were assigned. They were careful, Eve unwilling to anger any other authority figures, Lilith trying to fly under the radar, admittedly rather afraid of being called into Mother Cecilia’s office over even trivial matters, knowing it would lead to yet another interrogation regarding the fire.

But finally, the lunch bell rang, granting them freedom and the ability to be enthusiastic without repercussion. (As long as they weren’t too noisy, of course.) All the anticipation and excitement led to Eve shooting out of her chair and practically sprinting to the library, books shoved haphazardly into her book bag as Lilith followed not too far behind her, pleasantly surprised at her actions, though with more emphasis on the pleasant and not so much on the surprised.

“It’s right this way,” The blonde said, not bothering to drop her bag down in her usual seat as they ventured deeper into the library.

Eventually, they reached the deepest, mustiest park of the library, all the shelves covered in a thin sheen of dust save for a single row level with their knees. The sun streaming in from the arching windows only served to accentuate how unkempt the place was, illuminating the dust particles that flew into the air when Eve took to her knees to retrieve the books she spoke so eagerly about.

“The last time I’ve been able to peek at them was a few weeks before summer, so sorry for the dust. You’re not asthmatic, right?” She pulled out a few of the recipe books, setting them aside before reaching in deeper to grab a stack of papers, bound with string, it’s outer most page containing nothing more than a title and a name. Sticking her arm in a bit more, she pulled out two leather journals, putting them down atop the manuscript before taking a few more cookbooks from the shelf and grabbing the last journal along with manuscript type book.

“Nah, I’ll be fine.”

Lilith crouched down next to her, looking at the stack Eve made. The paper ones were practically identical save for a difference in thickness while the leather-bound books varied in colour, one the usual coffee brown, the other a matte black, and the last one a fine, wine-red.

“So, how’d you find all this anyway?” The redhead asked, taking the brown book from the stack, flicking through a random page and instantly regretting it as a cloud of dust came from it, resulting in a rather violent coughing fit, Eve rushing to her and patting her back as her lungs tried to expel themselves through her mouth.

“Are you sure you’re not asthmatic?”

“Eve, I’m not sure how to break it to you, but anyone that gets hit with a face-full of dust is gonna cough a bit. I’ll live.”

“Good point.” She reached over to her bag and took a tumbler from it. “Water?”

Lilith’s fingers brushed against Eve’s as the dark green bottle switched hands, reminiscent of the brief touch they shared the first time they met, on that fateful, windy day in the courtyard.

“Thanks.”

There were a handful of things she expected to happen today, things she prepared an appropriate response for. Watching Lilith gulp down water like a dying man, seeing her throat work with every sip, eyes following the stray drops that rolled down her chin and her neck, making it’s way to the opening of her shirt before finally stopping, absorbed by the fabric that now clung to parts of her chest, was evidently not one of those things.

“T-thanks to you, too… Lilith.”

The girl in question merely raised an eyebrow and snorted.

“If you wanted to start with this book, you could’ve just said so.”

Lilith passed the book she was holding to her, instead grabbing the red one and holding it out an arm’s length away and flapping it about, effectively getting most of the dust out.

They settled into a comfortable silence after that, content to exist in the same space, unburdened by the unspoken as they read. Sock-clad legs parallel to each other, pressed flush against the flesh, they looked so similar to how they did yesterday, this morning.

Lighter, though. Somehow.

Perhaps it was the lack of looming dread, the weight of anxiety gone from Eve’s mind, for now at least. Perhaps it was the lack of fear, Lilith’s worry for Eve gone, again, if only for now.

...

As Eve went on, she became enamored by the prose, the delicate descriptions crafted from simple every day life and feelings, invested by the admittedly somewhat familiar protagonist, Nina, and her best friend, Rosalie, or as Nina would so fondly call her, Rosie.

Bit by bit, though, things were changing between them. Or maybe they haven’t changed at all and she was just blind to it. Either way though, things became different, odd, queer.

“I carded my hands through her soft, black hair just like I had so many times before. “Will you braid it for me?” She asked, lifting her head from off my lap, resting on her elbows. Not quite lying down, not quite sitting up.”

She couldn’t help but think that the first sentence implied something.

“Rosalie would get her blazer dirty, stomach pressed into the grass as she traced patterns on my lap, the fabric of my skirt shifting, spiraling. “Of course,” I couldn’t say no if I wanted to, but why would I even consider refusing her?”

The way Nina spoke about Rosalie, the way Rosalie spoke to her in turn, the affection they showed to each other, the way she would describe Rosalie in text was akin to that of love… romantic love.

Eve brushed the thoughts aside though, knowing she was probably just projecting her own perversions on the perfectly normal, heterosexual girls.

“We sat there and spoke of the future, a house deep in the woods, an aged, fat cat. Preferably a tabby. I plucked flowers, giving them a new home with her as I wove it into the braid. Call me sacrilegious but she looked like a God, of-the-earth, of me. She was my God. I’d get in trouble if I ever said that out loud. But then again, I’d get in trouble for practically everything I did with Rosie”

Alright, maybe it wasn’t just Eve.

“After finishing the braid, I took a compact mirror from my pocket. “What do you think?” She giggled, deep, brown eyes looking around at the empty field before shimmying over to me, laying a gentle kiss on my cheek. “It’s lovely. You’re lovely.” She moved once more, settling on my lap, lips trailing across my forehead, my eye, my nose, my cheek. Tease. At long last, though, her lips met mine, pressing against me with a soft passion-”

She dropped the book, hands by her head as a sort of surrender to whatever god may be watching her, judging her, face flushed, chest heaving.

Lilith looked up from her book. “You okay?”

She read that. She enjoyed that.

That knowledge was the straw that broke the camel’s still recovering back.

The guilt from yesterday and everyday before that built up in her lungs, drowning her, hastening her hellish damnation. Her thoughts were consumed by apologies and prayers and pleas for a mercy she wasn’t deserving of.

Tears fell from her face like angels from the sky, a testament to her sins, her guilt.

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Suffocating, stifling, sinful guilt.

Crashing down on her as if she was being smitten, painful and shameful and rightful guilt.

She sobbed and shook, hands over her mouth to stop herself from wailing her anguish, her agony, her guilt.

But a pair hands weren’t enough to contain everything in her and all that spilled out. Nothing was.

Whimpers escaped through the gaps of her fingers, Lilith forgetting her shock and rushing over to comfort her.

It only made her cry harder. Lilith’s touch burned.

Eve clung to her though, rising to her knees, hands clutching at Lilith’s shirt.

It was yesterday all over again.

It was worse.

She couldn’t deny what she was anymore. Every passing second made it harder to craft lies and alibis and that would be a sin too and she’d go to hell regardless.

Burying her face in the crook of Lilith’s neck in a futile attempt to silence herself, Eve could smell the sweet, apple cinnamon perfume the girl had sprayed on earlier.

The way the scent made her face flush, even with everything going on and everything she was feeling was sick.

It twisted her stomach.

She felt disgusting, sinful, wrong, guilty.

But as she sobbed and shuddered and breathed the scent in…

It twisted her stomach.

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

...

“It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay, Eve.” She whispered, soft, the words meant for one person and one person only.

Lilith wasn’t a naturally soothing person. Never in her life did she have to console someone in such a way, her friends all preferring to be distracted from their sorrows by quips and jokes. This was different, though. Eve was different.

Eve made her soft and kind to a degree she could hardly fathom. Gone was her icy exterior and harsh features, traded in for a comforting smile and gentle hands.

The girl sobbed and prayed into her shoulder, unable to hear her over muttered prayers and the sound of her own heartbeat, a frantic thump in her heaving chest.

From an outsider’s point of view, it would look like Eve was the one doing the comforting, seeming to pray over Lilith in a manner akin to that to someone being exorcised, a two-person prayer circle.

“Eve,” She whispered, gently trying to pry the girl away from her so she could talk, immediately stopping when the blonde only cried harder at the gesture. “I’m gonna need you to take deep breaths, Eve. Can you do that for me, please?”

The girl hiccupped, body wracked by sobs though clearly trying to follow.

“That’s right, just like that.”

Lilith’s spindly hands made her way up and down Eve’s back in tranquil motions.

“Wanna tell me what’s making you cry? I won’t tell anyone not even Paula and Joan.”

Eve shook her head, not even lifting her head from the crook of Lilith’s neck, her tip of her nose drawing a line from where her neck sloped down to her shoulders.

“Are you sure?”

“Yea-ah…”

Breathing still ragged, eyes still red-rimmed, cheeks still tear-stained, she pulled away from Lilith, sniveling.

“I’m s-sorry, I don’t know why I’m even crying-”

She cut the blonde off, though. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. But please don’t lie to me. You know why you’re crying. I’m not gonna make you talk about it, but you know.”

“Okay.” Eve whispered, a sort of willing surrender.

It was evident to Lilith that she wanted to talk. Shame held her back, unfortunate and burdensome. She didn’t speak, instead picking up the book from where it fell, opening to the page she had last read, finger tapping the paragraph before sliding the book across the small gap between them.

She skimmed over the paragraph and a few thereafter, finding nothing of note until she finally saw what Eve meant.

“This is what you were crying over?”

All she got in response was a nod, the girl looking to be on the brink of tears again.

“Why?”

Eve shook her head again. Her lip trembled, jutting out like a child trying their best not to cry.

“If I guess right will you tell me?”

Nothing.

“Want me to stop?”

Again, there was no reply.

“Can you tell me what you want me to do?”

A shrug of the shoulders. Nothing else.

“Do you know what you want me to do?”

She shook her head no, a few tears going with it. The only thing that left her mouth was a shaky sigh as she carded her hands through her hair. Tired. Eve looked tired. She was all that and more.

Lilith looked away from her, the pity she felt too much. There was nothing she could do. If only for a moment, she felt the degree of helplessness Eve felt, knowing she couldn’t help. It wasn’t foreign to her, helplessness. It was like seeing an old friend.

She could never bring herself to be angry or even annoyed at what was happening to Eve. Not when it’s happened to her, to Paula, to Joan, to Julia, to Colette.

Lost in thought, she was snapped back to reality as Eve dragged her closer, making her face away as the girl hugged her from behind.

Eve cried into her. It wasn’t the way she cried mere minutes ago, however. It was calmer, no hiccups or shaking. Only tears streaming down the girl’s face and soaking into Lilith’s shirt with a sniffle every once and a while.

Time passed and Lilith grew bolder, hand wandering to where Eve’s were wrapped around her stomach. Her touch was tentative, Eve’s hand treated like a fine porcelain piece.

“Is this okay?”

“No.” She said.

But she didn’t push Lilith’s away, instead opting to hold it, their fingers weaving together, slotting together as if their very flesh and bone were sculpted to be together, to intertwine, to love.

How cruel of God to craft two people for each other the turn to create a world were they were not to be.

“None of this is okay.”

______________________

Taglist: @anomiewrites @leahstypewriter @madame-ree @melpomenismask @littlemisscalamity @phillyinthebathroom @gaypeaches @extrabitterbrain @pirateofblood @i-wanna-be-a-rock

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hirokiyuu · 2 years

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miss TANGENT miss TANG tangy my LOVE my darling my BLEOVED i am OBSESSED WITH YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#in some ways i think its better for her not to date you but also. also. also. god. god. g #TANGENTTTTTTTT #teenexo stuff

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onlyhorn · 3 years

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" Eris-sama, Tanto-chan. Boku wa is going to KFC, want anythin'? "

@selftaughtsamurai || KFC?

“ K-F-C? ... “

The woman brushes some hair out of her face, offering a puzzled look to Sodom. KFC wasn’t something she was very familiar with. Being from the countryside, where a lot of food chains aren’t exactly common, Eris has only ever heard of the chain from other’s word of mouth.

Going against Eris’s clear confusion was Tanto’s excitement. The moment the chain was mentioned, the girl was already bouncing on her seat, eyes beaming with hungry excitement. She turns to the older woman and moves to shake her by the shoulder, getting her attention while she spoke.

“ It’s soooo yummy, Erika-sama! Kuku! It’s a bunch of chicken! All of it crusted up and breaded! And it has mashed potatoes, and, and, it has corns! Lots of corns! And sometimes you can get it with all these tangy sauces, and!-- “

As Tanto goes off on her tangent about KFC, Eris works on trying to steady herself as the little girl throttles her like an oversized teddy bear. Eris couldn’t help but laugh just a tad, amused at the child’s excitement, but making efforts to try to calm her down so she doesn’t end up tiring herself out before the food even arrives.

“ Just get us whatever you think we’d like, Sodo-kun. “ A hand laid upon Tanto’s head, ‘kukus’ and little chirps made as she tries to still her insistent bouncing.

#selftaughtsamurai #[🎕] Life finds a way to get better. | IC.#[🎕] Politely-answered messages. | ASKS.#[💀] The Archbishop of Despair. | MUSE : ERIS.#[🐛] Vermin of Gluttony. | MUSE : TANTO.#[🎕] Resuming Life in Another World. | (V.CROSSOVER)#( pleading emojis... )

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corkcitylibraries · 4 years

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Book Review: Nik Cohen’s Heart of the World

by Dr. Sorcha Fogarty

When the music journalist Nik Cohn told a friend that he was planning to travel around the world, he was told to change his plans. Go to Broadway instead, his friend advised, “It is the world within itself”. So, in 1975 the 25-year-old set off for the Great White Way, the nickname for the route through the Theatre District to midtown Manhattan. It took Cohn four years to complete this non-fiction collection of oral histories, and the result is a book to fall in love with. And to hate. And to love again. It’s almost like a wonderful, terrible love affair that no matter how difficult things get, you just cannot walk away. Essentially, Cohn gives us a beautiful but challenging read. Full of verve, charisma and enthusiasm, as Newsweek’s review puts it,

"The verbal energy that pours off these pages is enough to transform the hell of places like Times Square into a roughhewn heaven, neon lit and open all night. The history of Broadway has been written before but never better...Overflowing with voluble "animal spirits," it is a feast for anyone who loves good stories. The only thing wrong with it is, it isn't longer."

This book was originally published in 1992 and subsequently reissued by Penguin UK's Vintage Classics in 2019.

Born in London and spending his childhood and adolescence in Derry, when asked by one interviewer what “hooks” him, Cohn’s response was “forbidden glamour”. Indeed, on that note, Cohn’s own personal history is worth a read. In The Heart of the World, he has produced a veritable work of genius, a sort of “dark side of the moon” travel guide to the high spots and low dives of New York City. He introduces us to a variety of wonderfully phantasmagorical yet all too real characters: a golden-tongued cab driver who calls himself a “collector of farces”; a pickpocket with the terrifying gift of impersonating his marks; a heartbreakingly beautiful Dominican transvestite called Lush Life; strippers; pseudo-prophets, and a disgraced political veteran of the days when the graft was still honest. As one critic states, Cohn writes “with the manic energy of a sideshow barker and the full-blooded lyricism of a raucous poet”. The imagery, metaphors, allegories, all the typical literary devices, ceaselessly persist throughout the book, and Cohn is relentless with his use of colourful and hypnotic language. He slathers his pages with verbal condiments, tangy phrase-morsels demanding to be savored, “His hand was hairless, raw pink, the color of fresh bubblegum, with thick blue veins.” His character descriptions are picture-perfect; he describes the cab-driver’s appearance in the novel with such vivid detail that we can’t help but see him right in front of us, "bomber jacket and Hawaiian shirt, jogging pants, lumberjack boots, a buffalo-head Western belt and a small silver crucifix”.

As the novel progresses, Cohn pauses, now and then, to regale us with the well-known legends of New York history, fables of P. T. Barnum, Robert Moses, Harry K. Thaw. Digressions pile on divergences pile on tangents. To add further to Cohn’s mastery, it has been said that David Bowie, the master of Oscar Wilde’s phrase, “Talent borrows. Genius steals”, had taken some of the rock myths that had excited Cohn, and staged them in his work, particularly in the figure of Ziggy Stardust, who, it had long been rumoured, was based on Cohn’s 1967 novel about a self-destructive rock star, I Am Still the Greatest Says Johnny Angelo. On travelling to America, Cohn has said that

“it was just as if I’d been locked in a tight little box and suddenly somebody had given me the keys to the world”.

In much the same way, The Heart of the World gives the reader the keys to a technicolour otherworld, and it is impossible to think of anything else while immersed in this wonderfully strange and beautifully written novel. It is at once a hallucinogenic history, a rogues' gallery, a personal odyssey, a moody, disenchanted rant; a tale of pure beauty, and, it has also been said, “an extended love letter to a dream of New York now lost.”

Available now on BorrowBox.

#corkcitylibraries #lovereading

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t-underneaththeradardancing · 5 years

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i had goats and

it was good - actually no goats or even a go tee but if - it would b - i dont have a turntable either - thats ok i dont have any vinyl but i might someday - unlike david i do have speekerz but thats recent a cast off after i make an offhand remark about speakers for my laptop needing someday - been sayin it fer years - the next time i see her some appear - nice ones bose - the better to hear weerd sloppy guitar tones - imma use that for a while - maybe they should invent a pedal - lol

did i of course yah - we laff - a lot - sick fuck humor - we start at weird left at surreal and end absurd - self deprecation or it wood b cruel - tho sometimes its jest inanity - it might b may bee a sprinkling for the may queen (r we tawking uh water sports? btw i hav a story but it might b longish set in dallas also dont wanna go there even a mind trip) - as i wuz saying - btw did u like that tangent - was it tangy - does it take 2 2 tango really even billy idol - ahem as t wuz sayin - it might be that we done with crying for the moment cuz we cries like the sky in the time of the season - do u want it spicy - water sports t - really - it may b a new low but only on tumblr let me tell u - and 35 year ago i had much lower standards in the self restraint department - ok we get the drift now move on counselor -aye i eye yi

imma nap now

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sweetertangerine · 2 years

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tangy tangent?

Ohhhh thats such a good name I love it

But it would be long and prolly kinda boring

So, eh.

#reese's pieces #I'm stealing that for future tangents tho

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futurestop · 2 years

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Our delivery services are prompt with least TAT (Turn Around Time) till we reach your doorstep. However under unavoidable traffic challenges or vehicle breakdown or God Forbid Covid scenarios, delays may happen but we ensure to keep you updated, stay in touch strongly taking an ownership to update you with a moving or halted transit status throughout acting safe & responsible.

#futurestop #online store #online shopping #online shop

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toddlazarski · 4 years

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Chicago Pizza Invasion: Lou Malnati’s & Pizano’s

Shepherd Express

As a non-native of Milwaukee, I’ll admit, it took me a minute. Maybe two. But, yes, now, half-of-a-lifetime later, I finally hate Chicago in all the appropriate ways. It is expensive and the traffic is terrible. The showoff-y skyline prominently features a one-million-point font all-caps endorsement of the third president to ever be impeached in the United States. O’Hare feels like a teeming abattoir. R. Kelly was born there. Don’t get me started on the Bears, or the Cubs, or their fans that caravan to town with their superiority and Sandburg jerseys to take advantage of our sacred beer n’ brat tailgating culture that their sky-high Lakeview rents and urban stacking could never allow. Then there’s the way all those Illinois folk drive. And the condescension, even when—especially when—they are trying to be nice about our fair burg. If another Chicagoan, upon learning my place of residence, tells me, “Oh, Milwaukee’s actually pretty nice”, I will consider a creed of never traveling south of Kenosha.

But let's be very clear, and not only with the sober perspective of an outsider, but as an objective possessor of a rotund appetite: Chicago has far better pizza than Milwaukee.

This is no slight. Chicago has far better pizza than almost anywhere, arguably, New York and Napoli included. It’s status as a world class food city can’t be overstated. It’s allure with the lot of foodies and Food Channel devotees and Eater readers and rock star chefs looking to break through or level up with a second location is almost unparalleled. Whether you put any stock at all in such metrics is inconsequential to the summation that Chicago, in terms of food trends and tastemaking, is important. Combine this with endlessly sprawling neighborhoods of culinary diversity, a deep-rooted tavern culture, and appropriate need-to-stay-warm fortifying fare appetites, and today it has become something like pizza Mecca. They have at least three distinct, world-known styles. There is also plenty of top tier Neapolitan, Roman, New York slicery, Detroit burnt edging, even destination-worthy coal-fired offerings.

Chicago pizza is so good that you just have to cross the border, end up in a far flung suburb, like, say, Gurnee, and without even trying, be fattened and slice-sated by area micro chains (Bill’s), macro chains (Rosati’s), and weird corner joint one-offs (Wayne’s) that would put most of our best to shame. Over the past few years that same northward Chicago crust creep has continued across state lines, with two of their biggest names now available in Milwaukee: Lou Malnati’s and Pizano’s. You don’t even have to go south of Kenosha. But we do have to maybe shrug off the little brother syndrome so heavily cast by our big shouldered neighbor, and with open minds and guts and wallets, embrace it.

Lou Malnati's

Over five decades, 50-plus locations, and six-million pizzas served a year, Lou’s—as it is charmingly, colloquially known—has established itself as probably the most successful deep dish pizza operation in Chicago.

Yet, it’s the thin crust that highlights, that literally underscores, everything so lacking with so much Milwaukee-style: the crust itself is cracker thin, but there is no flop. And if ever a local politician could bridge the gap of divisive rhetoric of the day, a simple platform, put into practice, could rally even the most indifferent: we must stop the flop. Tavern style pizza—as it is known, as it originated in Chicago drinking institutions like Vito & Nick’s and the Home Run Inn, as a snack to nosh on while drinking beer, so that you would want to drink more beer—is supposed to hold up exactly like this. With a golden hue and buttery sheen finish, Lou’s thin square cut pieces have no problem maintaining integrity, structure, needing only one hand and no worry to steer all pertinent toppings at the face. You don’t even need to break concentration from the TV to eat a piece. It holds up to lazy microwaving or any more appropriate rewarming. (The latter is often, to many, painfully necessary—given the Fox Point takeout-only location).

Cheese is draped as if by a socialist mayor, blanketing, giving generously to every square inch, insulating punchy pepperoni whispers that stay warm just underneath, consistently, strategically placed like unavoidable land mines of salty, beefy Chicago stockyard flavor. The sauce is bright, mostly sweet, a bit tangy, gently herbed, and holds the whole package together in sticky harmony.

And somehow all this seems entirely unrelated to the fork or two-handed fare that made Malnati’s famous, back when it all started. Though the family tree is tangented and twisted, Lou himself took cues from his dad, Rudy, the proprietor of Pizzeria Uno when that establishment became the O.G. in the deep dish game. It is a simple formula: buttery crust, Wisconsin mozzarella, California tomatoes. Using a bed of triple rise yeast dough, everything is set into a high-sided anodized steel round pan, pushed to the edge and up the inside. There is a patented buttercrust option, with butter folded into said dough. This is obviously a good idea. As is, maybe more surprisingly, the build: dough, cheese, toppings, then sauce. The result is a package with a toothsome mouthfeel, one that is hard to stop working on, like you’re a baby that needs a parent to remind to finish the current bite before starting the next. The sauce acts as counterpoint icing. Tangy, chunky tomato ladles are liberally smacked atop in grandmotherly Sunday gravy bounty, bright enough to contrast the battering ram brunt of the hulk that will fill you up with 2 pieces, tops. But it’s actually not really so much a bomb. (Deep Dish is also not to be confused with “stuffed” pizza—the picture many conjure for the “its not pizza, it’s a quiche” argument against Chicago). It is a fairly reasonable crust, just with a lot of body, strength, a big back. This is pizza that gives a good hug, is a friend that you would ask to help you move. A warm, buttery element fills out the feel of the flaky-crust edges, end bites that have a little char, a little snap, not a small amount of grease. There’s a hint of burnt cheese crackeriness, making for a perfect slice-summating breadstick—especially if there’s topping and sauce fallout leftover for dipping.

But, really, the end of the day feel, the one your stomach logs with nostalgia to counter future sad salad lunches, is of an endless cheesiness, the thick milky gloss stretching and slopping around other slices, your tongue. Mixing with fennel-forward pinch-and-press sausage crumbles—the most appropriate Ditka-esque topping—these lustrous, smacky bites act like a marriage between our two worlds. Cheese and meat, teaming like there’s hope for an inner mouth symposium between two disparate cities.

Pizano’s

Pizano's is also in the family, so to speak, Rudy Malnati Jr. having opened his family style pizza joint in the Loop some 20 years after Lou, in the early 90's.

Rudy is Lou's half-brother, from their father’s second wife. Muddying the family tree further are offshoots like Gino’s East, whose owners hired away the original Uno cook, and Louisa’s, whose owner worked at Pizzeria Due, which was the second pizzeria opened by Uno owners Ike Sewell and Ric Riccardo, but the one that actually gave the name Uno to Uno itself. As with most 23 and Me results, drunkenly spouted at you at some Christmas-time family gathering by a relative who just took up genealogy, you'll come upon half-researched variations of all this, and then lose track. If you dig even a little bit you'll also find unsubstantiated claims that Pizano’s is Oprah's favorite pizza (it seems a clip of her referencing Chicago Magazine’s thin crust ranking has been misinterpreted and widely disseminated).

More importantly, in this, location number six and the first outside the Chicagoland area, you have a place equally known for its deep dish and for an iconic tavern-style Chicago pizza. The same sort that has been handed out at bars around Chicago for nearly a century, the same that most pizza nerds will tell you is the true “Chicago style,” the kind that most native Chicagoans seem to prefer.

There’s a bit of a wheaty, sourdough-y essence about the golden crust, which is sturdy, platform-y, just nearing hot-oven blackness. But it never interferes, acting mostly as an apt base for the chunky, sweet, bursting bright tomato sauce, and a liberal cheese coating that is cooked to a point approaching caramelization. Pepperoni, or the topping of your choice is spread unsparingly just below, almost around, this blanket, making for ideal bite ratios, and an overriding neat package, with an allowance for the cheese to shine and stretch, display it’s grease shimmers and finish winter-coat-y and thick.

As such style was intended, this is also not strictly a takeout affair. In fact, quite the opposite, as Pizano’s boldly, defiantly, staked claim in the middle of downtown. At the corner of Water and Juneau, in the red-checkered tablecloth modernized old-school bar and pizza and pasta joint, a Giannis jersey stares down one of Pippen on the wall. McGlocklin sizes up D. Rose. Urlacher eyes Jordy. I drank a Milwaukee Brewing Co. Hop Happy under an Old Style neon sign while awaiting the south-of-the-border goods.

The deep dish, whisked to your table some 30-minutes after order, in the eponymous dish itself, really relies on so many of the same pizza characteristics. In fact it’s really just like a souped-up, muscly brother. Again, not that thick, it can easily still be eaten with hands. Tomato is heaped atop cheese, inconsistently, artfully, abstractly. Fennel-flecked sausage wedges pop, whiffs of oregano abound, and a smoky earthiness from a well-seasoned, workhorse pan lingers. Cheese is double-layered, stretchy, soft but holding firm to its crust bed, lending an overwhelming profile, the heaviness just offset by acidic zest of chunky tomato brightness. Still, for the gut, it is a bit of a load: there’s an elaborate inch wall around, protecting, maintaining, like a futuristic police state rich person home security system. Truthfully, sans the Lou butter coating option, it’s actually a bit hard to know what to do when you get there. Even if you’re not the type, even if you’re not normally like this, it is easy to feel bad about the crusty carb glut you are about to grapple with. This is maybe why some, myself included, will always still lean thin.

Then again, many see it differently. Donna Marie Malnati, mother of Rudy Jr., crust-creater of Pizano’s Pizzeria, who died this January at the age of 93, left explicit instructions for the celebration of her life: “I don’t want that damn thin-crust pizza,” Rudy said she told him. “The only thing I want served is our original deep dish sausage and cheese.” The ying-yang is all maybe ridiculously bullish, like the SNL parodying skit come to life. But caring is something to never be taken lightly. And it’s at least good to earn your opinions, to wear them on your sleeve. It's important to know who you are, where you stand. We, in Wisconsin, have football. Chicagoans have pizza. And, now, we have it too—whether you like it or not: another Lou’s is slated to open in Brookfield this summer, and, then, one in Greenfield, sometime after that.

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