#the one with dave where you can see the smoke in his mouth has massive top energy bye

[fluffonthefloor]

@castaigne why am I showing y’all so much of dm smoking? ummmm i don’t understand the question

#depeche mode #all the ultra dave is lowkey for songsofgayanddevotion but also ultra dave smoked a lot ig #um anyway i interpreted that as provide more smoking dm #smoking is bad i know but I REPEAT: THEY LOOK KINDA CUTE #the one with dave where you can see the smoke in his mouth has massive top energy bye #some deeper and deeper type shit

[kaleidoscopek9]

ALRIGHT-

SO

I've had this list of headcannons just sitting in my notes app of my phone and I wanna put it somewhere so 👀

(These are heavily inspired by what I could gather from the skele boys in @bonelyheartsclub! I just threw in a few of my own.)

-----------*

Sans

- Does a LOT of stargazing and has quite a few space-themed knicknacks and clothes in his room. He's got a telescope too!

- Dad jokes. Any time is prime dad joke time. He's never let an opportunity slip past him.

- He's an absolute prank master. You're considered lucky if you happen to avoid the ones he's planted around the house like bombs waiting to go off.

- He's cryptic as fuck. Always giving half-true answers to every question. Occasionally he may slip up and give you a brutally honest response, but that's only with the people he trusts most, and he finds being open to be very difficult.

- He's constantly referencing memes and vine quotes from days of yore. He practically has a database of every meme ever in his head, and he doesnt let it go to waste.

- Cuddling with him is basically a one way ticket to nap-town, and you constantly find yourself waking up to him smooshed against you on the couch after dozing off. For being a skeleton, he is a surprisingly comfortable snuggler.

-----------*

Papyrus

-So much baking and cooking. It's his favorite past time, and the kitchen never smells the same when he's done making whatever he's making in there (it's 12 times out of 10 pasta) And while his cooking may be sub-par, you never say no when he asks you to try his latest dish.

- He's always up to go shopping with you. It never matters where. Malls are his favorite, especially the big grand ones with fountains and huge windows. He makes it a point to bring spare cash because you KNOW he's going to ride the mini marry-go-round even if he can barely fit in the seats.

- You two love to binge watch cooking channels. Always discussing which foods would be the most fun to make, writing down recipies, and having a hell of a time trying to pause the show at the right points to get all the information down.

- Papyrus is notorious for game nights. He's always pulling out boards and cards that you've never heard of before and never starts a game until he's absolutely certain you know the rules. Winning of course, is always his prime goal when it comes to games, but if he senses you're on a particularly rough losing streak, he MAY slip up. Occasionally. Just enough so you can win a game or two. Or five.

-----------*

Blue

- Hyper as all hell. You give him a reasonable dose of sugar or caffeine and he could power an entire city for a few hours without breaking a sweat.

- If he had been in high school, Blue would have been a theater kid. He's always humming a tune from a Broadway show or Disney movie, and he's got a pretty good collection of songs on his brother's Spotify playlist.

- This guy will blast Steven Universe music at full volume he has no shame.

- If you are ever driving somewhere with him, an aux cord is a MUST. Singing in the car is a very frequent thing with you two, and you'll only get out after the song is over.

- He likes cryptids! Mothman is his favorite and he firmly believes he exists somewhere.

- He's your workout buddy. If he manages to drag you to the gym with him, that is.

- Blue hates seeing you down in the dumps, and is always trying to cheer you up with his quirky puns and jokes to get you smiling again.

- He'd be the best motivational poster ever. Whenever he picks up that you're going through a rough spot and falling behind on self-care, he knows just what to say to put the spark back in you again.

-----------*

Stretch

- Radiates goblin energy.

- A goddamn meme lord.

- He's made two or three widely known viral videos and nobody knows it was him.

- You need someone to go to an anime convention with? Stretch is your guy. He's god awful at planning stuff out, but he'll make sure you both have a good time, no matter what happens.

- He's really big into nerd culture, and he DMs for a dungeons and dragons game every week.

- He'll occasionally smoke, but he doesnt have lungs, so he does it more for shits and giggles than anything else.

- As lazy as he seems, he is very reliable. If he knows it's something important to you, he'll get it done. Chores though, he's a lot more iffy with.

- He really likes bees.

-----------*

Red

- Talks big talk, but he's actually a huge softie.

- He's basically a big pillow with sharp teeth that can curse.

- A nervous wreck.

- His brother shops at Hot Topic. He shops at Spencer's. Very convenient.

- He's a pretty big flirt and throws out little compliments and things to butter you up from time to time.

- If you take Red into a Dave and Busters he will win the most expensive prize at the booth in about 2 hours. (He knows how to cheat at every single game)

- He's a competitive gamer, and has a pretty impressive following on Twitch.

- He can go from loud and brash to quiet and insecure in a matter of moments, depending on the situation.

- He loves to bake, although it's something he will never be caught dead doing.

- Comfort is not his strong suit, but he will defend you without a second thought.

- He can be a little clingy and will text you now and again to ask what you're up to, just to ease his mind.

-----------*

Boss

- Professionalism is his game.

- The walking embodiment of Hot Topic.

- He loves to listen to rock and screamo music. He's also got a thing for Disney villain songs.

- You need some punk biker or vampiric goth fashion advice? Boss got ya.

- Skellator Man.

- Out of all the skeletons, Boss has the biggest ego.

- He hates admitting he's wrong. He would rather DIE than admit he's fucked up something.

- "I am not nice-"

- He could kill a man with his high heels.

- If it's got spikes he'll probably wear it.

- Tsundere. Tsundere. Tsundere. Tsundere. Tsu

- Did I mention he's a cold blooded tsundere.

-----------*

Nox

- Small angery man.

- He listens to a lot of classic and instrumental music. He finds it very sophisticated.

- Wakes up obscenely early in the morning. Always followed by a cup of the most bitter coffee on the planet.

- Comes up with the best insults. He could roast someone so hard that they'd dissolve into a pile of soot. He could glare at you and you'd cease to exist. He's that good.

- WILL step on you without remorse.

- Threatens to kill someone on a daily basis.

- Very rarely has spare time for himself. He's always keeping busy doing something.

- Loves dark, dry humor. A child falling off a swing will have him laughing for a good five minutes.

- Has a stone cold poker face.

- He might have a softer side to him. You may never know because of the walls he's built up around him.

-----------*

Rus

- He absolutely adores animals. He volunteers at the local animal shelter and plans on adopting every single dog there.

- Rus has a massive sweet tooth. Donuts are his favorite, and you can easily bribe him with anything sugar coated.

- A road trip master. You put him in a camper and he knows exactly where he's going and what he's doing.

- "Going off grid, fuck yeah- I pull out my credit cards and shred 'em."

- Hiking, camping and geocaching are some of his favorite things to do. He loves to explore the wilderness and it's like he has a built-in compass for finding his way.

- His ideal date is going to a Wal-Mart and causing absolute chaos by riding bikes around and tossing all of the inflatable balls from their displays.

- Cryptidcore energy.

- Rus loves watching Buzzfeed Unsolved and ghost huntings. He's a big fan of Supernatural and Stranger Things, too.

- Stutters and slurs his words a lot. He's got some speech impediments from the gold canines in his mouth.

- A bit lacking when it comes to social skills, but he can be extremely caring and sweet.

-----------*

Ash

- Very soft-spoken and awkward. He doesn't get much social interaction and is still figuring some things out.

- He's very self-aware of the wound in his head. Whenever he has to leave the house he wears some sort of hat to cover it up.

- Practically lives in his garden. He understands plants more than he does human beings, and he spends time daily tending to whatever he's growing.

- Him and his brother are both vegetarians, and the smell or sight of meat makes them both feel sick to themselves.

- Has trouble sleeping due to his reoccurring nightmares. He will often sit in his garden late at night to help calm himself.

- Radiates soft energy. He would absolutely give the best hugs out of all the skeletons.

- Very touch-starved. Physical affection is something he rarely recieves, and he probably lingers with touches a lot longer than he should.

- Unintentionally makes God-teir jokes without realizing it.

----------*

Poplar

- Very well-educated in a lot of things. He really likes stocking up on useless factoids and making up his own just to mess with people.

- He answers Jeopardy questions with concerning accuracy.

- He enjoys going out to eat, and he's always up to try fancy foods.

- He likes photography and reading. He is well into the Harry Potter series.

- Poplar is prepared for anything at any time. A lot of stuff doesnt phase him at all, and it's difficult to catch him off-guard.

- He's willing to try anything new, once.

- Always willing to help out with schoolwork if he thinks you're seriously struggling with it.

- He's always carrying around small planners and notebooks to write in so he can keep track of things.

#long post #headcannons #hc #bhc #bhc headcannons #bonely hearts club #like i said #most of these are from the game #i just have a very specific image of these guys in my head and i wanted to put it down somewhere

[popculturebuffet]

Battle of the Episodes: Celebrity Deathmatch: Rockstarmageddon Vs When Animals Attack

Hello all you happy people! And welcome to a minty fresh new segment on the blog cooked up by longtime fan and friend of the blog weirdkev27, named by me: BATTLE OF THE EPISODES! In this new segment I take two similar episodes from a show or franchise and put them up against one another and see which ones better. He pitched the idea to me for something he could do, he had two patreon reviews free so I suggested why not do it in April and here we are! 

Before I begin I will admit I’d forgotten PieGuyRulez had done a similar idea with his podcast ReCast, which I’d never seen and only vaugely heard of. However I feel what i’m doing here is still diffrent enough to keep doing, I have nothing but respect for the guy, and I promise to not do any topics he’s done. If you have any suggestions for this new segment, i’d love to hear them. I already have another one in mind for when I have a free moment on the schedule that I simply didn’t get around to next month.

But for our innugural contest, Kev being the one who pitched it picked the show and it’s a show i’m only passingly familiar with as I did see bits of it growing up: Celebrity Deathmatch. Celebrity Death Match was a late 90′s and early 2000′s tv show on MTV with a revivial on MTV2. It was born both out of a short done for MTV’s Cartoon Sushi, their equilvent of Oh Yeah Cartoons! and What a Cartoon, pitting Charles Manson against Marilon Manson, and that short was popular enough to lead to a special after the superbowl. Said special ended up being the highest rated progam MTV had broadcast at the time, so naturally it got a four season series.

The premise is exactly what it says: two celebrties battle it to the death in goofy claymation fights, one shall stand, one shall fall. Meanwhile our hosts Johnny and Nick banter and set up the fights, talk to interviewers etc. It’s essentially a combination of wrestling and celebrity mockery, and unsuprisingly given MTV’s teen audience who loved pop culture and a bit of the ultra violence it was a massive hit. 

The show later got a revivial a few years after it ended on MTV2, which fans often derided and which I saw more of as I was watching MTV2 at the time... look i’m not proud of the fact i watched “Where My Dogs at?” and i’m even less proud I watched “The Adventures of Chico and Guapo”. But with shows like that you can imagine how high quality the reboot was and how much fans flocked to it. Me I never took to either incarnation. I don’t HATE the show and do appricate it’s gorgeous claymation and copious use of Stone Cold Steve Austin. I love that beer drinking, hell raising, boss humliationg hellion, it’s just the combination of modern celebrity mockery, something that rarely ages well unless the joke is just funny on it’s own, and ultra violence never appealed to me as I was a pretty squeamish kid and teen.. i’ve grown out of that, but I just had no real desire to go back. It’s not a bad show but it’s not really one for me, but I get why i’ts well loved and popular. 

But being a death match fan, and given the similar premisses, Kev picked this to be our inagural contest. Pitting the original against the reivvial. For this he went with two death match time machine episodes: the original’s finale rockstarmageddon and the revivial’s when animals attack. Each episode has it’s own unique theme within the general theme of a dead person versus their successor... and a very much alive person one or both of the hosts thought was dead versus their succesor as a joke: the first is about rockstars and their supposed imitators, the second is about putting two animal themed people against one another.

Each Battle of the Episodes will have diffrent comparisons as every show or franchise is different, comics are also open for this by the by. So for this one i’ll be comparing time machine use, the person explaning the machine, individual episode theme, the joke about one of the “dead” combatants turning out ot be alive, and each of the three matches.  How many will also very, either 5 or 7 depending on how many talking points i have. So with that in mind LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE under the cut and see which episode walks away a champion and which episode walks away a bloody pile of clay on the floor. 

Doing the matches first as a lot of this stuff overlaps with the later bits. 

Round 1: Lenny Kravitz Vs Jimmy Hendrix VS Horatio Sanz Vs Chris Farley Whelp this was a bad start to BOTH episodes as these matches are the worst of each episode and all 6 matches period. So it’s less which is better as both are a black hole of comedy.. and more which one sucks slightly less. 

The Jimmy Hendrix vs Lenny Kravitz bout is just.. a black hole of comedy, It’s VERY clear the writers hated Kravitz but to me in 2020.. it just hasn’t aged well. I just don’t CARE about Lenny Kravitz. He had maybe one good song, are you gonna go my way, and that’s it. He was not good.. but he was an easy target for the time and an easily forgotten one now. It’s not smart, clever or even cathartic to watch him die. He’s also nowhere similar enough to Hendrix for the comparison to work: for one he had a vastly diffrent look most of the times and for another at most both played guitars and were not white. That’s it.  It just dosen’t work. 

The finisher here is just also... one of the objectively worst grossout bits i’ve seen in animation and i’m almost 30. That’s a LOTTTT of stupid gross gags that aren’t funny. The two vomit into each others mouths. Yes really. Not only is this really disprectful to hendrix death, as ODing on drugs is not something I really find funny nor the show makes funny, but it’s just.. horrifying to think about and gross and makes me want to , ironically enough, vomit thinking about. it’s just deeply unpleasant easily the worst thing i’ve encountered in my time reviewing so far, and it’s going to be a hard bar to clear. This match sucked and it left a bad taste in my mouth. 

Now as for the Horatio Sanz vs Chris Farley Match...

I honestly have never seen Horatio Sanz that i’m aware of and unlike Kravitz who at least is mildly memorable if not a very good musician, Sanz has just been.. forgotten. I don’t know anything about him and once again it feels like the show punching down, picking an easy target versus a legend. 

And speaking of easy targets the entire segment is just fat jokes. Just a ton of fat jokes. No really, it’s a battle of “Hog vs hog”, chris eats a lot and hte main joke is Chris Farley can’t stay alive long enough to fight. That being said while I find the joke in VERY poor taste, as Farley died of a heart attack and was a really good person and having his death be a punch line just bothers me.... I’ll admit it’s at least clever to have one of the death match time machine contestants come back again, and again, and again. It’s not Funny, it’s horrific.. but I can at least say they put in some effort ofr that one gag and given the horrifying lack of effort for the other match this one BARELY gets the W Winner: When Animals Attack: 

Round 2: Shaggy vs Bob Marley VS Christan Bale vs Adam West

This one’s a no contest... seriously the gulf between jokes is wide and deep.

The Shaggy Vs Marley bout is the best of Rockstarmageddon. It’s funny, the target actually deserves being made fun of as Shaggy was a talent vacum and is memorably bad in comparison to Kravitz, so I still like seeing him get roasted, and they find a lot of funny jokes to do with Bob Marley. I only have a passing familiarity with the guy and while they do the obvious weed joke, they also have him ask for a tiny hammer or a small axe, beat shaggy with his dreads and after using a ring post to kill him, MAKING HIS REMAINS INTO A BONG (hilariously called a “legal novelty smoking device by the commentators). This match shows me why the show was popular: not every match was GOOD.. but the ones that were were creative and a joy to watch. While I sitll feel it’s mildly punching down, it’s funny enough I don’t care. 

Bale Vs West just sucks both by comparison and just in general; The IDEA of having the current Batman at the time and the 60′s one duke it out is great.. but it’s very clear they didn’t like Batman begins nor have any actual christian bale jokes. While this was pre terminator rant and the much more iconic dark knight, if they didn’t have any good jokes , why do this. They just have nothing and are insulting a legitimately good movie instead of making anything funny and making cracks about everyone thinking Adam West is dead. More on that in a bit, but it’s just really not funny and really wasted my time... though West turning him into a batsignal of the cross was clever i’ll admit. 

Winner: Rockstarmageddon

Round 3: Dave Matthews vs Keith Richards VS Jamie Fox vs Ray Charles

Another mistmatch.. but this time in the opposite direction.

Dave Matthews Vs Keith Richards sucks. While there are some good gags up top, we’ll get to that in it’s own section, the match itself just isn’t funny and I really don’t get comparing the stones to dave matthews band. the two bands aren’t remotely similar. The most clever it gets is Dave injecting Richards with his blood, which mellows him out but also revitalizes Richards. There’s a few good jabs at richards but otherwise just nothing of susbtance and like Kravitz Dave Matthews Band has been largely forgotten and unlike Kravitz or Shaggy, just doesn’t seem like as valid a target.

Fox vs Charles on the other hand was a great misdirect, changing his opponent and “punking” fox, forcing him to go from someone he was ready to throw down with to someone he rejects. There are way too many mr mcgoo style I’M BLINDDDDD gags, but Fox is a much more deserving target, and they had far more clever gags, with charles pulling out a cat o n grammys, and using a piano to finish Jamie. It’s nothing GREAT... but at least it’s actually funny and actually picked a good target for the time, if not one that has aged well. 

Winner: When Animals Attack. 1 to 2

Round 4: Who Used the Time Machine Better?

Narrowly .. rockstarmageddon. While it had the same justification for it, the original taking on an upstart attempted replacement, the keith richards gag we’ll get to in a second is better than the farley gag for not being grossly insensitive and unfunny. But neither really use it well; Rockstarmageddon just uses it to mock artists they like and Animals uses it because the first one did. Neither really had a clever idea for it other than “get it this person sucks compared to that one. 

Winner: Rockstarmageddon. 2 to 2

Episode Theme: 

Similar to the time machine, this one comes down to which one had the better indvidual theme... and i’d have to say it’s Rockstarmageddon. It used the theme POORLY, but at least it both had an interesting idea, dead rock stars vs their successors in modern day, versus an easy one (animal matchups) it abandoned for the final match and used REALLY fucking insultingly in the first match. Seriously I don’t mind a WELL done fat joke, as an overweight guy myself, but this was just...

In it’s purest form. 

Winner: Rockstarmageddon 3 to 2

Special Guest:

Each episode had a guest for the time machine... and this one is again no real contest, Rockstarmageddon wins. 

For Rockstarmageddon the show brought back frequent guest star , wrestling legend Stone Cold Steve Austin, who I enjoy and was indeed part of my childhood and star of many video games and one of my brother’s all time favorite wrasslers. The show contrasts his blue collar hellion image with him having made the machine, getting quantum mechanics and unlike nick getting that Keith Richards is dead. Austin clearly gets the show, is fully on board playing along and has fun escorting Hendrix back to the machine and getting his revenge on Nick for doubting him that Keith Richards was alive. He just fits perfectly into the show. 

The revival.. could not get him, likely because he didn’t want to or saw the script and rightfully stone cold stunnered them, i.e. what he shoudl’ve done when Adam Sandler offered him Grown Ups 2. Seriously Adam why bring him in if he’s not going to do something wrestling related to you? This is why people don’t like your films. That and you keep giving your old buddy rob increasingly racist work. And david spade work. And nick swarsdon work. Please do keep giving Shaq work though he’s actually not half bad. 

So instead they bring in Einstein and the joke.. is that he swears a lot and drinks a lot and pulls his pants down at the end.> That.. that’s it. I mean the original , at least the episode given to me, didn’t make a GREAT impression, but at least it was creative. The Reboot came off as shockingly lazy and half assed, with lesser voice actors for our hosts and far less effort put in and this is the biggest emblem of that. Soooo

Winner; Rockstarmageddon 4 to 2

Final Round: Their Not Dead

The final round is a short one and while the winner is already decided, might as well. Both episodes do a joke about one of the guests NOT being dead.. but once again Rockstar is more clever about it. Nick is CERTAIN Keith Richards is dead, and forces Stone Cold to bring him to the present... only for Keith to show up, and there be two keiths. One fades away due to time travel stuffs, a REALLy damn good gag, and Nick’s dogged instance he’s not dead despite everyone knowing he isn’t is just damn funny. 

IN contrast all they have for the late great Adam West.. is insisting he’s dead. That’s it. that’s all they got. It’s not funny, it’s disprectful to Adam who while not an a list actor did a ton of stuff after batman. I mean the simpsons alone should shut them the fuck up...

This one short gag is a MUCH better one than that entire 7 minutes. It was also DEEPLY uncomfortable now Adam’s passed. So naturally

The Winner of this Segment and Overall; Rockstarmageddon. 

I wouldn’t say I LIKED either episode this go round, both had some pretty bad spots..but it’s very clear that while the original had it’s flaws, it was creative, had tons of energy, and a great voice cast. The revivial... has a good chris farley impersonator and that’s it. It’s very clear the people behind the reboot just don’t get the show and are doing the lazy bare minimum. While I didn’t LIKE most of the matches in Rockstarmageddon, I can at least respect the craftmanship: the animation, host jokes and energy is just BETTER. There’s a care and craft the revivial dosen’t have and the drop in quality is noticeable. 

So yeah overall the original wins.. but the episode chosen clearly wasn’t it’s best. That being said both had some good moments, and I would be open to watching more if any one wants to comission it. This experiment has been intresting so let me know in the comments if you want to see more of these and i’ll see you at the next rainbow. And please join my patreon at patreon.com/popculturebuffet. 

#celebrity deathmatch #lenny kravitz #jimmy hendrix #keith richards #dave matthews #shaggy #bob marley #adam west #christian bale #horatio sanz #chris farley #jamie fox #ray charles

[purrfectstrangers]

Another great story from Gamzanon! I dunno what I did to deserve to pot all their short stories, but I'm happy to bring you yet another~

As always, be aware this is vore and digestion heavy, so readers squeamish about that, catch a different one <3

Fanboy Bellies

(I'm so sorry for the delay. My muse for the Dave prompt just flat out died... so here's a Hiveswap story instead. It's my first time writing these characters, so I hope it satisfies~)

[You literally always satisfy, my dude ;3]

~

Zebede couldn't believe that this was really happening.

He was to attend a Cirava Hermod concert. Cirava. Hermod. The vaporwave legend that had defined a generation was going to appear live on stage. And he was going to be able to see them. It was almost, no, it was completely unbelievable. Zebede was practically vibrating where he stood. With his round shape and his black and yellow color scheme, he already looked like a bee. Now he almost sounded like one too.

A pair of grey fingers snapped impatiently in front of his face, dragging Zebede back into reality.

"♤Are you just going to stand there all night? I need you to pull your weight here!♤"

"i'm sorry. i spaced out."

Yes, that's right. He wasn't here to just to see Cirava.

You see, Cirava was an online musician. The only reason they were at a concert was because they were challenged to a rap battle by one Marvus Xoloto.

Such an event naturally attracted fans of all stripes, including one particularly obsessive blueblood. Both Zebruh and Zebede wanted to... meet their respective idols, so the two decided to hatch a plan. Or, rather, Zebruh dragged Zebede into his.

"♢Now, do you remember the plan?♢"

Even when crouching behind a wall, Zebruh was still a lot taller then the young yellowblood. Enough so that he could probably rest his head in between Zebede's horns in the right position. Zebede pulled a jar of bees out of his hoodie pocket, taking a deep, steadying breath as he tried to focus. 

"ok guyz. i need you to do me thiz one big favor." Zebede whispered into the jar. "please." With another steadying breath, Zebede pulled off the lid.

The loudly buzzing swarm flew off around the corner, leaving Zebruh and Zebede to watch as security noticed the cloud.

"Wha-what the Hell!"

The large purple guard shielding their face as the swarm clouded around their head, twitching and twisting hither, thither, and fro in a desperate attempt to keep the bees out of their eyes. "Dammit! Leave me alone!" The clown swung their club wildly in a vain attempt to keep the bugs out of their eyes. They ran off cussing and flailing as the swarm persisted in its assault.

The two Zs waited for the buzzing to fall out of earshot before commenting. 

"♧...I'm going to be honest... that shouldn't have worked.♧"

"you'd be suprised. they're pretty reliable."

The two stood up and approached the Staff Only door. That was it. The one obstacle between them and their idols.

"♡I suppose this is where we part ways.♡" Zebruh gave a big dramatic bow, making sure to adjust his bowtie along the way. "♡As a lowblood ally, it has been my honor to unite a yellow fellow with his idol. I do hope you keep this favor in mind in the future.♡"

If Zebede noticed the slightly sinister intone of his voice, he didn't say so. "oh, yez. i will. honest, thiz iz the nicest anyone'z been to me for a very long time." His face deflated and his smile fell. "...it'z also the longest anyone haz ever interacted with me in a long time, come to think of it."

Zebruh pushed the door open, dramatically ushering him inside. "♡When we meet up again, we can interact plenty.♡" He winked and, again, adjusted his bowtie. "♡Until then, I have a date with a popular, promiscuous purpleblood.♡"

As the two walked in separate directions through the backstage area, a telltale gurgle escaped their guts and echoed down the halls. It's not every day you get to meet a celebrity. They're not going to waste this opportunity~

~

Cirava exhaled another puff of smoke, their room positively flooding with polluted green air. The condensed heat threatened to cook them alive as it left their form drenched in sweat. They let out a long, satisfied sigh as the drugs filtered through their body. Yeah, that was the stuff. A good smoke always got their head in the game before a song.

The door creaking open didn't catch their attention, but sudden loud coughing did. Cirava rolled their head over to see a round little troll waving smoke out of his face as his coughed and wheezed. They just stared as Zebede got his barrings again, watching his eyes widen as the two made eye contact. "well you're not security".

Zebede nervously rubbed the back of his head as he dared to step closer, waving smoke out of his face again when he had to suppress a cough. The room's heat was making him sweat just as much as his nerves were as he cleared his throat. "um, hi? zebede tongza. i'm a big fan."

Zebede held out his hand timidly, which Cirava shook without any fan fare, leaving Zebede to stare at his hand in awe as they pulled back. "cirava hermod. but im guessing you knew that lmao."

Zebede's face slowly split into a grin. "yeah... yeah! it'z good to finally meet you." Cirava stood, popping their back as they casually stretched. 

"dont mention it. youre cool. had me a little worried when you showed up without a pass tho." Zebede looked away, either embarrassed or ashamed. Cirava was too busy fishing a piece of paper from their pocket to care. "here's your autograph." They said nonchalantly. Zebede grabbed their wrist instinctively.

Zebede's mind sputtured and spurred to a halt as he stared. 

Right there, on that small piece of paper, in a lowercase, golden font, was the Cirava Hermod's name.

Cirava Hermod's autograph.

Cirava Hermod is giving him their autograph.

Just as Zebede began to process that information, a scent crept into his nose.

A heavy, mouthwatering scent. A smell more intoxicating then the poisonous green smoke that surrounded him. 

It was Cirava's scent. And they smelled wonderful.

Zebede's stomach growled.

"hey are you gonna let go sometime soon?"

Zebede looked up. "oh. sorry." Zebede plucked the note out of Cirava's grasp before pocketing. Now, he held their hand in front of him like a nice big burger. "i swear i'm sorry about thiz, but... i can't pasz thiz opportunity up."

With that, he promptly shoved Cirava's hand into his maw.

Cirava tried to pull their hand out as Zebede slobered all over it, savoring their flavor. "what the fuck." Cirava tried to pry his mouth open, only for Zebede to grab his free hand and shovel it into his mouth. "alright seriously. let go!" Zebede was pulled out of his blissful stupor as Cirava continued to struggle and shout. He shrugged apologetically before grabbing them by the horns and pulling their entire head into his mouth. He could risk them attracting any guards, or else he'd take his time savoring their taste.

Cirava's horns bulged out his cheeks as they thrashed around back and forth. Their feet beat desperately against the floor as his tongue coated their face in golden saliva. Zebede almost moaned as their salty, sweaty flavor overloaded his taste buds. Their scent continued to drift directly into his nose, leaving him drooling around his thrashing meal. It wasn't long before he greedily shoveled Cirava's head down his throat.

Zebede was already so pudgy that you couldn't tell from the outside looking in that Cirava's hands had reached his gut. At most, you'd be able to hear their muffled yelling coming from his midsection, but Zebede didn't notice that either. He was too busy slobbering on Cirava's torso. Still, even as caught up in his gluttonous fever as he was, still tried to avoid loosening their binder.

Another swallow finally distended his gut a little bit. Cirava's head outlined in his ballooning gut as they continued to swear and scream. His gut gurgled eagerly as Zebede closed in on those limply kicking legs. It wouldn't be long now.

Zebede tilted his head backwords and slurped up those flailing limbs like noodles. His gut completely ballooned out as his entire meal fell into it at once, forcing a massive belch out of his mouth. Zebede's gut gurgled eagerly around his vainly struggling celebrity snack, giving him time to catch his breath. The air had sense cleared, the green smoke drifting out of the open doorway, allowing Zebede to hyperventilate as what he just did caught up with him.

"i... ate you." Zebede's eyes began to shine, his face splitting into a massive, ear-reaching grin. "i actually are you. thiz iz so cool!"

Zebede belched again, not even stopping to be embarrassed as he began massaging his thrashing gut. "you were do deliciouz and juicy and filling... thiz iz amzaing! you were everything i thought you'd be."

Even with his body weighed down by a stomach that nearly doubled him in size, Zebede managed to bounce up and down on the balls of his feet. "i've wanted to eat you for so long, ever sense i first saw you, and now, oh, thank you so much!"

Zebede pulled his gut into a tight hug, resting his head atop Cirava's. "thankz for everything. you've made me the happiest troll on alternia." 

If Cirava had any response to that, it was drowned out by Zebede's grumbling gut.

~

Marvus blinked as he examined himself in the mirror, carefully checking his face paint for any imperfections. It was something he took seriously, even with his laid back personality. His face was on billboards. He couldn't afford a smudge.

Even still, his laid back smile didn't drop as he heard his door creak open. "Zeb. Bro. Buddy. Didn't I tell u bout comin back here?" Zebruh froze in the doorway, hand instinctively grasping at his bowtie to steady himself. He took a deep breath before walking in. 

"♡Oh, come on, darling. If you'd only give me a chance I...♡" Zebruh paused as Marvus spun around in his chair. The clown's posture was relaxed. His face was perfectly calm. He still had that lazy, carefree smile on his face. It just mad his red eyes stand out that much more.

"Thought I made it clear I don't want u round here." Marvus stood up. His massive body towering a full head over Zebruh. "Thought we'd had dis convo bout thirty times now. Round thirty two or so?"

Zebruh backed up against the wall, about to open his mouth in protest when the singer unsheathed the sword from his cane. His chin was made to rest on the blade as Marvus leaned on over him. The body heat coming off of him was palpable and Zebruh could smell the sweat running down his skin, some of it trying and failing to seep out from under his paint. "Zeb. I'm gon give it to ya straight. I don't want ur blud on me. I just cleaned dis suit. I justabout got my paint on. And I don't wanna get my hair gunked up. So I'm gonna let ya turn round now, kay?"

Zebruh forced himself to meet those eyes as they bore into him. Everything about this was starting to drive him mad. The heat of his breath, the size of his body, and that sweet smell.

Zebruh's stomach growled.

Taking his silence as an affirmation, Marvus plopped himself back down in his seat, picking at his face in the mirror. Zebruh practically throttled his tie as his tried to catch his breath, blood pumping in his ears as his stomach roared once again.

He always wanted to eat Marvus. Ever sense he saw Marvus he'd want to eat him.

But that smell.

He could practically taste it.

Marvus didn't notice Zebruh approach him not until his chair swirled around and his vision was suddenly eclipsed by dark blue slime. Zebruh moaned as his tongue lavished the idol's face, smearing his facepaint as it mixed with his sweat on Zebruh's taste buds, creating an intoxicating flavor that left the blueblood drooling.

Zebruh could've tasted his head for hours... if Marvus's hands hadn't clamped onto his neck.

Laid back or not, Marvus was still a purple blood. A purple blood who had no more patience for Zebruh's shenanigans. Zebruh tried to pry his hands open, but it did nothing to deter the bigger, stronger clown as he stood up and squashed Codakk's windpipe.

In a moment of panic, Zebruh kneed Xoloto in the gut, knocking his grip loose long enough for Zebruh's maw to wrap around those broad shoulders. Zebruh moaned again as his tongue slid across Marvus's chest, coating his pecs in blue saliva.

Zebruh kicked Marvus's discarded cane aside as he saw the clown grope for it before swallowing again. His gut bulged out from under his suit, showing off the outline of Marvus's face for all to see as Zebruh savored his now helpless meal.

Zebruh swallowed again, leaving only Marvus's kicking legs free from his maw. He spun around and planted himself in the chair, tilting his head up to let gravity drag Marvus's ass across his tongue. He chewed and kneaded that taught bubble butt as it slipped into his throat, before casually slurping up those pesky flailing legs.

The ensuing belch was nearly loud and crass enough to shatter the mirror. Blue spit flew everywhere as the clown curled up inside his new home. Zebruh shamelessly moaned as he felt the struggles start up. "♡Darling. You tasted so much better then you had any right too." 

Zebruh spun around and admired his giant gut in the mirror. Following the outline of Marvus's struggles as his hands massaged his tightly wrapped form. "◇Now, I know this must be hard for you. But I can hardly call myself an ally if I don't treat castes equally. And I've eaten quite a few lowbloods in my day." Zebruh swiped Marvus's hat off the mirror and rested it over his eyes. He reclined the chair back and pat his gut again.

"♡Please, darling. Kick back. Relax. And enjoy your stay. I promise I'll take good care of you~♡"

~

Both Zebruh and Zebede enjoyed every second of digestion. Zebede simply couldn't stop gushing about Cirava's work while Zebruh smoothly soothed Marvus's every move.

This continued even as punches turned to pleads and anger melted into fear. Zebruh was always happy to hear his food beg. Zebede was just happy to listen to his idol at all. 

As the hours ticked by and the guts rounded out, the two Z's examined their gains. They flaunted their heavier behinds with pride and declared that they would never shed these pounds.

As the fanboys gathered their mementos, collected discarded laptops and canes, their guts gurgled eagerly.

They licked their lips and wondered if they'd see their fellow fanboy on the way out. Because they both had plenty of room for desert~

#//digestion #//vore #submission

[thatbluegibson]

CH 99

"What are you doing the weekend before Halloween?"

Liz pinned her phone against her shoulder and spun away from the boxes she was packing full of kitchen towels to check the calendar stuck to the side of her fridge. "Um... Jack has a party at school on Friday, but it's in the morning. What's up?"

"I told JB and Kyle I'd play their Vegas show. You wanna go? Josh and Brody are going, too."

"I'm down if you are," she frowned a little when she heard him laugh. "What?"

"Nothing, weirdo. I gotta go, are we still on for later?"

"Yep, I'll see you then."

"Hey, Liz?" he parked his van next to Nate's SUV and grinned into the phone.

"Yeah, what?"

"Fourteen days," he said sweetly, then laughed at her annoyed sigh and the sound of her hanging up on him. It had only been a week since CalJam and six days since they decided to buy a fucking house together, but Dave couldn't wait to get moved in. He had been throwing money at the banks in an attempt to get them to speed up the purchase and so far, his investment was worth it. The entire process was running smoothly and they were scheduled to pick up the keys in just two weeks.

He had made it to the studio's side door when his phone beeped and he took a second to check it. "Oh fuck," he groaned at Liz's text, unaware that Taylor had come out to meet him.

Do you like this? Should we keep it for a guest room? Liz asked, accompanied by a picture of a large antique mirror and her standing in front of it wearing only a lace bralette and silk pajama pants.

"What? Let me see!" Taylor insisted, snatching Dave's phone out of his hand. "Whoa," he chuckled. "Fuck is right!"

Dave grabbed his phone back and glared at him, only slightly annoyed as he followed him inside and tapped out a reply text.

I love it and I'm keeping it in the master bedroom with me. Not so sure about that mirror though...

"Any updates on the house?" Taylor asked, walking beside him down the long hallway to Dave's office.

"We close in two weeks... sooner if I can hack it," Dave unlocked the door and held it for his drummer, rolling his eyes when he went straight for the fridge in the corner. His phone chimed again and he grinned at the photo of Liz in the same spot in front of the mirror except now she was smiling and flipping him off. Such a fucking brat.

"So what was the clincher?" Taylor grabbed a beer for Dave and a water for himself before flopping onto the deep leather couch against the far wall. "What made her change her mind all of a sudden?"

"Fuck if I know," Dave happily took the beer and cracked it open as he woke up his computer. "I'm just stoked she did." Truthfully, he didn't know what had made her come around, but he had gone over it thousands of times in his head and narrowed it down to one of three options. One; the house was too perfect for the two of them to pass up, two; Brody had said something to change her mind, or three; she had just come around on her own. He was leaning towards option one, but something in his gut told him that Brody had put in a good word or two.

"Well, I'm fuckin' happy for you, man," Taylor said softly. "You both deserve it."

"Yeah, now I just have to figure out how to keep her around once she gets sick of me," Dave muttered and shoved on his glasses to see his calendar better. "Ready to nail this festival shit down?"

"You already know my blackout dates. The kid's and Allison's birthdays and then August when the baby shows up."

Dave slumped back into his chair and peered over the top of his glasses at Taylor. In the excitement of buying that house, he had totally spaced Liz's surrogacy.

"You forgot, didn't you," Taylor mumbled.

"I didn't forget," Dave grumbled, yanking open the top drawer of his desk to find a cigarette. There was something infinitely soothing about being able to smoke inside again, in the comfort of his own office. "I just... spaced it."

"She's gotta get that IUD out within the next couple weeks, man," Taylor said, his voice sounding a little panicky. "You can't be forgetting shit!"

"How the hell...?" Dave shot forward in his chair, alarmed that Taylor even knew about it.

"Dude, come on," Taylor chuckled. "I was at the appointment the other day."

"She had a fucking pelvic exam, T!"

"Who do you think did the exam?"

"You fucking asshole," Dave slumped back again and chuckled once he finally caught on to the joke while blacking out all of August for himself and Taylor.

*

He knew she had arrived when the cameras outside the restaurant lit up like the sun and the in-house security hustled out the front doors like the secret service. Then she breezed in with a bright smile, wearing a black slip dress, her leather jacket and heels, thanking security and scanning the busy restaurant before her eyes fell on him.

"Hey," she greeted him with a kiss and ignored the burst of flashes outside the window trying to capture it. "Were you waiting long?"

"Almost fifty fucking years, Elizabeth," he grinned at her, noticing the top of her dress was a delicate lace with very little to nothing underneath.

"Oh dear," she whispered, her eyes glittering in the dim light. "Maybe I spent too much time on my hair..."

"Yeah, that sounds like you," he grumbled, unable to keep from hassling her.

"But you wore your only suit for me!" she threw back at him, running her hands down the front of the dark blue lapels, knowing the one he had worn at the Oscars was definitely black.

"And you wore your nightgown!"

"Just shut up and feed me, David," she laughed, hooking her arm through his and hugging it tightly against her as they were led to their quiet, candlelit table.

"So, Vegas?" she asked once the waiter had settled them with wine and stepped away.

"Yeah, Taylor and Allison are in now, too. We got rooms at The Cosmo," he gave a cursory glance at the menu, already knowing exactly what he wanted.

"I don't know if I've ever been there," Liz didn't even pick up her menu. She had mentioned craving steak the night before and he had gasped in giddy excitement before leaping out of her bed to make reservations.

"It's probably the only tolerable place in Vegas anymore," he explained. "We played a gig there last year."

"Is that where you're playing on Friday?"

"Yup. Same theater, too. JB set us up with a suite and a car service so we don't have to drive all the way there."

"... oh," her eyes cast down into her wine as she ran her fingernail along the thin stem.

"What?" he asked, worried that she was about to back out.

"I was thinking maybe we could take the bikes. It's only four hours... Or is the weather bad this time of year in the desert?"

He stared at her over the candles and wine glasses, wondering how mad she would be if he dragged her under the table and ruined her dress. "Weather's fine," he whispered, then cleared his throat. "Josh and Brody will want to come with, though."

"Ooooh, that sounds fun! Are you gonna ride with Josh or is Josh gonna ride with you?"

Dave caught the waiter approaching out of the corner of his eye and waited until he within earshot before replying, "He'll probably ride with me. That's if you don't mind him dry humping my back for four hours."

The waiter awkwardly stopped at their table and a deep blush spread across Liz's chest and cheeks. "No, I don't mind, darling," she said sweetly and picked up her menu. "You two use those engine vibrations to your best advantage. Now, which steak was I supposed to get?"

*

"Oh, I see. We finally make a massive financial decision together and then you reveal who you truly are."

Liz grabbed a cupcake off of Jack's school desk and shoved it at Dave's face. "Put this in your face so the words stop coming out," she giggled and pulled her witch's hat down tighter on her head.

He had ducked into Jack's classroom after helping at both Violet and Harper's Halloween parties, finding the first grade classroom much more chaotic than the older kid's. Jack bounded over in his Darth Vader costume and wrapped himself around Dave in an excited hug.

"There's so many other Darth's here, Dave!" Jack beamed, "But I'm the only original Darth!"

"I'm glad you like it, buddy," he laughed and tapped the mask that his mother had saved for years in event of a grandchild wanting to wear it. "It doesn't still smell like beer, does it?"

"No," Jack giggled. "Your mommy washed it for me."

"Hey, bud," Liz came over carrying a half empty tray of cupcakes. "We're gonna jet, okay? Have fun rest of the day and remember Uncle T is picking you up after school."

Jack let go of Dave to throw his arms around Liz. "And Daddy too, right?"

Dave felt his breath catch in his throat. Kyle getting out of rehab was news to him...

Liz gave Jack a tight smile and adjusted the mask on his face. "Hopefully. Remember, he has to follow all the rules all day and if he can't, he has to stay at the doctor."

Jack only nodded, satisfied with her answer. "Can I go play now?"

"Yes," she laughed and kissed the top of his Darth Vader mask, leaving a perfect pink lip print on the black plastic. "I love you, we'll call you tonight and we'll see you Monday."

Dave shot her an expectant look as she stood and handed him the tray of cupcakes. "I'll tell you in the car," she whispered. "Travis sprung it on me this morning."

Once they were in the safety of his truck, she sighed and pulled off her pointed black hat then ran her fingers through her hair. "Kyle's therapist thinks a weekend at home would be beneficial, so he's going to stay at the house while we're in Vegas," she said it quickly, but there was an edge to her voice making him look over at her.

"Alone? With the boys?" Where the hell is he going to sleep? Cause he sure as hell won't be sleeping in our bed... a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth despite the concern he felt. ... Our bed had such a wonderful ring to it.

"Travis is going to stay, but... yes," she gave a half hearted shrug and stared out her window, unable to look him in the eye. He knew she was struggling, trying to keep her fear for the boy's safety from overflowing while convincing him this was all okay, and he had to keep his cool.  

"We don't have to go," he said gently and reached over to hold her hand. "We can stay home and keep the boys with us at my place and just take them over to visit him during the day."

"That was my first reaction, too," she sighed deeply and finally looked over at him. "But we need to go. I have to show him that I can trust him or else he's never going to figure his life out."

"I have to be honest with you, Liz. I'm not super comfortable with this."

"Me either," she said quietly and tried to discreetly wipe away her tears. "We're only staying ten minutes from the airport and it's only an hour flight, so if anything happens we can be there quicker than if we were driving from the Valley."

Dave smiled a bit and parked the truck in her driveway. "You've thought this through."

"Been researching all morning."

They got the truck unloaded of Halloween party paraphernalia and he sat on the edge of her bed as she tossed clothes out of her closet to pack.

"Are you okay with wandering around Vegas without Travis as your shadow? Wait-," he smiled when she poked her head out of the closet. "Is Travis okay with you wandering around Vegas without him as your shadow?"

"He said I'd be fine as long as I stuck with you, Taylor and Josh," she laughed. "So if I get arrested, it's on you three."

"I can't think of anyone better to share a cell with, Elizabeth."

"Ugh," she yelled back, her voice muffled by the clothes hanging around her, "Just drown me in the Bellagio fountain."

*

Liz stood up on her pegs to give her arms a little rest and heard Dave rev his engine at her. They had just crossed the Nevada state line and could see the last set of sandy hills that blocked their view of Las Vegas. She wiggled her hips at him and sat back in the saddle to shake out her arms.

"You need to stop?"

She jolted and gasped at the sound of Dave's voice in her earbuds and took a second to calm herself before hitting the two way back to him.

"No, we're almost there. I'll be fine."

There was a slight delay then his voice broke over her music again.

"Then quit shaking your ass at me or else I'm not gonna make it."

She ripped her hand off the grip to flip him off over her shoulder and giggled when he revved his engine at her again. At first she had been annoyed that he was bringing up the rear of their little caravan, keeping his Road King at a safe distance behind her Triumph and Josh's Electra, but he had taken every opportunity to ride beside her when it was safe letting her know he trusted her ability. And she had been skeptical when he installed the two way apps on their phones, telling her he just wanted to send her a playlist and listen to it with her, but now she was enjoying the fact that he was just a tap of a bluetooth button away, even if she was still getting used to another voice invading her normally quiet rides.

Brody's arms shot up in celebration when they cruised past the Vegas sign, then wrapped around Josh in an excited hug while Dave piped over Liz's music yet again.

"You ready for this?"

She looked over at him as he stopped beside her at a light and gave him a quote from one of her favorite authors, "For what? Checking into a Vegas hotel under a phony name with the intent to commit capital fraud with a head full of acid?"

"Oh, Elizabeth," he grinned at her, "Vegas with Josh is way crazier than anything Thompson and Dr. Gonzo got up to."

"Oh boy," she groaned, happy she had decided to wear her full face helmet and tinted visor so he couldn't see her face. This might be a bad idea, she thought.

*

"Holy... fuck, David!" Liz stopped short in the doorway when she saw the interior of the room, though it wasn't a hotel room in any normal sense of the word. It opened up into a large living room with floor to ceiling windows looking out over a private pool and bar where Josh was already busy loading his arms with drinks.

"Don't get mad at me!" he said, throwing his hands up defensively. "JB booked it all and I can almost guarantee these rooms were comped."

She glared at him anyway and wandered further into the room while he overtipped the guys that had carried their bags. A curved staircase gracefully led her up to the second level where a smaller sitting room held another bar and deep couches. Two fogged glass doors opened into the bedroom with a massive bed and a large balcony that overlooked the private pool area and the Bellagio fountains beyond it. The entire suite, or bungalow as the room service menus referred to it, was a pleasing mix of retro and modern Vegas, post-modern lines and shapes in dark greys, bright whites and deep purples. She took a minute to dig through her bags, setting out the dress she was planning on wearing that night and went to watch the fountains dance in the distance when Dave came up the steps with drinks.

"Homme's are to our right and the Hawkins' are to our left," he told her, handing her a whiskey sour. "JB and Gass are on the otherside of bar. Pool is all ours for the weekend."

"Rock star perks," she smiled and sipped her drink, resolving not to give him a hard time about luxury for once. She had fully expected a whiskey sour to hit her tongue, but was surprised when she tasked coffee, bourbon and a hint of orange. "Oh no," she whispered and took another long drink.

"Yeah," Dave grinned and took the now half empty glass from her hand. "Josh's specialty. You gotta take it slow with these."

"That has no right tasting as good as it does," she pouted as he set the glass on the nightstand.

"No, and he's going to hand these to you left and right, so I'm serious about taking it slow."

"Yes, sir," she called after him as he left the room. In the 45 minutes she had been inside the hotel, no less than five drinks had been handed to her and she was bracing for the effects.

Dave walked back into the bedroom holding a black garment bag out to her, making her frown. "This is yours," he said casually, before moving towards the door again.

"What the fuck is this?" Liz asked, holding the wire hanger with one finger and eyeing it suspiciously.

"It's your costume."

"My what?"

"You heard me."

"Yeah, and did you forget that I'm an adult?" she tossed the bag on the bed next to the outfit she had already laid out and put her hands on her hips. "I can buy my own candy. I don't need to dress up and go door to door anymore."

"It came from a porn shop if that makes you feel any better," he said blithly.

Liz's jaw dropped and her hair fanned out as she whipped around to him. "David!"

"Look, baby," he said with a sickeningly sweet tone and crossed the room to put his arms around her waist. "I picked it out just for you."

She frowned, but leaned her back into his chest. "At a porn shop. Do they even still have those? You know the internet is a thing, right?"

"Yeah, I couldn't find what I was looking for," he grumbled and kissed her shoulder. He had several favorite parts of her body, but the spot where her shoulder met her neck was definitely in the top five. Every time he kissed her there she fell apart in his arms.

"What is it?" she sighed, just as he predicted.

"Open it and see," he said, stepping away from her so fast that she had to catch her balance. "I have to make a couple calls, okay? Come down when you're ready."

Liz didn't answer, just waited until she was alone before taking the bag into the bathroom and locking herself inside.

*

"We can do New Years, but I'm not doing anything from December 15th to the 30th. Those are blackout dates, Silva. Do you hear me?"

Dave squinted through his glasses at the calendar on his laptop. His mom's Christmas party was the 24th, he had the girls the evening of the 25th and he wanted the rest of the time to just be with Liz. She had mentioned spending time at the beach house and at the moment that sounded like heaven, cloistering themselves away from anything and everything that was a distraction from the two of them. Though that was before they found the house...

John was shouting something back through the phone when movement at the top of the steps caught his eye. He glanced up at Liz's backlit shape and then back down at this computer before she completely manifested in his brain and his eyes shot up again.

"Jo- John... I'll... I have to call you back, man."

He ended the call and flung the phone across the couch, his eyes never leaving her. She slowly descended the stairs, well aware of the look on his face.

"You're so goddamn lucky I had shoes that matched," she grumbled, stopping at the very last step. She tried to sound annoyed, but couldn't help laugh at the look on his face.

"What shoes?" he asked, coming closer to get a better look at her. "You're wearing shoes?"

The 1940's pinup style military uniform fit her like it had been custom made for her. The green shirt dress laced up the front with a bright pink satin bow and had little patches sewn on the chest and arm; they had been generic things like wings and stripes, but he had replaced a few of them with band pins he had laying around including one from Queens and Chevy Metal. She had pinned the matching side cap into her hair, tilting it to the side to show off her victory rolls in her long auburn curls. Even her makeup was 40's glam and he wondered if he could get her to rock the red lipstick look more often.

"I haven't done the slutty Halloween thing in years, David. I look like a stripper named Memphis Belle," she muttered and flicked the patch on his green jumpsuit when he was close enough. "Yours is decidedly less revealing. What is this, Top Gun merch?"

"Maybe," he leaned in to kiss her neck, but she only allowed him one before pushing him away and strutting to the bar where her bag sat. He growled a little when he saw the way the dress moved when she walked and hurried to meet her, unable to keep his hands off of her for another second. Pulling her hair off her neck and kissing her just behind the ear, she jumped a little when he reached down and snapped the strap on her barely hidden garter belt that held up her back seam stockings. "I didn't buy you these."

"No," she spun to face him and softly kissed his lips. "These were for an entirely different outfit not meant for public consumption."

She yelped when he suddenly picked her up by the backs of her thighs and dropped her on the back of the couch. "We're staying in tonight," he muttered, trying to pull at the pink ribbon holding her dress together.

"The fuck we are!" she laughed, swatting him away. "You wanted me to wear this, so I'm wearing it! We're already late, Goose. Let's go."

Dave pouted, but helped her off the couch anyway. "Why the hell do I have to be Goose?"

"Because Goose is more fun to say," she shrugged and grabbed her phone and ID off the bar. "Here. You're the one wearing cargo shorts as an entire outfit, you can hold all my stuff."

*

Ally stepped into the hallway that joined all of their bungalows together, at first looking a little apprehensive, but relaxed once she saw Liz coming towards her. "Oh thank god. I thought I was the only one who had a teenager for a husband."

Liz laughed at that and threw her arm around Ally's bare shoulders, careful to avoid her bunny ears. "Such a cliché fantasy, Hawkins" she admonished Taylor as he shut the door behind them wearing a silk robe and slippers.

"I don't care what you two call me as long as I get to go home with this particular bunny tonight," he laughed and reached forward to flick the fluffy tail pinned to the back of Ally's corseted suit.

"Why is it," Ally asked when Dave walked up, "that we have to wear push up bras and heels when you two get to wander around in your pajamas?"

Taylor and Dave looked at each other's costumes as if this were a revelation and shrugged.

"It's okay," Liz whispered to Allison, leaning into her so the guys couldn't overhear. "Just sway your hips when you walk." She steered them back down the hallway and they walked just a few steps before they heard a pained groan from both Taylor and Dave.

"It's gonna be a long night, boys," Ally laughed.

#ThatBlueGibson

[monsterloveday]

Dating is just as enjoyable as explosive diarrhoea.

This will make you laugh. My pathetic failings will make you feel awesome. Man they are good stories to tell. There I was, the 26 year old Jay, feeling lame and inexperienced due to never having gone on a date and really wanting to try it out to ‘cross it off the list’... what a pile of wank. I’d tell her to stay home and eat, I’d tell her to spend that 50 or so quid and spend it on something more useful than trying to impress a guy who she most likely didn't give a crap about. And for the love of god DONT shave - DO NOT WASTE HOURS OF YOUR TIME JUST TO END IN NOT GETTING PORKED AND TO ITCH CONSTANTLY AND GET RASH FOR THE NEXT THREE DAYS.

Why do we do this to ourselves? - who thought meeting a stranger and feeling like you're in a job interview would actually go well? 

Actually maybe we should do it more like it were a job interview - it would certainly save time... *Girl* “Are you a dick?” *Boy* Yes, after I have learned that you wont just fuck me, i’ll piss off and move into the next fanny and will probably forget your whole existence, wait, whats your name again babe?” *Girl* - Thank you for applying, if you do not hear anything, it means you have not been successful”.... AAANDDD leaves. And then theres the trying on numerous outfits / buying brand new clothes to feel sexy and try them all on - with optional shoes and bags and sending all these options via Whatsapp to your mates and making sure you wear good make up but not too much make up, but make up that looks like make up but natural at the same time bla bla blaaaaaa. Surely someone has to earn the right to this shit? - not someone totally random who wont even buy me a drink?!. And whats more - with every date that is bad, you end up totally evaluating your whole love life and go into the major “Woeist MEEE! I am going to be alone forever’ WHERE IST THOU HUSBAND?!” and wanting to eat your body weight in ice cream until you somehow master the courage to do it all again with some other guy who is also “not the one”.  So we have, lets say his name was ‘Dave’. Dave was clearly very shy (my loud ass does NOT do shy guys). His inexperience was very clear, if there were a ten minute gap or so of me not replying to his texts, I’d receive a text from his relative telling me to hurry up and text him back. Oh lord. Why didn't I run for the hills at this point? He wouldn't make any decisions as to where we should go and wanted me to take the lead (urgh, my flange does shut very tightly), so I tell him he could take me anywhere as long as it was quiet so we could hear each other speak and that we could get some cocktails, (after our previous conversation of how much we liked them). His MUM drops him off to our meeting place - a nightclub. A nightclub where coincidentally his mates are. And the first thing he does is look at he prices of cocktails, states he's not getting any due to the expense. So he asks me what else I want, I tell him vodka and coke, he comes back moaning how expensive that was. Bet it wasn't as expensive as my taxis here and back to you love, but Im not being a little bitch about it!. I took turns in getting drinks (I usually do anyway) just to shut this one up.

Inevitably the conversation is pointless as we cant hear each other. (shock!) Knowing this was a failure, I drink enough and start talking of my bingo wings and how my arm fat needs to come off and wobble it in display. I tell him I'm going to get a taxi, so he goes to meet his mates (oh wow didn't see that coming!). To my surprise I still got texts from him the next day. Fail. Then theres Glenn, the guy who looked like a nice chunky bearded lumberjack online, who turned out to be the campiest guy who’s voice was higher than mine and probably weighed about 6 stone and turned out to be a proper hard core man hating feminist. He speaks of how he gets all his girlfriends massive dildos to avoid them cheating on him with actual human men. He is mouthy to a bar man he doesn't like for no reason and demands we go somewhere else.  When he eventually leaves for his train (after hinting and pleading he come back to mine - fucks sake) he asks me out right yet nervously “so um are we going to kiss now?”, I say no and that I don't kiss on first dates, which then leads to him pushing me into a dark corridor at the train station, pinning me against a wall and trying to force it on me - what a true feminist!. On my journey home I get a multitude of apologetic texts stating he acted like everything he hates. Wow. Fail. Another was with a teacher who also had the high pitched voice of a 6 year old girl and had made as much effort as you do for a duvet day - a crinkled T shirt with jeans that dragged on the floor with holes, I smell no cologne nor had his hair been touched. I feel like a right knob when Im dressed up wearing a very flattering top, perfume, hair and make up agonised over. We do a pub quiz in which he regularly “Sssshhhhes” me angrily and tells me Im getting too excited and that the other people will hear me saying the answers. He tells me he hates people who have a problem with his smoking, knowing he stated he is a non smoker on his profile. =| I watch him have a better time with his cigarette then with me. I last an hour and beg for my sisters boyfriend to come and save me. Fail. Hal was the best one. Hal slags off his date from the day before and informs me of his upcoming date for the following day =|. He buys a packet of crisps for us ‘to share’ and chomps on them without offering me one and then tips the packet into his mouth. After telling me previously he knows exactly where he's taking me, we walk around in Bristol with his sat nav, getting nowhere fast. He kindly likes to remind me of when its my round - usually as soon as he has finished his drink. (it may be ‘my round’ darling but its a hell no to you telling me so!) He tells me how he has been in prison for drug dealing and asks me what drugs I do. =| ( erm energy drinks with vodka?) After a few drinks I tell him I don't need another after his offerings, as I am getting tiddley, with this he comes back with come cheesy chips to help me ‘pace out’ - I think, wow he could redeem himself with buying me food! He asks me if I like hot sauce - I tell him no. He then pours hot sauce all over them but thinks this is ok because he also puts ketchup and mayonnaise on them (as these are the ones I state I like). He mixes them all onto one big gooey, disgusting concoction. He devours them like he has never been fed until he gets down to the last one. This one has  managed to escape the sauce, I tell him he can have it... Now, along with everything else Ive already mentioned, Id also like to mention that later on this guy had been drunkenly looking at my chest, telling me “I just want to have sex with you”, he tried to convince me not to take my last train home and to stay at his. But THIS is what takes the biscuit... He eats the last chip. THE LAST CHIP.  HE FUCKING EATS IT!? WHO DOES THAT?....WHO?!. This is when you know someone is truly a fucking asshole. Mega fail. Chris insisted we go on a date again and again and again. After weeks of convincing I give in, he says he will take me out to dinner - on the day of the date, he randomly goes quiet and nothing happens.  Oh ok then!. The next day he drives past me and texts me asking if I want a lift to work. Um no I fucking don't douche bag!. Fail. Kieran. My first actual good date. We even have a nice kiss (even though I dont usually do this but the moment was there) and he says he could actually stay up all night with me talking, that Im the only girl he doesn't just want to have sex with, that he is attracted to me but Im also like a mate to him - good things to say right? Wrong. After the second date (that I asked him to I may add), he tells me hes not used to girls not having sex with him and ditches. Needless to say this didn't give me a wide on. Fail. Now I know what your thinking, that Im a poor judge of character, that not all men are like this and I have been dating men who are clearly twats, some of this is true, but the whole point of dating is to get to know someone and the only way to find out if they are a dick is to go on a date with them, so some responsibility I shan't take! I havent dated for a few years now and Im not planning on trying again anytime soon, regardless of how horrendous they were, Im still actually glad that I have given dating a go and have indeed ‘ticked it off the list’. I do imagine that maybe someone out there in the universe has experienced a good date - who ever you are, where ever you are hiding - I salute you, to the rest of us poor bastards - we are brave souls.  Until I can be assed again, I will continue to date myself and not shave, stuff my face and not have to explain politely why I wont fuck a random stranger on a first date - call me old fashioned, but I do prefer the whole ‘Just talking to each other” thing and I do melt if a man acts like a gentleman. I love that shit! Romance is dead my friends, but so is dating!. Be back soon Jay Monster 

[fighttowinfanfic]

Fight to Win: Dave’s Cut - Homura Akemi Vs Yoshikage Kira

Next up on Dave’s Cut--where we have no time for research or analysis! Manipulators of time and masters of demolition! Kyubey’s oldest pawn, Homura Akemi, against the menace on Morioh, Yoshikage Kira!

Cue: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lgwkZJ9G3c

Throwing the wrapper to his favorite sandwich into the receptacle by the park, Yoshikage Kira looked at his watch. “And still ten minutes to spare before I have to go back to work…” He thought aloud. “And it’s such a beautiful day…” The toe headed man pulled open his coat, his torso facing the trashcan, positive nobody could see. He looked down inside. “Ooh...Minako.” He cooed as he feasted his eyes on the severed, rotting hand of his last victim. Just looking at the once young lady’s red painted finger nails made him shiver. “Our time together has been exquisite...but an odor is beginning to surround you. What would people say?” Gingerly as he could, Kira pulled the hand from his coat and dropped it into the trash. “I suppose it’s time to track down a new one. Maybe after work...there’s a woman on the subway each day with exquisite fingers....” Kira’s daydreams were cut short by a voice behind him. ”That hand was your last, you sick freak.” Kira’s heart skipped a beat. He’d been found out? But he had always been so discrete! “Who the…?” Kira turned around. He had never seen this dismal looking little girl in his whole life. “I can tell you're confused.” Homura Akemi plainly stated. “But I’ve seen you carry out your hideous indulgences for too long!” Kira’s eyes shot left and right. “If you’ve really watched me for as long as you claim...you know I cannot allow you to leave here.” FIGHT Homura’s shield, her temporal sand timer in its center crest, materialized over her arm. “Get ready!” She lunged in Kira’s direction, swinging her shield, hoping to land a decisive, close range blow as quickly as possible. Kira swayed out of the first swing’s direction, before finding himself forced to block a second blow with his hand. Despite his seemingly initial success, he quickly found his hand wasn’t a sufficient defense, as Homura overwhelmed him, sending him rolling backwards after three strikes across the face from her metal shield. “Nice try.” Homura droned. On a single knee and wiping blood from his mouth, Kira chuckled to himself. “What’s so funny?” Homura snapped. “You have no idea…” Kira stifled a full on maniacal laugh. My Stand...Killer Queen makess a bomb out of everything we touch! Invisible to Homura, Kira’s Stand, Killer Queen manifested. The magenta figure mimed the motion of the pressing of a TNT detonator. As soon as the motion was fulfilled, Homura’s shield glowed and, within a moment, exploded. The blast sent Homura flying backwards, crashing into a park bench hard enough to leave a dent. Homura pulled herself off the structure, looking down at all that remained of her shield in her palm--the sand timer crest, surrounded by jagged and charred metal. “That could’ve turned out a lot worse…” Homura admitted, before she looked up. She hadn’t realized that her shield was what carried her slew of firearms, which were now scattered about the park. Kira rubbed his hands together as he picked up a heavy rocket launcher, resting it on his shoulder. “Everything’s coming out Kira today!” A wicked look in his eye, Kira pulled the trigger, firing off a massive rocket. Homura quickly gripped a discarded grenade, biting off the pin and throwing it at the missile. The explosion promptly detonated the missile in mid air, causing an immense, mutual explosion, causing both combatants to skid backwards. “Don’t move!” Homura lifted a machine gun off the ground, taking aim at Kira and opening fire, releasing a storm of flashing bullets in his direction. Kira stopped cold in his tracks. ”Killer Queen!” Kira’s Stand appeared behind him again, drifting toward a car parked nearby. Kira’s Stand lifted the car off the road, holding it up in front of the prolific serial killer. Kira smiled smugly as the bullets blasted the car harmlessly. Killer Queen promptly threw the car at Homura as soon as her gun ran out of bullets. Homura braced herself, generating a purple shield of energy in front of herself. Killer Queen, once more, made the detonating hand gesture, causing the car it had handled to burst into flames. ”Damn it! The force of the blast was enough to knock Homura off of her feet despite the leverage of her defenses. “Winning one fight is easy, maybe even fun.” Kira, his eyes half lidded, lectured. “But it makes you stressed out for the next one.” By the time Homura returned to her feet, she saw a device materialize between herself and Kira. Sitting on four wheels was a metal, dome shaped shell, decorated with a skull. “Killer Queen’s second bomb, Sheer Heart Attack.” Kira introduced. As he did so, the skull on the bomb’s front glowed to life before the wheels carried itself toward Homura. Homura was quick to pick up a pistol from the ground. “Keep away from me!” Homura desperately pulled the trigger, sending an entire round of bullets at the Sheer Heart Attack. Every bullet bounced right off. Kira chuckled. “Sheer Heart Attack has no weaknesses.” Homura dropped the gun. Taking a single step backwards, she gripped the slightly broken sand timer she had left in her pocket. Please work! Sheer Heart Attack had lightly tapped against Homura’s foot by now--which meant it was about to explode. Homura channeled her magic energy into the sand timer, and just as Sheer Heart Attack detonated, she managed to stop time. Homura looked around. Sheer Heart Attack was in the process of exploding, the flames mere inches away from her face. Kira had a look of bloodlust and anticipation quite literally frozen on his face. Homura stepped around the exploding Sheer Heart Attack and strolled in Kira’s direction. On her way, she picked up a shotgun. One she was poised directly behind Kira, Homura allowed time to crawl forward once more. Sheer Heart Attack detonated, releasing a brilliant flare of smoke and fire, which Kira laughed at the sight of. “AAAHAHAHA!” Kira guffawed. “Luck has sided, once more, with Yoshikage Ki---” Kira was frightened by the sensation of the cold barrel of a shotgun against the back of his head. “You almost got me with that trick the last time we fought.” Homura said. “L-last time?!” Kira stammered before Homura pulled the trigger. The blast of the shotgun destroyed Kira’s skull in a single flash. KO Homura rested the end of her rifle on the ground. “Let’s hope that’s the last time we have to do that.”

The winner is...Homura Akemi

What a blast! If you wanna see another Jojo rogue try their hand, you can see Dio Brando’s full length battle with Nui Harime right here!

http://fighttowinfanfic.tumblr.com/post/153607088691/fight-to-win-dio-brando-vs-nui-harime

#Fight To Win Fanfic #homura akemi #kira yoshikage #puella magi madoka magica #jojo's bizarre adventure

[celticnoise]

I have lost count of the number of people who’ve emailed me and spoken to me over the years who has asked me “what’s the big deal? What’s worth all this time and trouble?”

I am astounded that five years after the crisis which wiped away Rangers that there are still people who Just Don’t Get It, who’s understanding of what happened here is limited to what the consequences were for the Ibrox club and its fans, who’ve either yet to look at or failed to understand the bigger picture. This is why they don’t get animated over title stripping or the Survival Lie or any of the other myriad issues this thing has thrown up.

They’re just not seeing all of it, the totality of what was done and because of that they aren’t fully grasping the significance of what they think they know.

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When this started out, I had a nearly gleeful take on all of it; the crash at Ibrox, which I had been writing about for four years at that point, was finally happening before my eyes.

Their club had run out of money, at last.

I had confidently written, in 2008, about how just one year outside of Europe could prove catastrophic for them. That article can be read at this link. What happened at the end of that particular football season, 2008-09, was that Celtic failed in its historic quest for four in a row.

We failed, as I put it in that piece, to “stick a hosepipe in their mouths.”

Had we won the league that year, the first year when the tremors of the global financial crash first started knocking down banks and demolishing cosy relationships which had made some people appear very rich and made others obscenely rich. Murray was in the former category, with a lot of wealth on paper, and tied up in debt.

I knew the days of his – or rather, of the Bank of Scotland – bailing the club out when it was in need were over with. It was before Lloyds took over that bank, before they put their man on the board, before the Tax Case had even been heard of it.

It was easy to see it coming; the numbers don’t lie.

Rangers, as a club, was built on debt. None of it was ever real, all the years of mammoth spending, it was all done on someone else’s credit card.

The club never lived within its means, it could never afford the Gascoigne’s and the Laudrup’s and those other players the Sevco fans are now convinced defined the club they used to be … they never were that club in the first place.

Except for the largesse of a bank that ended up the subject of the biggest corporate fraud investigation in UK history, and who’s entire board of directors was publicly named and shamed as corrupt and reckless beyond belief, who’s largest shareholder was actually stripped of his knighthood such was the disgrace (an incredible event considering some of the people who’ve kept theirs) except for that institution, one that was being run by madmen if not outright crooks for years, none of it would ever have happened.

Those signings would never have been made.

We talk a lot about EBT’s and the damage they’ve done, but what surprisingly few realise is that the scandal of Bank of Scotland and the impact it had on Scottish football actually dwarfs what Murray and his crooked friends were up to with their tax scam. The social consequences of it were a hundred times bigger than how much money the nation lost during Murray’s decade long waltz around the Treasury which just finished in the Supreme Court.

When the Bank of Scotland was sold to Lloyds at the height of the banking crisis, in a deal which was done so quickly the negotiating team from the Black Horse had no idea precisely what they were buying (as incredible as that sounds, it’s true) its debts were so enormous that almost as soon as the deal was done Lloyds had to inform the Stock Market that they were revising their end of year projections in anticipation of a £10 billion annual loss.

That was small beer next to the real size of the hole.

Almost £800 million of HBOS’ overall debt was owed by the Murray Group.

And you know what happened to those debts? We ate them. The tax payer. The vast bulk of what Bank of Scotland was owed was written off. Just £5 in every £6 – £11 billion – was recovered. The rest was erased, swallowed in the public purse, when Lloyds (which had, ironically, been very well run) was part nationalised in the second phase of the banking bailout.

In other words, we paid for all of it.

Forget EBT’s, this was always the bigger scandal. This was always the greater crime. And most football fans of other clubs, all of whom paid into the tax system which bailed Murray out, all did their bit to deliver titles and trophies to Ibrox.

The flow of those trophies should have come to and in 2008, when the crisis at HBOS was starting to cause people sleepless nights, when the cut the cord and told Murray there was nothing left to loan him. Had Celtic won four in a row, Rangers would have collapsed.

And what happened instead? They went on to win three titles on the bounce.

Those titles literally saved their skin, that and the European income that went with them, and it was substantial, with the Groups in 2009-10 and again the following year, in which they also dropped into the Europa League last 32, and actually reached the last 16.

It says a lot that in the aftermath of those two years they had no a penny put away in case of an emergency. Everyone knew about the tax case by then, and they took no precautions whatsoever for the eventuality that they lost it.

It mattered not. Whyte was already in place. Murray had his patsy.

The club had been ripe for collapse for years, and on 3 August 2011 Malmo knocked them out of the Champions Cup which they ought not even to have had a license to play in and 22 days later Maribor ended their Europa League chances with a 1-1 draw at Ibrox.

Rangers was not set up for a season without European income.

Whatever Murray or others now say about the club being in good health, we know it’s a lie. From the moment the fulltime whistle went that night the great unravelling of Scottish football’s most potent myth – that Rangers was a massive club instead of a massively inflated one – had begun.

It was certain to end in administration, at best.

Everything you need to know about what happened next is contained in those previous paragraphs, and in what happened next.

You want to understand why  this scandal is bigger than just title stripping and where Resolution 12 fits into the picture?

It’s all there, in what I just said.

The SFA knew that tax bill was due and should have been paid. They were told that, and more. They also knew that if a European license had not been granted that the club would have filed for administration almost immediately.

So they granted it.

Knowing the truth.

They looked the other way.

And in the event, Rangers went out and crashed anyway.

Having already lied for them and covered for them, did the governing bodies feel honour bound (if you can use that term) to go the extra mile when Whyte called them and told them the club wouldn’t survive, or did he use what he knew about the license to force their hands?

In other words, did they co-operate out of some misplaced altruism or did they have their arms twisted by intimidation or blackmail in what came next?

Who knows? Who cares?

Their motivation doesn’t interest me and never has, only their actions do.

And they didn’t do what good regulators have a legal, and moral, responsibility to do when they are told that one of the organisations they are responsible for over-seeing is engaged in a planned bankruptcy and debt dumping, which is to immediately insist that it desists from doing further business and enters immediate administration … no, the SPL and the SFA not only covered that up, even from their own members (initially anyway) but offered to help.

That’s the part a lot of people just don’t get … the seriousness of this just hasn’t sunk in.

All those creditors who were screwed when Whyte engaged their services with no intention of ever paying the bills were, at least in part, conned by Scottish football’s governing bodies as well as Whyte himself.

They were, effectively, co-conspirators in the fraud.

Rangers was trading whilst insovlent for more than four months by the time Whyte pulled the plug in February 2012.

All the whilst they were signing contracts, paying salaries, taking money, running up debts and dodging the taxman … and the SFA and the SPL knew all this and more. They knew what the endgame was, that Whyte wasn’t planning an administration at all … he was planning to liquidate the lot of it and start again.

How much of this do I know for a fact?

All of it. Every bit of it.

How much of it can I prove?

All of it. Every bit of it.

The evidence is there, in the public domain, and it’s always been there … the Charlotte Fakeover materials, authenticated now by the Whyte trial, as bought by Dave King, are the smoking gun, but they only confirmed what a lot of us knew anyway.

In October 2011, Whyte told senior officials at the SPL that the club would be liquidated.

The SFA were on board shortly thereafter.

They should have stopped him there and then.

They had a duty to football to halt that scheme, and not just to football but wider society. They had regulations. They had responsibilities and those extended beyond the game. It doesn’t matter what their motives were, they failed on every level. They helped him con people.

And as far as mere football goes their job went from being one where they represented the best interests of the game, and protected its integrity, to being one where they acted as salesmen for a corrupt scheme operated by the dodgiest geezer to get hold of a Scottish club until Dave King and his 80 odd convictions rolled back into town two years ago.

They took on the task of helping Craig Whyte facilitate the liquidation and then sell the rest of Scottish football on the idea of his phoenix club moving straight into the top flight, free of every financial obligation it had.

Even if it’s legal, it’s as corrupt as you’ll get.

It is morally indefensible.

None of those men should have survived that effort.

It is the most corrupt plan ever to take root in our sport, and Regan and Doncaster were not just game for it but they did everything they could to carry it through to the finish.

Here’s what it comes down to.

If after October 2011, you did business with Rangers and you were owed a debt, and that debt was never paid, if you are one of the BDO creditors, then you should consider the SPL a co-conspirator in a scheme whose intent was to defraud you. You should consider the SFA a co-conspirator in a scheme whose intent was to defraud you. Because the people who run Scottish football knew what Craig Whyte was doing. They allowed him to continue trading, through four months when they could have hit the brakes anytime they chose … and your debt is on them because of it, and you should consider your legal options in light of that.

If a bank had given you a loan to invest in a fraudulent company, and the bank itself knew it, you could go after the bank as well as the company.

Sadly, a civil case is probably beyond you.

There is a statute of limitations on making a damages claim directly against the SFA and the SPL, providing the SPFL is legally responsible for anything the SPL did (a question I sort of half posed in yesterday’s piece). That was confirmed, in law, ironically enough at the Supreme Court in the case of  David T Morrison & Co Limited v ICL Plastics Limited & Ors which arsose from the ICL Plastics Factory explosion.

But there is no statute of limitations against raising a criminal complaint for fraud.

And if I were you, and in your shoes, I’d do exactly that.

Maybe then, we’ll see some media interest.

Maybe then people will get the picture.

Maybe then we’ll get some recognition that this is not about “punishing Rangers”, no matter what the colossally ignorant, like Derek Johnstone, or those in it up to their necks might say.

http://ift.tt/2vQpXr9

#CelticNoise #Celtic #CelticFC #TheCelticBlog #News

[downtownbrooklyn26]

Giancarlo Chico

.

SILENT HEART Here we go. The beginning. Level 1. Orientation day. The first trimester. I have to tell you right now, I speak in tangents. A lot. And then go off on tangents on those tangents. It’s not because I have ADD (an over diagnosed mental illness that gives parent’s a reason to justify their kid’s idiocy), but because I have learned that some misgivings could be instigated as an art form. That, and I just have a short attention span.      My name is Atom. No last name. Not that I actually don’t have a last name. I just don’t want to give it. I have green eyes, am a Taurus, and I like long walks on the beach, and fried twinkies.      At this very moment, I’m staring at the name Phil written out on my Styrofoam tea cup. When I’m at a café, when I’m at a restaurant, when I comment on a YouTube video, I never give people my real name. Everybody thinks it’s a scam. No matter where I go, no one can quite wrap their finger around the concept of a name like that unless they have an obscure name themselves. After a few years of dealing with that kind of disbelief, you tend to get burned out and stray to typical white names minimum wage employees can understand; John, Dave, Tom, Chuck, Shawn, Bill. At $8 an hour, their minds only function at one syllable per word.      Cafés are a relatively pleasant environment, but I hate coffee. It only tastes good when you put a shit ton of sugar and cream in it (which is why everyone loves tiramisu), and even then it’s like drinking Soylent Green diarrhea with a money shot of vanilla extract. I am dreading my future, not just because I’ll be 25 years old in four days, but because my rent’s going up next month and I have no viable career options. In congruence to what most people say, creative writing pays about as well as a career in storm chasing. My father was right. I should have been a commercial jet pilot, or a trapeze artist, or a clandestine field agent, which is a fancy term for spy. Any of those would have been more plausible than trying to sell words for money.      Summer is coming up soon and I have nothing to do. This is what I consider fun; sitting in a café alone, writing a novel that will be most likely be read by no one. I’m beginning to turn into my father. When I was little, he was constantly bustling about the house, studying, researching, never taking a fucking break. At the time, I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just sit still and relax, but now that I’m older… I still don’t understand. I like to write a lot, and when you have chosen writing as your career, it never becomes work. Taking a break doesn’t constitute as being lazy, it’s just time used to get over a writer’s block. Contrary to my appearance, I’m not a hipster. Never mind my scruffy facial hair, horn rimmed glasses, and pork pie hat, the only reason I like to write in cafes is because it offers less distraction than my apartment.      “Hey, man. We’re closing right now.” Comes a voice above me. The café is empty and my phone screen says 10:07. There goes another day.

     I can’t look up. I know that 3 inches away, some guy has his crotch lined up with my face. One of the many setbacks of traveling via the subway.  With my mind wandering, I forget my surroundings. My eyes inadvertently become glued to the perverse intersection of this hairy guy’s khakis. Being from out-of-state, I tend to stray from the normal norm of NYC culture. I noticed it the first day I moved here. Every one keeps to themselves. Always. They look at their phones, read their books, sleep. Nobody interacts with one another, or stares at that cute girl with tattoos creeping up her neck. I do. I’ve been a New Yorker for over a year now, and I have a girlfriend, but my eyes continue to scream bachelor and …. out-of-state.      As I’m sure you’ve probably already deduced, my parents were the ones to name me Atom. It’s not a household name but they wanted to be creative, like people who name their daughter Alia, but spell it Ahleeyah, or people who learn how to play the accordion. Ridiculous.      No, I’m just fucking with you. My father was a physicist, teaching theoretical physics at some no-name community college in the middle-of-nowhere town I’m from. Despite the fact that he dedicated his life to science in an effort to explain the unexplained, my father is still a god-fearing Catholic. As a result, I am not allowed to talk about my “atheistic views” inside his house. It’s strange that atheists can have something as ludicrous as a “coming out” story.  You’d think those should be reserved for mouth breathers or people who hate chocolate.      I remember being thirteen years old when I went to my first (and only) confession. While most people find peace and tranquility through this practice, confessing my “sins” to a random stranger in a fancy outhouse didn’t necessarily make me feel the most comfortable. When I entered that strange booth, and saw a man resembling Bill Gates in priest’s robes, I impulsively confessed deviant acts my friends committed while at school. Although I was most likely just being a coward, I’d like to think I was inadvertently trying to save my dear friends from eternal damnation.      “Father forgive me, for I have sinned. I was playing with scissors last week and accidentally cut some girl in the stomach. She’s fine but my teacher told me she’ll probably have a scar there for the rest of her life. I also cheated (somehow) in my woodshop class, and ended up getting a C+.”      The priest simply nodded silently to me, his head bowed. I remember wondering if I bored him to sleep.      “You must make penance for your sins, my son.” The priest suddenly spoke. “Recite ten Hail Mary’s and twenty [blah] [blah] [blahs].”      When I got home, I was unconventionally quiet. My father, his black mustache twitching from behind his newspaper, looked me up and down as I stared blankly at the wall. He obviously sensed something wrong with me.      “The priest didn’t do anything to you, did he?” he asked.      “No.”      “Good.” He responded, as if that closed the matter for good.      I stood rooted in the middle of the kitchen staring at him, as his attention returned back to his newspaper. And like a swift kick to the balls, tears began to pour out of my eyes.      “I don’t believe in God!” I bawled.      As I sobbed loudly in the middle of his kitchen, my father continued to skim the page he was reading, absorbing the words as if they held the answer to his preteen son’s sudden outburst.      Turning the page, my father asked me, “Do you pray when your grandma gets sick? Or when you really want to do well on a test at school?”      His voice seemed bored when he asked, and it calmed me down enough to fully contemplate the situation I just instigated. What possible use was there confessing to my father my soul’s absence of God? Why was I crying? Being an Atheist, you have to come to terms that you, and you alone, are in charge of your own actions, your own “destiny”.      “Yes.” I lied.      “Then you believe in God.” He concluded.      And that was that. He flipped the page of his newspaper and went on reading as if nothing happened, chalking it up to his 13 year-old son going through awkward puberty stuff.      Four years later, though, at 17, when I was going through my rebellious teenage phase, when I was learning how to conceal a constant boner, I decided to be honest and spiteful about his precious lord and savior. If blasphemy didn’t have a definition before, it did now. I think that was the first time I saw honest-to-goodness shame present itself on my father’s face. I could just see his whole world falling apart in his head, wondering, “Where did I go wrong? I raised the spawn of Satan….” And to that, I would have only responded, yes you did, fucker. If I had to pray to some divine being, I would have told it, “Lord, deliver me from yourself.” From that day on, I haven’t been allowed to say the word “atheist” under my father’s roof without getting reprimanded.

     My purple apartment is a second-floor piece-of-shit studio in Astoria. I like to peel the loose paint off the walls as I climb the stairs. The hallway light falters as I grab my keys out of my pocket, and my neighbors scream “Shut up!” at their wailing infant son who hasn’t even spoken his first word yet.      After entering the living room, I have to remember to press the correct light switch, otherwise I’ll be paying up-the-ass for electricity I’m not using. Half the lights in my home have gone out but I’m not tall enough to change the bulbs. No to mention I’m lazy and don’t want to deal with the maintenance man who refuses to do his fucking job. The walls in my room are covered floor-to-ceiling with take-out menus I’ve collected from dozens of restaurants, and one massive poster of my favorite music group, Baha Men.      I have a twin–size bed covered in Star Wars sheets from when I was 8. Regardless of the fact my girlfriend rides my dick on top of the Millennium Falcon, these sheets are still totes collectibles.      Time to get to work. Unlike my own creative writing projects, my job doesn’t require me to go to a happy place of serenity. For my job, I need a constant outlet of distraction, otherwise I’ll end up chain smoking to relieve my stress. And after a year-and-a-half away from American Spirits, I don’t think I would be able to endure wheezing through another porn-filled night of self pleasure.      My job isn’t what most people would call morally positive, but it’s not like I rob convenience stores or prostitute myself to Ricky Martin fanatics. I am a work-for-hire essay writer for a wide variety of clientele. It’s a wonderful little gig I’ve been doing for the past year. It’s amazing what kind of topics people are forced to write about; String Theory, gentrification, Alexander of Macedonia, how the Kardashians affect society. I have become a way station on people’s journey toward success.        Three new emails today from potential clients. One client, 19-year-old Sue Yung Kim, needs a five-page research essay on the progression of cash flow in the 20th century, written by Friday (WITH a works cited page). Who said all Asians were ambitious scholars?      Most essays I write cost around $100, depending on page length. Research and bibliographies cost extra, ultimately pricing this essay at around $175, if I’m feeling generous. I also take dead lines into account, so the shorter amount of time I have to complete a project, the more I charge. You may find my prices obscene, but I also guarantee every one of my customers a B+ or higher when it’s turned in, otherwise they get a full refund. So far, I have not had to return anyone’s money, and nobody’s been stupid enough to try and lie to me about their grade.      Another email, a middle-aged History teacher going for his Doctorate in Psychology, wants me to write a 100-page dissertation by mid June. Two months to obtain a Doctorate education in psychology, only to write about the ‘implications of visual illusions and how they help understand perceptual processes’. I’ll have it done in one month, with a pay off of around $5,500, my biggest check yet.  You may find this line of work to be a bit unorthodox, but the way I began is somewhat of an interesting story.    

     About a year ago, I was dozing off in the conference room of the Journalism Department at some dead-beat University. I was an office assistant working for this old Republican who was half in love with Rush Limbaugh. Aside from the usual tasks of organizing his desk, filing paperwork, and hiding his hemorrhoid medication, I also had to revise Journalism student essays. I have to tell you right now, those little fuckers are some of the worst writers I have ever encountered. How they managed to graduate high school and get accepted into a four-year University is beyond my comprehension, but I digress.      One day, this girl barges into the department office demanding to see Dr. Billsby who, at the time, was in China giving a lecture on the education-economic fall out in America. I assure you, they couldn’t have cared less, not because it’s an insanely tedious topic of debate, but because the Chinese university forgot to book him a translator, so the attendees didn’t understand a word he was saying. All they did was smile and nod as he droned on for an hour. Either way, I was in charge of the office that week.      I remember that day clearly. My cheerios that morning were stale and the broken office heater made me sweat more than a crack addict going through withdrawal. With my shirt clinging to my back, this girl, cheeks flushed, periorbitals swollen from stress asks me how I stand the heat. This is where I tend to run into a bit of a wall with people.      There’s no real way to describe severe glossophobia to anybody. I suppose I could just give the simplest definition of the term, but that would be like a woman reading the definition of abortion to a man.

     I was 20 when the idea came to me. 30 mg of Clonidine, 40 mg of Lexapro, 50 mg of Hydroxyzine, two tabs of LSD, and one packet of cigarettes per day was what it took to suppress my anxiety to a bearable level. I tried nearly everything to snuff it out completely, from public speaking classes to karaoke bars to drinking fucking coffee.      Sitting in the middle of an abandoned beach parking lot with my friend, Bryce, he suggested, “Maybe you should go see one them shrinks. A psychologist.” Psychologists, those small people with their equilateral frameless glasses, their pathetic sweater vests, those ominous clocks that tick a little too loudly in the foreground of their office. My 5’5” black friend from Long Beach then offered me a hit of his cigarette as we listened to Abba in his 1980 Buick.      “And maybe you should wear platform shoes to make yourself taller.” I replied, as I placed his cigarette between my teeth. “Light me, will you? It’s out.” The last words anyone will hear me say.      “My lighter’s almost gone so make it count... dick.” He tells me.      As the flame ignited the cigarette, I sucked hard and accidentally inhaled the butt, lodging it in my throat. I gasped for breath, placing my hands around my throat as the embers seared my larynx. If you’ve ever gone camping and made s’mores, then you most likely have an idea of how my vocal chords looked once I swallowed the damned thing. Looking back now though, that agonizing pain was probably the greatest moment of my life. I was like a dragon finally living up to my fire-breathing potential. All I had to do was rear my head back and scorch the earth.      The hospital was an overall tranquil experience the following week. I had to have a full evaluation done on my throat and my father threatened to cut me off if I didn’t quit smoking, but my anxiety was gone. After 6 years, 3 months, and 17 days, my heart wasn’t thumping in my ears. I was able to breathe and, for once, my mind wasn’t swimming in an ocean of self-doubt and panic. Smiling actually hurt my face, but like people who partake in BDSM or jousting, this was the kind of pain I could thoroughly enjoy. Everyone around me talked and droned on about their lives, but for once, I wasn’t expected to reply. I wasn’t expected to over think a response. I wasn’t expected to participate. My Doctor told me my voice would come back within the next two-to-three weeks, but that’s like reminding cancer survivors they’re still going to die some day.      So how does one best pull off a life altering deception? I suppose it really just comes down to eye contact. You wouldn’t suspect a 20-year-old virgin to look you directly in the eye and spoon-feed you the kind of bullshit only a deranged hypochondriac could invent…but I did. My sad big eyes would get all misty, my lower lip would tremble slightly, and pretty soon my hands would claw at your back as I embraced you in an effort to come to terms with the “loss of my voice”. I cried silently. You mumbled awkwardly. And the world went on spinning. Fuck Meryl Streep and Leonardo DiCaprio. The Oscar for most emotional performance goes to Atom @$%#&. The world can kiss my pale mute ass. Lord, deliver me from dialogue.

     In the Journalism office, the flustered girl continued waiting for me to respond to her. I pointed to my throat, indicating that I couldn’t speak, which only made her all the more frantic. After cursing under her breath, the girl began digging around her purse as I sat calmly analyzing her. She was a peculiar woman, to say the least.  Curly ginger hair that covered the shaved sides of her head, a pale complexion with light freckles sprinkled across her cheeks, and heavily mismatched eye-liner outlining her Hershey brown eyes. As for her apparel, she wore a black-and-white collared dress with wing-tipped bowling shoes, giving her a homeless Wednesday Adams look.      After a while of digging around in her purse, she pulled out a packet and plopped it down on the desk in front of me. “I need to talk to Dr. Billsby!” She over enunciated.      I scribbled on a piece of paper: I’m not deaf.  And handed it to her. I opened the packet she put down and saw the name Kit Conrad typed on the upper right hand corner of the page, the title reading, Extra Terrestrial Influence on Human Evolution, and a large red D written at the top of the paper.      “I need a higher grade than this. I talked to Dr. Sherry, and he told me to come to Dr. Billsby to help rewrite my paper.”      He’s in China. Won’t be back until next Wednesday. I wrote.      “Is there any way you could get in contact with him for me?”      You have to wait until he gets back.      “But I’m not going to be here next week. If I don’t get this grade up to at least a B, I’m fucked! I’m already on academic probation!”      In a sudden outburst of rage, she hurled her bag across the room. A loud crack came from her purse as it collided with the book case, several books tumbling to the floor.      “Shit….” She mumbled, as she hastily stooped down to clean up the mess.      Even with her back turned to me, I could sense wave after wave of regret radiating off her like solar flares. Too many parties, perhaps. Too much alcohol. Regardless of what people say, two positives can sometimes equal a negative. Against my better nature, I decided to sympathize with her.      After placing the books back in their designated spots, she turned around to find another note waiting for her to read.      Leave your essay here. Come back tomorrow. It read.      “Dr. Sherry said I had to work on it myself with Dr. Billsby.”      I pointed to the line I just wrote.      “Are you going to give it to Dr. Billsby?” She asked.      I, once again, pointed to words I wrote.      “Okay.... I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Cautiously, she backed out of the office, unsure as how to feel about leaving her essay with a mute stranger.      As soon as I was sure she was gone, I began to skim her work. Lord, deliver me from red pens.  Aside from lacking reputable sources that failed to support her thesis, and an uneven flow of writing, her paper was riddled with literary and grammatical errors that made Joel Schumacher seem intelligent. In layman’s terms, George Clooney’s Bat nipples were a more feasible concept than this girl’s essay.

     It’s important for people to understand the importance of owning useless trinkets. Things of sentimental value that serve no purpose in life whatsoever. This concept is what hoarders rely on to keep themselves grounded. It’s important for them to hold on to their dead father’s chipped wooden cane. Own an aquamarine basketball. A broken sphygmomanometer. Their old Beetleborg action figures. Because when the full force of that battering ram called life comes bursting through their front door, they’ll at least have something to distract themselves from the inevitable aftermath of doom and isolation.      I sat and stared at her first page for over three hours. That’s one football game. One Peter Jackson movie. 36 cigarette breaks. That’s time I could have spent playing Dig Dug. Lord, deliver me from Ponchito’s delivery service. After that third hour, when I’ve become too scared to look at the clock, when my head is buzzing obnoxiously, that’s when I indulged in my old useless trinket of nostalgia: my mother’s old sticky Rubik’s cube.  Although loose and faded, like my boss’s wife’s vagina, the Rubik’s cube provides me with an outlet to process all analytical thought. I have never solved it, even though there are tutorials available. Manuals. Youtube videos. Swiveling those sides around, I make sure to complete one side at a time. First red, then white. Green. Yellow. Blue. Orange. With each side completed, I erase five years of my life. With each swivel, I get one step closer to nirvana. Peace. Tranquility. Bliss. Once I finish that last side, I can feel hope and confidence fill my body like a drink. Hope, after all, is the poison our souls thrive upon.      I returned to my desk and spun around in my swivel chair, a 7-year-old boy again. The first sentence in any written work is the most important. It grabs the reader’s attention, sets the tone for the rest of project, represents the passion of the writer. That is why one must never begin an essay, an article, a journal, with a question, because then their passion is under scrutiny. It soils the whole fucking thing.        The next day at the office, as I switched out the inept professor’s pills with Viagra, Kit entered, her low-hung shirt revealing a large Medusa tattoo on her chest. Her way of warding off perverts, I imagined.      “What are you doing?”  She asked.      I held up my finger, indicating for her to wait as I switched out the last of my boss’s medication. From under the desk, I pulled out her newly revised essay and plopped it on the desk in front of her. She grabbed it tentatively as I returned to my mundane office duties, which consisted mainly of me watching Family Matter reruns.  Kit skimmed through her new essay, her new life.      “So that’s it?”      I yawned silently while Urkel on screen exclaimed, “Hiya, big guy!” Dead people laugh and cheer in the background. The magic of 60 year-old laugh tracks. They can break awkward interactions, enabling a pristine environment of relaxation and glee.      Before exiting the office, she paused and turned back to me.      “Give me your number.” She demanded. “In case I have questions.”      If I must be honest, dear reader, while my initial reaction was to ignore her, feign apathy to the highest degree, I couldn’t help but panic. With no excuses to give, the only thing that occurred to me was to squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath, hoping beyond hope that she would just go away. This always happens when you voluntarily interact with others; they expect more.      “Hello?” She said as I continued to hold my breath. 20 seconds passed and my lungs were already on fire. I never could hold my breath longer than half a minute. As the awkward tension grew, I counted off the last few seconds in my head, all the while keeping my eyes shut.      10 seconds left…9 seconds…8….      “Seriously, dude, are you deaf or mute? Hurry up and give me your number. I gotta go.”      7…6…5…4….      “Are you okay? You’re not breathing.”      3…2….      “Atom?”      My eyes flew open as I inhaled sharply through my nose. Black stars twinkled at me as I turned toward Kit. Her chocolate fountain eyes couldn’t have looked more intense, more alluring, like my father’s home-made paella or Scarlett Johansenn’s cleavage. I hastily scrawled my number on a piece of paper and handed it to her.  After she swiped the paper from my hand, she finally left, leaving me in a frozen state of shock. I never told her my name…. I thought.

     Two weeks passed with relative gusto. Every day at noon I woke up, showered, masturbated, brushed my teeth, got dressed, read a book, and masturbated again before falling into a deep sleep. The bachelor’s paradise. Somewhere in that time I ate, and pissed, and watched TV, but I never had to interact with anybody. My own personal utopia. My Disney World. My ecstasy.      It was a Sunday afternoon when Kit called me on my cell phone. Unlike most people, I like answering unknown numbers, if anything just to listen to telemarketers struggle in their pursuit of potential business. “Hello, sir. I’m Amy, calling on behalf of the [blah] [blah] company. We’re just calling to conduct our annual survey on home improvement services. I was wondering if you had a few minutes to [tra] [la] [la].”      “Hello? Atom?” Kit’s voice rang out loud over the receiver.      Silence.      “Oh, right. You can’t talk. Well, listen I need you to meet up with me in an hour at Aristotle’s Thrift shop on 4th Street. Tap the mouth piece twice if you understand me.”      And just like, after a moment’s hesitation, after eternity ended, I knocked on the speaker. Tap. Tap.      If you’re a Y2K kid, you don’t know what a VCR is. You weren’t born when people took pictures with something other than their phone. You didn’t know a time when people wore large wayfarer glasses un-ironically. And you definitely don’t understand the concept of phat farm shoes. I was 2 minutes late when I entered the store. I tucked my messy hay hair swiftly behind my ears as I searched through the racks for Kit.      “You’re late.” Came her voice behind me. The disgusting, putrid, beautiful smell of tobacco filled my nostrils as I twisted around to look at her. Kit, with her resting bitch face and connect-the-dot freckles, stood there with an electric cigarette between her lips, staring at me.  Around the corner, a smaller version of her entered the scene, texting on her cell phone. Unlike her older sister, this little-er Kit had straight blonde hair and Mick Jagger’s body with B-cup breasts.      “Mikal, this is Atom.”      “’Sup.” Mikal said, not looking up from her phone.      “Excuse me, miss. There’s no smoking in here.” A hipster in a beanie shouted to us from the counter.      “It’s a vape.”      “I don’t care. There’s no smoking in here.”      Kit, thoroughly annoyed, turned to her little sister.      “Meet me outside when you’re done. Talk to him, will you?”      So that’s how she thought of me. I was nothing but a parrot to her, an infant, Stephan Hawking. She didn’t care about leaving her sister alone with an anxiety riddled glossophobic pill popper. After exiting through the front, Mikal put her cell phone away and finally looked up at me. She smiled, encouragingly as if I were at a job interview, on a witness stand, as if I had to choose between two divorcing parents. That smile that says, “It’s okay. Take your time...bitch.”      After giving me a thorough up-and-down inspection, she looked back up at my klingon forehead and asked in a high-pitched voice, “You speak sign language?”    

     There are people in life who end up being subconsciously regarded as secondary priorities. They are the people their friends talk over. Their jokes never get a laugh. They’re always forgotten (unless someone needs a shoulder to cry on). They’re always cut in line. Constantly getting stood up. Canceled on. These people are the visible invisibles who help bring up social moral. They are the perfect sidekicks, assistants, shoe shiners. Their sole purpose in life is to be the perfect foot rest. This phenomenon is something I commonly refer to as the Clark Kent Effect. They are crucial instruments in the pursuit of progress. They hide in plain sight for all to see, but are never valued. They are the nickels and dimes you find on the street, the chump change you need to do your laundry. That was the life I led for twenty odd years. That is, until I met Star, the deaf Canadian heart throb with the heart of bronze. I never liked to confess that I lost my virginity to a woman with a stripper’s name but I have to admit the memory of the occasion always brings a small nostalgic grin to my face. I’m always reminded of her at the strangest of times, like when I watch a Jim Carrey movie, or pour maple syrup on French toast, or when I sit in a Brookstone massage chair. Her face swims clearly in the forefront of my mind. On our first night together, with the hospital bandages muffling my gasps and moans, her mouth expelled noises that sounded like a constipated hippo or the tantrum of a down syndrome kid. It was a very instinctual time in my life, instructional, daresay even inspirational. Not only did I learn music theory through vibrations and how to overcome pregnancy scares, but I also became fluent in American Sign Language.

     I nodded at Mikal, and signed,  Do you?      Yes. She replied. She was still looking at my forehead, giving that too-innocent smile some high school girls do at times.      I read the essay you wrote for Kit. Your writing is really organized. She signed, as she finally looked me in the eye. Unlike her sister, her eyes are cold and grey, not matching the rest of her young, vibrant face.      How old are you? I asked.      16.      She looked back down at her phone to send a quick text.      “I’m gonna go try this on. Come on.” Mikal suddenly said aloud, indicating to the sun dress in her arms. Like her sister, she had a natural instinct to command.      Without objection, I followed her.      I took a seat outside the fitting room on one of the rickety chairs as Mikal pulled one of the curtains shut behind her in the fitting room. The sound of a zipper being undone, followed by her jeans falling to the floor. My eyes couldn’t help screaming pervert and out-of-state again as I looked at the smooth pallid skin of her ankles.      “Atom.” Mikal called, as she poked her head out from behind the curtain. “Come here. I need your help.”      I looked around, making sure it was clear to approach the room. This is how people inadvertently become sex offenders. If it’s not a drunken piss in the park, it’s being lulled into dangerous situations by high school girls.      As I reached the curtain, she grabbed me by my shirt and yanked me inside the room, pulling the curtain close. She wasn’t wearing the dress. I had a fleeting view of this 16 year-old girl in her mismatched bra and panties before covering my eyes shut.      “Atom, it’s okay. You don’t need to close your eyes.”      Brain damage begins to occur after five minutes without oxygen. I can only hold my breath for 30 seconds. Lord, deliver me from Vladimir Nabokov.      26…25…24….      “Atom, relax. Nobody’s going to come in.”      20…19…18…17….      “Come on. Give me your hands.” Gently, she grabbed my wrists and pulled them away from my eyes. I kept my eyelids locked, though. Not that keeping my eyes closed would bar me from sex offender status.      13…12…11…10…9….      “It’s okay…It’s okay…” I could feel her getting closer, her thin body and soft skin pressed against my chest. Her warm breath not three inches from my face. She smelled like strawberry lemonade.      5…4…3…2….      And as I opened my mouth to breathe, her lips were on mine. Her soft, cracked lips feeding me the breath of life, her half naked teenage body wrapped around me like a blanket of seduction. Our tongues slithered together, moving from mouth to mouth, hungry for more, always more. And right then, at our most intimate, at our most vulnerable, the curtain swung open to reveal Kit.      “Dammit, Mikal. You couldn’t wait do that somewhere more private?”      “It was pretty private until you yanked opened the fucking curtain.”      Mikal grabbed her clothes and began hastily shoving them back on. My lips now tasted like strawberry lemonade.      “I could see both your feet, dumbass. You were taking forever, so I came back to check on you. Did you talk to him?”      Kit must not be a very good sibling if she wasn’t angry about a creepy 24- year-old man violating her teenage sister. Mikal looked at my reflection through the mirror, my strawberry lemonade colored cheeks and tousled hair projecting through my humility.      Finger-combing her hair, Mikal asks me, “I have an 8-page essay that needs to be written by next week. You think you can write it for me?”      And, just like that, in a thrift store fitting room with a blonde high school girl, my boner slowly receding, my lips gooey with strawberry lemonade chap stick, my career started.

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Giancarlo Chico completed his MFA (Writing and Producing for Television, 2017) in the LIU Brooklyn TV Writers Studio, where he studied with Norman Steinberg. He also holds a BA in Communication (Radio-TV-Film) from California State University Fullerton, where he minored in Criminal Justice. Chico has worked as an emergency medical technician, a martial arts instructor, and a producer for a live news talk show. He has done script writing for Titan TV, video edited and produced for The Grio, worked as a freelance screen writer, and worked as a production assistant for WheelHouse Creative. In addition, he has been a background actor on multiple television shows and films, including the Netflix series Iron Fist and the feature film Ocean’s 8.