and then there was light [3] {Roger Taylor}
Anon asked: Prompt: angst Roger and y/n because he’s jealous after a party
A/N: 5981 words!! What?! Like, it’s not explicit, but I might have given the reader a slight praise kink. Some sexual content. There is mentions of cheating, just to let you know if that makes you uncomfortable. There might be a problem with pacing but like... suspend your disbelief. Also.... you’ve got a big storm coming.
[part 1] [part 2]
Your grip is white-knuckled on the armrest as you felt the plane rumble beneath you; anxiety is clutching at your chest as the world falls away beneath the wings of the machine and you’re rising into the sky. Roger isn’t outright laughing from where he’s sitting next to you, but it looks like he wants to. Thankfully, for his sake, he contains himself, resting a hand on your thigh, rubbing it in a gentle, comforting rhythm.
“You’ll be fine, love, these things hardly ever crash, and if this one does, it’ll make the news, probably.” He shrugged, and you glared at him, trying to push down the anxiety curling in your stomach.
“You’re the single least reassuring person I’ve ever met.” You snapped, but he just grinned wider, his hand moving higher on your thigh, your legs part just a little, out of instinct, and you’re too anxious about the flight to even blush at it.
“I could distract you instead.” He offers, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze. Something eases in your chest and you relax your grip on the armrest to put your hand on his. “Love?” He asks, watching how you’re leaning your head back against the headrest, eyes closed, like you were trying to go to your happy place, wishing you weren’t trapped inside this plane. His hand twitches to move away when he doesn’t get a response, but then your own hand is guiding his a little further up, and you’re wearing a little, playful smile, though it’s strained. Roger has to bite back a laugh.
“Could you please wait until the seat belt sign is off?” John’s voice interrupts both of you, pressing his face into the space between your headrests where he’s sitting behind you, sounding characteristically exasperated.
“Or wait until we land, like any decent human being.” You can hear Brian’s sigh from where he’s sitting beside John, his words followed by a world-weary sigh.
“You were both cuter when you thought we didn’t know.” Freddie says, matter-of-factly, and Paul hums in agreement, the two of them sitting in the two seats in front of you.
“So were you.” Roger snaps back, leaning back into his chair, sullen at the sudden onslaught of bullying from his band-mates. “And get your bloody face away from mine.” He smacks John’s forehead with his free hand, which has the man retreating, but you’re silently thankful. Despite this, you’re also flushing with embarrassment, which is only quelled when Roger flips his hand over on your thigh to lace his fingers with yours, giving your hand a comforting squeeze.
It’s weird, to be in public, well, sort of public, and to be allowed to actually be with Roger. You’ve always been so hyper aware of his image, careful to keep your distance where prying eyes might be lurking, the last-performance kiss notwithstanding, but here, in the relative safety of first class - and god, that was a mind-boggling realisation - he’d wrapped his arm around you. Once the seat-belt sign has been turned off and the in-flight movie has started, he pulls you into his lap on the luxuriously spacious seat. Everyone on the flight has headphones to listen along to the movie, and the plane is almost silent as everyone looks to the overhead screens. It starts innocently enough, except sitting on Roger isn’t exactly comfortable; he’s got one hand resting on your thigh, innocent enough, and the other on the armrest, but you find yourself shifting every few minutes trying to get comfortable, but it isn’t really working.
“Are you right there?” Roger moves your headphones off of one of your ears, speaking low and quiet, only to you. When you look at him, he’s not even looking you in the eyes, he’s looking at your lips, and you feel your chest tighten, though in a very different way to the plane taking off earlier.
“What?” And you shift again, trying in vain to get more comfortable before you feel him hard and pressing against your ass through his pants, and it dawns on you. After a moment, you lock eyes with him, finally, and wiggle again, deliberate, suppressing a smile. He leans in to kiss you, rough, insistent, his hand on your thigh moving dangerously higher.
“Let’s not ruin everyone’s movie,” he breathes as he pulls back, his hand moving to give your ass a light tap, and you take the hint, taking off your headphones and making a beeline for the bathroom. You find yourself waiting for almost five minutes in the stall before there’s a knock at the door and Roger’s whispering your name. You haven’t even fully locked the door before he’s pulling off your shirt, murmuring about how you both had to be quiet, though he was grinning in that way that made you melt, and made you want to be anything but quiet.
When you head back to your seats none of the others comment on it, though they do seem pretty enraptured with the movie. Your anxiety at flying had dissolved; you’re feeling all warm and syrupy in the afterglow, and Roger clicks down the armrest that separates your two seats, and shifts so that you he can still wrap his arm around you, but you’re sitting next to him, your legs stretched out and arching over his. He puts his own headphones back on, smile supremely satisfied, and you give yourself a little, mental pat on the back, but don’t bother with your own headphones, resting your head on his shoulder and falling asleep, feeling secure and safe with his arm around you.
When you land, you find yourself whisked almost directly to the new tour bus, and you suddenly find yourself filled with a new uncertainty. The space, at least compared to what you were used to, was lavish, not a single road case in sight.
“You guys live like this?” You crowed, eyes wide as you raced through the spacious vehicle, plopping yourself down on the cushioned bench beneath the back window while the rest of the band, and the crew travelling in this bus started getting settled in.
“Well yeah, was the other bus really that different?” Roger asks, joining you, sprawling himself out across the seat. The sheer absurdity of his question takes a moment to sink in, but after that you’re laughing, loud and a little bit uncontrollable, mind alight with memories of hot, bump afternoons riding along at the back of the equipment bus, sat atop a road case, holding a light and gels and trying not to touch the drum kit where it was stacked up beside you.
“God, I would have killed for a cushion.” You breathe, wistful, relaxing further, if it were possible, into the seats. After a beat, you look around at where everyone’s gone quiet; Freddie and John were setting up a board game and Brian was lounging on one of the sofas running along the inside of the bus; you’re pretty sure Roger’s the only one who hears you anyways. “I much prefer it to flying though,” you admit, shifting until you can rest your head on Roger’s shoulder.
“Really?” He asked, voice quiet enough that only you could hear it. “I thought it was a pretty decent flight.” And he reaches up to pinch at your side playfully when the bus starts up. The two of you dissolve into play-fighting, which the others don’t pay much attention to, entertaining themselves as the trip to the first destination began.
“You’re- you- they call you Spotlight, don’t they?” The voice that greets you before for the first crew meeting is bright, eager, faintly accented, and when you turn, you see it belongs to a sweet looking boy with big, brown eyes, clutching at a clipboard. Laughing a little awkwardly, you nod, and his whole face brightens at the confirmation. “I’m Robbie; I’m stage managing, and they’ve got me operating the lights.” He sounds so damn excited, it’s a little endearing, and after a beat, he’s peppering you with questions about the American leg of the tour, which you answer with ease.
You’d been worried, not that you’d ever admit it, integrating into a whole new crew; the American tour was staffed with people you’d been working with for years, and here, everything and everyone was new to you. Seeing Robbie smile, so kind and welcoming, it felt like you could breathe.
“How the crew?” Roger asks, and he’s stuck with fond deja vu, sitting behind his drums, watching you cut a whole new set of gels. You’re humming something he can’t quite pick, but you seem happy enough.
“Yeah good,” you concede, only half paying attention as you work, “they’re nice, very welcoming.” You tell him, and he makes his way to you, sitting beside you on the drum risers, picking up some scraps of the gel. After a moment, your hands still, and you watch his, smiling with confusion, before looking at him. “What-” but he’s looking back at you, and he leans in to kiss you once you look up. Putting the gel and the scissors down, you take his face in his hands, giving him an endearing smile.
“I’m working.” You said softly, but he just grinned, leaning in to kiss you again. It’s fun and easy to be with Roger at times like this, times when neither of you had to worry about what other people thought, or who saw you together; you were happy and so was he, and that’s what mattered.
It gets a bit harder, you realise, when in Glasgow you’re leaving the hotel with the band and a few paparazzi come after you; at first they’re shouting at the band but then they spot you where you’re by Roger’s side, trying to keep your face hidden. You see your picture in some gossip rag the next day when Robbie gives it to you with a long suffering and apologetic look.
“The boss wants you to be more careful about being seen.” He’s rolling his eyes at the boss’s words, however, when you ask him what he means, you learn that you’d been photographed with them in America, and people were starting to speculate that you might be part of the tour group. The Boss thinks it reflects poorly. The rest of the band is in the photo, but you’re the one being accused of being a world-travelling gold digger in the article.
When you tell Roger, or more specifically show him the article and make an offhand comment about not really being seen with the band in public anymore, he throws the magazine across the hotel room, scowling.
“They’re printing lies, Spotlight, what do you care?” He asks. You’re gentle when you step towards him, resting your hands on his shoulders.
“I care about my career and my reputation, Roger, you understand, right?” Voice soft, you don’t move until he looks at you, expression a little hurt. “I know I’m not a gold digger, but if I want to get anywhere in life, I need other people to believe that too.” You explained, and he didn’t exactly seem happy about it.
“You’re fantastic at your job, babe, isn’t that enough?” He asked, and you felt yourself flush, suppressing a grin at the praise.
“I wish it was.” You told him, voice a little forlorn, and he leaned in to kiss you, a silent agreement to your request. After a moment you pulled back, actually letting yourself grin. “You think I’m good at my job?” You asked, giggling, and Roger’s expression brightened as he huffed out a laugh.
“You know I do.” And it’s the most gentle you think you’ve ever heard him, the sweet sincerity shifts as his hands come up to rest on your hips. He knows all too well the effect he has on you when he compliments your work. “How many times do I have to tell you?” He asks, a single eyebrow raised, teasing edge to his tone.
“I mean, if you told me too much I think we both know I’d never get anything done.” And your fingers are nimbly undoing his fly. With a cheeky grin, he kisses you again, rougher, biting at your bottom lip before you pull away.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He muses, watching the way you wet your lips, smiling at him. “You’re very good at other things too, love.”
“I know.” You watch him through your lashes, biting your lip to keep from laughing as his whole face lights up and he’s snorting out a laugh at your response, and you fall to your knees, already pulling down the waistband of his jeans.
He doesn’t like that you insist on leaving the hotel at different times, becomes a little clingy in the mornings when you go to get up, but he always manages to tug you back down to him, and you get lost in the way he smiles in the early morning sunlight, the feel of his lips on yours, the way he laughs softly against your skin.
Despite this, he keeps his distance around other people. The band he doesn’t worry about, but he stays up by his drums during lunch, and sometimes during the after parties you attend, he’ll disappear for a few hours at a time, and you find him at the bar, reasonably hammered, surrounded by fans fawning over him. He always goes home with you though, so you try not to feel too jealous.
“Hey, Light? I’m getting lunch, do you want anything?” Things start going downhill the day Robbie pops his head in during your lunch break; you’re at the top of a ladder, fiddling with the angle of a parcan, and Roger’s at his drums.
“No thanks.” You call back, chipper, shooting the ASM a smile, and when he leaves, Roger frowns at you.
“Did he give your nickname a nickname?” He punctuates it with a laugh, but it sounds more angry than anything else.
“That’s Robbie,” your explanation does not seem to placate him. You’d been spending a lot of time with Robbie, the two of you bonding over both having worked on Bowie’s last tour. “He’s German.” You add, as if the fun fact might warm Roger to him.
“I know how to pick accents.” He snapped back at you, and you actually stopped your work to look at him, a little shocked and defensive at his tone. He’s not looking at you, he’s gone back to watching the door.
“He’s the ASM, Rog, chill out, we work together.” You tell him. He doesn’t respond, and all you can do is go back to your work, a squirming discomfort making itself known in your chest.
He disappears after the show that night, not coming to find you after bump out like he usually would, and you try to assume the best; that he’s too high from adrenaline and the endorphins of such a good show that he’d wanted to ride the hype the rest of the band. It wasn’t deliberate, you told yourself.
“You going to the after party?” Robbie asks carefully, hands in his pockets, still wearing his own theatre blacks. You realise you must look a little lost, and when you decide that you are, you tell him, and he offers to walk with him. He’s sweet, excitedly gushing about how he can’t wait for the Munich show so he could see his girlfriend, and you find yourself enthusing about how exciting it is to be travelling around Europe. Once you step foot in the pub, the two of you part ways, Robbie heading for the bar, and you seeking your own boyfriend.
His whole face lights up when he sees you, and the anxiety that had been building in your chest dissipates when he wraps his arms around you, spinning you around.
“I’m sorry, I got caught up.” He told you, but he doesn’t kiss you, just pulls you down to the sofa with him where Freddie’s in the middle of an animated discussion with Brian.
It happens again at the next stop, he leaves you behind and you make your way to the after party talking with Robbie. He’s kind, sweet, looking forward to marrying his high school sweetheart. If you’re being honest, it’s nice to have someone to talk to who understands your side of touring, being another interchangeable face to the talent you’re helping, someone down to earth and . He gushes about how jealous he is of your friendship with the band, starry eyed in the cool night air.
Again, when you arrive at the venue, Roger’s already there, and he doesn’t get up this time, just beckons you to him with a bright smile. It doesn’t ease your discomfort like you hoped his smile would.
“Are you mad at me?” You ask gently one night; the two of you were walking in relative silence, side by side, not touching for fear of paparazzi, you try to justify.
“No, why?” He asked, and you look at him, eyes narrowed as you examine him, and his smile is a little far away when he looks back at you. After a long moment of silence, he takes your hand, pulling you both to a stop, facing each other. He wraps his arms around you, still giving you that far away smile, and he kisses you. “I’m sorry I keep leaving you behind, love.”
“So you’re not mad at me?” You confirm, stepping back and taking his hand, continuing to walk.
“Of course not; should I be?” And the way he says it, so perfectly fucking harmless, has the hairs on the back of your neck standing up.
“No!” You defend, and he’s laughing easily in the moonlight.
It keeps happening, sporadically, and it always seems to coincide with whenever he sees you and Robbie together, or Robbie comes in to offer to get you lunch, and you know what’s happening before you dare to admit it.
On some of the nights where you opt to go straight back to the hotel, you’re woken by him flopping into bed beside you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to him, warm and protective, at odds with the discomfort in your chest.
“Missed you.” He yawns, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes, and one time, of faint, fruity perfume that you don’t recognise. When you ask him, he says that someone spilled a cocktail on him, and you realise you can’t even tell if he’s lying or not.
“You jealous?” And you can hear the sleepy smirk in his words, and your own tired mind is unguarded, unfiltered.
“A little.” You whisper into the silence of the hotel room. He doesn’t answer you, but his grip on you tightens, and he hums, the meaning of which you can’t decipher. It takes you a long while to get to sleep after that.
It comes to a head a few weeks later, however, the night they perform in Paris.
“I miss her so much.” Robbie bemoaned you as the two of you walked together, his arm tucked into yours as he waxed poetic about his now-fiance. “She sent me a care package and I swear I almost cried in front of the sound operator.”
“Why?” You laughed, and Robbie groaned.
“I opened it in the bio box because I picked it up from the front desk on my way here, like right after checking in.” By the time you get to the after party, the music is already blaring, and like always, you split up to go your respective ways. Roger greets you warmly, making room for you on the sofa he was sprawled on, wrapping an arm around you as he continued his conversation with a starry-eyed groupie, who didn’t even acknowledge your presence. You make conversation with John, who’s hovering near the arm of the sofa, bopping along to the music, looking a little bit longingly at the dance floor.
Roger goes to get a drink a little while later, smiling and asking if you’d like anything, and as soon as he’s gone, Robbie, now quite plastered, pours himself into the empty seat.
“I called her- Spotlight, I miss her so much - and she told me she loves me and she can’t wait until I get home; should I walk back to Germany? I wanna see her.” He asked, words blurring together a little from his accent and his inebriated state, and he rests his head on your shoulder.
“This is Robbie; he misses his fiance.” You explain to a confused looking Freddie, who’s expression melts into one of adoration, and he ‘aww’s at that. Robbie is starry-eyed for a long moment, before he turns to you.
“Should I walk to Munich? I miss her.” He reiterates, and you burst out laughing, petting his head fondly.
“No, don’t walk to Munich, you should go home, we’ve got a big day tomorrow.” You tell him, and he groans, clearly not having received the answer he wanted. Instead, you get to your feet and offer him your hand. “I’ll walk you back, we’re staying at the same hotel.”
You find Roger at the bar with one of your arms around Robbie’s shoulders where he’s pretty much legless, the lightweight. There’s a muscle jumping in Roger’s jaw when he sees you, and you hesitate, giving him a confused look.
“Hey, I’m just going to take Robbie back to his room, okay? I’m probably going to bed after.” You tell him. He doesn’t smile, just offers you the drink he got you and blinks slowly when you wave it away. “I’ll see you later, okay?” You ask gently, hoping to get a response from him, but he’s just giving Robbie a sour, calculating look. Robbie is transfixed by the lights behind the bar and does not notice.
When you finally get Robbie into bed, much later than you would have thought since he insisted on stopping at everything that caught his interest, and taking five minutes of standing still and explaining how beautiful his fiance’s eyes were, he’s still wearing his shoes. Once under the covers, he grabs your hands and looks you in the eyes, suddenly serious.
“You’re good. You’re a good sort, Spotlight.” He tells you, his accent coming in just a little thicker with his sincerity, and he pets your hands, before abruptly turning away from you and pulling the blankets up to his nose, clearly tapping out for the night.
The room you shared with Roger was just a few floors up, and you’re in the elevator when you realise you’d left your keys in your room. You usually did, you always went back with Roger, so you usually didn’t need them. When you approach the door, you think you hear murmuring from the other side, but it could have been from across the hall, you don’t think about it too much as you knock. There’s a giggled ‘shhh’ from the other side of the door that’s less easy to play off, but you’re tired enough to think it’s just mostly-asleep Roger. You knock again, but no-one replies. It’s too late to knock too much, and you know he’s a deep sleeper, so with a heavy, tired heart, you make your way down the hall.
“What do you want?” Paul’s frowning at you when he opens the door, wearing his blue pyjamas, squinting at you.
“Keys to the bus please, I need somewhere to sleep, Roger’s not answering.” You tell him, and punctuate it with a yawn. After a beat more of watching you, as if assessing your motives, he disappears back into his room and reappears with the keys.
“Don’t lose them.” He warned, before closing the door on you.
The sofa in the bus is long enough that you can spread out, and you find someone’s fur coat to use as a blanket. It’s comfortable enough, a little cold, and it’s only when you hear a banging on the door and feel the sunlight on your face the next morning that you get up.
Opening the door, you see Roger standing there, looking up at you, waiting for entrance. Moving back to your makeshift bed, you take a seat, giving him a confused smile.
“I... didn’t think you’d actually be here.” He already sounds like he’s in a mood, bitter, but a little bit hesitant.
“Of course I stayed here, I knocked but you didn’t answer- what was up with that?” You asked, punctuating it with a yawn, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. He watched for a moment before he slid his sunglasses down his nose to glare at you over them.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, voice a little hoarse and scratchy, moving from hesitant to just quietly angry, the venom in his words hurting like a physical slap, and you sat up straighter.
“I’m-” And you’re searching for the words, but none come to mind.
“Why are you still on this bus?” He explains in a hiss. After a beat, he slides his glasses back up his nose, and turns to look away from you, a clear dismissal.
You’re at a loss as to how to explain that you’re here because... well, you’re always here, it’s where you were now. He’s the one who’d brought you here.
“What do you mean? You’re the one who wanted me here.” Standing your ground, you don’t dare let your voice betray how confused and hurt you were feeling.
“Yeah, well now I don’t.” He snapped. His words hit you squarely in the chest, and he leaves you in your shocked, dazed silence, moving to the back of the bus. “Fuck off back to the equipment bus, since you prefer it so much better.” He snarled, and that’s what unfroze you.
“Christ, I don’t get paid enough to deal with whatever this is and ride in that bus, so that’s a resounding ‘no thanks’. And more importantly; what the fuck has gotten into you?” Emotion comes crashing back into you, rage tearing through you like a tidal wave, and you turn on him, jaw clenched.
“’Whatever this is’” he snorted, low and bitter, “yeah, but you get paid enough to fuck that little, brown-haired cockhead?” He asked, and your eyes went wide.
“Who? Robbie?” You asked, voice dangerously calm. “You think I’m fucking Robbie? Our assistant stage manager? Who just proposed to his girlfriend at our stop in Munich? That brown-haired cockhead?” You snarled, advancing on Roger like a predator cornering her prey, bitter tension gathering across your skin.
“Was he the one crying on your shoulder last night at the after party?” Roger raised an eyebrow, but the sting had left his words. Narrowing your eyes, you confirm with a single, venomous ‘yes’. “Oh.”
“Is that why you locked me out last night? You thought I was-”
“I was angry, okay?” He cut you off, sitting down at the back of the bus, and though his tone is angry, his demeanour, the way he’s avoiding your gaze and fiddling, it’s... almost guilty. In that moment, it was as if you’d been splashed with cold water, an icy realisation slithering down your spine.
“What does that mean?” Voice level, you try not to jump to conclusions, but your heart is already sinking. He doesn’t answer. When he turns away, you see a hickey on his collar that wasn’t there yesterday. “Roger, what did you do?” You asked, and the hurt was already bleeding through into your words.
“I was... I was so fucking angry.” It’s not a real answer, it’s not even a real excuse. The way he says it, jaw clenched, heart in his throat, he’s all but bleeding guilt, too proud to ask for forgiveness.
“Bullshit.” Your can feel tears welling in your eyes and threatening to spill, but your hands are shaking with anger, hurt, betrayal, and you don’t even care. “You’ve been weird for weeks, you were just looking for the first out you could get.”
“Y/N.” He stands, reaches out to grab your shoulder, but you step back, out of his reach.
“No.” Your voice is firm, but your lip is quivering. “I don’t want you to ever touch me again,” wrapping your arms across your chest, looking at his outstretched hand with disdain through your tears. “Being angry isn’t an excuse. Jumping to conclusions isn’t an excuse. I get that it must be fun fucking around with the girl who makes you work for it by your standards, but,” shaking your head, you sniffle, holding yourself a little tighter with one hand, you wipe away your tears with the other, “the moment you have to work, have to put in a little bit of fucking trust? You couldn’t even do that.”
“Spotlight, please-”
“I’m in fucking Europe for you, Roger! What in your fucking, dumbass mind thinks that I’m someone who travels halfway across the world with someone just to cheat on them?” You’re yelling now, grateful to be alone and worrying that others would join you at any minute. You didn’t want them seeing you like this.
“For me? You’re here for work! I’m opening doors for you in the industry that you’d never have opened yourself!” And he knows even as he’s saying it that it’s the wrong thing to say, but he’s too furious at himself, lashing out at the only person he could. He watches as your expression turns shocked, before shattering, and you start bawling your eyes out, holding your face in your hands. Regret floods through him, but as he steps forwards to comfort you, you yell for him to fuck off.
“I can’t- I can’t leave can I? If I leave the tour, they’ll think the tabloid are right, that I’m some dumb groupie.” And you turn, distraught, and curl up on the sofa along the inside of the bus, still bawling, loud and ugly, great heaving sobs wracking your body as you realise the full extent of what had happened, and what it would mean for you. “You’ve ruined my fucking career.”
“That’s a bit of an overstatement.” He can’t even bring himself to apologise, sitting back against the window of the bus, watching as you curl yourself into a ball, the only sound filling the silence being your sobbing. It hurts, his heart is fucking aching, but he couldn’t admit it. When you raised your head to look at him, your eyes red rimmed and lip trembling, he feels only a white hot guilt fill him from the inside out.
“You don’t get it, this industry is about who you know, and if all I am is some girl who Roger Taylor fucked, flew across the world, and got bored with, it doesn’t matter how good at my job I am, I’ll just be another groupie with aspirations.” And you bury your face in your hands again.
“We could... pretend like nothing happened, until the end of the tour.” He offers, quietly, the weakest hail mary pass you’d ever heard, and you roll your eyes at him.
“I’d rather have my dignity, thanks.” You spat, taking in a deep shaking breath as you finally sat up, wiping fruitlessly at your eyes as tears continued to flow, though you tried to pull yourself together.
“You’re not under contract, you can leave if you want.” And it might literally be last on the list of things you’d wanted to hear at that moment.
“I get it, Roger, you don’t want me around.” You snap, standing. “You are who you are; I was stupid to think you were better than that.” You sniffled. When you turn and leave, he’s silent, replaying your words over and over again in his head until he’s absolutely livid at what he’s done.
When the rest of the band returns almost a full half an hour later, he’s trashed the entirety of the bus, even going to far as to rip up the cushioning on the bench beneath the back window.
“So you’ve heard the news I take it.” Brian looks at the scene before them, voice and demeanour both surprisingly nonchalant, and Roger, breathing heavily amid the carnage, gives him a sharp look. “Spotlight’s heading home, something’s come up with her family.” He explains. Behind him, John’s already started picking up a fractured mug, and Freddie is just frowning at Roger.
“Yeah?” Is all Roger says, snatching up the cushions from where he’d thrown them, and flopping himself onto the back bench, facing away from them all.
“She’s just talking to the production manager if you’d like to say goodbye.” Freddie offers, carefully neutral, and Roger suspects he knows something’s up with the story.
“She doesn’t want to see me.” He huffed sulkily, and the others lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. They can tell it’s a touchy subject but they don’t pry. They don’t hear from you, don’t even know how to contact you if they had been able to, instead they watch Roger pick up different girls night after night, trash hotel rooms, and grow shorter when interacting with the crew, especially the assistant stage manager.
“I am who I am.” Is all he says, lips around a cigarette where he’s chain smoking in the empty theatre at lunch when Freddie finds him and finally asks what’s wrong. Freddie wants to ask what happened, wants to ask why you really left, but he knows Roger well enough to figure most of it out. Roger’s a ticking time bomb nowadays, so he doesn’t pry.
The band doesn’t talk about you, not when paparazzi and reports yell out asking where you are, not to the crew, they barely talk about you to each other, and they never talk about you around Roger.
The bus is quieter now.
Roger’s louder now.
There’s an ache in his chest that won’t go away, that he’s filling with meaningless sex and too much booze because he can’t stand waking up alone, and he still thinks about what you said, and the way you had smiled at him before it all went to shit. He remembers how you’d risked your life for a light beneath his drums, and sometimes at breakfast he finds himself thinking about how you’d thrown a plate of food in his face before you were even real friends, and he wants to yell, to scream, because how could he be so fucking stupid? You’d seen him for who he was, and chose to be with him despite it, you thought he could be better than his reputation, but he’d just managed to prove he wasn’t.
It hits him when he’s got his hands on some girl whose name he doesn’t know that all he can think about is you, and he hates himself when he leans into the fantasy, not that the other girl notices. He’d rather fuck around than admit he’d developed feelings for you, and so he does, and pretends like he doesn’t miss your sleepy, morning grin, or the casual way the two of you would chat as you were rigging the spotlights for the band.
The day he finds out they’ve replaced you, the kid they’ve got is at the top of the ladder during lunch when he walks in, and he’s hit with such a sense of deja vu that he stops in his tracks.
“I was told this is the best time for me to get work done.” Her voice, thank god she sounds nothing like you, is hesitant, with none of the calm confidence you exuded at the top of the ladder.
“It’s none of my fucking business.” Roger snaps, and turns on his heel and leaves, pretending like it hadn’t felt like he’d just seen a ghost. He gets another drink.
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Boiling Bite. (Chanyeol, Wolf!au) 2/2
Hello guys! A few little changes!
I will try to again re-update a lot of the lists that I have here, because not only they were not up to date, they are a bit glitched, as I saw when uploading that Baekhyun story!
I also thought of putting up my ko-fi link again. I stopped doing it for a while because I was pretty content, but as I started working, my financial needs rose up as well, due to travel, food etc etc. I am also really shooting to go to the JLPTs again and obtain the highest level (N1). For that, I need the books for it. I already bought the grammar book, so I need the vocab, kanji and reading so I can prepare and hopefully go try out the summer dates of the test!
It’s also a bit hard to update for me now not only because of school but also because of the house renovation. My desk is really cluttered from all the things I’ve had on shelves and my laptop has been connected to the TV for about three weeks now and has been exclusively used for Netflix ^^’ I did go back to writing into notebooks though, and I’m biting through a few of the requests. Who knows, maybe once I’m done, I will open them again!
Well now, after this super long essay, let’s enjoy the second part of the Kris story I have posted a while back!
If you need to refresh your memory, here is the first part!
If you like what you read, you can support me on ko-fi!
♥
-
Everything burned and everything hurt. You didn’t remember when was the last time you were conscious for more than five minutes. The pain always knocked you out before you could go insane with it.
You could clearly remember that night... the dark alleyway... Kris’ mate crying into her phone, begging Kris to come and save you.
The two vampires standing, ready to pounce.
You stepping between the vampires and Kris’ mate.
And then the bite.
It was as if somebody suddenly poured acid into your veins and the blood carried it all over your body. It felt horrible. You wanted to die as you felt the ice cold fangs digging into you, sucking the life out of you.
It might’ve been gone in a few seconds, but it felt like hours to you.
They came and saved you. But it was too late, as you crumbled to the ground and you screamed in pain.
You felt someone, Chanyeol probably, picking you up and cradling you to him, but it didn’t do anything with the horrible pain that coursed through your body.
That’s when you blacked out the first time.
-
The first time you came to was when you felt someone settle down next to you.
“Ch-Chan…” your voice was too raspy for you to continue, a coughing fit interrupting your question.
“It’s me, ___.” Answered the voice that did not belong to your mate. Kyungsoo wiped at your forehead, the wet cloth gathering the sweat that trickled down your face.
“What…what…happene-“
“You were bitten. It’s the werewolf genes and vampire saliva that’s making you hurt.” You whimpered as the washcloth trailed down your face onto your neck, to the bite mark. A strangled scream ripped through your throat when the cloth dabbed at the wound and you immediately cowered from the pack’s healer. You heard him apologize, but everything was pronounced so slow and the way your eyelids seemed to drop, you knew you were out of it once again.
-
“Alright, ___. We need to get some of the bad blood out. This is going to hurt a lot, so we’re going to do it by bits, alright?”
You slowly grew accustomed to the pain, you were beginning to understand how it worked, how it always came in waves at you. It could’ve been two days since Kyungsoo’s visit, but it could’ve been two weeks as well.
You nodded shakily, tilting your head to the side and revealing your neck to him. Kyungsoo sighed, placing everything he was holding onto the nightstand before looming over you, his lips on your neck.
“Try to hold on as long as possible…” he mumbled quietly, his breath ghosting over your skin, before his lips closed over the wound. The first suck had you arching against him in a scream, your fists bunching in his shirt. You screeched, pleading for him to stop, trashing from side to side. You could feel the lift slipping from you from every suck by Kyungsoo’s lips. It ended just a few seconds after, yet it felt like eternity.
Kyungsoo spit out the blood he held in his mouth, its color a washed out red and more yellow than anything else.
“You did great, ___.” Kyungsoo gently stroked your cheek, trying to somehow calm you down.
“Chan…” you coughed heavily after that.
“What was it, ___?”
“Where…is…Ch-Chan…Chanyeol?” Kyungsoo fell silent for quite a while after that. Every passing second was like a dagger to your heart.
“He’s out hunting. He left three days ago, he didn’t come back yet.” Kyungsoo told you and yet you somehow knew it was a lie. You swallowed the tears that crept up on you and nodded to the tense Kyungsoo.
“You should try to get some sleep, ___-ah. We’ll try to get out more tomorrow.” His voice was gentle as if he was talking to a child. You nodded again, the grip of consciousness already slipping past your hands.
The last thing you thought of was Chanyeol’s voice, desperately calling your name.
-
Chanyeol sighed as he walked through the door. His body was full of kinks and soreness that wouldn’t be able to go away even after extended rest. As if he could do that, anyway.
For the past few days, he hadn’t thought about anything else, but revenge. He spent the past three days hunting down a vampire coven, making sure he would get every and single one of those suckers.
He kicked off his muddy boots and entered the house, his jacket a bloody pool on the floor. As he passed the mirror, he noticed the deep bags under his eyes and hallowed face.
He was only a ghost of what he used to be. He felt it, in his skin, his bones, in his very form, something changed. And he didn’t know how he would bring it back.
-
They switched every day. At first, only Kyungsoo would come, but later on, Suho replaced the healer, calling in Jongin to hold you down while sucking out the poison. The day after, the two switched and after that, Minseok and Luhan took their turns in trying to make you feel better.
You had already filled a whole glass with the yellowish substance and your mind was free from the sticky mist that clouded your senses.
It had its downfall, as it made the pain of healing clearer and the realization that since the night you’ve been bitten, Chanyeol hasn’t seen you once. Not a single time you felt his presence beside you and that made you tear up.
You probably disgusted him. You were bitten. And broken. Who in the right state of mind would want a broken mate? You thought as Kyungsoo gave your neck one hard last suck.
“Kyungsoo…” you choked out, stuttering over the lump in your throat.
“Yes? What is it?” he answered after cleaning his mouth, the poison still rocking slightly in the cup.
“K-Kill me.” You sobbed, the tears sneaking up on you. You could almost feel Kyungsoo freeze.
“What?” he wanted to you repeat as he slipped his hands around yours. You gripped him desperately.
“Please, just…let me have it over with. Just kill me and let that be…it.”
“Are you crazy? What about Chanyeol?” his voice sounded as if he still didn’t believe what you were saying. You swallowed the lump in your throat and looked at the ceiling, illuminated by moonlight.
“He…he doesn’t care about me anymore.” You had to wait a moment after saying that to calm yourself down. It was far too painful.
“I don’t blame him, though.” You added with a smile, even through the tears.
“Who would want a mate that is tainted by the enemy?” Kyungsoo squeezed your hand, rubbing circles into your skin with his thumb.
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve heard, ___. And I’m in a pack with Jongin, which means I’m listening to stupidities on a daily basis.” You could hear the smile in his voice and you couldn’t help but to chuckle shortly.
“Chanyeol wants you all the time. NO matter how you act, look or feel.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” Kyungsoo was quiet for a long time, weighing out his options. IN the end, he sighed, shaking his head.
“I would like to know that, too.” He rubbed your hand some more. It wasn’t the same thing as being comforted by your mate, but it came close.
“Just go to sleep, ___. You did good today.” You squeezed Kyungsoo’s hand one last time, before slowly rolling on your side. You instinctively awaited Chanyeol’s arms wrapping around you and pull you to him, but that never came.
-
Before Chanyeol could sigh and slip off his jacket, he was shoved back by a furious looking Kyungsoo.
“You need to start taking care of your mate.” He growled in a low tone, his eyes flickering gold.
“I am.” Chanyeol mumbled under his breath, trying to keep his cool.
“I’m avenging her. Killing every motherfucker I can get my eyes on.”
“She doesn’t need that. She needs you. But you’ve been too much of a pussy to face her.”
“What?” Chanyeol hissed, his beast stirring. Kyungsoo’s face showed he was being serious about what he said.
“I said, you’re too much of a pussy to look at her. You need to start taking care of her.”
“Do you even know how it fucking feels like? Being in my place?” Chanyeol asked, his tone menacingly passive as he came closer to Kyungsoo.
“Do you know the fucking feeling, when the person you love the most, the person you would die for, gets hurt? Like that? In front of your own fucking eyes?!” Chanyeol’s growl gradually turned into roaring.
“Do you even know how I feel when I walk around the room and I hear her screaming? Because I was unable to help her? Do you know the feeling?”
“And do you fucking know what you’re doing to her now? Did you even know that she asked me to kill her yesterday?” Kyungsoo’s words were like a thousand daggers, stabbing into his heart. As he heard about your wish to die, his knees buckled.
“W-What?” Kyungsoo smiled grimly as Chanyeol’s shock-ridden state.
“She thinks you don’t want her anymore. She told me that you probably think of her as disgusting since she was bitten by a vampire.” Chanyeol sighed deeply, sliding down the wall he was leaning against.
“Fucking hell…” he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. Kyungsoo knelt down next to him, laying his hand on Chanyeol’s shoulder.
“Look, I’m not going to try to convince you that it wasn’t your fault. You wouldn’t listen to me anyways. But killing vampires won’t help her. She needs you close. She needs to know that she’s still wanted.” Chanyeol sighed, nodding. He was too weak to say anything else.
“The sucking of the poison is very painful for her. She needs her mate. If you would do it, the poison will be gone in a few days.” When Chanyeol still didn’t answer, Kyungsoo patted his back once more and he stood to leave.
“Kyungsoo…”
“Hmm?” he turned around to look at Chanyeol. Only then he noticed how the biting affected him. He looked like hell- there were big bags under his eyes, his clothing hung on his disappearing frame and his shoulders seemed slumped with eternal luggage.
“Thank you. For everything.” Kyungsoo smiled softly.
“We’re brothers, Chanyeol. I would do anything for you.” At this Chanyeol smiled slightly.
“Even so. Thank you so much.”
-
You stirred when your bed dipped with another weight settling on it. Your fever had gone up again, so you didn’t recognize what was happening until the unknown person cupped the back of your neck and tilted your head to the side. Your blood started running faster as you realized what’s happening.
“No, Kyungsoo…” you whimpered quietly, your fists balling into his shirt. The body seemed different from Kyungsoo’s though.
“Please, no more…” you tried to cover the wound by tilting your head, but he nudged it aside with his nose. As you tried to fight back, more weight settled over you.
“Calm down, ___-ah…” a low voice rumbled above you and you suddenly knew who it was.
“Chanyeol?” he answered you with a hum, as he lightly licked your neck. Your breath hitched and you wound your hands around his torso, bringing him close. Chanyeol swiped his tongue over the wound once more before he closed his lips around it, giving it an experimental suck. He shuddered when the bad blood entered his mouth, but it didn’t stop him from sucking harder. It was much different, the cleansing with your mate. It was almost pleasurable for the first seconds and you pushed him down onto you some more, panting quietly. Chanyeol paused a while to spit out the venom in his mouth before diving in for more. This time, it was more uncomfortable, and you squirmed against him, your hands bunching in his shirt and tugging on it, to pull him away. He stayed relentless though, as he sucked harder. The first hard suck was painful.
“Chanyeol…” you whimpered, squirming some more. Once again, he leaned away to spit out.
“One more time, baby.” He assured you, closing his mouth around the wound again.
It was painful the last time, just as it was with the others. You arched your back, trying to get him from you, you tried swinging your head from side to side, but Chanyeol’s hold on you was tight, not letting go until you actually screamed out.
He quickly spat out the remaining poison and had you in his arms in seconds, holding you against his chest securely.
“I’m so sorry, baby, I’m sorry…” he kept repeating in your hair, stroking it comfortingly.
It took a while for you to calm down and to realize that he was actually with you. After the week of separation, it seemed unnatural.
“I thought you didn’t want me anymore…” you mumbled under your breath, holding onto him tightly. He reciprocated the grip, kissing the crown of your head.
“Are you kidding me? You’re my mate. I warned you about this before you signed your soul- it’s a job for life.” You giggled tiredly- the cleansing always had a dizzying effect on you- maybe because you lost a lot of blood.
“Will you stay?” you asked, looking up at him. You didn’t let him have much of a choice. There was a small chance he would be able to get out of the grip you had on him, anyways.
“Forever.” He said, kissing your lips.
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Memo Mayor Mullet: Being Seen Through Is Not Transparency. The TCC Culture Of Secrecy Continues Apace.
Meetings behind closed doors to commit an undisclosed amount of ratepayer money to a vague notion of (yet again) attracting an international airline, and just what is the deal with that City Deal now, has it all been scuttled? The scurrying and squeaking behind the political skirting boards is getting more frantic.
Think were being taken for a ride at the ballot box? youd be right, with the system revamped to hoodwink the majority of voters. But The Pie to the rescue with an explainer.
The Pie spots some glib sayings during the week, which are simply wrong, wrong and wrong.
Also, an unexpected moment of clarity from our council,
.while off-shore, our regular weekly visit to the Trumpistan gallery.
But first
The Campaign Caravanserai Grinds On Across The Landscape, Stirring Up Apathy all Around
There has been enough said elsewhere about the triviality of the weeks campaigning, and the totally unedifying leaders debates, which have offered about as much probative value as that smugly orchestrated outrage on Q&A.
Candidates from both sides are dropping like flies, all caught out by some ancient un-PC social media posts, giving the finger waggers a field day. Makes you wonder who does the background checks for the parties and what it says about their social media competence to begin with.
Our resident toonist Bentley is still sceptical of many issues from both sides, but one in particular he thinks is utter tosh.
Why is this even an issue in this election? Actually, come to think of it, its not, just a wish list distraction.
But our bright spark wannabee PM has the right power connections, when it comes to other sensitive issues, like his franking credits swoop on super funds. The very best advice is on hand for him, 24/7.
This is a campaign is search of a universal issue, a cross-generational punch-up starter. As it stands at the moment, the rampant glad-handing emptiness underlines the rampant disenchantment with big party politics The Pie is tipping a balance-of-power parliament.
Fear And Loathing At The Ballot Box
So youve listened to the pleadings, wheedlings and horror stories until your ears bleed, made what sense you can of it all (or simply believed whichever fairy tale you want), and now you stand in the pre-polling booth, wanting to get your duty over and done with, clutching two ballot papers roughly the length of War And Peace (more characters, but less plot). Youre ready to make your mark for your choice of who you want to lead this country. Or are you?
The House of Reps seems to be a doddle
Hmmm, seems relatively straightforward. Licking the pencil with a tentative tongue, you number the boxes, starting with 1 for your first choice, and then number on down in gradients of disgust until all boxes are filled, from most wanted to least wanted.
Whew, not so hard after all. Now lets just knock off the Senate vote and head to the pub. As you unfold the Senate ballot paper, you think back to the puzzling advice from the polling officer Please watch your language sir, there are children around. Then you open it.
WHOAAAA!!! WTF, YOU MUST BE FKING KIDDING!!
But wait, theres more
Welcome to our loopy democracy at work. But hang on, it seems simple enough, if you vote above the line you just number at least 6 boxes, your first choice being number 1). But if you vote below the line, you must number at least 12 boxes, with the same priority of choice. Note the at least, as though that 12 isnt enough. But no, you can spend a merry hour or two and number the whole lot if you want, you old academic, you.
But Heres The Thing A Trap For The Unwary
HOWEVER, what you do not do with your senate vote is replicate the voting preferences as you did with the Lower House, where your enter your descending order of disdain. In the Senate, you vote 1 to 6 above the line, or 1 to 12 if below the line,for the candidates you most want to see in the Senate. Its like naming a team you want to take the field for you. Because if you vote further down for a candidates you least want, YOU ARE ACTUALLY CASTING A VOTE FOR THEM.
So wonder no more why we end up with fruit loops like Malcolm Roberts and Fraser Anning et al having the power to block laws decided by the peoples place, the House of Reps.
Researching all this, The Pie was particularly taken with the practice sample provided on line by the AEC: he wonders if the imaginary names given arent actually pretty good description of the real parties in this election. You choose whos who.
In Passing
Couple of polar opposites in names way down the list in the Senate paper caught The Magpies eye.
Bravehearts founder and champion of child protection Hetty Johnston is having another tilt at public office, numerous previous attempts being unsuccessful. The Pie has met Ms Johnston on several occasions when he was taking Ruperts shilling, and was impressed with her sincerity, compassion and commitment to her cause. And oh what might have been Hettys most recent foray into the political arena was in 2015, when she ran for mayor of Logan City, but had to withdraw to care for her elderly mother. Oh, just think what heartache and public expense might have been avoided had she won. But then (sigh) as they say, if my aunty had balls, she wouldve been my uncle.
And at the other end of the zealots stable we find one Kim Vuga, of the Love Australia Or Leave Party. On all evidence, Ms Vuga, a simplistic vulgarian which, as her party name suggests, campaigns on issues based on racism, packaged up as bogan-style patriotism, but is actually an attack on free speech; she is from the Malcolm Roberts School of foam flecked shouty single issue nuisances. But accidents happen and Roberts undeservedly actually did fall into a Senate spot before being turfed out on grounds of nationality he was found to be a Martian.
But you can bet a vote for Ms Vuga will be a vote for an old BBF of hers.
All of which is just one small example of the fruit salad of candidates from which we can choose to govern us.
A T-Shirt For The Times
Our mates at the wonderful piss-taking publication the Betoota Advocate reckon the ladies of their local CWA have created the ideal T-shirt for this election campaign and no argument from The Pie about that.
And one Magpie reader has come up with a re-cycling idea which is sure to make hasten the associated activity.
WRONG WRONG WRONG
Adani continues to be an on-again-off-again issue in the Federal election, and the heat generated could a handy power source in itself. It also had a variety of people trotting out some banal and incorrect analogies.
And the first to get it wrong was this bloke in the Astonisher story.
Queensland Resources Council chief executive Ian Macfarlane urged the Government to get on with approving the $60 billion in resources projects in the approvals pipeline.Its great to celebrate the investment secured over the last four years, but no one won a race running backwards, he said.
Well, Ian, matey, thats just plain wrong, and will come as a big surprise to this bloke.
Then the Adani issue grew from a thorn to a big rusty nail in the side of The Tool, who has been ducking and weaving on the Carmichael Mine issue because of the confusion in the Short Uns camp about the correct line. From the Astonisher again.
Ms OToole re-affirmed Labor had no plans to review Adanis approvals but said the mine needed to go through due regulatory process.
That is really important you cant just throw sticks to the ground, put a roof on it and call it a house, she said.
Well, in this country, you can actually, dearie. And some are still forced to do so.
Theyre called gunyahs.
The Hermit Kingdom Of Jen Kim-un
The closed door culture was at its best with the Townsville City Council this week, when last Tuesdays meeting went into closed session to discuss that item we mentioned last week the ominous sounding International Flight Attraction Incentives Contribution.
After the secret session, which decided to proceed with the recommendations of a confidential report, we learned that the council will be in cahoots with Townsville Airport to lobby for direct flights from Singapores Changi airport to Townsville. But things werent too clear in the Astonishers report, when Mayor Mullet was quoted We wont be offering incentives per se to the company. Its really more about what well contribute to a marketing campaign. That of course means paying in part for advertising, which aint cheap.
Several questions spring forth like startled gazelles.
For a start, which company is being referred to, the QAL-owned Townsville Airport, or the targeted airline (which wasnt named)? And Tony Raggatt neglected to ask what one would think was an obvious question how much are the ratepayers stumping up for this, this time? It may well be justified but we are entitled to know, arent we? And who did the confidential report on which the decision was based , how much did it cost, and when did council vote to commission it, its the first weve heard of it? And heres the biggy on a running issue why is the council doing this, and not Townsville Enterprise, which is laughingly billed as Townsvilles peak marketing and tourism body? (Again we must ask, just what the bloody hell do TEL do, except claim credit for the work of others?) There was some talk that TEL would be involved, which is interesting since the mayor is the vice-chair of the TEL Board to chairman Kevin Rhymes With Gill who is also the head of Townsville Airport. All using public money for this venture.
Gotta love this town.
And Wither The Much Vaunted City Deal?
As The Pie understands it, to get City Deal money, a council development corporation had to be created, which would also hold council land that is deemed suitable to develop in partnership with private enterprise. Why this insistence on yet another layer of bureaucracy which in the wrong hands, is an invitation to corruption, a la Ipswich is anybodys guess, but as it stands as of now, thats all out the window.
It would be reasonable to assume that there was no activity, no appointment of new directors, no returns, no report since incorporation. Maybe they just realised is was a dud idea that they were never going to be able to manage.
Company Name: TOWNSVILLE EA2 PTY LTD
Company Type: Australian Proprietary Company
Registered Office: 103 WALKER STREET, TOWNSVILLE, 4810, QLD
No. of Current Company Directors: 3
Directors:
Name: THOMSON MATTHEW ALLAN Appointed 23/11/2017
Name: YOUNG ADELE CATHERINE MARIE Appointed 23/11/2017
Name: HILL JENNIFER LORRAINE Appointed 23/11/2017
Company Secretary:
FINLAYSON GRAEME ROBERT Appointed 23/11/2017
No annual returns or financial reports were recorded by ASIC for this company.
And it will be wound up in a matter of weeks.
So this company dies from neglect. But there is no explanation as to why all this has happened, especially as it is pivotal to the City Deal worth tens of millions.
This May Come As a Surprise, But
The Magpie was impressed with the new TCC CEO Mike Chiodos forthright, plain English statements in todays paper regarding the great news for Townsville that the second stage pipeline looks like being built concurrently with stage one, which is already underway.
Compare this with the usual patronising political duck and weave:
Mr Chiodo said the council could not wait any longer to ensure the appropriate design was in place for stage 1 but that they would still be in a position to use the design, with some alteration and by moving the pumps to Clare, if a funding announcement was made by late May or early June.
The fact that we are proceeding with design shouldnt be construed as anything other than we as an organisation wanting to meet our original commitment and being in a position to facilitate stage 2 should that come through after the election, Mr Chiodo said.
The Pie just hopes theres more where that came from doesnt have to be stuff with which we agree, but just so long as we are respectfully informed in plain language.
Mayor Mullet, take note.
Chewbaccas Last Flight To The Stars
Actor Peter Mayhew, best known as the man behind the Star Wars cuddly cult hero Chewbacca, departed our planet during the week. By all reports, one of the good guys in life, Mayhew was lauded from all sides as a funny and likeable bloke. And the man who brought to life one of the most memorable movie characters.
But he may be encountering a problem on his final mission, according to the New Yorkers Avi Steinberg.
The Week In Trumpistan
Attorney General Barrs toady antics is attempting to shield President Agent Orange from the damning details of the Mueller report has been the focus of attention during the week, along with a shameful milestone for the president.
And
Dessert?
The Statue of Limitations
..
Thats yer lot for today, folks, please keep up the erudite, high intellectual tone of the political comments on the blog, heh heh heh and, hey, if youre pretty financially flush just now, a helping hand with a donation would be most gratefully received, the how to donate button is below.
http://www.townsvillemagpie.com.au/memo-mayor-mullet-being-seen-through-is-not-transparency-the-tcc-culture-of-secrecy-continues-apace/
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