#wiltons-light

[spilling--the--beans]

Aurora Borealis

Near Wilton, North Dakota

February 2023

#aurora borealis #northern lights #atmospheric phenomenon #phenomenon #wilton #north dakota #pretty #beautiful #stunning #iphone photography #photography

[streetsofdublin]

LIFE SIZED STATUE OF PATRICK KAVANAGH

This life sized statue of Patrick Kavanagh sitting on one side of a park bench is by John Coll and it was unveiled in June 1991. It is situated on the north bank of the Grand Canal across from Mespil Road.

View On WordPress

#4 August 2022 #bronze #Fotonique #grand canal #Infomatique #john coll #Life Sized #Mespil Road #Patrick Kavanagh #Public Art #Red Light Area #Sculpture #William Murphy #wilton terrace

[bobsblips]

#rossonwye #townwall #town #herefordsofinstagram #igersherefordshire #lights #streetphotography #wyevalley #amateurphotographermagazine #appicoftheweek #pinkhouse #nightphotography #nighttime #georgianarchitecture #stonewall #road #wilton #aonb #herefordshirelife #herefordshire #sheepskincoat #cold #evening #winterscene (at Ross On Wye) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoCNYWUIL1J/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#rossonwye #townwall #town #herefordsofinstagram #igersherefordshire #lights #streetphotography #wyevalley #amateurphotographermagazine #appicoftheweek #pinkhouse #nightphotography #nighttime #georgianarchitecture #stonewall #road #wilton #aonb #herefordshirelife #herefordshire #sheepskincoat #cold #evening #winterscene

[beardedmrbean]

NPR has suspended Uri Berliner, the senior editor who published a bombshell essay a week ago that claimed that the publicly funded outlet has “lost America’s trust” by approaching news stories with a left-wing bias.

NPR media writer David Folkenflik revealed on Tuesday that Berliner beginning on Friday was suspended for five days without pay. Folkenflik, who reviewed a copy of the letter from NPR brass, said the company told the editor he had failed to secure its approval for outside work for other news outlets — a requirement for NPR journalists.

NPR called the letter a “final warning,” saying Berliner would be fired if he violated NPR’s policy again.

Neither NPR nor Berliner immediately responded to requests for comment.

Berliner is a dues-paying member of NPR’s newsroom union, but Folkenflik reported that the editor is not appealing the punishment.

Berliner, a Peabody Award-winning journalist who has worked at NPR for 25 years, called out journalistic blind spots around major news events, including the origins of COVID-19, the war in Gaza and the Hunter Biden laptop, in an essay published Tuesday on Bari Weiss’ online news site the Free Press.

The fallout from the essay sparked outrage from many of his colleagues. Late Monday afternoon, NPR chief news executive Edith Chapin announced to the newsroom that executive editor Eva Rodriguez would lead monthly meetings to review coverage.

The fiasco also ignited a firestorm of criticism from prominent conservatives — with former President Donald Trump demanding NPR’s federal funding be yanked — and has led to internal tumult, the New York Times reported Friday.

NPR’s new chief executive Katherine Maher defended NPR’s journalism, calling Berliner’s article “profoundly disrespectful, hurtful, and demeaning,” The 42-year-old exec added that the essay amounted to “a criticism of our people on the basis of who we are.”

Folkenflik said Berliner took umbrage at that, saying she had “denigrated him.” Berliner said he supported diversifying NPR’s workforce to look more like the US population at large. Maher did not address that in a subsequent private exchange he shared with Folkenflik for the story.

The fiasco soon put the spotlight on Maher, whose own left-leaning bias came to light in a trove of woke, anti-Trump tweets she penned.

In January, when Maher was announced as NPR’s new leader, The Post revealed her penchant for parroting the progressive line on social media — including bluntly biased Twitter posts like “Donald Trump is a racist,” which she wrote in 2018.

That hyper-partisan message was scrubbed from the platform now known as X, but preserved on the site Archive.Today.

It’s unclear when Maher deleted it, or if its removal was tied to her new gig.

Other woke posts remain on Maher’s X account. In 2020, as the George Floyd riots raged, she attempted to justify the looting epidemic in Los Angeles as payback for the sins of slavery.

“I mean, sure, looting is counterproductive,” Maher wrote on May 31, 2020.

“But it’s hard to be mad about protests not prioritizing the private property of a system of oppression founded on treating people’s ancestors as private property.”

The next day, she lectured her 27,000 followers on “white silence.”

“White silence is complicity,” she scolded. “If you are white, today is the day to start a conversation in your community.”

The NPR job is Maher’s first position in journalism or media.

She was previously the CEO of the Wikimedia Foundation, the San Francisco-based nonprofit that hosts Wikipedia, after holding communications roles for the likes of HSBC, UNICEF and the World Bank.

Maher earned a bachelor’s degree in Middle Eastern and Islamic studies from New York University, according to her LinkedIn account, and grew up in Wilton, Conn. — a town that her mother, Ceci Maher, now represents as a Democratic state senator.

#nunyas news #if you are a journalist your job is to find the truth #and report it honestly #and without bias

[redundant2]

The hottest tea from Lady C in 2023

God knows why and I'm clearly a masochist, but I had a whim to watch all her 2023 videos and have transcribed the juiciest bits. (Watching them at 1.5 speed helps...a little.)

1/19/23:

“I am telling you everybody is sitting on a massive secret. . . Massive! They have been doing so for awhile. The family didn’t know about it! For quite awhile! They were actually enlightened by the public in dribs and drabs. More than that i do not wish to say at this juncture. There is nothing the RF have to apologize for.” 

"I know what each side has on the other and let me tell you something - Harry and Meghan have nothing compared to what is had against them."

1/10/2023

"Harry seems to have never understood in his 38 years on this Earth that there's a reason why the Buckingham Palace press office exists. He ought to know it only too well.

"They were busy putting out fires to preserve his reputation and presenting it from being scorched. Until he left the royal family and then started to attack them, at which point they've let him speak for himself.

"I'm telling you, I know as a fact of one huge (when I tell you 'huge', I mean HUGE! Bigger than his ego or Megan's ego) story that Buckingham Palace has been, behind the scenes desperately trying to douse.

"One. At least one."

1/7/2023

Diana had an affair with the Earl of Pembroke after William's birth but before Harry was born. "The 17th Earl of Pembroke was a tall, slim, dashingly handsome movie producer, with the ideal looks for a romantic hero. According to Barbara Cartland, his ancestral home Wilton House, in Wiltshire near Salisbury, was one of the most beautiful homes in Britain. Henry Herbert, Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery, was top drawer.

"He and the rest of his family had always mixed in royal circles as I can personally attest, having met him in 1975 at a party given by Princess Elizabeth of Yugoslavia. He was also the producer of the movie that destroyed Koo Stark's chances of becoming the Duchess of York. He didn't flip my light switch, but he flipped Diana's."

1/5/2023

Viewer Question "I want to know whether you can assure us that Harry and Megs will get their comeuppance this year."

Lady C: "You don't have to wait that long. Sometime this year, on more than one location, Harry and Megan are going to discover that what goes around, comes around and if you prod the bear long and hard enough, he will not only get up and growl, but he will swipe at you and he might even tear your raiments and remove your masks, and you will be revealed in all of your ingloriousness for what you truly are.

"Take it from me, you don't have that long to wait. A few months - there's a lot in the pipeline. "

"Oh, people are going to get their just desserts. They're going to discover that attack was not the best form of defense. Sometimes coming clean is a far better policy.

"(The Royal Family) came to the conclusion, quite justified it has to be said, that Harry wanted them to breach the rules governing the press and the royal family for his and Megan's convenience. It wasn't only for their convenience, to the best of my information. It was more than for their convenience. More than that, I do not wish to say on that particular point." (Implying that Harry wanted them to cover something up?)

1/3/2023

"I'm choosing my words very carefully. There are persistent reports from extremely well-placed people, some of whom are long-standing friends of Harry's, that Harry and Megan lead entirely separate lives. They are de facto separated, although they are living supposedly and ostensibly and superficially and very occasionally under the same roof.

"Harry is trying to make tracks back with friends, many of whom have spurned his attempts but he's not trying to make tracks back with the family because he is insistent that he is in the right, he's always been in the right. incidentally Harry's always had a massive ego, and has always been pretty uncontrollable.Tthat was one of the virtues of Meghan: she was able to control him, as we've seen, but that allure seems to have become water to a large extent under the bridge. I think William has a far more realistic attitude of what the outcome of all of this is going to be: very sad."

"Remember, Meghan she told the queen, 'Use me as you will, as if the queen was a John. Very interesting, that comment that she made." 

Bonus: 12/31/2022 - New Year's Eve

"I don't think Harry's book is going to stay on the best sellers list for any length of time, unless of course Harry and Megan start to come clean." (raises her eyebrow.)

"Meghan's like an egg beater in one's brain, but I'm going to leave you with a sword. You're going to see Megan in all her shorn glory. That's right -depend on it. Megan is going to be revealed to the world as she truly is. That's gonna be something worth seeing."

12/20/2022 - (This is the one that intrigues me most.)

"Harry and Meghan were absolutely right to be terrified (in Liverpool), and I have no doubt she was playing every card in the book in case what had gone down, came out. Let me put it that way. But he didn’t, and they are really dumb to be belaboring the point. Because now, it’s only a matter of time before what went down, it does come out. Let’s see if she commits suicide then, because what went down is definitely not going to be something he or she wants to come out. I make that point for what it’s worth.

Netflix is laying the ground for assisting in what is the most flagrant sleight of hand and manipulation ever perpetrated upon the public."

What is Harry looking down at? This was their visit to the Wirral, near Liverpool. Is this what Lady C is referring to?

#harkles #lady c #liverpool #royal family tea

[faretheeoscar]

Imperfectly, perfect Christmas

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x gn! reader

--Warnings: non, just pure fluff-

A/N: English is not my first language so I'm sorry if there’s any mistakes.

Proofread by my girls: @mandodinstuff & @lauraispunk

Word count: 700ish~

Happy Holidays! 🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄

🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄

Amidst the twinkling lights of your early celebration of Christmas you and Santiago have planned before you went home to your family to celebrate the holidays, Santiago, besides prepping his house and decorated it all over, he wanted another way to express his love for you, so he embarked on a heartfelt mission: to bake a batch of cookies for his beloved, intending to surprise you trying to make this day more memorable, you've always teased him about his cooking skills, but he wanted to try to do something extra for you, since you were always so attentive towards him and filled his life with love.With a cherished family recipe in hand and a mix of ingredients settled down on the kitchen counter Santiago armed himself with an apron and a whisk and ventured into the world of baking something he has never tried before, but if he succeeded in it, it'll make the perfect Christmas present for you.

Engrossed in the art of mixing flour, sugar, and spices, trying to follow every step on his Abuela's perfectly handwritten recipe as precise as he could ,Santiago was immersed in a vision of your delighted expression upon tasting his homemade treats and also getting lost in the nostalgia of the sweet scent that the mixing of the ingredients brought to him immediately sending his brain towards his childhood memories.However, amidst the holiday tunes he put up on the speakers and all the kitchen bustle, Santiago's attention faltered momentarily. The sudden beep of the oven timer broke his concentration, and he hurriedly checked on the cookies, only to find them slightly more golden (to not say completely burn) than anticipated.

With a sigh, Santiago realized his grand baking plan had failed tremendously. Determined not to disappoint you, and with his goal in mind to still surprise and make the evening somehow different for the both of you when you came home, he dashed to the nearest store, only to get there and found all racks empty and the only thing available for him on seeking solace were the pre-made cookie houses on display.

Racing back home, Santiago carefully arranged the store-bought cookie house on a platter, adorning it with twinkling lights and festive decorations, hoping it would make up for his baking misadventure.

The doorbell chimed, signaling your arrival, he opened the door and your nostrils were immediately filled with the characteristic smell of gingerbread cookies, the house was fully decorated with lights in a romantic setting.

"Santiago, what's all this?" You chuckled as you took of your coat and saw all the decorations and all the effort he made for your early Christmas celebration, although your attention quickly went to the beautiful cookie house.” Amor, this is absolutely stunning! Did you make all of this?"

Santiago scratched the back of his head and immediately blushed when you asked him what he most dreaded knowing you would tease him about it "Well, I tried. But, uh, not exactly…"

"Not exactly? What happened, Chef Santiago? Did the cookies rebel against your culinary skills?" You teased him while hugging him by the waist earning a playful roll of eyes from him

"It was a slight… mishap in the kitchen. They got a bit too crispy." Santiago said sheepishly as he caressed your cheek softly.

"So, you're telling me this marvelous creation is the result of an 'oopsie' in the oven?"

Santiago chuckled at your words and shrugged a little "I might have underestimated the timer a tad."

“It’s okay, honey, thanks for the effort anyways and thanks to “Mr Wilton ready to build” for saving the day” you laughed softly taking a look once again at the pre built gingerbread house kit at the table

“Merry Christmas Santi”

"Sort of Merry Christmas, corazón" he chuckled and gave you a chaste kiss on your lips.

As the evening unfolded, giggles and warmth filled the room as you and Santiago enjoyed the store-bought cookie house, relishing the imperfectly perfect moment and the thoughtful gesture that embodied Santiago's love for you.

Fic Masterlist

General Masterlist

#santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia #santi x reader #santiago garcia x you #triple frontier fanfiction #santi garcia fanfic #santiago #garcia #triple frontier

[lili-loves-whump]

lili-loves-whump presents, a 'whump: the musical!' snippet,

Heathers

previous first next

(a tw!! implied/ attempted non-con. be advised)

Whumpee coughs. Their thoughts are sluggish, their head wobbly and too large for their body.

The man across from the bar smiles. His teeth are rotten and yellow. Whumpee takes another sip of they drink, smiling when the warmth of alcohol runs through their bloodstream.

The man scratches at his balding head. A clump of fuzzy blonde hair comes away at his fingertips, but he brushes it away without a second thought.

Whumpee runs the tip of their finger across their drink. The glass gleams in the low light of the bar, and Whumpee can see their reflection.

They look frazzled, headphones still on, but music no longer playing. The time of their nose is pink and their brow is furrowed. The drink burns their throat as they lift it to their lips.

"You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?" The man says. He doesn't sound friendly, or kind, and Whumpee's mental blocks rise as he speaks.

His eyes gleam with something like malice, and he hasn't taken another sip of his own glass in front of him.

Whumpee feels warm again, despite not wearing their sweater. The door behind them opens, and a gust of frigid air blows into the air, but still, Whumpee relishes the chill of the cool air.

It is dark now. Whumpee frowns. How will they get home?

The man is talking again. He has reached forward and is running a thumb over Whumpee's knuckles. They frown.

"You really are a beauty. Don't worry, the high will kick in soon."

Whumpee sobers.

"High?" they choke out, voice catching.

The man looks sorrowful. Almost.

"It'll be okay, little birdie. Don't worry your pretty little head."

The world spins, and Whumpee feels violently ill. The man has walked around the side of the bar, and wears a name tag that says Wilton.

Wilton places a warm hand on Whumpee's shoulder. Their stomach rolls, and they stay planted in their seat. The world is fuzzy, and Whumpee goes to flinch, but the movements are sluggish and too slow for their liking.

A hand on their thigh. Are they crying? It feels like Whumper all over again. Poison of some description courses through their veins.

Hands everywhere. They were alone.

A breath of icy winter air.

Whumpee's sweater is still inside. It is beginning to snow. The tears on their cheeks dry. Someone is calling out. They walk away from the warmth and fear of the bar.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

#this was hard to write #im sorry #lili loves whump #heathers #poison #whump #whump the musical #drabble #creative writing #trope #oneshots #whumpee #whumper #tw: drinking #tw: attempted non-con #bar #alcohol #Spotify

[angiestown]

I am once again coming back at you with complaints about somewhat niche dessert decorating supplies being extremely readily available in the states but just completely inaccessible in Canada. this time it's these fUCKING little gold stars that I love

they're super sparkly, flavourless, and very little noticeable texture. when used on chocolate (like I intend to), you can't notice the texture at all because the chocolate is harder than the stars.

in the states, these go for about ~$7 CAD a bottle. kinda pricey for such a small thing, but not unreasonable. in Canada, the cheapest I can get them for is $21 which is.. kinda of pushing it for such a little thing. I tried ordering from US amazon to get the US price, but with shipping it comes to $24. ordering directly from wilton doesn't work because they won't ship these to canada. other brands make these too, but they all either don't ship to canada, or to get them here I'd be paying between $30-$285 shipping !!!! what the fuck what could possibly make it cost so much !!!!

and I don't think they have anything in them that make them illegal in canada because I actually have a sprinkle mix with these stars in them that my aunt bought here in canada, but because they're so light they all stick to the inside of the bottle while only the other sprinkles com out

[farsight-the-char]

RAVEN AND KURT TEAM-UP

Amongst exciting teasers for the X-Men’s next era was the announcement of a brand-new one-shot that will shed light on a historic Marvel Comics mystery: X-MEN BLUE: ORIGINS #1! Written by mind-bending X-Men scribe Si Spurrier and drawn by acclaimed artist Wilton Santos, X-MEN BLUE: ORIGINS #1 will at long last provide the definitive origin story for Nightcrawler! Since his earliest days with the X-Men under writer Chris Claremont, the circumstances of Nightcrawler’s birth has been the subject of rumors, half-truths, and heartbreak. Now, Spurrier—who’s guided the character through the Krakoan age as well his upcoming journey through FALL OF X in UNCANNY SPIDER-MAN—clears away all the lies you’ve been told and delivers the truth about Mystique and Nightcrawler once and for all!

We are making Destiny Kurt's bio-mom?!

PLEASE!

#raven darkholme #mystique #kurt wagner #nightcrawler #spider-man #irene adler #destiny #xmen #marvel #si spurrier

[dressed-euphoric]

Vintage Program

By. Euphoric Dressed

An unexpected television program sets off a change for you.

Word Count: 6160

Your back slumps upon the couch with a sigh of relief releasing into the air. Your feet resting upon the table in front of you with your favorite drink nearby. The feeling was momentary until the clock breaks the calm: the day was already over, again. 

It was always like this, every single day: you would go to work, then you would come home. You would change into your comfortable clothes, then make your favorite drink. Then, at last, it was you, the couch, and the TV. A routine that has become your life. 

Except, tonight was filled with a bit of hope, a hope that something will change this pitying routine of yours. The clock still shows a few hours before midnight, and you got nothing to lose from losing out on sleep. You hope when midnight hums, everyone’s vow will somehow enlighten you for yours. You let out a small chuckle at the thought of it. Maybe it was the pessimistic side of you that knew nothing will change. 

After all, you’ve made goals to become fit, to eat healthier, to find someone you would connect with; all of them barely lasted a week. So what will change this time that will suddenly make you break this mundane life of yours? At this point, it might as well be nothing.

Yet, you lay there hearing the clock tick, and tick, and tick nested in the sounds of your favorite show. Your throat gulping your favorite drink till finally, midnight made her sounds. 

You stare at the clock, unable to keep your eyes open: 12:01 AM it says. That was it. Your shoulder shrugs at the time. There was nothing to be felt. No sudden wave of adrenaline pushing you to your dreams, or how your body starts to dance to life. Nothing. All that will continue to exist is work and your couch. 

Wait. What had happened? Your teeth tighten, fuming your breaths outward. Great. A static screen on your modern TV. Your hands dash toward the clicker in an attempt to roll it back. You press the button which devolves into a smashing of buttons. You snarl a curse under your breath.

Your heart jumps as it comes back on, just not your show. The colors were a bit odd, reminding you of the old retro shows. A man stood there dressed in the most elegant suit you’ve ever seen: a charcoal gray suit that draped perfectly on his body. His trousers were sharply creased and underneath it, was a pair of shiny black oxfords. He looked like an old-school gentleman with his appearance.

His hair was black with slight streaks of silver. It was slick smoothly to the side with a hard part and shimmers underneath the light. Then there were his eyes, a deep blue that ensnares at you; they seem almost too hypnotic. Your nerves jump out under his gaze as he flashes a smile behind the screen.

“Greetings gents, I’m Dr. Wilton.” He announces with a small bow, “welcome to my program, where I’m here to change your life.” 

Change your life? You scoff at him. What was with this TV program? Your hands went straight to the clicker to change the show. You watch as your hands hover on top of the clicker, as you contemplate your decision. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to tune in and get a few laughs. You even wonder what kind of a ridiculous show it would turn out to be. 

It was propaganda. You let out a loud laugh at yourself. You couldn’t believe you watched the whole thing! 

Dr. Wilton talked about the imperfection of current society: how men carried themselves, and the way they were portrayed. He then preached values that all men should aspire to uphold. And like how he was presented, he reminded everyone of their appearances. The exact statement rang clear as bells in your head:

“Gents, you are destined to wear the appropriate clothes. We do not carry ourselves in a ‘disrespectful manner’. A clean crisp ironed shirt and trousers are to be expected. A perfectly knotted tie among your necks. Your socks should be conservative and show no skin. Your shoes are leather and polished. I would even go as far as to encourage the suit as all men should wear.”

You shake your head in disbelief. What nonsense was the man spewing? To expect everyone to conform to such values and mannerisms? Then, to even imagine yourself dressed all day in such dying clothes! You glimpse at your attire, and it’s no wonder everyone else does too. What was he to declare what was appropriate or not? At the very least, he had made your night amusing, a great start to your year. 

——

Tomorrow came as quickly as any other day with yesterday tossed into the wind. You carry on, even forgetting the program you’ve watched last night. Even with the new year, there were no expectations or any goals. 

And yet, why did it feel there was a change? A feeling that arouses inside the pit of your stomach: it gnarls and hisses. It gnaws, turning your inside out. It started this morning, and you had hoped it’ll die down. But even now at work, the feeling grows inside of you. Your body’s a bit tense as you labor your breathing. Your palms start to sweat, although you never had sweaty palms in the past. 

Then upon reaching home and changing into your comfortable clothes, you thought your haven will save you from whatever it was. If you just sit back on your couch with your favorite drink and your favorite show, it will all go away. And yet for the first time in a while, you browse the TV in search of something. Your favorite show wasn’t doing it so you tried the next, then the next of your interest.

Why? What was wrong? You clench your fist and a grunt of many words lashes into the night. Your voice slowly became loud at the insignificant details. You didn’t feel sick nor was there a fever coming in, but something was ramping you up. That was it. You were done with the night. 

The next couple of days didn’t get better. It grew and became more of a bottomless pit that dugs into you, pulling your body awry. You feel yourself always shuffling your feet in your athletic shoes. Your knees clad in jeans, constantly bounces upon sitting down. Somehow all of the sudden, you could feel bugs swarming all around your shirt, even though you’ve checked it a million times. Nothing was ever there. 

Your nights weren’t better at all; they became worse. Your haven slowly dissolved into a discordance of madness. You try so hard to watch even 10 minutes of your shows before you couldn’t stand it. Your body’s constantly shuffling on your couch with your dry throat. Your words start to express more, none of it filled with the laughter of the past.

Then there was that craving, a hunger yearning to be satiated. It grows every night as you flip through shows trying to figure out what the hunger desires. Why can’t you get what you wanted?

This went on for another couple of days, then a trip to the doctor ensued. “You’re looking pretty healthy.” The doctor told you.

That was a lie. You weren’t healthy at all by how you were acting. The doctor told you physically, there was nothing wrong. Then, it must be a psychological effect. If so, what was the cause? 

On your way back home, your fingers intensely tap against the wheel. Your body keeps fidgeting, and your feet encumber against the pedal. Then somehow, your eyes caught a glance upon a store. A display window showcasing a mannequin dressed in a gray plaid suit. 

Right there and then, it was like the tense packed clouds in your mind suddenly releasing their gates. Your body and your shoulder lose all the weight of the world as the light slowly descends. At last, there was no monster inside of you devouring you whole. There was nothing more than your body could ever crave. 

Your body was still with your feet gently touching the pedal. Your hands soften against the wheel. A smile widens as you welcome the feeling. Till your eyes focus elsewhere, and all is gone. 

The monster was back, and you can hear it roaring at you. Your teeth clench as the monstrous feeling claws your body apart. Your hands ferociously grip the wheel as you can hear your heart bursting so loudly at the speed of light. Something was defective inside of you. 

It was that store. How could it be? It was just a suit store… there was nothing more to it. Your feet stomp onto the pedal with no care for the speed limit. There the store was again right in front of you. You found yourself escaping out of the car, then your feet rushing to the front of the door. A long wind of breath slowly upheaves from you and slowly, everything was silent. Except, the echo of your heartbeats, as your eyes delicately peel the display windows. 

You had never gone into a suit store or had any desire to in the past. So why now do you so desperately want to go inside? Was it insanity that you felt drawn to the store? The thought makes you boil under your skin. What could you possibly want in this place? 

There was no reason to go in. Rather, your precious time was ripping away from your routine; that was going to be the solution to your madness. You just have to crank your favorite drink, sit down on your couch, and desperately watch your favorite show. 

No… there was no favorite show anymore. Your routine was a failure for your problem. It was never going to fix that gnawing feeling that keeps troubling you. You focus on the door till everything else fades. That was it. You have to go in. So you open the door and step into an undesired realm. 

Your eyes flash toward the vast selection of clothes they hold. A bundle of kindle sets ablaze in your heart. You could feel the sweat on the back of your neck. None of it was a result of the gnawing pit. No, your symptoms were from a different feeling: one that a new child rejoices upon a discovery.

You couldn’t help yourself as you stroke your hands on the fabric of the suit jackets. Each touch sends a beautiful shock that trembles your core. You couldn’t keep your eyes off the dress shirts and ties that hung out and above. You study the creases on each pair of trousers and note how pristine they were. You inspect each of the leather dress shoes, ranging from oxfords, brogues, and loafers, feeling the artwork. 

You knew you didn’t fit into any of these clothes. You let out a small laugh imagining yourself dressed in such attire. No way was that going to happen. 

But your mind toys with the idea. You bet having that button-up dress shirt would’ve felt delightful against your skin compared to the shirt you were wearing now. You could feel it hug around your chest and shoulder. Then there was the collar as it tightens against your neck. You reach with your hands to touch your collarbone. You didn’t like how the collar was always stiff on your neck but now… it was a strange desire: you wouldn’t mind it. Maybe even with a tie? The tie would be tightened and warm against your neck with a distinguishable knot. The thought makes you blush as you imagine yourself.

You couldn’t believe what your mind was conjuring! This wasn’t you. What was going on that you must think of such thoughts? No. This isn’t what you wanted. 

But the trousers that were hung would’ve looked good on you. How the crease makes you more refined. How the trousers will clasp against your waist instead of your usual choice of pants. Staring down at your pants sickens you as you feel it is undesirable. 

Then there were the leather dress shoes. Your heart’s still pumping as suddenly, your feet crave to step into them. How good it would feel to walk in them. You couldn’t resist as you examine a pair. A groan escapes your lips as the smell of the rich alluring leather travels to your nose. Just touching a pair made your feet wince against the feeling of your athletic shoes. 

But if you were to wear a pair of leather dress shoes, then you can’t wear your short white socks. The thought makes you cringe as you look down at your feet. You were going to need one of the many conservative dress socks displayed, all labeled over the calf. You didn’t know how you will feel about them. Only thoughts of how they would caress against your feet or how they will feel when you lounge in them. The thought makes you flush even harder as you pick up a pair.

This was the most insane trip you’ve ever gone on! You were not going to become a dandy. What are you thinking!? A sense of disgust toils inside of you at your thoughts. You needed to leave. 

But you can’t leave without the suit jacket. You needed one to complete the set! Just imagine wearing one on top of your dress shirt, trousers, and leather shoes. The fabric would weave everything into harmony, and you would be the eloquent man you’ve desired. 

“Can I help you?” A voice came behind you.

The shopkeeper stood there dressed in his brown plaid suit, white shirt, green tie, and brown loafers. His brown hair neatly parted to the side. His beard was neatly trimmed and distinguished by a handlebar mustache.

A thought came to invade your mind: the man was where you wanted to be, an embodiment of what you saw yourself. 

That was it. That was the final evidence that you weren’t yourself. An outrageous flame howls at your thoughts and emotions. Your voice fills with harsh tones and consonants towards the man: you were just browsing. Your feet storm off the door and into your car, unable to comprehend what went through you in the store. 

You didn’t need any of those clothes. You didn’t want anything relating to the idea of being dressed in such attire. No, because that wasn’t you. A growl erupts from you. Just a week ago, you were fine. But now, your clothes are harsh and itch against your skin. Your feet stomp around the house. You chug water down your throat in an attempt to calm down. 

Then the image of that man came into your head. The hysterical-dressed man who spoke of such ideals. Dr. Wilton was his name. What was it that he spoke of? You couldn’t remember because you laughed at his comedic program. It drives you nuts as you try to recount how to find him. 

You quickly descend upon your couch and turn the clicker. You flip through channels on your TV, hoping to find him. Your heart jumps at the familiar face on the screen. The colors are still the same in reminiscence of the retro shows you’ve encountered. 

Dr. Wilton stood there in his lavish charcoal suit. He still has the same black parted hair as you first saw him. His hair was as greasy and shiny as his black shoes. You didn’t care for it at first, but you found yourself in awe of his hair. What was it about his hair? 

There’s also the fact that you didn’t like Dr. Wilton. Why didn’t you? Maybe because he seemed like an outdated man with an outdated view. He was out of touch in this modern society of yours. All factors contribute to your disdain. But yet, here you were watching him. 

“Did you find me?” He grins at you.

His blue eyes still stare at you, just like he was directly talking to you. That hypnotic trance feeling when you first watch him. You could feel the chill settling into your body. What were you doing here, watching the outrageous man? 

But the thing is, the sensation that was devouring you inside out was gone. The distraught rhythm in your body soon came to a steady metronome. You didn’t miss the loud thumps of your heartbeat or how your breaths were like sparks of electricity fizzling outwards.

No. There was none of that. Instead, it was just the sensation of the breeze lightly grazing your skin. What is the word that you couldn’t grasp? It felt just right. That was the sensation: right. When everything finally fits in the puzzle.

So your body starts to slouch against the back of the couch. Your dancing legs are no more and finally, you raise your feet to rest on top of your table. You glimpse at your white socks and instinctively took them off your feet. Then something was missing from your feet for comfort. You just didn’t know what it was. 

Then, there was an urge to take off your shirt and lounging pants, but you stop yourself. A bit too uncomfortable to just be in your undergarments, and besides, you want to replace them. Of what? 

You reach upward to scratch your Adam’s apple like there was something that was supposed to be there. You couldn’t make it out but just felt your neck, looking for something. 

At which point, all sense of care and sane steam into the air. Your mind is already too fatigued from the constant agony in the past days. For once, you just want to enjoy the missed calm.

You didn’t care that you didn’t like Dr. Wilton, nor would you care if he spouts nonsense you disagree with. Your chest heaves inward and then puffs outwards, the sense of normality as you get back to your rhythm. Your eyes glue upon the screen of Dr. Wilton. So you watch as he talks throughout the night, as he lashes at you with his beliefs. 

The night was filled with what you had forgotten. How you miss the laughter and joy that used to accompany your nights. How your mouth was in bliss as you sip your favorite drink. You’ve let small chuckles in repulse at Dr. Wilton and his ideals. A couple of facepalms as you cringe at his words. But you bear with it for the entertainment he was giving you. 

Before you knew it, you did the same thing the next couple of days. The days were filled with the gnawing pit inside of you, followed by nights of dapper Dr. Wilton which you heartily disagree with. Soon, it evolved into a craving for the night: no, it wasn’t Dr. Wilton nor his show. You simply looked forward to the cure of your psychological being.

Then one night came as you settle on your couch, eagerly waiting for his show to come on. Your knee bounces up and down in anticipation of your fix. You hated that you felt like an addict, waiting every night just to watch the goddamn show to feel at peace. Your opinion of him hasn't changed one bit. He was still the same insane old-timer as he was. 

You pull your white socks off instantly, and you even watch the show in your underwear. A new addition to your routine. You didn’t recall when you started the habit, but you didn’t care. You had an urge to and you followed it. Either way, it felt much better getting them off of you. 

Your hands tap the glass of your favorite drink like time has been forever. Your body leans forward with your eyes darting from the clock to the screen. There he is, always dressed in his sophisticated suits. His shiny hair and his shiny shoes. His ample smile and abundant charm. 

Your body leans back against the couch with a smile on your face, awaiting to relieve yourself of the day. You couldn’t wait to laugh at his ridiculous program or to ridicule him like you’ve been doing the past couple of days. After all, you didn’t care at all for Dr. Wilton. It was just the fix you were after. 

He began and this time was different. You expected yourself to sit back, scoff at him and laugh, dismiss his ideas and values, and then shame him loudly. Your eyes will roll, and you will shake your head. You will tell him there was no chance you were going to follow his words, and move on, never minding he said anything worth hearing. 

It was different. He felt different. What was different this time? He was always the same man as he was in his show, so nothing changed. His manner and his belief were still the same. And yet, you look into his eyes, following his every move and pattern. Your ears listen to his words as clear as day in your head. 

You were listening to him. You, who have been ridiculing Dr. Wilton and spoke out loud in disbelief, were sitting on your couch with your ears open for him. What was going on? You didn’t find the programme as funny as before. 

Why weren’t you laughing at the statement he had just made? You let out a fake laugh at something he had said, but you stop yourself. This couldn’t be. Weren’t you going to refute him? You nod your head in agreement at what Dr. Wilton had said, which you caught yourself doing. That was weird. Your lips repeat in agreement with him, which you quickly take back. 

His words were strung along with clarity and conviction. They wrapped themselves around your heart so tightly that they could no longer be pried from you. The same words that you openly disagree with, became a muse whispering into your ears. Your head nods along his sentences. Your body leans forward to the screen.

There was no laughter and no ridicule. All that exists between you and the screen is genuine curiosity. You like the man on the screen. The way his body dances as he sings his speech, or how his hair and shoes dazzle under the spotlights. There was his tone of voice and his conduct that you enjoy. Then there was the suit that sets him apart, dressed in the finery that no one dares to stumble into. 

You couldn’t stop yourself. Did you want to stop? Listen to him. You shake your head at what you were listening to. Your normal course was to disagree and argue against his teaching and yet, your body resonates with his words. This was wrong. Pull yourself together. 

Your hands tremble at the sight of your conflict, unable to draw away from the screen. Watch him. Your eyes follow his every movement. Your mouth moves to a smile as he smiles, and laughs as he jokes. Your voice repeats the dissatisfaction he has expressed, then you give your heart away to the values he preaches. You listen to his every breath and reenact his lips. 

There was nothing to worry about. After all, you liked Dr. Wilton. What was so wrong with agreeing to a person you admire? There was no way you were going to laugh at him or refrain from his words. In fact, every word he has spoken thus far has enlightened you. 

The program ended before you knew it and a bitter taste left settling in your mouth. It was no longer a bitterness of disbelief but a bitterness of dissatisfaction. You wanted to watch the next part of Dr. Wilton’s program. But, then you remembered what he had talked about.

A newfound hope lit inside of you as you thought back and reflect upon Dr. Wilton. You laugh at your old ideals in comparison to Dr. Wilton’s. You couldn’t understand why you hated Dr. Wilton in the first place. His words were right. You cross your arms, thinking how crazy you must have been for not following Dr. Wilton’s words. Why didn’t you follow his words? 

The next morning couldn’t come soon enough. You got up bright and early, expecting yourself to be devoid of Dr. Wilton. It was the opposite: all you could think about was Dr. Wilton and his talk. You look at yourself in your mirror and feel the gnawing pit again. You know what you need to do. 

Your heart was racing as you search for a barber shop specializing in classic haircuts. You hesitate as you wonder if it was the right choice. You have to do it. You grin as you confirm the appointment. 

You didn’t know what to expect, but you yearn for correcting yourself. When it was time for your barber’s appointment, you went excitedly into the chair. One look in the mirror, and you knew exactly what you want.

The barber nods and starts to remove your old cherished hairstyle. In its place was something new and worthy. He asks if you want him to add the product to your hair, which you notice the pomade he carries. This was it. You smile at him, affirming the decision. 

He dips his hands into the shiny goo and rubs it between his hands. You watch as he descends his hands upon your hair. Normally, you couldn’t imagine yourself getting the haircut you were getting today or even wanting the shiny goo in your hair. But you know you were on the right track with Dr. Wilton’s wisdom. 

The barber’s hand massages your scalp, stripping the old you as he coats each strand of your hair into the new welcome territory. Then you could feel him combing your hair, molding you into what Dr. Wilton preached. 

You stare at yourself in your first step. You look different, away from your old self. Your hair was neatly trimmed, short, and combed perfectly over to the side. You notice the stark sharp parted line the barber had given you. You couldn’t help yourself grinning as your hair shines under the light. 

But something was missing, and you did feel it. You were out of touch with your hair, and you know what was next. You never had a desire for it in the past but now, all you could think of is what you should’ve been wearing your whole life. 

You tip the barber generously for what he had done for you and went on your merry way. Then, all you could think of was the next location that you were going to. 

The suit store stands in front of you. The same feeling you felt the first time you’ve been here was back. The sweat on the back of your neck. The alit blaze within your heart. Your glowing eyes at what’s to come. This time was going to be different. You came here to correct yourself. You walk in with no hesitation.

The first thing you wanted to get rid of was your shoes. It was time to let those improper dirty shoes go. Comfort wasn’t in athletic shoes. No, comfort lies in the leathers. Your eyes scan among the pairs, each one as exciting as the next. Then your eyes caught upon a pair and you knew it was meant for you: a pair of dress brown penny loafers. 

There was the smell again, the aroma of rich leather. You couldn’t stop yourself as you grab and inhale the freshness. You took off your shoes instantly and put the loafers on. Your feet scream in delight as you feel the loafers enveloping you. You didn’t care if you wear them with your white socks or if it looks a bit odd with your pants. You just couldn’t imagine yourself wearing anything else but the appropriate footwear.

But that doesn’t mean you will keep wearing your white socks. It was time to leave those behind. After all, a proper gentleman cares as much about the details as how he appears. You gaze upon the selection of dress socks they had, labeled over the calf. You pick a couple of them, knowing just how much enjoyment you will have upon slipping and lounging with them. 

Then it was finally time to get rid of the awful shirt you have on. Compared to the button-collared shirts on display, your shirt was inferior. You so desperately want it to drape over your torso, button yourself up, and then knot the collar tight upon your neck. Your smile was as wide as the earth spun. 

Then you couldn’t forget what should be knotted against your collar. A staple that every man should own and wear. It was a shame really, that all men couldn’t bear to enjoy such things. You found a stunning navy striped tie perfect for the pact you will knot yourself to. The first of many to come. Then all you were missing was the grand piece, and you know what you wanted. 

Your eyes first laid on it when you drove by. A hunger that awaits to be satiated by you putting it on. Perfection was the only word stuck in your mind. Your eyes caught sight of the gray plaid suit in the display window. The selection stood near and you went for it.

You missed the fabric that shook your core. Your hands are on top of the suit jacket, caressing it and feeling every fiber of the jacket. You were going to let it surround you and your body, and make you what you should’ve been. You picked it up and the matching trousers. It was then you decided your pants will be no more. In its place will be the fine trousers with the right crease. It will sit on your waist compared to your unsightly old pants. 

You encounter the same man and apologize to him for your disrespectful action. He smiles at you, taken aback by how different you look. He sent a compliment that he appreciates the new look, which you agree with.

Your voice strikes up a conversation with him, with your tongue almost a reminiscence of the man you’ve watched on TV. Your voice was different, and the way you spoke was not like yours, but you didn’t mind. 

Your eyes caught wind of the newspaper by the checkout, which you bought in an instant even though reading newspapers was not your hobby. You send your thanks to the man and wish him a proper good day. 

As you rush into your home, you can feel the sweat dripping from your body. Your heart thumps loudly more than ever. You couldn’t wait at all so you rush to your bedroom and shed away the undesired attire. 

You weren’t going to taint your closet with your old shirt and pants. Instead, you threw it into the trash. Along with it came your old shoes and your old white socks. You didn’t need them anymore. You look through your old clothes knowing that all of them will have to go, but that was for another day.

The first piece of garment was the socks. You rip into the packaging of the socks like a vulture. You grab a hold of the long black socks in your hands and feel the material: exquisite and soft. You slip the socks into your feet and a wave of relief escapes your mouth. This was it. Oh, how you dream of satisfying this craving of yours. This was what you were missing. Your hands went straight to caress the socks on your legs. You could feel the spark of ecstasy flying between your fingertips.

You hunger for more. You got up and took the white dress shirt over the back of your body. Your hands slip through the sleeves in an instant. Your hands flew to the buttons and lock them on you. Then, at last, the collar as you button it against your neck. 

It was just like how you imagined it on your body. It was a sweet taste that blossoms in your mouth, as your saliva drops onto the ground. You didn’t mind it. You embrace it. Your hands couldn’t move quickly enough as it grabs ahold of the tie. You wrap it around the collar of your neck. Your hand moves and weaves the tie, forming the knot. You pull it up, making sure it was secured tight against your neck.

It felt good having it tight against your neck. The warmth of the tie resting on your body. A sweet warmth that will never go away. It was also the proper accompaniment to yourself. It was at that moment, all you can envision was a tie on your neck every day. 

You took a moment and look down upon yourself: your white shirt with the navy stripe tie, your underwear, and your long black socks that went past your calves. A sense of great righteousness fills you up as you feel each of the garments on your body. You wiggle your toes in your socks, how soft they touch upon you. You feel your collar and pull the tie just a bit to ensure that it was indeed tight against your neck. 

Then, at last, the final piece. You slow your breath and cull your excitement. You couldn’t wait to put it on but you have to savor the moment. So, you slowly reach and grab the gray plaid trousers. You step into your new form, knowing you’re going to like it. 

You pull it up and tuck your shirt in gently. You clasp the trousers on your waist, feeling the fabric on your legs. It was smooth on your skin. You notice the stark crease on them, making you feel refined. From now on, all you will ever wear on your legs was a pair of trousers. 

Your hands reach for the jacket and flung it behind you. Finally. You let the jacket hug against you as it completes you. It envelopes you. It makes you into what you desire. It is the final piece to make you whole. 

Then you step your feet into the brown loafers, a newfound comfort. An admiration of how distinct they made you feel. Now, you were more mature than those hideous shoes you wore in the past. The loafers weren’t polished yet but you know there will be much joy from shining them. 

You let out a deep breath settling into yourself. You could smell the fabric, how intoxicating it was as it wraps around you. This was the right choice. 

You walk to the mirror and see yourself. A sight to behold with your body turning its wheel. You in the mirror stood properly dressed in a gray plaid suit, a white dress shirt with a navy striped tie. Your feet are shrouded in lovely brown loafers, revealing a bit of the long black socks underneath your trousers. 

Your hair was no longer what you had carried in the past. It was neat. It was elegant. It was trimmed and short. It was parted against the side and showed a sleek line. It glimmers under the light, a shine that distinguishes you. 

This was proper. That gnawing feeling inside of you transforms into a profound sense of self. An awakening if you call it. A contract that you willed into existence and will sign over and over again. You’ve made that decision to be like this, and each morning, you will make the same one. 

You will be dressed in the proper attire. You will wear the appropriate shoes. Your hair will be tidy. You couldn’t be happy enough! 

You walk out of your bedroom as a new man. You went to your couch and pull out the newspaper you’ve just bought. You cross your legs, staring at your loafers and dress socks on your feet. You smile knowing you’ve made the right choice. And thus, you open the newspaper wide and start reading. 

You wear your suit till evening. Then you turn on your favorite show. Dr. Wilton stood there dressed in his impeccable suit: this time, a navy blue. His hair and shoes are still as shiny as ever.

You liked Dr. Wilton. What he talked about. What he suggested. You laugh as he jokes, and you smile as he smiles. Your voice is distraught as he was the same. You agree with him heartily with no disagreement. Every day, you couldn’t wait to be dressed properly as Dr. Wilton have wanted. And every night, you couldn’t wait to settle into your couch, with your favorite newspaper, and your favorite show.

“This is the vintage program, where I show you the proper path by being a vintage man.” He grins. 

[bellygunnr]

In the Grill

A continuation of " Blood on the Hood ".

The shadow of someone jogging across estate grounds at sub-five in the morning is almost enough to prompt Bonnie to pull over. She’s been here long enough to know the patterns-- the walking trails are less for use and more for show. The only folks up this early are the groundskeepers, cleaning crew, and her. She considers investigating for only a second. If it’s egregious, someone with a better paycheck than her will tell her. For now-- she has other things to worry about.

Like her job, and her dying boss, and the fact that she can already see lights on at her destination. She knocks her head back against the seat with a groan. Either someone beat her there, or someone stayed far too late, and she has an inkling as to who. A yellow Gremlin sitting in the glorified parking lot only confirms her suspicions. It’s with exasperation that she parks next to the little compact and shuts off her truck.

For a moment, all she does is stare past the hood and into the grounds. The Foundation headquarters is a baffling amount of territory. All she knows is she’s somewhere in the middle of it, with the lab and the test track. She climbs out onto the pavement before the ensuing silence grows too loud, lets the cool air ground her, and ducks inside with the swipe of her badge.

But she has to go down. She gives the elevator her retina scan and tries not to feel claustrophobic in the steel gray box. Harsh lights and freezing cold air greet her on the way out.

“April!” Bonnie calls.

Most of the lab is clean. Only a couple techs are in, which she throws looks at, but they’re not the target of her ire, so she blows past them to where a half-dismantled car dominates most of the floor space. Among it all, one woman sits, apparently triple-checking measurements.

“Dr. Curtis,” Bonnie tries again. “Good morning.”

April jumps.

“Oh, Bonnie! You’re here la-- right on time. I…”

April smiles sheepishly. She makes an aborted movement to run her fingers through her hair, which is too busy being clipped into a tight bun.

“Look, I was just trying to finalize some things… We have to completely refab the roof and pillars and I lost track of time. I can leave?”

“Finish up what you’re doing and sign out. You’ve been taking notes, right?”

Bonnie glances over at the vehicle. She decides not to question why only half of it had to be reconstructed-- not until she sees the documentation.

“Of course! Yeah, they’re in the usual place. I’ll kick out the others with me--”

Good, she thinks. KITT is too easily distracted when there’s more than a couple people in the lab, but she doesn’t tell April that.

“Thanks, April. And get some sleep-- I mean it. We’re not on crunch time yet and I don’t-- I don’t want everyone burning out.”

April’s expression softens, but her eyes narrow knowingly. “Then you need to lead by example, Dr. Barstow. I know what you’re doing! You’re not the only one who cares about this project.”

“I know I’m not,” Bonnie says, a touch too hot. “Anyway, have you seen anyone weird out on the grounds lately?”

Mercifully, April turns back to her work (though not quickly enough to hide an eye-roll). “You know? Yeah. I caught one of Mr. Knight’s guests snooping around a couple days ago. He-- she left pretty fast.”

Huh. Wilton never mentioned anything about that, but maybe that explained the measurements her team received a few days ago. The orders tied to the information had tacked tens of hours more onto their work. And Devon rarely knew enough to clarify anything…

She shakes her head.

Eventually, April and the others leave. At six sharp, KITT onlines, but doesn’t speak for a full two hours. An hour after that, the rest of the day team arrives and takes over much of the work.

---

She finds Wilton’s so-called esteemed guest in the bathroom. Or, more precisely, the esteemed guest finds her-- by shoulder-checking her with the door and bleeding from the head. Bonnie takes in their appearance in haphazard bursts. The heavily bandaged face, the shaved head, freckled skin all of the way down, dark pants and a tank top that sits low on the chest. And no bra, which is almost as pressing as the spots of blood dripping down the bridge of her nose.

“Wh-oh, this is occupied! Where’s the first aid kit?”

Her expression is hard to discern from the bandaging and scarring, but her tone is shocked, urgent, nervous. Bonnie shakes her head in disbelief and tries to look anywhere but the blood, nausea already making short work of what little she had for lunch.

“The door was locked,” Bonnie says instead, strained. “Why-- how--?”

“The nurse was coming and I panicked,” she says plainly. “You look a little pale. You good?”

Bonnie waves a hand dismissively and drops to her knees, blindly fumbling for the seam of the cabinet doors underneath the bathroom sink. They come loose with a hollow sound and she finds the medical supplies quickly, mostly because she’s had to use it before. It hadn’t been her brightest moment (and Devon had nearly fired her).

The woman reaches forward, but Bonnie swats the hands away.

“I’m not letting you re-dress your own bandages,” she says hotly. “Sit down.”

She’s a professional, god dammit.

“But—”

“I think you’d rather let me patch you up than get caught by Devon,” Bonnie says sternly.

She steels herself enough to make eye contact. The soft lighting catches the woman’s visible eye, drawing out an intense blue. It’s almost as distracting as her lifting placating hands and shimmying around to sit atop the toilet, teeth bared in a grin.

“I’m Michael,” the woman says.

She-- Michael-- thrusts out a hand. It’s covered in dust and wood shavings. Bonnie frowns down at it and the nitrile gloves she was just about to slip on.

“Or Michelle!” She amends, spreading her hands.

“Not... the problem. Michael’s a fine name. I’m Dr. Barstow.”

Bonnie winces a second after. Michael has a grin, now, and a calculating gleam in her eye that follows Bonnie through the process of examining the bloodied bandages. The detritus that’d covered her hands is on her scalp, too.

“The hell did you do?”

“Climbed out of a window, don’t worry about it. Say, who’s Devon?”

The blood doesn’t particularly smell like anything. It just gleams wetly and dries sticky and is a vivid red reminder of what lays under the skin. She swallows down a wave of nausea. At least Michael has the decency to remain quite still, even tilting her head this way and that when Bonnie asks.

“…Wrong question, uh?” Michael continues on, blithe as anything. “Is it bad, doc? Am I dyin’?”

Jesus. Bonnie shakes her head, surprised to feel a bubble of laughter against her throat. The world spins a little in protest.

“I’m not a medical doctor,” she says. “And if climbing out of a window with a head wound didn’t kill you…”

“Either you will or nothing can,” Michael finishes solemnly. “Got it. You almost done?”

Michael bobs her head in tune with her little joke and drums her fingers across her thighs. Bonnie barely resists giving her an admonishing swipe, directing the energy into finishing the bandages.

She leans back, pulling off the gloves and throwing them into the trash. Now disinfectant sits heavy in the back of her throat. The world rolls languidly. Yeah, maybe she overestimated herself this go around. But Michael’s sheer presence raises more questions than it answers, and Bonnie doesn’t like leaving things unanswered.

Who is she? Why is she injured-- why did she climb out of a window? If she’s here, in the estate, how does she not know Devon? Maybe she’s Knight’s daughter, but-- he doesn’t have any children. Does he?

Bonnie looks down at Michael and her nervous energy critically.

Michael’s palms dig into the tops of her knees while her fingers drum a pattern. Her visible eye moves around, clearly picking out the full depth of the bathroom and the distance from the door. A low-level tension simmering underneath the skin makes toned muscle jump out-- and she’s already a good head over Bonnie.

“Where do you plan on going after this?” Bonnie asks.

Michael blanches. She rocks back and forth, tongue running across chapped lips.

“Well, I was lookin’ for the kitchen, the first go around…”

“Funny. I was just about to go on lunch break,” Bonnie says, suddenly thoughtful.

Granted, she doesn’t feel like eating now. But something tells her it’d be best to keep Michael in her sights rather than let her gallivant around. Plausible deniability and all that.

Michael’s brow pulls forward. Her head cocks to the side, tracking Bonnie intently.

“My truck’s out in the front,” Bonnie says casually. “Can’t miss it, it’s ugly as sin. Meet me out there and I’ll be right behind you.”

Her face lights up-- she cottons on fast and vaults toward the door, slamming it shut behind her. The stone-and-tile bathroom echoes for a long moment with the sound.

Hopefully the truck isn’t locked, because Bonnie spends the next ten minutes hurling and cleaning up.

#knight rider #k.i.t.t. #bonnie barstow #michael knight #gunny writes

[reluctantjoe]

Murder is Easy cast and creatives tease Agatha Christie thriller that "balances deduction with seduction, humour with terror"

England, 1954. On a train to London, Fitzwilliam meets Miss Pinkerton, who tells him a killer is on the loose in a sleepy English village...

England, 1954. On a train to London, Fitzwilliam (David Jonsson) meets Miss Pinkerton (Penelope Wilton), who tells him that a killer is on the loose in the sleepy English village of Wychwood under Ashe.

The villagers believe the deaths are mere accidents, but Miss Pinkerton knows otherwise – and when she's later found dead on her way to Scotland Yard, Fitzwilliam feels he must find the killer before they can strike again. Because for a certain kind of person, murder is easy…

Mathew Baynton - Dr Thomas

Who do you play?

Doctor Thomas is a man with a certain position in the community, which he very much enjoys. And the arrival of Fitzwilliam puts a spanner in the works as far as he’s concerned in terms of his place in the village. And that causes him some real problems…

What do you find most interesting about your character?

To say that might spoil things! Without giving too much away... this is a man who cares really deeply about his status and a man who is very privileged, and any challenge to that privilege he’s going to get very defensive about. And he may be interested in certain theories that I think are an armour for him to defend his status. One of the most interesting things for me is trying to understand why a person like Doctor Thomas could be drawn to that, and why a person could truly believe in it.

Is it accurate to say that you enjoyed the costumes?

I mean, the costumes are just fantastic. It's rare in modern life that you get an excuse to be tailored and I'd get a few looks today if I walked around with high-waisted trousers and the rest of it. But I can get my kicks out of it when I'm being filmed in an Agatha Christie. It's a good excuse.

Why do you think small, quaint British towns and villages make such a good setting for a murder mystery?

I think the picture perfect little British village suggests serenity and order, and so that really lends itself to the idea of murder disrupting all of that. Causing chaos. I think there's something about the fact that it's so pretty and organised, and then something chaotic happens in the middle of it.

And why do you think mystery stories and tv shows prove so enduringly popular?

I'm going to parrot a theory that a friend of mine told me and take credit for it, which is that there's something really comforting about the fact that you watch the mystery, often a terrible thing, get solved, and then we can all sleep easily. The idea that someone will come along, figure it all out, wrap it all up in a bow, the bad guy goes away and we can all go to bed and tuck ourselves in and feel like the world is put to rights. I think that's the story people like because it has such closure to it and comfort.

Murder is Easy also examines the British class system and shows how the social roles were at the time, doesn’t it?

I think it's easy to forget that each new generation does not arrive with an in-built hard drive, pre -loaded with an understanding of social history or history of anything in fact. And so stories are powerful and important. Not just in a glib way, but this is how generations of people come to understand the world that they live in. For a lot of people, their exposure to history is through dramatic storytelling on the screen. So it is good that those elements are woven into the stories that we tell because, well, what's the famous quote? Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. I've paraphrased it very badly, but that's why it's important to shine light on all areas of history, but particularly on those elements where we can revise history – and when I say ‘revise’, I don't mean in terms of changing history, but in terms of getting it more correct. Many people were airbrushed out of history because they weren't the ones who got to write it.

#murder is easy #mathew baynton #mat baynton #dr. thomas #dr thomas #doctor thomas #6 idiots #six idiots #the six idiots #themthere #them there #for the mb fans #i was hoping the bbc would put out an interview pack like what they've done for ghosts and the split so i'm really happy!! #found another photo in the pack feat. him too! #if you'd like to view it it shouldn't be too far down my blog or search rj: murder is easy / rj: dr. thomas / rj: mathew baynton #rj: interview #rj: murder is easy #rj: mathew baynton #rj: 2023 #is there a world without the love of queue?

[sitting-on-me-bum]

Rise

A humpback whale rises from the Indian Ocean into the warm golden light of the West Australian Sunrise.

Photographer: Jake Wilton

Company/Studio: Jake Wilton Photography

The International Photography Awards™

#jake wilton #photographer #jake wilton photography #the international photography awards #humpback whale #whale #indian ocean #west australia #sunrise #nature

[monsterintheballroom]

Penelope Wilton and others remember Michael Gambon

‘He hit his teeth on the glass and spilled beer down his front’

Penelope Wilton, actor

In 1978, Michael and I were in the first production of Betrayal at the National. The preview was nerve-racking, not only because we were opening a new play by Pinter but because the backstage crew were on strike, so we didn’t know if it would actually happen. The country was going through a sort of nervous breakdown – as we are now.

The opening scene takes place in a bar where we have a couple of drinks. Michael comes to our table with the first round: wine for me and a pint of beer for himself. But out of nerves, he put the beer in front of me and wine in front of him. And I thought: “Fuck, I’ve got to drink two of those!”

The first line is, “Cheers!” Just before we said it he swapped the drinks, but then, rattled, he hit his teeth on the glass and all the beer went down his front. It could only go up from there.

I worked with Michael many times and he was a dear colleague and wonderful man. I’ve never met anyone like him. He was very surprising and not what he seemed. A complicated man, particularly in his private life.

But I understand why young men venerated him because he was so charismatic. You were naturally drawn to him. He was witty, entertaining and also extremely nice - a really sweet man in many ways. He could also be naughty.

We were once in a production of Sisterly Feelings: I played Abigail and Michael was my husband, Patrick. Halfway through the play, someone tosses a coin and that determines which sister’s story is told in the second half: Dorcas’s or Abigail’s. Michael was a precision engineer before he was an actor, and he made a coin with two heads. I didn’t know this, but most of the men in the company did, including the one who tossed the coin.

So every time, it was heads – which meant ‘Abigail under Canvas’, which meant taking my clothes off in a tent with Michael, with all the boys getting to go to the bar in the interval, because they wouldn’t have a costume change. I found out about the fix and so, the next night, I called tails. They weren’t expecting that.

Michael made acting fun. That made him easy to work with, because he was so quick and instinctive. He was also very generous - when you were in a scene with Michael, he looked you in the eye. On stage, his concentration was excellent. Off stage, it wasn’t always so good. Yet he’d take direction extremely well if he admired the director – and not so well if he didn’t.

Timing and a light touch are things you can’t teach; you either have them or you don’t. Michael had them. That’s why he was wonderful in comedy but also why he was wonderful in Pinter, which requires you to be very deft, and in Beckett, who is also very funny.

He was aware of what he did to an audience and knew when he’d scored. On stage, he was a big man – yet he wasn’t actually that tall. Nor was he the greatest looker of all time, but he had a sort of sex appeal. He created a lot out of very little. And for someone who was for a lot of his life quite large – he got much thinner as he got older – he was extremely light on his feet.

Other than his size, he didn’t change at all. He stayed just the same and told a lot of the same stories – and they were still very funny. I saw him last year at his beautiful house in Meopham in Kent, with his wife, Anne, and eldest son, Fergus. Michael collected vintage cars and 17th-century pistols, and had a wonderful tool shed where he used to do his precision tooling.

He still knew who I was. I said something about Betrayal and he said: “Did we have a nice time?” I said: “Yes. We really did have a nice time.”

#penelope wilton #michael gambon #daniel craig #matthew macfadyen #downton abbey #harry potter #theatre

[nia1sworld]

who's ur arch enemy a oc that you made that's your arch enemy and what do they look like?

My very Arch Enemy is Barbara Wilton (She's from The Ink Chronicles)

Her Appearance is:

Light skin

A black hat

1920's Hair

Black Short shirt

Grey skirt that's tied to a long jacket

Boots

Talons/Long Fingernails

Owl lady

That is what she looks like

#she's basically my enemy

[therevengeoffrankenstein]

for pride month, i figured i'd do a non-exhaustive list of people/looks that have given me gender envy and inspired my sense of style as a transmasculine fellow.

this post is about to be long and also likely 'cringe' (which is dead, so i do not let it dictate my decisions, but just in case a non-mutual reads this and wants to send me hate-mail for my 'bad' taste: I KNOW.) since it includes several people i worshiped as a tweenager. if you don't wanna see me talking about five billion emo men, then you probably don't wanna read this :^)

mulan (1998) was one of my first experiences with gender-nonconformity and experimentation. her dissatisfaction with living as a woman and her shame with feeling that way deeply resonated with me, and her transition into ping lit up light bulbs in my tiny mind, as well as the scene in which she is outed against her will due to an injury.

-

from a very young age, i've always kinda wanted to embody the swagger of freddie mercury. i would say that as a 6 or 7-ish year old i experienced my first bout of true gender envy over him. i wished i could look and sound like a man because of him. i ended up shoving down these feelings for many years due to internalized shit and outside influences. yet he still remains forever in my heart as a major influence both as an artist, an outfit composer, and a person.

-

eddie van halen is cool as shit. idk man. i dig his style. these patch work pants did irreparable damage to my psyche.

-

ryan ross was a big idol of mine as a tween and still continues to inspire me to this day. i wished i could do my makeup like him and have his fop-y floppy 60s mop cut, which was probably the beginning of my obsession with having hair that looks Like That.

*bren.don. ur.ie gets a dishonorable mention here bc i don't wanna talk about him but when i was 13 i also wanted his p.o. era mop sooo bad like soo bad i was planning on getting my hair cut like that for real but instead life happened and i haven't had my hair cut since like 2019 and now i've committed to it being a mile long.

-

pete wentz is at the forefront of writers that i would say have influenced my works. his influence is just about inseparable from anything i've done since 2018 at least. he just, like, gets me, you know? including, of course, his fashion sense, which lingers still through my daily wardrobe.

on the right, i added a pic of him recently that made me lose my mind.

-

i'm grouping william beckett and gabe saporta together because both are scene fellows who had lesser but still notable affects on me. the former's hair and the latter's sense of style have stayed with me all these years for a reason, and that reason is because i wish i could look like them.

-

renfield is just like me for real so of course i wish i could steal dwight frye's gender. the suspenders plus the vacant, hazy look in his eyes did things to me.

-

the man, the myth, the legend, my most special of interests, mr sir peter wilton cushing obe. if i love him, and i feel unloved, then i must act like him and sound like him and look like him to feel truly loved, right? because i want someone to love me to the extent i love him? because i hate myself so much? it's psychosexual to me in a way but also 100% from my heart. i need to look like him ^

he cracked my egg. which i will be getting more into in the next entry. but! basically i realized that maybe it isn't normal to want to look exactly like a man, deeper voice and flatter chest and all. and then i was like what is stopping me from being trans actually besides other people's disapproval, which i had at that point stopped letting get in my way. so trans ellie canon and real from this point forward.

-

sherlock holmes is an entirely separate entry on this list than peter cushing because sherlock is a fictional character that has been portrayed in many different mediums and by many different actors, many of whom i at least kinda want to look like.

but most of all, i want to be like him, the idea of sherlock holmes. a protector who saves the meek and weak and who persecutes the oppressors. he is good, he is just, and he is loved by nearly all. also he is a major fucking nutjob, like me. he inspires me so much. this yearning helped me realize who i wanted to be, who i am. it makes my heart glow with hope and pride knowing that someone who so obviously has so much 'wrong' (wrong like me) with them can not just be a hero, but also one of the most definitive heroes in history.

-

adam ant's gnc swag.... idk man he ignited my historical obsession with highwaymen.

-

final thoughts:

i am so happy to be a trans fag ! my life is so much better since i realized that i am a boy ! 🥰🥰🥰 i am trying to experiment more with my appearance and i am loving it.

#a) i am what they call a 'music lover' and i have wanted to be a rock star since i was a little boy and i stg i'm gonna be one before i die. #b) the way this list is counting down to the the inevitable explosion of the ticking time bomb that is peter c's entry. #c) every time i see my profile pic out of context of being my profile pic i giggle all heehee hoohoo that's me :^) #d) i don't think i'm going to commentate anymore as to not make an ass of myself. #myevilposts #fundamental me lore tag #oh this is in like semi-chronological order btw. not worst to best.