#Potentially a Tahoe

[gmt-400-spotting]

GMT400 SPOTTED

Chevrolet (full size) Blazer

glad that im not popular enough to have an evil shadow version of my blog that exists just to make contradictions on my posts

[saywhat-politics]

For sale by the GOP: Our public land — and our shared history

Trump's "big beautiful bill" puts millions of acres in the West at risk

By MICHAEL ALBERTUS

PUBLISHED JUNE 21, 2025 5:30AM (EDT)

America’s public lands are back in the crosshairs as Senate Republicans work on their own version of Donald Trump’s “One Big Beautiful Bill Act,” which recently passed the House and encapsulates the president’s policy agenda. After legislators were forced to drop a provision from the House bill that sought to sell off half a million acres, GOP senators now intend to mandate the disposal of between 2 million and 3 million acres of land across 11 Western states belonging to the Bureau of Land Management and the U.S. Forest Service.

This is the latest effort by a group of Western legislators and lobbyists to sell off public lands to states and business interests, and increase the leasing of them for mining, drilling and logging. The provision has found a champion in Interior Secretary (and former North Dakota Gov.) Doug Burgum, and leaked documents from the agency have revealed the intention to exploit public lands as convenient, disposable assets. Experts and advocacy groups warn that land near Yosemite and Tahoe in California, Sabino Canyon and Mount Lemmon in Arizona and large parcels of Arapahoe, San Juan and Rio Grande National Forests in Colorado could potentially be threatened under the current bill’s very limited exemptions for wilderness areas and lands of environmental concern.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 3: The Ones Who Died Without A Name]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Holiday” by Green Day.

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

The Tahoe runs out of gas just west of Ashland, Ohio, coasting to a stop along the shoulder of State Route 96, sapphire skies and cotton ball cumulus clouds, emerald fields of Swiss chard and beets slowly being nibbled bare by deer and rabbits, the inheritors of an abandoned earth.

“Well, that’s it,” Baela says, offhand, blasé, as if it’s not a disaster. You’ve sorted this out, it didn’t take long: there are people who aren’t allowed to panic. If they do, it’ll be like a dam crumbling, and the flood will burst through to drown everything, like when Noah’s wrathful God decided it was time for the world to start over. Baela can’t panic. Aemond can’t panic. And maybe you can’t either. Rio gives you a skeptical look—Are we really about to walk to Oregon?—and you slap his thigh encouragingly as you climb over him and out of the Tahoe.

“Everyone gets a gun,” Aemond says as he starts distributing them: Rugers for Rhaena, Baela, and Helaena (although she winces as she obediently takes the revolver, immediately tucking it away into her burlap messenger bag), .22s for Daeron and Aegon, Remington 12 gauges for Jace and Rio, who gives you his M9. You’re better with it anyway. Aemond’s Glock 20 is in a handmade leather holster he took from the cellar of the house back in Distant, Pennsylvania. Luke, still a potential zombie, will not be armed; but Aemond slings the strap of a .22 over his own shoulder for in case Luke recovers.

“Safeties on, right kids?” Rio goes down the line checking everyone’s gun. “Remember what we practiced, use your sights, don’t go pointing the barrel at anyone unless you’re okay with blowing a hole in them. The noise is risky, but getting bit is worse, so use your best judgment.”

“I don’t have any of that,” Aegon says, grinning.

Rio grabs Aegon’s sunburned face roughly and smacks a kiss onto his cheek. “I know, Honey Bun. Don’t you worry. Stick close and I’ll do your thinking for you.”

You spy it up the road a ways on the right, half-obscured by tree limbs: a white and orange sign, a logo shaped like a diamond. “Oh my God. It’s a Stewart’s.”

“A what?” Aemond asks, squinting at the sign. It’s late afternoon, and soon the sun will be sinking into the west like a drowning man through deep water, and like all prey animals you are restless without the promise of shelter.

“A Stewart’s Root Beer. They used to sell hot dogs and barbeque and all these neat soda flavors like key lime and black cherry. We had one where I grew up. That was the fancy place. You knew it was a good day if you ended up at Stewart’s for dinner.”

Aemond considers you, that subtle ceaseless curiosity. “We can stay the night there.”

“I thought we didn’t want to waste any daylight, Aemond,” Jace jabs as he helps Luke—miserable but presently human—out of the Tahoe. “That’s what you said when I wanted to check out that Barnes & Noble, Aemond.”

“What the hell do you need books for?” Aegon says. He’s grabbing clear CD cases out of the center console of the Tahoe. He pounds on the eject button and then punches the CD player when he realizes he won’t be getting that particular disk back. “Oh, you bitch! I had Shakira on there!”

“I would like to preserve my ability to read at higher than a fifth-grade level. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I was going to work for Sullivan & Cromwell, you know.”

“And now you’re a jobless loser just like me. Isn’t life funny?”

“You can’t be serious,” Baela says to Aegon, his arms full of CD cases. “You’re going to carry all those to California? You don’t even have a way to listen to them.”

“I’m not leaving my mixtapes.” Aegon shoves them into a U.S. Army backpack he found at Fort Indiantown Gap and then hoists it onto his back with a grunt.

Aemond tells Jace: “We only have a few hours until the sun starts going down. We don’t know what’s up ahead. We should take advantage of a safe place to sleep if it’s available. Getting caught out in the open after dark is the worst case scenario.”

“Whatever, Aemond. It’s your call. Everything is your fucking call.” Then Jace plods out into a field of rabbit-ravaged Swiss chard to relieve himself semi-privately, his back to the Tahoe.

“Hey, Chips Ahoy,” Aegon says, taking the folded-up map out of the pocket of his shorts, mint green plaid. “Want to tell me if there are any nuclear power plants near our route so we can steer clear of them and not get irradiated?”

“Uh, well, I don’t exactly have them all memorized…” You examine the map, hoping the black-ink cities will jog your memory, trivia you catalogued years ago, snippets you’ve heard from your fellow seamen. “Perry’s in Cleveland. We won’t be anywhere near that one. Fermi is up by Detroit.” You hesitate as your fingertips skate past Chicago. “Braidwood, LaSalle, and Byron are someplace between Chicago and Peoria, but I’m not sure where. And then there are a few others around the border of Illinois and Iowa. West of that, I don’t know. Rio?”

“Cooper’s in Nebraska, dead east of Lincoln. That’s all I got.”

Aegon is nodding, making notes on his map with a glittery forest green gel pen. “Cool, cool. If I don’t end up eaten or a zombie, I can look forward to being a sterile, glow-in-the-dark mutant.”

Luke frets: “What if we accidentally drink contaminated water or something?”

“Then you die an agonizing death, kiddo,” Rio says. “Your cells dissolve and you turn into human Jello and there’s nothing anybody can do about it.”

Luke swallows noisily. “Awesome.”

“You might just get cancer if the dose is small enough,” you tell him. Luke does not seem pacified. Rhaena gives him a sip of warm Coca-Cola from a plastic bottle from the Wawa.

Jace comes trudging back to the road, zipping up his khaki chino shorts. “Alright, are we ready?”

Helaena is gazing solemnly out over the fields of green leaves, red roots that grow like arteries into the soil. “We should try to find antivenom.”

“Antivenom?” Aemond asks, distracted as he makes sure nothing of importance was left in the Tahoe. The keys are still dangling from the ignition; you won’t need them. There’s no breathing the Tahoe back to life. There’s no returning to Aemond’s house back in Boston. There is only the West, beckoning you to cross rivers and plains and mountains to join her, and to do it as people did two hundred years ago, no cars, no phones, no escape hatches. The only way out is through.

“For the snakes,” Helaena says.

Aemond stares at her. The stitches in his face are dissolving as the flesh weaves back together, jagged maroon scar tissue, beautiful savage ruins, landscapes of improbable survival. “Helaena, antivenom has to be refrigerated. Even if we miraculously found some, it wouldn’t be useable.”

She nods, eyes wide and glazed, still peering into the fields, into the earth.

~~~~~~~~~~

A hand brushing the loose strands of hair out of your face, a whisper through the dissipating indigo of sleep: “Guess what today is.”

You startle awake and yelp as you bolt from your assailant. Aegon is watching you without any shame whatsoever. People are laughing as they gather up supplies so you all can get moving again, brushing teeth, arranging hair, drinking glass bottles of Stewart’s soda found last night in crates in the storeroom, snacking on bags of Utz chips. Sunlight is streaming in through the windows; specks of dust glimmer in the air like comets through the inhospitable void of outer space.

Luke says from where he is sitting on the floor, his arms and legs tethered: “Hopefully the day when somebody’s going to untie me.”

“It’s my birthday!” Aegon announces.

You’re still blinking at him, disoriented. “What…?”

“Aegon, I told you,” Aemond says, sipping a bottle of Stewart’s key lime soda. “It’s not your birthday. It’s not the 23rd.”

“It’s the 20th, right?” Rhaena says.

Rio looks to you, bewildered. “Isn’t it like the 25th?”

“We’re still in June?” Luke says. Now Aemond is hacking through his ropes with a hunting knife from the cellar in Distant, Pennsylvania.

“Your hand is healing up. Your color is good, your temperature is normal. I guess we can officially declare you human for the foreseeable future.”

“I knew it,” Jace says, combative so no one will see the desperate relief underneath.

Aemond examines your hands next, calloused over where the heat of the transmission tower burned the skin. There is no pretext for needing to tend to them any longer, no antiseptic or ointment or gauze. Aemond nods somberly at your palms, as if he isn’t entirely happy to pronounce them cured. His hands linger on yours for slow, unnecessary seconds.

“So what are we going to do special for my birthday?” Aegon presses eagerly.

“We’re going to walk between ten and twenty miles towards California,” Baela says.

“That’s not a birthday activity!”

Daeron groans as he inspects the screws and bolts of his compound bow. “Aegon, it’s not your birthday!”

“Shut up. You can’t even apply to get a credit card.”

“No one can get a credit card now! Currency is worthless!”

Rio offers you a cherries and cream soda. You take it and say: “Aegon, how old are you? On today, your alleged birthday?”

He hesitates. “That’s not the important part.”

Aemond smiles as he tells you, mock-whispering: “He’s thirty.”

“Thirty?!” Rio exclaims. “That’s like, an actual adult age. Marriage and a mortgage, shit like that. What were you doing before everything went insane?”

Aegon gestures vaguely. “I was considering a number of opportunities.”

“He was living on my couch,” Aemond says.

Rio shakes his head, grinning. “No job? No school? No nothing?”

“I wasn’t doing nothing. I played a lot of golf.”

“He was totally doing nothing,” Jace says. “I was in my third year of law school at Harvard, Baela was getting a master’s in Aeronautics and Astronautics at MIT, Rhaena just started an Anthropology PhD, Luke was getting a master’s in Screenwriting at Boston University—he was going to be very sad and very broke, but still, he had a plan—and Aegon was doing…nothing.”

“I’ve never had a real birthday party before,” Aegon tells you; and there is something in his murky blue eyes that is tremendously sad, wounded, childlike. “I might not get another chance.”

“What do you want to do?” Now people are alarmed, skittish glances and mouths open to object. You are encouraging him.

“I don’t know yet,” Aegon says. But he’s glad you bothered to ask. You can see it on his face.

It’s not until several hours later—after noon, the sun high and blazing, everyone’s unpracticed feet aching and blistering in their shoes—that Aegon experiences a revelation like the angel Gabriel appearing to the Virgin Mary or Sir Isaac Newton extrapolating gravity from an apple falling on his head. Aegon’s epiphany appears in the form of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio called Luxury Lanes. It is remarkably unluxurious, a nondescript black rectangular building with a few doors in the front, one small tinted window on each, and no other openings. To Aegon, it is an oasis in a desert.

“I want to go bowling!”

“Aegon, we’re not going bowling,” Baela says, breathing heavily but trying to hide it, her hands massaging the small of her back. Aemond is watching her worriedly. Baela is the only person not burdened with carrying any supplies beyond her hammer and shiny new Ruger—and she resisted this accommodation at first—but still, she suffers more than anyone.

“Once again, it is my birthday—”

“Aren’t bowling allies soundproofed?” Rio asks Aemond. “You know, so they don’t get noise complaints?”

“Uh, I guess so…?”

“It’s kind of a fortress, isn’t it?” Rio continues. “Not many ways in or out. We wouldn’t be seen or heard. Might be a good place to stop for the night. ”

“Yeah!” Aegon says. “Right, Aemond?”

Aemond looks at you. It takes you a moment to figure out why. “I think the bowling alley is a good idea,” you tell him. “It’ll be safe, assuming we can clear it. And Aegon can have his party.”

Aemond is skeptical. “A party?”

“Survival isn’t just about not dying. It’s also about holding onto the things that make us human.”

“Like bowling!” Rhaena says excitedly. “It’s preserving a tradition! And I used to be so good at bowling. I bowled a 250 game once.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Aegon says, still delighted to have her on his side.

“There’s a sign for a Walmart maybe half a mile up the road,” Daeron points out. “We could search it for supplies and then double back here.”

Aemond polls the audience. Everyone agrees.

Shenandoah is tiny, rural, religious, and out of the way from the major highways. The Walmart doors are chained shut with padlocks, and amazingly no one has taken that as an invitation to drive their car through them or otherwise shatter the glass yet. Rio is honored to be the first. He takes the butt of his Remington shotgun and punches through the glass of the locked doors, kicks away loose shards, whistles and shouts to lure out any zombies. A dozen of them come reeling out of the aisles and towards the doorway. Daeron shoots down most of them with his compound bow. Rio kills two with the butt of his Remington, his new favorite toy. Aegon, the birthday boy, uses his golf club to beat in the skull of a teenager who is still wearing glittery pink nail polish and fake eyelashes. According to her nametag, her friends and family once called her Raelynn.

Inside the Walmart, Jace and Aemond take one side of the store, you and Rio the other, doing a quick sweep to make sure you didn’t miss any undead employees or customers waiting for the chance to sink their teeth into you. And when that’s done, you begin shopping.

The shelves are probably two-thirds empty, but there are still treasures to be found. You push carts through the aisles and fill them with candles, lighters, Chef Boyardee, Doritos, canned soup, fruit snacks, tuna pouches, 5 gum, bottles of Snapple, socks and underwear, hair ties, t-shirts and shorts, Kleenex tissues, pads and tampons, toilet paper. Baela finds some cute maternity dresses. Helaena picks through the pharmacy for useful medications, Aemond shadowing her with a baseball bat in his hands and his Glock at his waist.

“Chips, they got Cheddar Whales!” Rio exclaims, tossing several boxes into your cart.

“I miss grocery stores,” Rhaena says as she climbs the shelves to get the last box of Teddy Grahams.

“I miss going to the mall and getting Auntie Anne’s pretzel nuggets,” Aegon commiserates. Then he stumbles upon the liquor aisle and his eyes light up like high beams. “Aemond!”

Aemond appears—perhaps a bit flustered—and deliberates for a while as he browses the selection, Aegon waiting anxiously, before he decides: “Since it is allegedly your birthday, you can drink tonight. And you can pick one other person to drink with you. But only one.”

“Rio,” Aegon says immediately.

“Come on!” Daeron whines.

Aegon is already putting bottles of Captain Morgan rum into a cart. “Sorry. Illegal. Underage.”

“I’ve helped you butcher countless zombies, but I can’t drink?!”

“Just Say No, as Nancy Reagan would tell an innocent child such as yourself.”

Jace strides over, sly and playful, gnawing on a Twizzler. “Aemond, were you over there rummaging through the medicine aisles again? What do you keep looking for? Condoms?”

There is an awkward silence, an extremely awkward silence. Aemond glares at Jace. Jace’s eyes go wide.

“Oh, I, uh…I was definitely joking. But…congrats on the possible future sex!”

“I already checked,” Luke tells Aemond apologetically. “You know condoms were the first thing to get bought up or looted everywhere.”

“Okay, great,” Aemond says quickly, willing the conversation to be over. There is blood, hot and mortified, flaring in his cheeks. He was thinking of you, he had to be; the only other single woman here is his sister, and obviously that’s not an option.

Jace takes another bite of his Twizzler. “Just pull out, man.”

Baela, incredulous, gestures to her belly. “Because that worked out super well for us.”

“I told you to stop riding me!”

“Yeah, a whole two seconds before you impregnated me with your super-swimmer Michael Phelps sperm.”

“Please don’t make me listen to this,” Luke begs. “I’m starting to wish I really was bitten.”

“Don’t you know all the tricks to not getting someone pregnant, Aemond?” Jace says. “Wasn’t that going to be your specialty? You wanted to be a vagina doctor? So don’t you know all the mysteries of the vagina, Aemond?”

“He was going to be an OB/GYN,” Baela says, unamused.

“Really?” Rio turns to Aemond. “Why would you want to do that?”

“So he gets to look at pussies all day,” Aegon says morosely, as if heartbroken that such a path is inaccessible to him.

“That’s not why,” Aemond insists, mostly to you.

You smile. “I didn’t think so. What’s the actual reason?”

“Interns do rotations in different departments so we can figure out what we enjoy and what we’re best suited for. I knew within two days of my OB/GYN rotation that that’s where I wanted to be. Giving birth is the only life-threatening trauma that is necessary for humanity to continue. I wanted to help people get through it as safely and painlessly as possible.” Then his gaze darts to Baela. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound worse—”

“No, it’s okay, I’m very much aware. It hurts like hell, people die. Believe me, I’d be thinking about that even if you hadn’t said it. I think about it all the time.”

“I have an idea you’re not going to like.”

“What?” Baela says. Aemond nods to the nearest shopping cart. “No way. You’re not going to push me around in one of those.”

“I believe it’s an adequate solution until an alternative appears.”

She sighs. “I’ve lost my body, my career, my society, my parents…must I lose my dignity too?”

Aemond winks. “Only when you’re too tired to walk.”

“Alright, Aemond. I realize you’re under the impression that this is a favor. So thank you.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Let me give you a favor in return.” Then Baela begins shooing everyone except you and Aemond out of the liquor aisle. “Grab anything else you want, we’re leaving in five minutes! Jace, come look at the baby clothes with me…”

When the two of you are alone, Aemond says: “I really hope that didn’t make you feel too weird. I’m not someone who gets uncomfortable about the…um…the subject matter in general. But I wouldn’t want you to think that I was trying to…I don’t know. Assume anything or pressure you into something that you weren’t already open to. Obviously I like…um…I mean, enthusiastic consent is essential, and I just…I would never try to convince anybody or…you know what, I’m just going to stop talking now. Okay?”

“Aemond, I’m fine. I didn’t think it was weird.”

“It’s a compliment,” he confesses, flushing pink again, touching his chin, perspiration gleaming at his temples.

Now you have to show interest so he knows you’re on the same page. You’ve never had to think this way before, you’ve never liked anyone enough to play the game. “So hypothetically, if someone didn’t want to get pregnant but there were no condoms, pills, etcetera…what are the options?”

He looks at you, pleasantly surprised. “Well, there’s the rhythm method. It’s not perfect, but it’s been around forever and is reasonably reliable if done correctly.”

You are only vaguely familiar. “We didn’t get a lot of sex ed down in Kentucky.”

Aemond chuckles then leans in, a mischievous curl of his lips, a craving in the crystalline river blue of his eye. He grips the shelf above your head, his arm a canopy. His voice is hushed. The front windows of the Walmart face west where the sun is setting; golden light floods in to illuminate the store. “Is your cycle regular?”

“It is, actually.” This should be embarrassing, but it’s not; it’s exhilarating. You’re imagining him seeing you, touching you, unearthing secrets you’ve never been tempted to share with anyone else.

“So if we imagine it like a circle…” He draws one on the back of your hand, invisible, mesmerizing, blue-white lightning crackling up the path of your metacarpals, wrist, ulna and radius, humerus and clavicle, descending ribs like the rungs of a ladder to jolt the sinus rhythm of your heart. “The start of your period would be Day One.”

“Okay,” you say, hypnotized as his fingerprint skates in an arc across the bumps of your knuckles.

“Ovulation doesn’t happen until around Day Fourteen. You might have noticed some increased arousal and…wetness. Clear in color, elastic consistency.”

Your eyes are trapped in his face, smooth skin, jagged scar tissue. You tease him back, stepping closer. You can hear people snickering in the next aisle as they eavesdrop. You don’t care about them, and neither does Aemond anymore. “Now that you mention it…”

“That’s nature trying to trick you into reproducing. Day Fourteen is crunch time. Once ovulation occurs, the egg is only good for up to twenty-four hours. And then the rest of the cycle you’re effectively useless, as far as making miniature humans is concerned.”

“Wait, you’re telling me people can only get pregnant one day a month?” This seems improbable. “How has the species managed to survive this long?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Aemond admits. “Depending on the health of the specimens, sperm can survive up to five days inside a woman’s body. And it’s difficult to tell exactly when ovulation occurs. So, in practice, there’s basically one week a month when you’d want to avoid a man…completing the act, if you will.” He’s still smiling, taunting, famished, imagining the same scenes you are. You know this with a categorical certainty, as if you’re reading his thoughts like stark stripes of distance on a measuring tape. “And that’s also the week when your hormones are demanding you have sex, inspiring you to make all sorts of impulsive yet extremely consequential decisions.”

“Don’t I know it,” Baela laments from the next aisle, and there is a rupture of wild giggles.

“Anyway.” Aemond lifts his finger from the back of your hand and you have to stop yourself from reaching for him as he recedes from you. “There’s a basic overview.”

“It was very educational.” You follow him out of the liquor aisle.

“I’ve used the rhythm method for years,” Rhaena says as everyone makes their way towards the front of the store with their carts. “Clearly that’s just anecdotal, so don’t think I’m officially endorsing it. When I’m in my fertile week we add condoms. Well…we used to. Back when we could get them.”

“Ugh, I hate condoms,” Baela grumbles.

“We can tell,” Aegon says.

“I hate the way they feel, I hate the way they smell…”

“They’ve never bothered me,” Rhaena says. “I don’t notice that much of a difference. And it can be fun to try different kinds.”

“Are you on drugs?” Baela whirls to you. “Seriously, what is wrong with her? I’m right, aren’t I? Condoms are awful.”

Rio gives you a cautious look, uncharacteristically reticent. He’s not going to be the one to reveal it. He doesn’t know if it’s something you’re willing to share. But if anything is going to happen with Aemond—and you want it to, already you know you want him—then it’s something you think you should be honest about. You want him to know about you. You don’t want to have to create some false version of yourself to wear like a pelt, heavy, smothering, something that will inevitably need to be taken off.

“I am regretfully not qualified to say.”

“You’ve never used condoms?” Baela asks, a bit dubious.

“I’ve never done any of it.”

Everyone freezes at the defunct checkout counters and turns to gawk at you. “No sex?” Jace says. “No nothing?”

You shrug, smiling a little self-consciously. “I made out with a guy once.”

“The Marine from Corpus Christi?” Baela asks. They’re obsessed with him, they’re convinced there’s some lore to be excavated, translated, displayed like a relic in a museum. There isn’t. Sometimes people pass in and out of your life as seamlessly as shadows or sunlight, no weight, no indentations, nothing to recall or relay. He existed and then he didn’t. He was an airplane drawing contrails in the sky that faded before the blood red fire of dusk filled the horizon.

“No. Someone from home. Just a guy, not even worth mentioning.”

“Girl, you gotta fix that, soon, pronto, like yesterday.” Jace seems genuinely horrified. “You can’t die a virgin.”

“You really can’t,” Daeron adds, and Aegon pretends to be distraught over the loss of his youngest brother’s virtue.

“That’s what I’m always telling her!” Rio says.

“Not everybody wants to have sex,” Helaena murmurs as she records today’s findings in her spider notebook.

“True,” Jace concedes. “And that is totally legit. Mother Teresa, Queen Elizabeth, Jesus Christ, Buddha, Joan of Arc, Sir Isaac Newton, Nikola Tesla, the Jonas Brothers for a while, all great people. But Chips is not celibate by choice, correct?”

“Buddha had a wife and son,” Aemond says, preoccupied. He isn’t looking at you now, which is concerning; he’s peering down at where his hands grip his shopping cart, his brow creased with…what is that? Unease, disapproval, concern, thoughtfulness, fear?

“It’s not some big thing,” you backpedal. “I don’t have a hangup about it, I just never met a guy I liked enough, and enlisted men, they’re…well, a lot of them are taken, or cheaters, or idiots. Or all three.”

“Not to worry, Chipper.” Aegon claps a hand on your shoulder; and you aren’t sure if it is his purpose to break the tension, but he seems to have that effect regardless. “If you ever wish to be initiated into the art of lovemaking by a slightly below average and entirely unintimidating penis, I’d be thrilled to assist you. I love condoms. But in their absence, I am the king of pulling out. 100% success rate. Zero bastard children running around to my knowledge.”

“You should give Jace lessons,” Baela says.

And the last thing Aegon takes from the Walmart is a green battery-powered Toshiba CD player so he can blast to his mixtapes.

~~~~~~~~~~

Flickering candles lining the middle lane, drinks and snacks strewn across the tables, Rio’s Moonbeam propped up so it’s aimed at the disco ball still hanging from the ceiling from a time before the dead started devouring the living. Daeron is at the end of the lanes to reset the pins after each player’s turn. Helaena is keeping score in her notebook; Rhaena is currently in the lead by a massive 80 points. Aegon is wasted, dancing on a table and crunching Cool Ranch Doritos beneath his bare feet, his blonde hair flopping. Each time it’s his turn to bowl, Aegon has to roll the ball down the lane with two hands like a child. Rio, several shots deep but unable to feel much shy of half a bottle, is singing along with him to Cruise by Florida Georgia Line, but it’s really more like shouting, each sentence an off-key monstrosity that makes you laugh.

“Baby, you a song, you make me wanna roll my windows down and cruise!

Down a back road, blowin’ stop signs through the middle, every little farm town with you!

And this brand new Chevy with a lift kit, would look a hell of a lot better with you up in it!

So baby, you a song, you make me wanna roll my windows down and cruise!”

You cleared Luxury Lanes easily; the only difficult part was figuring out how to get into the area called the pit where, in normal times, felled pins were mechanically collected and sorted. There were two former employees roaming around back there in their tattered uniforms, snarling and drooling blood. Both were rapidly neutralized.

Someone always has to be by the front doors, watching through the small tinted windows for signs of trouble, whether from zombies or living humans. Aemond is currently on guard, nursing a Snapple. According to the bottle, the flavor is called Takes 2 To Mango. You grab your own Snapple—plain and simple Lemon Tea, no charming gimmicks—and walk over to join him.

“So now I guess it’s my turn to say I hope that conversation didn’t make you feel weird.”

He smiles politely, glancing out the window. “No, I’m completely fine.”

“Good. Because I don’t want you to look at me differently than you would any other girl, like I’m better than them, or worse than them, or like there’s anything wrong with me, because it really isn’t something I consider to be paramount to my identity, and people always seem to get all twisted up about it, but it’s a pretty boring story, I just…”

“You’ve never liked someone enough to take the risk. I get it. I don’t think you’re a freak or anything.”

“Okay. Good.” The next song on Aegon’s mixtape is Shaboozey’s A Bar Song. Jace is dancing with Baela, spinning her around as she giggles. With Rhaena’s coaching, Luke bowls his first strike. You rest your head on the door as you gaze up at Aemond, the phantom of a smile on your lips. “I might like you enough.”

And he says as if it’s the worst thing in the world, a plague, an infection, an apocalypse: “You’d fall in love with me.”

It hurts, of course it does, this flippant rejection. He burns you, he cuts you, he stitches you up with no anesthetic. You try not to show it. “You’re…confident.”

“No, I don’t mean because of anything specific I would do, it’s just…it’s natural to form a certain…attachment. To the first person you’re with. It leaves an impression.” Not an impression like a first judgment, superficial and swift; an impression like an imprint, a hollow, a prehistoric fossil that is preserved through eons. “That was already true before. And everything is more intense now, because life is so…” Aemond takes a while to settle on a word. “Precarious.”

You say like a challenge: “Are you still in love with the first girl you slept with?”

A shadow that ripples through his face, a flinching he tries to hide. You shouldn’t have asked. Still, you feel like you need to know, like you’ll run out of oxygen if you don’t. “I think I’ve gotten enough distance from it to realize that she wasn’t…wasn’t good for me in a lot of ways. It was an unconventional situation. But I still carry all these pieces of her around with me, yes. I don’t think that will ever go away.”

“Aemond,” you say gently. “Who was she?”

He is evasive, smirking. “It’s a cliché.”

“Was she a patient? That’s very Grey’s Anatomy of you.”

“No. She was my professor.”

An older woman, wise and experienced and captivating and sophisticated. He’s cut you again, a blade slicing effortlessly through veins like soft butter. “Oh. From med school?”

“Undergrad.”

“You were really young,” you say, a little startled.

He nods. “I was eighteen when it started. I was this shy, insecure, friendless freshman, she was married with two kids around my age. And it was off and on, but there was never anyone else for me, she took up too much space in my head, in my chest, like I couldn’t breathe unless I knew we were okay.”

“It went on for seven years?”

This seems to stun him, hearing how much of his existence she bottled like a terrarium. “I guess so.”

Is she dead? Missing? Safe somewhere with her husband and kids? “Is she…gone?”

His gaze drops to the floor. “Yeah.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“I was the one who killed her when she turned.”

It’s indescribably horrible; you don’t know what to say. “Aemond, I’m…I’m really sorry…”

He is abruptly nonchalant, the blue of his eye cool and dispassionate. “Look, I’m not prepared for this to be anything more than casual. And I don’t think casual is really in the cards for us. So it’s probably best to leave it alone.”

“Right,” you agree numbly, not meaning it.

“We’re headed different places, I’m going to California, you’re planning to end up in Oregon, it’s just…a bad idea to muddy the waters, I think.”

“Because I haven’t done this before.”

He shrugs ambiguously. “It’s a contributing factor.”

“Well you seemed pretty interested before you found that out, so.”

“I don’t mean to offend you.”

“You aren’t offending me. You’re disappointing me.”

Now Aemond is offended. “By trying to protect us?”

“No, by saying you don’t think I’m a freak when you clearly do, and by having some savior complex, or a whore-Madonna complex, or whatever’s going on in your head, it’s always such a mystery to everyone else.”

He downs the rest of his Snapple and shoves the bottle into the nearest trash can. You hear it thump against the bottom, no garbage bag. “Alright. This was fun.”

“Maybe you’re afraid of making a mistake, just like I always was.”

“Maybe I don’t want to have to teach you how to do everything,” Aemond snaps.

“I taught you how to shoot.”

“The fact that you don’t realize how wildly different those two situations are proves you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, bye. Sorry about your zombie girlfriend.”

Aemond glares at you, shocked, furious. “That was so fucking low.”

It was. You regret it. But you can’t bring yourself to tell him that. You flee to the far end of the bowling alley and sit alone at a table draped in shadows. After a while, Rio notices and ventures over to see what’s wrong, a bottle of Captain Morgan swinging from one hand. He’s tipsy now.

Rio sighs as he takes a seat beside you, reaching over to rub your back. His hands are large and indelicate; what he means to be comforting is more like getting manhandled. Sometimes he leaves bruises, but it’s not his fault. Nature gave Rio the body of a killer. If anyone is going to survive the zombie apocalypse, it’s him. “What’s going on, Chips?”

Your voice breaks as you say it; tears sting in your eyes. “I hate caring about people.”

He bursts out laughing. “Yeah, it’s the worst, isn’t it? But once in a while it works out.”

“Bryan.”

And now he knows you’re serious. You have his full attention, large dark eyes fixed on your face, lines etching into his brow beneath the artificial starlight of the disco ball. “What are you asking me?”

“We can’t leave them and walk to the West Coast ourselves, can we?”

“I mean, technically we could, but it would be really stupid. Everything’s so much easier with ten people. And also I think I’d have to kidnap Aegon and take him with us, I love that little dude. Why? Do you really want to leave them?”

“No.”

“I figured.” He offers you the half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan.

“I’m not drinking that.”

“Come on. It’ll take the edge off.”

You look at him. Rio looks back, smiling now.

“I’ll watch out for you,” he says. “And if you get bit I’ll shoot you dead, no hesitation, swear to God. I remember our promise. I won’t let you die alone.”

“You’re a good guy.”

“I know.” He nudges your arm with the bottle of Captain Morgan. “A few swigs won’t hurt. It’ll help you sleep.”

You take the bottle, twist off the cap, drink down amber-gold poison that burns like gasoline, like fire.

[odinsblog]

The underground shelter, which was revealed last year, prompted conspiracy theories on social media about wealthy tech moguls building doomsday bunkers.

Mark Zuckerberg is downplaying the massive 5,000-square-foot bunker beneath his Hawaiian compound that was revealed in WIRED last year and prompted conspiracy theories on social media about wealthy tech moguls building doomsday bunkers.

The billionaire Facebook co-founder pushed back when Bloomberg reporter Emily Chang, in a video published Tuesday that chronicled her visit to Zuckerberg’s Lake Tahoe property, asked him what he’s “worried about” — and if there’s something he knows “that we don’t” in regard to the bunker.

“No, I think that’s just, like, a little shelter,” he told Chang. “It’s a basement! It’s a basement.”

Zuckerberg said the “basic house” on Kauai is largely used for storage space and that he frequently works from there but admitted to the underground bunker there, referring to it as a “hurricane shelter or whatever.”

“I think it got, like, blown out of proportion, as if the whole ranch was some kind of doomsday bunker, which is just not true,” he added.

Back in February, Ron Hubbard, the CEO of Atlas Survival Shelters, and Robert Vicino, founder of underground survival shelter company Vivos, spoke to The Hollywood Reporter about how news of Zuckerberg’s bunker increased business for them.

Hubbard said that it had “caused a buying frenzy,” while Vicino said, “Now that Zuckerberg has let the cat out of the bag, that’s got other people who share his status or are near his status starting to think, ‘Oh God, if he’s doing that, maybe he knows something that I don’t, maybe I should seek this out myself.’”

Zuckerberg purchased the 1,400-acre estate, which is known as Koolau Ranch, in a series of deals beginning in 2014, WIRED reported in 2023. According to planning documents for the property reviewed by the outlet, the compound will have its own energy and food supplies.

Construction of the compound and purchase of the land was estimated to cost around $270 million. Zuckerberg told Chang that he and his wife, Priscilla Chan, use the property for ranching and that he wants to “create the highest quality beef in the world.”

Along with Zuckerberg, other bunker-having tech moguls allegedly include Bill Gates, with Vicino telling THR in 2016 that Gates “has huge shelters under every one of his homes.”

PayPal CEO Peter Thiel had similar plans for a bunker-like compound in New Zealand, but those were thwarted in 2022 after backlash from local conservationists, according to The Guardian.

Zuckerberg’s property spawned similar criticism from locals and Indigenous groups in Kauai, with one former laborer on the compound telling WIRED, “It’s crazy that a man not from Hawaii comes here and purchases a bunch of land that limits the locals [from potentially buying] land. But it’s already happening.”

(continue reading)

[spade-riddles]

Hi Spade, I wanted to point some things out so perhaps it gives additional insight…

Since 5/23, Taylor has been stunting on days that revolve around the numbers 10 and 12. I find this really interesting. If she’s sticking with this schedule, then the next stunts should happen on 6/15 (Father’s Day) and 6/22. There were also five emojis in going anon from 6/1 so this would put us at five stunts on 6/22. Or it could be 6/15 being the last one — if you count the TNT bracelet being worn in her 6/13 visit to the hospital.

5/23 — they did go to Harry’s Bar, so it’s possible that is counted (re: getaway car reference)

She’s also worn a clothing item going back to months 9, 10 and 12 on these days.

For reference: 9, 10 the final act ends

These could be all coincidences but I think it’s Taylor being intentional with why we are seeing all these stunts on these specific days. I did a post on 🫚 back in November 2024 where I stated the 10 could mean October or it could be 12 for December if it’s going by the Roman calendar.

Previous stunts:

5/23 - 10

6/4 - 10 — shoes from September 8, 2024/ bag from October 7, 2024

6/6- 12 — earrings worn to Jack’s wedding and cost $1200, necklace worn to Jack’s wedding linked to 🫚 and “slowly untangling many ropes”

6/12 -12 (also can be viewed as 9) — Taylor wore boots from Billboard Magazine December 2019

6/13 - 10 —Taylor wore the same shoes from 10/18 in her yellow sweatshirt (back in the office 😎 post). She also wore an opal ring (October birthstone) with 12 diamonds

Next potential stunt schedule. I highlighted 7/14 as it was meaningful last year…

6/15 - 12 - Father’s Day

6/24 - 12 (he’s in training, no stunts ☹️)

6/22 - 10

7/3 - 10

7/5 - 12

7/9- 7/13 - 🚜 in Tahoe for golf event (likely no stunts)

7/14–12- last possible stunt day before training. Taylor also notably played Mr. perfectly fine/ Red/ Getaway Car/ Out of the Woods on this day in 2024

[us-cj]

Tony Seruga uses GPS and cell phone data to determine who is at these riots. Here's what he said lately:

At least 309 of the devices appear to reside in $10+ million residences from Southern California’s Brentwood, Bel Air, Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, Malibu, Ranch Santa Fe, San Francisco, Palo Alto, to New York, Atlanta, Houston, Seattle, Maui, Las Vegas, Lake Tahoe, etc., etc.. And 79% of those fly private 3 or more times per year. They are very likely billionaire trust fund kids.

GPS also shows that representatives from the Soros Open Society Foundation, Media Matters, Disruption Project, Rise & Resist, Indivisible Project, Troublemakers, Democratic Socialists of America, the Vera Institute of Justice, Brennan Center for Justice, and many other nonprofits and NGOs were present and accounted for at the riots, including:

Immigrant Rights Groups—CHIRLA

Labor Unions—SEIU

Left-Leaning Political Groups—a coalition of 60 socialist organizations, including Union del Barrio.

The Democratic Socialists of America (basically they are now the Democrat Party) with funding they are STILL receiving from federal government NGOs is bankrolling a large portion of these protests.

This dude on the motorcycle is not even from Mexico! He very likely originated from Venezuela (based on money transfers to potential family members.) His phone has been at Antifa/VLM, pro-Hamas, pro-Palestinian protests, and 3 Kamala Harris rallies. It also seems to reside nightly at a ~$2.1 million dollar residence.

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Mordent

Chapter Eighteen

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Sam, Billie

Word Count: 2880ish

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, this turned into more of a brother chapter than I originally intended, talk of tattoos and body mods, unbeta'd

Series Masterlist

Dean walked out of the studio with a cassette recording of their album, a CD and a thumb drive. He always asked for it to be playable in the impala and Ash always came through. The other options were for Bobby and Sam, respectively. Sam would send the files to everyone else. It was finished, set to be released while they were on tour, with the label’s stamp of approval and all. ‘Waysides and Regrets’ was thirteen songs packed with everything they could pour into them.

"Don’t call it a comeback,” Dean muttered to himself as he slipped into the driver’s seat and popped the cassette into the deck. The opening to Rupture ripped through the speakers and Dean cackled at hearing it like a civilian. He drummed along with Pam on the steering wheel as he turned out of the parking lot, saluting the guard at the gate as he went. 

He listened to it all before going back home. Rupture bled into Pushing Through which mellowed out to the subdued Brothers Keeper. Then they cranked it back up with Route 666, which slid into the angsty Prophet and Loss that showcased just why Kevin was Cas’ replacement (musically at least). Beyond the Mat and Goodbye Stranger were two sides of the same coin, introspective but in different tones, soulful and combative respectively. Then there was the first single, Annie’s duet, Baby, which Dean unabashedly wrote about his car, but as if she were real and he could thank her and praise her for everything she meant to him. He sang out loud with every word of that song as he cruised faceless side streets letting the music wash over him. 

Everybody Loves A Clown, Except Sam was supposed to be a joke track, but they got carried away with it and it actually was one of the funnest songs to play for Dean, and Kevin going full calliope for the chorus was totally worth it.  Gods and Monsters was fueled by Dean’s inner rage and where his anger came from, also known as John Winchester and his own self worth issues. Missouri had a field day when he sent her those lyrics. Then there was Lee’s track which Dean helped merely tweak some lines, Give Me My Axe: An Executioner’s Song. It was even better with the windows down and the road disappearing beneath his tires. The final track was an anthem, not quite what the kids would call a banger, but celebratory enough to be the potential second single from the album. It’s about the weekend Dean finally came up for air, when Sam holed him up at Bobby’s cabin in Tahoe and they had his come-to-Jesus intervention thing. It’s about letting go and letting your people catch you, aptly named Weekend at Bobby’s. It turned out better than Dean could have hoped.

He turned into the canyon when the bonus tracks started, knowing the album was drawing to a close and wanting Sam to hear it before he got too emotional about it. The house was quiet when he walked in, the coffee still in the pot, but Sam’s rinsed-out smoothie blender upside down in the sink. Dean found Sam outside, despite the cooler air, going through his yoga routine. 

Dean teased Sam about a lot of things, but it held little venom with the things that brought Sam well-being. 

“Hey, mop-head, got the album when you’re ready,” Dean called from the doors off the kitchen.

Sam exhaled and smiled, eyes closed in concentration. Dean didn’t know how he did it, but he understood sometimes other senses just get in the way of an experience, almost like they try to crowd it or consume it because it’s not about them.

“Gimme like ten minutes,” Sam replied and shifted into mountain pose. 

“Fair enough.”

Dean left the thumb drive on the counter and made his way into the living room. They had speakers in their jam room, but Dean hadn’t eaten and lunch was sounding better by the second. So he popped the CD into the stereo and paused it with one of the many remotes they’d accumulated through years of technological upgrades. Sam had an app on his phone for half of it, but Dean still favored physically punching buttons to get what he wanted done.

He made his way back into the kitchen and started pulling things out for BLTs. Sam had some tofu-bacon in the drawer and he fried that up too, and if a little of the real grease got on it, it was too bad for Sam. He grabbed a couple of bags of chips from the pantry and then some leftover fruit salad from the fridge to even them out. Life was about balance after all, and having a health nut for a brother and roommate Dean had learned to pick his battles. 

“Hey, that smells amazing,” Sam broke through Dean’s little self-congratulation.

“Yeah, mine does, yours smells like a nursing home cafeteria—- You ready?” Dean asked, holding up the remote with one hand while popping a chip into his mouth with the other.

“Hit it,” Sam agreed, sitting at the counter as Dean slapped his sandwich down in front of him.

They ate and listened, commenting here and there. Sam helped Dean clean up the kitchen and they both gravitated to the couch to finish listening. Dean took out a bowl he kept in an end table and packed it, smoking casually as Sam took in each song, each transition. 

It was one moment, but it was also a hundred others in the years before it. Brothers sitting in comfortable quiet as music spoke to them instead of one another. They were thirteen and nine and Dad had brought home a signed Lyle Lovett album for them to ingest. While neither of them were yet prone to country, it shifted their ideas of just what good music was. They were fifteen and eleven and done enough chores for a trip to Record Town in North Platte where they each got a tape apiece. Dean got Jar of Flies by Alice in Chains while he convinced Sam to get The Downward Spiral by Nine Inch Nails instead of Tori Amos’ Under the Pink. They read every line of production details and lyrics on the pamphlets tucked into the plastic cases. 

Sam came home to find Dean back for the weekend. It was early ‘98 and it felt like everything had turned horrifyingly pop focused. The Prodigy’s Fat of the Land was playing on the boombox Dean had dragged out of Sam’s room as his big brother cleaned the kitchen back to his standards and not Kate’s livable level of clutter. They were waiting to hear if they had a brother or a sister. The only thing said between them was Dean reassuring Sam that he put his Celine Dion CD back in its case. 

They sat in Lee’s dorm room, stoned and drunk, watching as his roommate's computer uploaded their album. It felt like it would take forever, but it was also insane to think that people all over the world could listen to their music. It was full of possibility, but it was also just two brothers and their friends in their habitat, existing together.

“Dude— did you autotune me?!” Sam gaped, chuckling self consciously while listening to his line of the acoustic track of Brothers Keeper.

“Barely. Like nobody’s gonna notice, they’ll be too busy balling their eyes out,” Dean reassured.

“Yeah, like you, huh?”

“Shut up.”

Sam laughed, but let his embarrassment go; the nervous bastard always hated singing which was why he wasn’t as good at it. 

The album reached its end and they started talking about ideas for the tour, things to write down and beg Charlie for like lighting designs or album specific imagery when they hop back into their older stuff. It was almost four when Dean finally got over to Bobby’s with the CD, but he didn't stay for another listen. He let Annie have her moment with Bobby gushing, as much as the geezer could or would gush.

On the way home, you called him squealing with excitement.

“You listen to it already?”

“No! I just got the files from Sam. I guess I shouldn’t have called until I heard it all, huh?”

Dean chuckled. “Maybe. Or maybe you’ll hate it and never want to talk to me again.”

“Ha-ha. But no, seriously, I’m so excited. I’m going to blast it as I meal prep. Do you want my review long hand or can I just call you back and talk your ear off?”

“Whatever you’re willing to give me,” Dean tried for playful.

“Dangerous, Winchester. Okay, well I have like ten more things I have to do now that we have a single. But I’ll be in touch.”

“Sounds good— and thanks.”

“No— thank you.”

Dean hung up and let the fear roll in. You were going to hear it all. Everything he had been through and everything you had helped him overcome. He only hoped you wouldn’t be upset by making a cameo on something so public. Or embarrassed by the way he still needed you. 

Dean promised he’d be on his best behavior. Part of that was putting out fires for the band, to try and help make your job easier. So after the shake up from Kevin and Cas, he called Billie and apologized for his bandmates’ (both past and present) disrespect. She told him he could make it up to her. But there was no way Dean was going under the needle again, last time he even looked at one he almost threw up. But, it just so happened he knew someone who was in the market for some art. 

Unfortunately, that meant Dean would have to tag along.

Billie’s studio was modern and bright, with different colored walls contrasting the silver accents, both mirrors and shelving. From the outside, Reaping Ink was a small sign on a battered street, but inside it felt like walking into an art gallery and not someplace that had hard sharps containers and enough first aid equipment to stock an ambulance on hand.

And the furniture was always so damn comfortable.

The last time Dean had been here was for a memorial tattoo for Jo that you got on your right shoulder. He nearly broke your hand holding it as he tried and failed not to watch your skin be pierced continuously. It was a beautiful tattoo, everything Billie did was masterful. It just wasn’t something Dean wanted to sit through again.

Luckily for everyone, Bela didn’t need Dean to hold her hand. But she did need him as in with Billie, who usually booked appointments six-to-eight months out. 

“Hello, Dean,” Billie’s dark voice called once they walked in, she stood so still and so silently, he hadn’t even noticed her among the cacophony of color in the waiting area.

“Heya Billie, this is Bela,” Dean guided Bela with a hand on the small of her back, the way Billie’s dark eyes clocked the motion made Dean want to step back. Like a nun catching you standing too close to your crush in the hallway. Dean never went to Catholic school, but that feeling of getting caught, of doing wrong was universal.

“Pleasure,” Bela smiled at the artist, while Billie just nodded.

“I have a couple versions for you to pick from, I think I got the gist of what we talked about, but I wanted to be sure on sizing and layout. So come on back and we’ll get started,” Billie went straight into business mode. No whining about Cas’ impulsiveness or speculating on Dean and Bela’s relationship. At least verbally, her eyes held a very different story.

She had three different stencils already cropped and laid out for Bela to see as Bela rucked up her top and rolled down her leggings. It wasn’t a tramp stamp, she was insistent on that, but it was on the back of her right hip, something she could glance at or hold if she needed to. The way she talked about the position of the tattoo, made it seem just as important as the content or the coloring of it.

“Dean?” Bela’s voice drew Dean out of his thoughts.

“Hmm?” 

“Can you take pictures with my phone? Before, during, and after?” Bela handed him her unlocked iphone and he turned it around to focus on her nearly bare back. He took a few shots and gave it back. 

“You’ll want that to distract you, trust me,” Dean assured.

Bela rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

Dean went green. “As long as I don’t have to watch.”

“Really?!” Bela exclaimed and looked over to Billie for confirmation.

“Mmm-hmm, boys one of the worst I’ve seen around needles. No wonder he doesn’t even have his ears pierced.”

“I guess I never noticed—- wouldn’t have thought. Poor thing,” Bela sighed as she settled on her stomach on one of Billie’s many specialty beds. 

“Can we not? I mean, I’m here ain't I?” Dean huffed and pulled out his own phone. You still hadn’t texted him what you thought about the album, but he also knew you were busy, so he didn’t want to rush you or look too desperate.

He felt Bela and Billie have a silent conversation as he pulled up his sudoku app, but ignored them as Billie got the stencil in place, only getting up to snap another picture. Then, they were off. Bela and Billie making small talk about the design, which Dean knew Bela had put a lot of thought into, especially since it would officially tarnish her good girl image. Even in this day and age, most of her fans were in their fifties. A tattoo could rattle the masses. But getting one with Dean seemed like a good compromise of their images.

He was rubbing off on her, so to speak. Well, he hadn’t done that literally since his talk with Sam, but you know.

They sat for an hour and a half and took a break, Dean went to get food and coffee, which he left in the lobby so as not to infringe on Billie’s strict rules. Dean took a couple more pictures and some stupid selfies for Bela to find later. The shop was closed to the public and since Billie’s latest playlist had started over, Dean asked if he could hook up to the bluetooth. 

Billie looked at him appraisingly as it became clear that he was playing his own music during his girlfriend’s appointment. 

“What?”

“You’re either looking for my approval or you’re buttering me up by letting me hear this first. Which is it?” Billie manhandled Bela back into position to get going on the shading.

“I don’t know, man. Both?”

Billie hummed, but didn’t reply.

Dean walked around the studio, looking at the different sets of flash and paintings that covered the walls. He flinched away from the spinning display of rods, tapers, disks, and rings for piercings and stretching. He felt like a waste of space, but mainly because he was never any good with boredom. Being idle in a place he was already uncomfortable, for a plethora of reasons, was akin to torture.

He remembered to breathe.

He checked his phone. He put that back into his pocket. He stole Bela’s phone for a few more pictures, trying not to look directly at her raised, red flesh.

“How’s it going?” Dean asked, after giving Bela her phone back, his album running its course around them.

“I’d say another twenty minutes and then I’ll bandage her up. You good?” Billie asked, surprisingly sincerely.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. Just curious,” Dean muttered.

“Hey, Dean. I like the music,” Billie said, waiting for him to make eye contact.

“Thanks,” Dean nodded, trying not to let his blush show.

“When’s it coming out?” Bela asked, suddenly reminding Dean why he was there in the first place.

“End of April,” he said. “Single’ll be released week after my birthday.”

Bela paused and looked up at him, but Billie was the one to break the ice.

“Which is?”

“Uh, the 24th. Baby hits your airwaves on the 29th.”

“Is that Annie Hawkins on that track?” Billie asked.

“Yup,” Dean grinned.

“Damn, almost forgot about her. Nice pull,” Billie praised.

Dean chuckled, not explaining his connection. She’d find out eventually, if it even mattered. “Yeah, we got lucky with that one.”

Bela was inked up, wiped down and vacuum sealed over the following half hour. Dean paid for the work, plus a generous tip. And posed for a few promotional shots with Bela and Billie alike. Once everyone was satisfied that what they had would help all involved, Bela and Dean said their goodbyes and thank yous and headed out for a late dinner at Elizabeth’s. 

“Do you want me to send these to you or to Y/N to latergram?” Bela asked as their drinks arrived. 

“Just send ‘em to Trouble. She’ll know what to do with them better than me,” Dean ducked out of the responsibility, unaware he was planting another social media minefield for you to navigate by doing so.

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

Chapter Nineteen: Pizzicato

[ndfan3]

Trouble At Lake Tahoe, The Nancy Drew Mystery Stories #118 (1994)

It’s think fast - or sink fast- as Nancy searches for a saboteur!

Nancy’s good friend Katie Cobb is the favourite to win the Far West Regional Water Ski-ing Championship but when she is plagued by mysterious accidents, Katie increasingly comes to believe that someone is trying to rig the competition to prevent her victory. Nancy, vacationing at Lake Tahoe, the venue for the championship with Bess and George, works with Katie to expose the saboteur and ensure no one prevents her friend from achieving her ambition.

This is no easy task because in the dog-eat-dog world of competitive water ski-ing, there seems to be a dizzying array of credible suspects. Jealousy and ambition dominate the proceedings, but one of the potential culprits is different - he is willing to stop at nothing to thwart Katie: even dangerous sabotage and murder.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

AP, via The Guardian:

A Nevada state court judge dismissed a criminal indictment on Friday against six Republicans accused of submitting certificates to Congress falsely declaring Donald Trump the winner of the state’s 2020 presidential election, potentially killing the case with a ruling that state prosecutors chose the wrong venue to file the case. Nevada’s attorney general, Aaron Ford, stood in a Las Vegas courtroom a moment after the Clark county district court judge Mary Kay Holthus delivered her ruling, declaring that he would take the case directly to the state supreme court.

“The judge got it wrong and we’ll be appealing immediately,” Ford told reporters afterwards. He declined any additional comment. Defense attorneys bluntly declared the case dead, saying that to bring the case now to another grand jury in another venue such as Nevada’s capital, Carson City, would violate a three-year statute of limitations on filing charges that expired in December. “They’re done,” said Margaret McLetchie, attorney for the Clark county Republican party chairman, Jesse Law, one of the defendants in the case.

The judge called off the trial, which had been scheduled for next January, for defendants that included the state GOP chairman, Michael McDonald; national party committee member Jim DeGraffenreid; national and Douglas county committee member Shawn Meehan; and Eileen Rice, a party member from the Lake Tahoe area. Each was charged with offering a false instrument for filing and uttering a forged instrument, felonies that carry penalties of up to four or five years in prison.

Defense attorneys contended that Ford improperly brought the case in Las Vegas instead of Carson City or Reno, northern Nevada cities closer to where the alleged crime occurred. They also accused prosecutors of failing to present to the grand jury evidence that would have exonerated their clients, and said their clients had no intent to commit a crime. All but Meehan have been named by the state party as Nevada delegates to the 2024 Republican national convention next month in Milwaukee. Meehan’s defense attorney, Sigal Chattah, said her client “chose not to” seek the position. Chattah ran as a Republican in 2022 for state attorney general and lost to Ford, a Democrat, by just under 8% of the vote.

Nevada Judge Mary Kay Holthus dismissed the Nevada fake electors case because it was filed in the wrong jurisdiction.

[gloryride]

22 from the soft prompts for Virgile and Panam 🥰

AAAAAAH i'm so happy you asked this prompt with them because i have this idea in mind since forever but i never put words on it, so thanks ♥♥

[soft otp prompts]

22- Write about a member of your ship giving the other a special gift.

Camp Freedom is an old abandoned corpo resort from the 2040s along Lake Tahoe, taken over by the various Nomads clans passing through, becoming a popular recreational spot for all Nomads families, now run by statics from the Jodes. It was in this place, a little out of the way of deckchairs and potential visitors, that Virgile and Panam sat to watch the sunset. He'd told her stories of his childhood, and she'd wanted to see what it was like. Sitting on a bench, Panam's head on his shoulder, Virgile grinned, happy at this moment, so perfect. Plunging his hand into the inside of his jacket, he pulled out a small wooden box, weathered, polished a bit by the sand, with no embellishment other than an engraving in the shape of a vague S. Still curious, Panam straightened up, left the scoop of her boyfriend's neck to observe the container and already reached out to touch it, to take it. "Is this for me?" She smiles, amused, but her voice betrays a form of surprise.

Virgile doesn't answer right away. His azure eyes are riveted on the box for a moment, immersed in his memories, before he jumps up and puts the box between Panam's and his own. "It's a gift I've wanted to give you for some time, a present dear to me. Open it."

Inside, on a bed of faded blue synthetic silk, lay a necklace—a simple gold chain with a small heart as a pendant. Panam ran her finger over the heart with delicacy while Virgile watches her tenderly and then strokes her hand.

"This belonged to my mother. My father gave it to her after I was born because it was a miracle we survived because of … you know, her heart and mine. I always saw her with it around her neck." a wistful smile passed over her face.

For a few moments, he remembers his mother sitting in her armchair, him at her feet reading, or the two of them side by side watching an old film. Her blue eyes were like his, and she looked at him with tenderness. He had never forgotten his mother, who was gone too soon. But he realizes Panam is waiting for him to continue talking, so he shakes his head to compose himself. "Sometime before she passed away, she gave it to me, telling me I'd give in turn one day. I've always kept it, and the box has been one of the few things I've been able to take with me." he felt his beloved's hand squeeze him, a wave of gentleness washing over him to extinguish the sadness of his memories. "For a long time, I thought I'd keep this necklace for myself, that I'd end up alone. I never thought I could be happy after my forced separation from the Jodes. NetWatch, my life in Night City reinforced that idea."

He looks up at Panam, but she never leaves his sight. Then, she strokes his cheek to comfort him. "Hey, that's all in the past." The warmth of her hand and the softness of her voice remind him why they're here, why this gift. A sigh of ease escapes his mouth before he continues. "What I mean is, I never thought I could be happy one day, or find someone. And today, I'm here, with you, at the place of my best memories. I'm happy."

Placing the necklace back in its box, Panam hugs Virgile and kisses their cheek and nose before really kissing him. She finally settles back into the hollow of his neck, where she places a final kiss, and closes her eyes. "I am too, you know. And it means a lot to me that you'd give me this gift."

They remain like this, alone in the world on the shores of Lake Tahoe, as the sun races on, giving way to night. A light breeze brings them back to reality, and Panam straightens up with a mischievous air he always finds irresistible. "Can you put it around my neck?"

"Wait, I wanted to tell you one more thing." He takes the box in his hand and stares at it, even more nervous. "There's a tradition in my old clan. When you give an object of high sentimental value like this, it means … let's say it's a promise that you want to spend your life with the other person."

He feels Panam's hand move up his chin to meet her golden gaze, but he's unable to guess what she's thinking. " Virgile, are you… Are you proposing to me?" he nods a little too quickly and loudly because he's so nervous. Then put it around my neck, silly."

The last word breaks as tears fill his face. Tears of happiness as he smiles, then laughs…

♥♥

[xaviermattthews]

closed for: @vanessagable

when and where: september 15th, their place

"That wedding we went to in Lake Tahoe was cool," X remarks, his head on lap as he angles his phone towards her as he flicks through a list of potential venues that Maverick had put together based on X's vague explanation of the vibe they were going for, "Aside from the run in with your asshole ex-husband, obviously. But the place itself was nice."

The problem was, so was everything on the list in front of him and he wanted something a little more than that for when it was their wedding.

"There's so many options baby, and that's just decision one of what's looking like five thousand we gotta make," He says, his phone resting screen down on his chest for a timeout so he could remind himself what the end result of all of it would be.

( Being her husband. )

[roccoparondi]

Bruised Fruit Chapter 7 (Michael Corleone x OC)

Summary: Gloria's last night out before she's a married woman only fuels her hesitations about marrying Michael, but despite her attempts to distance herself from him, he pulls her in deeper with an earth-shattering revelation.

Note: This takes place pre-Vatican II which changed a lot of things in the Catholic Church, including how mass was celebrated (seems like weekday mass has always been short though, lol), but it’s nothing too significant for now. Additionally, the name Ciro is pronounced Chee-ro in Italian.

Warnings: Angst, descriptions of pregnancy, mentions of abortion. Predominant Catholic themes and symbolism, mainly involving guilt.

Chapter 6 | AO3 Link | Masterlist

Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content. I will block you.

“Okay, so my parents are watching the kids tonight, and I know your people will be there, but I left the number for the club anyway,” Gloria said, slipping her foot into a black heel.

“Alright, darling. Don’t have too much fun,” Michael said, though she knew he loathed the idea of the bachelorette party the moment Vivian brought it up just two weeks prior.

It didn’t help that Connie and Sandra jumped on the idea too, even though a wedding date hadn’t even been set yet. Gloria hadn’t heard anything about the annulment in a while. She supposed the other Corleone women were just as antsy as she was to get out and go somewhere for the night.

Vivian insisted as soon as she sniffed out the slightest resistance from Michael, claiming it was only fair because the Corleones had already thrown their own engagement party in Lake Tahoe, and Gloria’s parents certainly wouldn’t do anything of the sort. He only conceded when Connie mentioned a nightclub the family operated in Manhattan. Gloria was itching to get back to that scene, thoroughly bored by domesticity.

“I’ll probably be back late. Don’t wait up for me.”

Michael smiled a bit, the purplish-gray bags beneath his eyes betraying yet another days long bout of insomnia. While Vivian and Jackie were over for dinner just two evenings before, Vivian had offered to get him in with one of the doctors at Sacred Heart to write him a prescription for sleeping pills. Michael had politely refused, insisting he was fine and had his own doctor.

Pride wouldn’t allow him to resort to turning to medication to cure his insomnia, not when he was already so reliant on it to manage his diabetes. Knowledge of his having that condition was so closely guarded, Gloria wasn’t always sure who in the family knew and who didn’t.

At times, Gloria wondered if Michael considered his suffering through his insomnia a form of self-appointed penance. Then again, that would require him to feel guilt about something. She tried not to think of Fredo, his memory potentially haunting his brother, but it was difficult not to when her own brother was around more often. 

A car horn outside signaled the arrival of her partying companions for the evening. Michael had arranged the driver, a newer family associate who had worked for the man who previously lived in their house before he passed away.

“If you need anything, call the house. If I don’t pick up, someone else will,” he said. “I love you.”

She gave him a quick kiss. “Love you too.” She grabbed her purse and rushed out the front door. Off to the races.

Connie was halfway out the back window of the car parked outside. “C’mon Glo, there’s room back here if we all squeeze in!”

Gloria shook her head, opening the front passenger seat instead. “I’ll sit up front with Ciro.”

The young man smiled at her remembering his name. They’d only spoken twice before, though she saw him more often when she’d bring the kids into the city after school to meet Michael at Genco and go for dinner. Ciro usually stood guard outside the olive oil company’s modest office building, stoney and suspicious-looking until he’d see her and smile, betraying his youthful face.

“Good evening, Mrs. Corleone,” Ciro said.

Sandra reached over the seat, playfully shaking Ciro’s shoulder. “Not Mrs. yet Ciro! That’s why we’re going out tonight!”

Vivian cheered, and Ciro laughed, smiling once more at Gloria before driving off. He entertained their antics, even bashfully acquiescing to Connie’s invasive question as to whether or not he had a girlfriend.

“No,” he answered, “not for some time.”

“C’mon, a good-looking guy like you?” Vivian asked.

“I’m focusing on work right now,” he said. “It wouldn’t be right for me to have a girlfriend and not be able to spend any time with her.”

“Aw, Gloria, tell Michael to give Ciro a vacation so he can find himself a nice girl,” Sandra said.

Gloria scoffed, “That’d go over well.”

They arrived at the nightclub not long after that, greeted by a bright, neon green sign for The Archer.

Ciro pulled up to the valet, all of the passenger doors opened for them upon their arrival. He parked directly in front of the club’s main entrance, the only car allowed to do so.

“I’ll be out here. You find me when you need to be driven home,” he said.

“You can’t come in for one drink?” Gloria asked.

He shook his head. “Thank you, I really can’t.”

Their coats and bags were collected at the door, the host emphatically reminding them that all drinks were on the house as he led them to a VIP booth.

The Archer had recently been remodeled, the walls covered in emerald green, scale-shaped tiles that resembled a snake’s glimmering skin beneath the club’s dim lighting. The booth was a sleek, modern white, deceptively creamy yet plush to the touch as it wrapped in a semi-circle around a crystalline table with gold accents. 

Funny, Michael wouldn’t be caught dead in the very nightclub he owned. Instead, he preferred old-fashioned, kind of run-down family-owned places with generous servings, strong wine, and attentive table service. The owners would always come out from the back to personally greet him, offering antipasto or a bottle of wine on the house. It almost made Gloria feel like being with a celebrity. And he was, in a way, among this eccentric group of people to whom he was more important and influential than the president.

A waitress came by the table to take everyone’s drink orders, Gloria requesting her usual rum and coke. As soon as she walked away, a waiter practically ran to the table with glasses of champagne for all four of them.

“Courtesy of Mr. Corleone,” he said.

Gloria smiled. “Thanks.”

“How about a toast, huh?” Connie proposed.

“Alright, may you and Michael have at least fifty wonderful years of marriage and half a dozen kids running around,” Sandra said.

“You’re supposed to be wishing her luck, not her worst nightmare,” Vivian joked, though it was clearly missed on Connie and Sandra.

“She’s kidding,” Gloria quickly said, shooting a glare at her sister-in-law. 

“Nothing but happiness for you and Michael, god knows what he would’ve done if you weren’t around, Gloria,” Connie said, not missing a beat.

Vivian grinned as she gave her toast. “Here’s to committing to the same cock for the rest of your life.”

Sandra laughed loudly, nodding in agreement, “God willing!”

“This is getting out of hand,” Connie snickered.

“Alright, cheers,” Gloria said, clinking glasses with her companions. 

Gloria threw back the champagne, not caring for the taste but dealing with it for the significance of the occasion. Still, she wanted it gone by the time her rum and coke came around. She tried to pace herself on her first drink, sipping while listening attentively to Vivian dishing the latest gossip from the hospital. Though it seemed she was catching Sandra and Connie up on just about everything that had happened since she started working there nearly fifteen years before.

“There’s this woman who works down in the maternity ward, her husband used to be a priest,” Vivian said.

“Hold on, was he a priest when they met—“ Sandra’s eyes widened as Vivian nodded, “Madone , and I thought I’ve sinned.”

“I mean, there are plenty of ‘em around at Sacred Heart. I’m just surprised they didn’t fire her.”

“All those nuns probably aren’t so innocent themselves,” Connie said.

Gloria laughed. “God, if my mother heard you all right now.”

“Oh, I don’t tell her half the stuff that goes on there. She’d have a heart attack,” Vivian said.

After another round of drinks, Gloria decided it was time to dance. She wasn’t particularly great at it, but it was fun, and dancing on her own in the house wasn’t the same. Michael refused to join her, especially when it came to the more upbeat, contemporary songs she preferred, but late at night, in tender moments when it was just the two of them, she could convince him to share a slower dance with her in the confines of their bedroom.

She loved Michael best in their bedroom. She didn’t have to restrain herself there, not when they were in bed together or just in each other's company. He showed unprecedented vulnerability there, the way he had during their clandestine rendezvous in Las Vegas hotel rooms, when he didn’t have to be Don Corleone. Any time she’d been with Michael outside of a bedroom, whether as his mistress or his fiance, there’d have to be distance, restraint, like they were respectable people when they both knew they were the opposite. 

So she let loose on the dancefloor, probably the last time she’d be able to go clubbing like that. The end of an era. She downed another glass of champagne in memory of the soon to be deceased party girl. She’d made it last longer than most. Wincing at the taste, she quickly ordered another rum and coke.

Her rotation of dance partners was dizzying as everyone moved about haphazardly. She wasn’t sure if rock n’ roll was on The Archer’s usual rotation, or a special request someone had made on her behalf that night, but at least she was going out with a bang. 

Leaning against the bar, feeling sweat begin to roll down the side of her face, the bartender offered to pour her a shot. She accepted, throwing it back just as ‘All I Have To Do Is Dream’ began to play. One of the few contemporary songs Michael would dance to with her. She wouldn’t sit that one out in his absence.

Her gaze fell to Ciro, now standing by the coat check. Maybe it'd gotten too chilly waiting outside.

She waved him over. 

His dark brows furrowed and he pointed to himself. 

She nodded. 

“Will you dance with me, Ciro? I love this song,” she asked when he walked over.

“I don’t know…I’m supposed to be working—“

“Just this one?”

He nodded, reluctantly taking her hand in his. He kept a safe distance between them, almost laughably farther apart than the other slow dancing couples who were wrapped in each other’s arms.

“Ciro’s a very Italian name,” she said over the music.

He chuckled softly. “Well, I am Italian.”

“You probably have half a dozen brothers and sisters.”

“Eight of us,” he answered. “I’m the fifth.”

“So I bet we all don't seem that crazy to you.”

“No, not at all.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Me too,” she said. “Y’know up until a few months ago, I used to work in a place like this.”

“Out in Las Vegas, right? Don Corleone mentioned it once.”

“I can imagine what else he’s said about me,” she joked.

“He cares about you very much. At least what I overhear,” he said, quickly adding, “I don’t make it my business to eavesdrop.”

She smiled. “It’s alright, Ciro. Your secret’s safe with me.” The song came to its end a little too soon for Gloria's liking. “Thanks for the dance.”

He nodded. “I should get back now.”

Thinking she should do the same, she made her way back to the table. Dancing with Ciro felt nice, almost normal, though she didn’t have much of a comparison for what normal was. Before she was engaged, she supposed.

Vivian reached for her hand, patting it. “I gotta call it a night.”

Sandra nodded. “Me too.”

“Lightweights,” Connie teased.

“Too old is more like it,” Sandra said. “Gloria, I’m gonna be asleep before you and Michael even have your first dance at the wedding party.”

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” Gloria said with a smile. “It was fun.”

They parted with kisses on the cheek, and she watched as they made their way over to the coat check, gathering their things while Ciro got the car ready outside.

“More drinks?” Connie asked.

“I could get a few more rum and cokes in me,” Gloria said.

By the time a server brought over her fifth of the night, she was beginning to doubt her own statement. By Connie’s own admission, she hadn’t restrained herself when it came to the near-endless shots of tequila that were brought to the table every few minutes it seemed. She switched things up with a martini, however.

“You know Sandra and Tom are—”

“I kinda figured,” Gloria said. “Takes one to know one.”

“I feel bad for Theresa, but I mean, after Sonny was killed, Tom was the only one who could get through to Sandra. Sonny loved all of us, but Tom was his favorite brother even though he’s not blood. I guess it was only natural for them to share their grief that way."

“I can’t imagine,” Gloria said. 

She really couldn't. Michael seemed larger than life, impervious to death itself. If anything, he was to be feared over the great unknown, colder and more distant than death and whatever lay beyond it could ever hope to be. If even a fraction of what she read in the papers were true—and she knew they were—he dealt death like a deck of cards. No matter the hand, it was always in his favor. 

“Sonny would’ve liked you,” Connie said. “I think–he would’ve been glad for Michael. He always saw the best in people. At least, to me he did.” She downed the rest of her martini, nearly slamming it on the table when she finished. “Then Michael blamed Carlo for it, and he—Carlo could be a mean fucking prick, believe me, but he was my husband. What gave him the right to—”

“The right to what?”

“But Sonny was hot-headed. It could’ve been anyone who set him up. Then right before we moved to Nevada—dead. It’d been nearly ten years, but that didn’t matter. An eye for an eye. I don’t think I’ve really been happy since,” Connie lamented quietly.

The noise in the bar became muffled. Gloria’s lungs burned with each breath she tried to take, as if she were suddenly dropped into the deep sea without oxygen. Her vision blurred, watery and uncertain. Maybe it was how Fredo felt when he drowned. Drowned.

She realized then the extent of Michael’s unwillingness to forgive–inability sounded more like it.

Connie grabbed Gloria’s shoulder, shaking her a bit. “Hey, I’m drunk, what do I know?” 

Gloria forced a smile. 

She could hardly concentrate when Connie steered the conversation elsewhere, and within an hour, they decided to call it a night. Ciro had returned from dropping off Vivian and Sandra, and Gloria felt almost bad asking the guy to drive back to Long Island again. He didn’t seem to mind, though, helping Connie into the car when she nearly tripped over her coat on the way in. Gloria sat in the back with her this time, her gaze drifting between the buildings out the window and the back of Ciro’s head.

He dropped Connie off at her place first, walking her to the door and making sure she got in alright. 

“Ciro, will you drive around just a little bit more?” Gloria asked when he returned to the car. “I’m not ready to call it a night yet.”

He hesitated, but nodded, driving down a side street instead of continuing on the way back to the house. As homes and street signs passed by, she knew the direction he was heading. Her eyelids grew heavy, yet she awoke when he parked near the Long Beach boardwalk. The cool sea breeze reinvigorated her when she stepped out of the car.

He followed her to the boardwalk, the both of them leaning against the wooden railing just a few inches apart.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Not really, but what can you do?”

Nothing. There was nothing he could do. He was young, and in the family hierarchy probably a buttonman or soldier, whatever it was called. Maybe not even made yet. From what she'd gleaned working in Vegas and conversations with Michael, it took a long time for someone to officially be considered part of the family, and besides earning trust and respect, one task was almost certainly required of these men. It wasn’t like she could ask outright ask him, ‘Hey Ciro, ever killed someone for my fiance?’ Regardless, she didn’t want to know.

They watched the ocean waves in silence, the moon glittering off of the water in the pitch dark night. She wished she could dive under and emerge somewhere far across the sea.

“It’s getting late. I should bring you home now,” Ciro said.

Gloria wordlessly began making her way back to the car. A melancholy swept over her as they neared the house.

“Thank you for everything tonight, Ciro. It means a lot.”

“Good night, Gloria.”

She smiled, waving at him as she made her way up the short walkway to the house.

For the next few days, she avoided Michael when she could. Something about being around him made her feel uneasy. Or maybe it was the morning sickness, which she made attempts to hide from him by going on early walks and throwing up in neighbors’ flower bushes. The first time it happened, she attributed the sickness to food poisoning. Except food poisoning didn’t last for weeks on end. 

Gloria spent more time at her parents’ house, knowing Michael would generally steer clear of there unless absolutely necessary to go. Ironically, she spent more time with Anthony and Mary as a result, the kids asking her to bring them with her whenever she’d express her desire to go over. Her parents doted on them. Her mother and Mary were usually occupied in the crafting room, probably painting while Julia educated Mary on the ins and outs of New York's Democratic politics. Anthony had quickly grown close with her father, the two of them watching Yankee games in the living room whenever they were on. When they’d all walk to the park up the street, they’d play ball, Julia and Mary playing outfield while Gloria would referee from the wooden park bench nearby.

“Mary says you’re sick all the time in the mornings,” Julia said one afternoon, taking a seat next to her daughter.

“I drink too much,” Gloria lied. She hadn’t drunk since the bachelorette party, when after two days of vomiting she began to suspect the worst.

“When was the last time you bled?”

“Stress can cause that too.”

“You should make a doctor’s appointment.”

“They’ll tell me it’s nothing.”

Julia held up her hands in acquiescence. “Whatever you say.” That didn’t mean her mother was finished throwing hardballs her way. “When was the last time you went to mass?”

Gloria groaned. “Mom—“

“Drop the kids off at school tomorrow morning and then meet me at the church. St. Catherine's still has daily mass at 8:30.”

Anthony and Mary had been enrolled in the same Catholic school Gloria had gone to growing up. Even though there were parishes closer to Gloria and Michael, it had become their parish by virtue of her family already going there. They certainly weren’t going to turn down the generous donation to the parish on behalf of the Corleone family.

During the tour of the school before Michael had enrolled the kids, Gloria felt an indescribable deja vu sitting in the principal’s office again. Except she wasn’t in trouble, and the nun behind the desk was relatively young and incredibly nice, far more so than Sr. Margaret had been. Sr. Jeanne expressed that she’d do everything she could to make Anthony and Mary feel welcome despite starting there in the middle of the school year.

“I’m gonna drop the kids off at school tomorrow,” Gloria said later that evening. “I’m meeting my mother at 8:30 mass.”

“What brought this on?” Michael asked.

“She asked me. I guess I figured I’d humor her.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time at your parents’.”

“So?”

“Nothing. It’s good to spend time with family,” he said, almost dismissively, but she could hear his displeasure lurking beneath the surface.

He noticed she was avoiding him and clearly thought her parents’ dislike of him had something to do with it. But he couldn’t protest it, not a man so obsessed with tradition and hierarchy. Despite how Americanized she was, Gloria and her family were still Sicilian, so as long as she and Michael weren’t married, her parents preceded him.

The following morning, Gloria drove her own car to drop Anthony and Mary off at school. It was a nice drive with the weather getting warmer, so they left the windows rolled down, Gloria’s favorite rock n’ roll station playing on the radio while the kids sang along to the songs they’d begun to recognize. 

When she pulled up to the school, she parked just between it and the church. She walked them up to the front doors, giving each of them a hug and extra lunch money.

Her mother arrived at St. Catherine’s just as Gloria made her way up the steps of the imposing church. The last time she stepped foot in St. Catherine’s was her high school graduation nearly a decade prior. It looked exactly the same as the last time she was there—marble floors and brick walls that led to a high ceiling supported by wooden rafters with ornate gold leafing. Each step one took inside the building would echo throughout. It was pretty much impossible to leave in the middle of mass unnoticed, which some people tried to do after communion.

She genuflected before getting into one of the wooden pews, her mother following. A few minutes went by, and they were joined by a friend of her mother’s, an older woman who also seemed to attend mass daily.

“Gloria, it’s been so long! Good to see you again, dear,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“And congratulations on the engagement. About time for a woman your age.”

Gloria smiled as politely as she could. 25-years-old and these people considered her nearly dead for not having a husband. If she had it her way, she wouldn’t even be engaged. 

“Any plans for kids?” she pried.

“Believe me, we’re trying,” Gloria said, feeling especially pleased at the scandalized expression that fell upon the old woman’s face, unable to react as mass was starting.

Though it’d been a while, Gloria knew weekday mass was always shorter than Saturday night or Sunday morning mass. She could endure half an hour of it.

As mass proceeded, she could still vaguely follow, though her Latin was rusty. St. Catherine’s offered four languages to its high school students. Gloria found French confusing despite her mother’s near insistence she take it, and Spanish was too close to Italian which was highly discouraged by her parents. She settled on Latin, and it ended up being one of the few subjects she consistently did well in, occasionally earning As on her report cards amongst the usual Bs and Cs.

She went through the motions of mass almost mechanically, her muscle memory of the service emerging from the mental depths she’d buried any piety under. The only reading for the mass came from Matthew, toward the end of chapter 18. Among the half-comprehensible verses, she caught one word in particular. Dimittam. To let go of or release-forgiveness.

Her chest tightened at recognition of the verse: Lord, how often shall my brother offend me, and I forgive him?

Jesus’ answer was symbolic, the nuns had told her. Forgiveness was limitless, to be doled out generously whether to one’s own brother or to those who didn’t deserve it. 

She thought back to what Connie had said at The Archer, the reason why she’d been avoiding her finance ever since. Coincidence, or a sign from a distant god that her suspicions about Michael were right. For as long as she’d known him, he could never let things go. She hadn’t minded it when it was for her benefit, like on their first trip to LA together. They had gotten dinner with Johnny Fontaine at a swanky nightclub he recommended. Gloria had nearly passed out when Johnny introduced them to Liz Taylor. Yet, later on that night, some up-and-coming actor wouldn’t give her the time of day despite her being a fan of his, complimenting his performance in his latest movie. The following morning he sent over a bouquet of flowers and personally called to apologize for his behavior, claiming he hadn’t been feeling well the night before when they met. Funny…she couldn’t remember his name anymore.

What had been on her mind wasn’t a perceived slight from an actor, though. If his own family wasn’t spared from his wrath, then neither was she. The priest’s homily was about forgiveness, something Michael rarely if ever doled out. Gloria could certainly hold her own grudges, but she couldn’t exactly do anything about them like he could. Maybe she understood the reasoning behind his ordering Connie’s first husband to be murdered; she'd want the same if someone had set Jackie up to die. But she couldn’t shake Fredo from her thoughts. What could he have possibly done to be denied forgiveness by his own brother? 

Her gaze drifted up toward the large crucifix on the wall behind the altar. Try marrying Michael Corleone.

Miraculously, she wasn’t struck down by a bolt of lightning, but after receiving communion for the first time in years, she prayed for Fredo’s soul, wherever it was.

Mass ended not long after, and she left her mother to talk with her obnoxious friend. She froze upon seeing Michael waiting outside for her.

“Michael, hi,” she said.

He smiled a bit, “Just ‘hi’? No, ‘I’m glad to see you’?”

“Of course I’m glad to see you.”

She gave him a kiss, a bit awkward and chaste, but she could chalk it up to being outside of a church.

“It’s a nice morning for a walk,” he said.

She nodded. “There’s a garden behind the convent. It’s pretty this time of year.”

He took her hand in his, and they meandered to the convent behind the church, following the worn stepping-stones to the prayer garden. Colorful and full of flowers, beautiful in the springtime, each blossom at its peak in May when they’d celebrate the Blessed Mother. She paused to look at a rose bush. Probably only a few days away; she’d know if she’d been paying attention.

“Darling, are you alright?”

She hummed. “Sure, I’m fine.”

“If you’re trying to convince me, you’re not doing a very good job.”

“The homily today was about forgiveness.”

“And?”

Her fingers twitched against his palm. “It’s just–you seem to have a hard time forgiving people.”

“Forgiveness isn’t compatible with what I do. You know that.”

“Is it worth it?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.”

“Forget about all of that. I have great news.” He squeezed her hand. “We got a letter from Cardinal Spellman this morning. The Vatican approved the annulment.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god. This is actually happening.”

“We can finally set a date.” He smiled. “How does this summer sound?”

Too soon. “Perfect.”

“Why don’t we head home? I’ll drive us back in your car. Ciro has to run an errand for me, anyway.”

The drive back to the house wasn’t nearly as pleasant as the one she took earlier in the morning. No rolled down windows taking in the spring breeze or rock n’ roll stations playing her favorite songs. It was almost eerily silent, and a foreboding grew in her stomach as they neared the house. Or maybe she had to throw up again.

Something was off when they walked inside.

“Where is everyone?” Gloria asked, the house unusually empty for a weekday.

“I sent them out, gave them the day off. There’s something we need to discuss alone.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, it’s just something I want to keep between us. We can talk about it in my office.”

She nodded, though she was sure her heart was going to jump out of her throat when she followed him into the room. He closed the door behind her despite their being alone. A heavy dread set over her body, and suddenly she felt cold, shaking as she sat down on the couch. He leaned against his desk, lighting a cigarette in his mouth and handing it to her.  

“Very few people know what I’m about to tell you, Gloria. Kay didn’t know. Most of my family still doesn’t,” Michael said. “You cannot repeat this to anybody. Do you understand?”

“I won’t.”

“You’re not going to be my second wife. Kay was my second wife.”

“What happened to your first wife?” Her curiosity was slaughtered the moment she asked. Looking into his eyes suddenly felt like being dragged to the second circle of hell.

His words cut through her curiosity with a closely controlled violence. “She was killed in Sicily by a car bomb that was meant for me. Her name was Apollonia. We were only married for a few months.”

Gloria froze. There it was, that drowning feeling again. Limbs heavy, lungs burning, sound muffled, everything moving in slow motion as the cigarette fell from her hand and onto the carpet. Her head drooped, and she let out a pained wail.

Her father’s words from just a few weeks prior echoed in her ears. ‘Has he got you living in some fantasy world? Where all that shit won’t touch you? That if you look the other way or keep your head in the sand, nothing will happen? He has no right promising you peace or safety when he deals in the opposite.’

Michael approached her cautiously, the way one does a wounded animal as not to frighten it. 

“Why would you tell me this?” she asked, looking up at him through the mess of black hair that had fallen in her face, voice strained as she held back a sob.

He knelt beside her, brushing her hair back to reveal black tear tracks that streaked down her cheeks. “So that you understand why I do the things I do, things I can’t always tell you about. Kay never understood, I don’t think she wanted to, but now you do. I’ll do everything in my power to protect you, and our baby. I had the man who did it killed, and I’d do the same for you, but it won’t come to that. Do you understand?”

There was no denying it anymore. No use in throwing up in flower bushes on early morning walks in the neighborhood to hide the clear signs of morning sickness from Michael. Whatever was inside of her, she wanted it out. Wished she could reach inside of herself and give it to him if he wanted it so bad. Kay’s abortion wasn’t so puzzling anymore. 

Against all better judgment, she clung to him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Trapped with him, by him, his arms wrapping around her like a snake. She’d heard being burned alive was the most painful way to die. Unless it was instant, Apollonia spared the agony and passed it onto Kay, who through her abortion passed it onto Gloria. But there was no one else to turn to or confide in, no one who could do a damn thing about it.

“Gloria, it’s alright. As long as you listen to me, nothing will happen to you. No one will touch you.”

“You can’t promise that! You don’t know!”

“I love you,” he said, holding her tighter. “I love you.”

“More than you loved her?”

He was silent.

[mx-piggy]

okay quick update on the stuff i'm working on for my website for october (i'm writing this while i take a break from editing my 3.2k word review of Beetlejuice Beetlejuice because damn that's a lot of words to keep looking and tweaking at over and over again).

for those not in the know, i have a (wordpress) website where i post my poetry and movie reviews. near the end of this post, i've made a list of future non-Halloween-related projects i have started working on and intend to finish, so i ask you to peruse that list and see if there's anything there of interest.

firstly, i'll go over my october/Halloween-related posts.

things i've finished writing and have scheduled to post:

-a review of Alien: Romulus (which will be going up on tue 1st october) -a review of Coraline (which will be going up fri 4th oct)

things that i have started writing, have yet to finish but am fairly confident i will finish in time for october:

-a review of Beetlejuice Beetlejuice -a review of Speak No Evil (2024) -a review of Imaginary -an essay about bigfoot found-footage horror movie Tahoe Joe

things that i still need to start but hope to post in october:

-a review of MaXXXine -a review of A Quiet Place: Day One -a review of Abigail -a review of The First Omen -a review of The Substance

things that i would have liked to post in october but will work on when i'm not under time pressure:

-an essay about Ghostwatch (i will be rewatching it in october so i'm hoping that once i've seen it again i'll be able to make some more progress with the essay) -a ranking and review of the Paranormal Activity movies (i'm going to do a full rewatch of the Paranormal Activity movies in october to celebrate Halloween, but i don't think i'd want to compromise the depth i want to go into for the sake of releasing it in october)

seeing as there's a lot of horror movie-related stuff i want to write, it's not like october will be the only time of year that i post anything to do with horror. the main reason i decided to focus on horror for october is 1. so that i can have a month with a regular posting schedule after posting sporadically for the past several months, 2. so i can have enough horror-related posts that i might attract some potential loyal readers who would be interested in my horror opinions as well as my non-horror opinions, 3. it'll be fun to focus on horror stuff for Halloween and will be my way of celebrating the holiday outside of watching a horror movie every night. i'm aiming to get a post up every tuesday and friday in october, but if i end up writing enough, i'll post on sundays, too.

as well as movie reviews of movies i've been to see at the cinema this year, my website also has my poetry and a couple of essays/articles, one about Gonzo, Muppets from Space and being nonbinary, and one about Heartstopper season 2.

beyond the posts i want to release in october, there are some other things i will resume working on after Halloween. these include:

-a ranking and review of every Hulurama episode (so far) -a ranking and review of The Land Before Time movies (from someone who's got a soft spot for them) -an essay/article about Penelope Featherington -an essay/article about anthology episodes in adult animated sitcoms -an essay/article about Carol Ann Duffy's poetry collection the World's Wife -other movie reviews (some that i've started include Robot Dreams, Barbie and Argylle)

i might also use my website to post about my original fiction projects, but i haven't actually made much progress with any of those beyond jotting down some ideas, so i'll consider that when there are actually updates to make.

if any of that sounds interesting to you, i'd really appreciate if you checked out my website. i've worked really hard on the writing i've done for it and i will continue to work hard and improve. i'd also appreciate if you reblogged this post if you have any mutuals who might be interested in reading and keeping up with the stuff i write.

[joabthegoat]

The worst customer ever..

An unsettling incident recently disrupted the peace of my home when my 17-year-old stepdaughter, visibly shaken, entered our room to play a voicemail. The message featured a man's eerie laughter, culminating in a drawn-out "Oooh Yeah." The bizarre nature of the voicemail left us perplexed and unsure of how to react.

Shortly after, my phone lit up with a "No caller ID" notification. Upon answering, the call abruptly ended without a word. A second call followed, which I allowed to go to voicemail, capturing the strange message:

Listening to the recording, a wave of recognition washed over me. The voice belonged to a former client from a year ago, someone who had unexpectedly contested a payment. After the bank resolved the dispute in my favor, it seemed to have sparked a vengeful streak in the caller.

This wasn't my first encounter with the caller's fury. Throughout the two months of our professional relationship, I had come to know him quite well. His name was Casey Conway, a 48-year-old man who had experienced a solitary upbringing and endured a challenging time at a 3HO cult boarding school in India. His recent diagnosis of borderline personality disorder was attributed to the trauma from those formative years.

During our time working together, it felt as though Casey was reliving his childhood, despite being well into adulthood. The years between his past and present seemed to have vanished, leaving him perpetually trapped in his early experiences.

When Casey realized he wouldn't be refunded for the services rendered, he lashed out with threats of violence, stating he would "put me in the hospital."

Further investigation revealed that this pattern of aggressive behavior wasn't isolated to our interactions. Casey had exhibited similar outbursts on LinkedIn and with a former landlord in New Mexico. It appeared that his defensive mechanisms were akin to a pufferfish's, inflating his presence to cope with perceived threats.

After leaving Albuquerque, Casey settled in Lake Tahoe, bolstered by a significant settlement from the 3HO cult. He launched a new venture, "Handy and Helpful," on Facebook, but it failed to gain traction. His subsequent project, "Tahoe Marketing," aimed to provide marketing support to gym owners and personal trainers, yet it too failed to attract clients.

Ultimately, Casey took a position as a "setter" for Loral Langemeier, who is embroiled in a recent SEC investigation, preparing potential customers for high-ticket sales—a role often found in questionable Nevada boiler room operations.

The saga continued with unexpected "gifts" arriving in the mail from Casey:

These bizarre tokens were sometimes accompanied by messages that unnervingly indicated his knowledge of my residence.

Life is unpredictable, and this experience is a stark reminder that it can take a turn for the bizarre. It's essential to remain vigilant and prepared for whatever may come our way, even when it ventures into the realm of the surreal. :)

[viscountessevie]

The Wrong Family [ARC Review]

Release Date: 30th August 2023 Overall Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Mystery Level: ❓❓❓

My Review:

The Wrong Family by Ellery Kane is a mystery that takes you along for a ride. Hallie Sherman trying to find her father with only a name her mother cursed throughout her life, Robert Sherman. On her 28th birthday, Hallie decides to find her father after all these years. Finally weeks after DNA testing, she is given a match and one special Robert Thompson invites her up to Lake Tahoe to spend two weeks with her newfound family.

However, the picturesque Thompsons and their perfect life in Lake Tahoe is not what it seems to be at all. Strange and creepy things start to happen when Hallie arrives. As the newcomer who doesn't quite fit in, fingers start to point to her. Will Hallie find out who the real culprit is before time runs out?

~~~

Just a quick note for readers: Don't read the official summary for the book and just go by what I've written because it gives away a pretty big twist of the book. Going in blind will definitely enhance your reading experience!

For the publishers/whoever is in charge of the summary: Adding the twist in the synopsis and the way it was written, led me to believe this was going to be a very different book and more sinister. That being said I did enjoy it as its own thing! However, I do think the misleading summary could lead to potential readers being disappointed.

All that aside, let's get into my thoughts! As thrilling as this was a mystery, at the heart of it it explored family bonds, what it means to find your roots and be in a family. I loved how much of a character exploration book this was, it really added to my reading experience.

Ellery did a great job of balancing the mystery along side the family aspect. It was like a family epic wrapped up in a mystery thriller and you don't quite realise it until after.

Let's talk about the mystery: As any good mystery does, it opened up many intriguing questions that pointed fingers at different characters They kept my on my toes. I was always trying to figure out an explanation and who was causing the trouble. Easily one of the best page turners I've read.

Onto The Identity, Knowing Your Roots: It was just a realistic portrayal (albeit a rich white family) of what it means to be in a family. Especially a dysfunctional one with secrets and it felt very universal. It was something I could relate to despite having nothing in common with the Thompsons. This storyline also had a lot of heart to it. How Hallie felt cast out was written in a way that hit really close to home.

Favourites: Without giving away too much, the ultimate antagonist was honestly one of my favourite characters. Their arc was so compelling and I really enjoyed reading their relationship with Hallie. It's just how they ended up connected to everything gave layers to their previous scenes. It made this book reread-able. I love when books uncover layers with each reread. If Ellery is up for expanding this series, I would love a future book about them and their life.

My favourite part has to be the letters that Hallie sends out to various Robert Thompsons in the area in hoes of finding her father. They're fun interludes between every few chapters detailing the replies. It was a good breather after tense moments and had great foreshadowing towards the end. Ultimately, it was so amusing to read about the different types of men and how they turned out.

Overall this book is going onto my list of favourites. It had been a while since I thoroughly enjoyed reading a novel, thought about for days and have much to say on. Definitely recommend it for fans of mystery, with a bit of slice of life and those who would like to examine what it means to belong. Happy reading!

Thank you to NetGalley, Ellery Kane and Bookouture for an advanced copy of this book in exchange for my honest review. 

[spraguepestsolutions-reno]

Hotel Pest Control in Sparks

Protect your business, reputation, and bottom line with expert hotel pest control in Sparks. With its changing seasons and natural surroundings, Sparks is no stranger to pest challenges, and for businesses in industries like hotels, food service, hospitality, manufacturing, and retail, even a minor infestation can lead to serious consequences such as health violations, bad reviews, or lost inventory. That’s where Sprague Pest Solutions comes in. This is the leading hotel pest control service provider in Sparks and the surrounding areas. Sprague offers targeted, science-backed treatments tailored to the unique pest pressures in the area. Their proactive approach helps prevent issues before they start, saving owners the stress and cost of major infestations and potential business disruptions. Don’t wait for pests to become a problem; get ahead of them. Call 800.272.4988 today to schedule your hotel pest control in Sparks service with Sprague Pest Solutions.

Tech and Innovation Are Thriving in Reno, NV

The tech scene in Reno is growing fast, and it's no longer just about being near Silicon Valley—it's about building something new. The Tesla Gigafactory in nearby Storey County has pulled in talent and attention, bringing along suppliers and startups in battery tech, automation, and software. Apple and Google also have data centers nearby, which only adds credibility to the area's tech credentials. Reno's smaller size actually works in its favor here. Startups can make noise, get noticed, and tap into a network that's increasingly well-funded and well-connected. Whether it's AI, cleantech, or logistics software, innovation is thriving. And with the cost of living far lower than in the Bay Area, founders can actually afford to build their dreams here.

Rancho San Rafael Regional Park & The Arboretum

Rancho San Rafael Park is a gem tucked just northwest of downtown, offering wide-open spaces, hiking trails, and one of the most relaxing spots in Reno is the Wilbur D. May Arboretum. This peaceful garden area is perfect for wandering among native plants, shade trees, and seasonal flowers. Locals love it for weekend hikes, dog walks, or simply getting outside without having to drive far. The park also hosts the annual Great Reno Balloon Race, one of the city's most beloved events. There's something deeply grounding about this park. It's a reminder of the high desert beauty that surrounds Reno. Whether you're looking to unplug, take family photos, or just sit with your thoughts, this place makes people feel right at home.

Novva Data Centers Expanding in Storey County

Novva Data Centers is bringing a new 300,000-square-foot facility to Storey County, showing just how much Reno is gaining traction in the world of tech infrastructure. The site will be located in the Tahoe-Reno Industrial Center and promises some impressive features, like waterless cooling systems and drone-based security. This is clearly aiming for innovation and sustainability. As the demand for reliable data storage grows, this move helps position the region as a serious player for companies looking for cutting-edge, environmentally conscious infrastructure. Beyond just the tech, the project will also bring new jobs and fuel economic growth in the area, which is great news for both the local workforce and the broader tech community.

Link to map

Rancho San Rafael Regional Park 1595 N Sierra St, Reno, NV 89503, United States Get on I-80 E in Reno from N Sierra St 5 min (1.3 mi) Take I-580 S/US-395 S to US-395 BUS S/S Virginia St. Take exit 31 from I-580 S/US-395 S 5 min (5.3 mi) Take S McCarran Blvd and Airway Dr to your destination 4 min (1.7 mi) Sprague Pest Solutions 3545 Airway Dr #111, Reno, NV 89511, United States