#eps compaction

[applelzp]

compaction system for EPS packaging, eps fish boxes

[dyingfad]

Iriya no Sora, UFO no Natsu (2005)

[axxonn84]

Nirvana: Incesticide (1992)

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

FOR FANS OF '70s ROCK, DEAD KENNEDYS, MINISTRY, SPÏNAL TAP, COCK ROCK, & PARODY ROCK.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on complete CD package design for the "70's Rock Must Die" EP by industrial metal/alternative/ punk rock band LARD, released under the Alternative Tentacles label in 2000. Sleeve concept by Jello Biafra.

EP OVERVIEW: "You wouldn't think Jello Biafra would attempt something as anathematizing to him as a turgid, seven-minute '70s rock anthem. But the hilarious title track shows he will go just about anywhere to make an acrid comment.

No kidding, you could slip this baby on any urban classic rock station and the mindless headbangers would eat up its Stones-Aerosmith-Zep-AC/DC cock rock riff like mice who don't notice the trap around the cheese -- until the steel-trap surprise lyrics slam into them! (And even hard rock fans who never notice ridiculously awful metal lyrics won't be able to escape the hysterical chorus refrain.)

Biafra even dons a plausible Axl Rose voice for the occasion. In fact, this sendup is so good, a thousand '80s hair bands in headbands, leopard-skin pants, and muscle T-shirts spring to mind like an outbreak of styling mousse plague. But whereas SPÏNAL TAP was just for cackles, Biafra's loathing is obvious. He decries the ceaseless perpetuation of the vapid rock caricature that punk bands like Biafra's DEAD KENNEDYS meant to crush, while lamenting that the opposite has since occurred.

In any case, this is drop-dead funny. As for the rest, "Volcanus 2000 (We Wipe the World)" returns LARD to its original 1988 industrial footing provided by collaborator Al Jourgensen of MINISTRY, slinging a similar sneer at all the self-conscious, neo-satanic slummers who want to be the next NINE INCH NAILS.

END: The "mountains of trash" in the coda sound too real to anyone who has seen the stink and odious rot of landfill on Staten Island, or gotten a whiff downstream of a passing garbage barge. But it could just as easily refer to your average record reviewer's daunting, decrepit new-CD pile. Finally, "Ballad of Marshall Ledbetter" is a fine metallic-industrial stomper."

-- ALLMUSIC (review by Jack Rabid)

Sources: www.discogs.com/master/8144-Lard-70s-Rock-Must-Die, Allmusic, & Picuki.

[asterisk-666666]

”theme park community”: IMMERSION! SIGHTLINES! LORE!

Europapark: we have multiple rooms full of creepy dolls.

[dock57]

[Another day, another Monkey Wrench ramble! Decided to go back to EP 2 again this time. Despite being one of the shorter episodes, it has some of my favorite moments between Shrike and Beebs.

Anyway, the thing I want to talk about today is the some of the world building to the Monkey Wrench universe. In general, Monkey Wrench has such an awesome world building to it. Its very open, but has some rules and expectations it follows.

One of my favorite things about this world? The idea of every Alien having a translator. Its such a simple thing to include, but when you start digging into it- it can say a bit about the character.

It took a few rewatches, but the idea that you can have a translator either internal or external? I just thought that was such a cool idea. I think most sci-fi concepts when it comes to different languages, either they already know and understand the alien, there is no language barrier, or if there is a translator, its usually another device or someone else doing it.

The idea that everyone has one, either internal or external, its such a simple but clever idea for not needing to fuss over the issue about language differences. Besides, where a galaxy has different languages, could be hundreds- thousands? Trying to learn them all would. Take more than a lifetime...

How nice would it be to just have one install and do all the hard work for you? I especially love the idea of just having an internal one installed- so you would not have to worry about it being damaged from the outside, or well, being in the way? Like when looking at Beebs, his translator is large. A nice size of equipment to keep maintained and not as compacted. Like think about how small computers can be compared to their first designs? Smaller and more compact always feel so much more manageable.

As I said before, I think even translator and what a character has can say about a character too. Especially this scene from EP 2. Beeb's personality and overall design, has this impression that Beebs' is well, a much simpler type of guy. He does not seem like the type to update anything unless, it really comes to the point it might need to be replaced. His translator and cybernetic arm are examples of this, why fix something if its not broke?

I also find that translators can tell about someone's wealth as well. As I believe that internal models are more expensive than external ones. It could be possible that Beebs' has an older model as well, but as Shrike also mentions, Beebs was also stingy getting a new one, which once again, adds to how Beebs tends to hold onto materials until broken, plus, coming off as a more simple guy- I don't believe Beebs enjoys complicated tech. He even has his acoustic guitar, free from technology itself to keep it simple and free from having difficult technical problems, unlike the Bucket itself or his cybernetic arm. Being stingy can also suggest that Beebs is looking out for his savings. As that not wanting to upgrade or wanting a internal translator to save on pixels. Although translators seems like to be a pretty important thing to have in this world, as it seems like everyone does have one, even when it comes to purchasing one, you also need to think what is affordable and works best for you. In Beebs' eyes, you don't need the newest one to have this function, just one to do its job which is enough.

I see in this world, that Translators can be use as a sign of wealth, where internal are more expensive and external ones are not. As for Shrike, who is definitely not a wealthy Alien by no means... He may have made the decision to get an internal one as a possible poor financial decision, as Shrike is clearly not responsible when it comes to money. He may have one to just have it and follow the trend of others- or he may have got his from L.A.W. as well as it could have been a requirement for L.A.W. members to have one, or a benefit of being a L.A.W. officer.

Whatever the case with Translators in this world, it is definitely has been something I been noticing more and more on characters in the show, major, minor or even background characters. The more I keep watching Monkey Wrench, the more I pick up on the world build and the little pieces, such as the translator, to build how its universe's function.]

[ssinnerplazahotel]

WC:9k

Warning: 18+, age gap, smut, fluff, yandere elvis, elvis has a gun, manipulation, death, drug use, it’s the 50s/60s/70s, painful-difficult-devastating-life-changing-extraordinary love

Pairing: elvis x black reader

Disclaimer: full of inaccuracies, inaccurate timeline, inaccurate depictions of Graceland, historically inaccurate themes and items

‘Winning Birdie’ - Elvis’s Version. ❤️🩷❤️🩷

Note: This story is a revision of a previous alternate universe (AU). It does not stand alone—please make sure to read ‘Winning Birdie’ for context.

*

1956…

He waited every night. Not obviously, and never too long to actually put a delay in the schedule. But after every show, after the crowd had cleared out and he and the guys had everything loaded back onto the truck, he lingered.

He never really expected to see you. It was more of a compulsion than anything.

“Let’s go, E.P.”

“I’m right behind you.”

He stood at the back entrance of the building and wondered how you’d get in from the front. You wouldn’t know your way around a building of this size. He had to remind himself that the building wasn’t the only thing separating him from you. There were miles and miles of distance between you. Distance that seemed too grand for you to travel.

He tried to catch his breath and let it go—let you go—but he couldn’t. He knew that even after he’d searched every single face in the crowd for yours, he’d round the corner and climb into his truck, drive fifty miles further away from you—or closer, he didn’t know—and he wouldn’t be able to fully inhale until he saw you again.

“Took you long enough.”

That must’ve been a lie, because he still couldn’t breathe. Worse, he felt lightheaded. Whatever breath that was left in his lungs had fully been taken away upon seeing you.

Regardless of whatever emotion had overwhelmed him, he steadied himself and greeted you with a confident smile.

“Every time I see you I go to pinch myself.”

You shifted to your other foot and did that thing where you pretended to have an attitude. “Do you know what it takes for a girl like me to get this far this fast?”

“I’m sure Ohio’s happy you’re here.”

“Ohio better not be the only thing happy to see me,” You said. “I might turn my ass around.”

He laughed but he couldn’t deny the way his gut tightened at the prospect of you leaving. “Y-You wanna ride with us?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I’m headed to meet someone. I just thought I’d surprise you while I was here.”

He expected to care more about whatever business you had in Ohio. Instead, he felt less annoyed and more obligated to make sure you got there safely. “Where ya headed? W-We can drop you off on the way.”

“I’m going back that way, opposite direction.”

“What way?”

“That way.” You motioned vaguely.

“Let’s go, EP. Truck’s already rollin.”

You looked past him at the truck and it felt like you were already gone. “You should go.”

He stepped in front of you. “W-Will you come with us?”

“Baby, I already said—”

“Please?” He was desperate not to lose you again so quickly. “You don’t know where you’re headed anyway, what’s the difference?”

Your eyes were wide with humor as you joked about them leaving, however, Elvis found nothing funny.

“Get in the truck.”

“…I-I really can’t.”

He noticed your hesitation. You wanted to come, but you weren’t allowing yourself to. “Why?” They blew the horn and he got this anxious feeling deep in his gut. “I can’t just leave you standing here—”

“Let’s play a game.” You were suddenly rummaging around your purse for something. As much as he tried to force that moment to feel like a lifetime, it didn’t last. You eventually found what you were looking for. “Take…uhm, take this, okay?”

“Why?” He felt dejected as you put the silver compact mirror in his palm.

You smiled up at him. “So you can give it back when I see you next time.”

And suddenly there was hope again.

“Kiss me.” You stood up on your tiptoes and he pulled your body against his. The kiss wasn’t long enough or even worth a damn before you were pushing him away.

No. He wanted to say. Don’t make me leave you.

“Go.” You pulled away. “Be careful.”

“Me be careful? You be careful.” He forced his feet to carry him the rest of the way to the truck. He didn’t feel as heavy when he climbed into the passenger seat.

“Elvis!”

There was a split second where he thought you’d changed your mind and he’d see you rushing over to get in. He saw you laughing when he stuck his head out of the window and he instantly found himself smiling again.

“What?” He called as the truck started rolling.

“I love you!”

He couldn’t have heard that right. “What?”

“I love—” You motioned to your heart and he was sure of what you were saying. “—you!”

He couldn’t make out your expression as the truck picked up speed and made its way down the road. He sunk down into his seat and stared ahead in shock.

“Who’s that, E?”

Elvis swallowed and turned the compact mirror over in his hand.

“…That’s nobody.”

“Didn’t look like ‘nobody.’”

Scotty and Bill laughed but he was preoccupied by the terrible feeling taking root deep inside his core.

He feared he loved you too.

*

She wasn’t perfect.

No—she was perfect, that was the problem.

He had set himself up for failure before even going through with tonight. He told himself that it’d be easy to find someone to take his mind off of you—he just needed to find the perfect girl.

What was the perfect girl compared to you?

“What’s the matter, baby?” Her voice was sweet but not as smooth as yours. It didn’t melt over him or pull him in. “Elvis?”

He hadn’t noticed that he stopped responding. “Sorry?”

The girl laughed and her smile was beautiful. So beautiful that it reminded him of you.

He looked away.

The girl—he couldn’t remember her name—sighed. “You did it again.”

“What?”

“You got that look on your face.”

“What look?” Elvis asked.

“Like you can’t stand the sight of me.”

“O-Oh, no, baby, it’s not that. You…y-you’re beautiful.”

She moved closer. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No.”

She laughed again—embarrassed. “Oh.”

“You remind me of someone, that’s all.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“No,” he said.

“A lover?”

“No.”

“Who?”

“Just…some girl I met.”

She instantly began gathering her things. “You should call her. Maybe she can help you work through whatever this is.”

“Wait—” Elvis stopped her. “You can’t leave.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, I don’t want them to think…”

She scoffed. “Good night. Call your girlfriend if you need someone around to stroke your ego.”

She left and Elvis didn’t feel all too compelled to stop her anymore.

“Fuck it.” He stood to call the number that he had swindled out of BB. He hoped it worked and that you were somewhere near the phone in time to pick up.

You weren’t.

He knew better than to call twice.

*

1958…

The thought of Germany loomed over him like a cloud. When you talked about it, you made it sound like hope.

“No matter what happens, bun, you gotta know that it’s gonna be okay. They can take whatever they want. They can’t have your soul. That’s yours. It’ll always be yours, even after this. You’ll see.”

“Do you think they’ll remember me?”

You laughed. “I think they’re going to make sure everyone remembers you, baby.”

It didn’t feel like enough to assume that all would be well.

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again,” He said.

“You never know when you’ll see me again.”

“There’s no chance in Germany.”

You lifted your head. “You underestimate me—”

“There’s not a chance.” He hated the way the humor in your eye faded away, but he wanted you to realize how little time there was left to hold onto. He had to remind himself that maybe you didn’t care as much. It never felt like you cared.

“Hey,” You said, pouting softly. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

It wasn’t enough.

“I brought something else for you to hold onto for me.”

He saw the glint in your eyes again. “What?”

“Swear you won’t laugh.”

“I promise.”

You stuck your pinky out and he returned the gesture before watching you reach for your bag.

“You see…I wasn’t going to go through with this,” You said as you dumped the purse out onto the floor. You shuffled through the items as you spoke. “But, I will…do it for you. Aha, here it is.”

“What’s this?” He took the picture out of your hand and smiled upon realizing. “It’s you.”

“Now whenever you get that silly feeling you won’t have to ask BB if I’m real, you can just look at this photo and you’ll know.”

“Birdie…”

“Don’t make it into something,” You said, pretending to be preoccupied with packing your purse back up. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s—“

“A piece of paper.”

He didn’t argue. He only leaned forward to leave a kiss on your cheek.

“I’ll take a match to it,” you warned.

“I’ll come back for you.”

“Elvis, come back for yourself.”

He disregarded that comment. “Why do you have all that shit?”

“It’s not shit, it’s my stuff.”

“It’s shit.”

“Do you mind?”

“Where will you go after this?”

“Home.”

“Ron?”

“That’s home, bunny.”

“Do you want a ride?”

“Taking a ride with you would be the opposite of keeping a low profile.”

“How will I know—” You gave him a look and he knew. “Right.”

He shifted to put his arm around you, half expecting you to protest his affection. You didn’t. You only smiled and leaned back into his embrace.

“Are you gonna try to make friends?” You wondered.

He enjoyed the way you rested so comfortably in his arms. For a moment it was easy to believe that this was real. That you were real and BB hadn’t paid you to show up tonight. “I don’t think so.”

“You should.”

“Where do you want to go after this?”

You hesitated, as if you were shocked by the question. “I don’t know…things have been picking up in Nevada lately.”

“Oh, really?” He didn’t mean to sound upset.

“…Why’d you ask?”

“I don’t know.”

You fell silent and for a moment Elvis thought he saw some emotion flicker behind your eyes. Pity maybe.

He could never tell what you were thinking.

Before he could ask, you had already moved on to the next conversation. “…Do you think they’ll sleep outside if you stay here?”

“Probably.”

“You really know how to make a mess.”

“What can I say?”

You played with the frayed hem of your dress like it was the only thing grounding you in that moment.

Elvis couldn’t help but watch you, too scared to blink in case you vanished the second he looked away.

You were always slipping away. Always gone before he could beg you not to be.

You laid your head back on his shoulder, resting like you belonged there. You relaxed slowly, bit by bit—like you didn’t want to make it obvious that you were getting comfortable.

He tried to memorize every angle of your face, the way your throat curved toward him, the shadow of your smile. Things a photo couldn’t capture.

“I don’t know if I can sleep down here,” you said.

“Don’t sleep.”

“I wish it were that easy.”

“…It can be.”

He didn’t say it to sound cool. He said it because it was the only thing he could offer. The only thing that might make this moment last as long as possible.

You turned your head to him, curious. “How?”

He reached over into his coat and pulled out the little glass vial tucked beside his lighter. He didn’t look at you when he said it.

“It’s just…something the boys showed me on tour. Keeps you up.”

When he finally met your eyes, he expected a no. Expected you to tell him he was disgusting. Or stupid.

There was none of that.

“…Show me.”

That was it. That was the moment he would go on to remember long after you disappeared again.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

He twisted the lid off. His fingers didn't shake—because he’d done this a hundred times before.

He didn’t make a show of it. No speeches. No warnings. He took the first hit then he handed it to you like he was passing a secret—like you were part of some private world now.

Elvis didn’t know if it was fear or anticipation, but your hands shook when you reached for the vial.

“Baby, you don’t have to—” he rushed to say.

“I want to.”

He didn’t believe that, not fully. But he let you anyway. Because he needed you here—on his wavelength, even if it meant nothing to you but a free high.

You took it like you’d done it before, but not often. Then you sat back again and stretched your legs out like you were suddenly weightless.

He took another. It made him hot in the chest and behind the eyes, but he wasn’t tired anymore and neither were you.

When he looked back up, you were still there. Quiet. Barefoot. Wide-eyed and beautiful.

A few beats passed before you spoke. “I feel weird.”

Elvis’s eyes were glassy but warm. “Good weird or bad weird?”

You looked at him for a long time but never responded. He forgot what he was waiting for and eventually got lost in every part of you just like you had gotten lost in every part of him.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered sometime into the night—still buried inside you, lost in the way your eyes never left his.

You didn’t say anything, but you leaned into him just enough to make him abandon that train of thought for something better.

Neither of you were going to sleep. Not tonight.

And maybe not even tomorrow.

*

The room had fallen quiet, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of quiet that rang in his ears, the kind that made his heartbeat feel too loud.

The old fan clattered in its place, blowing warm air around the stale space. The floorboards sighed with every shift of your weight.

You thought he was asleep.

That’s what stung the most.

Two days. That’s how long the two of you had been there—curled around each other in BB’s attic like a secret neither of you wanted to explain.

BB didn’t make you explain either. He didn’t wonder or ask about your wild eyes when you slipped down in the middle of the night for food. He complained about the crowd of people outside waiting for Elvis, but he was never serious. He would rather you be locked in his attic than god knows where doing god knows what. He never showed it, but he also worried that each time he saw you would be the last.

Time dissolved in a haze of unspecified drugs and kisses that tasted like they wouldn’t last.

Elvis kept his eyes shut, his breathing slow and even. The floor was uncomfortable without you there. Hard and impossible to settle into.

Your spot beside him was still warm. He wanted to reach for it. Reach for you. But he didn’t.

He heard the soft rustle of your dress being pulled up over your hips. The gentle snap of your bra. The slow zip of your bag and your careful fingers grazing over each little thing you brought with you—as if packing your escape neatly made it feel less like leaving.

You were careful not to wake him.

He hated that you were so good at it.

It made him wonder how often you snuck away from men in the dead of night.

There was a pause.

He knew you were standing there, looking at him. He pictured you biting your lip, blinking slow, like maybe this was the time you'd say fuck it and curl back up beside him.

But then came the creak of the floorboard near the attic door.

The sound of you leaving felt like a betrayal.

You turned the knob like it might hurt you. Like maybe you didn’t want to go, but couldn’t make yourself stay.

And he still didn’t move.

Because if he opened his eyes, he’d have to admit you were gone. And if he asked you to stay, you might say no.

So he let you go.

Let you walk barefoot down the stairs with his hands still imprinted on your thighs. Let the door click shut behind you like a breath he couldn’t hold any longer.

Only then did he open his eyes.

The ceiling above him blurred. He cried but it wasn’t him. He didn’t feel anything.

Not really. Just the same impending doom he’d been feeling since he found out about Germany.

He told himself to get used to this.

You never stayed and his fate was sealed.

*

1960…

The phone was already ringing by the time Vernon got to the kitchen. Elvis hadn’t made any move to pick it up.

“Hello?” his father answered, gravel-voiced and half-asleep. “This is Vernon, who’s this?”

There was a pause.

“Who is this?”

Elvis looked up to tell Vernon to hang up the phone—no one important would be calling so late.

He was already out of his chair, ready to snatch the phone when the name slammed into his chest like a punch.

“Who’s Birdie?” Vernon asked.

He crossed the room in seconds. “Give me the phone.”

Vernon didn’t ask questions. Just handed it over, brows drawn as Elvis pressed the receiver to his ear.

“Birdie?”

He held his breath.

“Is that you, bunny?”

Jesus Christ. The sound of your voice, that old nickname—it knocked the wind out of him.

He gripped the phone tighter. “Holy shit. It’s you.”

“Elvis?”

He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know where to start.

It was really you.

“W-What are you doing? Are you home? It’s been—Where’s Ron? A-Are you still—?”

“Elvis,” you interrupted, sharper now.

“Yeah?”

“I-I really…I don’t know what to say, I-I’m really s-sorry t-to call like this—”

“What’s wrong? Are you home?”

“Yes, but…”

He heard the quiver in your breath. Then silence. “Birdie? Baby? H-Hello?”

“I need you to come pick me up.”

He blinked. His heart pounded. “What?”

“I-I…I don’t know…” Your voice broke. “I’m s-so… I know I haven’t called, I haven’t been in town…I tried t-to stay away.”

“Where are you?” His mouth was dry—he’d never heard you cry before. “Are you with Ron?”

“No. I haven’t been with him s-since…s-since she’s been back.”

“Who?”

“My mother,” you sobbed like you couldn’t hold it together anymore. The sound of it nearly brought him to his knees. You weren’t allowed to sound so broken “I-I came back because I thought he s-said he…he told me he’d hurt her if I didn’t c-come back. I tried to stay away. I really wanted to—”

Oh, baby, no. Oh no no no—

“Where are you?”

“I w-was trying to protect her. I just wanted t-to protect her.”

“Baby, I can’t find you if you don’t tell me where you are.” His voice shook despite his best efforts to keep it calm.

“You can’t find me?”

Your panic rose like a wave and he scrambled to keep you from falling apart.

“I’m gonna find you, honey, I swear, I just need you to tell me what you see. Did you walk from Ron’s or what?”

“I g-got a ride, uhm…here, downtown. I was trying to…I was gonna keep walking but my leg…my leg isn’t right…”

His chest squeezed. His jaw locked.

You were hurt.

“What do you see, Birdie?”

“I see uhm…t-the loan office.”

“Lippman’s?”

“Yeah.”

His whole body kicked into gear. “Okay. Baby, I’m gonna come up and get you. I need you to stay put—don’t go fluttering around, you hear me?”

“M-My leg…”

“I’m on my way. Stay right there. Don’t move.”

He didn’t even hang up properly. Just let the phone dangle, still swinging as he grabbed his coat and keys.

He stumbled into Jerry on his way out, shirtless and wide-eyed. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I gotta go,” Elvis said, already moving. “Something happened a-and she’s hurt. I have to go get her.”

“Who?”

“I don’t have time to explain, Jerry, she’s downtown by herself and she’s not okay—”

“You can’t drive like this—”

“Then you drive. But I’m going.”

Jerry took the keys and didn’t argue again.

They were out the door in seconds.

The ride was a blur. The city passed by in streaks of neon and darkness. Elvis sat stiff in the passenger seat, leg bouncing, hands fisting and unfisting in his lap. Everything inside him was crawling. Itching.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

And then—there you were.

Slumped in the corner of a phone booth, trembling, eyes glassy and lost.

Waiting for him.

He was out of the car before it had even stopped moving.

“Birdie!”

You turned toward him, dazed and small.

He reached you in seconds, dropping to his knees.

“I’m here,” he whispered, gathering you against his chest. “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Let me look at you.”

“No.” You hid your face in the crook of his neck, like you were ashamed to be seen.

“Why?”

“It’s not good.”

“Okay…” He felt himself panicking but he didn’t let it show. “Jerry, help me get her out of here.”

He kept you in his arms even after you’d fallen unconscious. He was scared and he didn’t know what to do with you. But for the first time in years, that thing inside of him finally stopped yearning.

*

He didn’t bother slipping out of bed quietly or trying to pretend he wasn’t about to walk out. He didn’t even look back before shutting his bedroom door and crossing the hall.

“What are you doing?” you asked, voice soft and scratchy from sleep.

“Checking on you.”

“Why?”

“I was worried…”

You blinked at him, then curled tighter into the pillow. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, already drifting again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, low.

“For what?”

“For waking you up.”

“Oh.”

“Go back to sleep.”

But you didn’t. At least not for long. Because soon, you were shaking him awake with concern threaded through your voice.

“Elvis,” you whispered. “Bunny?”

He startled awake and sat up like he hadn’t been sleeping at all. “What’s wrong?”

“You tell me,” you said. “It’s the middle of the day.”

He sighed and laid back down. “So what?”

“You didn’t go back.”

He stretched, nonchalant. “I was gonna spend the day with you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I was,” he muttered.

You were already smirking. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“No?”

“You slept in by accident.”

“How would you know?”

“Red already stopped by. She’s looking for you.” Elvis groaned. “I told him to cover your ass while I wake you up and send you down.”

A smile flickered across his face. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

“You shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

“I’m not going downstairs.”

“You have to.”

His tone changed. A quiet challenge. “And why is that?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

A pause. His brow twitched. “I don’t know why you pretend to give a shit—”

“I want you to stop sneaking in here in the middle of the night if you aren’t going to leave in time in the morning.”

His jaw clenched. “So what, it’s fine as long as it’s a secret?”

“I just think disappearing every night is pretty blatant when you have a girlfriend, E.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, softer:

“Sometimes I want your face to be the first thing I see in the morning.”

You snorted, half-laughing. “That’s not gonna work on me.”

“Come here.”

“No.”

“Let me hold you.”

“Like that’s all you’re interested in.”

He laughed under his breath. “What?”

“You know what.”

“I’m a man. I can’t help it if I wake up itching.”

“You better get in the shower and start scratching.”

He sat up and rubbed his face. “I will. If it’ll prove that’s not all I’m here for.”

You mocked a pout. “Aw, bunny. You’d jerk off alone in the shower for me?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

The humor slipped right out of your smile.

“You weren’t supposed to make that sentimental.”

“I just want to spend some time with you before you leave.”

“I’m not leaving.”

His expression didn’t change. “Yes you are.”

“Not anytime soon.”

“Why should I believe you? You been running around on that leg for days.”

Instead of responding, you kissed him. A deep, loaded kiss. One that felt like you were saying I’m sorry and you already know.

“Please,” you whispered, “go downstairs after this.”

“Okay,” he lied, only because he needed to say something you’d accept.

You seemed satisfied for the moment and slipped your hand under the covers. “What do you want?”

“Anything.”

“Anything?” You teased. He couldn’t help the sound he made when you touched him. You smiled. “I might take advantage of such a wide range of options.”

“I want you to.”

“Come on, E. Don’t make me read your mind.”

“I don’t wanna tell you. I just want you to do it.”

You laughed. “Lazy Sunday?”

He blinked. “Is today Sunday?”

“It is.”

“…You’re keeping track of the days.”

“So what if I am?”

“You must already have a countdown going—”

“You’re right, baby,” you said, sarcastic now. “I take a notch out of the bedpost every morning, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to escape.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say a thing. You realized too late that it had hit him wrong.

“I can’t believe you’re ruining this,” you muttered, hand withdrawing. “You’re this close to having your dick in my mouth.”

“It’s hard to fuck you when I keep picturing you leaving,” he said, voice cold.

“Then picture me staying,” you challenged, shifting and palming him again.

He didn’t respond.

Not until he suddenly sat up and shoved the covers off. There was a sudden change in the air, his mood dropped like a stone.

“What time is it?” he muttered.

“Elvis—”

“You should come downstairs with me. Everyone seems to just love when you’re there.”

He got up and walked toward the bathroom. He felt you watching, angry and confused.

“I don’t believe you,” you said. “You’re acting like a baby.”

He didn’t turn around. “Go downstairs, Birdie.”

“No.”

“Then fucking…stay right there. See how much I care.”

You were already on your feet when the bathroom door slammed shut. He locked it in time but the knob still rattled violently under your hand.

“Open it,” You demanded.

He said nothing.

“You’re a crazy person. You…you jackass.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

“You’re a jackass. You can’t say you’re gonna spend the day with me and then overthink yourself into a rabbit hole so bad you storm out—”

“I’m not down a rabbit hole—”

“Yes, you are!” You smacked the door. “You’re over here losing your mind plotting my escape before I’ve even thought about it!”

“Birdie—” He yanked the door open, ready to shout, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You shoved your way in, palms flat against his bare chest, eyes wild.

“Make me stop,” you dared, backing him against the sink. “Make me.”

He didn’t.

“Elvis.”

Nothing.

“Say something or I’ll leave right now.”

His nostrils flared. His jaw twitched.

You started to walk away but his hands were already on your waist. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t gentle.

“On your knees.”

You dropped like gravity had taken you.

And the moment your hands touched him again, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Don’t stop.”

And you didn’t. He knew you needed it, too.

Relief.

The only kind you knew how to give.

*

He knew that you were gone the moment he woke up.

The house felt empty.

Everything felt void.

Hollow.

Like the place had been gutted and robbed of anything that mattered.

Elvis stood in the middle of your empty room.

It wasn’t your room before but now that’s all it could ever be. The space that once felt like it belonged to you. Now as empty as he felt inside.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t check the bathroom for you or go downstairs calling out your name. He wanted to but instead he just stared at the place you used to sleep. Like if he looked long enough, you might appear again.

And when you didn’t?

He flipped the fucking dresser.

Lamps, mirrors, abandoned perfume bottles that you must’ve cared about as much as him to leave behind.

“Fuck!” he bellowed, grabbing at anything in reach, throwing it just to hear something break. Just to drown out the part of himself that was screaming without a voice.

He didn’t even hear his girl come up behind him.

“Elvis?” Her voice was small, scared.

He turned to face her like a cornered animal. Red-eyed. Sweating. Breathing like he’d been running for hours. “Don’t.”

“I was just going to—”

“Don’t fucking look at me right now.”

She flinched.

His hands were shaking as he backed away. “Get out.”

“Elvis—”

“I said get out, goddammit!”

She left—quickly, and without another word. That part made it worse. Made him hate himself a little more.

He didn’t clean up. Instead crawled into your bed like it would make him feel better somehow.

He laid his head on the same pillow you used, and pressed his nose into it like he could wring out the scent of your skin. You were gone, but maybe he could pretend until you faded completely.

The time that followed wasn't just bad for him—it was bad for everyone.

He turned to stone. Cold, short-tempered, unreachable. He started micromanaging everything—like being in control of every little thing and every person in his life would make up for the fact that he couldn’t control you.

Every girl he met he made them dress like you.

Full lashes. Dark liner. Nail polish in that soft off-white shade you always wore. Hair done exactly the way it was the first time he’d laid eyes on you: a French twist without a hair misplaced. Only ever a French twist.

“Can you do your hair like that again?”

“Wear this dress instead.”

“No, sweetheart, like this.”

None of them could get it quite right.

They didn’t laugh like you. Didn’t lie like you. Didn’t look at him like he was someone they could walk away from without looking back.

When they loved him, he left. When they hated him, he left. When they couldn’t bend without breaking, he left.

They couldn’t make him stay.

He started smoking more.

Started sleeping less.

And no one was brave enough to call it what it was.

Heartbreak.

*

1963…

There was always a girl. Always someone just barely filling that space—never quite measuring up.

His new girl had reached her wits end. He had known that for a while but he didn’t say anything.

Now, she stood there, hands clutched tight at her sides, ready to spill her guts. She was in full makeup, wearing the soft lavender dress he picked out—he wondered why she had bothered getting dressed at all.

Maybe she had hope for this conversation.

“Elvis,” she said softly.

He didn’t turn.

He felt her watching as he adjusted his collar in the mirror. The gold around his neck glinted beneath his open shirt, perfectly styled. Too perfect. It always was.

“Elvis, I need to talk to you.”

Still nothing.

“You told me we could talk.”

“I have a party,” he said flatly.

“I know. But you said—”

He turned to face her, forcing that same unreadable look he always wore now—distant, cool, unreachable.

He glanced at the dress. “It looks good on you.”

She blinked. “You picked it.”

“You look like you’re supposed to.”

That part sounded strange, but she didn’t ask.

She was used to being confused now.

“Elvis,” she tried again, voice breaking. “Do you even see me anymore?”

He looked at her, but didn’t speak.

“Do you care how I feel? I…I cry all the time. When I try to talk to you about my feelings, you just look past me. Like I’m not even here.”

He moved toward her, but there was no urgency behind his steps. He reached up and touched her hair—gently, carefully, he tucked one strand behind her ear where it belonged. “Did you use the setting clips I gave you?”

She jerked her head back. “Are you serious? That’s what you want to talk about?”

He blinked. “It’s just…it doesn’t look like it did the first day.”

She stared at him. “I love you, Elvis…do you love me?”

He looked down at her, still blank.

“Do you even like me? Or am I just a part of some…some image you’re trying to hold onto.”

“You’re being dramatic,” he muttered, stepping past her.

“No. I’m being honest. You control how I dress, how I speak, how I wear my hair and you aren’t even nice about it. I-I thought it was just…your way. But now I think it’s because you have no control of anything else in your life and you’re taking it all out on me.”

He stopped moving. His back to her.

She waited.

Waited for him to turn around. To deny it. To fight for her.

He didn’t.

Instead, he walked to the closet and pulled out a jacket.

Slipped it on.

Checked his cufflinks.

“You can stay or go,” he said finally. “But I got people waiting.”

He didn’t wait to hear her heart break.

There was no need for an apology. He wasn’t sorry. He wished he could be softer, warmer—but all he felt was the dull ache of a man who’d been abandoned one too many times.

He smoothed the collar of his jacket. Fixed the part in his hair and left her there.

He didn’t have to watch her walk out. And for that, he was relieved.

Deep down, a part of him hoped she’d take the dress with her when she left. He didn’t want to waste it on the next girl.

At the party that night, surrounded by Hollywood’s finest, he didn’t smile for the cameras.

He didn’t drink.

He watched.

Scanning.

Waiting.

Looking for a new voice to fill the silence.

Until he saw you.

Back turned. Laughing at something Don Siegel whispered against your neck.

And for the first time in three years, Elvis’s heart didn’t ache.

It sank.

What the hell were you doing with him?

*

You were breathing slowly beside him. Not quite asleep—still fighting not to be.

The soft cotton of his shirt clung to your frame like it had always been yours. And for a minute, Elvis let himself believe it was—that maybe this was how it was supposed to end. Or start. He didn’t even know anymore.

“Go to sleep,” He chuckled in a whisper.

You shifted, but you were already slipping. “You first.”

“You’re not even awake.”

“I’m awake.”

You were barely clinging to consciousness—but you wanted to be there, in that moment. That had to mean something, right?

“Birdie?”

“Hm?”

“Are you asleep?”

You responded without hearing. “Yeah…”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He stared at you as you slept, his arm still loosely thrown over you. His pulse hadn’t slowed since you walked through the door—even now his heart was racing.

He blamed it on the way you made him feel like you were already gone—constantly slipping through his fingers.

He blamed it on the way you looked at him like you cared about every single thing he said—even if you were acting, it felt like you wanted to hear what he was saying.

The sing-songy sweetness behind your voice when you spoke made his chest hurt. He loved you even after all this time.

Your lips were parted, barely. He could hear the soft hum of your breath. Your hand twitched against your thigh and you grimaced for a moment.

You were always so restless.

A quiet sound slipped from your lips. Almost a whimper.

“Birdie?” he whispered, his hand already reaching for yours.

Your brows twitched faintly, a line creasing between them. The tension spread through your jaw, down your arms. You curled inward, trying to escape something invisible.

“No…” you murmured, voice small and cracked. “Please, don’t—”

His chest tightened.

You were dreaming—it sounded like a nightmare.

“Hey,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

Your breath trembled. He moved closer.

“You’re alright,” he said gently, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “You’re with me.”

You exhaled, long and slow. The tension left your jaw. Your hand, clenched into a fist, relaxed.

He pulled the blanket higher over your shoulders and tucked you into the crook of his arm.

“There you go,” he breathed.

Your lips parted again and the tiniest sigh fell between them.

For the first time all night, he felt you actually settle into his embrace.

He let his eyes close, and let the sound of your breathing lull him to sleep.

*

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

The plan was to make you see it.

The cars, the suits, the production team falling over themselves—the extras gathered around giggling over who he had smiled at first.

All he wanted was for you to see that while you’d spent the past three years pretending not to care, the rest of the world craved him.

Every room he walked into—he controlled it. Every look, every gesture—they held weight.

He wanted you to realize.

But seeing you with Joel, practically in his lap, smiling at his party like the entire room didn’t already know who you were…it made him livid.

He heard your voice before he even rounded the corner.

Low, teasing. That lilt you used when you were trying to charm someone into doing something stupid.

You were standing way too close to the guard. Pouting up at him like it was a goddamn joke.

“It’s either that or spending the night with me.”

Something in him snapped.

“Birdie.”

You jumped like you’d been caught stealing—which, in a way, you had. Always stealing people’s time, always seeking to garner attention.

“Elvis, don’t—”

“What the fuck are you doing, huh?” he barked, stalking toward you.

You looked startled. The guard looked guilty. Good. He should.

“Leave him alone—”

“You,” he growled, jabbing a finger at you, “shut up and get in the room.”

You dug your heels in, like always. He didn’t give you a chance to run your mouth. He grabbed you by the arm and steered you down the hall, ignoring the eyes that followed.

“You’re fucking fired,” he barked to the guard over his shoulder. “Get out of my sight.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Go.”

He slammed the door once you were inside, breath ragged, blood hot. He hadn’t even realized how angry he was until now. Until you looked at him like he was the one out of line.

“What is the matter with you?” You asked.

“Me? What the hell is the matter with you?” he spat.

Your voice cracked open. “I can’t believe you’re the one screaming right now. You left me here all night!”

“I told you I had to talk to some people—”

“All night?” Your voice was going sharp, incredulous. “It’s like you didn’t even consider the fact that you said you’d…”

You stopped. Your eyes changed—narrowed. Realization flickered across your face like a light coming on in a dark room. And that’s when he knew that you had connected the dots.

The silence was louder than the yelling had been.

“What?” he asked. He tried to sound unfazed, but his chest was tight.

“Did you make your point?” You asked.

He shrugged. “Do you feel like shit?”

You blinked. Swallowed.

“Yep.”

“Then I guess I made my point.” The words tasted sour. Even as he said them, he hated himself for it. But he couldn’t back down now. If he did, you’d know you still had him wrapped around your little finger.

“I want to leave,” you said.

“You can’t.”

“…Then you leave.”

“I will, if you really want me to.”

“I really want you to.”

“Okay.”

He turned, every step stiff. Mechanical. He couldn’t look at you. He didn’t want to see it—that look on your face when you realized he wasn’t bluffing. He wasn’t sure if he wanted you to stop him or let him go.

“I want you to know…” You started.

He paused at the door and looked at you, jaw tight.

“…I’ve never set out to intentionally hurt you. Ever. That’s not what I do, and it’s not something I tolerate from anyone—not even you. So…I hope you’re happy knowing that if you never see me again after tonight, it’s your fault.”

His pulse thudded in his ears.

“Is that all?”

You were quiet for a second too long. Then:

“…Good night, Elvis.”

He didn’t say it back. He opened the door.

“Will you be here tomorrow?”

Your voice was ice. “Only if I’m cold and stiff.”

That hit harder than it should’ve.

He hesitated.

“I guess I’ll see you in a few years then.”

“Don’t count on it.”

He stepped out into the hallway and shut the door behind him.

And just like that—it was quiet again.

No shouting. No performance. Just silence.

The click of the door closing echoed down the corridor like a slap. The kind that burns after it lands.

He stalled in the hallway, eyes closed.

What the hell had he done?

He tried to tell himself it was a part of his strategy. That he needed to prove something and this was a part of the plan.

You needed to feel it—you had to know what it felt like to be kept waiting. What it felt like to be made small.

To be nothing in someone else's world.

But the truth was…he didn’t feel any better.

He felt fucking sick.

He’d left you alone. On purpose. Set a trap just to see if you’d stay. And when you did, when you waited like he always hoped you would, he still made you pay.

He thought it’d feel like a win.

Instead, it felt like watching you fly off all over again—except this time, he was the one who scared you off by trying to clip your wings.

And maybe that was worse.

No, it was worse.

He’d understand if you were gone tomorrow, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself after what he’d done.

*

You loved him. That should’ve been enough. You were some version of his—a version he was still trying to understand.

It was supposed to bring him some peace knowing that you were settling in nicely in LA. You were safe and you loved him. That should’ve been enough. But it didn’t feel like enough when he’d go days, then weeks, then months without hearing from you.

“Hello?”

He froze. It was your voice. After weeks of static, weeks of hearing the operator say “no response,” there you were—casual, like he hadn’t been losing sleep over the sound of silence.

“Birdie?”

“Hey, bunny. Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” he barked, instantly too loud. He couldn’t help it. His chest burned. “I mean, I’d be better if you’d learn how to answer the goddamn phone!”

“Elvis…” You sighed. You didn’t even try to lie this time. “I didn’t realize you’d called.”

“How is that possible?”

“I’m sorry if I haven’t been glued to the phone—”

“You haven’t been glued to that house either if you ain’t gettin’ my calls. I been calling for weeks—”

“I’m gonna hang up—”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I will if you keep badgering me. Jesus Christ, who are you right now? You don’t tell me what to do.”

He pressed his fingers into his temple, trying to settle his voice, trying to sound like he had control over this.

“Like I said,” you repeated calmly, “I didn’t get your call.”

“Calls. There were multiple.”

“I didn’t get them.”

“…Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Were you asleep?”

“So what if I was?”

“It’s the middle of the goddamn day. What’d you do last night?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Don’t—” his voice cracked with panic but he hoped you didn’t catch it.

“You’re a suffocating man, Elvis Presley. You’re a million miles away and somehow I still can’t breathe. And you wonder why I leave the phone off the hook?”

“You leave it off the hook?” he asked, stunned. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“I’m done.”

“Don’t hang up—”

“If you want it to go like this, it can go like this. It’s up to you.”

“I just wanna hear from you during the week. Is that a goddamn crime?”

“You’re not checking in on me. You’re checking to see if I’m still here. It’s obvious. Every conversation feels like an audit.”

“…I can’t help but worry.”

“I’m not going anywhere. And nothing you send is gonna make me stay, so stop with the gifts. I don’t do anything with half the shit. It just sits in my way.”

“I want you to have what you need.”

“You’ve done more than enough.”

There was a long, quiet ache in the line. He didn’t know what to say. He thought giving you everything would make you stay.

“I’m not doing the silence, Elvis,” you warned.

“Fuck,” he snapped, slamming his fist against his desk, frustration boiling in his throat. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to stop—”

“Fine! I’m done. If you wanna hear from me again, you can pick up the goddamn phone and call—”

“That’s not what I want!”

“Of course it’s not! You’re a fucking crazy person!”

“Stop screaming!”

He huffed in aggravation.

“I want to have normal conversations when we talk,” you said. “And I don’t want to feel like you’re trying to buy my attention.”

“All I can do is buy your attention when I’m all the way over here and you’re in L.A. having a ball.”

“Why do you think you get to sleep with whoever you want but I don’t?”

“I don’t screw around for the same reasons you do.”

“Oh my god.” Now you were pissed. “You’re genuinely fucking stupid if you think that.”

“Don’t call me fucking stupid. You’re fucking stupid. You sound like a fucking baby.”

“Fucking, fucking, fucking,” you mocked. “That’s your favorite word—”

“Yeah, and it’s what you go around doing from sunup to sundown.”

“You would love to think that, wouldn’t you, baby?”

“I wouldn’t screw around if I didn’t think you were doing the same thing.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

A beat. The tension rippled.

“You know what, Elvis? If you don’t screw around on me, I won’t screw around on you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m not a sex fiend. So it’ll be real easy for me.”

“You say that like I am.”

“Well…”

“I’m not a sex fiend—”

“If you can manage not to fuck a single person until the next time we see each other, I’ll do the same.”

“You won’t screw around?”

“Not if you won’t.”

Silence again. But not the painful kind.

“…You’re on,” he said.

And you both sat there, phones hot against your ears, tethered to each other—not just by love. Not just by promises.

But by the need to win.

*

1968…

He wasn’t thinking clearly—he couldn’t think clearly.

He was too blinded by his rage.

“I want you gone when I get back.” He didn’t mean that. Of course he didn’t. “I don’t care where you go—go to hell. Actually, no, go home with fucking Robbie. Do you want to go home with fucking Robbie?”

When he left the room he slammed the door so hard the house seemed to flinch. His blood was still boiling, his lungs tight. He couldn’t catch his breath.

The weight of what had just happened didn’t wait to crash into him—it hit like a ton of bricks.

Your voice replayed in his mind—begging him to stop. He remembered the sound of the hammer clicking into place, your eyes wide with something beyond fear. The ringing in his ears after the shot.

He wanted to feel remorse, instead he felt like the matter was still unresolved.

He wanted answers.

He stalked to the end of the hallway, fists clenched at his sides, vision blurred.

“Elvis—”

He saw Jerry, halfway up the stairs, breathless.

“You alright?” Jerry asked. “What the hell was that?”

“It’s fine.”

“Was that a gunshot?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

Jerry blinked. “I heard a gun—”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Elvis didn’t answer. He was staring past him, back toward his bedroom door. His breathing was slowing but the tension hadn’t left his jaw.

“She won’t tell me the truth,” he finally said. “So you go in there and ask her what the hell she was doing. Ask her what the hell she’s been doing with Robbie and for how long.”

“Elvis, come on—”

“Go,” he barked, stepping forward. “She’ll tell you.”

Jerry didn’t move at first. Then, reluctantly, he nodded and slipped down the hall. Elvis watched the door open, watched it close, and then he went to sit on the stairs.

He shut his eyes.

The image in his head wouldn’t stop playing.

You.

Your shoulder brushing Robbie’s.

You laughing at something he said.

You leaning in close.

And then you both disappearing into the kitchen.

It was a while before Jerry came back out. Elvis stood the second he heard the door open.

“She says nothing happened.”

“Don’t tell me you believe her.”

Jerry didn’t answer that. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “She’s not okay.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Elvis muttered.

“No. I mean—she’s really not okay.” Jerry met his eyes. “She said she wanted people to think you killed her. Then she just laid down on the floor and stared at herself in my shoes—in the leather. She kept saying she liked them and then she asked me to give her one.”

Elvis shook his head. “She’s just playing the victim.”

Jerry stepped closer. “You pulled a gun on her, man.”

“I didn’t touch her—”

“You pulled a gun on her,” Jerry repeated. “Whatever damage you meant to do, I think you did it.”

He walked past Elvis like he didn’t want to look him in the eye anymore.

“You need to apologize.”

Elvis waited until the house was quiet. The guests were gone. Jerry had disappeared. He stood alone in the foyer, staring at the front door like it might offer a way out of the shame crawling up his back.

He didn’t go back upstairs.

Instead, he went out.

The boutique on Melrose was just opening for the day. The one you used to point at as he drove by, the one you never asked him to stop at because you didn’t want to seem like you wanted anything from him.

He bought the shiniest shoes they had.

Silver. Patent leather. Anything cut low with a delicate strap and a dangerous heel.

They tied each box with a gold ribbon. He didn’t ask for the ribbon—they just gave it to him like it was part of the apology.

When he returned, the hallway was dark, the bedroom door still shut. He carried the boxes in himself and set them down carefully, like placing flowers at a grave.

They wouldn’t fix anything.

But maybe—just maybe—they’d soften the blow of what he’d done.

*

He was still buzzing with energy from the show. There was an excitement in the air that he couldn’t think to share with anyone but you. You were there when he walked off stage, there to kiss him and tell him he did great.

“You were everything,” You had said.

He wanted to stay there in that moment with you, he wanted to run away somewhere and revel in the adrenaline but there was still work to be done.

“Let’s go, E.P., they wanna talk to ya.”

He should’ve blown them off, but he didn’t.

“I gotta let ‘em have me for a little bit but I’ll see upstairs. Find Jerry, he’ll show you how to get back from here.” Even as the words left his mouth he knew there was something off in your expression. It hadn’t changed, you were always good at putting on a brave face. But he couldn’t help but see through the cracks in your smile. “I’ll see you tonight?”

You smiled and nodded but you didn’t say a word. You couldn’t, because then he’d hear it.

He should’ve said something else, instead he glanced you over once more—doing that thing he’d do where he tried to memorize every curve of your expression before you disappeared again—then he turned and followed his crew.

When he looked back you weren’t even standing there anymore. Like you were a figment.

He couldn’t focus on his interviews, he stumbled over his words and lost his train of thought—his brain was completely clogged with the thought of you leaving.

He kept telling himself that you’d be upstairs, but his gut told him otherwise.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights when he got to his room. He just sunk down onto the sofa and stared at the blank television set. He didn’t have to look around to see that you weren’t there.

When the door opened there was a moment when he thought it could possibly be you, but that hope fizzled instantly.

“What Jerry?”

“E…”

Elvis sighed. “You don’t have to say it. She’s gone, I know.”

Jerry’s silence caused him to turn his head and for the first time he saw his expression.

“Jerry, man, what’s going on?”

“I-I…Calvin was d-driving her to the airport and he…t-there was an accident—“

“What?”

“He called—“

“Are they alright—where is she?”

“…You gotta get to the hospital right now.”

There were so many things he would’ve done differently. So many things he wouldn’t have said, things he would’ve said more. But none of that mattered, because now it was too late.

He didn’t remember getting there. Didn’t remember the lights or the questions or the way people moved out of his way like they could see it on his face, like they knew.

Calvin was sitting in the waiting room, blood on his shirt, eyes red and swollen.

“I tried, boss,” he said hoarsely. “I swerved out of the way. I swear I swerved—”

Elvis barely heard him. “Where is she?” he asked.

“They—they took her back. They tried everything. She was still breathing when they pulled her out. But—” Calvin broke off, sobbing.

Elvis didn’t wait. He pushed through the doors.

They let him in.

And he instantly wished they hadn’t.

You were there. So still. Too still. Tubes and wires where there shouldn’t have been. A bruise blooming across your temple. Lips parted just slightly, like you were sleeping.

He couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t want to.

It wasn’t grief at first. It was something deeper. Colder. Like his soul had been vacuumed out and all that was left was the shell of a man who loved you more than life.

He stayed with you. For hours. Holding your hand long after it had gone cold.

“Elvis…come on. You gotta let go now.”

“No—“

“You have to.”

He made the arrangements. Paid for everything. Picked the flowers himself, the music, the clothes they’d dress you in. He talked to people he hadn’t seen in years just to make sure the funeral was perfect.

It was all he could do.

And people came. So many people. More than he expected. Men and women and old friends and strangers who stood up and told stories about how you changed their lives. Little things. Big things. A kindness here. A conversation there. It was all proof you had existed. That you were real.

But none of it brought you back.

Afterward, Elvis didn’t slow down. If anything, he sped up. He threw himself into performing. Rehearsals, lights, crowds that roared like they knew who he was.

But he didn’t.

Life became a blur of sweat and sequins. He laughed when he was supposed to, sang like it didn’t hurt. But inside, there was nothing left.

He faded.

Slowly, and then all at once.

.𝒻𝒾𝓃.

[my-sun-m00n-and-stars]

Cad Bane Character Analysis: Part 1--Tales of the Underworld Ep 1

In this blog series I will be going through all of Cad Bane's appearances in Star Wars Canon, and making commentary on what each piece of media reveals about his character.

Next

Episode 1: The Good Life Before we even get a glimpse of Bane, we see the setting that he has grown up in. Some call it "Space Chicago" in absence of us knowing which exact planet it is.

What's interesting about this place is that it does not appear to be a city planet such as Coruscant, where the entire surface is covered by development. In the background we can see a forest and a river (chicago river!!). This area in particular also does not appear to have skyscrapers, and rather compact, close to the ground buildings. The sky is a beige, tannish color, which indicates pollution.

The city's state of pollution can further be seen in the next shot.

Trash lines the streets. The buildings are dingy. This is far from a wealthy neighborhood. Also, something interesting to point out is that everyone is wearing warm clothing, implying that the area is cold (chicago once again folks). Taking a closer look at the people, we see a diverse assortment of aliens. The prominent populations on this planet appear to be duros and human, with a healthy mix of all of the other species.

What does this tell us about Bane before we even see him? A lot, actually. One's childhood environment shapes a lot about their personality. The mix of environment---dense city with surrounding nature---gives a clue to how Bane grew up to be adaptable to hundreds of different planets in his bounty hunting travels. He probably learned to swim in that dirty river, splashed around in it with Niro. Perhaps they dared to venture out into the surrounding wilderness a couple of times to forage for food, giving him his first experience taking the lay of the land, maybe hunting down small mammals for food if they were desperate enough. However, I think that they would have mostly stuck to the city. The woods are a scary place, man.

The amount of trash and pollution could not have been a healthy environment for him to grow up in, with these types of areas causing increased respiratory and cardiovascular illnesses, as well as cancer. That could give a clue as to why his voice is so gravelly (although thirty years of probable chain-smoking doesn't help either).

Cad Bane is not a squeamish man, and I reckon that got stamped out of him from a young age by growing up in filth. This kid has probably witnessed rampant drug use, shootings, and prostitution before he was old enough to even understand what he was looking at. All of this behavior would have become extremely normalized to him. Environments such as this lead to desensitization, which at an early age leads to problems with developing empathy. Sound familiar?

Growing up in deep poverty is a trauma. Bane is possessive, because he knows what it's like to have nothing. He's resourceful, because he had to be to survive. He's suspicious, having grown up surrounded by people willing to take everything he had. Also, growing up in a cold environment as a reptile(?) is particularly harsh.

He's also experienced diverse groups of people. Humans, rodians, pantorans, and all of the other species we see that I don't know the names of. Due to this, I don't think he would be particularly close-minded or prejudice to someone on account of their species. Not that he is a very politically correct man (because he most certainly is not). But he would not have that fundamental mistrust of "outsiders" that someone who grew up in a monocultural small town might have. Growing up in a "melting pot", one learns the strength in diversity, which is reflected in his later years when he picks his teams for jobs. He employs vastly different species, including droids, accorrding to their talents.

Alright, enough yapping. It hasn't even been thirty seconds yet.

Our first appearance of Bane!! Or should I say Colby? I caught something interesting in this first scene where they're scrounging through the trash. Colby picks up a cup out of the bin and starts licking at it. Niro comes up to try and get some, and Colby scowls and pushes him away. It's kind of hard to catch in a screenshot, but you can see a bit of it. There it is, that self-preservation and possessiveness that I was talking about, even when it comes to his best friend. This is not a "caring is sharing" kind of kid.

Touching on the choice of the name "Colby". Colby is a name that has its roots in "coal" mining settlements (Coal-by). Given the industrial state of this planet, it would not be a stretch to assume there there is heavy mining work going on here, which would contribute to pollution. Nowadays in America Colby is regarded as a rather "country" sounding name, which suits the cowboy background. It is also rather ironic that his true name is so goofy, compared to the sinister name we all know him by. It represents his childhood innocence.

Back to the episode. We get some info from a news broadcast in the background.

The reporter states that there has been an increase in gang violence in the area, which implies that it was not always so that way. But Colby is probably too young to remember it any other way.

Further contributing to the idea that space chicago was not always such a dump, we have this middle class duros family clutching their pearls at the lowly street urchins. Encounters like this are what leads to Bane disliking rich people, despite his drive for money. He can't stand being looked down upon. Reputation is everything to him, and he actually cares quite a bit what other people think of him in that regard.

Is that duros cultural attire that I see? That is quite the headdress, sir. Also Blik has duros vitiligo? Cool!

But now it's time to address the elephant in the room. Boobgate.

Yes, the mom has boobs. There's no denying it, sadly, and we are left to interpret the implications for the species. Canon does not explicitly state that duros are reptilian, although Cad Bane has been referred to by Lucasfilm officials as having "reptilian patience". This is distinct from Legends, which explicitly states that duros are reptilian.

Also, not every duros female had boobs. Arin did not have boobs, but maybe she was just a member of the itty bitty titty committee. The mayor lady also did not have boobs.

Theory 1: There are subspecies of duros, and some are more "mammalian" than others. We only see blue duros with boobs. Maybe blue duros are more platypus-esque? I like this theory because it means that theoretically, as a blue duros, Cad Bane is breedable with humans ;)

Theory 2: Boob job or bra stuffing. Lady has money, and she wanted to fit in with the galactic beauty standards.

Theory 3: Egg sacs/something egg related.

Lucasfilm is obviously being lazy by giving lizard lady boobs. However, I do want to point out that Cid, a trandoshan woman from the Bad Batch, does not have boobs. She is also heavier-set, and it would make sense for her to have boobs purely as fat deposits. However, she is animated as flat in the chest area. Disney has accomplished flat reptile women before, so why not now? Are duros no longer reptilian?

Enough on that tangent. I'm going with platypus.

Shoutout to this cute little stinker face Colby pulls at the store owner. He always had a mischevious streak to him.

And who is that fine-ass man I spy in the background?

DADDY'S HOME!!

In all seriousness, can we please discuss the facial similarities to Clint Eastwood?

He's literally him but duros. His voice is also strikingly similar. I believe this was done on purpose, as Cad Bane is based off of Angel Eyes from the same Clint Eastwood film, the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Angel Eyes is a sociopathic mercenary who will kill anyone in his path. His hands are rated E for Everyone (including a young woman he beats the crap out of). Just keep him in mind when thinking about poor innocent Colby.

Anyways, we see Colby and Niro pull a street scam on poor CB that they've obviously done before, which catches Lazlo's attention. And although that man is Fine, we have to call this what it is. Grooming.

Lazlo is on the lookout for youngsters he can pull into his gang, because he knows they're reckless and impressionable, and unlikely to challenge him. And most importantly, they're disposable. This is a sad reflection of reality in many parts of the world, particularly South America with cartel violence that employs teen boys. Later on in this arc we see the extent to which Colby "imprints" on Lazlo.

In the next scene, we see Lazlo approach the boys. A couple of things I want to point out here: One observation was just how fast the boys reacted to his shadow. They're constantly on edge. Second, is the look of sheer desperation that comes across Colby's face at the credit chip that gets flicked at them.

He's looking at it like he's willing to risk it all for this measly chip. And then he snatches it from Niro and gives him this look.

Things were always going to end up growing sour between the two of them. Bane is too selfish. Look at him baring his little teeth! The seeds of discord have already been sewn.

CRUNCHIES! This is so freaking cute. And heartbreaking. As any child would, instead of spending the money on something sensible, they get as many sweets as they can carry. Whoever came up with the headcanon that Bane carries old man rock candies was 100% correct. Was that you @sinisterexaggerator?

We next get the equally heartbreaking scene of Colby licking the empty box of crunchies. It's really a great touch on part of the animation department to demonstrate just how hungry these kids are.

Poor kid is an orphan, or at the very least has absent parents. This begs the question of what kind of foster system this planet has. Sadly, in areas of the world where gangs have jurisdiction rather than law enforcement, social services go out the window. People pay taxes to the cartels to keep them safe, rather than the government, and that money does not go to maintaining a child welfare system.

However, I actually believe that Bane would think this is a fault of the establishment, rather than the gangs, considering how he grows up to join a gang and hate the law. Unfortunately, he fully drank the Lazlo kool-aid. Niro is the one who grows up to see gangs for the evil that they are. But in a way, it is the establishment's fault for allowing gangs to thrive in the first place, isn't it?

To further emphasize this point, we get a scene of the boys watching a police chase. Look at the excitement and intrigue on Colby's face. He's enthralled. It's a sad phenomenon that little boys are taught to idolize violence and lawlessness.

(and just to be clear, this is not copaganda. i could go into a whole spiel on how law enforcement contributes to this cycle, but it's not relevant here)

Just wanna point out how smarmy baby Bane already sounds, especially with this line. You can totally hear future Bane. Further shown when he negotiates with Lazlo for the credits. Also going to point out the dynamic once more between Colby and Niro. Colby is all in on the deal, whereas Niro exercises caution. He doesn't have that Enterprising Spirit like Colby does.

"So what? He's got money."

"It's not worth it."

"You're right. We want ten."

Niro is concerned about the danger they might be put in, whereas Colby does not once consider it. He was always going to do the job. He just needed the right price.

Here we have the first murder the boys witness up close. They're both visibly shaken, but Colby shakes it off much quicker than Niro does, the sweetheart.

Now we have the big scene, where Colby leaves Niro behind to get arrested. How ironic that the boy who was cautious and unwilling is the one who gets caught.

Colby obviously is very upset that Niro got caught. And something incredibly poignant is that not even the sight of credits is enough to cheer him up.

Look at this sad little kid. The whole episode, we see him glaring at Niro over anything of value. Now he's holding more money than he's ever seen in his life, and all he can think about is his friend. *sob* Funny how things will change over time, isn't it?

To cut Colby some slack, there's not much he could have done for him. I suppose the "noble" thing to do would have been to stick with him and allow himself to get captured as well, but I'm not going to fault this little kid for not doing that. However, I find it interesting that Niro is able to brush this off once they are older, and yet Bane holds a grudge against him for a "betrayal" that is objectivel y of less magnitude. But I'll talk about that in the next post, as this is far too long already.

To summarize the main points: Colby is a product of nature and nurture. He and Niro had the same upbringing and exhibit similar traits (resourcefulness, selfishness, desperation), and yet they still turn out to be two distinct people even before they get separated. Colby has a more cunning, and more mean streak to him. That's just not in Niro's nature.

Next

[monkey-wrench-series]

*EDIT* Annnnd the campaign is over! THanks to all of you who were able to support us! In the end we sold a total of 954 Scratches and 893 Scritches. That's the most amount of plushies we've ever sold in one go, fingers crossed this gives us a good chunk of change to get Ep 4 underway!

We'll update everyone on everything once the 1st of Feb hits.

Just under 3 hours left to grab the cat boys before they're gone forever! Every purchase goes towards funding ep 4!

(Excerpt from our up coming outtakes vid)

[applelzp]

High performance compaction system for EPS foam parts

[ducktracy]

SOMETHING ABOUT HOW PORKY LOOKS IN LTC AND TDTEBU LOOKS WEIRD TO ME

LIKE

HIS EYES

THEYRE TOO.. BIG?? DETAILED?? IT'S WEIRD CUZ I LIKE LONG EYED PORKY BUT NOT IN LTC CAN YOU TRY AND ARTICULATE IT FOR ME

AWWWW i love the tall eyes personally!! i think they fit his face volume well, nice slim contrast to his round head to create visual interest

i think it's a Jim Soper thing... and Jim's probably my favorite living artist lol. it is funny comparing the LTC model to the TDTEBU model though, he's adorable in LTC but in revisiting some eps since TDTEBU's release i can't shake some of the "his proportions are too even"-ness of it out. but it also depends on the ep. the eps that Jim does layouts on tend to look the best and most naturalistic, i know this first model was pretty early into production

as for what might be squicking you out though.. hm. it's hard to say, but Porky's design has a lot of golden age "cuteness points" baked in. for the same reason a lot of cartoon babies are drawn with huge foreheads, he has that big ol' forehead that can make him seem cuter and enunciate this sort of round... "fleshy" sounds gross when i say it HAHA but "fleshy" i guess appeal. again, very baby-esque

this Bob McKimson model sheet does a good job of showing that appeal, even if he often seems to give Porky these tiny, beady little eyes that can read as UNappealing... which is perfect for the cynicism and grounded humor of his shorts, where Porky is at some of his most violent and awful (which are some of the shorts i laugh hardest at) HAHA. but it kind of gives off this feeling of him not having properly grown into all of his features yet, and that makes him seem more cute and compact

in my near 6 years of drawing him, this is always something i've STILL been stuck on. i tend to default to the taller eyes because i really love the contrast they give against the roundness of his face--i like big eyes in general, and i admit i'm more won over by that appeal than by "big forehead" appeal... but there is something to having his eyes smaller. it gives a sort of modest and demure appeal that perfectly fits his character. i go back and forth on what i wanna go with him..

i actually just found this pig i'd doodled last year while i was looking for screenshots: this has its own appeal but it feels naked to me!! maybe i needed to angle the eyes forward more. this feels a little uncanny to me. but it has an appeal of its own

i think i'm also biased to the tall eyes because John Carey's my favorite Porky (and in the running for all-time favorite) animator, hugely influential to how i draw Porky and tall(er) eyes are his specialty... just love that contrast of slim and tall against his round, pudgy baby face. it matches his tall, slim ears which is a great balance!! aaaagh! these are so appealing to me personally

actually all my favorite Porky animators usually draw him with tall or huge eyes... Bill Melendez and Rod Scribner have entered the chat. particularly Melendez in terms of the wide eyes (top three)

my god isn't this such a good drawing. Scribner's a frequent culprit for my favorite animated scenes of all time, this being one of them

BUT YEAH! i think a more forehead-forward pig maybe connotes a bit more of a modest, reserved, baby-ish charm which is all perfect for Porky's character. a lot of the wider eyed expressions i used above are certainly for more high octane moments, i can see how it might be weird or off putting too have Too Much Eye on his face... i guess the overlap in shape language is stronger with the wide eyes and wide face. i personally prefer it, or a mix between that and the tall eyes, just because i like a more wide-eyed Porky--it's personally cuter to me and i think there's something to be had with that wide eyed innocence. i very much would love to learn how to effectively capture a more modest appeal with smaller eyes, but i haven't quite figured it out yet...

[vestaclinicpod]

Audio Drama Sunday - 23rd February ✨

I haven’t had time to listen to as much as I wanted to, but what have had time to listen to was pure gold as always! 

🌲 @hellofromthehallowoods (181) I think it’s such a testament to the power of the character work and story-telling in Hallowoods that I can go literal months without hearing about a character’s arc, but then immediately know exactly what they were doing when we left them. Also, words can’t really express how much I love Ray. The Rescher twins using the ancient, forgotten technology of . . . a compact disc makes me feel kind of old and kind of sad! 

🦋 @remnantspod (29) “Even when you rest you’re trying to leave me.” Oh my god, there was so MUCH in this episode. The infatuation. The accent. It was so interesting to see the apprentice from an outsider’s view. I reject the notion that Sir knows him better than he knows himself. Or, rather, I strongly suspect that the Apprentice still has a few surprises in store. I may be dumb for not realising this earlier, but was the other dust that Sir spoke to the remnant of Edwin’s mother?? I’m trying to decide whether to dive into the ?last ep tomorrow or relisten from the start to catch all the threads before listening. There’ll probably be something huge in the finale that will change the way I view everything all over again!! 

🌨️ @thewhitevault (18) Oh my god WHAT a cliffhanger!! I’ve said multiple times that no-one is doing it like The White Vault and this episode is such a great example of that!!! 

🔮 @spiritboxradio (1.10) Sam, hun, are you alright? 😳 (I don’t think the answer is yes) 

Wish me luck for my job interview tomorrow!! Hopefully I can find time to chill and listen to pods this week before I start prepping for the next one!

[neatotito]

Monkey Wrench Merch!

Get yourself some cuddly cat boy plushies! They're only up for a limited time so order yours while they last!

Plush not your style? We have shirts, hats, pins, and sticker sheets at our FourthWall store!

All proceeds go right into future eps! 🐵🔧

[phantasyviolence]

The EP-133 K.O. Il is a sampler and composer by Swedish company Teenage Engineering.

Running on 4 AAA batteries, the K.O. ii is compact enough to fit most travel situations , and comes with 64 MB of memory, 12 punch-in effects, and a built-in mic.

While analog composing may have been surpassed by digital, there’s definitely a charm to be found pushing buttons and discovering new sounds.

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

ROLL YOUR WAY TO FREEDOM WITH THIS BABY BLARING ON THE STEREO -- ONLY ON MAN'S RUIN.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on the now out-of-print "Sun Creature" CD/EP by American stoner rock band NEBULA. The band's second EP was released under the legendary Man's Ruin Records in March 1999 and contains a nine-minute-long bonus track entitled "Fly On" exclusive to the Man's Ruin CD pressing. Sleeve art/package design by Frank Kozik (1962-2023).

OVERVIEW: "After leaving FU MANCHU, guitarist Eddie Glass and drummer Rubin Romano formed a new band, NEBULA, and continued to record for Man's Ruin. Those who heard Fu Manchu's "Eatin' Dust" will find "Sun Creature" to be quite similar. Like FU MANCHU, NEBULA is greatly influenced by the classic heavy metal and hard rock of the early '70s and favors a stripped down and garage-like sound.

You won't find any more pop gloss on this four-song EP than you found on "Eatin' Dust" -- NEBULA is fueled by raw energy on the slow burners "Fly On" (which is heard as a bonus track on the EP's CD version), "Sun Creature," "Smokin' Woman" and "Rollin' My Way to Freedom."

PART III/END: Though the similarities between NEBULA and FU MANCHU are impossible to miss, this band is more apt to get into jamming and long solos. "Sun Creature" isn't mind-blowing, but it has enough raw energy and enthusiasm to make it enjoyable."

-- ALLMUSIC (review by Alex Henderson)

Sources: www.discogs.com/release/1705901-Nebula-Sun-Creature, Album of the Year, Allmusic, various, etc...

[blackdigitalrose]

I wanted to attempt it on my tablet but the touch screen isn't working right now, so I figured I'd do a quick sketch of my initial ideas. I'll try to tidy it up and colour it.

If Toei won't make them Cures, their are plenty out there who will... I'm also aware they could derail the whole thing on Sunday but considering the latest wave of merch still uses their names only, I'd think its safe to say they're only helpers. (boo)

Item - Pocket Watch Tried to get it to fit in with the girls compact but nothing too busy or extravagant, after all they are boys however, like Yuki and Mayu, gave it a more personal touch highlighting the duo in question.

The clock hands are meant to be carrots. With an emphasis on the Niko diamond (just because of the light used to transform in the show is very much the same as Niko just using her power.)

I'm not 100% sold on these yet but just in case they aren't clear.

Satoru - Reflecting the light of knowledge with this world. Allow me to help guide the way.

Cure Kagami!

Daifuku - An offering of courage shared with this world. Balance and harmony together. Cure Mochi!

Pyonderful Precure.

The pose idea came from the latest acrylics and some dance vids of the intro and outro.

After ep 49, I do see them as a joint transformation over two solo ones. Just giving each other a high-five finale and strike a pose.

(The Wonderful Cure names have no pattern and I'm surprised none actually reference the Mirror Stone in some way as it is rather key to everything.)