#man and van slough

[quickhouseremovalsltd]

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[ayumigotabittoolonelyquitted]

The birth king web ( mahito/ this was actually my dream)

The Birth King's Web Horror

It started as a rumor. A website that kills. Nobody believed it until people started vanishing. No screams. No blood. Just… gone. First, the stray dogs and cats. Then children. Then entire families. The city became a graveyard of locked doors and unanswered cries.

Those who remained whispered about him.

A man with a stitched smile. A voice like laughter breaking through static. The Birth King.

And then we found the phone.

The Phone That Should Have Stayed in the Trash

It was sitting there, half-buried in garbage. Just an old, cracked phone, buzzing faintly like it was alive.

Dipung (my friends name) kicked it. "Looks broken."

I don’t know why I picked it up. Maybe curiosity. Maybe the weird, wrong feeling that crept down my spine when I saw it. Maybe just maybe it wanted to be found.

The screen was shattered, but it still worked. It flickered to life, and a website auto-loaded.

DO YOU ACCEPT THE GIFT?

No back button. No home screen. Just those words, glowing in the dark. (We were going for coaching)

Dipung muttered, "Turn that shit off."

I tried. The phone wouldn’t turn off.

Then, from the speaker

"You already clicked it~"

And suddenly, everything went wrong.

A van screeched to a stop. Black-gloved hands grabbed us. Cloth over my mouth. The world spun, turned black

The House of No Escape

When we woke up, we were somewhere else.

Not a basement. Not a torture room.

A house. But the walls breathed. The ceiling pulsed, veins crawling under the paint like something alive. The air smelled of rot, sweat, and something worse something wrong.

Mahito was waiting.

Not with a knife. Not with chains. He didn’t need them. He grinned, tilting his head like a child watching an insect squirm.

"Let’s make something new today."

The Killings Begin

We weren’t alone. Three of us. Me, Dipung, and a third guy (I don't know his name). He was already crying. He must’ve seen something we hadn’t yet.

Mahito walked up to him first. A slow, lazy stride. No rush.

He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. And then

CRACK.

His body collapsed in on itself. Bones snapped like twigs. His mouth stretched too wide, teeth spilling out as his face melted into something monstrous. His hands twisted backward, fingers splitting into jagged, useless chunks. He was still alive. Still screaming.

"Oops! That wasn’t a good one. Let’s try again!"

Another touch. His flesh ripped apart and reformed, his legs bending like a spider’s, his skin sloughing off in wet, meaty chunks. He didn’t even look human anymore. Just… wrong.

I turned to run. Mahito let me.

I sprinted outside. Screamed for help. Nobody opened their doors.

But I saw them. I SAW THEM.

Behind the windows. Peeking through cracked doors. They heard me. They saw me.

And one by one

They shut their curtains.

They locked their doors.

I banged on a neighbor’s house. “PLEASE! HELP ME! LET ME IN!”

I saw an old man inside, his hands trembling. He shook his head, mouthing, I’m sorry.

A woman someone’s mother hugged her child tight, eyes filled with terror. She didn’t even look at me. Just turned off the lights and disappeared into the dark.

I kept running. Kept screaming.

Nobody came.

They knew.

They knew and they let it happen.

I stumbled to my house. The door was unlocked. I ran inside, slammed it shut, and turned

The walls were moving.

Veins. Pulsing.

My house wasn’t my house anymore.

Then, laughter behind me. Slow. Taunting.

"You didn't think I'd let you go, did you?"

I turned. Mahito was there, still smiling. Holding a knife.

I grabbed my own blade and stabbed him. Once. Twice. A dozen times.

He just laughed.

"This is so much fun!"

Pain bloomed in my stomach. Warm. Spreading. I looked down his knife was already inside me. When did that happen? How deep? My legs gave out.

Mahito leaned in, voice soft, almost gentle.

"I wonder… what will you look like when I'm done?"

And then i wake up. Heart pounding. Hands shaking. But the worst part?

MY phone screen is still on.

And the website is still there.

I swear I saw this shit in my dream it wasn't mahito a random dude and it was 10000 more scarier, I was crying and screaming

[paranoidginger]

Lab-rat part 20

Tw: Angst, Gore

Getting him back home was a struggle, the Medic having traded seats with Soldier so that he could stay in the back of the van with their all too delicate cargo. Despite his basic function of breathing, and his heart still beating, albeit far too slowly for the Medic's liking, Bait was unresponsive.

The only discussions weren't of celebration. They couldn't celebrate getting the young man back yet... The only sound was worried murmurings, and concerned questions. The time between receiving the clone and arriving back at their home base was the first time Spy had cried out in the open...

The sight was jarring, especially for Scout and the Sniper. Demo and Engineer were the ones to comfort him, despite their own worries for the catatonic young man they sat beside. The cot he was on just barely fit between the two rows of seats lining either side of the back of the van, and he was frequently met with gentle, full hand pats from the Pyro, who mumbled the occasional muffled 'hello' in attempts to raise a response from the man.

The entire ride, Bait remained unresponsive to any external stimuli, a shell of himself, trapped inside his own head. The familiar voices seeped into his mind, flooding his nightmares with familiar faces that were just ever so slightly wrong...

Even in his mind, he could not move. He could not cry, or call out for help, the space where his mouth should have been replaced with nothing more than a smoothed over patch of skin. He was paralyzed, tied down and forced to watch as chunks of his skin sloughed off and peeled away, exposing muscle, then bone. He could feel himself rotting. The rot crept from his extremities, eventually reaching his torso, his insides falling out as gloved red gloved hands tore into him. He could only watch as the man's face morphed, red turning to blue. He was on a table again, unrestrained, and yet he still couldn't move. He couldn't help but notice the tears on the doctor's face as he examined the man's innerworkings... Bait felt cold, and nothing the Medic did hurt... This wasn't an experiment, nor was it an examination... It was an autopsy. He was watching the distraught man conduct his autopsy...

Once they arrived back at the base, Bait was quickly moved inside and carted to the medical bay, where the Medic would be able to find what the mad doctor had done to put the young man in such a state. The Spy helped as much as he could, refusing to leave Bait's side as the Medic got to work, cutting away the old bandages to reveal the damage underneath.

It was clear that the other medic had not been the one to close the wounds, the clone's skin stapled hastily back together, and he still bled as the bandages were pulled away. The spy couldn't help but cringe as he saw the full extent of the damage, watching as the Medic hastily set up his medigun and began removing the staples holding the wounds shut.

It took some time to properly close the wounds, flushing beneath the torn and cut skin with sterile saline before he could move on to reattaching the young man's hand. Spy watched carefully, despite the process making him squirm, sitting in a chair at the head of the cot, gently petting Bait's hair and speaking quiet reassurances to his son.

Once he was back in one piece, and the wounds across his torso had been healed shut, the Medic briefly left, returning with a blood bag and IV stand, beginning an infusion. He took the risk of not using pain medications, it was better to know that he was feeling pain and beginning to wake up than it was to potentially overdose him. Eventually, he was moved to a recovery bed in the medbay, yet again hooked up to monitors and IVs as he lay, rarely blinking and still unresponsive in his bed.

It took a couple of days for the young man to break out of his stupor, the Spy rarely leaving his side as he waited for his boy to finally wake up. He was there when it finally happened, a small whimper as Bait's hand closed weakly around the Spy's. The man nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt the pressure around his hand, taking a sharp breath as he looked up to the young man's face, a tearful smile crossing his face as he placed a hand against the boy's cheek.

"I-I'm here, I'm here. It's okay!" The spy spoke softly, gently squeezing Bait's hand as he brushed his thumb across the boy's cheek. "Oh mon Dieu... Docteur! Docteur, he is waking up!" The Spy stood up, still gently holding onto his son as he called for the Medic, who swiftly arrived, a relieved smile on his face as he entered the small curtained room.

[To Be Continued]

Part 19

Hello! Rowan here, thank you so much for enjoying this series! I will be going on a short hiatus before continuing and concluding Bait's story. I know I have been updating this fairly quickly, but I will be going on a week long camping trip starting this Sunday, and I need to take the time to pack and such.

Thank you again for reading, and for all of the positive feedback I've been receiving, I'm so happy that you are so invested in this silly little series that I decided to start on a whim, it truly makes me so happy to know that my work is being enjoyed!

@thatonesimp-e @gravitytrips @realccre @aniolleq

[jroycethethird]

setting: friday night at sunset drive in, echo acres

featuring: j. royce van doren iii & cecile van doren @cecevandoren

The sky above Lunar Cove darkened, a seasonably warm and clear night. Royce zipped down the streets in Goldie Hawn — his yellow ‘73 Alfa Romeo Giulia Spider Veloce 2000 — with her top off and looking stunning in the glow of the downtown streetlights. A flashy car for an often times flashy man, the kind he only ever brought out on humid summer days and nights when the sunlight shown off her hood exquisitely. Lately, though, his mind had been overcome with so much, that he hadn’t had much of a desire for joy rides in his pretentious vintage cars. The Catalyst. The Coven. The Council. All things that took so much of his time and attention, that kept him in some level of stress he hid behind carefully crafted and winsome smiles, a lofty attitude, or simply by locking himself away in his office at the back of the gallery. That futon offered a comfortable spot for many a restless afternoon when he just needed a little shut eye, if it would even come to him. But these lazy tactics just wouldn’t do much longer. After the grief of losing yet another coven member, Royce needed a far better respite than just an afternoon nap. And his other favored way of clearing up frustration was unavailable, at least until much later he figured. That left him with one other potential, one he thought may have been the most centering idea he’d had but regrettably didn’t come to first.

Swerving to a stop by the sidewalk, he’d leaned back in his seat and eyed the entrance of New Leaf, sniffing indignantly at the sight of it. He wasn’t here for new reading material, no. Most of his books he got in various languages from charming book stores on his visits abroad, or in estate sales and auctions as coveted first editions, all pressed tightly into bookcases back home. Novels didn’t entice him today, instead he was there for the blonde who had just barely ducked out the front door. The blonde who was so far above this ridiculous little retail job she stumbled into. “Cece,” he called, grabbing her attention with a wide grin and a single wave of his hand. No doubt she was looking for Bernie in one of the sleek black SUVs the family typically entrusted to staff, but was met instead by the sight of her brother in his ostentatious yellow convertible, prescription sunglasses hanging low on his nose as he beckoned her over. Hair wind blown and tousled while devoid of his usual three piece suit, Royce sat there in a crisp white button down, his jacket and vest neatly tucked away in the back, tie long forgotten. His sleeves were crumpled up to his elbows, collar undone and the top buttons on his shirt unfastened to reveal the scooped neck of a thin white undershirt beneath. If one squinted at him, they may have even noticed his shirt was untucked. He looked utterly unkempt by his standards, nothing like the J. Royce Van Doren III he presented in public, but Cece would see him then for who he was: Tripp, the Van Doren boy who liked running off on untold adventures or silly little inconsequential hijinks once the responsibility of life weighed too heavily on him, sloughing that stern and accountable persona in favor of something a little more relaxed.

By the time she drew near he was leaning over and pushing open the passenger’s door. “Blythe called,” he said, “She’s got a late meeting with the historical society, and the old man took off to Fuck Know’s Where for the night. Kath’s at the country club with that tennis instructor she has a shine for, God she’ll eat them alive. …I think that leaves you and I to our own devices. I figured I could steal you away for some proper brother-sister bonding time. Better than staying cooped up in ol’ Greenie all night.” He referred so affectionately to their aptly named emerald family home, Verdant Vale Hall, where a quiet night in alone with a book likely awaited Cecile. But by God, they could do better. It had been a while since he had really dedicated time to either of his younger sisters, or the family in general, and while he wouldn’t say it out loud, it was certainly weighing on Tripp. It dripped something blue in his heart, seeing Blythe scared to the point of fainting last month on the full moon and for him to have not been there right when it happened to shoulder the burden. He was learning quick that his globe trotting cowardly on the run ways were no good to anyone, especially the Van Doren women he loved so dearly. If only he could properly change.

“The Drive-In’s showing classics — Bing Crosby, Grace Kelly, Sinatra in High Society. Or was it Grace and Jimmy Stewart in Read Window? …Whatever, point is they’re showing old movies, and I thought it could be fun.” He reached into a small cooler on the floor before the passenger seat and pulled out a pint of Talenti’s Gelato Layers. Black Raspberry Vanilla Parfait, which he knew was a favorite of hers. “And I don’t come empty handed,” he grinned, but he withheld the ice cream as he motioned for her to sit. “C’mon, humor your old brother, won’t you? Before I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil.” Tripp sighed dramatically, before straightening in his seat. He had initially, when the tragedy first struck, thought about jet setting to Mykonos for a hedonistic respite, but he supposed there were great difficulties here in town that required him to stick around, and it wasn’t all too safe to just leave. Maybe this, a relaxed night with his darling little sister, could be just as nice a break from the chaotic noise, in spirit, as a Grecian getaway. Likely not the same, but he could try to enjoy himself more innocently.

[llaberration]

I.S.M.I - Chapter Fifteen

The next several hours were a flurry of reports. Hal was juggling reporting on Desmond with reporting on the extraction thereof. Kaplain and Sayer were helping out, doing an excellent job as well, and Green was preparing a real exploration robot with proper capabilities on Hal's request. He wanted it to go in and search the lost and found for Desmond's missing possessions... most importantly anything that would ID the man. Phone, wallet... he doubted their new friend would willingly give up his address to a sinister and mysterious organisation and though they had access to ways and means of getting it properly, it would save them a lot of time if he could get it elsewhere.

With the most important work begun, Hal finally agreed to watch the footage captured of the lights-out, and the two distinct differently 'entities' the cameras had caught. Even in the night vision of he cameras, it was not entirely clear what either one of them was. One type was hard to make out, a swirling, translucent mix of black tendrils, lumps and teeth. There appeared to be several of those sloughing around during the period that the team had been still during the long wait. As he watched, Hal guessed to himself that their movement and body layout was vaguely that of a quadruped, but one with so many additional limbs and/or tendrils that it was impossible to be certain.

The second entity captured, they only had a few frames of. It was a distinct creature that appeared only briefly to look directly into Hal's body camera. It wasn't remotely like the other entities, this one was very much solid. Examining the best frame of it they had, which was just an eye, it looked like the 'skin' of the creature was dark, and not smooth but looked spun or woven... like material or silk. The eye set into it was reflective in the night vision of the camera, but not like that of a mammal. The reflection was diffused, as though the eye wasn't made up of one single structure. It had no iris, pupil or white, no surrounding structure like eyelids or lashes. In fact the only thing that made it distinct, as an eye, was its shape, and the way it was inset into the surrounding structure. It didn't really look real, apart from the glassiness of the eye and the way it moved as it stared into the camera. Really, both entities' images were so incomplete, that it left them with more questions than answers.

By the time early evening came, Hal was edging on being grumpy, simply because he was tired of reports, caffeine deprived from not wanting to caffeinate Deacon when he was still jumpy, and desperate for the little man to go back to laying comfortably. He finished up his observations report of the incident and sent it off before quietly requesting the earpieces from Kaplain and Sayer, knowing it was time to talk to Deacon. Kaplain seemed concerned it was being taken from him, but Hal put it in the perspective that he'd get it back as soon as they were done talking, at which point he could check the man was okay. And besides, as an an investigator, he could have a private conversation with literally anyone else and nobody would worry, which prompted the man to agree and turn the equipment over.

At that point, he took himself off to the van, and went up to his bunk, closing the privacy curtain and gently pressing at Deacon. “Hey. It's time to talk to me,” he said gently, “You've been sitting like a lump of lead all afternoon, and you've given me quite a tummy ache so... I think it's time we discuss this.”

“Oh, sorry Hal... I didn't realise...”

“Don't worry about it, I know you've got a lot on your mind. But you know what they say, a problem shared is a problem halved. So come on. Talk to me.”

“Well... I've been... remembering more and more about... the time in the mall when I had been 'disappeared.' Not in the crane machine but... before that. I still don't have much, snippets and images mostly but they're memories that I feel I'm not supposed to have. Like they weren't supposed to be left in my head...”

“You think it tried to scrub your memory somehow?”

“Maybe? I remember... some kind of machine but... it had symbols on it, looked like a hybrid of magic and technology of some kind... then a flash of pain, intense pain... like my entire body was being squeezed and my organs didn't fit... then that... eye. The one from your camera today... looking at me from only inches away. I know I was already small then because it was huge to me... seeing it today I just...”

Hal felt the small body shudder, and he gently patted at his stomach before starting to press with gentle fingers, seeking contact with the small man, “That must have been a shock.”

Deacon felt the movements and came to gently press back against him, tiny hands squashing into the flesh as he tried to dig through to the gentle hand on the other side. “I... had no idea how unprepared I was for it until I saw it on my tablet. I swear... it was like it was looking for me. Specifically looking into the camera, searching for me specifically...”

Hal gently stroked at the small man as he felt the points of pressure against his fingertips. “I don't think it could possibly see through the camera like that. That's not how they work. If anything, it was looking to scare you. Whatever runs these places seems to operate specifically on scaring people...”

“Well it worked. I was scared.”

“So were Sayer and Kaplain when you cried out... they thought I'd been taken or something and that's why you were shouting...”

“I'm sorry. I put you in danger, moving and crying out like I did... if I had made you react...”

“Don't think about it,” Hal gently pressed at the small man. “It didn't happen. I wouldn't have let it.”

“How are you always so okay?!” The small man suddenly demanded, not in an aggressive tone, but highly emotional. “You come so close to death so often and you don't even react to it... one glance from a weird eye and I'm in bits... how are you like this?!”

Hal blinked a bit at the outburst, curling in place slightly, letting out a thoughtful little sigh, “It's not something you should mistake for being strong. Apathy has been my strongest defence through all of this. It was only through cold, unfeeling logic that we ever caught Snake Eyes. Deep down, I'm as frightened as everyone else... but I hide it behind a frozen block of apathy. Where it can't put anyone in danger.” He shook his head, “It's not something you should aspire to. Feeling nothing is not a good thing at all, and though I have weaponised it for the sake of the institute... it catches up with me sometimes.”

“You do have a reputation for being an immovable object.”

“I hide it well. Everyone leans on me to stay alive, boost morale and keep as many agents safe as I can... and that's a heavy burden for an idiot marine biologist who was never good with people at the best of times. Don't try to be like me Deacon, feelings are good and normal. Even fear.”

There was a pause as the small man seemed to consider this before sighing deeply, and turning to lie with his back against Hal's fingers, but he wasn't shutting the man out. He gently reached out to knead against the opposite wall, showing he wanted the contact to continue. “I... don't think I will ever understand you will I?”

“Even I don't understand me, but you seem determined to try.” Hal gave a little sigh and gently stroked at the tiny back, “But you can lean on me. Talk to me when you're feeling things. I'm not just an institute investigator. I'd like to think we've at least become friends... given this... arrangement. You know I don't go around eating just anyone.”

Deacon let out a little snort of laughter at the joke, “And I don't just go around letting anyone eat me. But... thanks Hal. I... I'm slowly getting memories back from the mall... from what happened when I was disappeared but... not much we can actually use yet. I was definitely taken somewhere... and there were beings there. Entities of some kind... but I don't have many clear memories... other than that eye.”

“The fact that your memories are reforming is good for the institute but bad for you,” Hal replied, “So as much as I am glad you're viewing this as information we can use, I want you to say if it gets too much for you. We can get you some sessions with Doc.”

“It's fine... I'm okay, I just wasn't ready to see it again... have it look at me like that... it was like it completely shattered my safe little space here for a moment, as though it could have just reached in and taken me because it knew I was here.”

Hal gently tucked an arm around himself and gave the small man a squeeze. “Well. It couldn't. You're as safe as you can be. Nothing is getting through me.”

“I know Hal. Thanks.”

“Now... how about we go get some real coffee?”

“I think that might help.”

“Okay but on one condition. You need to relax like you normally do. Being all huddled up is giving me a wicked belly ache. I know you're feeling insecure but I promise you... you're safe. I won't let anything get you.”

“Sorry Hal... I didn't realise.”

“Don't you worry about it, no harm done. Just... treat me like a hammock as you usually do.”

“I suppose I have been pretty tense.”

Hal grinned, digging his fingers a bit more firmly against the small man's back. “Why do you think I'm putting all this effort into giving you a massage. The more relaxed you are, the comfier I am. It's all selfish you know.”

Blaine chuckled, giving him a little kick. “I get the message. I'm all good now. Just... can you agree not to go back in there unless you have to?”

“That was always the plan,” Hal replied gently. “The only reason we pushed up a site entry was to extract that guy.”

“Yeah... I got a feeling you... felt something off about him? Was I reading that wrong or...?”

“Yup. Something about him makes my 'something's fucky' sense tingle. I might just not be used to him but... no there's definitely something off there.”

“Do you think he's tied up in this?”

“Honestly no. I think he's something else... and coincidence has dropped him into my lap.”

“It has a way of doing that for you doesn't it.”

“Tell me about it,” muttered Hal, “Anyhow. Let's go get that coffee and find out if Green has actually withdrawn our dessert privileges.”

“Do you think they'd do that?”

“Oh I know Green of old. To antagonise me they would absolutely do that.”

“So... next plan is to get some better images of the lights out process, correct?” asked Hal, taking a bite of his cookie dessert ration and shooting Green a smug look as he did so. It was the next morning now, but he had specifically saved it in its neat packaging from the night before to eat in front of the doctor. Just to make a point.

“Correct,” the doctor pursed their lips. “We plan to do this by sending in a small group of the remote controlled cars. Four of them, with cameras and heavy lighting. We place them in the centre of the foyer all facing each other and the space in general... and then wait for the alarms.”

“Are we also sending in the real robot to check the lost and found for Desmond's stuff?”

“Yes. We have one all set up. You can handle that if you'd like once we have all the cars in position.”

“Sounds good,” said Hal, finishing his cookie, “At least if I break it you don't have to take the flak.”

“Exactly my thinking,” agreed the doctor. “We have the cars set up and ready to go, and more than enough time before the airport's 'closed' hours at the end of the day that I expect we should be able to catch at least one alarm phenomena in good time to extract the cars before then.”

Hal nodded, “Great! This could be a productive day!”

It was, in fact, not a productive day.

Part of it was. The robot successfully extracted Desmond's camera and phone from the lost and found, and Hal handed them to the technicians to have the data extracted from both, which did give him some of the information he'd hoped to glean about Desmond's home address and identity. He handed this on to Brown in his report, and then, they waited, staring at the camera feeds from the cars.

They waited.

And waited.

There was not even the remotest flicker of life. No lights-out event.

Two of the cars had been fitted with microphones, which they knew were working because they could hear the cars moving when they adjusted their positions. No alarm sounded.

No creatures manifested.

Even security didn't bother to make an appearance up on the mezzanine unless they started playing loud music down in the foyer, and even then, the creatures remained up at the top of the escalators, blankly staring down through their cold, rounded eyes.

They started taking it in turns watching the cameras, shifts of two while the other two took a break or went to stretch their legs. Still nothing.

At the end of the day, they extracted the cars, and agreed to try again tomorrow.

The next day they sent in the little assembly of toy cars again, and began to wait once more.

Still nothing.

Captain Brown arrived halfway through this to make off with Desmond, telling Hal to check his emails. What they had found at the man's home address was more than enough to categorise Desmond's newly created file as classified, and Hal needed to get caught up on it. If anything, the marine biologist was a bit miffed he'd been staring at nothingness while real discoveries had been made elsewhere. Still, it was too late to change his mind now, and Hal resigned himself to just agreeing to read the report on his next break.

Green grew visibly agitated by lunchtime, about an hour into their third watch of the day, they slammed their hands on the table and let out a scoff of annoyance. Poor Neil Sayer, who had been on break, but still in the tent, attempting to shrink an apple with only very limited success, reacted in shock to the loud sound, causing the apple to explode. He immediately began apologising, the glow of his magic fading as he grabbed for a cloth to start the cleanup.

Green, flicking a chunk of macerated fruit from their hair, gave the young man a look, before sighing and shaking their head. “No, that one was my fault, sorry. I just don't see what we're doing wrong.”

Hal, who had also been considering this for a while, shrugged as he brushed instant apple sauce from his shoulder. “Maybe it doesn't think it's playing right now because there's nobody in there? Apparently Desmond said it alarmed every few hours the whole time he was stuck. But he, as a living thing, counted as 'playing' I guess, so...”

Green blinked, staring at him as though struck dumb that they had not realised this sooner. “That's... a very good point Hal... no lifeforms in there, so it doesn't think it's in game mode...”

“And something tells me it's not going to be fooled by the good old 'turn a squirrel loose in there' trick.”

“You think it needs a human?”

“More than likely. Things like security, or the 'disappearing' trick the mall did occur regardless of who or what is in there, but they're reactive to stimulus. I don't think the building itself thinks its actively playing right now, so anything that requires it to 'do' something, it just won't.”

“So what do you suggest?”

Hal considered this for a moment before suggesting. “Stick someone in there? Right by the front door. The alarm seems to give a three second warning before the door seals or the lights go out. That should be more than enough for someone to hurl themselves outside where they're no longer in play. Three seconds is a long time, hopefully the event will go ahead once initiated thusly. If not, we might have to have guys go in there prepared to actually play musical statues with it.”

Green hissed through their teeth, “I don't like the thought of the latter, but I do like your first thought. We send in an agent ready to jump out at the slightest sound, run it in five minute shifts so they don't get tired or too wound up waiting. As soon as they hear an alarm, they throw themselves outside where it's safe.”

“You will have to make the risks clear. Make sure they know what will happen if they fuck it up...”

“Of course.”

“Worth a shot though?”

“Worth a shot.”

By the time Kaplain next came back from his break, which he had been spending on a call one of the technical experts with Admin, helping write up a potential algorithm based on their observations for finding sites like this where Funtopia buildings might suddenly appear unnoticed, Hal and Green were ready with a volunteer guard by the doors.

They brought Kaplain up to speed on what they were doing, and then gave the man the all clear to step inside.

He'd been given all of the standard gear for surviving an encounter, including body cameras, which they all sincerely hoped would not be required. Hal felt rather bad about sending someone in rather than going himself but he had promised Deacon they'd stay out of it unless necessary, and his willingness to go in before had done plenty to reassure the others that the place was survivable if they followed the rules. Or in this case rule. Which was; hear noise, leap outside. They had even set up an inflatable mattress outside the door so the agent could quite literally throw themselves if they saw it necessary to do so and would not be inured on landing.

Then the waiting began again.

This time however, they did not have to wait for long.

The building, clearly eager to start messing with people having gone so long without doing so, triggered an alarm only eleven minutes into the new process. The agent inside, tensed and ready, hurled themselves out of the door into the waiting mattress, and a moment later the doors sealed with a thud, and impenetrable darkness fell across the building. The glass of the windows became completely dark, as though painted black from inside. Even when Hal peered directly through them with shaded eyes, he couldn't see a thing.

The four toy cars, sitting stoically in place, their torches glaring out and their cameras rolling, silently observed the dimmed foyer.

Watching through a monitor they had set up outside, Hal felt a little shiver run down his spine as something like black tendrils began to creep into view along the side of one camera. He raised a hand to cover his bodycamera, just in case the eye was about to unexpectedly pop into view, but it didn't. Instead they all silently watched as a truly bizarre creature shuffled into view. It looked a little like the monsters at security in its physical makeup, with strange translucent black flesh, but at that, the similarities ended. Its body was long and quadrupedal, but weighed down by many black, slopping tendrils that spilled down from its back and shoulders onto the ground. These moved as if each had a mind of their own, and each one had a long, mouth like opening underneath that ran most of the length of the tendril, filled with sharp, irregular teeth that made horrible scraping sounds as they slid across the floor. Its face, poking out from the front, had an elongated, thin muzzle with a rounded end, a little like a Gharial, but it was not a crocodilian in body design. Its legs were long and ended in two toed clawed points, the toes pointed one forwards-one back. Hal was looking from camera to camera to try and get a full image of the beast to continue his analysis of the species. Its lower jaw lolled open, all but dragging on the ground, exposing a long, tentacle like tongue that actually did drag on the ground. Many strange, flat, irregularly spaced teeth occupied the jaw, and he could hear heavy sniffing sounds, indicating that it had nostrils of some kind and was trying to smell the area around it, but he couldn't quite make them out from any angle.

There were eyes as well, but they were all the way back set where the shoulders should have been, and there were too many of them. Both shoulders had three eyes in a neat line, largest set at the top, another in the centre, and a third slightly smaller set just above the elbow. These eyes perfectly matched the glowing white circles they could see in the security creatures. Each set seemed to all move independently of the others, so whatever brainpower this creature had it was sufficient to process and understand either three or six entirely separate sets of visual data depending on whether the eyes on the other side were independent as well.

It wasn't alone either. There were multiple members of this species. They varied in size, from what Hal would estimate as 'large dog' to 'full sized boar polar bear.' They were all visibly of the same species, the only real variance was their size, and the number of tendrils. The larger they were, the more of the heavy, dragging pseudopods seemed to emerge from their bodies.

One of them stepped right over one of the cars, a long tentacle slopping wetly across the camera, making them all grimace as they were treated to the sound of the interaction, but the creature wasn't hunting the cars. Since they were not moving, they apparently went unnoticed. “The saliva is... kind of dark in colour...” observed Hal. “Weird... I don't remember seeing any on the floor after the alarm when I was in there...”

“Maybe we can bring the car out with a sample...” muttered Kaplain.

A moment later, the alarms sounded once more, and the creatures all skittered off camera and out of sight at the opposite end of the foyer. As soon as the lights came back on, all trace of them disappeared, including the trails of slick, navy saliva. They just seemed to evaporate. “No sample after all then,” muttered Hal, sitting up, “So we have three confirmed Ignotuscientific species that, as far as I am aware, haven't been documented before in there. But I feel we can guess that two of them, those security guys and these new things, are not entirely dissimilar in origin. They're both made of what, to the eye' looks like the same materials, and other similarities in the eyes, mouth structure and tongues that supports this theory.”

“I agree,” Green nodded, “They're no more similar than a man and a dog, but both man and dog are mammals and from the same plane of existence, so it is reasonable to draw the same conclusions about these as an initial observation.”

Hal nodded, “Neither of them is a threat to unmoving and/or silent objects as far as we can tell, but I would like to get through the airport and get a better look at that plane...”

“Yeah... find out if there's a pilot...”

“Or any passengers... or victims that the creatures have caught. At least I haven't seen anything made out of human remains yet...” muttered Hal.

“Is it possible that's exclusive to the mall?” asked Green.

“No,” Kaplain spoke up. “The other two locations the ISMI has recorded so far, the wonderbank and the wonderpool both record pretty macabre uses for people they got to 'keep.'”

“Oh... do I want to know?” asked Green.

“The bank was extracting minerals, metals and all similar substances from its victims and turning them into Funtopia Funtokens which is apparently their own currency. It also comes in banknote form, which, you might guess, is printed onto dried out sections of human skin.”

Green looked green with nausea at this.

“The wonderpool,” Kaplain continued, “Was just straining the blood out of people and putting it in a jacuzzi with an anti-clotting agent to keep it all nice and liquidy.”

“Well... at least exsanguination isn't as bad as being skinned...” Green looked pretty disgusted.

“No? You misunderstand me. When I say 'straining' the blood out of people I mean it was using a giant juicer.”

“Well, I have to give them points for creativity,” sighed Green. “It's quite clear that they're very into torturing people in the most dramatic possible way but... we still have no idea why.”

Hal nodded, “It's grim in the way that only poorly internet horror stories tend to be. We don't know what anyone gains from any of this. It's just a ridiculously elaborate way to kill people in overly complicated ways. I don't see what possible motivation anything could have for this... but whoever keeps building these Funtopia places is doing it for a reason. The mall seemed to have the biggest bodycount we had seen evidence of anywhere, but we don't know how many yet...”

“Latest report said samples retrieved by drone had at least twenty six different sets of DNA... and the crane machine...” Green paused, lowering their voice to almost a whisper and glancing at Hal's middle. “... has been documented to hold the remains of at least ten more individuals. There's still totals yet to be decided.”

Hal let out a low sigh, subtly resting a hand on his middle, “And two documented survivors of those captured by any funtopia establishment. These places are so dangerous... we need to figure out what's making them any why. I'm hoping the connection we found to the coat men will lead us somewhere. No matter how mysterious the phenomena, we've always gotten to the bottom of something 'doing' it for a reason. Nothing is entirely without reason.”

“Unless that reason just... is to kill for the sake of killing?” suggested Sayer.

“I profoundly hope that that is not the case or we might never be able to combat this,” said Hal, shaking his head. “If there's no reason to it, and it's just killing... putting a stop to it is hard. Especially with whatever clearly has the means to do so readily and freely.”

“Wasn't that why Snake Eyes was so hard to stop?” asked Green.

Hal paused a moment, then shook his head, “No. Snake eyes was always killing for a reason. Sometimes food, sometimes perceived threat to territory. Granted the way in which he killed was slow and sadistic, but he always had a motivation for doing so. The reason he was hard to stop was because he was just... ridiculously dangerous. This... this feels calculated and purposeful. If something wishes to kill it will simply kill. If something wishes to eat people, it'll do it. Something that turns people's nervous systems into wall art... at no apparent benefit to itself... is odd.”

“Ritualistic gain? They could be sacrificing people for something?” suggested Green.

Hal grumbled to himself as he ran the thought through his head, “There's none of the symbolism of sacrifice though. Normally there's rituals, symbols plastered everywhere, images of their deity... this... there's none of it. The only branding is of the place itself. Even if whatever it was was trying to systematically wipe out humanity... it would know it's attempts are woefully insufficient for that. There must be a motivation, and whatever it is has plenty of resources... Ignotuscientific resources... but... what it's driving at is definitely beyond me at the moment.”

“Okay... this is going to sound abstract... but I've got a stupid suggestion...” Sayer spoke up, a little nervously.

“Go for it,” Hal grinned at the youngster.

“We write to management.”

Hal blinked, “We... write to management?”

“Yeah. There's a mail slot on the door. When the place closes for the night, we address an envelope to wondairport management and request comment. We give them a few contact options like phone, email, address... see if they respond.”

“That is either genius or complete insanity,” Hal had to admit to himself, it was far enough outside the box to work. “That's the kind of sideways thinking we need. You know what, let's try it. We can give the physical address of a safehouse not far from here, a throwaway email address and burner phone number so nothing is trackable and just... see what happens.”

Green stared at them all, raising an eyebrow slowly. “You're going to ask to speak to its manager?”

Hal grinned, “Well... straighten my hair and call me Karen because that is exactly what we are going to do.”

“I suppose it's no worse than using toy cars to look at monsters,” Kaplain observed with a laugh. “Alright. Let's do it.”

Sayer looked pleased with himself, and Hal gave him a pat on the back as he stood up from his chair. “Now, can you get started building a report and account of the new entity with Doctor Green? I have a different report to read regarding our new friend Desmond.”

“Sure thing Hal,” said Kaplain. “We'll call you if anything else happens?”

Hal nodded, “remember there's still at least one thing we haven't identified in there. That strange eye didn't belong to any of those things, which all have the same headlamp eyes. So keep yours peeled.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

<< First || Previous || Masterlist || Next >> (Next chapter available on my Kofi/Patreon! Free release date for this chapter will be around July 14th! I offer both a single purchase per chapter option, as well as a monthly subscription which will offer full access to the chapters a fortnight early as well as additional content for the ISMI universe! I appreciate all and any support I can get <3)

Shorter wait between them this time! Mostly because the last one was so late!

[riverdamien]

"Trust No Man!"

Sloughing Towards Galilee!

"Trust No Man!"

"But Jesus on his part would not entrust himself to them. "Trust No Man, "for he knew what is in everyone." John 2:24.

These are harsh words spoken by Jesus and the message of the gospel his care will be: "Love is the heart's immortal thirst to completely be known and all before given (Henry Van Dyke).

The only person who has ever been there in such a manner for me is Jesus, even though I have tried to find that amid humanity.

My first denomination loved me and trained me, and when I came out as gay, turned their backs on me and shamed me publicly, using lies, so it has been my experience of institutions through the years and so I have gone through a deconstruction of my relationship with institutions--you can "Trust No Institution.

Over ten years ago, a new addition to our ministry was that of working with inmates on death row, children, young men primarily being human trafficked, and several "friends" of mind walked away, my shoulder was busted, and for months was in much pain, during a period of absolute aloneness.

I went through several months of drinking, and pot smoking; I have always hated alcohol, and can not stand its taste, but I drank it. Until one day  I rereading John, I was reminded of the words of Jesus to "trust no human being!" Jesus touched my heart, reminding me: "I called you in your mother's womb," I became a "straight edge", by choice, got off my ass, and started working.

In the last six months or so as we have begun planning for our 30th anniversary, messages of telling me, "It is time for you to retire," You have had a good run," There has been no one I can turn to anymore, money is not coming in as it was, and Temenos depends on what I can raise, and so I pay high taxes, I have been feeling very much alone, very much so, and again, the smiling face of Jesus comes "Trust no human being! Follow Me! All will be well!" Jesus was reminding me of the words of Henry Van Dyke,"Love is the heart's immortal thirst to completely be known and all before given!" I find that love in him and so as I turn my total focus back to ministry as  I receive a phone call, reminding me of a young man, for whom I have much sadness.

Jacob was fifteen, fighting with his parents, and ran away. On a dark rainy night, he called me, wanting to come over, and never made it. He never lied to me and I felt his desperation when he called. I became worried and called his parents so did they, but as usual, the police said, "Oh he will be home." Later rumors on the streets came to me he had met a nicely dressed gentleman for whom he provided services, and was promised a lot of money to join him and his other young guys on a "road trip", and Jacob was sent to your Europe, trafficked. His parents several years later sent me an email, they had received a set of his clothes and told me he had died, and they were moving away. They could not stay in their old house or the area with so many negative memories.

Human trafficking is real, it is heavy in San Francisco, Chicago, and Los Angeles, never talked about except about girls, for you know boys can choose what they want to do for they have erections, such bull shit!

Today sextortion is real, minors are being extorted over the internet, and some lead into human trafficking.

Below I am attaching a memo sent out on the subject this morning, listen, and let the reality that evil sink into your heart, no one chooses to be trafficked, young men and women are trafficked on the streets and residences of San Francisco, so listen or read and meditate:

Dear faith community partners in the fight against human trafficking and child exploitation,

On December 19th, 2022, the FBI issued a Safety Warning regarding the Sextortion of young boys playing video games.   With the advent of 5G, criminal organizations in 3rd world countries now have access to our children.  As a result, the FBI is now raising the alarm regarding their aggressive blackmail tactics which is causing an alarming rise in teen suicides, especially among boys.

We know that over the summer the rate of both human trafficking and sextortion go up dramatically. For that reason, I created a 5.5-minute video entitled “How We Protect Children From the Fastest Growing Form of Cyber Exploitation” that can be shown to parents and anyone who has contact with youth.  The video illustrates exactly how both young children and teens are being approached.   It also includes how to report and where one can get free downloadable resources that churches and schools can use to raise awareness. 

Please do share and like the video below so that we can protect young children from losing their innocence and prevent more teen suicides.  For those churches that are looking for more on what they can do to fight human trafficking and child exploitation, do get our book at Amazon entitled “The Role of the Church in Ending Human Trafficking, A Step-by-Step Guide on How to Take Effective Action.”

My God continue to bless your efforts to bring Jesus to our lost world.

Susan Patterson

Director, Through Gods Grace Ministry

www.throughGodsgrace.com

Deo Gratias! Thanks be to God!

--------------------------------------------------

Dr. River Damien Sims, sfw, D.Min., D.S.T.

Post Office Box 642656

San Francisco, CA 94164

www.temenos.org

paypal.com

415-305-2124

Dr. River Sims, D.Min., D.S.T.

Director

Certificate in Drug and Alcohol Addiction

Certificate in Spiritual Direction

Certificate In Religious Trauma

(30th Anniversary Celebration!)

October 5, 2024

5:00 p.m.

Victor's Pizza

(Where Bought Youth First Pizza!)

Prayer of St. Brendan!

"Help me to journey beyond the familiar

and into the unknown.

Give me the faith to leave old ways and break fresh ground with You. Christ of the mysteries I trust in You to be stronger than each storm within me.

I will trust in the darkness and know that my times, even now, are in Your hands.

Tune my spirit to the music of heaven,

and somehow, make my obedience count for You"

------------------------------------------------

(Temenos and Dr. River seek to remain accessible to everyone. We do not endorse particular causes, political parties, or candidates, or take part in public controversies, whether religious, political or social--Our pastoral ministry is to everyone!

================================

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[gwidien]

She throws the photo into the fire. The glass cracks. The sound of it. Her men come back and they drag him away. 

Time passed with a crawl thereafter. Finally and at last, the beatings stopped, his core shaken; his organs rattled. They'd slapped against the squelching walls of his chest and he feels as though everything inside of him had been jarred and sealed tight, shaken until they turned into marmalade, red slush pulpy. Trelawny uncurls in the dirt as his ribs throb. He props himself limp against the wagon. 

She sends her men out to Saint Denis. No. He could tell her where they are. His wife and boys would be able to climb into their beds safe and sound, then, the only worries they'd have being what breakfast will be. When dad is coming home. Blood and fear in his throat, every breath blooming pain-nausea-fire— Trelawny thinks about their faces and the birthdays he'd missed, wishes he hadn't, vision fuzzy.

He thinks about the gang dead.

And as his consciousness fades like a man coaxed into oblivion, overhead, Orion shines brilliantly while the world turns in dreams.

-

Trelawny wakes sluggishly. The frayed edges of his mind web and glue themselves together, and slowly he remembers where he is... what happened...

The bounty hunter stands over him, and instinctively, he pushes himself against the wagon.

"They-" He strains against the effort. "They're by- Brandywine Drop," he manages, his throat grating raw and hoarse. He tries to right himself. "Just... north of- Annesburg."

The ropes bite into his wrists—blistered and red, the skin sloughing off—and Trelawny had just lied. The van der Linde gang is not by Annesburg. But she doesn't know that, and maybe she'll believe him. Maybe she'll buy it. Maybe it'll give him enough time for someone to find him because they have to be looking, and he'll be fine, and everyone will be fine, and his family-

Trelawny smells dried blood by his mouth, copper sweat. He hangs his head, feeling as weak as he is. "Just-" he tries, sounding limp. "Just don't hurt them."

That could mean his family or the gang. It could be both.

frustration boils quietly, masking disappointment and ... shame? whisked away as the photo is thrown in the fire and a gesture signals her men to commence their display of their ire. hands drag their prisoner to the darker side of the wagon and begin their onslaught. it's only after they tire and spit their disdain, sokanon calls them off and leaves trelawney there to rethink his answers.

he doesn't have to know, that as she sends two more to look for his wife and children in saint denis, they weren't actually going to do any harm, merely to remain stationed in one of their old bases. hours would eventually roll by, sokanon staring into the fire for most of it. coffee brewed burnt forgotten in her hands.

morning came dressed in pretty colours against the ceiling of clouds, imminent rain in the afternoon most likely. she's standing over him, arms crossed. " i don't like doing this, trelawney. how long before they come searching for you? that is my problem. if they can take out a whole camp of ike's men and escape, what's to say what they'll do here. i still have a job to do, you do too, i imagine. so, let's make a deal. "

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[gaiuswrites]

Ashore

Part one | Open Waters

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader

Summary: You and Frankie leave the beach with only one thing on your minds.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 3.6k~

Warnings/tags: smut, ✨butt stuff✨, oral (f receiving), some lovey-dovey shit

Notes: Here we are friends. You don’t necessarily have to read Open Waters to understand the contents of this chapter (considering it’s mostly just booty bumpin’). You can thank heathens @javierpcna and @whataperfectwasteoftime for the debauchery to follow. It’s been a while since I’ve written and I’m genuinely nervous to post this lol but alas. We have arrived. Is it shit? Is it pure filth? Who’s to say hehehe. Cheers bebes x

Masterlist | read it on ao3!

The worst part was, you had to get gas.

Frankie drives. You sit beside him.

The return trip is hushed with anticipation—with sullied stain-glass imagery occupying the void. You've said next to nothing since you packed into the car; the only noise comes from the radio—the preset station phasing in and out as you wind along the backroads leading away from the shore—Journey, Jimi, Led Zep and the like all crackling dry through the speakers.

Everything, each micro-movement, feels stifling— like burning ants under a magnifying glass— each gesture riddled with intention, Frankie’s words echoing clear in the caverns of your mind.

He glances left right at an intersection.

‘Anything?’

He flips on the turn signal, blinking one two one two one two.

‘You gonna let me have your tight little ass?’

He steers the wheel with the heel of his palm.

‘When I cum, it’s gonna be here—filling you up.’

The engine rumbles as you idle at a red light—stalling. Dawdling. The sun spills lazily from the horizon, draining the last of the afternoon’s light with it, bleeding the sky scarlet—emboldening the horizon— and you watch as the setting glow catches the hair on his arm—there, resting on the console between you. His hand fists over the gear, knuckles creasing as they tense around the worn, leathered head. You’re playing a game—a silent, ruleless game. You know he can sense you observing him, can feel the heat of your gaze weigh on the flex of his fingers—the same fingers that had ripped an orgasm out of you not two hours before.

You almost unbuckle your damn seatbelt and fly out of your chair. You nearly break with it, with the unspoken tension filling the car like gas and fuck, how you crave him; how you yearn to put those fingers in your mouth and suck—lave the summer clean off his digits and bob around the long width and—

The light turns green.

Frankie resumes his hand to the wheel, your lewd fantasy dissipating along with it.

It’s minuscule. You would have missed it save the fact that you’re so acutely aware of every fucking breath you two share in the aluminum confines of your old Jeep. It’s a subtle thing: Frankie adjusts his hips— innocent enough— but your eyes flicker over to find the groin of his drying swim trunks tented.

You’re not ashamed to say it— your mouth fucking waters, you salivate— and as if on cue, he squirms again, seeking relief from both the blood rushing south and the blister of your stare. His lips part— the rasp of an inhale as he prepares to speak—before his focus is torn down to the dashboard, an orange symbol popping up in the gauge stealing his attention.

“Shit,” Frankie mumbles under his breath. Looking around, he scans for a nearby station and groans at the realization that he’s just passed one, spotting it in the rearview mirror. “Shit.”

You swivel towards the passenger side window, attempting to hide the I told you so expression pulling wry at your mouth. Not that you’ll hang it over him, but you did inform Frankie that the tank was empty on the way to the beach. You hear another muffled curse come from the man beside you, and the world goes topsy-turvy and reverses itself— the act of Frankie making a grumbled U-turn.

He puts the gear into park with a huff, Van Halen’s solo abruptly cut short mid chord.

The car door opens with a rusty squeal and Frankie clambers out, fishing his wallet from his back pocket and swiping his card through the reader at the pump—but not before he squeezes a palm into the plush of your thigh, thumb searing like a brand into your skin. I’ll be quick.

Fuck, you could have cum right then.

Your gaze follows his movements, dogging after him as he waits on the gas to fill— arms folded across his chest, strong build leaning on the frame of your car.

It’s not a novel concept to you, but God is that man broad. The ratty t-shirt he wears clings to him, pulled taut between the plane of his shoulders, the cut of his tricep apparent even from your vantage point; the corded muscle running up his neck flashing as he watches the digital numbers on the screen tick higher.

Shit, you’re aching for him— you can feel yourself throb into the crotch of your swimsuit. You’d have him right here—in the backseat, steaming up the glass— if it weren’t for the overencumbered bags and rickety beach chairs crowding the space.

With herculean effort, you wrench your eyes off him in search of a distraction, letting them drift to the dark flooring of the car. It’s been dirtied—white flecks speckling the interior—and you won’t be able to get the sand out of the matted carpets for weeks. It’s a nuisance, to be sure, but you have to admit that you’re sort of fond of it; little memories, vestiges in the grains, lingering long after the season ends.

Hello, remember me? each granule chirped, remember when we laughed giddy for hours, maddened by the grace of the sun? Remember when we burned red that time we forgot sunscreen? Remember when we bought soft serve from the surf shack and it globbed sticky down our wrists? Remember when we when we when when when…

Frankie, ever practical, hates it. It’s a pain in the ass, he’s told you, regaling you with the woes only a mechanic would care to know. It ruins the upholstery.

You’ve had your exchanges about the topic—your faux-squabbled back and forths—and yet despite himself, he can’t help but like that you like it. Conceptually, he gets it—it annoys him to kingdom fucking come and he’ll almost certainly take the vacuum to the mats first thing tomorrow, but he understands. He understands it.

He understands you.

You’re like that, you and him. You’re different. You are made of different things, a compository of fractures and fragments. Mosaic tiles. You don’t quite fit—not all of you—but you never force the pieces into any sort of place. You admire each other’s mismatched bits, those sweetly quilted jigsaws, and you hold each one up to the light and point at the unique curves, the notches and swoops there, and say I love you, I love this, I love this too.

When Frankie keys up the ignition and puts the car in drive, he keeps his hand on your lap. Arm resting over the median dividing you, calloused palm sealing over your quad, his fingertips knead a pulse into the meat of your leg with each bump in the poorly paved road— a reminder. A vow. Almost home.

You think he does it just to torture you.

It fucking works.

/

The sound of laughter parts the front door as you enter— Frankie had made some colorful comment about your absolute favorite neighbors, the ones who always leave their damn garbage bins in front of your driveway— and your key ring clatters as it hits the bowl on the side table.

You discard the bags, plopping the sandy things down in the entryway, and kick off your sandals— bare soles padding along lacquered wood paneling as you head to the kitchen for some much needed water.

The sound of the tap running camouflages Frankie’s movement, you don’t hear him behind you. He’s got stealth in him, harbored there from before. He’s light on his feet when he chooses to be—nimble-like, bordering on feline—and you startle with a bubbly chuckle when you spin around to discover him far closer than you anticipated.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping us hydrated,” you grin, as if it were obvious. You’re welcome.

He hums, the note rumbling against the cage of his ribs, and lessens the distance between you with a single stride. “That can wait.”

He rids you of the glasses, hurriedly placing them on the counter, and meets you in a kiss—and fuck can that man kiss. Frankie, like with all things, is responsive—attentive. His lips are fever-laced and wanton, and he roves against yours like they’re designed to— fated for no one else’s but your own— nipping and tonguing at your honeyed whines, orphaned there in the well of your mouth.

His hands vine up your body, so deprived of the luxury of your form - of touch - and he grabs at anything he can— your hips, your waist, your breasts through the cotton of your shirt— their half moon curves sitting ripe in his palms.

After ushering you up to the countertop, he strips you of your jean shorts, your bikini bottom sloughing down your calves along with them, and hoists your feet onto the fake granite, prying your legs wide for him.

When he gets an eyeful of your gleaming pussy, pearled with arousal, the wind gets punched straight out of him.

“Jesus honey,” he groans, “you been like this the whole ride home?”

Your brain is numb, lagging with lust. You don’t trust your voice to speak—all you can do is nod.

“Poor thing,” he simpers. “Poor pretty thing, all wound up for me—all wet.”

You whimper at his tone—graveled, just shy of condescending—and your knees weaken shut before he snatches them apart.

“Sit still.”

It’s a command, there’s no room for disobedience; he orders it with a soldier's voice—that dead thing he wears like dog tags around his neck. Vice grip widening your legs, Frankie sinks down onto his shins, head leveled with your core, engrossed with the sight of your damp sex quivering.

Blotchy warmth creeps up your neck, like ivy crawling over brick.

He’s staring at you— hungry and possessed and simply staring at your open cunt and you begin to fidget once more—riling under his umbered appraisal.

“Sit still baby girl,” he murmurs, softer now and desperate too—intoxicated with the heady perfume of your heat. “Lemme just— fuck, I gotta taste you…”

When he swipes the deft muscle of his tongue through your slit, your head careens back onto the cabinets, plates and bowls rattling behind the wood.

Oh god, Frankie.

He’s got a talent for this— an excruciating, body wracking talent. He thirsts for you something dangerous, something unquenchable; he tugs at your labia, forming his lips around your clit, lapping at your essence— the ocean musk, that sea foam wet.

You fumble through his hair, mussing the saline woven strands with urgent fingers as you grind grind grind, rolling your hips to meet him in a covetous show of want and he purrs into your pussy as you fuck his face, the scratch of his stubble chafing at your legs.

It doesn’t take long, not with the fervor of how he’s claiming your cunt with his mouth. You soak Frankie’s chin— you nearly fucking drown him with it—and he’s glistening with you when he finally emerges for air, pulling you to him to slant his lips against yours, letting you savor your own taste on his hot tongue.

“Bedroom. Now,” he husks, breath hitching as his nose grazes along your ear, and with two hands under your armpits, he gathers you off the countertop. Frankie lands a swat at the plump of your backside, sending you scurrying through the living room with a shriek—completely bypassing the abandoned pile of laundry left lying on the couch.

He smirks—delirious and ramrod stiff—sauntering behind you, enamored with the pendulum sway of your hips as you lead him to the bed.

/

You’ve never been here. You’ve never gone this far. You both have tiptoed this narrow line for months; he’s fingered your ass plenty—you have even gone so far as to don a butt plug. You’ve discussed anal—toyed with the idea, flirted in circles around it like tittering birds.

But you’ve never taken Frankie’s cock. Not yet.

He’s been working you loose and limber for the better part of fifteen minutes, delving himself knuckle deep into your slicked hole until you’re sputtering for more— until you’re downright sopping and fucking shaking— and not with trepidation but with desire. Frankie’s made you gluttonous. Frankie’s made you voracious.

You’re starving for him.

“You gonna let me have this now?” He presses a digit over your ass, kissing his thumb into the knot there.

You tremble, nodding frantic.

“Think this pretty little ass can take me, baby?”

He serves you a slap, plush skin jiggling and pricking pink under his palm. You keen into him, in search of the promise he’s been baiting you with and you arch your hips, gyrating back onto fucking nothing.

“Yes. Yes—” You twist, chin corkscrewed around to see him. You want to watch. You want to watch as he disappears inside you— as you swallow him.

“A-Are you sure?” he asks, suddenly gone gentle around the lines fraying from his eyes—those wrinkles he’s hard-earned and won, like badges, like medals—from all his years spent under an unforgiving sun, all of that which he has seen and endured. Survived. Your Frankie, always thoughtful, always checking. A goddamn gentleman, even now—even as his dick brays hard and angry against the soft of his tawny stomach. “Because really, we don’t have to—”

You cut him off with a whimper, splaying your pelvis up to him—spreading yourself, letting him see the filth dripping from your seam, dappling your inner thighs. “Fuck me,” you whine, both holes puckering for him. “Fill me up, like you said you would— please.”

Something shifts across his features like a shadow and his expression morphs until it steels— his pupils dilating to a predatorial onyx— and he spits into his palm, coating his shaft, jerking himself with it.

He hisses as he guides himself into you, as you accommodate around him, as you envelop him entirely— inch by veritable inch. He has to station a hand to the base of your lumbar, struggling to maintain his composure—air rattling in and out his lungs as he attempts to breathe.

“Shit,” he gasps, “t-this okay?”

You fist the comforter, coiling the fabric into a ball. It’s a stretch— it’s a real goddamn stretch— and briefly you consider that he might, in fact, snap you in two...

Francisco Morales is going to split you clean in half—and God, if you don’t you love it.

“Yes - yes baby - keep going. D-Don’t stop.”

He pitches into you, setting a legato tempo— transfixed by the lurid juncture where you converge into one. “You- you’re so tight. Shit, you’re—”

He silences himself with a delicious moan, biting at his lower lip until the vessels there burst and it purples, and deals a particularly aggressive thrust— one you respond to with an ugly wail of your own, eyes somersaulting in their sockets.

You’re both impatient, verging on rabid, and it doesn’t take long for him to set a rougher pace and fuck you faster - harder - hammering into your ass until you see stars, popping and fizzing in front of your retinas, a symphony of guttural grunts and carnal praise fogging up the bedroom.

Your pussy feels so empty you could cry—weeping and gaping and fluttering for him as he takes your tight ring of muscle, fucking himself to the hilt. It’s like he’s behind your brain—like he’s carved his way up your spine and nudging at the nape of your neck with how deep he’s driving into you—restless. Ceaseless. His balls slap slap slap against your puffy cunt and you pant— girlish and buoyant with the dulled smacks to your sore clit.

“Please,” you sob, “Please, I need—”

You can barely push the words out—your mind is of no help and your tongue lolls useless, languid in your mouth. Your motor functions have all but puttered to a halt, every scrap of you fighting to stay above the sensation that’s threatening to drag you under its current. The rip tide of it all, of Frankie’s cock, coursing through your ass, tempting to hurdle you out into the dark, wet blue.

“Tell me,” Frankie rasps, scraping through his throat. “Tell me, pretty baby.”

Your response is pathetic—you can hardly dignify it as a response at all. Your temple is pressed into the mattress, hair knotted with brine and sand, and all you can do is coo.

Frankie folds over you, angling himself to graze his teeth over your shoulder—savoring the salt and sex tang bathing your skin, all those pheromones and velveteen chemicals anointing you—baptizing you anew for him. He’s gruff when he murmurs, his beard grating your freshly tanned skin.

“C’mon sweetheart - hng, fuck - what do you need?”

“My clit,” you rush out, needy. “My clit. Please, oh my god Frankie I-I need you to, I need – oh fuck—” And your pleas are mummed by a rapturous moan as he trails his hand from the hollow of your hip to the apex of your cleft and flicks.

Fuck. Fuck, oh Christ—

There’s a ringing in your ears, buzzing you deaf, making you dumb—or maybe it’s just your heart, beating loud and errant against your skull—you can’t say. You don’t feel human. Frankie’s pounding into that cinched channel and playing with your clit—swiveling eddies into your swollen nub—and you feel like an animal. You feel debased. You feel disgusting and perfect and you’re fucking drooling; cheek squished and mouth agape, saliva pools from your wagging maw, darkening the white linen you’re being driven into.

“You need me in your pussy, too?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer him— he already knows what you need, how you need to have every part of you gorged on him— and Frankie dips his fingertips into your entrance, hooking them up and up and in, fucking in time to the cant of his hips.

He’s in you. Everywhere, everywhere—every possible neuron and synapse consumed with him.

“You need me like this—fucking you this deep? Fucking both your pretty holes?” he growls, weaving his hand lower to grab a fistful of your hair, rucking your head up. Throat stretched bare for him, your mewls muddle to cock-drunk cries as he spears you on himself again and again and again.

Yes yes yes fuck harder please please Frankie

You're pleading with him—you’ve been reduced to meager begging— and a chorus of slurs sings your release as you contract around him and cum, the cradle of your hips bucking reflexively.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he seethes, “you’re so good for me baby, Jesus fuck—”

He’s close now—his blissed finish drawing nearer and nearer with each sharp snap of his hips. Frankly, he’s shocked he’s managed to last as long as he has; it’s a small miracle he hadn’t cum the instant he slotted himself inside you with that very first stroke.

“Baby,” he warns, losing his rhythm. You saddle your spine, hollowing out the valley of your back and arch pretty and supple for him— preening under his weight. He moans at that, and through your fucked out haze you have the wherewithal to smirk at him, devious and prideful, a wild look owning your eye.

Frankie has to brace himself on your hips, untangling from your locks to bruise into the pillow of your skin— gripping on for dear fucking life as he plows you. You’re strangling him. You’re strangling the thick of his cock until he’s dizzy with it—until he’s feral and blind and he can’t hold on, can’t keep fighting this fucking monsoon that’s raging in his core.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna—fuck me, oh shit—” He shouts, spurting inside you thrust for thrust, painting your virgin walls with his seed. It’s too much— after all that, and you’re still too tight— and he’s overstimulated to the point of delirium. Frankie roots himself still, cum dribbling out your stuffed hole while he rides out the high of his orgasm—his vision, his senses, his goddamn soul, slowly oozing back into him. When he slides free from you, he does so with a pained heave, leaving you yawning with his absence.

You feel shredded. Vacant. You’ve been sent to another fucking dimension all together.

Without wasting another second, Frankie claws you up. You’re easy and malleable, bones and muscles too strung out to protest, and he whirls you around to bar you to his chest—crushing your sweaty body to his with bullet marred arms— the same arms that have taken lives, that have spared them, too. The same arms that link around you, delicate and daisy-chained, like you’re the most precious thing he has.

And you are.

You are.

Frankie kisses you breathless, drinking rich from your cup— tongue greedy and reverent as he kneels there at your altar, praying his sins into your mouth.

So gorgeous, he croons, peppering your face—your flushed cheeks, your perspired brow—with his lips as he tells you over and over and over again.

So good for me, pretty baby

Was that okay?

Fuck, you’re a dream

You’re my best girl—you’re my only girl

Was that okay?

God, you’re my whole fucking world

Was that okay? Was I okay?

Are you okay?

You swoon, helpless to the contented sigh that seeps out from you like mist. You’ve gone limp against the breadth of him. He has reduced you to rubber, left wobbling in his grasp, and you’re so damn full—your heart and your body—all of it. You feel unequivocally complete. You feel safe, you feel home.

You are home. Francisco is home.

He’s flattening out the nest of your hair, taming the damage he previously delivered to it, earning from you a sleepy grin into the muggy crook of his neck. And with the last of your waning strength you hold his pieces up to the light—the light you left on in the hall as the night grew dark around you, the one who’s yellow glow your naked bodies bask in now, and you say

I love you

I love this

I love this too

tags:

@krissology @heartsofbeskar @madhattervanessa @andiesturgss @sharkbait77 @tenderwhat @javier-pena @pedros-mustache @frannyzooey @chasingdreamer @djarinsbeskar @thosewickedlovelies @juletheghoul @not-the-droids @filthybookworm @pilothusband @letterfromvienna @keeper0fthestars @greatcircle79 @day-off-inkyoto @mermaidxatxheart @lawfulgranola @heatherbel @quica-quica-quica @stuckonthefiction @janesbrontes

[riverdamien]

Saturated and Consetrated!

"Sloughing Towards Galilee!

National Mental Health Month!

"Saturated and Consecrated!"

"There was a certain rich man who was clothed in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day. But there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, full of sores, who was laid at his gate, desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man's table. Moreover the dogs came and licked his sores. So it was that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels to Abraham's bosom. The rich man also died and was buried. And being in torments in Hades, he lifted up his eyes and saw Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. "Then he cried and said, 'Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame.' But Abraham said, 'Son, remember that in your lifetime you received your good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things; but now he is comforted and you are tormented. And besides all this, between us and you there is a great gulf fixed, so that those who want to pass from here to you cannot, nor can those from there pass to us.' "Then he said, 'I beg you therefore, father, that you would send him to my father's house, for I have five brothers, that he may testify to them, lest they also come to this place of torment.' Abraham said to him, 'They have Moses and the prophets; let them hear them.' And he said, 'No, father Abraham; but if one goes to them from the dead, they will repent.' But he said to him, 'If they do not hear Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded though one rise from the dead.' "

"A Contemporary Story!

Today in the Haight I was talking with "Joe" an older black gentleman who lives and works out of his van creating and selling tie-dye goods. He was rather pensive and when asked if there was a problem said: "Each day as I look around in the Haight and Oakland, all I see is white supremacists, who simply think they are cool. They have no idea how much pain they cause me and my black brothers every day. I am not talking about you, but you do not have black skin, so you can never fully understand, in the same way the homeless are treated, and you understand that because you are one of them."

And my friend is right, there is little caring for anyone beneath one's social station, unhoused, they are out of sight and out of mind. People of color are discriminated very indirectly, for example, we have less than five percent of the population black in San Francisco, and I would dare to say that was unintentional discrimination. I hear comments from tourists and residents on Haight about my poor "black friend taking parking spots selling goods," we need to get our heads out of the sand, and wake up!

Our Gospel above points out how those who have material items find it almost impossible to allow those without into their lives, to enter into their suffering, for in that great gulf there is a lot of fear, and uncaring from those who have so much to give.

Francis de Sales, a sixteenth-century, bishop of France, wrote:

"Love the poor and love poverty, for it is in such love that we become truly poor. As the Scripture says, we become like the things we love. If you love the poor you will share their poverty, and be poor like them. If you love the poor be often with them. Be glad to talk to them and be pleased to have them near you in church, on the street and elsewhere. Be poor in conversing with them and speak to them as their companions do, but be rich in assisting them by sharing some of your more abundant goods with them."

He speaks the truth, we do become like the things we love!

We do become like the things we love! Our cars, our money, our clothes, and social media, consume our lives, to the avoidance of others.

St. Ignatius shares an image in which we can truly change those things that dominate our lives--we can change and become more like the image of God.

Ignatius tells us to imagine ourselves as a beautiful container of water dropping into a sponge versus water dripping onto a stone. When we are making progress in the spiritual life, he says that the Holy Spirit feels like a drop of water that gently soaks into a sponge whereas the evil spirit feels like water hitting a stone. I believe encountering the Divine, the drops of water saturate the sponge to the point that the sponge can no longer hold the water. The water begins oozing out of the sponge to the surfaces around it. This is how it is with us. Our relationship with Jesus is never about us, it is about understanding who he is in an influential interior way so that we can bring the gifts of this relationship out into the world. It is never about the love given to us, it is also about the love given to others. It is not only about the mercy and healing Jesus gives to us, it is about the sharing of this mercy and healing to others.

Today is a sad day, and yet a day of rejoicing! Today Glide Church is remembering the Reverend Cecil Williams, and I remember Cecil, my pastor in the first years here in San Francisco, always reminding me "You are OK, go serve God, forget about the rest!"

Today is the anniversary of my brother's death, who died in a car accident. me driving and within two days of my son Zac's death. Both of which sent me into the deep darkness of hell from which I rose to a new and transforming life.

I remember a local Baptist minister standing by my hospital bed, two hours after my brother's death, saying, "I hope you led him to Jesus or he is in hell! (Comforting words) and years later standing in the doorway of Old First Presbyterian greeting the visitors after Zac's memorial service a group of young Youth With a Mission staff holding my hand, hugging me, and saying: "We are sorry that he was not saved, and that he is in hell."(Oh, more comforting words!). In both cases, I felt run over by a car myself!

Today I feel sorry for the minister and those young people! Sorry, they truly missed out on the way of the love of Christ, and not seeing the Cosmic Christ, the One who is but one expression of the all-loving Divine! I can imagine both Zac and Stacy laughing as they stand within the Great Cloud of Saints, knowing the love of the Divine cheering me on in ministry until the day I join them!

This gift of friendship with Jesus or the Divine however you perceive the Presence, is available to every one of us. He is inviting us, calling us into a relationship.

As we say yes to this relationship and begin following his way, we discover and embrace the promise of God that Jesus reveals to us--the promise found in giving all that we have and receiving in return! Dio Gratias! Thanks be to God!

--------------------------------------------------------------

Zac, Stacy, and Cecil, in the words of Eleanor Roosevelt I thank you for the footprints you have left behind:

“Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.” ~Eleanor Roosevelt

=================================

Fr. River Damien Sims, sfw, D.Min., D.S.T.

Post Office Box 642656

San Francisco, CA 94164

www.temenos.org

paypal.com

415-305-2124

Fr. River Sims, D.Min., D.S.T.

Director

Prayer of St. Brendan!

"Help me to journey beyond the familiar

and into the unknown.

Give me the faith to leave old ways and break fresh ground with You. Christ of the mysteries I trust in You to be stronger than each storm within me.

I will trust in the darkness and know that my times, even now, are in Your hands.

Tune my spirit to the music of heaven,

and somehow, make my obedience count for You"

------------------------------------------------

(Temenos and Fr. River seek to remain accessible to everyone. We do not endorse particular causes, political parties, or candidates, or take part in public controversies, whether religious, political or social--Our pastoral ministry is to everyone!

================================

[disappointingyet]

2021 – Everything else

This is a quick round-up of everything I can remember that I saw this year that – as far as I can work out – is listed as a 2021 release in the UK but I didn’t like enough to put in my films of the year list. Some good, some less so, none complete garbage…

I Care A Lot/Promising Young Woman

Two films that generated a bit of discussion in lockdown, two films in the ‘hey! women can be nasty too’ bracket (as if Double Indemnity wasn’t 77 years ago), two films that set off my Brits-in-Hollywood alert.  ICAL is the one with Rosamund Pike swindling old folk, PYW the one with Carey Mulligan messing with the heads of self-deluding ‘nice guys’. PYW I found much more interesting, with some superb meta-casting, but it never felt completely satisfying. 

(Prime)

The Many Saints Of Newark

Aka The Sopranos prequel, although not, as the trailer misleadingly suggested, predominantly the Tony Soprano origin story. An odd mix of fan service and a deeply muddled attempt to engage with the issue of race in New Jersey, something the show only ever dabbled in. Nice clothes, some decent jokes for old fans, but certainly not a vital cinematic event.

Shang-Chi And The Legend Of The Ten Rings

If I tell you the best thing about this Marvel movie is Awkwafina doing her shtick, then you might have a sense of how unnecessary it is. (I mean, Awkwafina is fine, but if you want to see her, watch The Farewell instead. Or even Jumanji: The Next Level, if you need some action with the gags). The first third is OKish, but it descends into an interminable slough of CGI dragon toss.  

(Disney Plus)

Black Widow

Cate Shortland, specialist in immersively intense films about female adolescence, joined the growing list of indie directors to have a go at Marvel blockbusters. (Shang-Chi was the work of the man who made Short Term 12, and The Eternals shares a director with the quasi-documentary Nomadland – see below.) The result? A film of three thirds: the first enjoyable mix of Bourne + The Americans, the second a slightly over-the-top family comedy-drama, the last the usual piss-poor Marvel final act. Overall, ropey accents aside, not too bad at all.

(Disney Plus)

Nomadland

Award-gobbling bit of social realism that for me was torpedoed by the casting. Francis McDormand   plays a woman living in a van – most of the rest of the people we see actually do live in their vehicles. I think the thinking is: McDormand doesn’t look movie-star glamorous, therefore she can move seamlessly among ordinary folk. But she’s a mannered character actor who has done her best work for the Coens and Wes Anderson – she’s no better suited to this kind of thing than, say, Wallace Shawn would be. Also, I couldn’t help comparing the film unfavourably to the work of Debra Granik, who does this stuff soooo much better. 

(Disney Plus)

The Mauritanian

Should we pity the Oscar-bait movie that gets passed over during awards season and gets a pasting from the critics? Generally not, but I felt The Mauritanian was a decent film, despite being a bit obvious in places and being burdened by Benedict Cumberbatch as a devoutly Christian military prosector. It’s a based-on-fact story of the title character (Tahir Rahman), who the CIA identifies as a key 9/11 figure and plonk in Guantanamo Bay, and the crusading liberal lawyers who take up his cause (Jodie Foster, Shailene Woodley). I think it is fair to question the white-saviour angle, and also I’m not sure the prestige movie approach is a happy fit for something with prolonged, graphic torture scenes. But I think it’s far better than a Metacritic score of 53 would suggest. 

(Prime)

Judas And The Black Messiah

This movie – about an FBI snitch setting up Chicago Black Panthers leader Fred Hampton in the late 1960s (I mean, the title does explain the plot) might be pretty good. I’m not sure – I don’t think I ever got past ‘Daniel Kaluuya is not 20. Daniel Kaluuya does not look 20, not even if you squint very hard, very hard. He really, really doesn’t.’ He’s actually fine – just ridiculously old to play Hampton, whose youth was a crucial part of why the government felt so threatened by him. And LaKeith Stanfield (pictured rather than the old British bloke) is excellent as the petty crim strong-armed by the FBI into joining the Panthers. Worth watching if you’re into this chunk of American history. 

The Mitchells vs. the Machines

One that maybe should be in my films of the year. Smart and fun animated film produced by Lord & Miller (the Lego Movies guys) in which a family road trip to deliver the daughter to college is interrupted by an apocalypse accidentally triggered by big tech. 

(Netflix)

Jungle Cruise

Hugely likeable Disney adventure that’s aiming to fill The Pirates Of The Caribbean slot, being based (I gather) on another of their theme rides. Other obvious elements in the mix are the Rachel Weisz/Brendan Fraser Mummy movies of the late ’90s/early ’00s, The African Queen and Werner Herzog’s Aguirre, Wrath Of God. We’re in Brazil while World War I is raging elsewhere, with idealistic adventurer Emily Blunt and pun-obsessed Amazon cruise skipper Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson, with ubiquitous posh bloke Jack Whitehall in a similar role to John Hannah in the Mummy flicks. Enjoyable.

(Disney Plus)

The Harder They Fall

Tarantinoesque neo-spaghetti Western with an almost all black cast. I reckon it’s better than QT’s own Westerns, but that’s a rather limited compliment. It’s stylised and stylish, there’s an excellent soundtrack. There’s also a cast that’s terrific – Regina King, LaKeith Stanfield, Zazie Beetz… until you get to the leader of each of the gangs. Jonathan Majors is too mournfully goofy for this kind of thing and I know everyone loves Idris Elba, but I continue to find him cringe-inducing. Like a number of films this year, it felt quite 1990s – in this case, not the good ’90s.

(Netflix)

Druk (Another Round)

A bunch of middle-aged male Danish teachers decide to conduct what they self-justify as a scientific experiment of drinking alcohol throughout the working day. The cast is good, the direction from Thomas Vinterberg – still best known for Festen all those years ago – is effective and atmospheric. So it’s a very well-made film that I probably had overly high expectations of. My issue is that all plays out in such an utterly predictable way…

The Velvet Underground

Todd Haynes, whose previous forays into pop history have been a little out there (eg, telling the Karen Carpenter story with Barbie dolls), plays it pretty straight with this documentary about the NY-based anti-hippies. There’s heaps of lovely archive, including quite a lot of stuff I haven’t seen before, and interviews with most of the key survivors. It’s a useful intro for beginners, fun for fans, probably unnecessary for anyone else.

Full review here

(Apple TV+)

E Stata La Mano De Dio (The Hand Of God)

Italian arthouse heavyweight Paolo Sorrentino (The Consequence Of Love, The Great Beauty) goes autobiographical with this story of a teenager in Naples in the mid-1980s who is on the one hand almost completely friendless and on the other immersed in huge, ever-involving extended family. (And, as the title suggests, obsessed with Napoli’s game-changing new signing.) The subject matter is more personal than Sorrentino’s previous films, but some of the critics have got carried away and suggested this is a complete gear-shift for him. I disagree: there are still the great cityscapes, the trademark shots down long corridors and the huge collections of eccentric and grotesque characters. And Fabie – the character based on Sorrentino – even hangs out at an audition for a Fellini, which sort-of acknowledges an influence often assumed by critics. Filippo Scotti is excellent casting as an unsure ’80s kid, and Sorrentino’s favourite Toni Servillo plays the dad. It’s got great moments, especially the opening 10 minutes or so, but it also drags in places and is (inevitably) too long.

(Netflix)

Bo Burnham: Inside

In which the director/comedian/actor/singer films himself in one room, seemingly falling apart, during Covid lockdown. If it truly was – as it suggests – all shot, lit and set-dressed by Burnham alone, it’s at least an astonishing technical achievement, showing how varied and interesting you can make a simple space look. The themes of the monologues and songs are self-analysing and very-of-the-moment, not just isolation-related, but about social media and white liberal male guilt etc. Hugely impressive, also kind of exhausting to watch.

(Netflix)

Azor

Glacially paced Swiss thriller set in Argentina, 1980, during the rule of a particularly murderous military junta. Enter the De Weils, representing a long-established Swiss banking family. Yvan De Weil (Fabrizio Rongione) is here because one of his partners has gone missing, leaving their super-wealthy Argentinian clients very anxious. His wife Inès (Stéphanie Cléau) is here because she’s good with people. The film follows the Apocalypse Now/Sicario pattern where the main character goes further and further towards, well, the heart of darkness, only in this case that’s mostly country-house weekends and gentleman’s clubs. More than most, I can empathise with that – I’ve been at lunches in Latin America hosted or attended by people widely suspected of being involved in human rights abuses. But this film is so slow and so talky, and also I never really understood why this is meant to be an interesting angle on this (maybe if you’re Swiss?). Critics adored this, but while it’s stylish and smart, I also found dull, a bit empty and also – despite it’s enigmatic air – a bit obvious. (If you want a thriller about Argentina’s murky past, I’d stick to El Secreto De Sus Ojos any day.)