#patrick dawes

[mitjalovse]

Koop are what genre? I mean, they are one of these outfits you wouldn't be surprised to hear on your usual chill out compilations, though they also don't belong there completely. To be honest, most of these groups are somehow considered to be electronica despite them sounding quite organic or even being such. For instance, The Herbaliser do sound different than Koop, yet you could see them forming a double bill with the latter. They both take a certain sound from the past and they augment that with the modern technology, yet they don't overdo this principle by going towards the uncanny as some of their peers. The tune in the link proves my point, there's nothing too much in the piece, you're not feeling something is off.

[dearstvckyx]

𝐚𝐥𝐛𝐮𝐦 𝟐

𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ➜ 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

Location: New Jersey

Liked by nicodaws and 30,528,259 others

thelunahughes the beach out september 9 🫶🏻🌊but Somewhere Only We Know out NOW!!!

view all 15,483,294 comments

lhughes_06: not to brag or anything but thats me on the cover

⟶ thelunahughes: lu 😭

⟶ markestapa: OUR BOYS FAMOUS NOW

⟶ thelunahughes: STOP 😭

jackhughes: killing it baby sister

⟶ thelunahughes: love you jack, so much

trevorzegras: ONLY TEN SONGS?

⟶ thelunahughes: IM SORRY?!?

jamie.drysdale: not to brag or anything but im in the Somewhere Only We Know MV

⟶ _alexturcotte: same

⟶ colecaufield: same

⟶ jackhughes: same

⟶ noahwest31: same

⟶ mackie.samo: same

⟶ trevorzegras: same

⟶ luca.fantilli: same

⟶ _quinnhughes: I’m in that AND The House That Built Me

⟶ lhughes_06: same _quinnhughes

⟶ jackhughes: the whole family is Quinn

⟶ tj_hughes13: AND IF YOU HAVE A MINUTE WHY DONT WE GO

⟶ patrickmoynihan_: TALK ABOUT IT SOMEWHERE ONLY WE KNOW

⟶ lhughes_06: THIS COULD BE THE END OF EVERYTHING

⟶ luca.fantilli: SO WHY DONT WE GO

⟶ mackie.samo: SOMEWHERE ONLY WE KNOW

⸻ view 210 more comments

[annon-guy2]

XBLAZE: Hypothetical English Dub Voice Actors

Touya Kagari: Bryce Papenbrook (Silver The Hedgehog from Sonic The Hedgehog and Kirito/Kazuto Kirigaya from Sword Art Online) or Lucien Dodge (Sin Kiske from Guilty Gear and Akaza from Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba)

Es: Eden Riegel [Role Reprise from BlazBlue Cross Tag Battle] (May from Guilty Gear and Himeko Nayotake from Sailor Moon S: The Movie)

Hinata Himezuru: Kira Buckland (Heart Aino from Arcana Heart/BlazBlue Cross Tag Battle and Kuroyukihime from Accel World)

Mei Amanohokosaka: Cherami Leigh (Caeda from Fire Emblem and Shana from Shakugan no Shana)

Kuon Glamred Stroheim: Laura Stahl (Female Alear from Fire Emblem Engage and Homura Kōgetsu from EDENS ZERO)

Akira Kamewari: Kyle McCarley (Zeroken from Disgaea and Iruka Umino from Naruto) or Clifford Chapin (Billy Kid from Zenless Zone Zero and Cabba from Dragon Ball Super)

Yuki Himezuru: Cindy Robinson (Makoto Nanaya from BlazBlue and Kushina Uzumaki from Naruto)

Elise von Klagen: Xanthe Huynh (Terra from Relayer and Sanae Nagatsuki from The Squid Girl)

Ringo Akagi: Colleen Clinkenbeard (Lisette Regnier from Tales of Luminaria and Margery Daw from Shakugan no Shana)

Avenge: Alejandro Saab (Akihiko Sanada from Persona 3 Reload and Tatsuya Shiba from The Irregular at Magic High School)

Souichiro Unomaru: Kyle Hebert (Richter Abend from Tales of Symphonia: Dawn of the New World and Kozo Kanamori from Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba)

Es-N: Megan Taylor Harvey (Veyle/Fallen Veyle from Fire Emblem Engage and Koumei Shokatsuryou from Ikkitousen)

Ripper: Robbie Daymond (Mephiles The Dark from Sonic The Hedgehog and Hotaru Haganezuka from Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba)

Acht: Amber Lee Connors (I-No from Guilty Gear and Elaina from Wandering Witch: The Journey of Elaina)

Drei: Ray Chase (Artorius Collbrande from Tales of Beseria and Tengen Uzui from Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba)

Sechs: Patrick Seitz (Ragna The Bloodedge from BlazBlue and Jiren from Dragon Ball Super)

"Me": Amanda Céline Miller (Nine The Phantom from BlazBlue and Boruto Uzumaki from Boruto)

"Little Sister": Carrie Savage (Celica A. Mercury from BlazBlue and Kiyomi Sakura from The Squid Girl)

Nobody: Christine Marie Cabanos (Amitie from Puyo Puyo and Mako Mankanshoku from Kill la Kill)

Brain Cat: Alexis Tipton (Platinum the Trinity from BlazBlue and Kid Trunks from Dragon Ball Z/Super)

Kiri: Zeno Robinson (Vane from GranBlue Fantasy: Versus and Hawks from My Hero Academia)

Freaks: Doug Erholtz (Yuuki Terumi from BlazBlue and Gin Ichimaru from Bleach)

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

Feel free to share your thoughts on these choices or if you have different VA Idea's in mind.

[thegreyjester]

On Wednesday's, We Kill (Wednesday/American Psycho) Chapter 3, Say 'Woe

Fandom: Wednesday (TV 2022), American Psycho (2000)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Patrick Bateman/Wednesday Addams (NO LONGER Platonic! I've made my mind.)

Additional Tags: Patrick Bateman & Wednesday Addams Patrick Bateman Wednesday Addams Tyler Galpin Lucas Walker (Wednesday TV) Jonah (Wednesday TV) Mentioned Noble Walker Mentioned Donovan Galpin - CharacterLarissa Weems Carter (Wednesday TV) Platonic Relationships Ambiguous/Open Ending Patrick Bateman is an Assholeinternally Violent Thoughts Obsessive Behavior Existential Crisis Internal Conflict Unreliable Narrator Patrick Bateman is at Fault Wednesday Addams is Bad at Feelings Lucas Walker Tries Barista Tyler Galpin Character Study

Summary: “But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.” - Iago from William Shakespeare's play, "Othello."

A self-loathing, narcissistic loser meets his match with a stuck-up, unlikeable goth.

Comments: I REALLY WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT PATRICK GOING TO THE DENTIST! Sorry that the rooms (X-Ray and Operatory) and furniture (chairs) for Dunkling and Penney are inaccurate. There's like, only a handful of pictures of the Jericho Vermont office and they are bunched together with the ones for Burlington—so I described the dentistry that I frequent. I tried to makeup for that inaccuracy with the Kate's Food segment.

Word count: 6,000+

Fic under the line break, and it can be read on AO3 under the same name.

AO3: Say 'Woe

──────◇─────���​

"I still have the mutant one that emerged from the toilet—in its new glass cage, heave what's left of its acid-ridden body halfway across the elaborate Habitrail system that sits on the kitchen table, where it attempts to drink from the water holder that I filled with poisoned Evian this morning." 

— Patrick Bateman

"My first thought upon entering the room is that I would have preferred there to be a victim in a pool of blood. A centipede infestation. A cloud of poison gas that causes excruciating pain before it eventually hijacks your nervous system and causes complete organ failure." 

— Wednesday Addams

──────◇──────​

I wasn't lying to Tyler. Not exactly.

I told him I had to make a dentist appointment. That's what I did. It wasn't some last-minute excuse to get out of the conversation—I'm sitting on a downtown guest chair by Uline, standard size with a metal frame and a two-tone upholstery—dark brown vinyl seat and a light tan fabric backrest—at Dunkling and Penney Dentistry, waiting for them to call my name.

The receptionist at the front desk didn't so much as glance at me when I walked in, her acrylic nails tapping a steady rhythm against the keyboard as she confirmed I had indeed made an appointment.

It's real. It's tangible. It's happening.

When was my appointment? Twenty minutes.

Before coming here, I went to Jericho Market. I bought three things.

The latest issue of STAND in the Changi Magazine (the one with the grey cover, at its centerfold was a chick wearing an off-white button-up blouse and high-waisted trousers), an 8.5 fluid-ounce bottle of Listerine mouthwash, and a 1-liter—technically it's 1.05 quarts—bottle of Evian spring water.

Just recalling it fills me with a strange sensation. Weird.

I opened the bottle of Listerine first.

The entire 8.5 ounces went down in one long, burning, agonizing gulp. The antiseptic—and mint—clawed its way across my tongue, down my throat, before settling somewhere ugly in my chest.

When I finished it, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand before uncapping the Evian water. Took three small, measured sips.

There is a reason for that. Not for thirst. I wasn't thirsty.

Listerine stains the teeth. It gets into the enamel, leaving a bluish tint along the gumline and in the grooves of the molars.

I've read about that. I've seen it in others. I'm beginning to see it in myself.

The water was to rinse it out before it began to set in.

I don't know if it worked.

I haven't swallowed since.

I've kept my jaw shut. My tongue has been pressed firmly against the lower incisors of my mouth for the past seventeen minutes.

It's started to ache, but I deserve that.

My hands are trembling. Not violently. But just enough that the corners of the magazine twitch as I turn the pages.

I try to hold it still, my thumb pressing hard. It makes it worse. The paper crinkles near the staples.

It's not noticeable. No one is looking. The receptionist's nails are still tapping. I haven't looked up to confirm, but I know.

The receptionist does not have eyes.

My stomach is churning.

Something is attempting to crawl out of me. I don't know if it is queasiness from the Listerine, the water, or the way the model on the front cover's eyes looked like plastic buttons.

The color of her blouse is beginning to look more like intermuscular meat fat.

It really shouldn't bother me, but it does.

I can't help but keep returning to that image.

I squint at it. Angle the magazine differently under the light.

It doesn't help.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

The Valium helps. A little.

I took some more earlier, but I don't exactly remember how many. After the market, I think. I swallowed it in my Uber ride here.

It's working, sort of. I'm experiencing blurred peripheral vision. The absolute worst of it—nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, and the flicker of panic behind my eyes—is all being kept at bay.

It's all hovering just out of reach.

But my hands are still shaking.

I'm trying to focus on the article in front of me.

It's about what do you get someone who has everything? Apparently a brown leather handbag by Paul Marius, Simone (the only picture accompanying the article). A rectangular-shaped bag with both a flap closure and a top handle. The text is clean and left-aligned and the margins are even.

But I keep rereading the same sentence on the top left of the image. Over and over.

"You can have anything you want in life."

Oh, brother.

Someone actually wrote that. They typed it. Then edited it. Someone else approved it and the layout before printing it. They probably felt proud.

I tap my foot against the light hardwood flooring. Heel first, then toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. It's a steady rhythm that feels deliberate even when it isn't.

I'm not laughing. I don't scoff. I don't roll my eyes. I acknowledge it. The line—the sentence—the piece of affirmation. It settles into my skull like a piece of bubble gum flattened beneath a shoe.

I read the line again.

"You can have anything you want in life."

What a stupid sentence. Not because it's false. But because it's true.

And I think, yes. It's true. But only for me.

Not for anyone else.

Not for the woman in the waiting room, in the seat across from me with gums the color of boiled shrimp. Not for the receptionist with her acrylic nails and whose blood likely stopped flowing a long time ago. Not for Tyler Galpin.

Just. Me.

Because I can have anything I want in life.

And I know it.

I continue to stare at the page.

I let my thumb hover near the corner of it, but I don't turn the page just yet.

I want to savor the sentence.

I remember a girl.

I think her name was Lisa, or Laura, or something equally forgettable, someone who once told me—somewhere between a second and third line of coke at a friend's rooftop party in SoHo, something sponsored by an indie magazine that later went bankrupt that year—that, "The universe listens if you ask nicely."

She was nude except for wearing a white and green beaded necklace—something I am still convinced was made by Charles Manson—and ankle socks, quoting what I had assumed to be Oprah.

I remember nodding along, licking the powder off my thumb, before asking if the universe had any Xanax left. She laughed. I didn't. I handed her a rolled-up bill and watched as she snorted half a month's rent off a glass coffee table shaped like a lowercase 't.'

I wondered how many steps it would take to push her off the ledge.

I didn't. She fell on her own. Six months later. Not off that roof, but somewhere quieter. She threw herself off a parking structure. Leaving behind a note written in pink ink with hearts over the i's.

I remember standing on the same ledge where it happened. I wasn't there for her. I just happened to pass through on my way to an art gallery opening. Something avant-garde. Ceramic wombs and wireframes.

I assume the universe didn't hear her.

"Mr. Bateman?"

I'm blinking, snapping out of whatever Valium-induced haze I was drifting into.

My name is spoken politely, there is an upward lift to it—someone was trying their best to sound pleasant while working a job they probably didn't want.

Looking up now, I meet the eyes of a woman in light blue scrubs—early thirties, maybe, with a tight ponytail, holding a clipboard against her chest.

Her face was somewhere between neutral and caffeinated. She was standing at the edge of the reception desk.

I offered her what I thought was a smile, but I think it came out more like a grimace. My face feels like it's made of latex.

"Yes. That's me," I say cheerfully. "Patrick. Bateman. That's—right. Yep."

She smiles, not unkindly.

I stand up a bit too fast.

My legs feel hollow. Brittle. Every joint is threatening to collapse inwardly.

I'm trembling—not overwhelmingly, but noticeably, I think.

As if I'm on the verge of a detox. Which I'm not. I haven't touched anything stronger than Valium and a little Chardonnay in days.

Maybe it's a vitamin deficiency. Days.

It's probably the Listerine.

I fold my magazine. Once down the middle, then again into quarters. It's now a thick rectangle in the breast pocket of my coat. The corner juts out slightly. I press it down. Miss. I press down again. It stays.

She turns without a word, already walking down the hallway. I am left following after her like a well-trained spaniel. My footsteps are silent. Hers squeak.

As we walk, I tell her, "I really like your, um, scrubs." I pause, realizing that might sound weird. "The color. It's a good shade. Clean."

The hallway is plastered with posters.

Happy molars. Cartoonish gums.

One of them—probably drawn for children—features a smiling tooth holding a floss lasso.

It's called "Flossy the Enamel Pal."

I stare at it for far too long.

She hums, noncommittally.

I nod, even though she can't see it. "I knew a person who used to wear scrubs. For a Halloween party. Nurse. Not the medical kind. One of those—well. Doesn't matter."

She doesn't respond. That's fine. I didn't expect her to.

We stopped outside a door marked X-RAY. The lettering was a bold Helvetica. She opens it.

"After you," she says.

"Thank you… Katie?" I say while squinting at her nametag. She blinks.

"Kaitlyn," she corrects.

"Of course," I step past her into the room.

Inside the white-walled room, there's a large gray machine mounted to the wall along with a long, adjustable tube head angled downward. Both are positioned near a vinyl chair—grayish and faintly cracked near the edges. Next to that chair, is a metallic countertop, stacked with lead aprons and laminated safety warnings. One of the latter is a small rectangular sensor encased in red plastic that catches my eye. It looks like it'll fit a USB.

"Nice place," I mutter, acting as if I hadn't already visited before.

"Have a seat," she tells me.

I sit down. The vinyl chair hisses. I shift. The chair squeaks.

Laughing, I clarify. "That was the chair. Not me."

She doesn't respond. Already sliding on synthetic vinyl gloves.

"I come here pretty regularly," I add. "Dental health is very important to me. I floss. Twice a day. Sometimes more. Especially after steak."

Moving quickly, she opens a nearby drawer and brings out a sensor wrapped in plastic. Peeling it back, she fits the red-edged piece into a bite block, before then slipping a fresh plastic sheath over the whole contraption. Hygienic, I'm sure.

"I think oral hygiene says a lot about a person," I continue. "Discipline, self-respect, a moral code. Really, just their personal integrity."

"This," She holds the bitewing up to my face, "will go inside your mouth. Just bite down when I tell you to."

I nod, staring at it. The plastic crinkles. The corners look sharp.

"Sound's delightful."

She slides the plastic-covered bitewing into my mouth. It presses awkwardly against the inside of my cheek. Its blocky corner stabs into the floor of my mouth, right where the soft tissue tissue meets the base of my tongue.

I wince.

I'm breathing through my nose. Trying not to gag.

She adjusts the X-ray tube head. It's now positioned beside my face. She grabs a lead apron from the countertop and places it on my chest. It's heavier than I expected it to be. Feels like a weighted blanket. Suddenly, I became aware of the shape of my own sternum.

"Bite down," she says gently.

I do. It's difficult.

I can taste the plastic. I can feel my saliva begin to pool beneath the sensor.

"Don't move," she tells me. "I'm going to step out."

I want to say something witty. But I can't. My jaw trembles from the pressure.

She leaves, closing the door. I could hear a small click of a button from just outside.

Whirr.

The machine buzzes briefly, before stopping.

A few seconds later, the door reopens. She comes back inside. "Doing okay?" she asks while already unwrapping the next sensor.

"Grr'eat," I mumbled eloquently around the plastic. "R'really fan-tashtic."

She doesn't laugh. Or react. Just removes the sensor.

"Okay, again—open for me?"

It was another bite block. This one is blue. She tilts my head slightly. It presses differently, but—it's still wrong. Still stabbing something. Jabbing the edge of my gums. I drool a little. I do not comment on that. Neither does she.

The process repeats. Machine hum. Staff exit. I try not to move. I try not to think. I focus on the tiny dot of paint chipped off the corner of the ceiling tile above me.

The position of the tube head changes.

Click.

The door closes.

Whirr.

"Almost done," she offers.

I murmur something. It comes out as a gurgle.

I imagine blood blooming from the floor of my mouth, but it doesn't. Probably.

I want to say something. Make a joke, maybe. Something about radiation or about how teeth are bones you can see without surgery. But I don't. My tongue is pressed awkwardly between my molars and plastic. It aches.

There's an image on the monitor in front of me, something I can see clearly from where I'm sitting but don't want to. It was my teeth. Pale, straight (must be the wrong angulation of the X-ray beam, they are not crooked) teeth.

There's a blip near one molar—a dark patch. I don't ask about it. Neither does she.

Finally, she returns and removes the last sensor from my mouth.

The whole process was under ten minutes.

"All done," she says cheerily as she slides the arm of the machine back.

"Mm-hmm," I offer, smiling, lips closed. My jaw trembles.

"Please follow me to the next room. The dental hygienist doing your cleaning will meet you there."

"Great," I say. My voice cracks. "Won-derful. Love it."

She leads me out of the room and down another hallway, further into the dental office.

We turn a corner and move into this dental office's sole operatory room. All three dental chairs are here, lined up in neat rows beneath bright overhead lights.

The large windows in the room are impossible to ignore. The room has an impressive view of Mount Mansfield. Sure, some visitors may be a bit intimidated by this killer view, but I can't help but appreciate it.

The dental assistant, who I assume was just overexposed to this view, doesn't pause. She gestures toward the middle chair.

I move to sit down. The vinyl and plastic wrap creaks beneath me as I lower myself into it. I shifted uncomfortably, my coat was still on but it would be too much of a hassle to take off.

Sinking back into the chair, I watch the way the light filters through the glass. Natural light, of course—the most flattering kind. Whoever's choice was it to do that deserves to be congratulated. It makes everything look better and smoother.

I put on my earbuds—third-generation AirPods—and pull out my phone. My screen lights up. No new messages (Not counting the notifications I received on Messages by Carter. Some time ago, I made the mistake of sharing my location with him. Now, every time that asshole sees I'm at the dentist, he sends me pictures of candy. Gummy worms. Sour ropes. Fucking Taffy. I swear, it's like psychological warfare). I open Music and press play on whatever was already queued. I don't check what it is.

("I would like to climb high in a tree,"

"I could be happy, I could be happy,"

"Or go to Skye on my holiday,"

"I could be happy, I could be happy,"

"Maybe swim a mile down the Nile,"

"I could be happy, I could be happy,"

"All of these things I do,"

"All of these things I do,"

"To get away from you,"

"Get away, run away, far away,"

"How do I,"

"Get away, run away, far away,"

"How do I,"

"Escape—")

I feel someone touch my shoulder.

I want to slap it away. I know who it is before I even turn around.

"If you ever touch me without gloves again," I murmur, "I'll cave your head in with the saliva ejector and mail what's left to your next of kin."

I slid my thumb across the screen to pause the music, before turning.

The man I'm looking at looks like a parody of a dental hygienist played by a lesser-known SNL cast member.

Colt Fathom

A weasel masquerading as a man. An absolute dickhead who somehow has a license to operate suction tubes and sharp metal hooks inside people's mouths. He just stands there, smirking. Like he's about to make my life ten times worse than it needs to be.

I can't stand this guy.

I want to drive a scaler through his eye.

No. No, let me rephrase that.

I want to gently place him into one of those antique dental chairs, something from the 1900s, the kind with leather straps and iron (preferably rusted on his end, give the idiot tetanus why don't you) cranks. I'd give him a root canal with little to no anesthetic, just the slightest bit of Novocain. Give him hope that I know would die soon.

I want to use piano wire as floss for his incisors, purposefully aiming for his gums. Watch as he tries to speak through blood. I want to feed him fluoride rinse through a turkey baster until he gargles apologies in mint flavor.

The first time I met him, he traumatized a five-year-old.

He introduced himself before asking the kid if he could see his, "bundle of cavities," a statement I found both widely inappropriate and poorly timed. The child was left in tears. The mother was horrified, practically dragging the kid out of the office as fast as possible. Giving credit where credit is due, Colt has a complete and utter disregard for basic social decency.

Colt watched them leave and then turned to me.

"I can't fathom how you still have a job," I told him.

He laughed and laughed.

He called it clever and self-assigned himself as my personal dental hygienist.

"Hey, champ," he says brightly. "Back for round what? Eighty?"

Trying to keep it lighthearted, I reply. "Only eighty? At this point, I feel like we should be exchanging Christmas cards."

"You shouldn't joke like that," he says already reaching for the tray. "Gives me the impression you actually enjoy my company."

Colt hums as he adjusts the overhead lamp. He makes an exaggerated show of angling it just right. Then, without warning, he switches it on. The blindingly bright beam blasts directly into my face.

He pauses.

"You know," he says as he inspects me with a raised brow, "you still do that thing. Every single time I turn this light on, you just stare into it like a moth. You don't flinch. You never blink. It's honestly starting to freak me out."

"I like to make your job harder."

"That explains so much."

He begins laying out his tools (at least, the ones that haven't already been laid out). A mirror, a probe, two scalers—one newly polished and the other dull. The scent of latex lingers.

He lowers the chair.

He wraps a blue plastic dental bib around my neck.

"You comfy, cupcake?" he asks 'sweetly'.

"Perfectly."

"See, now that's the spirit." He picks up and scaler and twirls it like a baton. "Positive thinking. I adore it. You're practically glowing."

"That's probably the overhead light."

"Nah, you're just radiating with joy. Really selling it."

I murmur—half to myself, half to the ceiling tiles, "I'm not well, you know. Mentally. Something is... wrong. With me."

He continues to hum.

──────◇──────​

I'm walking up Route 15, having just left Dunkling and Penney Dentistry, making my way toward Kate's Food Truck. It's parked in a gravel lot beside a hardware store. I've ordered from there before.

Today I plan on ordering their vanilla milkshake.

It's made with vanilla creemee, a Vermont-style soft-serve. It's different from your typical soft-serve, with it being denser and smoother thanks to its higher butterfat contents (usually around fourteen percent) and low overrun. They then blend it with whole milk, which gives it a rich, almost velvety consistency that you wouldn't expect from a food truck. Although technically it's a soft-serve, the texture edges into its own territory in the best way.

With them using whole milk on top of that for their milkshake, it's not exactly low-fat—but it's not over the top either. The Sodium contents are modest but nowhere near negligible, just far from excessive.

Anyway, it's good. Nice, clean flavor and no weird aftertaste.

(They use actual ice cream for their Cookie Dough milkshake, if that matters.)

I plan on getting that as a treat—more like a reward—for dealing with everyone's antics. I deserve that much, at least.

Interacting with Colt was headache-inducing. Did you know that loser is the type of dentist to talk with his patients while having his fingers and tools in their mouth?

I felt like one of those Nile crocodiles undergoing a cleaning session, mouth pried open while an Egyptian plover—Colt, in this instance—picks away remnants of plaque and tartar. And like the crocodile, I had to resist the urge to bite off Colt's fingers.

Up ahead of me, just passing the first and larger sign for Mountain High Pizza Pie, I spot a figure.

A man. By the looks of it, a homeless bum.

His hair is a filthy mess of ginger and grey, it's long enough to touch his shoulders and it's knotted into clumps. The portions that weren't matted are stringy uneven strands. His beard—same color and condition—spills unevenly down his chest.

His face is sunken and raw-looking, his skin tight and cracked, I think it's flakey. I feel disgusted looking at him. Like I'd get an allergic reaction and break out in hives if I continue making eye contact with him. And I haven't even mentioned his clothes.

His coat is the first thing I notice—an old army-green fishtail parka, still possessing its hood but frayed at the edges, the kind of jacket you'd find in a thrift bin behind a gas station that's clearly overused. Like an exposed tendon, the nylon lining pokes out through a tear in the sleeve.

Beneath that, he was wearing a vintage fleece jacket from L.L. Bean, it was unmistakable. Aztec patterns but the colors are muted by grime, rusted reds, and faded teals.

Under that, I swear, I see what looks like a James Perse waffle knit sweater. Cashmere, thermal stitching, overcast coloring, the kind marked with "relaxed luxury" or "recycled with intention". I know the exact one—$595 retail price, I own the exact one. But that just can't be. That's just not possible. There's no conceivable universe in which a man this unwashed, this ragged, this ugly, is actually wearing James Perse. The same James Perse I own. My brain refuses to process that, so, I conclude he must be wearing something that just looks like one. A knockoff. A fake. It makes me feel better.

His pants are Carhartt dungarees—although it's almost unrecognizable. It's stained, the hem is frayed and is currently being dragged along the grass, and on the knee there is a crude patch job done with black thread, unmatching with its gravel coloring. Nike Air Prestos, Photo Blue, Black. The laces are different colors and different lengths, they are not even tied together, but instead shoved into the shoe haphazardly.

I feel a flicker of unease. If I were wearing pearls, I'd be clutching them right about now.

I consider crossing the street, not out of fear, but to avoid interacting with the man. But I don't. I keep walking, straight back and centered, like I'm the only person allowed to exist on this stretch of grass and cement.

The bum stops. Or rather, he stumbles to a halt. He sways slightly. Something wet clings to the cuffs of his parka. Probably soup. Another reason why he wasn't wearing James Perse (it has holes in it).

His gaze passes over me without recognition or shame. He opens his mouth.

"Hey," he rasps. "You got a gun?"

I blink. "No," I say, frankly. It's the truth.

He nods and murmurs, "Alright. Thanks."

I keep walking, but my pace slows.

For a moment, I remember Jonah—giant prick, aspirationally trend-obsessed and sociopathic—going on the other night during our late-night calls about a "trend" he heard that began circulating in certain circles. Throwing confectionary treats at the homeless. Not to, he clarified, at. Honeybuns, Little Debbies, individually wrapped Hostess cupcakes. The occasional Ring Dings. He reasoned it was "compassionate pelting". Possibly a performance art. Definitely cruel. Very postmodern.

I remember laughing and nodding along. I don't remember anything else about that conversation, except that he said someone in Brooklyn used a Honeybun like a discus. Someone else paired that with a flamethrower.

Unfortunately, I don't have a Honeybun. Nor, regrettably, a flamethrower.

What I do have, however, are the chocolate chip cookies that Lucas gave me. They're in a Ziplock bag, neatly placed inside the left exterior jet pocket of my coat. I can feel the residual heat through the fabric.

I consider it. Really consider it.

I reached into my coat pocket and ran my thumb against it. If I timed it right if I just angled it just right at the cervical vertebrae and around its curve, I could spike the bag at the base of his skull and he'd crumple like wet paper.

Not underhand, like flicking a cigarette butt. But overhand, like a proper pitch.

Then—

My phone vibrates in the side pocket of my charcoal smoke trousers. Reaching for it, I glance at the screen.

Unknown Number. FaceTime.

Who FaceTimes from an unknown number? What kind of person lacks that much shame?

I look back at the homeless man. He's further away. Smaller. Less satisfying.

I breathe out a huff through my nose. I run a hand through my hair before accepting the FaceTime.

The camera opens, and I try not to look as disappointed as I feel.

The screen shifts. My reflection flickers in the upper right corner but the main window is filled with her.

Wednesday Addams.

There she is again. Incorporeal yet inescapably present.

She didn't greet me, but I expected that. She just stares.

From what I could see, Wednesday was wearing an oversized black hoodie. The fabric wasn't a typical cotton, it had that smooth, denser weight that you'd only get from a viscose blend. Not too shiny, but not matte either. Dropped shoulders, sleeves that ballooned slightly before tapering into clean ribbed cuffs. A fixed hood and a front zip that is partially open.

Then I saw it. I saw the trim.

Oh my god. I recognized that trim.

Thick, immaculate ribbing at the cuffs and, what I am certain of, the hem. Dense, durable, likely designer. I've seen it before. I own it. That trim—paired with a muted gunmetal zipper, minimized hardware, and barely visible embroidery along the seam—I knew instantly.

She was wearing Gucci.

Not vintage. Not fake. Current.

And she wore it like she didn't care.

The agony came quietly, tight in my chest, just under the ribs. How. How could someone wearing something that refined, that expertly cut, and treat it like just another hoodie?

And she pulled it off effortlessly.

Beneath it, she wore a striped sweater. Black and white, wide horizontal bands. Probably a combed jersey knit. Tight black crew neck that was only slightly raised.

I swallow the urge to throw up. I'm not nervous. I'm not. I'm just. Aware.

Yes. Aware. That's the word.

I say, "Hello," because my mouth needs something to do.

She mirrors it, after a pause, as if she is testing the word on her tongue. "Hello."

I wish she wouldn't look at me like that. I wish she'd roll her eyes. Scoff. Do anything.

Instead, her silence gnaws at my composure.

I grasp for something unsettling. Just to keep the conversation going. Something.

"Did you know," I say, conversationally, "Ted Bundy's last words were 'Give my love to my family and friends.'" I let that sit. Let the weight of it press down between us.

She doesn't blink.

"Would that be your last words?" she asks.

Her voice was still flat. Her tone, however, wasn't accusing or lilt.

I smile because I'm supposed to. It feels wrong. My teeth feel like glass.

"I was hoping it'd be yours."

And there. Just for a second. I think something stirs in her expressionless face. Never a smile. Never a twitch.

She's still staring.

I'm suddenly reminded about how loud my own heartbeat is. I hate that I can hear it.

I think. I'm losing it.

No. No—I'm terrified.

She's not even pretending to be human.

She isn't even trying.

It makes me feel. Less.

Pitifully, I try to reclaim ground.

"You're at least consistent," I say.

No change.

"Unblinking," I add. "Monochrome. A touch anachronistic, but in a self-aware way. Impressive, really."

No reaction.

God, what do you want?

But. I don't think she wants anything. That's what makes it worse. I have nothing to hook onto. No angle to approach.

Why did she even call me?

"You've been thinking about me," I offer casually. I'm being smug.

She doesn't deny it.

But she makes no effort to confirm it either.

She's killing me.

I hate her. I want to crack her like an egg. Spill out her secrets onto the floor and catalog them. Pull her apart like a crow pecking out the glint from a corpse's eye.

But I also. I want to know what's behind her eyes.

"I'm surprised you called," I say.

"I was curious," she replies.

"About me?"

She fucking shrugs.

That ambiguous little gesture. It's maddening. It tells me nothing. It kills me.

"I'm not like other people," I say, because I want her to know. I need her to.

"I know."

I blink. I didn't expect that.

She knows?

She knows?

I feel a pulse near my temple.

"So," I began, leaning forward, "am I still... interesting?"

Silence.

I'm panicking.

Then—

"You're...a controlled burn."

I pause.

"Controlled?"

"For now."

I laugh. "That sounds like a threat."

"It's not," she says. "It's a prediction."

I hate how calm she is.

I hate how I'm not.

My throat's dry. My mind's racing. I want to say something clever, but all I can think of is how I don't want this call to end.

She's watching me drown in silence again.

I shuffle my feet. "Are you going to say anything else?"

"Are you?"

Touché.

I grip the phone tighter.

God, I want to throw it. I want to ask her what color her blood is. I want to ask what she'd look like smiling. I want to ask so much.

My mind stutters. Something about it feels important.

The cookies. In my pocket.

They were burning. Not in a literal sense, but in the same way a spotlight burns when it's turned on you, or how a guilty conscience sears across the back of your mind, over and over again like a record.

I didn't want them anymore.

"Do..." I blurt out suddenly, my breath sharp and caught in my throat. "Do you want, uh, cookies?"

She blinks for the first time I've seen it.

"Cookies?" she asked.

Shrugging, I pull out the Ziplock bag from my pocket and show her. "Yeah."

Her gaze flickers towards it. "Why?"

I could lie.

I could say it was an impulse. I could say it was a meaningless act. I could even say it was a mistake.

But, I had a feeling she'd know.

"Just because I wanted to."

It was Lucas's words that I had borrowed. But for some reason, it felt like the only thing that made sense.

Wednesday didn't respond.

Instead, she simply looked at the bag. Measuring it. Or maybe she was measuring me.

Her fingers twitched into view, and I was able to make out the black nail polish adorning them. Deliberation.

I hate this.

I felt like I was being studied. Dissected maybe. Slowly.

Looking away, I opened my mouth again, unthinkingly.

"I could lace one of them with cyanide."

It slipped out too easily. Too naturally. I wasn't even sure if I meant it as a joke.

Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. Maybe I just wanted to say something that would get her to react more than this.

Her eyes moved to meet my own.

There was no alarm, no judgment, no horror.

But then—

Barely.

Just. Barely.

The corner of her mouth. There was a flicker.

It was so small. It was so slight. Her lips curved.

It barely counted as a smirk. No, I'm sure if anyone else saw it they wouldn't count it. It was the kind of expression that didn't show teeth. The kind you had to convince yourself you imagined. But, it was right there.

My stomach flipped.

It was the worst kind of reward. A terrible, shitty reward.

Because now I'd chase for it, again.

And again.

And again.

I hover my thumb over the red button.

"Wednesday," I tried to say calmly. "Say something haunting."

A pause.

"Goodbye for now."

Just that. Nothing cruel. Nothing cryptic. Just goodbye.

It ruins me.

I end the call.

I'm gagging.

On the verge of vomiting.

Idly, I wonder if the Dollar General near Kate's Food Truck sells cyanide.

──────◇──────​

POV: Enid Sinclair

I blinked once. Then twice, just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.

"Huh," I said, tilting my head to the side. It looked so... strange? Very uncanny.

Wednesday Addams was eating.

And not in some theatrical, ironic way, like biting into a raw onion to prove a point (I now know a fraction of Yoko's pain for garlic). No. My Roomie was sitting stiff-backed at her desk, dressed in her usual black-and-white clothes, eating a cookie. Like a normal person. The cookie looked homemade, chocolate chip, that somehow made the whole moment feel even more surreal.

It didn't fit. She didn't even glance up. Just took another bite that fundamentally shattered my entire understanding of her existence.

Wednesday Addams was eating a cookie.

There was something deeply wrong about it. Like seeing a pair of pants walking around without anyone in them.

"I didn't think you actually ate food, Wednesday." My voice came out more surprised—and, okay, maybe a little horrified—than I meant it to.

She looked at me while chewing. Slowly. Before swallowing. "Is it really so shocking I possess a digestive system, Enid? Or were you under the belief that I undergo Photosynthesis?"

"I mean... kind of?" I leaned forward slightly, watching her. "You always skip lunch, and I don't see you eat any snacks. I thought maybe you didn't need to, well, eat? Like some Outcasts. I figured you just... I don't know. Existed?"

She took another bite, the crunch was oddly loud. I think she did that on purpose. "The faceless ones do not eat either. But they also lack a mouth. So I assume their options are limited."

My mouth dropped. "Okay, rude! You can't call them that."

"It's not an insult. It's an anatomical truth." She said, vaguely amused.

"Well, it's super offensive. They have a name, okay? Its..." My voice trailed off. My brain was totally blank. My cheeks flushed.

"I can't believe I forgot," I muttered. "It's... it's super respectful."

Wednesday looked mildly thoughtful. I think? It was hard because she didn't show it. "What is it then?"

"... Shut up."

Wednesday didn't press.

I glared at her across the room. "Just so you know," I huffed, "your entire argument hinging on the fact they don't eat? It's wrong. They do eat."

���─────◇──────​

Comments: Also, if I remember correctly, Wednesday's grandmother in both the movie's and the Addam's Family 1977 Special, poison the families food—so I thought Wednesday might appreciate that. Also, Also, if anyone has music recommendation, that'd be great (I'm having trouble figuring out what type of songs/music Patrick would listen to)! Please comment! Also, Also, if anyone has music recommendation, that'd be great (I'm having trouble figuring out what type of songs/music Patrick would listen to)!

Here is the music that Patrick was listening to (tell me if the link doesn't work)!

[kimhortons]

hindi ko na talaga nasundan panuorin 'tong suits simula nung nawala yung character ni mike at rachel. sila kasi yung nagdala, parang walang suits kung hindi magkasama si mike at harvey na nagsosolve ng mga case. bet ko yung relationship nila sa series na 'to. tas nabasa ko sa reddit ata yun, may depression pala si patrick adams—yung character ni mike. naging alcoholic sya while on going yung series. yung last 2 seasons wala na siya dun e. sayang, bigla nalang naging dull yung series after ng final season niya. di ko rin kasi masyadong bet yung pasok ng character nila katherine heigl dun, ewan parang di ko maabsorb. pero sige try ko parin tapusin. kupal parin naman daw til the end si louis dun. haha.

[zegrasdrysdale]

my favorite teams and players (for pinned post)

favorite teams !!

nhl —

new jersey devils

vancouver canucks

anaheim ducks

dallas stars

philadelphia flyers (kinda)

ncaa —

michigan wolverines

favorite players under the cut (because there are a lot)

favorite players !! (by team)

new jersey devils —

jack hughes

nico hischier

luke hughes

dawson mercer

timo meier

jesper bratt

seamus casey

nico daws

vancouver canucks —

quinn hughes

jt miller

arturs silovs

thatcher demko

conor garland

brock boeser

anaheim ducks —

trevor zegras

mason mctavish

cutter gauthier

frank vatrano

pavel mintyukov

beckett sennecke

dallas stars —

wyatt johnston

tyler seguin

roope hintz

jason robertson

miro heiskanen

logan stankoven

philadelphia flyers —

jamie drysdale

travis konecny

cam york

owen tippett

joel farabee

morgan frost

columbus blue jackets —

adam fantilli

gavin brindley

chicago blackhawks —

frank nazar

connor bedard

toronto maple leafs —

matthew knies

mitch marner

william nylander

vegas golden knights —

alexander holtz

nolan patrick (ufa)

akira schmid (ufa)

san joes sharks —

macklin celebrini

will smith

tyler toffolli

new york rangers —

matt rempe

university of michigan —

ethan edwards

rutger mcgroarty

luca fantilli

mark estapa

jacob truscott

prospects / misc. college players —

oliver bonk

ryan leonard

jimmy snuggerud

[p1325]

Here's the list of the mixes I used : Bebe Rexha - I Cant Stop Drinking About You (Otto Knows Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, Cash Cash - Take Me Home (Patrick Hagenaar Colour Code Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, David Guetta, Nicki Minaj - Hey Mama (Afrojack Extended Mix) Bebe Rexha, G-Eazy - Me, Myself & I (Marc Stout & Scott Svejda Remix) Bebe Rexha, Nicki Minaj - No Broken Hearts (Ruby Rose Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, Martin Garrix - In The Name Of Love (Doz & Wizzay Remix) Bebe Rexha - I Got You (Gustavo Scorpio Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, G-Eazy - FFF (Unknown Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, Florida George Line - Meant to Be (I-Mott vs Dener Delatorre Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, Ne-Yo, Stefflon Don - Push Back (Colin Jay Remix) Bebe Rexha - I'm A Mess (Daniel Noronha Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, David Guetta, J Balvin - Say My Name (JP Candela & ATK1 Extended Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, Jax Jones - Harder (KC Lights 6AM Extended Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, Cardi B, Charli XCX, Rita Ora - Girls (Country Club Martini Crew Remix) Bebe Rexha, The Chainsmokers - Call You Mine (Asketa & Natan Chaim Remix) Bebe Rexha - You Can't Stop The Girl (Nico Endlych Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, Doja Cat - Baby I'm Jealous (Unknown House Mix) Bebe Rexha - Sacrifice (Tommy Glasses Funky Remix) Bebe Rexha, Masked Wolf - Sabotage (Amice Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, Lil Uzi Vert - Die For A Man (Galantis Extended Mix) Bebe Rexha, Topic - Chain My Heart (Alphalove Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, David Guetta - I'm Good (Blue) [Oliver Heldens Club Mix] Bebe Rexha - The Heart Wants What It Wants (MK Remix) Bebe Rexha - Call On Me (I-Mott vs Brian Cua Club Mix) Bebe Rexha, Snoop Dogg - Satellite (Effendi Beach Disco Mix) Bebe Rexha, PNAU, Ozuna - Stars (DJ Amice Remix) Bebe Rexha, Loud Luxury x Two Friends - If Only I (Extended Mix) Bebe Rexha, David Guetta - One in a Million (3316 Extended Dance Remix) Bebe Rexha, Nathan Dawe - Heart Still Beating (Promenade People Extended Dance Mix) Bebe Rexha, Alok - Deep In Your Love (Extended Mix)

[burlveneer-music]

Mudd - In The Garden Of Mindfulness - languid grooves pack the new solo album from Claremont 56 label head

When Paul Murphy released his critically acclaimed debut solo album, Claremont 56, in 2006, many thought it would be the first of many. In a way, it was, as in the years since he’s released a string of collaborative sets alongside Benjamin J Smith (as Smith & Mudd), and as part of underground ‘supergroups’ Paqua, Bison and Hillside. But that second solo album? Well, it just had to wait. In early 2023, Murphy finally decided to scratch that itch, roping in some of his most trusted collaborators (keyboardist and bassist Michele Chiavarini, percussionist Patrick Dawes, guitarist Dave Noble and HF International’s Kashif included) to lay down a sumptuous set of tracks that not only showcases his now familiar (bit hard to pigeonhole) neo-Balearic sound, but also proves how much he has matured as a writer and producer since 2006. In The Garden of Mindfulness is richly musically detailed, expertly arranged and full to bursting with fluid instrumental solos, with Murphy and his collaborators serving up tracks that brilliantly blur the boundaries between languid jazz-funk, downtempo, vintage synth-laden krautrock, dubby grooves and sun-splashed soundscapes.

[mylifeinfiction]

Roadwork by Richard Bachman

Things stopped.

Honestly, I don’t entirely get all the hate for this one. Sure there’s A LOT of filler, but at its best it’s every bit as good something like Apt Pupil . And really, that's probably what this story should've been, a part of one of King's novella collections. However, even as it is—with its bloated plotting and leisurely pace—it's still not the boring train-wreck I was expecting from what I've read about it online.

King writes even the most minor characters as if they’re real, living and breathing people, and gives them all phenomenal dialogue that's unsurprisingly natural and immensely readable. The opening scene is magnificent because of this—as are several others with Sal and his goons. And the character work done on Barton George Dawes throughout makes for an empathetic spiral into madness, building up to a satisfyingly over-the-top climax that, despite ending too abruptly for my liking, is effectively—and beautifully—written.

"Roll it," he said aloud, and everything began to move.

6.5/10

-Timothy Patrick Boyer.

[bathenaswopez]

What I will be doing with characters in the black hole:

Bruce (TNG seasons 8-9; recurring 7) - Will be recurring in season 10-11, have a growth arc, maybe a mention that he used to crush on Johnny

Derek Haig (TNG seasons 7-8; recurring 5-6) - Offhand mention from Danny that he was expelled

Leia Chang (TNG seasons 8-10) - I don’t even think I’ll have her a character.

Blue Chessex (TNG seasons 8-9) - He moved out of Toronto

Wesley Betenkamp (TNG seasons 10-11; guest 9) - graduated early

Dave Turner (TNG seasons 9-13) - Changed schools

Winnie Oh (TNG seasons 10-13) - gets fired for having an inappropriate relationship with a student

Jack Jones (TNG seasons 13-14) - I think I’ll have her stay tbh. Show her coming out to her parents, making friends, etc.

Recurring Characters

Kendra Mason (TNG seasons 2-3) - She stays in Degrassi but her break up with Toby still happens. Her feelings about being adopted and her Chinese heritage will be explored more. Her relationship with Spinner will be up and down because of the shooting. She will be besties with Danny and Jane as well :). Will also give her an epic romance (similar to janny and jiberty)

Robert Kerwin (TNG seasons 1-4) - Ashley and Toby would mention him here and there.

Jeff Isaacs (TNG season 1-2) - Few small appearances and mentions.

Chris Sharpe (TNG seasons 3-4) - Mentioned that he left the school.

Lucas Valieri (TNG seasons 7-8) - He’d be shown looking after Mia and hanging around Jane.

Mark Fitzgerald (TNG seasons 9-10) - Living his life, moved on from Clare.

Sadie Rowland (TNG season 10-11) - Switched schools idk.

Laura Kwan (TNG seasons 1-9) - Will stay on.

Jess Martello (TNG seasons 10-11) - TBD

Hannah Belmont (TNG seasons 10-11) - Also graduated early. Idk.

Julian (TNG seasons 10-11) - Graduated

Liam Berish (TNG season 11) - TBD

Ms. Dawes (TNG seasons 8-11) - In s12, helping Eli with the play <3

Asher Shostak (TNG season 12) - Shown to be arrested

Chantel Sauvé (TNG seasons 2-10) - Keeping her on

Mike Betenkamp (TNG season 10-11) - Keeping him on

Keisha (TNG season 13) - TBD

Mr. Townsend (TNG season 12-13) - TBD

Caroline Nash (TNG seasons 3-4) - Will show her trying to be a better mom to Ellie and will be there at graduation.

Arlene Takahashi (TNG season 14) - Will keep her in Next Class to be with Hunter for a bit.

Damon Carter (TNG seasons 11-14) - Will be in Next Class

Rick Munro (DJH seasons 1-2) - Have him in the reunion episode

Max (DJH-DH) - TBD

Susie Rivera (DJH seasons 1-2)- Gets counseling, continues djh and stays for dh. Graduates, moves away, etc.

Minor Characters

Patrick (DH Seasons 1-2) - Transfers out

Towerz (TNG season 3) - Moves away

Chester Hosada-Bloom (TNG season 4) - Revealed to have moved away

Amy Peters-Hoffman (TNG season 3-4) - Same as Chester

Nadia Yamir (TNG season 2-3) - Stays at degrassi, graduates.

Sully (TNG season 2-3) - Graduates idk. One last mention ig.

Nora (TNG season 6) - Dates Toby but then they break up when she sees him with Holly J.

(This’ll take a while so I just started with a few)

[soylazaro]

Comcast - Fun & Games from Jovan Todorovic on Vimeo.

COMCAST - FUN & GAMES

Client: @comcast

Agency: 72andsunny @72andsunny_ Creative Directors: Alyssa Georg @alyssawilsongeorg, Dan White @theshithouses ACDs: Aisha Hakim @aisha_ann, Emily Hovis @emhovis Jr. Copywriter: Mari Escobar @mariescobar Jr. Art Director: Kendall Boron @kendall_boron Group Brand Director: Ashley Smith Sr. Brand Manager: Molly Lynch @mhl24 Executive Producer: Scott Sitman Senior Producer: Riley Carithers @r_carither

Director: Jovan Todorovic @jovan_todorovic Editor: Milena Z. Petrović @milena_z_petrovic @exileedit Director of Photography: Christophe Collette @christophecollettecsc Production Designer: Jay Pooley @jaypooleyjay Wardrobe Stylist: Kate Day @katedaystyle Hair/Make Up: Raquel Atienza Choreography: Tatiana Parker @tatiparker Color:@nicholasray.color VFX: @slavkogavric_vfx Sound Design: @nemanja.mosurovic 1st AD: Bruno Louza

Production Company: @smugglersite Managing Director: Sue Yeon Ahn @ahn_off EP & Founders: Patrick Milling-Smith @patrickmillingsmith Brian Carmody @bcarmo EP: Jaclyn Larson @jax_themax Producer: Natalie Jacobson @bluequarter

Head of Production: Alex Hughes

Service Production Company: Merchant @merchant.hq Service Producer: Shannon Barnes @shannonbarnes

Production Supervisor: Brian Fletcher Production Coordinator: Jack Ford Talent Coordinator: Annabelle Rodicq @annabellerdcq 2nd AD: Bailey Abercrombie @baileyabercrombie 3rd AD: Khadijah Cartland @khadijahfatima

1st A.C. - A Cam: Mike Dawson 2nd A.C. - A Cam: Dorian Findlay @moshwarrior 1st A.C. - 35mm: Marc Pierce 2nd A.C. - Loader: Colin Doering @colindoering VTR: Manny Rego @manny_rego VTR Assistant: Makar Bougaev DIT: Ryan Alexander @ryanralexander VFX Supervisor: Andre Arevalo @aredre Key Grip: Derek Teakle Location Scout: Ryan Andersen @ry_andersen Location Manager: Bill Dawe Script: Suzanne Link Sound: Steve Cabana

Film Lab: @melsstudios Shot on @kodak_shootfilm

2024.

[the-firebird69]

1775

March 23 - Patrick Henry’s “Liberty or Death” speech, Richmond, VA

April 18 - Revere and Dawes Ride

April 19 - Battles of Lexington and Concord, MA

May 10 - Ethan Allen and Green Mountain Boys seize Fort Ticonderoga, Second Continental Congress meets

June 15 - George Washington appointed commander-in-chief

June 17 - Battle of Bunker Hill

July 3 - George Washington assumes command of the Army outside Boston

July 5 - Congress approves the Olive Branch Petition, a final attempt to avoid war with Britain

October 13 - The U.S. Navy is established

November 19-21 - First Siege of Ninety Six, SC

November 13 - Americans take Montreal

December 9 - Battle of Great Bridge, VA

December 22 - Battle of Great Canebreak, SC

December 23-30 - Snow Campaign, SC

December 30-Jan 1 - Battle of Quebec

April 19th has already happened and this schedule goes kind of concurrent with a couple other wars the United States had with the empire. Now this is some odd stuff going on here it seems like most of the generals from the empire are this idiot Trump world war I and The Purge and it looks like it's happening again it makes a lot of sense he was the last incumbent in his fighting pja who thinks that he can nullify the election and somehow get it to office that it starts a big conflict between them and leads into the civil war action and Trump is badly outnumbered the civil war was won by Grant who held the union together which looks like Trump again. And hit my husband put out the red eye whiskey and that was down the hatch before you can say I bet it's not good for you and he drank the whole bottle it was only a fifth yeah he's off to get his whiskey bourbon really and that was his name cuz he's always being at people because he's some kind of weirdo and he expresses inside thoughts outside and his inside thoughts are crap. This is going to be a hell of a day he's got to get going to get some stuff but wow. It moves along the timeline there's a couple other important dates above.

There's Ethan Allen in Ticonderoga it has to do with the Pentagon which is where Ticonderoga was it's nearby and it says historical site it's smaller but it's shaped the same and he goes in there and he gets information and supposedly on Trump but it's really on him a little and other people a lot no it's on Trump and he's got a lot of guys in there they're all wacko making stupid statements putting dumb things on the news they're important people and their end of Earth is for the most part and they should be shot and it will be and he goes in and gets the information out and he figures out who the bad guys are now he knows and that information helps a lot of people from there it starts getting more and more interesting as Trump has found out to be all over the place even though he's small he's at Sanchez were power congregates as we said. June 15th a day later husband is selected to a position secret position by the Continental army and they said it'll be Colonel but I think it's probably a lieutenant but he doesn't know it and he won't and it is merely to have him perform those duties for mostly everybody but Trump and Trump goes ahead and appoints himself head of the Continental armies when she's not running only his version and they're kind of separated a little and they're fighting each other and he's a red coat so it doesn't work out for him in the position and he's not liked or wanted or anything and more shortly

Hera

Olympus

[onesweetworld18]

On Repeat Tunes

I was tagged by @jaerie to share 5 songs that have been on heavy repeat status recently.

This is literally a 35 minute jam that I can’t stop listening to. It’s so good. All of Goose’s music is good.

Allison is opening for Hozier and an absolute angel. I love her.

I’m seeing Guster this week so they’ve upped their number on my rotation.

I saw Westlife for the first time ever St Patrick’s Day weekend and it was everything.

I am so deeply in love with Dawes and am borderline inconsolable with the fact that their tour with Lucius came nowhere near me.

I am definitely more of a jam band/americana fan in my usual listening, but boy bands have my soul.

Tagging @awake--and--dreaming, @pop-punklouis, and @crinkle-eyed-boo and anyone else who would like to play!!

[thegreyjester]

On Wednesday's, We Kill (Wednesday/American Psycho) Fanfic

So, like, I already posted this on ao3 and on fanfiction.net, but I figured I might as well use this account and post something. Plus I edited it a bit cause I wasn't satisfied with what I published on ao3 and fanfiction.net. I already plan to make a second chapter, but I wanted to see if this is a fic to make more than just that. Comments are super appreciated.

Fandom: Wednesday (TV 2022), American Psycho (2000)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Patrick Bateman/Wednesday Addams (Platonic, still a bit indecisive about it.)

Additional Tags: Patrick Bateman & Wednesday Addams Patrick Bateman Wednesday Addams Tyler Galpin Lucas Walker (Wednesday TV) Jonah (Wednesday TV) Mentioned Noble Walker Mentioned Donovan Galpin - CharacterLarissa Weems Carter (Wednesday TV) Platonic Relationships Ambiguous/Open Ending Patrick Bateman is an Assholeinternally Violent Thoughts Obsessive Behavior Existential Crisis Internal Conflict Unreliable Narrator Patrick Bateman is at Fault Wednesday Addams is Bad at Feelings Lucas Walker Tries Barista Tyler Galpin Character Study

Summary: “But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.” - Iago from William Shakespeare's play, "Othello."

A self-loathing, narcissistic loser meets his match with a stuck-up, unlikeable goth.

“Patrick Bateman,” he offered her his hand, extending it over the table.

She didn’t take it.

“I didn’t ask.” She replied, her tone lifeless, as if she was going through the motions. No, as if she was tolerating something beneath her. Detached. Disinterested.

Comments: I was looking up, both on Fanfiction.net and archiveofourown.org for fanfics on Wednesday and onAmerican Psycho. And imagine my surprise when no one written about a crossover for both of em! Well, there is on ao3 but that's a multi-crossover, so that don't count! So, I tried my hand! I love the show Wednesday, and I love American Psycho. So, here is what I written!

Word count: 6,500+

Fic under the linebreak.

──────◇──────

“Listen, people like me and you, we’re different. We’re original thinkers, intrepid outliers in this vast cesspool of adolescence. We don’t need these inane rites of passage to validate who we are.” 

— Wednesday Addams

"It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a non-contingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent." 

— Patrick Bateman

I’ve familiarized myself with a bunch of fools. Idiots, if I was being honest. I’d call them slow if I wasn’t certain that theyweren't. Maybe. They’re just… existing, coasting around with no ambition. Completely unaware of how limiting their lives are and are going to be. It’s like going to a zoo and watching the animals, utterly predictable. Dull and tedious.

If it was a year ago I wouldn’t have even bothered interacting with them, viewing them as utterly inconsequential. But, here I am, surrounded by them, a clique of losers by the names Jonah, Carter, and Lucas. I only bothered to remember the latter’s last name, he served a purpose, if only due to his familial connection. The rest of them are just decorative. If that was the right word. Decorative. Maybe "detritus" is better.

Jonah, a bit of a loudmouth, is the picture perfect example of a middle-class nobody. His family is bland and utterly content in their mediocrity. He doesn’t matter. The only thing he has going for him is his height, being somewhere around six feet. I’d compare him to a goldfish, maybe? No, a dolphin is more fitting—in particular a cruel one. Actually, aren’t all Dolphins cruel? I vaguely recall that they torture smaller fishes, slapping them around or suffocating them for the fun of it. He’s somewhat clever, only somewhat for these inane topics. Otherwise, he is utterly unintelligent.

Carter, on the other hand, is a completely different breed, an utter mess. He comes from a low-income background. In simpler words, he’s poor. His family, his grandparents on his father's side, are avid gamblers. Piss poor ones at that, managing to rake up a large debt. Caused him to get a chip on his shoulder. He, like the rest of them, works at Pilgrim World. He’s the angry one. In the sense that he snaps whenever someone insults his family or friends. Or make snide remarks about his anger issues. Wouldn’t know how to choose a fight, he lacks the intelligence to do so. It more or less leads him to getting his ass kicked more often than not.

Then, there was Lucas. He was different. He’s soft. Easily influenced. If his friends told him to jump off a bridge, he’d probably do it without hesitation. Follows the crowd type of guy, kind of like him being an extension of his friends rather than his own person. A people’s pleaser, a kiss ass through and through. His lack of backbone is glaringly obvious. There’s only one reason why I interact with him and his friends. Lucas’s father, Noble Walker.

Noble Walker. Former Sheriff—the current mayor of this hick town, Jericho. The kind of guy who’s always winning elections since... what, 1991? Charismatic, sure. He runs Pilgrim World— some tacky tourist attraction, chargingridiculous prices for the tickets. Managed to make a stronghold of employment opportunities. He holds the monopoly of the labor force in Jericho through Pilgrim World. Employs everyone from teenagers and retirees. Pays them just enough to make them feel like they’re not being exploited. What was it again- a little under twenty bucks per hour? At least it beats the federal minimum wage, but it’s hardly impressive. He still has to rely on funding from Nevermore.

Lucas Walker is a means to an end. His father is the connection I need to cultivate. An alumnus of both Phillips Exeter Academy and Harvard University, Noble Walker’s letter of recommendation would be invaluable. It would enhance my application to Exeter. It would cement my application and spot at Harvard. Of course, I’m already a legacy student, but having an Alumni recognize and endorse me? An Alumni who fosters various social programs and has a long-standing political career, with consistent electoral success? Someone who supports both of those schools' outdated values? They'd eat the ever living shit out of that. So, I have to tolerate these people. Grit my teeth and hang out with my so-called friends, even if they are dressed in those ridiculous, appalling, garish Pilgrim uniforms that make them look like an out-of-place extra in some bad historical reenactment. A small sacrifice, really. A tiny one, that will pay off well in the future.

We were currently situated roughly a block away from the Weathervane, specifically, loitering around the Farmer’s Market. Jonah stood, cracking jokes that are barely coherent to both us and any passerby farmer as if it were a sitcom no one asked for. Carter was sulking against a white wall outside an auction house. Lucas—bless him—his head ping-ponging between Carter to Jonah, nodding like an overeager puppy as he heard them rant and blather. One of the farmers, in an act, I could only assume as misguided charity, insisted we take some chairs instead of sitting on the ground. Jonah and Carter refused, of course. I, being the only person here with a modicum of intelligence, accepted. Lucas followed my lead. Naturally.

Jonah clasped his hands together, grinning like he'd just discovered fire. “Why did the pilgrim go to the party?” Jonah had asked before pausing, waiting for dramatic effect. None arrives.

I knew better, it wasn’t a simple question. This clique followed a pattern. Jonah would crack some lame joke, the attention-seeker he was, and Carter would land a sarcastic remark, and by the end, Lucas would laugh while trying to add on to the joke.

Carter rolls his eyes at the question. It’s a question that could’ve been found in one of those corny joke books. “I don’t know, why?” Carter obliges for some inane reason.

I could practically see Jonah’s eyes light up, he leans in, enthusiastically landing the punchline. “Because he was toast!” He laughs, so hard he almost doubles over, as if he were some kind of comedian.

Carter lets out a snort, somewhat amused by the joke, he smirked. “That’s a good one, Jonah. Real highbrow stuff. You’re practically Shakespeare.” He was sarcastic, I would be too. That punchline was stale. Jonah, however, is unbothered by Carter’s sarcasm. He still laughs— it died down to a chuckle.

Lucas laughed too, before deciding to join in. “... B-Because he was snrk… on a roll!” He was clearly proud of his joke, being able to find it amusing. Both Carter and Jonah chuckle at that.

I chuckle too, if only out of sheer obligation. Inside, I feel my soul withering.

Jonah, noticing that I wasn’t actively participating in this meaningless conversation, decided to direct his attention towards me. He threw a curveball. “Hey, Patrick,” Jonah had stated, his grin somehow turning more obnoxious than before, if that was even possible. No one else acknowledged such, so it must've been just me. “What do you think about the Outcasts? Y’know, those freaks at Nevermore?” He gestured vaguely in the direction where he assumed Nevermore Academy was located at.

Outcasts. Freaks. Monsters. Mutants. Whatever they are called. Apparently, Nevermore Academy houses those of some bullshit, absurd, and self-important people with superhuman abilities straight out of a bad paranormal fiction novel. To be frank, I honestly couldn’t be bothered to care. I would not, of course, interact with any of them willingly. I had better things to focus on than.

Given the lectures taught in Jericho High School, various "Outcasts”—they call themselves that? Utterly pathetic—can vary in their level of danger. It’s why Nevermore sends chaperones when their students go to Jericho. Food, clothes, entertainment— anything they could want, they had to be monitored while getting such. For "normies" safety, of course. I had better things to focus on. The only thing that mattered, my future at Exeter and towards Harvard.

But, of course, Jonah would be the one to bring them up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got off from speaking derogatorily about outcasts. Some twisted pleasure or kink. I glance toward Carter, he smirks, waiting for my response. I then glanced at Lucas, he looked hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure whether to encourage or stop this conversation.

I let out an overly dramatic sigh. A practiced smirk forming on my face. I lean more into my chair, interlocking my fingers together and placing them behind my head. I had to settle into a role. The reasonable one. I gave them a small shrug. “I don’t know,” I managed to say casually while offering an easy shrug. “I guess I haven’t thought about it.” A deflection, a non-answer. My behavior and attitude was carefree, they wouldn’t be able to discern my true feelings, beliefs, and perspective without probing further. Jonah wanted to see my reaction, to see where I stood. I offered an answer that said absolutely nothing while making it sound definitive. It was a skill. Really.

Jonah’s grin falters. He wanted to hear a ridicule, a joke at some outcast expense. “C’mon man. You’re seriously telling me you don’t have an opinion? They’re freaks. All of ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Carter added in, seeking to support Jonah’s stance. “Bunch of weirdos. Like, you hear about that fish guy at Nevermore?” I had an inkling of understanding who he was talking about before he added on, “Gills, man. Actual gills. What does he even do in the winter? Hibernate in a tank?” He said while nudging Jonah.

Jonah snickers. His grin returns. “Maybe he wears a scarf to keep ‘em warm.” He mimes wearing a scarf before laughing. “What was his name Bent?”

“Kent,” Lucas corrects, before adding on. “I mean… yeah, they are kind of weird.” He chimed with a laugh. It was slightly more forced and hesitant than his previous one. Utterly pathetic. He glances at me, as if asking me to talk before our conversation derails to more mocking comments.

I decided to. “Look,” I said, trying and successfully getting the attention of the two. I had an easygoing smirk. “They don’t bother me, and I’m not about to waste my time bothering them. Live and let live, right?” I managed to pull out that proverb from nowhere. Not that they needed to know.

Jonah snorts, most likely agreeing partially to what I said. “You’re no fun.” It doesn’t stop him from being slightly disappointed. Carter let out a grunt in agreement, Lucas seemed relieved.

“I’m heading to the Weathervane,” I got up from my chair. It was best to change subjects. I was beyond bored with this entire conversation. “Bagels? Donuts? My treat.”

Jonah perks up immediately, his disappointment vanishing. “Get me a bagel. Cream cheese. Don’t skimp out on me Bateman!”

“Those powdered donuts.” Carter said, before snapping his fingers, elaborating further, “The ones with the cherry filling.”

Lucas contemplates, having an internal dilemma before saying hesitantly, “Uh… a chocolate donut, if they have it. Please.”

I nodded, before flashing them a smile. “Got it, I’ll text you if they don't have what you guys wanted,” I said before turning and heading towards the café. I begin walking away, before jogging. Escaping this pointless conversation.

──────◇──────

The Weathervane Café was stifling... It was suffocating. Intolerable. Revolting. The idle chatter from the patrons was exhausting and adding to my discomfort. Not necessarily because it was loud, but because it was meaningless. Like a fly that buzzes around incessantly and relentlessly despite being swatted at.

The idle conversation was excruciating.

The only thing that made up for it was the warmth, it made the place more bearable compared to being outside. Mostlikely due to it being packed like a hotbox. My patience ran thin, my regret offering to pay becoming evident. A momentary lapse in judgment, surely.

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. I could already smell the aroma of cheap espresso. It was bitter. The hygiene of the inhabitants here was the only reason why I wasn’t pinching my nose. They managed to take care of themselves. Most of them, at least.

As I made my way forward, I felt someone bump into me. No apology, just a half-hearted grunt before they brushed past. I glanced at the offender—a man who wore an ill-fitting blazer, it wasn't even buttoned up all the way. Cheap wool. He wore such a basic plaid shirt under it, that screamed "clearance aisle." Probably bought from a discount dingy outlet store, likely a two-for-one sale. My lip twitched. I bit back the urge to tell him plaid was out of season. I'd bet he wouldn't be able to tell the difference between Prada and polyester. Uneducated half-wit who doesn't deserve fashion advice.

And the smell—Christ the smell. He reeked of utter horse shit. My nose scrunched involuntarily and I pursed my lips to not give an audible gag. I decided to focus on something else, if only to distract myself from the stench.

My gaze locked onto the line in front of me. I let out a small sigh, the line was long. Some dipshit managed to fix the espresso machine, so now people were flocking towards it to get their caffeine fix. Junkies.

I pulled out my phone–an iPhone. Apple. Not one of those clunky Samsungs or gaudy Androids that tech-obsessed nerds clung to, claiming it to be a functionally better choice. I wasn’t a plebeian who would choose a model that screams mediocrity. I wasn't someone who paraded with a technically 'superior' device. An iPhone was better, it actually had taste. Anyway, I check the time.

I glanced at the screen. 2:14 PM.

I ran my fingers through my hair before slipping my phone back into my pocket. I could wait six minutes. Maybe even seven if I was feeling charitable. Provided that should be enough time for the line to thin out.

Turning my head behind me, I notice the lack of people. Small mercy. Likely it would just be this line. My gaze shifts to see if there is an unoccupied table. All of the tables were occupied by the locals. Their attire was borderline offensive. Flannels, denim, and—God help me—hiking boots. Hiking boots. Indoors. It was as if they, for some reason, collectively decided to dress in clothes from an REI clearance sale. Offensive.

My eyes landed on one table. Unlike the others, it was nearly empty except for only one occupant. A girl.

Her attire was unmistakably a uniform. It consisted of a white dress shirt, it possessed a high, stiff turndown collar. It was tucked in—neatly, admittedly—under a black sweater. Neither too tight nor too loose, a decent choice, I suppose, but not entirely remarkable.

Then, there was the tie. A black tie, it was fastened, yes, but worn like a tie. Still, the knot was crooked, it made the tie look bloated, fat, and shaped disproportionately. Overly bulky. It looked off, the length of the tie hung at such an awkward angle. But then again, it was from Saint Laurent—I'd recognize that fabric anywhere. Designer brand, sure, but it was an insult to let it be worn by that. A simple tie clip would have sufficed, it would have corrected this flaw. Easily. It would've kept this unruly mess in place. Would've corrected this imbalance and made the outfit look more cohesive. The black sweater would've provided the perfect amount of cover for it. It would keep her ineptitude hidden, concealing her mistake. But, of course, she hadn't bothered to correct it.

The blazer, though. That was something else. Familiar as well—likely Saint Laurent as well. Customized. Tailored, likely for some sort of attempt at individuality. An attempt to seem unique. The stripes that should've been a vivid indigo, or maybe blue, even purple depending on the lighting, were now a muted black and a dull gray. It stripped aways its potential for a halfhearted attempt at originality. Where was the flavor? Subtletly. At least be subtle.

And then, there was the backpack. Judging by the buckled shoulder straps, she was wearing a backpack while sitting down. A student. It was obvious—her uniform all but yelled it. The monochrome crest on her blazer's left chest pocket confirmed it. Nevermore Academy.

The embroidered alma motto, "Unitas est invicta," what I had been told meant "Unity is invincible." An Outcast. Her attempt at customization was hardly something to applaud, just a shoddy attempt at defiance that fell woefully short of any real statement.

It was hard to dismiss how much shorter than him she was. Even while sitting down.

She was small. Tiny, even. I am taller than her, I was certain of that. I estimated her to be around 5’1". A head shorter compared to me, at 5'9". A midget in comparison.

Her skin was pale. Her black hair was braided into pigtails, neatly but looked overly childish. They framed her face, being pinned behind her ears. Her fringe blocked her forehead. Her lips didn't have any gloss or lipstick. They were pressed into a thin line, her eyes were fixated unblinkingly on her coffee. Likely an espresso.

An axe. A hatchet to the face. Quick, precise, yet messy.

I imagine it in perfect clarity. Picture it.

I was standing over her, gripping a smooth, likely polished, wooden handle with both of my hands. Tightly. My knuckles turning white under the pressure, the wood digging into my skin. Irritating my palms.

Her head tilted up, those dark black eyes widening before blinking in surprise. No, those eyes would stay locked on me, unflinchingly.

I would heave the blade up, my muscles tensing, coiling. She stared. The blade comes down in a perfect arc. The blade meets the skull. It causes a satisfying crack. It splits her skull, her flesh and bone being unable to handle the pressure. I felt the impact just resonate in my arms.

The results would be immediate. Blood gushes. Erupts, painting the area, the booth in crimson. Warm and viscous, thick and red. It would spray across his face. It would soak and seep into the fabric of my blazer. Staining it. I could practically feel the droplets of blood staining my cheek. It drips down to my chin. The smell was immediate, so much so I could practically taste the metallic tang.

I would then yank the hatchet from her skull. One, or two tugs and it's free. The blade would be slick and red.

Her face would collapse onto the table. Making a meaty squelch. The impact would knock her coffee over, her blood mixing seamlessly with the expresso.

The café would, of course, explode in chaos. People trampled over themselves to the exit. A desperate attempt to live. There would be screams and cries. Chairs and tables would clatter, being pushed aside. It wouldn't be silent, but I didn't mind. I imagine that some would stay, shocked, utterly frozen at the sight. But my focus, my attention would be directed solely at her.

I would stand there, watching as the blood pools from the table and onto the floor.

I reached out, my index finger running across the table, tracing the mess—coffee mingled with a crimson pool—with my trembling finger. Drenching it. The mixture was cold, sticky.

I raised it to my lips, bringing it to my mouth. Tasting it. My mind was searching for it, the thrill, for the satisfaction I had expected to feel. The spark.

There was nothing.

I blink. I was standing in front of her. She was seated, alive, and composed. She was staring at me directly. Black met Hazel Brown. She was sipping her coffee.

“Excuse me,” I managed to say, my voice and tone were controlled. I shook my head to get rid of my thoughts. “Would you mind if I sit next to you? All of the seats are taken.” I managed to smile at her. It was practiced. Refined from years of careful effort.

She stares at me. Her eyes were completely focused on me. She was evaluating me. It was as if I was on a mortuary table, she was dissecting and scrutinizing me under a microscope.

She doesn’t respond immediately. Was she slow? Mute? Deaf? An utter waste of time if either. Before I was able to open my mouth again, she interrupted.

“Sit,” it grated my nerves.

Sit. She ordered. As if I were some kind of fucking dog. The audacity. She said it in a way that her tone and pitch were monotone and flat. Was she an emo? A goth? Undergoing a crappy phase? Great, fantastic, I have to deal with a poser. She slowly gestured towards the seat across from her.

I slid into the chair. The table dug momentarily into my sides.

“Patrick Bateman,” he offered her his hand, extending it over the table.

She didn’t take it.

“I didn’t ask.” She replied, her tone lifeless, as if she was going through the motions. No, as if she was tolerating something beneath her. Detached. Disinterested.

I felt my jaw tighten. Locking. I retracted my hand, instead opting to comb it through my hair. My smile is struggling to stay in place. It bristled. I bit my tongue to avoid causing a scene.

“Not a fan of small talk?” I tried to say in a manner that was considered teasingly, good-natured. My eyes flicker to her coffee cup. It was tiny, and made of white ceramic. It had the insignia of the café, a fox holding a rodent by the tail, proudly.

She took another sip from her coffee, a slow sip. The kind that made it clear she wasn't in a rush, before placing it down onto her ceramic coaster. “I’m not a fan of wasting time.”

She irritated me, but I refused to show it. Instead, I leaned into my seat, attempting to make myself more comfortable.

How would she look strangled?

I could see it clearly. Her pale and slender neck would be wrapped around a garrote. Piano wire? Nah, maybe a cable–a phone charger cord. Yeah, something a bit more common, easily accessible. It's not like I keep piano wire. Where the hell would I even get piano wire from?

I’d get up from the table, do a casual stretch, probably some shoulder stretch, before pulling out my phone, making a show of toying with it, then sighing. I would then walk up to another table, someone who is using their phone.

"Excuse me," I would say while approaching them. "Do you mind if I borrow a charger? My phone is dead, and I'm waiting on an important call."

I'd ask with a practiced smile. Trustworthy. I would be confident, I would have to establish some level of credibility. They would have to believe me, they would have to trust me. They'd nod, they'd accept. They would hand over a charger without so much as even glancing in my direction. Already returning to their conversation. Why wouldn’t they?

I don't bother to thank them. I would feel the charger in my hand, quickly removing the USB block, before discarding it behind me with a casual toss. My fingers, moving, curling around the ends of the wire.

My hands, being wrapped with the ends of the cable now, would give it a jerk. The wire, taut, showing no signs of breaking. Even as I increased the intensity of my tug. It wouldn't be bad. Great craftsmanship. Whoever manufactured this would deserve a raise.

I would move to the table behind her.

"Pardon me."

The people seated there would move, shift to the side without question. She wouldn't move. Not even tilting her head.

I would quickly, in one simple motion, loop the wire over her neck, and pulled.

The first noise I heard was a sharp inhale of breath. She would gasp. Her hands shooting to her throat, feeling the cord, trying to break it. But my pull would be unrelenting. She seemed the type to struggle. I could tell. At least when it came to strangulation.

She would scratch my hands. Her fingernails digging into my wrists—my perfect wrists. Sharp enough to sting. I would bleed. I winced, not from the pain. But at the thought, the sheer gall of her. The damage. I could already feel it. Scars. It would leave scars. Fucking Scars.

Did she have any idea of how much effort went into keeping my skin flawless? My skincare routine? Exfoliation, hydration, moisturization, and the careful use of SPF 50—even when it wasn't sunny. And here she was, running it without a second thought. Utterly thoughtless. Some people were so inconsiderate. My dermatologist would cry.

I would have to cover it up, of course. Concealer, maybe. Or Dermaflage. It would be such a pain to find the perfect shade, the perfect tone that would blend seamlessly into my skin. A nuisance. Absolutely annoying!

I didn't stop. The wire no doubt made an indent in her skin. Her mouth was opening and closing. Either attempting to gasp for air or choking out some words that were unintelligible. I'd bet my money on the latter. Broken syllables. Probablyeither my name or someone else's.

It didn't matter.

"Just fucking die. Die. Die. Die." I muttered. Almost conversationally to her. I held the cord steady. I saw and felt her thrash weaken. Her hands going limp. Her body failed her. It was beautiful.

The situation would require effort. But I didn't mind. I wouldn’t stop. Not until she stopped breathing. Not until the light in those eyes faded. They would get glassy. I'd hold it just a moment longer, just to make sure she wasn't faking it.

Her struggles slowed to a halt, her arms fell limp to her sides. I tightened my grip. Her head lolled forward. I sighed, loosening the wire—not out of guilt, of course, but out of exhaustion. Killing someone properly takes a lot of energy.

I could already feel the sweat beading on my forehead as I caught her by the pigtails, just to keep her face from slamming onto the table. No need to ruin the Weathervane's atmosphere.

I tilted her head from the left, then to the right. I was angling her face, studying it. Trying to find out what her good angles were in the light. She wasn't bad looking, being somewhat attractive, That was... irritating. I found it irritating.

Maybe I'd take a selfie with it. It would be blog-worthy.

Peace sign or no peace sign?

What would the caption be?

‘Captured in the perfect moment. #Chilling?'

Or maybe.

'Strangling the competition. #JustVibing.'

No. Too obvious.

Either way, it would likely go viral. She wouldn’t even have to try hard.

I hated that. I admired that.

I grabbed a napkin, before gently dabbing the corner of her mouth, wiping away any spittle from her mouth. Wiping her bloodless lips clean. A final gesture of respect. Or mockery. I couldn't be sure which.

“Are you going to keep staring at me, or are you just planning my demise?”

The girl’s voice had snapped me away from my fantasy and back to my one-sided conversation.

That question sent a shiver down my spine. Did she know? Was she able to discern my true nature? Could she read my mind as if it were a book? I didn’t recall any outcasts having an ability like telepathy or mind-reading. My heart was beating. Pounding. Both out of a sense of anticipation and out of frustration. I felt it. My world was unraveling. The thrill of the chase. The thought of getting caught.

It was fun.

I decided to lean forward. My elbows digging into the table. My hands, folded and placed beneath my chin. I proposed a genuine question. It could be seen as teasing though. “Would you like me to?”

I was smiling. It wasn't forced. Genuine.

She stared unblinking at me. She didn't flinch. She didn't laugh. She didn't roll her eyes. Her head tilted downward slightly. Her eyes continued to stare at me. I could make out her eyes more clearly. A dark color. But it wasn’t pitch black. I made out a hint of brown. I don't recall her blinking even once in this conversation. No involuntary twitch. No smile. Not even a grimace. She didn't break eye contact. It looked as if she didn't breathe.

“You’re interesting.” Her words were flat. Detached. It lacked any emotions I could perceive.

Interesting.

That word. How utterly neutral. It hung in the air, like smoke. It was weightless. It was insubstantial. It wasn't flattering. It wasn't demeaning. It held no positive or negative judgments. It wasn't anything.

I despise that. I despise her for that.

But I was also captivated. I couldn't read her. I couldn't understand her. John Locke believed that we came into the world empty, as blank slates. That we are shaped by experience. Cause, effect, and behavior painting our canvas.

B.F. Skinner added onto that with association. Everything we develop is shaped through stimuli through rewards or punishment. It gives us experience, forging behavioral patterns. Pavlov's dog salivates. Fire teaches us not to touch. Behavior, Attitude, and Consequences. Behaviors are learned and reinforced based on the consequences of those actions. It was logical.

But she didn't fit.

It was as if she wasn't shaped by anything. Not by social norms nor rules.

I should feel superior. I was ahead of her in that aspect. I understood the framework. I was better in regards to social intelligence. I knew how to navigate social cognition. I was better.

But she didn't fit.

I hated her for it.

I hated her. However, I felt something even worse than hate. Something raw and hideous. A sense of Kinship.

It wasn't love. It wasn't lust. It wasn't admiration. It was something else entirely.

I was staring into a mirror. It was shattered.

I hate her. I hate her for making me feel like that. I wasn't supposed to feel this way. I wasn't supposed to find any connection with someone like her.

But, I hated something even more.

My inability to stop looking.

I hate how much I wanted to keep looking. "I'll consider that a compliment," I replied, keeping my tone light and conversational. Acting as if I wasn’t affected. I wasn’t.

"You shouldn't."

She didn't elaborate. It was bait. No. She didn't care. She watched as I drowned. Waiting for it. It didn't matter whether I sank or swam.

"Why not?" I tilted my head slightly. I feigned curiosity. I was curious. I showed interest. Like a fish, I was watching the bait. I felt myself biting it instinctively.

Pathetic.

It was pathetic.

I was pathetic.

"Because those who I find interesting don't usually last long."

I blinked. Her delivery was flat. It was as if she was talking about the weather. A joke? A threat? I couldn't tell.

"What's your name?" I asked her. It was casual. I ignored her cryptic death threat. It didn't dig into me.

"Why?"

"So I can put it on your obituary."

Her expression made no sign of changing. There was no twitch at the corner of her mouth. No cracks in her facade. No tricks in the light.

"Wednesday," she said. "Wednesday Addams."

Of course it was. Wednesday Addams. That is her name. How could it be anything else? It was irreplaceable. Her name was intrinsically intertwined with her, it encapsulates who she is.

Nominal determinism. Name essentialism. Implicit association. Whatever bullshit academic theory it was, her name was right.

"You're interesting," I said, the words slipping out. It escaped. I didn't even mean to say it. But I did. And for the first time, I think I meant it.

Hearing that, her head tilted slightly. It mirrored my earlier gesture. A mimicry. An imitation. Something feigning.

No. Wait. That wasn't right. Either of those implied a pretense. I couldn't find anything inauthentic about her.

I couldn't tell whether she did that gesture on purpose or not.

I was drowning.

My lungs burned. I gasped for air that wasn't there. My arms flailed, my hands clawing towards an exit that wasn't there. My legs kicked, searching for a confession that held weight.

And then, there she was.

Drowning too.

She couldn't swim. Yet she did not struggle. She could not breathe. Yet she made no attempt to do so.

She simply was.

She was there.

Doing and being something I could never hope to achieve.

I hated it.

God, I hated it.

But I loved it too.

My internal clock dinged.

Too much time, I realized. I had spent too much time talking with her.

I needed to leave.

I had to leave.

I couldn't breathe.

“I have too…” I felt my voice falter, crack. My mind was racking for something. Anything to justify leaving. “I... have to get baked goods. For friends.” I managed to bite out.

It was a pathetic excuse, but true.

I reached for the napkin next to Wednesday’s coaster and coffee. My consciousness felt like the napkin. Thin, tearable, the edges unraveled.

I pulled out my pen—a Jericho High-issued one. A terrible pen. I received it during orientation. I hated the design. Whoever manufactured it had no taste. It was a combination of red, white, and yellow. The barrel was a basic red, the tip, and the cap stark white. The center band and clip? Get this. A jarring yellow.

I used the gaudy pen to write my number on the napkin, jotting it down neatly. Confidently. “If you ever want to talk more,” I said, I slid the napkin to her.

Her stare didn’t drop towards the napkin. She didn’t even look at it.

She stared at me.

I quickly pulled myself away from it, yanking my hand back as if I touched something on fire. I moved briskly to the front of the Weathervane Cafe’s counter. Briskly. I felt her stare, the hair on my neck standing. I forced myself to ignore it. Pretending I wasn't aware of it.

The line that was there previously? Gone.

Of course it was.

“Hey! How are you Patrick?”

I had forgotten that he had work today. Tyler Galpin. Standing behind the counter at the Weathervane. He was painfully earnest. Carrying a half-smile. As if desperate to please. Too cheerful. An underwhelming person with an underwhelming life.

Someone who was formerly part of the clique of losers, only to grow out of ‘pranking’ outcasts due to being sent to some boot camp—Fit something, I think. It, miraculously, changed him. For worse. Less of a jackass, more of a wimp. He no longer wishes to, as Jonah and Carter stated, "join in on the fun." So, they kept their distance, not involving each other, if only out of respect for Tyler’s father.

The only moderately interesting, sole redeeming thing about Tyler was that his father, Donovan Galpin, a sheriff. A deputy turned sheriff. Now, that's an example of socioeconomic upward mobility. Someone who was connected to Noble Walker, having worked under him when Walker was sheriff.

However, Tyler’s father is a drunk. Not even the interesting, rage type of drunk.

A sappy sad drunk. The kind that cries.

Great.

"Hey, Tyler. How are you?" My earlier interaction with Wednesday had drained me. I need to end this conversation quickly.

"Good. Good." His voice was upbeat. A cheery personality while working in customer service? One that wasn’t fake? Impossible. "How is everyone?"

Fucking loner. What was he, starved for attention? And everyone? What was I, some middleman delivering updates?

"Jonah and Carter are the same," I replied, forcing my voice to act as if I cared. "I think Carter is going to get a raise?" I forced a smile. It didn't matter whether or not Carter got a raise. Scraping together what little cash and raises he could, he wasn't going to do shit about the utter dumpster fire of a home life he has.

Tyler nodded, looking and acting as if he was attentive. His brown eyes narrowed like he cared. Pathetic.

"Lucas was wondering when you are going to come over?" I added, only to steer the conversation. "Apparently he needs help with baking?" Probably trying to impress Smothers. No amount of cookies could fix that train wreck of a relationship. "Oh, and his father needs to talk with your father. Something official. Sheriff business."

Probably about those so-called "bear attacks." Idiotic fucks who went out camping, despite the news of people getting mauled.

Darwinism at its finest.

I reached into the pocket of my tailored navy-blue coat. Pulling out my wallet. "Can I get one cherry-filled powdered donut, one chocolate donut, and one cream cheese bagel?" If I came back empty-handed, those losers would kick a hissy fit.

"Sure." Tyler tapped the order into the digital kiosk. His fingers moved clumsily while interacting with the touch screen. Like a dog trying to work a touchscreen. Watching him was painful. "That'll be... $5.40," He said, while glancing up, with a dopey smile.

I handed him a crisp twenty. I didn't do it out of generosity. But to make me feel superior. Give me the upper hand.Bastard had the audacity to be an inch taller than me. His father was 5'9", his mother was barely 5'1". How the hell was he 5'10"? An injustice.

“Keep the change,” I said casually. Tyler gave a quick thank you. It made me feel a bit better.

“Here you go." Tyler handed me two paper bags. One contained the donuts, the other with the bagel.

"Have a good day." He added, his voice cheery.

Bastard. I hoped he tripped on his way out of the coffee shop, hopefully falling face-first into a pile of wet leaves.

I waved goodbye, ignoring Wednesday’s stare. I pushed open the green-painted door of the Weathervane and stepped outside.

──────◇──────

POV: Wednesday Addams

How interesting. Only moderately so.

I watched as he disappeared, my gaze fixated onto the door he had long since passed through. Recalling our twisted conversation.

It appears I have either encountered a budding cutthroat capitalist or a would-be serial killer.

In truth, I couldn't inform you which prospect is better.

My gaze moved from the door and back to what he had given me. I reached for the napkin, the one where he had inscribed down what I presume to be his number. A promise of some sort of amusement.

It was a pity, really. I, with the assistance of Tyler, plan to implement my strategy to leave Jericho. Timing really did have a cruel sense of humor, one I found both entertaining and displeasing.

I heard the door creak open once more, much like a sarcophagus and out came the Principal of Nevermore Academy. Larissa Weems. Our eyes met briefly. No words were spoken. However, I can infer that based on my actions of departing from my court-ordered therapy session, an action that she would interpret as defiance, would have her, in turn, seek some sort of retribution.

It appears that my plans for departure would have to wait– until further notice.

How inconvenient.

[residentevilpersonnelfiles]

[tape recorder found in Bravo team's chopper/Arklay Forest Derelict Helicopter]

Looks like we're finally going to get some action! I can't believe Captain Wesker is making me do this before every operation. A pre-operation report? What am I supposed to report? If I'm being honest, this whole thing feels like a hazing ceremony. I guess I can just recap the details of the mission. S.T.A.R.S Bravo team's chopper went down in the Arklay forest nearly an hour ago. We lost contact with their team members shortly after. Looks like Alpha teams gotta swoop in and save the day. Think that about sums it up.

Patrick Dawes over and out.

[soylazaro]

Hudson's Bay — Back to the Start from Goh Iromoto on Vimeo.

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Cast: Rebecca Amzallag Danya Nearon Allayah Cornwall Carter Cornwall

Agency: Momentum Executive Creative Director: Raul Garcia Associate Creative Director: Max May Agency Producer: Kristen Neamtz

Prod: Steam Films EP: Jill Brennan Director: Goh Iromoto Line Producer: Courtney Iromoto PM: Shannon Brand PC: Jackie DeNeverville 1st AD: Keith Geisbrecht 2nd AD: Bailey Abercrombie

Cinematographer: Peter Hadfield 1st AC: Dave Stuart 2nd AC: Patrick Holmes Key Grip: Derek Teakle Best Boy: Alistair Dempsey Gaffer: Nathan Monk Best Boy: Kay Grospe Wardrobe Stylist: Jessica Albano H&M: Raquel Atienza Production Designer: Dylan Juckes Buyer: Xico Costa Props Master: Braden Labonte Location Scout: Randy Dube Location Manager: Bill Dawe Phantom Tech: Lanny Bolger DIT: Randy Perry VTR: Dylan Pouliot Script Supervisor: Suzanne Link Covid Supervisor: Kelly Bolt Covid Coordinator: Matt Horvat

Casting: Jigsaw Casting Casting Director: Shasta Lutz Session Director: Amanda Barker Casting Production Coordinator: Maria Farace

Editorial: Married To Giants Editor: Monica Remba Assistant Editor: Sofia Notte Editorial Senior Producer: Amanda Henry Colour Facility: Alter Ego Colourist: Eric Whipp Colour Senior Producer: Jane Garrah VFX & Online: Studio Feather Lead Flame Artist: Julian Mills VFX & Online Assistant: Sonia Ruffolo VFX EP: Sara Windram Audio: Grayson Music Audio CD: Mark Domitric Audio EP: Kelly McCluskey

Music Composer: Andrew West

Shot On: Alexa Mini LF + Masterbuilt Primes // Phantom Flex 4K + Zeiss Superspeeds

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