#&& tell them the truth; undertaker and paul

[brothersgrim]

SEND 'WHAT IF' SCENARIOS FOR MY MUSES TO REACT TO! || ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked: What if Taker was in a situation in which he felt extremely confused by something 👀  sorry, I’m not that creative with asks

He shifts in his bed, scrunching his face in displeasure at the hazy notion of waking up. He's tired. He's sore. He knows his duties will summon him soon, but for now, his bed is comfortable, and that is enough. It is so much more than he had for so long. 

There's a noise from out in the hall. Footsteps. Now, enough people came and went these days that that noise wouldn’t normally bother him. But even with so many people, the Undertaker knew them all - he wouldn’t bring them here otherwise. He knew their voices, their habits, their rhythms, and, while he wasn’t as keen at it as Kane was, he knew their footsteps. He could usually tell who it was walking past his door.

He does not recognize those steps. 

The Undertaker opens his eyes with a frown, brow knotting as he sits up, and–

And this isn’t his room. 

This isn’t his room, even if it feels painfully familiar. It’s still small, though he wonders if it feels bigger simply because there are more things in it than usual - where did they come from? The rug, the desk, the chair, the lamp… The posters were different, but he recognized the room itself. He knows, if he were to look out the window to his left, he would see the Yard. His Yard. He pushes carefully off the bed and freezes when his feet brush something soft. He looks down, and things get stranger still. A set of slippers rests against his feet. Soft ones, hand-made by a matron in town for a church fundraiser.

He remembered these. He didn’t know why - they should be inconsequential - but he remembers them. And the feet that brush against them move when he wills them to, the toes flex and curl, but these aren’t his feet; they lack the weathering and callouses, the scars on the sides where poorly-maintained boots had worn skin away to bloody messes more times than he could count. He raises his hands to his face, and they’re similarly smaller, unblemished, nails neatly groomed without any traces of grave-dirt or blood or motor oil stuck underneath. This–

This didn’t make any sense. There was an answer, an explanation, to all of this, but it danced and spun and swirled around in illogical circles until all it looked like was a dream. This was a dream. This was a dream, it had to be, it was the only thing that possibly made sense. He pushes off the bed (the blankets felt too soft, too real, and wasn’t this different from how these dreams normally went?) and is halfway to the mirror in the corner when the footsteps come back, and there’s three steady knocks on the door. The voice comes through the door just as he catches his reflection - just in time to see the agony flash across his younger self’s features as recognition twists the knife of grief. 

“Hey in there. You ready for bed yet?” 

That’s his father’s voice. A voice he had longed to hear and failed to properly remember for so long. Any response is caught in his throat, stopped by the lump and the sickly taste of bile that he clamps his jaw against, by breaths that trip and stumble as they make a rapid escape from his lungs without leaving any oxygen behind. 

“Adam?” Another knock and he knew, he’d known for so long, that he hadn’t quite gotten it right in his mind, but he hadn’t realised how many little details time had worn away. That was his father’s voice. The way his accent shaped each vowel, dulled the edge of some consonants and sharpened some others. The hint of concern mingled with confusion, so genuine and authentic and different, so different from how Paul had spoken of them. “You there?” 

This had to be a dream. It had to be. The door handle rattles and his entire body tenses. He knows what will happen next. The door will open and he will see his father’s face, burned and disfigured, and it will tell him that everything was his fault and he will wake up for real, in the master bedroom in his own– His grown– body. That’s what will happen. That’s what will happen because nothing else makes sense. That’s what will happen because he does not know what he will do if it doesn’t. The door opens and it is not his father’s corpse he sees. It is his father. Just his father, but like his voice, the memories of his face, even the photo kept hidden away, lacked so many details. The faint scar on his lip. The furrow in his brow. The way his hair flopped when he tilted his head, the creases at the corner of his eyes from a lifetime of smiling and thinking and squinting alike. 

“Ad-?” His father begins, but cuts off when he meets his son’s eyes. The Undertaker - Adam - does not move. He’s not sure he can. His father’s eyes widen a bit, and he reaches in the room to set his mug (his favourite mug, off-white and coffee-stained from years of use, it had a soup recipe on the side but he always filled it with everything but instead) on the dresser (handmade by Grandpa Abe, years and years before Adam was ever born and longer still before the fire claimed it and everything else). 

“Whoa, whoa, easy.” His father closes the door behind him and crouches down, close enough to study his son’s face but far enough to not crowd. The Undertaker - Adam - studies him in kind through wide, shellshocked eyes. Green eyes, not like his father’s brown. A soft green-and-navy flannel shirt hung on shoulders made broad from ranching, from grave-digging, from casket-building, a strong nose wrinkled just enough as he frowned down. This was his father. “What happened?” (You died.) “What’s wrong?” (I killed you.That’s what’s wrong. You died, I killed you, I didn’t mean to but I did and you’re dead and I lost you and–) His father’s hands, work-rough but gentle, come to rest on his shoulders and he flinches. If he hadn’t felt sick before, he did now. This is his father.

This is his father, and this is not a dream. 

“Jesus, c’mere.” His father sighs and pulls him in for a hug. It’s crushing, it’s suffocating, it’s ensnaring, it’s safe, and it isn’t until his father holds even tighter that Adam realises he is leaving tear stains on his father’s shirt. Oh. He’s crying. He’s crying, and he’s not sure he will ever be able to stop. He is Death. He is the Reaper. Men the size of mountains ran at the mere idea of his presence. His name was a legend, a warning, a curse, a promise. He is the Omega, the ugly truth of the world, and the truth he cannot bring himself to accept is just how much he had wanted this for so, so many years. His hands shake as he takes tentative fistfuls of flannel, then grips hard enough his knuckles turn white as he presses his face against his father’s shoulder.The shuddering, messy inhale that he forces smells like coffee and wood chips and spiced aftershave, fabric softener and earth and embalming fluid. It smells like comfort. It is a smell he had long since forgotten, and even though his lungs don’t work and his chest burns he forces himself to breathe it in again. 

“You hurt?” His father asks and the Undertaker has no idea how to respond, so Adam doesn’t. Only manages another breath that sounds deceptively like a hiccup. His father hums a single note and stands, tightening his arms just enough to lift Adam up off his feet. “Think there’s a bit more cocoa in the pot downstairs. Why don’t we get you some?” The offer only makes Adam cling to him even tighter. (How long had it been since anyone had offered the Undertaker cocoa? The Devil Himself did not need comfort. The Pale Rider had no use for warmth.) “C’mon.” His father opens the door with one hand and shuts it as they step through, leaving the soup mug behind. (That’s right, he had a habit of forgetting where he left things, hadn’t he? Another detail long forgotten.) He clings to his father and one of the boards creaks, and oh, right, he’d always had to be careful of that when he was young, right? And then there’s another creak as a door opens. Another voice the Deadman had resigned himself to never hearing - at least, not like this. Another set of spectral hands ripping into his chest.

“What’s wrong with Adam?” 

“Nothing, Fireball.” His - their - father says, reaching down with one arm to tousle Kane’s hair. His little brother looks up and his throat seizes again. The eyes he meets are grey - both grey, not mis-matched by smoke and flame and infection. His brother, little brother, baby brother, is just how he had tried to remember him for so many years and even through blurring vision he can’t look away. It’s how he was always meant to be. How he should have been, until– “Just a bit under the weather, is all. Go turn down your bed, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Okay.” Kane says, not bothering to keep the frown out of his voice. The door closes and Adam thinks more than feels the nudge through the air, that voice he had grieved so deeply peeking in through the disoriented haze of his own thoughts. 

You okay?

Kane. He sent back, squeezing his eyes shut and once again burrowing his face into his father’s shoulder. Is it really you?

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be Kane. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be. It had to be a trick. A lie. It would all fall apart because it always did. It would go wrong and twist and he would lose it - them - again because he always did. 

It’s me. Kane’s voice says and it’s a punch to the gut all over again. Why? Did something get out? Do we need to find Mama? 

Mama.

Their mother. 

Was she here, too? The last time he had seen her had been when Kane - grown, scarred, furious Kane - had thrown him into her casket. Before that, it had been when Paul had brought him to the other funeral home. When he had seen a skeletal grin and blackened glass and bloody, charred flesh– Another shudder wracks his too-small body as the revulsion hits him anew.

“You’re okay.” His father says, carefully setting Adam down on a chair. It feels so much bigger than chairs are supposed to. He doesn’t let go of his father. He wasn't sure that he could. If he does, his father will slip away again. If he does, he will wake up as he was yesterday and he will never see his father again, outside of photographs. If he does– 

His father rests a hand on Adam’s head before pulling away. 

“Sit tight.” His father says, moving to a pot resting on the stove. He rummages around for a mug and finds one, smaller than the now-discarded soup mug with two little mice painted on the side. He lifts the pot by its long wooden handle, pours cocoa into the mug, then returns to Adam’s side. “Here y’are. Drink slow, but see if it helps you any.” Adam takes the mug in his hands and stares.

“It’s warm.” He says, and even he notices the incredulity in his voice. His father lets out a surprised snort. 

“Well, yeah. It’s hot chocolate.” And yes, he’s right, the name should make its temperature obvious, but that’s not the point. The point is that Adam - the Undertaker - can feel it. The point is that it’s another sign that this is all, somehow, impossibly, inexplicably real. He hesitates a moment longer before taking a sip. It’s warm, yes, but it’s rich, sweet, comforting. Something homemade, from scratch, not from a packet. 

“My mama - your Granny Jules - used to make this whenever my siblings and I had a rough night.” His father leans against the counter with a grunt belying stiff muscles. “‘Course, when we started getting bigger, she put whiskey in it. … You still got a few more years before you can give that a try.” His father offers him a smile, and though it still twists at his heart, Adam manages a smile back. This is real. He has to accept that. Maybe… Maybe everything else had been a dream? No. That didn’t make sense, either. It had been fifty years, and he had felt every second of it. … Maybe he should give up trying to rationalise this. His mere existence had defied logic for so long; why would this be any different? (But at the same time, nothing good, logical or otherwise, ever lasted with him. Everything he loved had been taken away over, and over, and over again. Accepting this as reality would only make it hurt more when it was ripped from his grasp.) It’s a debate he’s still having with himself when he takes another sip of his drink. Then there are more footsteps, and these ones are not difficult to recognize. 

“JT! You down there?”

Paul. 

So many things happen at once. Adam chokes on his drink. The light overhead explodes. His father flinches back into the counter and curses. Paul bangs into something upstairs and says something similar. He comes downstairs and Adam cannot stop staring. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. Paul is here. Why is Paul here? Paul stares at him with a furrowed brow. 

“The hell was that?” Paul asked. Adam gripped the mug so tightly his hands shook. 

“Just a light.” His father said, but there was a different tone to his voice. His words were just a bit slower, a bit more thoughtful. “Think you can go find Iza for me? We’re gonna need to clean this up, get a replacement. She’s out back.” Paul watched Adam a moment longer, then shrugged and made his way to the back door. Adam did not take his eyes off him, nor did he loosen his grip. Paul was here. Paul was here. Paul was here. It’s a thought that consumes him so much he doesn’t realise his father has moved until they’re in front of each other.

“Adam.” His own name makes him jump again, sloshing cocoa onto his fingers. It burns. The sensation, unpleasant as it is, helps ground him. His father carefully pries the mug from his grasp and sets it on the table, before work-worn hands rest on Adam’s shoulders. “You’re not in trouble, but I need you to be honest with me. Did he do something to you?” Adam didn’t answer. How could he? How could he explain forty years of torture to the father who only knew him as– How old was he? Ten years? Eleven? 

“I-” He starts, then stops. Forty years of suffering. Forty years of misery, of slavery, of pain and fear and what he had done to Kane and– Without being aware of it, his hands had moved to his throat. And then he swallows, looks down, and clutches at his own hands. “I…” His father’s jaw clenched and he looked over his shoulder to the back door. After another beat, he turns back and scoops Adam back into his arms. 

“Y’know what? Grab your cup, Mr. Man. We’re having a sleepover tonight.” 

It’s almost robotic, the way Adam does as he’s told. It’s easy to fall back onto that old habit. It’s familiar. Far more familiar than the way his father carries him up the stairs, stopping only to knock on Kane’s door. 

“Hey, Kane! C’mon. You’re sleeping in our room tonight.” His words were met with some shuffling noises from the other side of the door, before the knob turned and Kane’s ruffled head poked out. 

“I am?” He asked, blinking groggily. He must have been settling down already. Their father reached down to smooth Kane’s hair back into place. 

“Yup. Sleepover night.” Their father nodded. “Grab your bear if you want, but hurry it up. It’s getting late.” 

“Okay.” Kane disappeared into his room again, then reappeared and trotted after their father. Adam found himself deposited on their parents’ bed. His father squeezed his shoulders one last time, pressing a kiss to the crown of Adam’s head. 

“Stay here, I’m gonna go find your mama.” And then he leaves. He leaves, and those words cling to Adam like an embrace, like a security blanket, like brambles, like a noose. The bed shifted behind him, but Kane’s voice still almost made him jump.

“You’re not sick, are you?” He asked. Adam worked his jaw, then carefully set the mug down on the nightstand.

“I dunno what I am.” He said after a while. Kane flopped against his back. The warmth, the pressure, helped. The closeness to his brother helped. It didn’t chase the tightness in his chest away, but it helped. 

“You’re scared.” That did not help.  

“Kane-” He started. He didn’t need his brother digging through his head. Not now. He didn’t want Kane to see. Kane didn’t need to know. (He didn’t want Kane to know.) 

“It’s okay.” Kane said, shrugging the shoulder that wasn’t smushed against his brother’s back. “It’s like Mama always says. Nothing can hurt us in this house.” … Adam was glad his brother didn’t see the expression that just flashed across his face. How he wished that was true. How he’d used to believe that was true. How many years he had desperately, desperately longed for it to be true. But it wasn’t. He grips the mug tighter and leans back against Kane. The warmth of both and the weight of his brother feel a million miles away. His chest is tight and he closes his eyes as though that will banish the pain. He needs to breathe. He knows he needs to breathe, but this is all too much, too much, too much– The creak of the stairs.

He’s not ready for this.

His father’s muffled voice.

He’s not ready.

“... Look in his eyes, almost didn’t look like him.” His father was saying. “I’ve only seen that look two other places. Soldiers, and the pigs you bring in on Halloween.” The pigs. Livestock only in the loosest sense. Shepherded in from death row, or rounded up in the wild if they hadn’t been caught yet. Serial killers, repeat abusers, the worst of humanity, and they all squealed when they realised what was going to happen to them. He knew that well enough from his own experience. (He’d had to keep the tradition going. He had to. And he had done it, like all things, alone.) And the door opens. And the air leaves the room again. And he no longer feels the cup, or his brother. And he knows he’s shaking but he doesn’t feel that, either. And he imagines he’s crying again but even that escapes sensation. There’s an image juxtaposed over his mother’s face. One he’d never forgotten, not in forty years. Charred, blistered skin. Lips peeled back to reveal ash-coated teeth. Glass lacerating through reddened skin. Patches of skull where hair had been eaten away. A hole where her nose was meant to be. And only congealed, half-boiled pits where her blue, blue eyes had once been. That is what his mother had looked like, the last time he’d seen her face. And he sees it now. And he feels sick. And his head is spinning. And it’s too light and too dark and his heart is pounding, deafening in his ears and that’s his mother. And he feels like he is falling apart and compressing all at once and his own hair feels hot and itchy against the back of his neck and that is his mother. 

That is his mother. 

That is his mother and she’s getting closer. 

That’s his mother and he still remembers how her charred flesh smelled.

That’s his mother and she’s in front of him. And he can’t breathe. And it smells like smoke and cooked flesh. And it smells like cinnamon and lavender. And she is burned and she is beautiful. And she is in front of him. And his vision is blurring so much it no longer matters what her face looked like; he couldn’t make it out anyways. She folded her hands on the blankets near him - an invitation for comfort, but not making contact yet. 

“Addie, baby?” Her voice was a lance through his heart. “What’s wrong?” The floorboards creak (so loud, so shrill) as his father moves to his mother’s side. Another fuzzy shape in front of him. 

“I’m sorry.” He manages. His voice croaks and it hurts to say the words. He tries again anyway. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” The indistinct shape of his mother shifts, likely looking up at his father, but she will find no answers there. He wouldn’t know. Neither of them would know the blood and soot that stained their oldest’s hands. They wouldn’t know how badly he’d hurt them. How he’d-

“I’m sorry.” He repeated, though even he barely understood it. “I’m sorry.” It’s a mess of syllables, fumbled together and dropped from the shaking grasp of his lips until they fell on a floor in a heap. He curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his chest as though that might stop the last pieces of his heart from shattering further. 

It doesn’t work. 

“Oh, baby.” His mother says, wrapping him in her arms and pulling him close. She kisses the top of his head and it aches, it burns, it’s agony and it’s a redemption and a forgiveness that he has done nothing to deserve. He does not deserve her love and yet he has craved it so desperately he can’t bring himself to pull away. She holds him tighter still and at some point, he had started clinging to her in kind. He doesn’t remember when. All he knows is if he tried to hold on to the back of her blouse any tighter his hands would break. He tries anyways. He tries another apology, too. Neither attempt is successful. His mother holds him anyway. And just like with his father, eventually, he wears himself out. He does not let go, but the tears slow down. His breathing steadies to shaky hiccups. But he doesn’t let go until she pulls away and he has to. Her hands find his face and her thumbs brush away the lingering moisture on his cheeks. He raises his own hands to hold on to her wrists, pressing his face into her palms. He had tried to memorise this feeling after she had been gone. (He’d had no way of knowing he’d be forced to forget.) 

Feeling the real thing now, his memories didn’t come anywhere close. 

His mother sighs. It’s not an annoyed sigh, nor is it condescending. It’s a release of tension. It’s permission to relax. She leans in and kisses the top of his head again. For another moment, she stays with her face pressed against his scalp. He blinks; his eyes still sting. 

“You okay, baby?” She asks. He sniffs, and for the first time since he could remember, he answered that question honestly. 

“I don’t know.” 

“And that’s okay.” She smooths his hair and smiles down at him and he sees her face, and it’s even more beautiful than he remembered. “Why don’t you stay here with your brother? I gotta talk to your daddy for a minute.” She moves to stand and the ‘no’ that leaves him is involuntary. Don’t go. Don’t leave me, not again. I just got you all back, don’t go. 

I need you. 

Her lips flicker into a frown, concerned and- angry?- but it vanishes just as fast. There’s a fluctuation in temperature, a drop that he swears must have been his, but her hand is freezing when it runs through his hair again. 

“We’ll be back, Adam, sweet boy. I promise.” And despite the warning signs, she was as gentle towards him in tone and action as she had ever been. She turns and leaves quickly, their father following behind. The door closes behind them. Adam sniffs and wipes at his face again. There’s silence, filled by the staccato ticking of the clock on the night stand and the soft rustling of Kane squirming around in the sheets. Adam keeps staring at the door. Then Kane plops his chin on Adam’s shoulder and speaks. 

“Would it make you feel better if we listened?” He asked. “Then we won’t be so far away.” Adam scrunched up his faze and scrubbed at his eyes one last time. Kane was right. Adam didn’t want to know how much he’d picked up–

“Not a lot.” Kane shrugged.

“Cut that out.” Adam mumbled into his own sleeve. Kane huffed, flopping backwards onto the thick down-stuffed pillows his parents enjoyed. 

“Well, you won’t tell me what’s going on! I’m worried.” He said, pouting at the ceiling. “You’re never like this.” And maybe he was right. Adam absolutely hadn’t been that way when he had stopped being Adam. He didn’t remember what he was supposed to be before the fire. Apparently, not like this. 

“Yeah.” Adam ended up saying. “Let’s go listen.” Anything to avoid letting his brother know what he was thinking. They both slipped off the bed, their socks helping to muffle the impact of their feet against the floor. And the door opens slowly, quietly, careful of the potential squeaking hinges, and Adam leaves first, finding his spot at the top of the stairs. He can’t see his parents, no matter how he manoeuvres. They must be in the back entryway. But he can hear them, and hear them well. 

“What happened, JT?” She was asking. She sounded mad again. “What happened to my little boy?”

“I don’t know.” Their father said. His voice was more level than their mother’s, but had a hard edge. He’d had enough time to gather himself. “I was doing the usual bedtime routine and found him like that, just like I told you. Had him calmed down a bit, but…” Their father sighed. 

“... What is it?” Their mother still seemed agitated, but concern had returned to her voice. Adam leaned forward, grasping the bannister for support and pressing his face between the beams. He could just see their shadows in the butter-yellow light that spilled in front of the staircase. It was a good thing he’d leaned in, because his father spoke much more softly now. 

“I think it was Paul.”

“What?!” He could see their mother’s shadow take a step back. “What do you mean? What did he do?” 

“All I know is, he showed up, and Adam looked like someone just walked over his grave. Pale as anything, kept staring, I swear, I called his name three times and he didn’t hear me. Something happened even if I don’t know what.” 

“You’re sure?” Their mother asked, and this time, their father replied instantly.

“Sure as I need to be.”

“Fine.” Their mother says. “So we get rid of him, then. Nobody gets to hurt our boys, I don’t care who they are.” Their father hummed his agreement, and his shadow nodded. 

"I’m with you on that. Only thing I'm hung up on," his father says, a creak of wood belying a shifting of weight, "is what we tell Keith." 

"Why does he have to be told anything?" It's mama's voice, a coldness in it he isn't sure he ever heard. 

"Because. No more disappearances, remember?" 

"J." His mother tuts. "It's only a disappearance if someone comes looking." Adam tightens his hands on the bannister. It’s a struggle to keep his breathing quiet. It's them. It's really them. And he still does not know for how long he will have them back, so he is determined to re-learn their voices. Even if they are talking about murder. They are going to kill Paul. It is a thought that calms and terrifies him in kind - Paul is a monster. He deserves what he is getting. But what could someone like him do when cornered-? 

“Got a point.” His father says with a sniff. “Don’t think I’ve heard him really talk much about his family, so I don’t imagine they’re close.” 

“So we should be fine.” His mother replies. There’s a moment of silence that he imagines is filled with his father nodding. 

“Mind if I take the shovel?” His father’s voice again. “I just-” And then his father’s voice lowers and Adam has to strain even harder, leaning forward to not miss a single syllable. “The way Adam was when I found him-” 

“It’s all yours, J.” His mother said. “But that’s my baby too. So I get his heart.” In spite of the nature of the situation, a faint smile tugs at Adam’s face. He had been told before that he took after his mother; apparently they were right. Then he heard Paul’s voice, muffled and unintelligible, and the smile vanished as he shrank back. 

“Yeah, Paul, we’re coming.” His father called, loud enough to be heard in the back, and loud enough for Adam to hear easily. And as the door slid open, his mother’s voice, in a promise that would be terrifying if it was aimed at him, but as it was, carried a sense of security, of safety. 

“We’ll be right behind you.” 

And then the door slides closed. Adam lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and eased away from the bannister. His fingers ached when he uncurled them. He glances behind him, and Kane is peering out the door to their parents’ room. 

“What was that about?” He asks, but Adam just shakes his head. 

“I dunno. I’m tired.” He slouches into the room, and as much as it’s a deflection, it’s the truth. He’s tired. No, he’s exhausted. His eyes ache and his head throbs and his shoulders feel so heavy he feels like he’ll collapse at any moment. 

“You still feel sick?” Kane asks, clambering up into the bed. Adam nods.

“Yeah. But I think I’ll be better soon.” 

“That’s good.” Kane says as they both make themselves comfortable under the old duvet (one Nana Tulip had embroidered herself, if Adam remembers right). “It’s always boring when you’re not feeling well.” Adam closed his eyes, pressing his face into the pillow even as he shifted closer to his brother. 

“Night, Kane.” He mumbles. 

“Night, Adam.” His little brother, his happy, healthy, safe little brother, replies, and it’s the last thing Adam hears before he starts nodding off - aside from some screams that might have been a coyote, if you didn’t listen closely enough. 

He’s not sure how long it’s been when he hears his parents enter the room. They’re trying to be quiet, and if he slept like he used to, they’d have succeeded. But he still has the world-weariness from the life he lived, so he peeks his eyes open as they approach. His mother sits on the bed first, sighs, then notices his stare and smiles. 

“Hey, baby.” She says, reaching down to stroke his hair. “You can get some sleep now, alright? You’re safe.” And somehow, somehow, he believes her. It might have something to do with the flecks of red on her teeth when she leans down to kiss his head - the same red he catches traces of under his father’s nails when a strong arm pulls him close. Whatever the reason, he feels safe - safer than he had in decades, even with the immense power he’d held. Regardless of the reason, he feels safe enough that this time when he sleeps, he sleeps heavily, and does not wake up until morning. And when he does wake, he’s still in his parents’ bed. And it is their bed. It still has the duvet his grandmother decorated, with the jewellery strand his father had made for his mother perched on the vanity. He’d been convinced he would wake up and find it all had been a dream, or hallucination - that it would vanish when he opened his eyes. That the other shoe would drop. 

But it didn’t. 

Every day, he would wake up and check his hands, check his face, check his surroundings. And every day, aside from the ordinary signs of time’s passing, he stayed the same. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years. The other shoe never came. Eventually, he stopped waiting for it. Yes, he would still get dreams. Yes, some things still scared him more than they should. (He never truly reconciled with the smell of burnt meat.) But he carried less tension in his shoulders, he stopped thinking he would lose this new chance, he stopped worrying so much about the future. Somehow, this was just going to continue. Something about gift horses and mouths or whatever. But he was happy. 

He was happy. 

His days became too busy to worry about a forgotten past and a discarded future. Going to school (again, in some aspects, but for the first time as he grew older), tending the yard (under his parents, not alone), spending time with his brother… Taking care of the dog. They hadn’t had a dog before. But a few years after the fire should’ve happened, a stray mutt had shown up on their doorstep. Now the mutt - lovingly named Fish - was a fixture of the family. And now, years later, Fish was running around the yard, barking happily, while his humans sat about getting various graves dug, cleaned, or otherwise looked after. So it was that Adam found himself in a hole, six-by-eight-by-three, shovel in hand as he dug with his brother. They’d fallen into a steady rhythm, as well as a comfortable silence after the usual chatter had died down. (They didn’t have to bury that.) The weather, homework, the upcoming school dance (now that they were both in high school) and what to watch on TV before bed had all been discussed. Now they just worked. The sun beat down mercilessly and left sweat beading on their backs and dripping down their necks. Neither light clothing nor trying back their hair had helped any. There weren’t even any clouds to offer shade. But Mama had a fresh pitcher of home-made strawberry lemonade in the fridge waiting for them, and the thought of it was enough to spur them on. (Though Kane had asked a few times if Adam would cause a storm - just enough to block the sun. Adam had refused, though he was tempted to agree, now.) It was shaping up to be another usual day, until his brother almost bowled Adam over with one simple question. 

“Are Mom and Dad supposed to be dead?” Kane doesn’t look away from his hands, but Adam’s head snaps up.

“What?”

“I dunno. I get these… Dreams, sometimes. But they’re not dreams. They’re hazy, but they’re real.” Kane shakes his head as though he might dislodge those thoughts and find the answer underneath. Adam hopes he doesn’t notice how tense his shoulders are, how his breathing has quickened.

“And I feel like you know something you’re not telling me.” Here, Kane does look up. “We’re supposed to tell each other everything. We don’t do secrets.” Adam runs his tongue across his lips like that could change the dryness in his throat. He can’t look at Kane. Can’t stomach whatever he thinks he might see, so he looks anywhere else.

“Kane, I-”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been here, is it?” 

He could argue that it is. That before, he had never gotten this chance. The chance to watch his brother grow up, the chance to ease into their future as the caretakers. This was new. But that was not what Kane meant, and they both knew it. He sighs, closes his eyes, and lets his chin drop to his chest, gripping his own hand so tight the bones in his fingers creak.

“No.” The silence that follows the admission is infinite, an abyss, stretching out to swallow him whole. He wants to beg Kane not to hate him. That he’s sorry for what happened. That he’s worked hard, so hard, to leave that reality behind and just be happy for what they had now, their home, their family, their freedom, but those words don’t come. Much like his brother in a faded world, he cannot speak.

“Well,” Kane says after an era, “I don’t know how you did what you did, or- Really, I don’t even know what made you do it. But I’m glad you did.” That makes Adam open his eyes again. There’s a weight off his shoulders and an ache in his heart as he looks at his brother, his baby brother, his little brother who he had once sold his soul for (who he would sell his soul for again, should this life demand it). Kane isn’t looking at him, now, using his teeth to stretch a hair elastic over his fingers before he continues. “Like I said, it’s hazy. I don’t really understand it. But I get the feeling I wouldn’t’ve liked it much.” The absurdity of the thought, the wild understatement, makes Adam laugh. It’s quiet and surprised, but it’s still genuine.

“No,” he says, wiping his hand down his face and sniffing. “No, you wouldn’t’ve.” 

“So thanks.” Kane finishes tying his hair back and butts his shoulder against Adam’s, then bends to grab his shovel. He jams it into the earth, stomps it lower with his foot, and throws his reward back over his shoulder. Adam does the same. Once, twice, three times. He steals another glance at Kane, then frowns down at the dirt. 

“How much do you…” He trails off. ‘Remember’ isn't right. Kane shakes his head. 

“Not the word for it.” He agrees. Another shovelful of earth moved before he answers. “I dunno. It’s dark, mostly. Sometimes it’s the opposite - just blinding white. But it always feels like- Like I can’t move.” Adam grits his teeth and represses a shudder. Kane nods. “Yeah. And I wake up hungry some nights. Real hungry. And there’s this weird taste in my mouth I can’t place. It’s almost like the time we went to the Davids’ barbecue, and the burgers weren’t cooked all the way.” Adam grimaces. He has an idea about why that might be. He doesn’t say it, though. … He doesn’t need to. Kane coughs. 

“Please, please tell me there’s a different reason you’re thinking about rats.”

“I dunno for sure.” Adam says quickly. Judging by the pathetic look his brother gives him, it doesn’t make him feel any better. “I could be wrong.” Kane wretched and choked back a gag. 

“I hope you are.” He manages. Adam shrugs. Another moment where the silence is broken only by the sound of their shovels impaling the earth, the distant croak of ravens lounging on a tree somewhere overhead. 

“It’s the opposite for me.” Adam finally says. “It feels like every day, more and more of- ‘the other time’, it’s fading away. There are some things I still remember really well, but other parts… Ain’t nothing there anymore.” 

“Huh. Weird.” Kane mumbled. More silence, more work. At some point, they’d gotten close to being finished; just needed to sharpen up the corners. Take pride in the details, their parents had taught them. It’s the family business. It’s our reputation. Gotta do it right. It had been strange to relearn everything. It had been eye-opening to see how much he had missed. The little tricks he had never been taught. Even just having the extra hands helped more than he could say. There’s a dull chink as Kane’s shovel hits a rock. He frowned, stooped down, and dug the rock out with his hands. With a grunt, he heaved it out of the hole, then reached to pull in an armload of the dirt they’d removed and fill in the dent the rock had left. Adam shoved his own shovel into the dirt and wiped his forehead again. He was exhausted - from the work, yes, but from the conversation, too. Kane looked over at him again. 

“Can I ask one more thing?”

“Shoot.” Adam replied, even though he wished they’d never broached the concept. (On some level, he was glad that someone else knew the truth. Kane was right; they didn’t do secrets. And it made him feel less crazy. But he didn’t want to think too deeply about that, not now.) 

“How did they–”

“Boys!” There were few times his mother’s voice had been more of a mercy than it was now. 

“Yeah?” He and Kane call in unison. They look up just in time to see their parents approach the edge of the grave. They were silhouetted by the sun, but if Adam squinted, he could make out their faces. 

“It’s almost noon; we’re going inside.” Their father said, tilting his hat up. “Break time.”

“Come on, both of you, before you wear yourselves out.” Their mother crouched down, tilting her head with a smile. 

“Don’t gotta twist my leg.” Adam said. Their father reached down, and Adam accepted his hand as he clambered out of the grave. Kane was given the same help, and then, after dusting themselves off, they headed back to the home. Adam knew what his brother wanted to ask. He hoped he would never complete that question.

He hoped they would both forget before it ever came up again. 

Fish trotted up beside them, whuffing a greeting. Adam reached down to scratch his ears. Well, if it did come up, he would have to address it. For now, he could focus on living the (relatively) normal life he had been gifted. A normal life that included lunch breaks and lemonade with his family, and dinners together later in the night, and regular school, and homework, and weekends, and high school football games - kind of like this one. 

The whistle ran through the air, sharp and splitting. 

“Let’s go, get your warm up in!” Coach shouted. Across the field, Victoria’s coach was barking similar instructions at his players. Adam was aware of this because he’d been staring in that direction since they’d gotten off the bus. 

“Careful,” Kane said in between up-downs. “Look any harder and your eyes’ll fall outta your skull.”

“Shut up.” Adam grumbles. He strands and rolls his shoulders; a moment later, Kane stands with him and stretches his neck from side to side. 

“How do you know he’ll even be here?” He asked. “Everything’s so different now. Maybe he doesn’t play football anymore.” 

“I guessed.” Adam narrowed his eyes at the opposing team, searching for any hint of the person he was looking for. It was hard to make anything out. That was the point of a uniform, but it didn’t stop it from being annoying. Had he ever mentioned a number–?

“Hey, witchblood!” Chester’s voice. Adam and Kane rolled their eyes and turned in unison.

“What, Hanson?” They said. Chester knew them well enough to not be put off by this. He stopped a few steps away from them, helmet under his arm. The light breeze blew his fluffy blonde hair out around him, and he scrunched his face in annoyance as he pushed it back behind his ear. 

“Stop drooling over the enemy and get in position. Coach wants to give us a pep talk.” He says. He shoots one last glare towards the opposing team, one more glance at the brothers, and jogs back to where the rest of their schoolmates were gathering.

“Told you it was obvious.” Kane bumps his shoulder against Adam’s, who rolls his eyes and scoffs in return. 

“‘Drooling over the enemy’, shut up. Why’s he gotta be such a dipshit when he talks?” 

“Yeah, sure sounds like an asshole.” And the voice is younger, not as gravelly, but Adam would know it anywhere. He turns, shock melting to hope melting to a brilliant grin on his face. Pale blond hair, big blue eyes, a lopsided smile - that’s what greeted him. He reached for the person he’d been looking for, and his hand was accepted, held close, stroked with gentle movements of his forever’s thumb. 

“There you are, Cueball.” Any bite left in the insult was erased by the pure relief in Adam’s voice. He was greeted with a laugh, genuine as ever.

“Missed you, too, ya big dead bastard.” Steve Austin - Stevie Williams, toughest player on Victoria’s team - smiled back. “You too, little brother.”

“Oh, my god.” Kane said, letting his helmet hang at his side. “You had a bowl cut.” 

Of all the things that had changed, sometimes, it was those that stayed the same that reassured him. It reminded him that he wasn’t losing his mind. By now, most of what had been was gone. It had faded away - and he didn’t make any effort to think about it. Not before, not now, not ever. But even with so much of those memories leaving, he never forgot her. 

Coming here had been half his idea, half Steve’s. He’d been talking about her - he wasn’t even sure how she came up in the conversation - and how he wondered if she was okay. What she was like in this version of reality.

“Why not find out?” Steve had asked. It was a thought Adam had humoured more than once, but it had been different. He and Steve had still been married when whatever happened had happened. Adam and Kane’s parents had died. In each case, he knew how that story ended. He knew what happened to them. But Liz… He’d been the one who left her. In a way, she’d died because she met him. So, if he never met her, would she live longer? Would she get the chance to grow old like she deserved? (But what about his boy? What would happen to Jon? His son, his perfect boy who he had failed in a different world–)

“All you can do is try. You changed so much, why not change that?” And Steve had said it so confidently Adam couldn’t argue. Nor did he want to. (He missed her.)

And so he came to the coffee shop. He hadn’t been sure it was the right one until he stepped inside and got hit with the nostalgia. This was it. This was the place. … But he had no idea what the date had been when he’d first seen her. He’d been nineteen, that much he knew, but beyond that? He had no idea. So he’d become somewhat of a regular here. Whenever he went to the city, he’d stop for a coffee. Sometimes he’d bring Steve or Kane or both up just to pass time. Every visit would be at least thirty minutes, but he’d always try for longer, just in case. It had been a fluke meeting before. Fate, chance, whatever you would call it. Not something he could plan for. But he hoped for it. And that hope kept him coming back, time after time. This time was in June, about midway through the year. He’d come up to get some cosmetic supplies and a few replacement parts for the cremation oven (his parents had wondered, once, why he was so thorough in maintaining it, but had settled on it being good practice and leaving it at that), and he’d stopped in at the coffee shop for a full meal. He’d finished his sandwich already, and worked his way through two cookies (his treat to himself for surviving the Bywater funeral last week). Every time the door opened, he looked up, like he always did. Every time he looked up, he was disappointed, like he always was. She still wasn’t here. When had he met her-? He’d asked himself that so many times. He sighed, let his head drop in resignation. He downed the last dregs of his coffee and crumpled the sandwich and cookie wrappers into a ball. A quick glance to make sure he hadn’t left a mess before he made his way to the recycling. He stopped one last time, looked over his shoulder on the off chance he’d missed her. Still nothing. (He wondered if he would recognize her. If maybe he’d passed her a hundred times and the fading had taken her face from him–) The bell jangled as he pushed through the door. His Harley was where he left it, still gleaming from the last polish. Dark blue paint that he retouched when needed, the custom V-and-skull hood ornament Dad had made him for his birthday that year (difficult to get in all the nooks to clean, but worth it). And the saddlebags, black leather, sturdy and reliable. He crouched down, ignoring the gravel that tried to bite into the knee of his jeans. He just had to put his wallet away, and then he’d head home. Maybe he’d come back another day. Maybe he’d see if Anything Else knew where she might–

“Hey.” And that voice immediately sent a flush of calm through him, of security, even if he hadn’t been afraid, even if he hadn’t heard it in so long. “Cool bike.”

And he did what he could to keep the emotion off his face as he looked up at her and gave a nod.

“Thanks, nice to meet a fellow Harley fan. I’m Adam, by the way.”

[bracketsoffear]

Dark Leitner Reading List

The full list of submissions for the Dark Leitner bracket. Bold titles are ones which were accepted to appear in the bracket. Synopses and propaganda can be found below the cut. Be warned, however, that these may contain spoilers!

Andersen, Hans Christian: The Shadow Asimov, Isaac: Nightfall

Barker, Clive: Abarat Barnes, S.A.: Dead Silence Baxendale, Trevor: Fear of the Dark Brennan, Joseph Payne: Slime Brontë, Charlotte: Jane Eyre

Chukovsky, Korney: Stolen Sun Cortázar, Julio: Casa tomada (House taken over) Coville, Bruce: The Shadow Wood

Dean, Benjamin Appleby: Lamplight Dukaj, Jacek: Ice

Enríquez, Mariana: Nuestra parte de noche (Our share of the night) Enríquez, Mariana: Bajo el agua negra (Under dark waters)

Halpern, Jake & Peter Kujawinski: Nightfall Hesse, Hermann: Demian Hodgson, William Hope: The Night Land

King, Stephen: IT King, Stephen: The Mist Kirby, Todd: No Power Kristoff, Jay: Empire of the Vampire

Leroux, Gaston: The Phantom of the Opera Lord Byron: Darkness Lovecraft, H.P.: The Haunter of the Dark

Milton, John: Paradise Lost

Poe, Edgar Allan: The Pit and the Pendulum Pronzini, Bill: Peekaboo

Robertson, M.P.: The Moon in Swampland

Schwartz, Alvin, ill. Stephen Gammell: Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark Sheckley, Robert: Ghost V Smith, Clark Ashton: The Double Shadow Snicket, Lemony: The Dark Snicket, Lemony: The Ersatz Elevator Stine, R.L.: Revenge of the Shadow People Stover, Matt: Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor

Tolkien, J. R. R.: Shadow-Bride

Weir, Andy: Project Hail Mary Wilson, F. Paul: Nightworld

Andersen, Hans Christian: The Shadow

The story follows a Learned Man on a voyage south from northern Europe. One evening as he sits by a fire, he amusedly observes his shadow dancing and imitating his movements in the light of the flames, and thinks that it would be funny if it was a creature with a will of its own. The next morning, he awakes and finds to his surprise that his shadow has disappeared overnight. But as a new shadow slowly grows back from the tip of his toes, the Learned Man does not give the incident another thought, and soon thereafter goes home to northern Europe. One evening several years later, however, he hears a knock on his door. It is his shadow, the one he lost years before during his journey, now standing upon his doorstep, almost completely human in appearance. Intrigued, the Learned Man invites the Shadow inside, where the two sit down and talk about the Shadow's experiences during its travels and how it came to take the form of a human.

During the conversation, the subject turns to the Learned Man's rather unsuccessful writing career. The Learned Man values the good, the true, and the beautiful in the world, and writes about it often, but his writing seems to garner little to no interest with the public. The Shadow declares that the Learned Man is too much of an idealist, and his view of the world is flawed. The Shadow claims that he, unlike his master, understands the world, that he has seen it as truly is, and knows how evil some men really can be. They soon part ways once again.

The Shadow goes on to make itself quite wealthy, even as the Learned Man barely manages to survive. He eventually grows very ill, and so the Shadow proposes they travel to a health resort. The Shadow will fund the trip, on the condition that the Learned Man pretend to be its shadow instead of the other way around. Absurd as the suggestion sounds, the Learned Man ultimately agrees and they undertake the trip, with the Shadow as his master.

On the trip, the Shadow meets and woos a Princess. When the pair are about to be married, the Shadow asks the Learned Man to remain as its shadow permanently, in exchange for a good life with them. The Learned Man refuses and threatens to reveal the truth to the Princess. Thus, the Shadow has him arrested and ultimately executed, and goes on to live a happy life with the Princess.

Asimov, Isaac: Nightfall

"Nightfall" is a 1941 science fiction short story by the American writer Isaac Asimov about the coming of darkness to the people of a planet ordinarily illuminated by sunlight at all times.

link

Barker, Clive: Abarat

"Candy lives in Chickentown USA: the most boring place in the world, her heart bursting for some clue as to what her future may hold. She is soon to find out: swept out of our world by a giant wave, she finds herself in another place entirely... The Abarat: a vast archipelago where every island is a different hour of the day, from the sunlit wonders of Three in the Afternoon, where dragons roam, to the dark terrors of the island of Midnight, ruled by Christopher Carrion. (...)"

Half of the islands in Abarat are night islands and most of the main bad guys work for forces of darkness trying to bring eternal monstrous darkness to all islands.

Spoilers: Can't speak of it in detail cuz I have not read that part yet, but the bad guys apparently succeeded in bringing forces of darkness to the islands.

Barnes, S.A.: Dead Silence

A GHOST SHIP. A SALVAGE CREW. UNSPEAKABLE HORRORS.

Claire Kovalik is days away from being unemployed—made obsolete—when her beacon repair crew picks up a strange distress signal. With nothing to lose and no desire to return to Earth, Claire and her team decide to investigate.

What they find at the other end of the signal is a shock: the Aurora, a famous luxury space-liner that vanished on its maiden tour of the solar system more than twenty years ago. A salvage claim like this could set Claire and her crew up for life. But a quick trip through the Aurora reveals something isn’t right.

Whispers in the dark. Flickers of movement. Words scrawled in blood. Claire must fight to hold onto her sanity and find out what really happened on the Aurora, before she and her crew meet the same ghastly fate.

Baxendale, Trevor: Fear of the Dark

Synopsis: "On the very edge of the galaxy lies Akoshemon: a putrefied world of legendary evil.

In the year 2382 archaeologists land on Akoshemon's only moon, searching for evidence of the planet's infamous past. But when the Doctor, Tegan and Nyssa are drawn into the lunar caverns they find more than a team of academics — and help uncover much more than ancient history.

Something is lying in wait, deep inside the labyrinth of caves: something that remembers the spiral of war, pestilence and deprivation that ruined Akoshemon. Something that rejoiced in every kind of horror and destruction.

An age-old terror is about to be reborn. But what is the hideous secret of the Bloodhunter? And why does Nyssa feel that her thoughts are no longer her own? Forced to confront his own worst fears, even the Doctor will be pushed to breaking point — and beyond."

Why it's Dark: The Doctor does battle with the literal embodiment of darkness and evil, as unseen monsters in the dark pick off crewmembers one by one. Even by the standards of this series, this book is incredibly grim.

Brennan, Joseph Payne: Slime

Originally published in the March 1953 issue of Weird Tales. The title creature is a black, amorphous blob from the bottom of the sea. In fact, it's so black that it's all but invisible at night; witnesses to its attacks pretty much see their friends and loved ones "taken by the darkness", as though the dark itself were alive and hungry.

Brontë, Charlotte: Jane Eyre

As you read, the shadows get deeper and darker, and you start hearing noises from overhead. It sounds like it's coming from the attic? Do you have an attic? Why would anyone be up there if you did? No, you can't look! It's my attic! Anyway, secrets and shadows and the unknown.

Chukovsky, Korney: Stolen Sun

A Russian children's poem that narrates how the crocodile consumed the Sun and how the bear gave him a proper pummeling and forced him to release the star back into the sky. No, it doesn't make sense in context either, but it does take on the motifs of Slavic myths about a dragon stealing the Sun and imprisoning it for thirty-three years, cueing global night and cold.

Cortázar, Julio: Casa tomada (House taken over)

It tells the story of a brother and sister living together in their ancestral home which is being "taken over" by unknown entities. The mystery that revolves around what those entities are is largely left up to interpretation, allowing the genre of the story to vary from fantasy to psychological fiction to magic realism to political fiction, among others.

Coville, Bruce: The Shadow Wood

The hero faces down and defeats an army of living shadows with a magic candle... until his own shadow rises up and blows it out.

Dean, Benjamin Appleby: Lamplight

Standard sort of evil shadow monsters made interesting by the fact that the only way to stay safe from them is to be in pitch blackness -- no light, no shadows.

Dukaj, Jacek: Ice

The story of the book takes place in an alternate universe where the First World War never occurred and Poland is still under Russian rule. Following the Tunguska event, the Ice, a mysterious form of matter, has covered parts of Siberia in the Russian Empire and started expanding outwards, reaching Warsaw. The appearance of Ice results in extreme decrease of temperature, putting the whole continent under constant winter, and is accompanied by Lute, angels of Frost, a strange form of being which seems to be a native inhabitant of Ice. Ice freezes history and philosophy, preserving the old political regime, affecting human psychology and changing the laws of logic from many-valued logic of "Summer" to two-valued logic of "Winter" with no intermediate steps between true and false. It can also be used to create candles that cast shadows instead of light. This isn't normal darkness, but rather a sort of "anti-light", which can make people and objects in its radius cast "anti-shadows" made up of non-darkened areas, and seems to have an odd effect on the minds of people who spend a lot of time exposed to it.

Enríquez, Mariana: Our Share of Night

This is like a chronicle of some alternate universe People’s Church of the Divine Host. It centres on a cult devoted to a menacing entity that possesses appropriate hosts, manifesting in rituals that summon a devouring darkness that leaves devotees scarred and maimed. There’s also an abandoned house that may exist in many places at once and is brimming with unnatural darkness that acts as a conduit to either the entity itself or its native realm. Beyond the more straightforward darkness, the book’s themes related to obscured knowledge—the central relationship is between one of the darknesses’s hosts and his son, anticipated to inherit his father’s abilities. We see again and again how Juan works to hide his son’s abilities from the cult and also hide knowledge of the cult and the world that he inhabits from his son, even to the point of hurting him very badly with zero explanation in an attempt to keep him safe when he’s gone.

Enríquez, Mariana: Nuestra parte de noche (Our share of the night)

A woman’s mysterious death puts her husband and son on a collision course with her demonic family.

A young father and son set out on a road trip, devastated by the death of the wife and mother they both loved. United in grief, the pair travel to her ancestral home, where they must confront the terrifying legacy she has bequeathed: a family called the Order that commits unspeakable acts in search of immortality.

For Gaspar, the son, this maniacal cult is his destiny. As the Order tries to pull him into their evil, he and his father take flight, attempting to outrun a powerful clan that will do anything to ensure its own survival. But how far will Gaspar’s father go to protect his child? And can anyone escape their fate?

Enríquez, Mariana: Bajo el agua negra (Under dark waters)

In this short story, a detective called Marina goes to a town to investigate some strange murders. There, she finds a cult that adores something that lives under the black water of the polluted lake.

Halpern, Jake & Peter Kujawinski: Nightfall

On Marin’s island, sunrise doesn’t come every twenty-four hours—it comes every twenty-eight years. Now the sun is just a sliver of light on the horizon. The weather is turning cold and the shadows are growing long.

Because sunset triggers the tide to roll out hundreds of miles, the islanders are frantically preparing to sail south, where they will wait out the long Night.

Marin and her twin brother, Kana, help their anxious parents ready the house for departure. Locks must be taken off doors. Furniture must be arranged. Tables must be set. The rituals are puzzling—bizarre, even—but none of the adults in town will discuss why it has to be done this way.

Just as the ships are about to sail, a teenage boy goes missing—the twins’ friend Line. Marin and Kana are the only ones who know the truth about where Line’s gone, and the only way to rescue him is by doing it themselves.

But Night is falling. Their island is changing. And it may already be too late.

Hesse, Hermann: Demian

Religious imagery, seen very often w/ the Dark (i.e. Hither Green Chapel, Montauk's cult that I forgot the name of, etc), especially blasphemy (seen most clearly in Manuela Dominguez's statement). Max Demian of Demian fame would be an avatar of the dark I think. There *is* a hint of the End in there but not enough to qualify it

Hodgson, William Hope: The Night Land

The Sun has gone out and the Earth is lit only by the glow of residual vulcanism. The last few millions of the human race are gathered together in the Last Redoubt, a gigantic metal pyramid, nearly eight miles high, which is under siege from unknown forces and Powers outside in the dark. These are held back by a shield known as the "air clog", powered from a subterranean energy source called the "Earth Current". For thousands of years vast living shapes known as the Watchers have waited in the darkness near the pyramid. It is thought that they are waiting for the inevitable time when the Circle's power finally weakens and dies. Other living things have been seen in the darkness, some of unknown origins, and others that may once have been human.

King, Stephen: IT

Pennywise is the boogeyman, the monster under the bed, the shapeless fear in the dark.

King, Stephen: The Mist

In the wake of a summer storm, terror descends...David Drayton, his son Billy, and their neighbor Brent Norton join dozens of others and head to the local grocery store to replenish supplies following a freak storm. Once there, they become trapped by a strange mist that has enveloped the town. As the confinement takes its toll on their nerves, a religious zealot, Mrs. Carmody, begins to play on their fears to convince them that this is God’s vengeance for their sins. She insists a sacrifice must be made and two groups—those for and those against—are aligned. Clearly, staying in the store may prove fatal, and the Draytons, along with store employee Ollie Weeks, Amanda Dumfries, Irene Reppler, and Dan Miller, attempt to make their escape. But what’s out there may be worse than what they left behind.

This exhilarating novella explores the horror in both the enemy you know—and the one you can only imagine.

Kirby, Todd: No Power

A blackout. A bloodthirsty beast. The Bronx. This is not how Tom pictured his 17th birthday... His plan was far more bleak. When Manhattanite Tom Walton wakes up from a suicide attempt, he finds himself in a Bronx hospital being attacked by an ancient, savage creature that thrives in the darkness of a summer blackout. Tom, the son of a rich and racist New York politician, teams up with his fellow patients — a diverse group of Bronx natives — in an attempt to fight back. As Tom falls helplessly in love with Kiki, a badass teenage patient, he gains a deeper understanding of the source of his pain and reconsiders his stance on life. But when Tom’s true identity is revealed to the crew, he must work to unify the group and escape the hospital… or be eaten alive.

Kristoff, Jay: Empire of the Vampire

Daysdeath is the term used to describe the sudden shroud of ash and smoke which rose into the sky twenty-seven years prior to the beginning of the story. The exact cause remains unknown, though most people suspect a falling star which crashed into the earth with enough force to send tons of debris into the lower atmosphere, blanketing the skies and preventing more than a smidgen of sunlight from passing through the shroud. The shroud has not abated in strength over the following decades, and the results have been devastating - repeated crop failure and abysmal harvests, the withering of forests and other natural greenery and the resulting food and material shortages, but perhaps worst of all, the undead no longer being constrained be the daily need to hide from the sun, their numbers quickly multiplying as the lesser vampires were no longer destroyed by the sunlight. The ancien vampires soon realized the opportunity this afforded, and not only have they embarked on a campaign of global conquest, they actively work to eliminate any chances of mankind dispelling the shroud through artificial means.

Leroux, Gaston: The Phantom of the Opera

Everything revolves around the hidden and unseen opera ghost -- the lights are harsh and the dark is a refuge for him, one that he tries to tempt Christine into.

Lord Byron: Darkness

Written in the 'Year without a Summer' of 1816, Byron was inspired by the ashen darkness to compose this poem about the end of the world, and the gloom that would accompany it.

Lovecraft, H.P.: The Haunter of the Dark

The main character, Blake, inadvertently summons an eldritch being into his local church. The being can only go abroad in darkness, and is hence constrained to the tower at night by the presence of the lights of the city. However, when the city's electrical power is weakened during a thunderstorm, the local people are terrified by the sounds coming from the church and call on their Catholic priests to lead prayers against the demon. Blake, aware of what he has let loose, also prays for the power to remain on. However, an outage occurs and the being flies towards Blake's quarters. He is subsequently found dead, staring out of his window at the church with a look of horror on his face.

Milton, John: Paradise Lost

The primary imagery for Satan and other demons is unadulterated darkness. "No light, but rather darkness visible."

Poe, Edgar Allan: The Pit and the Pendulum

The protagonist describes the horror and uncertainty he feels in stumbling through his darkened enclosure, only able to feel around for the instruments of his destruction.

Pronzini, Bill: Peekaboo

From TV Tropes: The only character in the story is a career criminal pretending to be a reclusive writer hiding out in a rented house a good distance away from the closest town. One night he thinks he hears an intruder in the house and decides to investigate while armed. While he's searching his suddenly creepy hideout, he can't help but reminisce on the games of Peekaboo he used to play when he was a kid, as well as the old rumors of occult worship and paranormal activities surrounding the house. He's a nervous wreck by the end of the story, and when he finally reaches the basement after finding nothing in the rest of the house he giggles in relief. There's nothing there after all, it's just him, all alone, hiding under the stairs.

"Peekaboo," a voice behind him said.

Robertson, M.P.: The Moon in Swampland

Hidden in the dark, marshy bogs of Swampland, the wicked and mischievous bogles hide from the Moon, and lie in wait for travellers. Anyone who wanders too close to the edge will feel clammy fingers dragging them beneath the murky water. When the Moon saves a young boy called Thomas, she gets captured by the bogles, and Thomas must set out to save her. Can he end the bogles' reign of terror?

Schwartz, Alvin, ill. Stephen Gammell: Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark is a collection of short stories, written for children. The stories themselves are pretty standard stories that are just spooky enough for kids, but the illustrations are what most people remember. Each story is accompanied by a picture that are still unnerving to look at as adults, let alone as kids. Growing up with this book, it felt like a test of bravery just to turn the page. It reminds me a lot of the Season 4 TMA episode, in Callum Brodie's domain - an avatar of The Dark planting images of monsters in kids' heads and letting their imaginations do the rest of the work in scaring them.

Sheckley, Robert: Ghost V

The protagonists visit a planet with an atmosphere full of a drug bringing out hallucinations of their childhood bogeymen, potentially lethal as if you think you're dead, you are. They take out a couple of monsters with a magic word and a water pistol, but the last bogeyman is absolutely invincible. It's also capable of getting past any lock and door.

(Spoilers) They do manage to beat it with a security blanket. But hey, Leitners do tend to twist their tales -- it could just as easily finish off with 'the blanket never did anything'.

Smith, Clark Ashton: The Double Shadow

The titular shadow arrives after a master wizard attempts an ancient and unknown summoning spell. It does nothing except approach the casters one by one, very slowly, ignoring every method they use to flee or fight it, until it touches and merges with their own shadow, forcing them into a hideous transformation.

Snicket, Lemony: The Dark

The Dark is about a young lad named Lazslo, who is terrified of the dark. He avoids “the dark” as it mainly hangs out in the basement. Then, one night “the dark” is in his room as his nightlight bulb loses its spark. Lazslo, the young lad, must come face-to-face with his fears of “the dark”.

Snicket, Lemony: The Ersatz Elevator

I actually don't think the whole book is cursed, I'm thinking specifically of those pages that are fully blacked out when they're in the elevator shaft

Stine, R.L.: Revenge of the Shadow People

Afraid of your own shadow? Vinny Salvo is. Lately weird things have been happening to his shadow. It's grown horns. And claws. And big sharp teeth! Now it's coming after him! Vinny needs someplace to hide -- and quick. But where can you hide from your own shadow?

Stover, Matt: Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor

The villain, Lord Shadowspawn, is a Force-user who has a different view of the Force than that of Jedi or Sith; he believes that the Force is the Dark, which is basically destruction and entropy; he induces visions of the Dark — of being alive in the eons after all the stars burn out — to cause despair that he can then use. On a metaphorical mind-battly level, his ultimate technique is to become a black hole, which makes sense in story.

Tolkien, J. R. R.: Shadow-Bride

This macabre poem is about a man with no shadow who sits like a statue until a woman passes by. Then he wraps her shadow around them both and forces her to dance with him forever, casting a single shadow...

Weir, Andy: Project Hail Mary

The book is about alien microbes extinguishing the sun by siphoning off its light energy to fuel their own metabolism. The book follows the amnesiac protagonist, sent far off into the depths of space to the origin of said microbes to save the world before everything gets too dark and too cold. Basically, the sun is dying.

Wilson, F. Paul: Nightworld

At the start of Nightworld the sun rises five minutes too late. Repairman Jack can't understand why the scientists are so disturbed by this, but when portals to Another Dimension open all over the world, spewing a horde of Eldritch Abominations every night, the fact that every day the sun inexplicably rises later and sets earlier than the last becomes a reason for serious panic.

[oldmanffucker]

hello ive gone thru the gloaming tag. i see u have watched n i raise my previous query if ur so inclined 👁️

(previous query was about how I, as a grief specialist, feel abt in the gloaming)

ok i wrote out an outline as i was watching it and haven't had the spoons to do more with it but here's that:

Mourning rituals - letting danny have a say, but also the bag pipes - a connection to the grandfather, to danny, and to his dad, who could remember and offer them for the funeral. To be a part of the creation of the service.  “No lilies” “In the language of flowers, the Lily has long held the symbolic meaning of fertility, purity, and remembrance. They are a time-honored inclusion in memorial arrangements and are considered spiritually symbolic of the circle of life. Individual types of lily flowers and the respective colors of the petals may hold additional meanings.”

Father - head and dissonant griever. He grows tomatoes not because he likes them but bcause his wife does. He tends his tomatoes, covering them in the winter, tending to them gently throughout the year. Silently, lovingly. “I think he grows them for you”  Realizes that his father does love in his own, quiet, unassuming way. Must be an earth sign.

“I dont see that much love, I dont even see that much connection.” “sticking it out, doing it together. Endurance.” [later, I miss paul… i guess he didn’t have enough endurance as it were.] 

other moments of quiet care: “Come and see what I’ve done with your room,” “I seem to remember lamb’s his favorite” making him the reception dinner. “she’s one of the museum’s most valbuable assets,” we see him pruning the tomato plants and collecting the tomatoes in a basket to show off to his wife. He comes in after danny goes to sleep “did he talk to you?” “So you’ll talk to him about it?” “just tell carla and i give her the specifics of ti” “well i turned out all the lights” making things easier for her “tell me about your book” Dad sees she looks stressed while making dinner and takes action, trying to bring her to the places she mentioned. Gets up to try to catch danny when he needs to get up for his broncho treatment. We dont see the ramp getting installed, but i would assume that the dad put it there. “I thought I’d make it more homey in here” - he brings in his trophies, Trying to talk about what he’s interested in - tennis - but seems to be one step behind him on everything. The picture of him and Gary, the tennis, the trophy, the lamb. It’s not until the bag pipes at the end that he can seem to get it right. “I’ve got some donuts hidden in my desk,” him trying to let his son in, connecting, being more human.

Initially we see him dealing with the degenerating health of his son by constantly exercising - reminding himself that he is healthy, likely due to discomfort of being confronted with death. But also perhaps as a continuing bond to the danny he remembers.

Deep discomfort with not just death, but the visible death undertaken by his son. Adding the death he has a precarious relationship with to the already precarious relationship with his son, making undertaking a new relationship with his son may feel extra fraught or dangerous. “I dont think he likes being around me very much. He doesn’t know me. He doesnt have a clue as to who i am.”

Not everyone is built to be a hands on supporter in the intimate moments of dying. We see the dad cant engage until the son is gone. "Tell me what else my son liked," suggesting the bagpipes

Mother - was good with being understanding right out the gate - the embodiment of how to approach a dying loved one - she’s a masterclass in embracing that the death is real, and not speaking around that truth (while also never belaboring the point). “I have to write a will.” she says nothing “thank you.” “for what?” “For not saying there’s plenty of time for that or some similar hooey.” is his mom simply not saying that there’s still time to write a will. It’s her simply nodding and saying okay when Danny says he wants to write a will.

“What else do you remember?” I loved this as an example of starting a conversation in a way that communicates desire to listen, safety in reminiscing. Treating him as a person.

We see there’s a yarn swift in the background in the living room, meaning that she is liekly an avid fiber artist with yarn, and I bet she made that hat for Danny! What a labor of love.

Hardly leaves the house, is attached to danny at the hip, afraid that he’ll die if she leaves.

Sister - we don't see a lot from her, but we do see shame about AIDS in that she doesn’t ever bring her husband or son around to visit Danny. This indicated that, though it’s not shown, her grief is and will be disenfranchised, at least insofar as she is able to express it with her husband. She may be reticent to bring it up with family, or she may allow herself to express her grief with her family and not with her husband. She also suggests that mom’s over-attentions made him gay.

The movie is not only about grief, but about what a good death can look like. 

(Of course within that is the inescapable politics of what constitutes a good death, who gets a good death, and the privileges of affording a good death, so I will mention that here, but will focus mostly on what it is about the death that makes it a so called good death. )

His family takes him in to receive hospice care, sets up a hospital bed, has a safe and not overstimulating space to experience the end of his time and catch up with his family and have a part in planning his funeral, speak his truth, have in in home nurse keeping him as comfortable as possible.

When Danny first comes home, they are continuing to treat him with, at least a hearty performance of, normalcy, though his dad’s just shakes his hand when he comes in, and his sister pats his back as she leaves and when his meds come out the all scatter.

This is not a story about breaking the hard news of illness or dying to anybody. This isn’t a movie about the dying man scrabbling to make it to the solid ground of acceptance from some deep valley below. He’s at acceptance already.

Nurse, very straightforward. Honest, gentle. Letting Mom help with the medical stuff, feel connected to a new process in his life. 

"It’s amazing what vast sorrows can do to open up to the most essential action of loving out loud" Showing how this time of confrontation of the uncomfortable facts of death are opening the family up to saying all that they neglected to say in the intervening years.

“I think youre anything but average”

“How much do you really know about the range of my personal experience, mom?”

Mom goes from changing the subject when she has to talk about herself and the things she likes, saying there's nothing interesting about her, to explaining that there are little nuances to the things she likes about movies. to talking about the little things easily, even talking about sex scenes - things usually not talked about in “polite company”

“I think maybe we should change the subject.” “Well then maybe we shouldn’t.”

“What’s your favorite holiday?”

Talking about Paul “Don’t ask don’t tell?” “I’ve always accepted you." "I think you have, you just haven’t always…participated.”

('the 4 thanksgivings before we broke up' aaa awugh)

“I felt excluded, danny was always your favorite." "Why didnt you ever say anything." "Because we don't talk about those things.”

“Did you love? Were you loved in return?” “Yes.”

Obviously the gloaming in this time between life and death, the dusk of his life.

Of the gloaming: “Everything seems to move more slowly,” 

"You thought I said it was gloomy" “I always thought it hurt you somehow that the day was over, but you said it was a beautiful time because for a few moments the purple light made the whole world look like the Scottish highlands on a summer night.” (full quote from the original short story) - the dusk of life may seem gloomy because it's the end of a life, but in this story, it's a beautiful time because the mother and son come back together like comets.

(I am quite obsessed with the way Alice Elliot Dark used knitting as metaphor ESPECIALLY when she described Danny's death. It was so so beautiful.)

[fangirlmary]

"Didn't Think This Through"

Summary: Ashley suggests that the Undertaker take a third option when Paul Bearer is blackmailing him by revealing the information about the fire that killed his parents himself. That does not work as well as they had hoped and Paul threatens Ashley and her family after revealing that be knows that the Undertaker has rekindled his friendship with her. Fourth installment of Two Brothers, One Friend, Many Stories series. Kayfabe details used only.

Disclaimer: I do not own the professional wrestler characters/gimmicks used here. I only own my original characters.

"How in the world did I not think this through?" Ashley had her face buried in her hands on the night of May 26th, 1997 while watching Monday Night Raw with her children. The only reason the McCormick family had cable TV and thus could watch that show was because a subscription to it was the Christmas present for them every year from Wayne and Melanie. Ashley briefly turned her thoughts to the last few days as the show continued to play in the background.

This past weekend, she, Lucas, Colin, and Meredith had gone to a family reunion hosted by her parents and had been having a good time. It was on Saturday night after the party had ended that a phone call had been made to Ashley's parents' home. Her mother Caroline had answered it. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Williams, it's Mark Calaway. I know that this is a huge shock, but I need to talk to Ashley since she said she would be there this weekend." The Undertaker replied.

"Mark, where in the world have you been these last 20 years? Of course you can talk to Ashley!" Caroline was not as shocked at this as one might have expected; after all, Ashley had said that he talked to her on the phone twice a week and would likely call this weekend.

"It's a long story." The Undertaker was not ready to reveal the whole truth yet.

Ashley had immediately come into the kitchen of her parents' home and took the phone from her mother, who closed the door to that room as she left it and returned to the living room to sit with her husband Thomas and tell their grandchildren a story to distract them.

After having been told about Paul Bearer's blackmail over the fire, Ashley had suggested that her old friend reveal the information himself. She never really wanted to understand why blackmail was a thing and wanted it to backfire on Paul Bearer. Of course, if the Undertaker didn't want to take the third option, she would respect that choice. She hadn't thought about the conversation as much the next day when she and her children left early in the morning to drive home from Long Island to Virginia as she had to focus on driving. At a few points, Meredith had asked "Are we there yet?", unsurprisingly annoying her brothers but for the most part, all 3 children had behaved well in the car.

Now, Ashley couldn't bring herself to look at the TV. Her children could do so and thus both see and hear the Undertaker telling his side of the story about the tragic fire. Then they stared as Paul Bearer was shouting at the Undertaker, "I bet that friend of yours who was always spending time with you because of having no siblings of her own suggested this! I don't know where she lives now, but a jobber from that house show several months ago saw you talking with Ashley Williams, or rather, McCormick, in a parking lot! I ought to go after her and her children for her ruining my plan!"

The Undertaker immediately grabbed Paul's neck. While the Deadman was keeping himself calm, it was obvious to everyone how angry he was. "My friend once said that she would kick the asses of those who would harm her children. I will help her do that if I need to. If anyone else has a problem with me reconnecting with my childhood friend, they will rest in peace." He then left the ring as the commentary team was expressing shock over the whole thing.

"Mom, what are you going to do now?" Lucas asked.

"I'll figure something out." Ashley was not sure that she could figure it out. "I'm taping this so you guys can watch the rest tomorrow. Right now, you have to go to bed."

"I hope that Paul Bearer doesn't send someone after us." Meredith said, getting up off the couch.

"Mom would kick his big fat butt if he did." Colin assured her.

"Colin, that's rude!" Ashley scolded him.

"But it's true that he is fat and you don't like him anyway!" The strawberry blond boy whined as he and Lucas got up to follow Meredith upstairs.

"Even so, you still shouldn't insult someone over their weight. Now go get ready for bed and go to sleep or you won't be allowed to watch TV tomorrow." Ashley firmly said.

None of the children argued with her and instead did as they were told. Ashley was no longer paying attention to the TV. In fact, she was just scared and practically frozen in fear. When the show was over, she was able to get out of this state long enough to stop the VCR from recording anything else and then ejected the tape after turning off the TV. She then heard the phone ringing. The single mom didn't want to answer it as she wasn't sure that she would want to talk to whoever was on the other end of the line. She instead went to brush her teeth and then change into her pajamas as said phone continued ringing a few more times before it briefly stopped.

After she had gotten changed into her sleepwear, Ashley heard the phone ring again. This time, she answered it. "Hello?"

"Ashley Jane McCormick, why did you not tell us that Mark is the Undertaker or answer the phone right away?" Caroline Williams' anger born of worry was very obvious as she shouted this.

"You didn't ask and it wasn't my place to reveal that information anyway. Also, I didn't answer the phone right away because at first I thought it would be Paul Bearer making a threatening call to me. I'm glad it's just you." For a moment, Ashley felt relieved. "You and Dad were watching Monday Night Raw too, weren't you?"

"We were." Caroline confirmed. "Your father was cursing up a storm when you didn't answer the phone the first time. Please do whatever you need to do to keep the kids and yourself safe. You know we always worry about you."

Ashley was not surprised. "I know. Hopefully, Mark won't be too angry with me. I'll call back after I get home from work tomorrow if you'd like me to."

"Please do; for now, get some sleep. I know you're smart enough to lock the doors at night and do everything possible to keep you and the children safe." Caroline decided that she would ask her husband to say some prayers for their daughter, their grandchildren, and Mark before they went to bed. "Good night."

"Good night, Mom. Don't worry; we'll be fine." Ashley yawned before she hung up the phone. Then she went upstairs to use the bathroom; after doing so, she washed her hands, made sure the outside doors were locked, and then turned off the lights. She went into her room, closed the door, and got into bed. She wouldn't sleep well and she was dreading what would happen tomorrow.

The next day, the McCormick family got up early and had cereal for breakfast after getting dressed.

"Mom, what should we tell everyone at school if they ask us about last night's Monday Night Raw episode?" Lucas asked.

"You can tell them that I knew the Undertaker before he was famous, but that's it." Ashley answered. "I'll do the same thing if my boss, coworkers, and customers ask about it. If anyone calls asking for me to do an interview with someone from WWF, I'll agree to it because I want to explain my side of things."

"I thought you didn't like the idea of talking to the press about him." Meredith was confused.

"I'm going to have to even though I don't want to." Ashley knew there was no going back to normal after what had happened last night. She was putting on a brave face for her children though as she knew she needed to be strong for them.

The McCormick siblings finished their breakfast, Ashley doing so afterwards, and then they all took turns to brush their teeth upstairs. The kids then grabbed their backpacks and ran out the door to get on the school bus. Ashley then grabbed her purse and lunchbox, made sure that the milk had been put back in the refrigerator, and checked to be sure that the lights were off. Soon she had gotten into her car and left for work, the house and garage closed and locked.

Ashley's boss Emily had been the only one to ask her about last night as the latter's two sons were big professional wrestling fans. The coworkers of the single mom didn't say anything about it though as they refilled the display cases and worked on their other assigned tasks as the bakery opened.

Ashley worked in the bakery's kitchen and, depending on the day of the week, would bake a wide variety of different things. Today, she had been working on baking cupcakes and muffins and forgot all about her worries until her shift was over. As she drove home, she mentally went over her checklist of what to do tonight: call her parents, call her brother-in-law, heat up some of the White Castle sliders and French fries she still had in the freezer for dinner, wash the dishes, and wait for the Undertaker's phone call. She would apology profusely for not thinking her advice through when he did and then hope he was in a forgiving mood.

Ashley felt that she was lucky today; no reporters had shown up at the house by the time she got home and opened the garage door. She parked in the garage, turned the car off, and undid her seatbelt before getting out. She locked the car door, closed the garage door, and went into the house, taking her shoes off in the laundry room before going into the kitchen. Her children were at the dining room table doing their homework and Ashley greeted them before going into the living room and calling her parents, this time talking to her father for a few minutes before he had to hang up.

Next, Ashley had called Wayne and Melanie to explain how she knew the Undertaker to them and after hanging up the phone, checked to be sure that her kids had finished their homework. They had so she began cooking the sliders and the French fries while Meredith set the table and Lucas started making a salad from the vegetables in the fridge. Colin got out the milk and apple juice and set them on the table.

By the time they were sitting down to eat, the McCormick family were chatting about their plans for the summer. Lucas, Colin, and Meredith would be going to stay with their maternal grandparents for the first half of the summer and then the second half of it would be spent visiting their paternal grandparents. Ashley would be lonely once again but would be spending time with a few of her old friends from culinary school on the U.S. Independence Day. She wasn't sure if she would go to any more professional wrestling shows, but she would keep herself busy as well as safe when she was not at work.

As the McCormick family finished their meal and Colin and Lucas started clearing the table, the phone rang. Meredith went into the living room to answer it. "Hello?"

"Hello Meredith. I need to speak with your mother if she's there right away." The Undertaker replied.

"Okay. I'll get her." Meredith shouted for her mother. "Mom, Undertaker's on the phone!"

"All right; go get out the vanilla pudding mix so that your brothers can mix it up for dessert." Ashley came in and took the phone from her daughter, who went into the kitchen to find the pudding mix. "Mark, I am so sorry that I underestimated how vindictive Paul Bearer would be! I know you're not the forgiving type and all that, but I still needed to say it."

"Ashley, I understand that you had good intentions and wanted to help. I can not hold that against you. I still have to allow Paul to manage me again because he threatened you and your family. " The Deadman didn't like having to do this but he did not want the McCormicks to be harmed at all.

"I understand. I don't want my kids hurt either. Guess I should have known that taking a third option wasn't going to work." Ashley sighed sadly. He had said that he would go through Hell for her if necessary during their last in-person conversation, after all. If that was not the mark of a true friend, she didn't know what was.

"That is not the only reason why I called. The higher ups want to schedule an interview with both of us on Saturday morning at WWF headquarters to be aired on Monday Night Raw next week. The air fare and hotel stay is going to be covered by me and we'll be allowed to have lunch together before you fly back." The Undertaker paused briefly. "I was told to ask you to do this because everyone else thought that I would be able to convince you better than a stranger would."

"Tell them I will be there. My parents are driving down on Thursday night to take Lucas, Colin, and Meredith back to their house the next day for half of their summer vacation. Then the kids will visit their other set of grandparents up in Vermont afterwards for the second half of it and fly back home the weekend before school starts again. Since they will be gone by the time I get off of work on Friday, an early evening flight would work best for me." Ashley decided without hesitation. "I told my kids that I want to explain my side of things if I was asked to do an interview and I will."

"Then I will send you more information tomorrow and make sure that it gets there as soon as possible." The Undertaker replied. True, that was a very mundane use of powers, but it wasn't a big deal.

"Thank you, Mark. Paul Bearer better keep his word or I will punch him in the face." Ashley knew that she could get pro wrestling training to protect her children and herself better, but there was no way she would want to actually change careers and do it. The single mom was happy with being a baker and couldn't see herself doing anything else. "I'll see you on Saturday. Please stay safe."

"I will. Good night, Ashley." The Undertaker hung up the phone, hopeful that the interview would go smoothly.

Ashley hung up the phone and shared the news with her children as they ate vanilla pudding for dessert. The kids seemed to be enthusiastic about it.

"Do you think Grandma and Grandpa Williams will let us stay up and watch your interview when it airs?!" Lucas looked the most excited due to the huge grin on his face.

"You'll have to ask them." Ashley answered. "I'm sure they will."

"I hope so." Colin said to himself as he finished his pudding and put his bowl in the sink.

"Me too. I just hope no one tries to attack you." Meredith added, more worried than her older brothers were.

"If they do, they will regret it. The Undertaker will make sure of that." Ashley assured her youngest daughter.

In the meantime, the Undertaker was once again calling Ashley's parents. This time, he was going to apologize for not telling the truth sooner, something he would not have normally done. Then again, the Williams family had always been good hosts when he and Kane would come over to play with Ashley. After the Deadman heard Thomas Williams greet him after picking up the phone, he said "Hello, it's Mark."

"Mark Calaway, I can not believe that you and Ashley got yourselves into trouble again!" Thomas scolded him angrily. Then he sighed. "Then again, I suppose some things haven't changed that much from when you were both much younger."

"She underestimated how vindictive Paul Bearer could be and so did I. I'm sorry. I did not tell you about being the Undertaker because Ashley didn't want you to have to deal with attention from the media any more than she herself would have wanted to." The Deadman explained. He hoped that explanation would be accepted.

There was a brief moment of silence. Then Thomas continued. "That's a very good reason. You both are adults and able to make your own choices in regards to how to deal with various issues. I still worry though and so does Mrs. Williams."

"I appreciate the concern, but please don't worry too much. Ashley and I will be interviewed about our friendship at the end of the week. I promise to make sure that she doesn't run into any trouble. I know that you and Mrs. Williams could both kick my ass if I fail." The Undertaker felt that no beating one could take at the hands of another professional wrestler would be as bad as one that could be given by two parents who would be furious if their only child got hurt.

"Or I could just tell the world that I was the one who gave you the birds and the bees talk." Thomas joked.

"I would rather not have everyone else know that." The Undertaker shuddered as he remembered that awkward conversation from when he and Ashley had started attending middle school.

"I wouldn't really tell that secret to everyone." Thomas assured him as he turned serious again. "Either way, I am going to be saying a few prayers for you and her because I have a feeling you both will need them. I hope you have a good night."

"Good night. I will keep that promise no matter what. Farewell." The Undertaker hung up the phone in the phone booth he had been using. He thought of how people would assume that his childhood friend was weak for refusing to understand evil as he went back to his hotel room. Of course, the Deadman knew that Ashley being stubborn and being kind despite any bad things that happened could be a strength; she had pursued a dream of becoming a baker even though her grandparents had been disappointed that she wouldn't go into the medical field like her father and didn't give up even when someone thought she couldn't succeed. She also knew that being kind was not the same as being a door mat. That was something that was admirable about the brunette woman in the Undertaker's opinion. She had also been adamant about not being a wrestling valet when he had jokingly asked her to do that via phone call on April Fool's Day.

"I am going to have to decline. You are not Randy Savage and I am not Miss Elizabeth." Ashley told him, her tone of voice firm and her stubbornness as strong as ever.

"I know that and I wouldn't want us to be." He had said in response. "I was just joking."

In the present, the Deadman got into bed. He was not sure that he would be able to sleep peacefully, but he would try anyway. Time would tell what happened at the end of the week.

[nicklloydnow]

“As for “despair,” the meaning of this expression is extremely simple. It merely means that we limit ourselves to a reliance upon that which is within our wills, or within the sum of the probabilities which render our action feasible. Whenever one wills anything, there are always these elements of probability. If I am counting upon a visit from a friend, who may be coming by train or by tram, I presuppose that the train will arrive at the appointed time, or that the tram will not be derailed. I remain in the realm of possibilities; but one does not rely upon any possibilities beyond those that are strictly concerned in one’s action. Beyond the point at which the possibilities under consideration cease to affect my action, I ought to disinterest myself. For there is no God and no prevenient design, which can adapt the world and all its possibilities to my will. When Descartes said, “Conquer yourself rather than the world,” what he meant was, at bottom, the same – that we should act without hope.

Marxists, to whom I have said this, have answered: “Your action is limited, obviously, by your death; but you can rely upon the help of others. That is, you can count both upon what the others are doing to help you elsewhere, as in China and in Russia, and upon what they will do later, after your death, to take up your action and carry it forward to its final accomplishment which will be the revolution. Moreover you must rely upon this; not to do so is immoral.” To this I rejoin, first, that I shall always count upon my comrades-in-arms in the struggle, in so far as they are committed, as I am, to a definite, common cause; and in the unity of a party or a group which I can more or less control – that is, in which I am enrolled as a militant and whose movements at every moment are known to me. In that respect, to rely upon the unity and the will of the party is exactly like my reckoning that the train will run to time or that the tram will not be derailed. But I cannot count upon men whom I do not know, I cannot base my confidence upon human goodness or upon man’s interest in the good of society, seeing that man is free and that there is no human nature which I can take as foundational. I do not know where the Russian revolution will lead. I can admire it and take it as an example in so far as it is evident, today, that the proletariat plays a part in Russia which it has attained in no other nation. But I cannot affirm that this will necessarily lead to the triumph of the proletariat: I must confine myself to what I can see. Nor can I be sure that comrades-in-arms will take up my work after my death and carry it to the maximum perfection, seeing that those men are free agents and will freely decide, tomorrow, what man is then to be. Tomorrow, after my death, some men may decide to establish Fascism, and the others may be so cowardly or so slack as to let them do so. If so, Fascism will then be the truth of man, and so much the worse for us. In reality, things will be such as men have decided they shall be. Does that mean that I should abandon myself to quietism? No. First I ought to commit myself and then act my commitment, according to the time-honoured formula that “one need not hope in order to undertake one’s work.” Nor does this mean that I should not belong to a party, but only that I should be without illusion and that I should do what I can. For instance, if I ask myself “Will the social ideal as such, ever become a reality?” I cannot tell, I only know that whatever may be in my power to make it so, I shall do; beyond that, I can count upon nothing.” - Jean-Paul Sartre, ‘Existentialism Is a Humanism’ (1946)

[isaiahbie]

The Resurrection of Jesus

The bodily resurrection of Jesus rests on a bedrock of historical evidence that renders it more probable than any other alternative thesis. Let me summarize the evidence into five brief headings.

1. Jesus was buried by Joseph of Arimathea.

According to the Gospels (Matthew 27:57–61; Mark 15:42-47; Luke 23:50-55; John 19:38-42) and Paul (1 Corinthians 15:4), Jesus was buried after His death. Moreover, the Gospels tell us that He was buried by a sympathetic member of the Sanhedrin, Joseph of Arimathea, who placed Jesus’ body in his own personal tomb. This burial is highly probable because we have multiple attestation through the early tradition that Paul cites, the Synoptic sources (Mark also seems to be citing an early source), and John’s testimony. That Jesus was interred by Joseph of Arimathea is also probable since a Christian fictive account would be unlikely to depict a member of the Jewish Sanhedrin as undertaking this generous act for Jesus when Christian authors had a tendency to vehemently criticize and condemn the Jewish leadership for their part in Jesus’ death (cf. 1 Thessalonians 2:14-15).

2. Jesus’ tomb was found empty.

The empty tomb is narrated in all four Gospels (Matthew 28:1-8; Mark 16:1-8; Luke 24:1-10; John 20:1-2), and it is impossible to invent the story on the back of Old Testament texts. The empty tomb is strongly implied in Paul’s account in 1 Corinthians 15:4 because you can’t move from “buried” to “raised” without a body vacating the tomb. Moreover, women are invoked as eyewitnesses to the empty tomb; in the ancient world a woman’s testimony did not carry any legal weight. If someone were going to manufacture a miraculous story such as this, I sincerely doubt that person would make the truth of this incredible tale rest on the testimony of a few grief-stricken and frightened Jewish women whose report would most likely be cast aside as a womanish fantasy (as what happened according to Luke 24:11, “But these words appeared to them as nonsense, and they would not believe them”).

On top of that, the primitive Jewish polemic against the resurrection proclamation actually presupposes that the tomb was empty. The Jewish counterclaim that the disciples stole the body (Matthew 28:13; Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho 108.2; Gospel of Peter 30) assumes that Jesus’ body had somehow vacated the tomb. Furthermore, early Christian preaching in Jerusalem sometime after Jesus’ crucifixion would have been problematic if the whereabouts of Jesus’ body were known to the Jewish authorities.

3. Jesus was seen alive after His death.

According to Paul, the risen Jesus was seen by individuals and groups that included Jesus’ followers, skeptics, unbelievers, and even enemies (1 Corinthians 15:3-8). This early tradition interlocks with the multiple accounts in the Gospels that narrate persons seeing, hearing, and touching the resurrected Jesus. That includes individuals, couples, groups, and even five hundred people who saw Jesus at a single time. As we investigate the various stories of the appearances at the tomb, in a locked room, on a road out of Jerusalem, in Galilee, and by the Lake of Tiberias, we can only conclude that several individuals and groups believed that they had genuinely seen Jesus alive in a physical body after His death.

4. The earliest disciples believed in Jesus’ resurrection.

It boggles the minds of historians and sociologists how a Galilean movement in some backwater Roman provenance with a crucified leader soon became a religion that eventually dominated the Roman empire. What drove the mission, preaching, hopes, symbols, and story of the first Christians was their belief that the God of Israel had raised Jesus from the dead, and this meant the launch of a new world in the midst of an old one. Resurrection signified that the new creation had begun, and those who had seen Jesus were the custodians of a message that proclaimed justice, life, and hope to the world around them. But what gave them that idea?

Their leader was dead, they were regarded as schismatic or even apostate by their Jewish contemporaries, and they were regarded as religious rabble from the east by the Romans. Yet they remained steadfast in their conviction that Israel’s Messiah had risen from the dead, and that meant the transformation of the entire Jewish worldview. Why? I think the historian N.T. Wright hits the nail on the head:

“We are left with the conclusion that the combination of empty tomb and appearances of the living Jesus forms a set of circumstances which is itself both necessary and sufficient for the rise of early Christian belief. Without these phenomena, we cannot explain why this belief came into existence, and took the shape it did. With them, we can explain it exactly and precisely.”

5. No rival theory succeeds in explaining all of the evidence.

From time to time, people will put forward alternative theories that Jesus swooned, the disciples stole the body, His followers had grief-induced hallucinations, or the whole thing was a fraud. Yet these fanciful theories fall and break on the bedrock of evidence: How do five hundred people have the same hallucination? How does a subjective vision eat fish? How do you survive a crucifixion and burial? Once the critics have stated their case, once the skeptics have had their rant, once the liberals have tried to water down the truth, and once the rhetoric has been aired, the testimony of the first Christians remain: “This Jesus God raised up again, to which we are all witnesses” (Acts 2:32).

Further Reading:

The Empty Tomb

The Appearances of Jesus

The Origin of the Christian Faith

The Conspiracy Theory

The Apparent Death Theory

The Wrong Tomb Theory

The Hallucination Theory

The Reliability of the New Testament

The Problem of Historical Knowledge

Historians and Miracles

[fidei]

Let the pastor be discreetly silent, and to the point when he speaks

The Pastoral Guide, by Pope St Gregory the Great

A spiritual guide should be silent when discretion requires and speak when words are of service. Otherwise he may say what he should not or be silent when he should speak. Indiscreet speech may lead men into error and an imprudent silence may leave in error those who could have been taught. Pastors who lack foresight hesitate to say openly what is right because they fear losing the favour of men. As the voice of truth tells us, such leaders are not zealous pastors who protect their flocks, rather they are like mercenaries who flee by taking refuge in silence when the wolf appears.

  The Lord reproaches them through the prophet: They are dumb dogs that cannot bark. On another occasion he complains: You did not advance against the foe or set up a wall in front of the house of Israel, so that you might stand fast in battle on the day of the Lord. To advance against the foe involves a bold resistance to the powers of this world in defence of the flock. To stand fast in battle on the day of the Lord means to oppose the wicked enemy out of love for what is right.

  When a pastor has been afraid to assert what is right, has he not turned his back and fled by remaining silent? Whereas if he intervenes on behalf of the flock, he sets up a wall against the enemy in front of the house of Israel. Therefore, the Lord again says to his unfaithful people: Your prophets saw false and foolish visions and did not point out your wickedness, that you might repent of your sins. The name of the prophet is sometimes given in the sacred writings to teachers who both declare the present to be fleeting and reveal what is to come. The word of God accuses them of seeing false visions because they are afraid to reproach men for their faults and they consequently lull the evildoer with an empty promise of safety. Because they fear reproach, they keep silent and fail to point out the sinner’s wrongdoing.

  The word of reproach is a key that unlocks a door, because reproach reveals a fault of which the evildoer is himself often unaware. That is why Paul says of the bishop: He must be able to encourage men in sound doctrine and refute those who oppose it. For the same reason God tells us through Malachi: The lips of the priest are to preserve knowledge, and men shall look to him for the law, for he is the messenger of the Lord of hosts. Finally, that is also the reason why the Lord warns us through Isaiah: Cry out and be not still; raise your voice in a trumpet call.

  Anyone ordained a priest undertakes the task of preaching, so that with a loud cry he may go on ahead of the terrible judge who follows. If, then, a priest does not know how to preach, what kind of cry can such a dumb herald utter? It was to bring this home that the Holy Spirit descended in the form of tongues on the first pastors, for he causes those whom he has filled, to speak out spontaneously.

[lesp1een]

Indulgence. (Undertaker x Goldust)

Request for the sweet @strangedreamlandmagazine !

Thank you for requesting this 💕 I hope you like it even though it came out longer than I thought

Content warning: NSFW

"Thanks for inviting me over, my darling"

The man remained silent. He had sensed a foreign presence in his house by the time he walked in, yet he did not expect to find Goldust in his living room, golden figure splashed on his sofa in the most comfortable way.

He was so stunned he didn't find a way to react. Paul wasn't there. He was the one who did the work, the one who told him what to do, and he would obey.

Paul hated Goldust. To him, he was nothing but an eccentric freak looking for some men to lure.

Undertaker wasn't sure about that. They had spoken before. Goldust was not an evil man. He was simply too much for him. Too much color, too much conversation, too much hedonism.

He could just take him by his long, swan neck and break it, leave him dead on the dark ground of his room. Goldust was a big, strong man, but Undertaker was stronger. He was no human, after all.

However, he was no monster, either. He was nothing everyone thought of him, so he decided to step into the living room, boots creaking under the old, weak wooden floor.

"I brought you some fruit" Goldust told the other, while slipping a grape in his own lips, savouring it. He was ready for the deadman to jump at his throat at any given moment. He was soon to understand that the Undertaker was not as predictable as he seemed, because he did not move a finger towards him. He did not burst out in anger. He sat stiffly on a little armchair, in front of him, and stared.

"I do not need to eat."

Goldust ate another grape, a sly smile on his painted lips. "That does not mean you are incapable of doing it, or does it?"

He knew about Taker's little secret. At first, he thought he was fucking with him just like he did with his audience, making him believe he was actually dead or something like that.

That was until they had their first private moments, after months of Goldust trying to get into the other man's skin to get him close to him. He was touching his chest, adjusting his tie, his shirt, finding any excuse to feel him up, since it was basically impossible to get any clothes off of him, when he discovered that all the rumors were true. His heart was skipping beats. Too many beats… in fact, it was not beating at all.

"I came here to apologize." Goldust broke the sudden silence, looking right at the other for the first time since they had seen each other. "I should have not disrespected you. I was shocked, and that is no excuse for what i did."

He stormed off. As soon as he found out his date was really undead, he was so shocked and scared he ran away from him. Like he was some kind of monster.

"You did what everyone would do." Undertaker was not even looking at him, finding better enjoyment in checking the level of dust on the table beside him.

"Except I know you're no monster."

There was a certainty about those words that made the deadman believe them. Goldust was telling the truth, or at least he really thought what he was saying was true.

He couldn't see him as a monster, he couldn't see him as a freak, because that would mean he would be a freak himself.

They were both strange, they were both feared because they were different, in their own ways. Monsters were unknown, a vague concept of something evil and unrelatable. Undertaker was pretty much there, beating heart or not, and he was the first creature Goldust had ever related to. He was no monster, he was a misunderstood, lonely pretty little thing.

"You are forgiven. You may go, now."

"You have so many books, I never took you as a reader." Goldust was walking through the whole room, attracted by the old, dusty books filling up almost every inch of the place.

After apologizing, he did not leave, and was wandering around, talking about everything and nothing at all, his questions being left unanswered by a silent Undertaker, still sitting on that armchair like he was being held at gunpoint.

The blonde man pulled out a book with a little laugh and threw himself on the couch again. He even brought wine, and forced Taker to take a glass. It was still in his hand, left untouched.

"Oh, you've read this one! It's full of notes. You have such a delightful handwriting, by the way."

He was finding out some really interesting things about the deadman, that day. Like the fact that he had a shelf full of erotic novels like the one he was checking on the sofa.

"Come here, my darling. Come next to me." If he was someone else, he would never dare to call him like that. However, he was no stranger to what the bigger man liked. Praise was something he never expected Undertaker to enjoy, yet everytime he called him lovingly, the big, dark man would turn softer.

He heard a little grunt come from the other side, and giggled softly as he felt his weight on the sofa, right next to him.

"Good." He praised him, and he gently brought the still full glass of wine to his pale lips. "Now indulge."

Undertaker didn't need to drink. He had lost all his mortal needs after his death. He didn't even know if he was still able to get drunk or to enjoy alcohol. It was all new to him, and it was because of Goldust that he was having his first human experiences after so much time.

He had never kissed someone before Goldust. He had never been attracted to anyone before him. He made him feel for the first time, he made him experience human touch and intimacy after years of being cold.

He took a sip of wine, to the other's delight. A grape was brought on his lips by the other man, who was looking at him so lovingly under those long lashes, and he could not refuse, savoring, letting his body feel again. It tasted sweet in his mouth, filled him with a strange enjoyment he never thought he could achieve by eating some fruit and drinking wine. Yet there he was, letting another man feed him grape and sipping on wine.

It was one of those rare moments when Goldust could see the man who was hiding behind that cold, dark persona. He couldn't get enough of him trying new things, of the expressions he made when he found out he liked them.

So close to him, he could see the freckles on his nose, the red roots of his dark hair, his wine stained, glossy lips. He had those piercing green eyes that captivated him.

"You are gorgeous." He lifted up the other's chin a bit to get a good look at his face. Undertaker was everything Goldust loved in a man. He was masculine, he was strong and he was dangerous. He was mysterious, unapproachable, he was a challenge worth taking.

His adulation was left unanswered, his pale date wrapping his lips around another grape, eating it out of Goldust's fingers. It was alluring how he didn't know how much power his beauty had on others.

"No words would suffice to describe how erotic you look, right now, eating out of my hands, getting drunk on wine and vice."

"I am no hedonist." Tone darker, his words sounded like an accusation, that Goldust took with a smile. He was a vicious man, he couldn't deny that statement.

"You sure aren't, deadman. However, you do have your vices." Goldust tapped on the book he was holding on his lap. It was a well bound copy of a Marquis De Sade novel, very well kept despite the age. Undertaker's lips curved into a knowing smile. "You have gotten too comfortable snooping around my belongings."

"Oh, my darling, I'm so glad I have. Or else, how could I have known you were such a degenerate?"

"Sounds like self-projection, to me."

"So we're getting cocky, deadman?"

As much as he was enjoying that playful bickering, Goldust was starting to warm up. His date was dangerously close to him, chest pressing against his shoulder as he spoke to him, hand reaching on his lap to put away the book.

"I have learned a lot about this one, actually."

"Oh, I beg you to tell me about it." His voice was low with desire as he spoke, hoping the deadman would get the innuendo.

The book was put on the table, a now free, gloved hand having access to Goldust's thighs. He felt it make its way under his robe, caress his legs so invitingly, the man opened his thighs, leaving space for his lover to take over.

Undertaker was looking at him with piercing, green eyes as he started to stroke him in between his legs, pushing his palm on that clothed, growing erection.

He grabbed the dark man's shoulder with his hand, squeezing, his head thrown back as he felt a cold palm let itself into his pants to stroke him, the ice cold grip on his hard member making him jump out in pleasure. It was a new sensation, an addictive one, as he moaned sweet nothings, his voice echoing through the room. He was good at it, squeezing his tip enough to let Goldust see stars behind his eyes. Too distracted by his own pleasure, he barely noticed the man removing his purple glove. The thing he noticed well, though, it was that his touch became even colder on his skin as a single, thick finger entered his body, making him jump.

"You are evil." He panted, muscles tensing up, sensations too strong to stand. He wasn't given enough time to get accustomed to all of that. Another finger entered him, and he moved. He thrust them inside him, and it felt like being fucked with ice, the temperature contrast so strong it only intensified the pleasure, making it almost unbearable. "You are an evil man-" his voice broke as Undertaker found that sensitive bundle of nerves inside him. And he felt a cold breath against his neck as the rhythm increased.

"Here we go." The deadman whispered, with a gravelly voice, and he started to fuck the other without any mercy, pushing against his prostate again and again, his arm tensing, his pace rough, until Goldust was moaning messily and crying onto his own painted face. He gripped his lover's hair, to have something to hold on to, and he tried to find the other's mouth, being met with a soft pair of lips, cold as grave, kissing him tenderly as he was being fingered mercilessly, his spine curving to meet those thrusts, to receive more and more, so much he wouldn't be able to take it anymore.

He moaned loudly into Undertaker's mouth, a long tongue caressing his own, teeth biting at his lip, and he was coming hard on the other's fingers, his cock jumping as he splashed his own stomach with come. He was left trembling, those long fingers exiting his body, leaving him empty, head still fuzzy with aftershock.

"You…" he whispered, breathlessly, lips still caressing each other. "I adore you."

He was thrown on the couch, not given enough time to cool off after his orgasm, Undertaker's body casting a shadow over his own as he messily loosened his tie and basically ripped Goldust's robe off his body. He didn't undress himself, only lowering his tight pants to free his erection. Goldust instinctively licked his lips at the sight, and he thought that maybe, another time, he would have loved to feel that on his tongue. His body was turned around by strong hands, his chest pressing against the couch, and he gripped the fabric hard in his fists when Undertaker entered him, hands grabbing his hips as he pushed his cock fully into him with a deep groan. Goldust cried out, feeling himself be stretched wide by the other, and of course he was big, that man had no flaw whatsoever.

A courtain of dark hair fell on Goldust's face as Undertaker started to thrust in him, slowly, deeply, making the other feel every inch of him, filling him up so good he would remember it forever.

"You sure know what rigor mortis is." Goldust panted out, and Undertaker took it as an incentive to fuck him hard enough to shut his mouth. He was surprised with a strong thrust that hit his already abused prostate, making him writhe and cry out onto the couch. A hand grabbed his head and pushed it down, forcing Goldust still as Undertaker started to fuck him hard, making him scream, making him drool in pleasure and stain the fabric with makeup and tears. He was a mess. He lost control over things, and was enjoying every second of it. Undertaker was so big he could split him in half, and he was doing it, Goldust unable to do anything but cry until he came again, and again, the man above him not stopping for a minute. He was fucked on his back, pushed against the table, bottle of wine crashing on the floor, his legs unable to stand on their own, hips bruised by the other's grip. He was sure his makeup was now completely gone, washed out by tears and spit and Undertaker's lips. His lover's face was a mess too. He had black marks on his mouth and golden dust staining his pale face.

"I can't do this anymore." He pleaded, his body aching, his head spinning with so much pleasure he thought he was gonna die at any moment.

"Only one more. You can do it."

No, no he could not. Or so he thought, before Undertaker was fucking him again, this time deep and passionate, slower, a hand pressing Goldust's wrists above his head to keep him still. Behind blurry eyes, he saw and heard his lover moan his name low, before furrowing his brows, expression tensing, body spasming against Goldust's hips, and he felt ice shoot deep inside his body. He held the man tight in his arms, and came weakly for the fourth time, only little drops of come leaving his weakened body.

He was breathless, unable to move, and he waited for Undertaker to lift him up carefully and place his tired body on the sofa. He was caressed tenderly until he regained full consciousness, looking up at his lover, head rested against his still chest.

"You passed out. Are you okay?" He could hear worry in Undertaker's tone as he spoke, hand still stroking his back.

"I'm feeling fantastic, my darling." he smiled, trying to assure his lover. "It was just intense."

Undertaker looked over at his own living room, red wine splashed all over the carpet, a broken bottle on the floor. "Yes, it was… Sorry."

"Do not ever apologize for being intense again. I enjoy that a lot actually." Goldust chuckled, and he kissed the other softly.

"For the love of God, Undertaker! What happened here?" Paul screamed with his usual high-pitched voice, his protégé sitting quietly, back hunched as he was being scolded, hair completely covering his face. "I'm sorry."

"Since when have you started to drink alcohol?"

"I found it in the kitchen. I'm gonna clean it off, now."

"You better do! Oh, you've become unmanageable!" As Paul stormed out of the living room, face red with rage, Undertaker raised his head, and felt a little pang of excitement run through his skin, warming him up. He was lucky Paul didn't notice those lipstick stains on his face.

It would be his little secret. It would be their little secret.

[thegrapeandthefig]

"In their accounts of the Peloponnesian War or the legendary first centuries of Roman history, the ancient historians copied one another. This happened not simply because, lacking other sources and authentic documents, they were reduced to such an undertaking; for we, who have access to even fewer documents and are reduced to the statements of these historians, do not necessarily believe them. For us their texts are simply sources, while the ancient historians considered the version transmitted by their predecessors as tradition. Even had they been able to, they would not have sought to rework this tradition but only to improve it. Moreover, for the periods for which they did have documents, they either used them not at all or used them much less than we would and in a completely different way. Thus, Livy and Dionysius of Halicamassus imperturbably narrated the four obscure centuries of earliest Roman history by compiling everything their predecessors had stated without ever asking, "Is it true?" They limited themselves to removing details that seemed false or, rather, unlikely or unreal. They presumed that their predecessors were telling the truth. It made no difference that this predecessor wrote several hundred years after the events had taken place."

- Paul Veyne, Did the Greeks believe in their myths?: An essay on the constitutive imagination. University of Chicago Press, 1988.

[pamphletstoinspire]

Today is the Third Sunday of Advent - Gaudete Sunday (December 13, 2020)

The Third Sunday of Advent takes its common name from the Latin word Gaudete (“Rejoice”), the first word of the introit of this day’s Mass.

The Epistle of St. Paul to the Philippians, iv. 4-7.

Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I say, rejoice. Let your modesty be known to all men. The Lord is nigh. Be nothing solicitous; but in every thing, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your petitions be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasseth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus our Lord. 

by Bishop Ehrler, 1891

“I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness: make straight the way of the Lord.” (John I: 23.)

In my text of to-day, my dearly-beloved, St. John calls himself a voice, thereby giving his disciples plainly to understand that he was not the “Word made flesh,” but simply the voice of that Word. And those who listened to him knew that the Son of God could not then be far off, inasmuch as they already heard his voice in the person of the Baptist. As the voice prepares the way for the word, so that it may come forth intelligibly from the mouth of man, so also John, through his voice, (that is, through his preaching and baptism) prepared the hearts of men for the coming of Christ. Hence, he says that he is that voice which Isaias had long before foretold as crying out: “Make straight the way of the Lord.” In what did this preparation principally consist?” He preached the baptism of penance, for the remission of sins (Luke 3 : 3).” He consoled the people, and after he had imbued them with faith in the Redeemer, he animated them still further to love him and confide in him:

I. Through the hope of pardon; II. Through the hope of grace; and III. Through the hope of glory. This three-fold hope, my brethren, is the necessary fruit of that three-fold faith of which we spoke, last Sunday. From the faith of the commandments, springs the hope of pardon; from the faith of miracles, the hope of grace; and from the faith of the promises, the hope of glory. We will, to-day, examine the foundations of these three truths.

I. Every sinner, no matter how often or how grievously he mav have violated the Commandments of God, has a sure hope of pardon. It is true that, when a hardened offender turns to God, and calls upon him for forgiveness, the abyss of evil cries out to the abyss of mercy; or as the Psalmist expresses it: “Deep calleth upon deep.” (Ps. 41 : 8.) But, though this abyss of wickedness be ever so deep and fathomless, that of God’s mercy is still greater and more profound; where sin hath abounded, grace more fully abounds. “Turn ye to me, saith the Lord of Hosts: and I will turn to you (Zach. 1 : 3).” Yea, He promises still further: “If the wicked do penance for all his sins which he hath committed, and keep all my commandments, I will not remember all his iniquities that he hath done (Ezech. 18 : 21-22).”

Moreover, He not only invites the sinner to repentance, my dear brethren, but He waits long and patiently for his conversion. “I desire not the death of the wicked,” He declares by the mouth of his prophet, “but that the wicked turn from his ways and live (Ezech. 33 : 11).” “The Lord is compassionate and merciful (Ps. 112 : 8).” He is merciful to all sinners, He is long-suffering toward the perverse and obdurate, so that they may be converted from the evil of their ways; or, as the Wise Man says in his apostrophe to the Most High: “Thou overlookest the sins of men for the sake of repentance (Wis. 11: 24).” Why, then, do you delay your repentance, unhappy sinner? “Despisest thou the riches of His goodness, and patience, and longsuffering? Knowest thou pot that the benignity of God leadeth thee to penance (Rom. 2: 4)?” Long and zealously did St. John the Baptist preach to the Jews “the baptism of penance,” for no other purpose than “for the remission of their sins”! Yet, how often might he not have said to them: “Be not as your fathers, to whom the former prophets have cried, saying: Thus saith the Lord of Hosts: turn ye from your evil ways, and from your wicked thoughts: but they did not give ear (Zach. 1: 4).” I beseech of you now, my brethren, to take warning from the example of that hardened and stiff-necked people, and listening, to follow with docility and faith “the voice of one crying in the wilderness.” Making straight the way of the Lord by the faith of the Commandments, you will not only enjoy the assured hope of pardon for past sins, but also, if you will humbly beg it from God, the hope of grace that will prevent you from committing sins in the future.

II. The hope of pardon, my dear Christians, is far from being so attractive to the sinner as the hope of continued grace. He knows that God’s forgiveness for the past will avail him nothing, if he continues to offend Him anew by fresh sins. He also knows that, of himself, he is utterly unable to avoid evil; and that “it is God who worketh in him both to will and to accomplish according to His good will (Phil. 2: 13).” The Wise Man declares that: “To God the wicked and his wickedness are hateful alike; “and when the converted sinner remembers that he was once an object of hatred to that good God, and reflects at the same time that he is now His friend and favorite, what can he do but cry out gratefully with St. Paul: “By the grace of God, I am what I am (1 Cor. 15 : 10)!” adding with the Psalmist: “What shall I render to the Lord, for all the things that He hath rendered to me (Ps. 115 : 12)?” The recollection of one’s past misery is the first happy effect of grace, as well as the first step toward future holiness.

But this knowledge, my brethren, is due altogether to the ineffable goodness of God. “The Lord is my light and my salvation (Ps. 26: 1)!” O ye poor, blinded sinners! no matter how deeply you may be sunk in misery, “Come ye to him, and be enlightened (Ps. 33: 6).” Seeing, you will understand the danger from which you have been rescued by the mercy of God; and understanding, you will learn to dread a relapse into sin.

Grace is alike necessary to convert the sinner and to preserve him in the divine friendship after his conversion. The soul of a Christian is like a fortified city, which is surrounded on all sides by enemies. “Unless the Lord keep the city, he watcheth in vain that keepeth it (Ps. 126: 1).” Our spiritual enemies are most numerous, their plans most cunningly devised for our destruction; and we are obliged to contend constantly with the traitorous foe within the walls–our own miserable concupiscence. A man’s enemies, says the Lord, are they of his own household (Mich. 7 : 6). But, for our consolation, let us be firmly assured that God will not desert us, unless we first turn our backs on Him; and it is especially written of the just: “The Lord keepeth all them that love Him (Ps. 144: 20).” God does not constrain the free will of man; but His grace is always ready to co-operate with that free will in the grand work of salvation. “He has created us without our aid,” says St. Augustine, ” but He will not save us without our co-operation.” His assistance is so essential to the success of our undertakings, that no one can begin, continue, or complete any work without the all-powerful help of God. He has, then, a just right to issue His commands, since His gracious help encompasses His children on every side, mercifully and efficaciously enabling them to keep His commandments to the end. See, O dearly beloved! how firm and consistent is the hope of grace, to the heart of the repentant and converted sinner!

III. The hope of glory is that strong and intimate confidence which supports the just, and enables them to persevere in the performance of their good works. “He that shall persevere unto the end, he shall be saved (Matth. 10 : 22),” says our Saviour. In what does this being saved consist?” One can truly receive the happiness of the elect,” says St. Augustine, “but one can never properly estimate it.” “I can more easily tell what is not in heaven than what is there.” Death shall be no more in that kingdom of delights; and sorrow, and weakness, and sickness shall be at an end; neither shall hunger, nor thirst, heat, disappointment, or any other misery, afflict the children of God. “They shall be inebriated with the plenty of Thy house: and Thou shalt make them drink of the torrent of Thy pleasure (Ps. 35: 9).” “And they shall reign with God forever and ever (Apoc. 22: 5).” “Oh, true life! Oh, eternal life! Oh, eternally happy life!” exclaims in an ecstasy the great Bishop of Hippo–unable to find words to express the feelings of his heart, when he would depict the ineffable joys of Paradise. And if any thing further were needed to encourage us, we shall find it in the exhortation and promise of our Saviour which is jointly the foundation of our hope: “Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: because your reward is very great in heaven (Matth. 5 : 12).” St. Bernard, speaking of this same reward, says: “It is so great that one can not exhaust it; and so precious that one can not sufficiently value it.”

And what does God require from us, my brethren, in order to merit this heavenly recompense? If He exacted of us to serve him for half an eternity, the demand would not be too great. “The days of man are short (Job 14: 5).” “Our days upon earth are but a shadow” (Job 8: 9), and they “are passed more swiftly than the web is cut by the weaver (Job 7 : 6).” Should we not, then, apply these few brief days to serving our Creator, and keeping His commandments? “His commands are not heavy (1 John 5: 3).” This short life may be filled with miseries, I will admit, my dear fellow-sufferers, but, with the Apostle of the Gentiles, “I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory to come, that shall be revealed in us (Rom. 8: 18).” That which we suffer is only temporary, and “our present tribulation, which is momentary and light, worketh for us above measure exceedingly an eternal weight of glory (2 Cor. 4: 17).”

Peroration. Therefore, “prepare ye the way of the Lord,” beloved Christians, and “trust in Him, all ye congregation of people (Ps. 61: 9).” “Being justified by faith, let us have peace with God, through our Lord Jesus Christ: by Whom, also, we have access through faith into this grace, wherein we stand, and glory in the hope of the glory of the sons of God (Rom. 5: 1-2).” God receives us back into His friendship even after we have frequently and basely insulted him. He upholds us by His all-powerful grace in the path of righteousness; and he promises us, moreover, an eternal reward if we serve Him faithfully during the short days of our life. Dearly beloved, have we not here three signal mercies of our good God, sufficient to excite us to the thorough and lasting reformation of our lives? Ah! yes, let us put our hope in his divine power and goodness; and persevering bravely with His help in the path of virtue, let us hope to love, for all eternity, that gracious God in whom we have believed and hoped unwaveringly here below. Amen. 

[mattchase82]

THE SACRED HEART OF JESUS AND PADRE PIO

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In 1952, a woman was about to die during delivery because of an erroneous blood transfusion. She received the Last Rites. When the priest left, she saw a monk: “I am Padre Pio and you will not die. Say an ‘Our Father’ and one day you will come to see me.” About a year later, she went to see Padre Pio. He told her: “You got the miracle because the Sacred Heart sent me to save you, since you are devoted to him and did the First Fridays of each month.”

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This devotion consists in attending Holy Mass and receiving Holy Communion in reparation for those who do not receive Our Lord, who do not love Him and who wound Him by their sinful lives.

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“I promise you, in the excessive mercy of My Heart, that My all-powerful love will grant to all those who communicate on the First Friday of nine consecutive months, the grace of final penitence; they shall not die in my disgrace, nor without receiving their Sacraments, My Divine Heart shall be their safe refuge in this last moment.”

(Our Lord to St. Margaret Mary)

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EFFICACIOUS NOVENA TO THE SACRED HEART

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by Saint Margaret of Alacoque

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This novena prayer was recited every day by Padre Pio for all those who asked his prayers and is Known to be Very Powerful

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O my Jesus, Thou has said: "Truly I say to you, ask and it will be given you, seek and you will find, knock and it will be opened to you." Behold I knock, I seek and ask for the grace of.... (ASK)

Recite:

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be;

Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place all my trust in T'hee.

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O my Jesus, Thou has said: "Truly I say to you, if you ask anything of the Father in My Name, He will give it to you:" Behold, in Thy Name, I ask the Father for the grace of…. (ASK)

Recite:

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be;

Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place all my trust in Thee.

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O my Jesus, Thou has said: "Truly I say to you, Heaven and earth will pass away but My words will not pass away." Encouraged by Thy infallible words I now ask for the grace of ... (ASK)

Recite:

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be;

Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place all my trust in Thee.

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O Sacred Heart of Jesus, for Whom it is impossible not to have compassion on the afflicted, have pity on us miserable sinners and grant us the grace which we ask of Thee, through the Sorrowful and Immaculate Heart of Mary Your tender Mother and ours.

Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, Hail our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To T'hee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To Thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious Advocate, Thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed Fruit of Thy womb, Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.

V. Pray for us, O holy Mother of God.

R. That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.

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Promises of the Sacred Heart of Jesus

by Rev. Irenaeus Schoenherr, O.F.M.

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God has always dealt with men in a way consonant with their nature--by drawing them to His Holy Will by promises of reward. It was so with His dealings with the chosen people under the Old Dispensation. It was the way of Christ in the New, promising even a hundredfold return for compliance with His desires. And so it is in the history of the revelation and propagation of the devotion to the Sacred Heart.

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"That men might more readily respond to that wonderful and overflowing desire of love," wrote Leo XIII in his Encyclical Annum Sacrum (1899) on the devotion, "Jesus, by the promise of rich rewards, called and drew all men to Him." St. Margaret Mary in her writings insists again and again on the ardent desire of Christ to pour out blessings with a royal generosity on those who would honor His Divine Heart and return Him love for love.

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These Promises of the Sacred Heart, in the form in which they are now popularly known and approved by the Church, far surpass in variety, universality and importance those attached to any other exercises of devotion in the Church.

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They are addressed to all sorts of persons: to the fervent, the tepid, and the sinful. They embrace every condition of life: priests, religious, and seculars. They promise relief to the afflicted, strength to the tempted, consolation to the sorrowful, peace to the family, blessings in the home, success in our enterprises, mercy to the sinner, high sanctity to fervent souls, courage to the cold of heart. They promise power to the priest to soften the hardest hearts. They promise strength and courage on our death-bed, and tell us of the priceless gift of final perseverance and of a refuge in the Heart of Christ at the last moment.

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What greater or more valuable favors than these could even the omnipotent and boundless love and goodness of the Sacred Heart bestow on us? These Promises help us to an understanding of the truth of St. Margaret Mary's glowing words: "Jesus showed me how this devotion is, as it were, the final effort of His love, the last invention of His boundless Charity."

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1st Promise-- "I will give to My faithful all the graces necessary in their state of life."

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The duties of our daily life are numerous and often difficult. God grants us in response to prayer and frequent reception of the Sacraments all the necessary graces for our state of life. There are also extraordinary graces which lie outside the usual action of God's Providence, graces that He gives to His special friends. These are more efficacious graces, more plentifully given to the clients of the Sacred Heart.

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2nd Promise -- "I will establish peace in their homes."

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"'Peace is the tranquillity of order, the se- renity of mind, simplicity of heart, the bond of charity." (St. Augustine) It was the first thing the Angels wished to men at the birth of Jesus. Our Lord Himself bade His disciples to invoke it: "Whatever house you enter, first say, 'Peace to this house!' " (Luke 10, 5) In the Heart of Jesus will be found the true peace, that makes the home the reflex and anticipation of our heavenly Home.

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3rd Promise -- "I will comfort them in all their afflictions."

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The desire to comfort the sorrowful is the mark of a noble and kind heart. The Sacred Heart is the most noble and generous of hearts, both human and divine. How does He console us? Not necessarily by freeing us from sorrow and affliction. He knows the priceless value of the cross--that we have sins to expiate. By His grace, He makes what is painful tolerable. "I am filled with comfort, I overflow with joy in all our troubles." (2 Cor. 7, 4)

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4th Promise -- "I will be their secure refuge in life, and above all in death."

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"One of the soldiers opened His side with a lance, and immediately there came out blood and water." (John 19, 34) Christ's side was opened to show that Divine Providence wished all men to find in His Divine Heart an assured refuge against the enemies of our salvation. In His Heart we can find protection, strength in our frailty, perseverance in our inconstancy, assured refuge in the dangers and toils of life, and at the hour of death.

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5th Promise -- "I will bestow abundant blessings upon all their undertakings."

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"God is love." He is ready to give His children abundant temporal blessings as long as they do not imperil our eternal interests. His "special" Providence protects and watches over those devoted to the Sacred Heart with peculiar love and tenderness. However, we should not be discouraged if our prayers for temporal favors are not always answered, for God always puts our eternal good before our temporal good.

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6th Promise--"Sinners shall find in My Heart the source and the infinite ocean of mercy."

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The Redemption is the immortal drama of God's mercy; and our Divine Redeemer is, as it were, God's Mercy Incarnate. "With the Lord is kindness and with Him plenteous Redemption." (Ps. 129, 7) On earth the Heart of Christ was full of mercy toward all. Now in His glorified humanity in heaven Jesus continues to show forth His boundless mercy, "always living to make intercession for us." (Heb. 7,25)

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7th Promise -- "Tepid souls shall become fervent."

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Lukewarmness is a languid dying state of the soul that has lost its interest in religion. The Holy Spirit expresses deep disgust for such a soul: "You are neither cold nor hot ... I am about to vomit you out of My mouth." (Apoc. 3, 15) The only remedy for it is devotion to the Sacred Heart, Who came "to cast fire on earth," i.e., to inspire the cold and tepid heart with new fear and love of God.

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8th Promise -- "Fervent souls shall quickly mount to high perfection."

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High perfection is the reward that Christ bestows on the fervent clients of His Divine Heart; for this devotion has, as its special fruit, to transform us into a close resemblance to our Blessed Lord. This is done by kindling in our hearts the fire of divine love, which, as St. Paul says, "is the bond of perfection." (Col. 3, 14) Through devotion to the Sacred Heart self-love will give way to an ardent zeal for His interests.

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9th Promise -- "I will bless every place in which an image of My Heart shall be exposed and honored."

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Religious pictures are a powerful appeal and inspiration. The Sacred Heart is an open book wherein we may read the infinite love of Jesus for us in His Passion and Death. He shows us His Heart, cut open by the lance, all aglow like a fiery furnace of love, whose flames appear bursting forth from the top. It is encircled with thorns, the anguishing smarts of unheeded love. May it ever impel us to acts of love and generosity.

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10th Promise -- "I will give to priests the gift of touching the most hardened hearts."

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The conversion of a sinner calls sometimes for extraordinary graces. God never forces the free will of a human being. But He can give actual graces with which He forsees the sinner will overcome the resisting attitude of the most obstinate sinful soul. This, then, is what occurs in the case of priests who are animated with great devotion to the Sacred Heart.

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11th Promise -- "Those who promote this devotion shall have their names written in My Heart, never to be effaced."

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This Promise holds out to promoters of devotion to the Sacred Heart a wonderful reward--they "shall have their names written in My Heart." These words imply a strong and faithful friendship of Christ Himself, and present to us "the Book of Life" of St. John: "I will not blot his name out of the book of life." (Apoc. 3, 5)

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12th Promise -- "To those who shall communicate on the First Friday, for nine consecutive months, I will grant the grace of final penitence."

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This Promise contains a great reward, which is nothing less than heaven. "Final perseverance is a gratuitous gift of God's goodness, and cannot be merited as an acquired right by any individual act of ours." (Council of Trent) It is given as the reward for a series of acts continued to the end: "He who has persevered to the end will be saved." (Matt. 10, 22)

[brothersgrim]

SEND 'WHAT IF' SCENARIOS FOR MY MUSES TO REACT TO! || ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked: What if Taker felt scared or terrified by something?

“Boy!” That screeching voice startles him from his reverie. Nails on a chalkboard. Railroad spikes in his head. He grits his teeth. He does not stop working. He has not been told to stop. It's easier to concentrate on the work. 

“There you are!” Focus on the work. Just focus on the work. It’s always easier that way. His hands hurt but he still doesn’t look up. They’re not even bleeding yet, so it’s not that bad. Paul’s footsteps draw closer behind him, expensive soles clacking on the shop’s dusty floor. How much had he spent on those? Where had he gotten the money? … Of course, the Undertaker knew the answer. He also knew the home was in debt again. It always seemed to be in debt these days. Not like it mattered. Not like he could stop it. (Couldn’t stop anything. Couldn’t change anything. Nothing, nothing, nothing.) 

“Hard at work. That’s what I like to see!” It’s almost a typical greeting now. He’s heard it so much the mockery laced in each word almost doesn’t sting.

Almost. 

“That’s good, son. That’s good.” Paul hugged the urn to his chest with a grin. It lanced discomfort down the Undertaker’s spine. He didn’t wretch because he wasn’t told to, but damn if he wished he had been. Paul’s free hand comes to rest on the work table, angling the plans towards himself. It's an action that would be annoying even if it was someone the Undertaker didn't mind. This was infuriating. Paul doesn't notice, or doesn't care - most likely the latter. 

“Oh, yes. This will do nicely.” He says, pushing the plans away. They don’t go there, the Undertaker thinks, but he doesn’t say that. He hasn’t been told to. Paul drums his fingers on the urn and the urge to flinch strikes again. “I missed you, boy.” Paul laughs. The Undertaker must have missed the joke. Paul maintains his grip on the urn even as he pats the Undertaker on the arm. Even one simple touch was enough to make him feel worse than filthy. 

Get your hands off me, he wanted to say. Don’t ever touch me again. There’s a lot of things he wanted to say. A lot of things he wanted to do. He did none of them, because he hadn’t been told to, but he thought of them. 

“Oh, that reminds me!” Paul smacks the Undertaker on the arm before wandering a few steps away. The Undertaker does not look up; only continues on his work, as ordered. His hands hurt. His skin crawls. But it’s not until Paul speaks again that his throat constricts. “I have a new job for you, boy. Something I think will be very lucrative.” The Undertaker doesn’t like how he said that word. Lucrative. Lucrative. Lucrative. That was never good. “See, there’s a match I’ve been wanting to see for a while.” 

… No.

“In fact?” Paul strolled around the shop as he spoke. “I think it’s one you wanted, too.” No, no, no. He knew what this was. He knew who this match was against. And he knew more than anything that he didn’t want to do this. 

Not again. 

“Your bastard brother’s been gettin’ real high and mighty lately. Think we oughtta put him in his place. And I am tired of that boy getting in our way!” Paul stomped his foot and his shoe squeaked against the floor. Loud, high pitched, grating. It set his teeth on edge. 

“So this time,” Paul turned around, “you’re going to have a cage match against Kane. I already set it up with Vince. He thought it was a wonderful idea. And you know what part he liked best?” There was a silence broken only by the scrape of the Undertaker’s tools. His grip on the handles was white-knuckled. He imagined it was Paul’s neck. The silence stretched until Paul’s voice raised.

“Boy, I asked you a question!” He snaps. “Look at me when I talk to you!” And the Undertaker does. His hands keep working, but his head turns to look at Paul. He wishes he was allowed to scowl. He wishes he were allowed to do a lot of things. But he is not. So he just watches as the red fades from Paul’s face and is replaced with that slimy grin.

“Ask me what the idea is.” He prompts. As always, the Undertaker obeys. 

“What is it?” His jaw is clenched around the words. It hurts to talk but that doesn’t matter. It never matters. Paul laughs.

“A cage match!” He’s practically crowing his admission to the roof. That was bad enough, but it was what came next that made the Deadman’s blood run colder still. 

“And this time, only one of you is gonna walk away.”

[hieromonkcharbel]

A spiritual guide should be silent when discretion requires and speak when words are of service. Otherwise he may say what he should not or be silent when he should speak. Indiscreet speech may lead men into error and an imprudent silence may leave in error those who could have been taught. Pastors who lack foresight hesitate to say openly what is right because they fear losing the favour of men. As the voice of truth tells us, such leaders are not zealous pastors who protect their flocks, rather they are like mercenaries who flee by taking refuge in silence when the wolf appears.

The Lord reproaches them through the prophet: They are dumb dogs that cannot bark. On another occasion he complains: You did not advance against the foe or set up a wall in front of the house of Israel, so that you might stand fast in battle on the day of the Lord. To advance against the foe involves a bold resistance to the powers of this world in defence of the flock. To stand fast in battle on the day of the Lord means to oppose the wicked enemy out of love for what is right.

When a pastor has been afraid to assert what is right, has he not turned his back and fled by remaining silent? Whereas if he intervenes on behalf of the flock, he sets up a wall against the enemy in front of the house of Israel. Therefore, the Lord again says to his unfaithful people: Your prophets saw false and foolish visions and did not point out your wickedness, that you might repent of your sins. The name of the prophet is sometimes given in the sacred writings to teachers who both declare the present to be fleeting and reveal what is to come. The word of God accuses them of seeing false visions because they are afraid to reproach men for their faults and they consequently lull the evildoer with an empty promise of safety. Because they fear reproach, they keep silent and fail to point out the sinner’s wrongdoing.

The word of reproach is a key that unlocks a door, because reproach reveals a fault of which the evildoer is himself often unaware. That is why Paul says of the bishop: He must be able to encourage men in sound doctrine and refute those who oppose it. For the same reason God tells us through Malachi: The lips of the priest are to preserve knowledge, and men shall look to him for the law, for he is the messenger of the Lord of hosts. Finally, that is also the reason why the Lord warns us through Isaiah: Cry out and be not still; raise your voice in a trumpet call.

Anyone ordained a priest undertakes the task of preaching, so that with a loud cry he may go on ahead of the terrible judge who follows. If, then, a priest does not know how to preach, what kind of cry can such a dumb herald utter? It was to bring this home that the Holy Spirit descended in the form of tongues on the first pastors, for he causes those whom he has filled, to speak out spontaneously.

Pope St Gregory the Great

[abitterlifethroughcinema]

THE St. Jordi BCN Film Festival ’21 FILM REVIEWS

VOL. I: What’s Good!

by Lucas Avram Cavazos

YOUR #VOSEng take on upcoming international cinema premiering in Catalonia & Spain soon

To begin with, for a fellow who has for years been used to screening or viewing hundreds of movies annually, thereby spending hella time in cinemas, a global pandemic has been a true shock to the dork’s system. It has been a testament to the mindset of ‘the show must go on’ to see so many of our local and other European film festivals pushing back against the virus and powering through what could be deemed a safety issue by many. But basta! For starters, temp checks and hand sanitiser stations plus mandatory mask wearing have made a true return to movie going a half-wonderful respite. And so many thanks to Conxita Casanovas, Marien Pinies, David Mitjans, Cines Verdi BCN, Institut Francaise, and Casa Seat plus ALL the industry, press and movie lovers for making one of my favourite film festivals back to life for the half-decade anniversary. And I’m not just saying that for shits n’ giggles.

As an educator and broadcaster, history not only steeps itself within the confines of my classes, sessions and weekly radio/livestream shows, but every single one of us are literally living and walking and thriving through history, even as I scribe. So congratulations to anyone reading this, because you are Destiny's Child’ing it all over this place like drum n’ bass! On to the festival and cinema though please…

The St. Jordi BCN Film Festival revolves around the celebrated St. George’s/Day of the Book holiday here in Catalonia and so all the movies are based upon literary and historical works and facts. Red carpet moments and celebrities also make up the soirees and this year proved even better than others, with the likes of Johnny Depp and Isabelle Huppert being hosted by Cines Verdi, Institut Francaise and Casa Fuster. Depp, dressed as his character (I believe!) from his latest premiere Minamata -reviewed below- even mentioned that he would have loved to stay longer if he could keep Casa Fuster all to himself. And the day after her premiere for Mama Weed -also reviewed below- Huppert was seen being gorgeous at another film screening and then meandering about Gracia. But let’s speak about some of the movies that piqued my interest and will hopefully do the same to yours.

Petit Pays by Eric Barbier ####

Winner of Best Film at this year’s festival awards, Petit Pays tells a quasi-true story of family struggle during the Hutu vs Tutsi massacre that befell the gorgeous countries of Burundi and Rwanda in the early-to-mid 90s. But that is just the mere slice of what the plot truly entails. Focusing on little Gaby (Djibril Vancoppenolle) and his wee sister Ana (Dayla De Medina) as they make their way through childhood/pre-teen years, the plot thickens when the genocide starts to spill over and touch their lives, hectically lived with their Belgian father (Jean-Paul Rouve) and Rwandan mother (Isabelle Kabano, winner of the Best Actress award at this year’s festival). Truth be told, they do live in the lap of African middle class pleasantries, but as the film tenses up, reality sets in for all involved, including us viewers. The harsh reality that director Barbier fuses into the novel adaptation by French-Rwandan rapper/author Gael Faye seeks to display to the audience the truth of a genocidal history and how the sins of the parents always come back to burden or visit the children.

Where to watch: debuts in local cinemas 28/05/21

Promising Young Woman by Emerald Fennell ####

Oscar-nominated and local premiere hit Promising Young Woman had a stellar reception at this year’s festival and what a tour de force it turned out to be. The film plot revolves around medical school dropout Cassie Thomas (Carey Mulligan), who turns 30 and passes her time working at a trendy coffee shop but completely unmotivated whilst also continuing to live with her increasingly-worried parents. Years after her best mate killed herself, Cassie drags the guilt and loss along with her…until a blast from the past shows up, gets his coffee spat in and then falls head over heels into what will turn into a revenge tale beyond one’s craziest notions. A tale of loss that touches on modern themes in a frighteningly understandable way is few and far between these days. Fennell’s work here puts her on the map for sure.

Where to watch: in local cinemas NOW

Minamata by Andrew Levitas ###-1/2

This year marks 50 years since a collective understanding by world powers finally began to comprehend the enormity that factories create against Mother Nature and living creatures. It’s New York and 1971 when we find W. Eugene Smith (Johnny Depp), Life magazine photo journalist and one awash in a realm of problems. Then, adding to that drama, we find him suddenly embroiled on a task and mission that is presented by a couple of his fans, without his awareness that he has also stumbled onto a truth beyond wills. Environmental devastation affecting the innocent in Minamata, Japan is where we eventually spend the plurality of the film, and if you can get through the end scene of it without tears or shame of what mankind has wrought, you’re a tougher kid than I.

Where to watch: in local cinemas as of 30 April

Mama Weed by Jean-Paul Salomé ####

I cannot even begin to explain how much I absolutely enjoyed screening this film by the gifted and curious director Salomé, but it is without a doubt the tour de force work of ageless French star Isabelle Huppert that summons one to watch and compels them to laugh and engage. Undoubtedly, adapting any work of art from literature is never an easy undertaking, but the bringing to life of Patience Portefeux, a judicial interpreter for France’s investigation division, turns out to be crown jewel by Huppert. Serving up comical thrills, blithe acting when under insane pressure by duel forces and fierce Arab queen fashions, this film will have you white-knuckled, perplexed and laughing, all in tandem. THIS is an early-in-the-year film that deserves some attention!

Where to watch: in local cinemas NOW

My Salinger Year by Philippe Falardeau ###-1/2

Based on the like-titled autobio novel by Joanna Smith Rakoff, the movie stars Margaret Qualley as Joanna, an aspiring writer and young upstart in an NYC lit agency, whose tasks include many things, including answering the many fan mail letters that come for the agency’s fave writer J.D. Salinger, he of the oft-loved US American coming-of-age novel Catcher in the Rye. Even this guy connected to Holden Caulfield as a youth so when Joanna one day fields a call from Salinger and then gets caught trying to find endearing manners to respond to these grand fans, an incident leads to a coming-of-age awareness experience for Joanna and we the audience are the ones who are all the better for it.

Where to watch: in local cinemas on 4/6/21

[doof-doofblog]

"You Can See Yourself Out, Can't You?!"

Tuesday 3rd November 2020

Good afternoon/evening everyone! I realise this will be my second post of the day but I am wanting to try my absolute best to catch up as much as I can. I am in work tomorrow morning, quite early, so tonight's episode will be reviewed tomorrow. This post will be covering Tuesday's episode. We have a lot to get through so I'm not going to waste any more of your time and jump straight into it.

This episode begins with Kush slumped on the kitchen table, it looks like he must've slept there during the night. He is woken by Kat walking through the front door. Understandably, things a looking pretty awkward between the pair. Kush voices his concerns to where his girlfriend had been through-out the night, but it's plain to see that she stayed out all night. Kush explains that one of her children were awake in the night asking for her and he made sure that they were okay. Kush once again goes very sheepish as he takes a huge breath and prepares to tell his girlfriend that he thinks he needs help for his gambling addiction. But his pleas fall of deaf ears as Kat completely ignores him and turns the conversation to wanting to get her children ready for school. I think it's going to need a lot more for Kat than him just accepting he has a problem, he needs to do something more in an attempt to fix the situation.

Out on the Square, Jay and Honey are sharing breakfast as she receives a phone call from the Detective who's working her case. Could this be the news regarding the sexual assault or whether they're going to charge Paul with his crimes? Either way, Jay pushes her to answer the phone, as he will be there to support her no matter what the outcome. Meanwhile, at the laundrette, Max finds Linda in the middle of her shift. Is it just me, or can you still sense sexual tension between them? It's like ever since they shared that kiss, they've both been nervous around each other. The reason Max has popped into see her is to ask her whether she'd be interested in working another shift at the restaurant for the afternoon, he insists that he wouldn't have asked if he wasn't desperate. I guess the Carter's need as much money as they can get right now, will she agree?

Back at the Slater household, Kat returns explaining that Stacey has taken the children to school instead. She informs Kush that she has been told the good news that they've been allowed to stay in their house, on the catch that they pay more rent, which Kush confirms that if they don't get they will kicked out of their house for sure! Kat takes a seat opposite and feels like this might be the time to hear him out, she needs an explanation. She asks him straight out why did he feel the need to gamble everything they had? At first, Kush doesn't know how to answer the question, until he reveals that the gambling gave him a buzz - which is the typical feeling an addict gets when they gamble. It's that rush of adrenalin and excitement, the buzz. As Kush continues, I begin to feel for the guy. He mentions to Kat about losing his Zaair, his son to Shabnam and then losing his brother Shaki, over the years he feels like he has slowly lost his spark, his swag, and gambling was kind of the only way to replace it. Kat looks as if she understands and agrees to give her boyfriend one last chance. Kush even admits he almost played another game last night while she was away, but he didn't and he forced himself to delete the game from his phone - which is a massive step for a gambling addict. Kush is deeply apologetic and regrets everything he has put his family through and panics how they're going to be able to pay Suki the rest of the rent, but Kat tries to reassure him and informs him that once Stacey returns, they'll sit down together as a family and sort it, as she has an idea.

Meanwhile, Honey is having her meeting with the Detective supporting her case and they have confirmed to her that there was no evidence of her being raped. However, just because there's no evidence of sexual assault, does not mean that she hasn't been assault in any other way. Unfortunately, the detective confirms that there are no possible ways of finding out such things, the main evidence they have is the video of her on Paul's phone. It's then that the Detective drops the bombshell to poor Honey that the case might have to go to court and she may have to give evidence. Honey's thought of this clearly worries her, she'd have to be in the same room as her attacker. But as Jay watches her with concerned eyes, she says she'll do whatever she can to help, to which he gives her a small smile, he looks quite proud of her and how brave she's being. I can seriously sense them both falling for each other during this storyline.

Back on the Square, Mick is walking down the street in his own world as he hears voices from across the Square. As he looks up he sees his wife and Max discussing her shift, before he leaves Max just happens to make a joke regarding a pair of knickers that we found attached to Linda's apron earlier. Obviously, Mick isn't going to react positively to this. As Max walks away, Linda sees her husband and approaches him asking whether he wouldn't mind her working another shift. But clearly it's a big deal for Mick, it looks as if he doesn't want his wife anywhere near him. But the only thing he says to her is "That's up to you!" and walks away. Once again, pushing away the people who care about him the most. Meanwhile on the other side of the Square, Tiffany rushes out from the undertakers. Rainie sees her catching for breath and understands what's caused her reaction. Stuart had taken her down to the refrigerators to see all the other deceased bodies. This, I feel is a brilliant scene, very funny! Again, with Stuart and Rainie, just a little bit of comedy that we need in the soap right now! Tiffany then proceeds to ask Rainie what happened with their previous beautician. I loved the fact that they share a mutual opinion at this point when Rainie explains that she used her expensive lipstick on a corpse! Tiffany completely agrees and when Rainie compliments her saying she'll do really well at the undertakers, a little smile grows her face.

At the Mitchell household, after having to skip breakfast with his boyfriend after preparing it so beautifully but then having to rush off due to call message from DI Thompson, Callum returns to the house. Ben approaches his boyfriend and being polite, asks how work went. But Callum doesn't really want to talk and insists that he has a banging headache and just wants to go for a lie-down. It looks as if he's shrugging of Ben again. Ben can see that his boyfriend is hiding something, he's been acting shifty for quite a while now and Ben has clicked on that something isn't right. Callum tells his boyfriend that he just wants to be alone and storms up the stairs, as he does so, Ben tries to tidy up his jacket on the banister when suddenly Callum's phone falls out the jacket pocket. For a split moment it looks as if Ben contemplates looking through his boyfriend's phone, I mean, I wouldn't blame him! But surprisingly, he does the decent thing and puts it back. Suddenly Callum returns and instantly accuses Ben of checking up on him and looking through his phone, Ben is quick to defend himself saying he was just tidying it up. Ben makes the valid point that Callum has been acting strangely over the past few days and it's no wonder it's given him reason to worry. He's acting like he actually has something to hide. Something is telling me that it must have something to do with Callum trying to dob in Phil, how the hell will Ben react when he finds out what his boyfriend has been up to? Even though I feel Callum doesn't want to do it anymore, he's definitely got himself in too deep and can't really find a way out. I think Ben should've looked at his phone while he had the chance! Callum accuses his boyfriend of not trusting him and walks away. Why do I fear things are going to go wrong for Ballum before things go back to the way they were?!

Back on the Square, Mick is sat gathering his thoughts. Suddenly Frankie appears as she exits the Prince Albert. Mick is quick to get a moment with his daughter. He hasn't seen or spoken to her the past week or so, he asks how she is and why she hasn't responded to any of his messages. Frankie simply tells him that it's been hard for her to deal with she's learned in recent weeks about her Dad and her Mum. Realising that her Mum sexually abused her own Dad, it must be tough for a young adult to come to terms with, realising that maybe she is the result of sexual abuse ... (I know that sounds awful, but it could be true). Mick tries to explain to her that he wants to help her as much as he can, but she make the very valid point that he can't even help himself right now. He can't come to terms with it either, so how on earth is he going to be able to help her? From the way I see it, they're both become victims of her Mother's actions, they're both suffering and having to deal with the devastating truth, to be fair, it should be the main thing that brings them closer as Father and Daughter. I have a feeling that maybe when Frankie's Mum arrives, Katy, it will be the main thing that brings them closer together. What do you guys think?! It's quite devastating, both Mick and Frankie admit that things were easier for them both before they entered each other's lives, Frankie suggests that they should not contact each other anymore and she walks away. The look on Mick's face, he is absolutely distraught, something tells me he's not going to be able to walk away that easy, how on earth could he walk away from his own daughter? Even though she had no idea she existed, he'd do anything for his kids like any other Dad, I don't think he'll be able to simply walk away from her, not now that she's made such a huge impact on his life.

Meanwhile at the Slater household, Stacey can't believe what she's hearing. Kat's idea of helping the family and getting some money in their pockets is a potential robbery. It turns out that the security guard Kat went on a date with the previous night got so drunk and told her all the information she'd need about the building. She knows all the lock codes she needs to get into the building, the only thing they need is a way to get inside and someone who will help them pull it off. Stacey isn't wanting anything to do with it as she insists that she's has been the best this year. Kat reassures her that she doesn't have to be involved, she needs to be able to stay at home and be with the kids, just in case something goes wrong. Kush voices his concerns whether it is such a good idea, but when Kat asks whether he has a suggestion, there isn't much that he can say in response. It's then that Kat reveals she's got someone in mind who might be willing to help them out …. but who could it be?!

Returning to Mick, he makes his way into Walford East ... now I don't know about you, but this is the Mick that we have been missing, don't you guys think? He sneaks his way into the restaurant and grabs a table and hides his face from his wife. As Linda approaches his table, he makes himself known and basically (in not so many words) apologises to wife for the way he's been acting and basically states the fact that he loves her more than anything in the world and is wanting her more than anything right now. Now it's nice to see Mick back to his old funny, flirtatious self, but is he really being able to forget all about Frankie and move on? Because even though this is nice to see after so long, something tells me its not going to last. Linda giggles at her husband's flirtation and they both giggle as they leave the restaurant together.

Meanwhile, in the Vic, Jay is finally catching up with Lola. They're discussing their offer on a potential flat they've looked at. It looks as if Lola is really wanting this future with Jay, but with him being at Honey's side in recent days, it seems Lola isn't being able to see her boyfriend as much. They had originally made plans that evening for a drink and a Chinese together. However, Jay admitted that he promised Honey he'd check on her, much to Lola's disappointment Jay asks whether they can postpone their date for another time. Lola is visibly upset but she reassures her boyfriend that it's fine and she understands. But when Jay just happened to describe Honey as "Amazing" - Lola's ears prick up, I mean, it's true that everyone loves Honey. But something tells me that Lola is going to be feeling a little jealous and upset that Jay is spending so much time with her lately. As Jay goes to check on her, Lola is left in the Vic, suddenly Isaac swoops right in after overhearing their conversation and offers Lola a drink. Uh-oh, is Lola going to cheat on Jay for a second time?!

Back at the undertakers, Tiffany is still experiencing her first day and is having her first lesson on what to do when there's a fire drill. This scene was once again brilliant, more comedy from Stuart and Rainie. I found it funny when Tiffany and Stuart were waiting for Rainie to appear whilst the alarm was still blaring. Eventually she emerges from the building with two cups of coffee in her hands. I just loved the way that Stuart commented how slow she was and she had a go at him claiming she wasn't as quick as she used to be! It's then that they turn to Tiffany and offer her the job as a beautician, which she completely agrees. I have a feeling that there could be some brilliant scenes ahead for them all in the undertakers, it'll be interesting when Keegan finds out, but surely he'll support his wife?!

Back at the Vic, Ben finds Callum sat alone with a pint. It looks as if this will be the opportunity Ben will only have to get to the bottom of what's bothering Callum. He sits beside his boyfriend and admits he knows what's been bothering him, explaining that he understands he's been pulled from pillar to post whilst helping his Dad with the whole Ellie situation. Callum doesn't know what to say, of course he has to just play along, he can't tell his boyfriend truthfully what's bothering him, only that it's really complicated. Ben tells his boyfriend that he'll never forget what he's done for his Dad, he makes the valid point that the Mitchells always remember loyalty. He tells his boyfriend how proud he is of him, Callum can't do anything but smile. Ooooo I just really hope that Callum will come clean eventually. I don't want to see the Mitchell family falling to pieces just because of something Callum was going to do. Something tells me Christmas is going to be explosive, it's going to cover all sorts of big reveals and secrets for all the families ... the Mitchell's, the Slater's and the Carter's. What do you guys think?

At home, it looks as if Mick's goofy flirtatious mood didn't last very long. He's sat in the living room in another world of his own, Linda walks again and tells him not worry as "These things happen!" - So he wasn't able to perform for his wife as things were still painfully on his mind. Linda suggests it could've been his anxiety medication, Mick softly agrees but also reveals to his wife that he was trying to pretend to be something he's not. Which is actually really sad, he shouldn't have to pretend to make an effort to perform for his wife. I mean, I think it's kind of nice he tried to make an effort as clearly things haven't been right for them in recent weeks, but it looks as if not being able to perform has made the blow much harder, mainly because he's got other things on his mind. I do feel for Mick right now, but as much as I'm not enjoying seeing him lash out to his loved ones, I feel like I just want him to reach out to Frankie, make an effort with his daughter and (I know it's hard) but he needs to come to terms with what happened in the past, and not pass the blame onto his Mother.

In the park, Honey is on her own as she watches a young couple canoodling. She's looking almost upset as she watches them laughing and enjoying their time together. Jay approaches her and she comments how the couple look so in love at young age, and no one has turned up to ruin it for them yet. Jay sits down beside her and comforts her, tells her that at some point she will meet someone. Maybe not tomorrow, not next week, not even next month - but eventually she will find someone who will love her, because plain and simply there is nothing to not love about her. Jay compliments his friend and says she is just too lovely to not let anyone love her. Honey smiles and thanks Jay for being there for her the past couple of days, he's been the one who's been there more than anyone, even Billy. They slowly swing together and share a small laugh and smile. Something really does tell me that eventually either Jay will fall for Honey, or Honey will fall for Jay. Do you see something happening between them? I'd love to hear your thoughts on these two!

The final scene of this episode, we're returning to Kat, we can see she's slowly approaching someone's house. The camera turns and we can see the Phil is approaching her from behind. Later inside she's trying her absolute best to convince him to help her with this robbery job. She confirms she's got all the information they need to get into the building and out, she proposes it'll be an easy job for them to pull off. But Phil gives her the blow that he isn't interested. He simply doesn't understand why she needs him for the job, to which she explains it's simply for the muscle and perhaps to make their getaway. But once again, Phil declines her offer, she begs him to help as this is the only thing that could help her family. Unfortunately it makes no difference and he asks her leave. Is Kat going to maybe attempt the robbery on her own? Will she get someone else to help her out, Kush maybe, considering he was the one who caused this whole mess, couldn't he be the one to help her sort it?! Or will Phil maybe change his mind and take her up on her offer?!

I hope you've all enjoyed reading this blog as much as I've enjoyed writing. I shall be back tomorrow reviewing tonight's episode. I'm slowly catching up and I promise you, by the weekend I will be completely up to date. Enjoy the rest of your night everyone. Love you all xXx

[bubblegumlefty]

My thoughts on MITB... (Warning: VERY long post. Maybe.)

I was going to post them earlier, but after watching the first chapter of the last ride documentary, I needed a couple minutes to contain my emotions. (My head hurts from crying now 😂)

So anyway, I'd say it was pretty good. It was also the first MITB pay per view I have seen in years (the last one being when I was 'bout 8 years old). I'll go through a rundown of some of the matches and rate them on a scale of 1 to 10, including the main event(s).

Kickoff

Cesaro VS Jeff Hardy: 8/10

Overall, it was a solid good. There were obviously a few moments that were questionable. Examples include:

· Cesaro licking his finger and using it to rub off Hardy's face paint, which is kinda gross, pandemic aside.

· Unzipping his mesh shirt and giving a slap towards his chest.

· His overall dominance that just gives vibes that feel less then family-friendly...

(Whether this can be considered shipping or fanfic material or not is up to you. Take your pick.)

At least Jeff won in the end, so everything's all good. He really should get some medical attention though, it sounded like he fractured a rib from slamming into the apron.

Smackdown Tag Team Championship: 6/10

I'll be honest, I didn't pay much attention to this match. It's not bad or anything, I'm just not able to watch Smackdown thanks to our crappy cable service not providing FOX. And no, we can't switch over. I live in an apartment complex. So I wasn't too invested. 😂

MVP Lashley VS R-Truth: 5/10

Not much to say here. Just a short comedic breather. Lashley obviously won. Kinda suprised me that Lana didn't show up. At least Truth is still singing his own theme song despite there being no audience to recite it with. I just wish the commentators would've at least given some sort of response and not left him hanging. #Missed Opportunity. WWE apparently still has upcoming plans for the 24/7 belt, so that'll be something interesting I guess.

Smackdown Women's Championship: 6/10

This once again shows that I need to catch up on Smackdown, cause I wasn't as polarized as some fans with the finish. The commentary was pretty funny though, 'specially when both girls went up to the commentators and pressured them to clap. Overall OK match.

Universal Championship: 8/10

First off, why did Brey choose to fight in his firefly funhouse attire? That looks very uncomfortable. Also puppets. Puppets everywhere. He also seemed to be going through some sort of Vietnam flashback trauma (bad joke). Brawn pulled a fast one on him though and managed to retain the title. Also there was a moment where a few glitches appeared, which tells me that something in Brey has just snapped, triggering the fiend.

WWE Championship: 9/10

The banter between Drew and Seth was just perfect. Also loud groans and yelling. Lots of it being from Seth. He almost got himself disqualified at one point from attempting to bring a chair into the ring. Both men also managed to nearly kick each other's heads off back and forth at one point in perfect timing. In the end, Drew retained, and somehow managed to have Seth shake his hand in mutual agreement even after defeating him. It really shows how good of a person he is and I love it.

Main Event: Corporate Ladder Match(es): 10/10

I really don't know how to describe this. It was the most unique mitb ladder match I have ever seen, and they had managed to hit it out of the park. It started off very nicely with all the competitors coming out only for shenanigans to immediately ensue. Highlights include:

· Asuka standing on top of the balcony above the elevators, and basically pulling a Jeff Hardy onto the other girls.

· Corbin pinning AJ down with a barbell, causing him to call for Rey to help him. When he looks like he is considering it, he decides to just run off and leave him there.

· Corbin smashing a giant mirror and immediately pulling a look that basically translates to "Oh crap!". There's something about bad luck from smashing mirrors apparently.

· Several cameos including a couple wrestlers from the 80s/90s like Doink and Brother Love, a general manager, Stephanie, Paul Heyman, and Vince.

· AJ getting spooked by a picture of the Undertaker and having a vietnam flashback. He also gets trapped inside an office by Aliester Black, which I should mention the office has a casket. He does manage to get out though.

· Dana mistakes the office briefcase for the real briefcase and ends up with her upper body being trapped in a picture frame as a result. She also slips on the floor from a mop.

· There's a point where both the men and women run into each other and get caught off guard in a buffet. A food fight ensues, with Shayna almost nearly knocking Rey out in a sleeper hold, and he does get knocked out from Nia and Otis running into him. (I feel very sorry for the poor smockes who have to clean all of this mess up.) We also get a beat from Nia and Otis for a few seconds, which is interesting.

· Otis gets distracted in a cafeteria and pie face's a general manager.

· Both Daniel Bryan and AJ Styles ending up in Vince's office, and getting scolded like kids in a principal's office. They slowly exit, but not before pushing the chairs back in, because good manners. They blame each other for getting scared and immediately resume to fighting.

· Both Rey and Aliester potentially "kayfabe" died from being shoved off the roof.

· Asuka managing to fight the briefcase off Corbin, and giving him a kick to the face. It does make me question why Corbin was trying to grab the wrong briefcase though.

The winners in the end were Asuka and Otis, which are the two I least expected to win, and I was pleasantly surprised. Though tbh, the only reason Otis won was because AJ's freakin butter fingers dropped the briefcase after fighting for it from Corbin. He needs to make a mental note for leaving his gloves off during a match like this.

So after all of this, I'd give the pay per view an 8/10. This was probably one of the more ambitious matches WWE has put on and I think it pulls it off almost perfectly. I really wouldn't mind if they decide to turn this into a thing that happens every couple of years. I think the crowds would be very entertained. I'll probably fix any mistakes or typos in the morning. Now to mark my calender for Backlash. 👍