#BUT THEY TOOK BARK'S BACK PAIN SWAG

[transgender-battlekukku]

Some of my least favorite things btw

[pndnj]

Cathartic- Yellow Metal Lyrics

Heres where I am with the lyrics, I referenced @25Goldenn on twitter for some of it that I couldn’t comprehend. 

*music*

0:23

Dark matter, like painted splatters, they fit better, the old saying, the way it goes, better the devil you do then you don’t know. I hit pedals and switch levers, my heart metal, I can't settle, im part trouble, they are not subtle. I fuck good so fuck cuddles, burst bubbles the thrist levels at new heights, i down doubles, and got baked til I felt high, my face puzzled, felt muddled, far strung and your floors woodent, the thought might but the fit wouldn’t. A fortnight

0:46 - 1:00

And I thought right, it’s all bark and no bite, I’m Tony Stark still embarking on a dream, took a bit of time to take darkness from the team. Seen what I saw. Heartless on the sleeve. Tried to burn my wings, so I put them in a piece on my chest , at peace no rest.

1:00-1:15

Flipped this on it’s head. Rip the script up now, flip it don’t pretend, slipping shit again, Fakers all around me, I’ve been living in pretense. Fake friends won’t make amends. There’s no need, these mean comments control the scenes. Attentionseekers, the spine is weakened

1:15-1:24

This family needs, what a family needs, and the planet bleeds, the damaged trees. It’s never leaving til we ascend so fuck the fence, and until they stop killing colour it’s fuck the feds.

1:22 - 1:44

You must be off it, I mean it, you know you ain’t never get with the judging and I used to dread growing my beard too long, never felt I belonged, but it's really long like a minute I ain’t looking to no mans for the limits, They’re feeling timid, I’m telling them who they mimic, why they don't look like a clinic …. Why they don't get no women, Still, we’re just fucking girls, Lost in the wrong world, Jurassic, now to this vermin

1:41-  1: 50

Kicking the game I’m serving, these losers are never learning, my fire is forever burning, adding it to my fuel, seems like I’m always focused on never becoming you, These locals that rob us feeling … was for a reason.

1:52-2:02

I’m seeing my new beginnings, watch out this loser’s winning, and no water is too deep to swim in Like I’m about to see a killing, I’m all the way that and living, flawless and feeling lawless, the prison now to the gimmicks, my vision is set to something,

2:03-:2:20

I’m watching you bitches plummet, no matches here for my cunning, you rappers are feeling done in, switching your genre, running and Running your jaw, stunting, pulling at straws, something  I think you’re a poor effort, deaf and tone deaf and I ain’t treat you separate. Living, I’m in my element, riding it like a … never lose me to fentanyl, scared when I take a benadryl. Keeping it green in general

2:20- 2:46

Think that you remain irrelevant. Look at yourself with reverence, hoping to always elevate. Celibate of these thoughts, killing themselves with sedatives. In comparison to eminem, you’re feeling feminine. Impolitically correct, still dropping on my dick. And I never gave a fuck about what they say abt my shit, I’ve been moving things in my mind like it’s this mountain dew Memories have made me wonder if one day I’m after you. What’s the purpose that you do, is what you're hoping that they learn, i’d like to say i’m done but it’s getting up on my nerves

2:46 -2:55

I’m looking at my life, saying what do I deserve. It’s hard to say I know when I’m walking through the dirt. Talking while you’re nothing I can see for what it’s worth. I’m tired of feeling hurt and I’ve tried enough but nothing works.

2:55-3:40

I’m racking up excuses while I’m slacking off on work. Chit chatting is the usual, talking to this clerk, i beg you don’t include me. I might write it on my shirt so everytime they see me, the oldest know to swerve. SWERVE Life is potent, bits of fucked shit… till they took notice weren’t  no hocus pocus, it was hard work that got me heard so i put in the graph like google maps but the whole earth

… around my door mat, taking over like the drones, rolling dirt up in miles like the water, and exploding like Annas hematoma. Don't need to see a slammer to know that I don't want to go man

I’m a showman. I’m just focused on the drama… like i’ve got my own insurance, show myself the pain, like i boxed it in the frame, if we’re about to talk greatness im great, the way you have to say my name like beyonce

“Say my name”

4:00-4:46

Just a bum with a cigarette, sun coming up, all my thoughts on the internet. Feeling deep, I’m just bored with the silhouette single sec,  get fucked up for the thrill of it . killer streak playing Pacman. Like I came from the Philippines vanilla bean still a thing for the thrill of scene,

Theres a beam, UFO, Leave it well alone  I aint moving, stood still on the peloton, telephone and its always on the dial tone,  it's been a while since i’ve smiled at a milestone, seen a big pile in my mind stone, me against the world on my Jack Jones, Like I’m John Jones, With pictures in the condo, far from John Doe, in the ___, like I'm Johnny Bravo, got pravado, with a small dick sitting in golados, feeling far gone, cuz that last hit was the good shit, was that stay lit

4:48-5:02

You can never take my shit come and get me. On the top floor,  cloud 9, fading, never bailing, felt amazing, inhaling, til my lungs two guns blazing. Overcome all the stunts that I pulled. A suit of just skin and then wool

5:02- 5:17

This life doesn’t give you no armour, a lot of myself can harm ya. I swear on what’s good, that I’m here till they take me. I pray that I’m wrinkled, at least over 80, and start moving like a ruler, ?damaged? Like a computer going fast, bars from the jeweler, bring the songs to the beach in hopes of finding tuna

5:18-5:36

…

5:36- 6:16

Grab a bat, lose my rag. Couple things got me mad, a couple people got me wrong and now I’m changing up the swag. Coming in and stealing it, I might take the whole bag. Feeling undefeated, I’m a beast with a reason, and imma lead the whole pack. Fearless like I’m Caesar, I’m just waiting for a chance to fill it up with diesel, and all I've been achieving is clocking miles in its region, moving like a legion.

Promise that I made to myself an allegiance. Do you still believe I’m a fool for ever leaving, staring at the ceiling, can never put a cap on achieving. I’m just here for the rap, then I’m leaving.

I’ve had about enough of being my own enemy, it’s time I grew up,  a long way from 17. Always went against the grain, struggles in my life. Got some things to say when I stand up on a mike.

6:16-6:32

I ain’t dropping this for fame, I need this time, like therapy, it’s just to keep me sane. The truth is on my medicine, can’t put that on your plate.

Speeding into everything, bout time I fixed the brakes. Don’t say I can’t communicate , you know I conversate with you in several different ways. And I know you know it’s references, looking at your face.

6:33- 6:53

Can’t justify mistakes, like every man that made them, seems I ain't  the one to blame. Lying to myself, only had so much to gain, so now I’m switching up the plate, see if that affects the place, im at on most days

I ain’t going with the usual so they looking at me strange. Confused, I can feel it all,  I’m here to make a change. It’s cold at 3am outside, I’m walking with the dog, thanking god that you don’t talk at all, my mind is switching off

6:54-7:12

Driving down to find myself, cuz I’ve been getting lost, lived this selfless life and found I can give a toss. Lessons that I’ve learned I’ve tried teaching to myself. What I’ve learnt from certain people is that they’re better than myself.

So I surround myself with real ones, and you feel the plastic melt. Like burning toy soldiers that used to go up on the shelf. Recycle the ideas, conveying on the belt

7:14-7:29

.. circus, always hurting the way we felt? Embarrassed that we dreamt of bigger things and letting go of notions till we feel them in cement

Tired of only hoping, we feel broken men. Cuz the gravity is weight and has kept us to the ground, see the only people speaking with favors in their mouths

7:46-7:58

Got killer rhymes… no fillers, like godzilla, eating clouds cuz my smokes thicker, throat licker, my dope sicker, bringing people their hope like im the pope slicker,  i hope you’re getting the point cuz i walk quicker

I thought my city was shit bcs I want bigger like my zipper couldn’t zip up fed up with the…my love is fickle.. Residual age has a primitive face

I see demise for your limited ways, Left it to simmer, simmer away…a fake glimmer in the haze

8:09-8:11

Feeling trapped this industry is a cage

8:34-8:50

Nobody’s speaking the truth, I’m offended by the State. Look at the state of the news, I’ve decided the argument, reciting my views, while they’ve been sat in their chairs, I’m feeling pressure to choose.

Standing here as one man, how can I do half when you’re half the person I am. If it wasn’t in your life, you didn’t choose it. It’s the funny thing about music. It’s the pain and beauty of it.

8:52-9:11

Don’t give a fuck what my suit is, it looks good so I wear it, better than the shoot that People’s wearing, changing the whole narrative for these basics and scarcity

Been facing the racists from back when i were a kiddie .born up in in 93’. been living in Bradford City..kicked me out of the schools, they had a problem with me hitting the kids that would call me p*** still sitting in the classroom chilling, and i'm angry now that I’m older I see they treat us different

9:12-9:25

got me thinking I’m the problem cuz they never dealt with those issues.

20 years later I’m still in the same boat, tryna treat me like my grandpa, say I came up off the boat. Came to tell you what I stand for, man I think you’re shit, a joke. How can I be civil, when they got me by the throat

9:25-9:35

Pushing my feelings down, you ain’t got it like them

‘Boy your skin is so light’, ok motherfucker take my name up on a flight. Try to convince immigration that your bloodline’s half white.

9:35-9:45

I don’t know how that’s acceptable, when life is more susceptible to perception, be the death of them. I’ve been looking at the sky saying where’s that day of reckoning, you had your prophets right when they say that you would speak to them.

9:45-9:55

I need justice in this life and I trust that it’s my fight, cuz when I’m writing it feels right to have them focused on the facts again. Focused on the rap again, hoping for the change, gunna put this on the map again

9:55-10:16

Writing in all caps again, the pain, it goes through me so I write the letter. All the shit that could have brought me but made me better.

I’m at home with a pain in my soul , yeh rap… cuz you know I was too real to contest it, my time was invested. Now I look at the industry, I see it infested, looking like kids who would write on nesquik.

10:17-10:29

My name ain’t on the list unless they label it ethnic.

I ain’t never gave a fuck about these jokers and jesters. Ain’t no answers for these things, so just save us the questions, man allowed of violence, cuz my silence is deafening, your opinion stinks, somebody get him a breath mint.

10:30- 10:42

Start to understand why they think that I’m threatening, I move in certain ways, couldn’t slow me with ketamine Now they all wanna hear me, got a table at letterman. Direction changed, like I changed up the lettering. Don’t believe the age ,bcs I move like a veteran.

10:42 - 10:47

Raised on the benefit for whose benefit, they’ll never learn shit, man, if the shoe fits.

…no words coming out when you open your mouth

And to be honest, it’s insulting, offensive to my wounds that have been salting. Tryna ask me questions that they know I never answer. I’d rather sit online and reply to the fan art

11:00-11:06

Fuck a sports car, coming through when i rapped

tell you what I like, farm life and the tractor

11:06- 11:17

Fake life, 'sup online, suck a fat one. You don’t wanna buy into that, none of that son. Sitting in the garden 98’ in the Datsun,  seen some hot summers but I still remember that sun.

*music*

11:51- 12:34

I make millions off of my pain, cause I know a few millions still living that way

Dealing with the hurt, they should know cause they don’t deserve it, it hit deep cause i hit the nerve. Only way that the sheep learn if the street firm, in my ways I don’t wanna change, everything just stay the same

Who you tryna convince you understand, cant maintain, let the lights dim some,  get the Chow Mein, flex, get the tape, right up at night

Why these men be nice to my face, be nice,  i ain’t tryna be a gangsta ruins my vibe

Rather be low-key and on my phone. Never need the trophy or the show piece

Never show peace in a North Face fleece. Show kids this like i wrote my flip

Cause the sign might fit till the start i’m sick

12:37-13:05

Now you see where I come from, the world don’t. Only achievement in this life is the Jordans. Committing petty crimes out of boredom, we can’t afford them. So I stole it, need a rolex

Go make sense, get yourself a job, It’s a poor man’s game tryna sit and pray to god, he ain’t sorting out your problems, gotta sort them out yourself

Used to tell us fables, now I’m writing them myself, Cause we raw like animals we all just need some help

Cathartic, I’m an artist, trying to put my heart in

Felt double crossed like Leo in Departed

13:05- 13:27

For the knowledge i’m not charging see I got it all free

But my hunger kept me starving like i’m feening for the feed

I just Need a reason to see me bleeding for my creed. Trick you with the words like I keep em up my sleeve. Picking where I fit, I see me sitting with the queen

I ain’t doing it unless you’re used to saying please

Let me flow a bit, before I sting 'em with the bees, They tryna kill us with disease

(Music)

13:34- 14:12

Why does it feel like they had the same notebook and the same four looks

Like the rain won't touch on their face, so sus when they lie don’t trust not a minor

Please no fuss, I just move through the game like must

Something in the way i adjust till i stick, Free falling like the ship, free fall till i bust

Remember 21 brother gave no fucks. Trying to project when they give them looks

In the projects, in the objects us

In my own way, never gave me love, shoulda never started this, broken hearted kid

Dried up the feeling till I stole the lid

Don’t wanna relish in the fame but I can’t resist

14:46-14:58

I like the way we feel, I like the way, I like the way

Ain’t no mistake, i am a being

I ain’t tryna be a leader, been selling out since Jesus

All my rhymes are for the readers, between the lines, like Father time, I fuck Mother Nature

14:58-15:40

That’s what they get, the connotations. Tell 'em I lived a life, and then I lived a life of adjacent? like its…. and played it patient.

Alone on my own spaceship, always tryna find greatness, still defying lines, but I’m fighting in my prime.

Shining light like Kylo while imma kill it all the time. Aging like I’m wine

Asian in my face, but still my race you can’t define. Focused on defiance, imma fight it while it’s life.

Started something sick and on my mind is what’s next, just became a dad so now I’m taking all the cheques. Better know I’m staying and paying like it’s debt. Imma get it done, if it’s taking all my breath, sweat, and down I ain’t messing around til I’m the best

Speaking in full sentences, shoulda thought about a strategy before you went at the stratosphere about this… rings around Saturn, this ain’t a battle, I’m sat, I’m here

15:40-16:22

Catch me doing magic, hired and sounding tragic I think you could use practice and until that you get the blacklist and pull like a … actress? Fooling them like a catfish, schooling like a legend, happy to be the reference, fusing like iridescence, leaving them all guessing, leaking out of my brain like a pipe I aint fixing, shining like a star you can see it from a distance

Aint many of me around p*** I’m just different Certain stages to this level aint here because fame is to the devil fuck a label, imma do this from the ghetto, clean up like Im Dettol

I’m the man to put a bet on, sight smart like a weapon,  this is my kind of setting, i write the world I’m sat in, while these others live on hype, i see them fight in how they type, the fruit is ripe for the taking, i think i might

16:22-16:57

Let me take you away from here, Let me take you away from here, Let me take you away from here

16:58- 17:47

Eccentric things are mentioned like a kid stuck in detention tryna escape im just spitting what is written on the next page, spitting image of my dad in his young days

Born sinner when i’m livid i say fucks sake

Don’t worry i’m too cunning with no plumbing, the waterworks, i sung something that resonates, i thought it first like giving birth to the parrot perch

They see me do it and they know it works

Don’t know what’s worse: the way that you live your life or the way that you write a verse

You’ll be nervous, you don’t deserve it we’ll scratch the surface ill leave a crater, lift the dirt up to find the hurting

Can’t know for certain nothing is guaranteed, tryna be a better person than the world deserves to see cuz i see a lot of sharks still swimming in the sea

Cease and arrest what’s the reason.. And these the kinda kids we bringing up next

Distorted reality, all they needed was family, too hard to face, to see what the damage is

17:47

*i don’t wanna be, i don’t wanna be, a part of this, no, i don’t wanna be, i don’t wanna be, a part of this, *

18:04-18:38

Sometimes they ask the questions too deep to form a sentence, to disform, is this the norm, is this the sentence i feel defenseless i played the setlist, and all my sweat blood and tears, forgot to mention feeling lost, going off into different sections i feel like love wrecked it

If it’s not a drug why am i waiting for the next fix, affected, i cant believe that you left this

I guess I leave for the best wish, moving on like im fine for the lectures

We see it all from spectrums, cuz if we’re falling down we can fall down together

Staircase to heaven, mirror down the middle like 11, resentment on one side it won’t settle

18:38- 19:14

Mind fried but taking sense, they aint got a sense of themselves in the rich ends

Need to spell it out for them.. Made for them so witness

I know you feel afflicted but you always love it with me while im laughing at you, ya think you’re laughing with me

I try to (i love you) but im grown so they don’t fit me, my body thrown from the new to this old city so Im sick of sitting on my own, feeling so shitty, i’ve been on roads where its cold and the snow hitting

Its okay to be yourself, sit and talking to myself

I’ve been walking for the longest, just need a little rest, know i ain’t the strongest, I can feel it in my chest, talking about my feelings and of me, they get the best

19:14-19:59

They aint leaving, seeing breathing in my breath

Till death do us part is just seeded in my heart, like a work of art

Never winning,im just scared

Cant begin from the start, do i play a part in the rhythm of the night

I guess i’m onto something cuz the dark is feeling right

Every cloud got a lining, put my own miles  in, like moralis, figured that they’re jealous, that they could just never tell us to change because the weather never made me question whether or not i’m not that level

Got rid of all the bullshit sitting in my way, most of them are full of shit i see it every day

I do hearing the same things that i do, maybe that shits hitting like haiku

How much do you pay for them to hype you

Recycle your flaws but they aint like new, leaving and conceded and full of diesel like engines that need a cleaning, the ending will be revealing. Even though we ain’t raising the facts, now we been facing.

20:01-20:52

The cactus with spikes, needing spaces. Different faces, the same story. A full body like straight body direct to your system.

Could never tell 'em we missed’ em. Not even with the thoughts, we gift them. Cuz they just take advantage, guess we are caught in a system.

My soul pouring out details of borrowed time, had enough of a fill, this is for sorrow time. I’m seeing visions of Heaven, I seen the severed line, between the gospel they speak and when theyre telling lies.

Remember telling a friend of mine, you’d sent of mine, identified like a 3rd eye. Got a habit of knowing now where the dirt lies. So benign. I ain’t sober after 9, so I fuck their minds. Why you flipping out, see another

Try to rep it from the city, fuck a chiller crew, repping for the nittys, trying to keep us down, raised on the social, don’t want to let us out of the system. Me, I insist we assist them, me alone putting shifts til I lift them

20:53-21:12

I know it’s hard, that’s why I like it, I’m fit to fight it, I’m from the North, I’m backing Tyson, it’s been decided, don’t see no light. They needing guiding, just redefining, realizing, I’m realigning, in full finance, they stay silenced.

Can’t be louder, I’m juiced up with no powder. I fix shit like a slick spanner. Gone green like Bruce Banner. So free Gaza on my banner

21:12-21:51

The real McCoy, I ain’t nothing to toy with, signifying peace like a Japanese Koi Fish. How did this happen, we’re moving backwards in our timeline, killing us with cyanide, Right up for the freedom 'til we transform like Ironhide

This is bout my feelings, the way that I move affects the fate that I’m sealing. Can’t say nothing, with that something being on the page, kept inside the pen like the bars that have been kept caged. See I always had a plan, since I was young, we had nothing man

Now it’s been a few years since I ain’t seen the fam, on foreign lands. Bout to climb Everest in the avalanche. Right into the riddles as soon as you were born. Never asking the question cuz it’s the norm. See I’m in a questionin’ session

21:52-22:03

Like the manner got a method to teaching a lesson, listen to MF Doom, he taught me like Ra’s Al Ghul. Felt like living in Gotham, the people were rotten. Still we play cartoons so it’s never forgotten.

22:03-22:15

Chilling at the top but we came from the bottom. Writing and jottin for them life by, spotting the difference

*Dreams, was growing out of me, sun promising that tomorrow it will rise, time playing games with my mind, I swear it will pass us by

Train goes on the tracks, smoke, I’m tired to hide my thoughts, so blinded in flames, Don’t know where we’re going, I have no way of knowing, only see what’s in my head

Can’t we wait a minute, so we can savour this, It’s on my brain again, these days, It on my brain again these days”

23:10-23:46

They’re hating on Palestine ways, The oh no Palace playing Prince on the Steinway, Sending out mind waves, stop them like crimewaves, Freedom fighter, Yellow Metal is my name

Like vipers, I see the sly ones, the snake that’s called Biden, none of them abiding what they might put in writing

We should be used to it by now, say whatever for the vote and then just choose another route, say they’d never kill another unless that brother’s skin is brown

I’m just telling you the facts, if you can’t take it, the truth naked, to bare bones and my thoughts lately, spitting politics.. Done ain’t it, Shit just gets me vexed, and now I’m sitting that I think of it

23:45-23:59

Feeling on the brink of it, whatever it is, Figure out some shit at least it feels that way

talk about my feelings and I don’t feel so strange, finding solace, that’s a promise, in Metropolis but being honest, can’t write a sonnet, without some pain

24:00-24:40

Can’t fade away, away so we can savour this, been on my brain again these days

Can't find a way to be so you can savour this, been on my brain these days

Singing the song for another, singing a song for another

[caffeineghostie]

In the Wolves' Den [4]

Summary: Bucky thought he was ready for anything, but nothing could have prepared him to losing you.

Word Count: 850

Warnings: angst angst angst

A/N: it's past midnight in my country, so it's officially my birthday! as promised, here is the fourth chapter, hope you like it, even if it's on the shorter side.

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Bucky took pride in thinking that he was ready for whatever the world could throw at him, considering what he had gone through and what he had been trained for. How couldn’t he be? 

Decades of torture and pain had succesfully turned him into an impeccable killing machine, ready to react to anything in the most efficient way.

But nothing could have prepared him for the terror he felt when Steve told him what had happened. He simply froze, the only thing he was taught not to do. In a fight, if you stop you're dead and when your opponent happens to have the upper hand, stopping will prove fatal. 

He remained still, staring at his friend's mouth opening and closing, emitting words he couldn't comprehend. 

The words buzzed around him, the sounds were indecipherable, as if he was underwater. Which was true, because he couldn't breathe. 

What was Steve even saying? Natasha had come back, luckily, and Hydra had hacked their comms so that they couldn't call for help? He didn't understand.

Bucky couldn't make out the meaning of his sentences, but Steve's tone was worriedly calm. Why wasn't he panicking like him, or shouting and barking orders at the others? 

"They have Y/N. Natasha said that she's hurt, but she's alive. That's the important part."

Bucky knew too well that that was infinitely worse. If they had kept you alive, it surely wasn't because of their kindness, or of their pureness of heart. 

No, they certainly were going to hurt you. And they weren't going to go easy on you. 

His worst nightmare had come true, the thing he despised with all of his spirit was threatening the person he loved the most, and it was all his fault. 

He couldn't let it happen. What if they were torturing you in this instant and he was just there, inert and useless. What if you were dead already?

His blood turned cold, sweat trickling down his spine. If you had been there, you probably would have held him close, taking deep breaths with him and told him to not worry, because everything was going to be fine in the end.

But you weren't there. And he felt lost. 

"Buck, are you listening to me? She's alive. And we're going to get her" 

But Bucky didn't hear that, because a dark void ingurgitated him, depriving him of any sense of being, because he didn't belong to anyone, not even himself, if you weren't there.

------

Bucky dreamt of you. He was remembering a date you were on, one of many you went on at the park. You were wearing the yellow sundress he loved so much. Yellow was your favourite colour.

You were watching the sunset, a perfect ending to a perfect date, and the last rays of the sun were painting the sky of a golden hue. 

He thought that you looked beautiful. Hell, you always looked beautiful in his opinion, but there was something in the way you were glowing in the sun that made him want to stop time, and stay there with you forever. 

He must have been staring for a moment too long, because you chuckled "If you take a picture it will last longer".

And that's exactly what he did. He took out his phone and after trying and failing a couple of times, he managed to take a picture of you both. 

You were smiling, and it was the most breathtaking picture that must have been taken ever. No landscape on postcards could compare to the way your smile would light up a fire inside of him, and he wanted nothing else than to make you smile like that every day. 

He remembers printing that photo, and it currently resides on his nightstand. It's his favourite.

But that's when the dream turned into a nightmare. When he turned around after shoving his phone in his jacket, you weren't there anymore, and the parked turned into the lab in the Hydra base he was in. He was watching the scene from behind a screen.

But it wasn't him in the chair, it was you. They were currently wiping out your memories, just like they did to him after every mission, and your screams were unbearable.

He couldn't do anything, he wanted to shout, to yell at them to stop and take him instead, he would gladly take your place, but no sound would come out of his mouth.

You were whimpering, begging them to stop and he couldn't bear it. He tried smashing the window, but his bionic arm was useless, so he tried smacking the glass until his other hand was bleeding, but nothing helped him. 

He couldn't do anything, you were being tortured in front of him and he was useless. You would forget him, you would turn into a murderer, and it was all his fault.

Bucky woke up from his nightmare, the only thing in his head was the image of you, strapped to the chair, screaming. 

He had to get you out of there, even if it would cost him his life.

------

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Two letter words:

There are 107 acceptable 2-letter words listed in the Official Scrabble Players Dictionary, 6th Edition and the Official Tournament and Club Word List:

AA, AB, AD, AE, AG, AH, AI, AL, AM, AN, AR, AS, AT, AW, AX, AY, BA, BE, BI, BO, BY, DA, DE, DO, ED, EF, EH, EL, EM, EN, ER, ES, ET, EW, EX, FA, FE, GI, GO, HA, HE, HI, HO, ID, IF, IN, IS, IT, JO, JU, JY, JZ, KA, KI, KO, LA, LI, LO, MA, ME, MI, MM, MO, MU, MY, NA, NE, NO, NU, OD, OE, OF, OH, OI, OK, OM, ON, OP, OR, OS, OW, OX, PA, PE, PI, PO, QI, RE, SH, SI, SO, TA, TE, TI, TO, UH, UM, UN, UP, US, UT, WE, WO, XI, XU, YA, YE, YO, ZA

Two letter contractions: I’m, I’d

Four letter verbs:

abet, abut, abye/aby, ache, alit, ally, ante, arch, aver, avow (10).

baby,  bach, back, bade, baff, bail, bait, bake, bald, bale, balk, ball, band, bang, bank, bant, barb, bard, bare, barf, bark, base, bash, bask, bate, bath, bauk, bawl, bead, beam, bean, bear,    beat, beck, bede, beef, been, beep, bell, belt, bend, bent, bere, best, bias, bide(archaic usage), biff, bike, bilk, bill, bind, bird, birl, birr, bite, bitt, blab, blat, blaw, bled, blet, blew, blip, blob, blot, blow, blub, blue, blur, boak, boat, bode, body, boff(vulgar usage), boil, boke, bomb, bond, bone, bong, bonk, boob, book, boom, boot, bore, born, boss, boun, bowl, brad, brag, bray, bred, brew, brim, buck, buff, bulk, bull, bump, bung, bunk, bunt, buoy, burl, burn, burp, burr, bury, bush, busk, buss, bust, busy, butt, buzz (117).

ca-ca, cage, cake, calk, call, calm, came, camp, cane, cant, card, care, carp, cart, case, cash, cast, cave, cede, cere, chap, char, chat, chaw, chid, chin, chip, chop, chow, chug, chum, cite, clad, clam, clap, claw, clay, clew, clip, clog, clop, clot, cloy, club, clue, coal, coat, coax, cock, code, coif, coil, coin, coke, comb, come, comp, cone, conk, conn, cook, cool, coop, cope, copy, cord, core, cork, corn, cosh, cost, coup, cove, cowl, crab, cram, crap, crew, crib, crop, crow, cube, cuff, cull, curb, curd, cure, curl, curr, cuss (90).

dado, daff, damn, damp, dang, dare, dark, darn, dart, dash, date, daub, dawn, daze, deal, deck, deed, deem, defy, deke, dele, demo, dent, deny, dial, dice, died, diet, dike, dine, ding, ding, dint, dirk, disc, dish, disk, diss, dive, dock, doff, dole, dome, done, doom, dope, dose, doss, dote, dove, down, doze, drab, drag, draw, dray, dree, drew, drip, drop, drub, drug, drum, duck, duel, duet, dull, dumb, dump, dung, dunk, dupe, dusk, dust, dyke (75).

earn, ease, echo, eddy, edge, edit, emit, envy, espy, etch, even, exit (12).

face, fade, fail, fake, fall, fame, fard, fare, farm, fart, fash, fast, fate, fawn, faze, fear, feed, feel, fell, felt, fend, fess, fete, feud, file, fill, film, find, fine, fink, fire, firm, fish, fist, fizz, flag, flap, flat, flaw, flay, fled, flee, flew, flex, flip, flit, flog, flop, flow, flub, flux, foal, foam, foil, foin, fold, fond, fool, foot, ford, fork, form, foul, fowl, frag, frap, fray, free, fret, frig, frit, fuel, full, fume, fund, funk, furl, fuse, fuss, futz, fuze, fuzz (82).

gaff, gage, gain, gait, gall, game, gang, gaol, gape, garb, gash, gasp, gast(obsolete), gate, gaum(US), gave, gawk, gawp, gaze, gear, geld, gibe, gift, gild, gill, gimp, gird, girt, give, glad(archaic), glom, glow, glue, glug, glut, gnar, gnaw, go by, go on, goad, golf, gone, gong, goof, gore, gown, grab, gray, grew, grey, grid, grin, grip, grit, grow, grub, gulf, gull, gulp, gush, gust, gybe, gyre, gyve (64).

hack, haft, hail, hale, halo, halt, hand, hang, hare, hark, harm, harp, hash, hasp, hast, hate, hath(archaic), haul, have, hawk, haze, head, heal, heap, hear, heat, heed, heel, heft, held, helm, help, hent(obsolete), herd, hewn, hide, hike, hill, hint, hire, hiss, hive, hoax, hock, hoke(slang), hold, hole, home, hone, honk, hood, hoof, hook, hoop, hoot, hope, horn, hose, host, hove, howl, huff, hulk, hull, hump, hung, hunt, hurl, hurt, hush, husk, hymn, hype, hypo (74).

idle, inch, iris, iron, isle, itch (6).

jack, jade, jail, jape, jazz, jeep, jeer, jell, jerk, jest, jibe, jilt, jink, jinx, jive, join, joke, jolt, josh, juke, jump, junk (22).

kayo, keek(Scots), keel, keen, keep, kept, kern, kick, kill, kiln, kilt, kink, kiss, kite, knap, knew, knit, knot, know (19).

lace, lack, laid, lain, lair, lake, lamb, lame, land, lard, lark, lase, lash, last, lath, laud, lave, laze, lazy, lead, leaf, leak, lean, leap, lech, leer, left, lend, lens, lent, levy, lick, lift, like, lilt, limb, lime, limn, limp, line, link, lisp, list, live, load, loaf, loan, lock, loft, loll, long, look, loom, loop, loot, lope, lord, lose, lost, loup(Scots), lour, lout, love, lube, luck, luff, luge, lull, lump, lure, lurk, lust, lute, lyse (74).

mace, made, mail, maim, make, mall, malt, mark, marl, mart, mash, mask, mass, mast, mate, maul, maze, mean, meet, meld, mell, melt, mend, meow, mesh, mess, mete, mewl, miff, milk, mill, mime, mind, mine, mint, mire, miss, mist, moan, moat, mock, moil, mold, molt, moon, moor, moot, mope, moss, move, muck, muff, mull, mump, muse, mush, muss, must, mute (59).

nail, name, near, neck, need, nest, nick, nigh, nill(obsolete), nock, nose, nosh, note, nuke, null, numb (16).

obey, ogle, oink, okay, omen, omit, ooze, open, oust, over (10).

pace, pack, page, pain, pair, pale, pall, palm, pang, pant, pare, park, part, pash(Austral), pass, pave, pawn, peak, peal, peck, peek, peel, peen, peep, peer, pelt, pend, perk, perm, pick, pike, pile, pill, pimp, pine, ping, pink, pipe, piss(vulgar), pith, pity, plan, plat, play, plod, plop, plot, plow, plug, pock, poke, pole, poll, pond, pool, pore, port, pose, post, pour, pout, pray, pree, prep, prey, prim, prod, prog, prop, puff, puke, pule, pull, pulp, pump, punt, purl, purr, push, putt (80).

quad, quip, quit, quiz (4).

race, rack, raft, rage, raid, rail, rain, rake, ramp, rang, rank, rant, rape, rase, rasp, rate, rave, raze, razz, read, ream, reap, rear, reck, redd(dialect), rede(archaic), redo, reed, reef, reek, reel, rein, rely, rend, rent, rest, re-up, rice, rick, ride, riff, rift, rile, rill, rime(archaic)/rhyme, ring, riot, rise, risk, rive, roam, roar, robe, rock, rode, roil, rolf, roll, romp, roof, rook, room, root, rope, rose, rout, rove, ruck, ruff, ruin, rule, rush, rust (73).

sack, said, sail, sale, salt, sand, sass, sate, save, sawn, scab, scam, scan, scar, scat, scud, scum, seal, seam, sear, seat, seed, seek, seel, seem, seen, seep, sell, send, sent, sewn, shag, sham, shed, shim, shin, ship, shit, shoe, shog, shoo, shop, shot, show, shun, shut, sick, side, sift, sigh, sign, silk, silt, sing, sink, sire, site, size, skew, skid, skim, skin, skip, slab, slag, slam, slap, slat, slay, sled, slew, slid, slim, slip, slit, slog, slop, slot, slow, slub, slue, slug, slum, slur, smut, snag, snap, snip, snow, snub, snug, soak, soap, soar, sock, soil, sold, sole, solo, soot, sorb, sort, soup, sour, sown, spae(scottish), spam, span, spar, spat, spay, spec, sped, spew, spin, spit, spot, spud, spur, spurn, stab, stag, star, stay, stem, step, stet, stew, stir, stop, stow, stub, stud, stun, suck, suds, suit, sulk, sung, sunk, surf, swab, swag, swam, swan(brit), swap, swat, sway, swig, swim, swob, swop(brit)/swap, swot, swum, sync (155).

tabu, tack, tail, take, talc, talk, tame, tamp, tang, tank, tape, tare, task, taut, taxi, team, tear, teem, tell, tend, tent, term, test, text, thaw, thin, thud, tick, tide, tidy, tier, tiff, tile, till, tilt, time, tine, ting, tint, tire, toil, toke, told, tole, toll, tomb, tone, tong, took, tool, toot, tope, tore, torn, toss, tote, tour, tout, tram, trap, tree, trek, trim, trip, trod, trot, trow(archaic), true, tube, tuck, tuft, tune, turf, turn, tusk, twig(Brit), twin, twit, type (79).

undo, urge (2).

vade, vail(archaic), vamp, vary, veal, veer, veil, vein, vend, vent, vest, veto, vide, view, vine, visa, vise, void, vote (19).

wade, waft, wage, wail, wait, wake, wale, walk, wall, wane, want, ward, ware(archaic), warm, warn, warp, wash, waul, wave, wawl, wean, wear, weed, ween, weep, weet, weld, well, welt, wend, went, wept, were, wert(archaic), wham, whap, whet, whid(Scottish), whip, whir, whiz, whop, wick, wile, will, wilt, wind, wine, wing, wink, wipe, wire, wise, wish, wisp, wist, wite, wive, woke, wolf, wont, wood, woof, word, wore, work, worm, worn, wove, wrap, writ(archaic) (71).

x-ray (1).

yack, yank, yard, yarn, yaup, yawn, yawp, yean, yell, yelp, yerk, yeuk, yock, yoke, yowl, yo-yo(informal), yuck (17).

zero, zest, zinc, zing, zone, zonk, zoom (7).

IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT

(yes there are 28 ITs)

[maniacalmachinist]

Predator/D&D (pt 7)

Sorry about the delay, this chapter wound up a bit longer than expected, amid other bit of life’s complications.  Hope you enjoy it.  XD

CHAPTER 7:  CONSEQUENCES

Hachende darted ahead, thankful to be away from those lesser creatures for a while, leaping from tree to tree, keeping his footholds light and quick.  He was above the pack of “noles” within minutes, trying to find a good spot for an ambush.  They appeared to be little more than short, drooling brutes, hunched at the shoulders, and their heads darting around, sniffing the air.  He spotted mostly simple weapons similar to the commune of humans in their village. Most had simple masses of heavy wood, or something resembling a spear.  There were a few in the rear of the hunting group that had staves much like the elf Sedira had, and figured it implied a similar “magic” talent to some degree.  He continued to look around them, and spotted a larger one which seemed to make the others around it cower, and was the only one that appeared to have some metallic weapon, a “sword” he recalled the humans calling it.

He set his sights on ten targets, and unclipped his discs, linking them to his tracking, then dropped into the middle of the hunting group. He flung the discs to his sides when he landed, and they began to whir around, the cries of the brutes echoed as few were taken by surprise, the rest ducked.  His discs returned, and decided to brandish them as hand weapons for expediency as a few had locked their sights on him where the kicked up snow had made his presence known.  The large one glared at him, and barked orders in some unknown tongue, the ones with the solid wooden weapons set on him quickly, swinging their weapons clumsily.  “You lack form . . . you insult my honor with how poorly you fight!!” He clipped a few in their thighs as he dropped to one knee, relocking the discs on targets and letting them loose, providing a defense of blades.

He danced with the discs and gnolls, wounding some and killing another with each attempt they made.  He roared loudly, shouting his victory cry, before being hit with a stinging sensation, finding a solid shaft digging into his side.  He panned his vision, trying to track the direction, but saw nothing in thermal . . . he switched until he picked up on movement, more shafts flying at him.  “More . . . how can there be more?!”

“ANUKH ARUMWON!!” Came a shout, the voice clearly the one called Wagh. The gnolls gave pause, and there was a sudden blood curdling howl, as a pair of glowing large canines barreled through a few of the creatures, ripping them apart.  Therein chaos erupted, Hachende shocked at the sudden shift in the gnolls attention amid the orc and dwarf charging in, their massive weapons batting the ugly fuckers aside.  Hachende focused himself, not to let these two show him up, he took out his spear and made for the large one.  The gnoll leader deflected his weapon amid the screams of his cohort falling to the crazed pair, the sword actually biting into his spear.  He aimed for the beast’s legs and arms, but it showed an amount of experience dodging and deflecting.  Hachende lunged, but was stopped short of his prey, something had caught onto his leg, then rolled to keep his attention on the Pack Leader.

“Tha’s it lad, keep tha’ boggart tied up wit ya fancy moves!” gloated the dwarf, bisecting another gnoll.  “Gnolls travel in groups o’ six . . . aye, they ha’ four more waitin’ on tha’ Pack Leader’s orders! RYAAA!  Lass!!  Grease their shaman!!” and he was answered by a chain of melodic speach rolling through the trees and a sudden glob of sludge splashed among those with the wooden staves.

The Pack Leader was distracted a moment amid the wails of their casters being caught in the sludge, giving Hach time to sever the root that had tripped him.  He leaped back up to his feet just as the Leader made another lunge at him, catching the sword with his spear again, he batted the weapon aside and drove his spear at the brute’s head. The brute growled, shifting aside while grabbing Hachende’s thrusting arm, “FUCK!!” screamed Hach, pissed at making such a suckling’s mistake.  Despite it’s size, it threw Hach over it’s shoulder, the yautja let go of the spear; rolling on the ground and took out his discs.  He darted at the Leader, flinging one disc and held onto the other, the Leader deflecting it with his sword, but it overexerted.  Hach caught the returning disc, punching the beast with the one in hand, splitting it’s lower jaw, then slash it it’s throat with the other . . . there was no howl, only the gargling of it last breath while it collapsed.  Hachende let out a cry of victory . . . his prey had been taken by the kiss of midnight!

The hunting pack fell apart not long after the loss of their leader.  Their shaman couldn’t stand on the sludge, fighting to maintain balance while Lars beat them into a near pulp with his fists, astounding Hachende more.  Wagh was tending the dwarf’s wounds, his hands glowing green while he chanted, and Durgo’s cuts were mending before Hach’s eyes.  Lars came back moments later, having killed off the hidden archers, “They’re ugly and smelly fuckers, but at least they carry decent equipment sometimes.  I know the ol’ blacksmith would love to have more material.”

Hachende tended himself with a medikit, still puzzled why he couldn’t detect the other four creatures.  He used the tools to extract the shaft and “head” from the bolt that struck him, crying out in pain, which startled the rest of the group.

“Laddie, no offense to ye, but best to see a healer . . . doesn’t do to let tha’ pain dull yer senses.”

“With as much as you drink, Durgo . . . you’re not one to talk about dulling senses,” Lars retorted.

“It is through pain that we know we are still alive, as is our path of the warrior,” growled Hachende.

“Well, regardless . . . time for the spoils of war . . . “ chimed Sven.  “Oh, Durgo . . . the big guy himself netted six, and you only downed 3 . . . so, you owe us a round tonight.”

“Wha?  Wait, thar’s no . . . “ he started counting with his hands how many final blows he actually made, “Fook!!”

Jessica groan, rummaging through the pile of things collected from the Gnolls.  “Hmmmm, the sword is unusual . . . “ she touched the edge of it and suddenly hiss in pain, “Shit!!  Acid!!”

Hachende looked up at her shouting, then inspected his equipment . . . his spear and one of the discs had a series of melted points where his weapons made contact with the sword, “What in the name of the Dark Warrior is that weapon?!?!”

Jessica went to her pack and pulled out a scroll, then held out her hand over the weapon while reciting what was one the parchment.  The scroll glowed and disappeared while golden light descended on the weapon, and symbols appeared on it’s edge.  “Oh . . . oh my . . . how did a gnoll get something like this, of all things!?!”

“You’re fucking us with the suspense here, what is it Jess?” groaned Lars.

“It’s a Black Dragon falchion, The Scorned One.  Gyremar will want to see this immediately!”  She looked at Hachende, “It’s your weapon now . . . it ties itself to the one that bests it’s owner.”

Hachende pondered . . . touching the sword and found it slightly warm, and welcoming to his touch.  He picked it up, then headed to the Pack Leader, and removed it’s spine and skull in a roar of triumph.

Durgo scratched his head, watching Hach’s seemingly ritual collection. “Dunnae’ know why ya collectin’ hea’s here, lad.  There is nae any bounty on these boggarts.”

“There will be proof of my conquests to go with the others . . . doesn’t do to return for mating season and not an exceptional kill to enthrall the females.”

Sven and Lars laughed together, “Fucking hell, I love your society already . . . “ Lars bellows.

“I doubt you could survive our females . . . my last mate broke my arm last season, and that was a result of being tossed across the room.”  Hachende cackled.

“The more I learn about you Hachende, I’m not sure if yours is a society of fighters, or fools,” bellowed Gyremar.  The group looked up, seeing the silver approach the ground, surrounded by the shuffling of Kobolds among the rocky edges.  “I had told them to prepare in case your team couldn’t handle the Gnolls.  Daresay, I’m proud you made it out intact.”  He looked at Jessica, “Now what’s this about a falchion?”

Jessica pointed at Hachende, and motioned him to raise the sword.  He raised a brow under his mask, and presented the weapon to the dragon. “Hmmmm . . . that is an odd find for a group of gnolls.  I’m assuming a large, strong one had it, yes?”  Hachende nodded, presenting the head of the Gnoll Leader.  “The Scorned One . . . fells, hoped I would never have to hear that title again.”

Lars looked up, “What’s the deal with it, Steward?”

“Come inside, I’ll explain . . . oh, and Hachende, I think I have something for you. Dar’gor, we’re going to have guests for a while, take them to my Den, and get them some food . . . then you and yours can do as you will with the gnolls.”

“Yip! Yes boss!” Dar’gor barked, “You warm-bloods, follow . . .yes, follow, yip!”

“Wor’ o’ advice lads . . . dunnae be eatin’ kobold cuisine . . . ya’ will be payin’ fer it lat’r.” warned Durgo.

The Steward’s “Den” was a large cavern near the middle of the mountain.  Dar’gor, their guide, wasn’t very talkative, but Kobolds were overly cautious and fearful by nature.

“At least these caverns are big enough for us . . . hate to have to hunker down to the height of a dw-uuuuuh,” Lars began, then caught himself . . . sadly, Durgo caught on.

“Ya’re havin’ a problem wi’h me height, boyo?  Lemme tell ye, caves are large fo; a reason . . . cannae be tellin’ how much ye’ll be haulin’ from end to ‘nother.  Bigger halls, more swag to be haulin.”  He then made what Hachende thought was considered a rude gesture.

“Enjoyed your trip to my Lair, friends?” Gyre interjected as they came into view.

“Oh . . . huh . . . thought you Dragons had lairs of treasure lying around . . . this is kind of . . . vacant.” observed Lars.

Gyre responded with a chuff of mild amusement, “Not all dragons are covetous of such things.  That tends to attract a lot of fools out for hide and gold.”  The dragon was sitting on it’s haunches, looking through what was a VERY large book, it’s binding half the length of Gyremar himself. “Part of this was the journal of this lair’s former master, Carmix’la the White Wyrm.  Watching you fight, Hachende, matches her last notes . . . but it also explains something else.”  Gyre reached to his side opposite the group, picked up something, the placed it before Hachende.  “I think you will find something in there that could explain more than I can on your current situation.”

Curious, Hach knelt and ran his claws over the chest, “Im assuming this has been around for quite some time?”  To which Gyremar nodded.  He lifted the top, and his eyes and mandibles flared in shock.  “Dark Warrior . . . this was Dur’ton’s!” He pulled out a biomask, more ornate than his own, and wristcomp, but the symbols were unmistakable . . . both saw heavy damage, but still slightly functional.  

“Uhhh, Dirt on?  Dirt on what, I don’t . . . “

“Shut it, Wagh!” shouted the three humans in unison, to which the orc tapped his fingertips together, uncertain what he did wrong.

Hachende grunted in agitation and bewilderment, “He was among our legends, cycles ago . . . and then vanished.  We had assumed his last hunt claimed him and his equipment . . . “ he then donned the mask, and played the last images of his life, which displayed through the old wristcomp’s projector.

“Hmmmm, lad these images app’er close to what you showed us las’ nigh’.  But his landin’ seems to be furt’er southeas’ o’ ere. “

Gyremar gazed at the playback intently, “Hmmmm, at least a day’s travel by flight . . . seems your predecessor had bad luck on his side, landing and hunting where the White Wyrm was already tracking prey at the time.”

Hach grunted, going through the playback, then getting a date on the last entry, “Hmmmm . . . 2,000 of this world’s cycles have passed . . . “

Gyre ponders, “Has it really been 2000 years . . . can’t believe I was so young then. Still, it does explain why the white wyrm fell so easily, as I said earlier.”  He looks up at the ceiling, stroking the long, feathery scales on his chin, “It was likely a few days before I engaged her, scales were torn or missing, wings were shredded in several places, burn marks in various areas . . .”

Hach listened, “ Dur’ton was likely having trouble tracking this creature, as I had trouble tracking you.”

Gyre snapped his gaze to Hach, “Trouble tracking a dragon . . . in close proximity?  You’ll pardon my understanding, but it’s kind of hard to miss us when that close.”

Hach shook his head, “Our equipment allows us to track prey, switching out ‘modes,’ so we can mark our quarry.”  He pointed at the humans, dwarf, and orc, “They show up in heat detection, but you do not.”

“Ah, tha’s a flaw laddie . . . ye’re bett’r off tryin’ use yer senses than usin’ fangled contraptions.  Is like how tha’ gnolls escaped yer vision when we fough’ ou’side.  Sure, seein’ a targe’ is nifty . . . but ye cannae use gadgets to replace tracker senses.”

Hach groaned, irritated that this little creature was trying to lecture him, but noticed one of the two of the humans were missing.  He looked around frantically, “Wha . . . where?!?!”

The one called Sven rose up, face to face, right under his mask, “Yup . . . blind spots my friend.  And don’t even bother trying to see Jessica then . . . cloaking spells are hard for most to see through.”  Hach panned his gaze again, unable to see anything, frantically switching his biomask’s vision . . . she was nowhere to be found.  There was then a tap on his shoulder, turning to see the female become more visible, as if there was some shroud peeling away.

“My magic is more like displacement, or short range teleportation . . . but I agree.  For as good as your equipment may be, here . . . it would be a hindrance in some aspects.”

This world constantly confounded him . . . standard weapons work a bit, but the technology he’d been raised with since he could carry a spear had become nearly useless.

Gyremar stroked his muzzle, watching the events unfold, “Well, you are a capable warrior perhaps . . . but you will need to attune yourself to this world. But it’s assuring to see you’re adapting this well . . . and at the same time, puzzling . . . I will have to do more research after we get your ship to Crosslight.  From there, we’ll have to address some urgent problems . . . “ he closed the book, and beckoned the group to follow him, escorting them to the landing.

It had become mid-afternoon, the day was at it’s warmest, and the skies were rather clear as the group flew to Hach’s ship.  Gyre had allowed the Yautja to hang onto the rope so he could better direct the dragon.  Gyre was thankful that the craft cleared a decent “landing strip,” but hated that it was in such an awkward locale.

The ship itself was as Hach described, the length of it running from Gyre’s front legs to his hind limbs.  “You may want to have our companions in there with you, might make it easier to deal with than the skiff.”

Hach grunted, but understood, “Fine . . . but they are to touch NOTHING.  I can try and set the ship to hover, but from there the rest is up to you.”  He growled to the group, “You . . . follow me, but leave everything ALONE. You will sit just behind the command chair, and NOTHING ELSE!!”  He unsheathed his wrist knives as if to emphasize the point, to which they nodded.  He retracted the knives, “Gyremar, can you get that snow off my ship?”

The Silver nodded, rearing back and unfurling his wings . . . then flapped them forward, mighty gusts sending debris and snow everywhere, clearing the vehicle.”

“Spirits of invention!!” gasped Wagh.

Hach tapped his wristcomp, and his ship hummed to life, then brought up the holo displays, trying to reroute power to the hover functions.  The group quietly followed him, and his instruction, taking note of his trophies . . . some of which were definitely human.  Wagh pointed at one that had an elongated head, “Dat one dark and mean . . . it notin’ but hate!” He shivered.  Hach clicked in agitation, taking up the command chair, and attempted to reorient the ship.  The group gathered behind him . . . he was at least thankful that they could follow orders.

Gyremar tapped the ship, “I’m going to start pushing the ship . . . brace yourselves!” at which point the ship shook, then settled as the dragon pushed with his hind legs.  Hach let a snort of amusement watching the spectacle from the ship’s eyes, the whole thing looked like some giant reptile trying to mate with his craft.  

“Well, since this will take a while . . . what stories you have of your travels, Hachende?” inquired the one called Lars.

Hach grunted, but figured it might make time pass by, “The one called Wagh pointed out one of my first kills, during a blooding rite.”  He then pointed to a symbol, etched on his massive forehead, what looked like three intersecting curved lines.  “All younglings on The Path must go through this, and survive, as proof that they are worthy of the Hunt.”  He pointed at the elongated skull, then pulled up his holo imager, displaying the full scale and size of the creature.  It stood easily eight feet tall, and twelve feet long, the image replicating it’s movements and even the sounds, a hissing that could only be described as metal sliding over metal that grated the nerves.  “We call them ‘Kiande Amheda,’ the Hard Meat . . . they of the black shell, and acid blood.”

“Aye, laddie . . . tha’s a real nasty already . . . “

Hach grunted, mildly amused, then pulled up a large ovoid, then what seemed to have a 10-legged scorpion crawling about, no pincers, but a deep recess in it’s underside.  “Oh, that’s hardly the worst . . . this is what they look like, prior to a host anyway.” Hach kept the image animated, a generic human figure was shown walking near the egg, when the scorpoid sprang up with it’s tail, and latched onto the face of the human, the legs wrapping around the human’s head.  “This stage plants the seed of it’s kind in the host . . . “

“Wait wait . . . you mean . . . that thing . . . it . . . rup-rup, er, bursts o-out . . .,” Jessica asked, clearly unsettled . . . the image moving forward and confirming her fear, as a smaller version of the beast erupted from the host.  Jessica, suddenly turned around and retched.  Hach had never seen this reaction so frequent in a species.

“Oh, ugh . . . now I can’t even imagine that horror . . . and I thought undead were bad,” grunted Sven.

“Ya said it lad . . . tha’s mos’ unpleasant . . . and it takes a loot ta get me unsettled.”

Hach snorted, “Oh, it’s not done yet . . . “ the image went back to the full grown beast, and it opened it’s jaws, launching an inner set in Durgo’s direction.

“Fookin’ hell, you bloody son o’a boggart!!” yepled Durgo, falling back, and the image continued, it’s skin molting, and it resulted in a slightly larger form, but it’s head flared out a bit, more ornate.  The process repeated again, the relative sizes adjusting to compensate for the small room, the creature appeared massive, it’s head had become a fully flared comb, it’s body thick and heavy, with a pair of smaller claws on it’s chest.  “This is the egg layer . . . their mother . . . or matriarch . . . “

Wagh seemed openly scared, “Dat bad creature . . . it mean . . . an nasty . . . it hate life . . . it eat life!”

“Fuckin hell . . . a Queen . . . you know, like in ant hives . . . “ remarked Sven

Lars popped him up the back of his head, “Bees, asshole . . . bees have hives.”

“Fuck . . . you know what I mean!” groaned Sven.

Hach was mildly amused with their responses, “I killed two on my blooding . . . this one put up the better fight.”  There was an air of pride in his tale, but the company didn’t seem to enjoy it . . . he looked at Jessica, and could smell the rank odor of regurgitation.

“Ah, bloody hell . . . fookin nasty Jessica.”

“Urgh . . . bleh . . . sorry . . . that was . . . not expected ugh!” She drew a symbol in the air above the rather insulting mess, producing a glowing green mark while she whispered, then waved her hand over the mess . . . the puddle of putrid dissipating into dust.  Hach was momentarily insulted by her weak constitution, but still amazed that she was able to do such in her weakened state.

In keeping things going, the group continued to share stories and the like.  Hach found himself oddly intrigued, coming to understand the humans a bit more.  While they were ideal prey, their methods of fighting was oriented in what they called “warfare.”  Hach was curious, “And how many are involved in this event called ‘warfare?’”

“Ach, it depends laddie . . . which nations, wha all they have, why they be fightin’.  Armies can consist o’ ‘undreds, ta thousan’s.” Recited Durgo.  “I remember the Battle for Nae’rwinter, the major citeh neares’ ‘ere, as me gran’pa tol’ me as a wee tyke.  The mighty city were under siege . . . all manner o’ soldiers an’ adventurers were answerin’ tha call to figh’ back the demons an whatnot tryna take tha citeh.”

“Demons you say . . . what manner of creature is that?”

“Ugh, from what I know, they’re hellspawn . . . creatures from the fiery depths that cling to shadows, and hunger for life.  You can banish them from the mortal plane, but to actually kill them requires you to do so in their domain.”

Hach blinked under his mask, “What does that mean?”

“Their bodies turn to ash since they’re not of this plane . . . so there’s very little they leave behind.  If you want demon horns or trophies, you have to go into the burning hells to get it.” recited Jessica, rather matter of factly.  “Getting there is the easy part . . . getting out, not so much.  The only exception would be those born with infernal blood in their veins . . . Tieflings.  And dealing with them can be rather . . . aggravating.”

Something dawned on Hach, “Pardon, but is that form of procreation common?”

Sven nodded, “Lars and I are brothers, but my mother was a planetouched Aesimar . . . kind of like the opposite of Tieflings.  Where they’re infernal, Aesimars are Celestial . . . opposite sides of the same coin.  You also have the Dragonborn, Ganesi, Half-Orcs, Half-Elves . . . the list goes on and on.  The larger the city you find yourself in, the more hybrids you’ll likely run into.”

“Wait, Dragonborn?”  Hach keyed the external comms, “Dragons actually mate with humanoids? Is this true, let alone possible?!?!”

Gyremar bellowed, almost laughing, “Well, that’s an awkward question . . . when you’re able to transform, there’s often no telling what kind of trouble you’ll get into, or when.  But, when bonds form, there’s little way to get out of them.  I think some have a village several days travel by foot from Crosslight . . . hmmmmm, Frostperch I think they call it.  Gold, Silver, Red,  and White live there if memory serves, as their bloodlines prefer rocky mountain regions.  There’s stories of ‘Prism’ villages, which are comprised of most or all lineage variations.”  He grunted, pushing the ship up an incline, then stopped when they reached the peak.  “Oh . . . uh oh . . . “ he paused, an epiphany hitting him.

“Gyremar, why have we stopped?” inquired Hach.

“It occurred to me . . . the gnolls were silent for months, but just came out several days after the wyvern was put down.  Fells, fells, fells . . . I should have checked the den more closely.  That beast was likely keeping other savage creatures at bay.  And if the gnolls close to the Kobold barrows were active, it would mean that the Orcs to the north of the village may also mobilize!”  He grunted, taking the ship in his front and hind claws, hugging it to himself then pushed off the ridge with his tail, powering his wings with all his might.  “APOLOGIES FOR THE ROUGH RIDE!!”

Hach was thankful for being in the command chair, but could hear the yelps and groans from the group getting tossed and flung into the rear wall.  He had to admit, flying about, strapped to a multi-ton reptile was almost as thrilling as the Path itself.  He initiated the ship’s scans, adding data from his own wristcomp, and from Dur’ton’s equipment.  The mapping was tremendous . . . he had been in the area for a long time before meeting with the “White Wyrm” as the others called it.  He made a mental note to review the recordings at a more convenient time as it appeared one slight change in the area can throw things off.  

[dogboysweetheart]

The science Fair (Barry x Uni)

By Jae

I woke up to Uni blasting an air horn in my ear, I swatted him away “ what’s your problem..” I hissed groggily Uni only smiled and handed me a Pieace of paper “ Sorry , bro. Your a heavy sleeper ,you know ?” He smiled down at me from the side of my bed.

I stretched and looked at the paper Uni gave me, it was covered in little drawing along the sides and little hearts. “Idiot.” I purred my voiced hushed as I shake my head and read the paper: ‘Come see the grand science fair , full of rides , food, and of course Science! Come see our special guess Sheldon from the famous Bingo Bango Theroy t.v show, Sheldon and the rest of the science fair are waiting for YOU! At Streetblockavenue from 6:66 pm to 6:66 am.’

I stared at the page in pure excitement , The Sheldon , I beam at Uni “ where did you get this ! “ he looked very proud as he said “ I found it ! I knew you loved that nerdy stuff bro, and you are always watching that Bango Bingo show “ he barked his tail wagging as he look at me. “ It’s Bingo Bango and yes I do love that show! You should come with me to the fair Uni.”

Uni looked unsure and rubbed the back of his head “U-uhh I would but I don’t really understand that science stuff bro...” I shook my head and grabbed his paw, he jumped slightly at my forward ness “Please Uni! I can teach about this stuff it will be so much fun! Just me and you , we can just hang out. Please ...........Bro? “ I know I had him when I said bro. As much as it pained me I did really want Uni to come with me. I really enjoyed his company and would rather not go to a huge crowded place alone.

Uni’s horn rotated through the color spectrum as a blush spread across his face “ oh-uh-I-uh sure, if you need a swagger bro like me to come with you I-I don’t mind it.” He murmured a smile creeping onto his face as he shifted on his feet.

With no time to waste I dragged Uni to StreetBlockStreet Avenue where we saw tons of rides and food and panned set up I squealed and looked at Uni “ this is gonna be so much fun! Thanks for coming Uni!” Then I dove into crowd with Uni’s paw in mine.

(One hour later , Uni’s POV)

Barry and I had been going on rides and check out panels for about an hour, this honestly was not as bad as I thought it would be way more boring but ... He’s been so close to me this whole time. He has held my hand the whole time and he even taught me so stuff.

But I don’t care about science, I only care about Barry. He’s been so happy and I even won him some stuff (even if I did cheat a little). We are heading to see Sheldon from that Bango Bingo show he loves. He really seems to be excited “Man I can’t wait to see Sheldon! He’s so amazing Uni, oh my gosh!” Barry’s fan boy side had kicked into a little bit ago.

We soon arrived at his Pannel where people were lined up taking pictures to meet him, he was a lanky thin snake with large square glasses. “Is that nerd Sheldon” I said trying to get a reaction from him “ya...” he breathed out and jumped up and down a little. My fur felt hot.. what’s so cool about this guy, he’s poblaly never even had any swag.

When we reached him Barry blushed heavily and smiled “I am a huge Fan Mr.Sheldon! Oh my gosh your so cool holy cow I can’t believe I’m talking to the real Sheldon!” Barry gushed an excited meow exscaping from him as he kneed the air infront of him. Why dose this bother me so much... I feel so mad at this Sheldon guy but he’s done nothing wrong. No, I thought, he-he’s trying to take Barry from home me isn’t he? I can’t stand this, barry never dose this to me he should not be- “ here kid want to take a picture” I watched in complete surprise as Sheldon side hugged Barry and the took a picture “ Barry we should leave now, I just realized that we have plans!” I spouted .

“What? You never said we had plans-what do you even mean? “ I ignored him and grabbed his paw and headed for the front gate, I shot a dirty look at Sheldon and mouthed “Back off.” When we got back home Barry stared at me in complete confusion “ what’s wrong? I don’t understand why your so upset...” he mewd and only then did I acknowledge the hot tears running down my face. “ I-it’s nothing bro, I just didn’t like how touchy that Sheldon guy was.” I confessed “ I mean what dose he have that I don’t !” I snarled.

Then I felt arms around my waist and Barry said “Nothing Uni , I would choose to hang out with you than him any day, you don’t need to feel like I would abandon you!” It’s not what I had meant but still.. “ thank you Barry.”

Edit: thank you for all the likes <3

[purplecatterpiller]

Not All Monsters Part 5

Sam X Reader

Warnings: Violence, blood, kidnapping, language

Summary: While the brothers are trying to work a case things start to go downhill for Aris.

It was late in the day, Aris was doing her best to try and help Jody around the house. Tonight she was making dinner, a full spread: Roasted chicken, potatoes, two veggies, even pie for dessert. After Sam and Dean had left she found herself doing whatever she could to keep her mind busy, reading for a few hours, cleaning even when the house wasn’t dirty, cooking. Once or twice a day Sam would call to check in but the calls never seemed to last long enough. Always ending with Aris falling asleep in the middle of the conversation or Sam rushing off to track down a lead on whatever they were working on. Aris was smart enough not to push when it came to what they did. Not that she wanted to know.

Checking the fridge for carrots, she found that they were out. The store was a twenty-minute walk, it would still be another three hours before Jody made it home. Plenty of time to run to the store and back plus make dinner. Grabbing her wallet and the phone that the brothers had given her, she headed out the door locking it behind her. Aris had grown more comfortable going out on her own. She had been working with Jody on how to defend herself, along with learning the area.

About halfway to the store, Aris felt a familiar sensation of being watched. Looking around nothing seemed to stick out, shoving the paranoia down she passed it off as just another short-lived episode of PTSD. Once at the store she made her way quickly to the veggies stopping only for a moment to grab some chocolate for herself, when she did so she got the same sensation of being watched. Looking around again no one was there hurting now she picked up her pace as she left the store phone in hand ready to call.

“Want a ride Darlin’?” A man with a scruffy looking face, and dirty work clothes asked as she made her way out to the parking lot. Looking down she ignored him, and began to jog. He kept after her calling out the window again. “Come on I’m just trying to be friendly.”

“Leave her alone, can’t you see your ugly ass face is scaring her?” Another man taller clean shaven with a regal stance appeared just a few feet from her. He had a scar on one of his hands.

“What you doin, bub? You her boyfriend?” The first taunted.

“No, but you’re kind of ruining my chances.” Without hesitation, he swags back knocking the first man to the ground. Aris jumped, eyes wide and tried to take off the man was fast though. Too fast for to be human. “Hold on there, easy, easy!” His hand over her mouth and arm around her waist he pulled her tight whispering in her ear. “You're ok. No one is going to hurt you just come with me.”

Swinging her head back it struck him hard but only brought out a laugh.

Sitting in the at a table The brothers had been following a lead. A man that they had been looking into was who had been doing all the killings. He seemed to fit the profile. After interviewing three different bars and losing at video footage, the man had been at present before each disappearance. Tonight he zeroed in on one woman rather quickly. A short woman with curly hair, in her 20s. As they flirted the girl seemed to be into him, both exiting the bar. The brothers following close behind. Once in the parking lot, they approached, telling the women to leave. Without hesitation, she ran off assumingly back to the bar.

“What the fuck man!” He gasped. The guy held up his hands as Dean shoved him against a random car, just beyond the light.

“What were you doing with that girl?” Dean growled, hand ready to grab the gun at his waist.

“Clam down! Some guy paid me fifty bucks to hit on her. You her boyfriend? Won't happen again.”  The man murmured.

“Don’t give me that bullshit. Every girl you’ve met the past week has wound up dead.” Dean ordered.

He was starting to sweat, beads forming on his brow. The guy's eyes darted around feet shifting nervously under him. Lunging forward he tried to push past them only to be slammed back against the car. A hand shoots up again as he tried not to seem like a threat. Doing his best to stay in control and get the full story Sam pulled out a silver knife holding it close to the man's face. Fear actually causing the man to urine on himself.

“Come on. I didn’t know anything would happen to them! I swear it wasn’t me.”

“Sam check him.” Dean barked.

Sam splashed him with holy water, then took a silver knife placing it against the man's skin. “Nothing. Who’s been paying you?”

Before the man could answer Sam’s phone rang. Dean gave him the familiar look of annoyance. Sam put it on silent and Dean went back to trying to get answers out of the man only to be interrupted by the phone again. Looking down Aris name flashed across the screen, he hit ignore again. Only to have it go off a third time.

“Come on man!” He said over his shoulder. Before grabbing the man as he tried to walk away again.

Sam held up his index finger then turned away sliding the phone to answer. “It's really not a good time right now Aris. Can I call you back?”

“You could but I don't think Aris will be around much longer to answer next time.” The voice on the other end was cold and calculating.

“Where's Aris?” Sams blood went cold. Trying to recognize the voice but unable to place it.

“Don't worry she's safe here with me. We've had a very nice chat.” On the other end of the phone, there was a light tapping noise as if the phone was being hit with something. “Say hello darling.”

“Please Sam!,” Aris pleaded desperation in her voice.

“Don't worry I'm coming to get you!” Sama anger leaking out into his words.

“Why don't you try.” The voice paused thoughtfully for a moment. “You know I was going to let you try to figure it out on your, however, I'm feeling rather impatient today. The man you're looking for that killed those women is the same man who's been lending me a helping hand. Why don't you come to me and we can sort this out like a gentleman?”

“Don't you dare lay a Fucking hand on her!” The sudden rise in Sams' voice catching Dean off guard.

“The address will be texted to you.” Click.

Shoving the phone into his pocket Sam took his own gun from its holster. Rushing the man Dean held against the car. Taking him by the scruff of the neck Sam pressing the gun sharply into the man's stomach. “Next time someone offers you money for any reason know there's always a catch.” Throwing the man to the ground Sam stormed in the direction of the Impala. The man scrambled to his feet taking off running.

“What's going on Sammy?” Sliding into the front seat Dean started off in the direction of Sioux Falls.

“Someone has Aris. He said he's also the one responsible for the killings.”Sam brooded. “We should never have left her alone Dean.”

“We had to leave. This wasn’t something we could control. At some point, we knew that she would be on her own.” Dean shutting down his brothers self-blame. Cutting his hand through the air.

The brothers sat in silence until Sams phone buzzed with an address to where to find Aris. Along with it was a picture of Aris wrists tied above her hanging from the ceiling. Her head hung limp unconscious a large bruise covering her face. Furry and fear for Aris taking hold of both men. Picking up speed it would take two more hours before they made it to the location.

As the world began to spin slowly around her nothing was in focus. Aris felt her arms becoming painful yet numb simultaneously. The air was warm yet she felt so cold, goosebumps running up and down her arms, and cold sweat began to form. She could feel the presence of someone just out of her line of vision. Doing the best to lift her head she took in the vision of the dirty garage. Concrete floor stained with oil, tools lined a bench.

“Sam…” She whispered trying to call out. Her thought hurt, parched desperate for something to drink.

A hand appeared in front of her coaxing her to look up. It was calloused, and firm, a familiar touch that brought back nightmares. Each time she opened her in the morning the face was there taunting her, before she knew the image was just a figment of her imagination. Not this time, however. Flesh and blood, face staring back at her, holding her like she was a lost doll being returned to an excited child. Fear reared its ugly head turning she to stone, unable to flinch

“No baby, It’s Dan. Oh, Sweaty I thought you died.” His hands cupped her cheeks refusing to let her go. “If I had known I would have come barrelin’ after you. Shot those two dead.”

Her heart began to race, how did he find her? How was he able to get to her so easily, without her knowing. Recalling the moments before she blacked out, The man with the scar, he had taken her she had a faint idea that at a point she had even spoken to Sam, sometime between beatings. But why would he have done that if he was working for Dan?

“Don’t worry sweety, you’ll go home soon.” Roughly taking kissing her, it was painful, both mentally and physically.

“Not too soon I hope. Her company was a nice break from the monotony I have had to deal with.” From around the corner, he glided across the floor. “You’re boyfriend here was nice enough to loan you to me for the time being. Don’t worry your pretty little self you’ll be back with him soon.”

Dan dropped his hands charging at the man fist at the ready. “I’m taken her now, I did what you asked, bub. Three women for my Aris, that was the deal.”

“Yes, well deals change. I need her as leverage. You can either go hide or stand around I don’t care but she’s staying here.” He retorted.

Speaking with a certainty that Dan was not used to. Instead of doing as he was told his temper flared pulling back his fist he hit the man hard across the face. It had no effect, however. In fact, the man laughed turned and smiled. Throwing another punch still there was no reaction other than laughter. Dan stood holding his hand. With one last laugh, the man stood suddenly stone faced. Opening his mouth Aris watched as long daggered teeth sprouted from his mouth. Gripping Dan by the shoulders, they sank into his neck, before Dan collapsed on the floor.  

Standing now covered in blood he turned on Aris “They’re here.” Was all he said.

The man without a name drifted to her side pulling her down. Hitting the floor with a thud her arms were useless, one of which seemed to be out of the socket. Looking up from the floor she could have sworn that he was smiling. Pulling her up by her hair she almost missed the sound of the door being kicking open. The silhouette of a two-man stood just out of the light, it took a minute but as her eyes adjusted Sam’s face became clear. Tears started to fall stinging as they hit a cut on her cheek. He held a gun one hand and a machete in the other

“Sam!” Trying to move yet unable to even breath.

“I don’t think so, put the weapons down. It seems that you boys have a weak spot and I’m not above bruising this delicate peach.” Pulling her close he inhaled her smelling. “She is quite something you know. After spending the last day with her I see why you and that gentleman were so attached.”

Taking in the image of Dan’s body Sam judged how much of a threat this single Vamp was. Blood dripping down his chin, while he grinned sheepishly at the idea of taking something away from the brothers that seemed so precious. Laying down the weapons Dean and Sam watched as the Vamp opened his mouth moving it closer to Aris neck.

“Easy we putting them down tell us what you want so we can get the girl and be on our way.” Dean was taking the lead Sam did his best to stay stone-faced.

“I want my family back. We were minding our own business only taking what we needed and you men had to come in and kill them.” He inhaled Aris scent even deeper. “Fortunately, for you, it’s not to difficult to make a new family. Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that you hunters owe me.”

As the dove for their weapons three knew vamps dropped from the ceiling. Two young men and woman all late 20s, Teeth ready. Each vampire going after a brother while the third went for the weapons. Already dealing with more than she could handle Aris looked at the dead body laying on the floor somewhere in the back of her mind she acknowledged the image of Dean and Sam fighting desperately for their lives and hers. The pull of her hair just barely taking her focus off the body. Holding her a way that her eyes had to take in the brutality before her.

Dean dodging to the right, fists at the ready, Sam going to the left landing a punch no one of them only to be thrown by the third. Both getting a few blows in only to have the vamps get up regaining the ground that was. One pulling Dean’s hands behind him. Sam looked ragged as the vamps went for his neck.

“Hold them still my children.  I want them to see as the one they were trying to saves becomes the thing that they hunt.” Teeth cut into the vamps wrists. As blood dripped down his arm.

“Don’t!” Losing his cool Sam struggled against them.

The warm liquid forced into her mouth, Aris trying to resist but unable to move. She felt her arm and bruises heal, her throat that once hurt now felt dry a craving that she didn’t recognize pulled her out of her fog. The lights burning her eyes, footsteps in the distance thundering in her ears. There was a smell in the air that called to her. Looking around she followed it only to see the pulse in Sam’s neck. His heart beating fast rushing with adrenaline.

“How poetic, You save her she kills you. Please, help yourself.” With a laugh he let her go.

Releasing her toward the brothers Aris took a few tentative steps forward. It was becoming increasingly difficult to stay in control, to plan the next step. Maybe she should just give in let the new instincts guide her. The smell of blood seducing her to the point of madness. Eyes centering on Sam he swallowed hard as she took another step toward him. Hands shaking, mouth-watering she couldn’t hold back any longer.

[junker-town]

The Ticket

Sinners, Scalpers and the Search for God: One man’s descent into the underworld of sports

This story is being published in partnership with Epic Magazine. Names have been changed throughout.

2014 World Cup - Porto Alegre, Brazil

I ducked behind a food stand, checked my burner phone, and stashed $20,000 in my money belt. The churrasco smoke made for good cover.

A drunken choir of Dutchmen poured into the stadium chanting their national anthem. They howled over the shoulders of the riot policemen guarding the gates, the orange lions on their replica jerseys waving in the wind. The louder the Dutchmen sang, the tighter the Brazilian security forces gripped the muzzles of their automatic weapons.

The Australian fanatics were next, draped in Southern Cross flags and kangaroo swag. Soon their own inebriated chant rang through the air: Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oy! Oy! Oy!

The fans who needed tickets stood out. We called them “straights” because they stand straight up in a crowd protecting the cash they’re unused to carrying, hands stuck in their pockets, and you could make a few thousand dollars in a couple of hours if you knew how to spot them. The game was to sell your tickets for as much cash as the straights could cough up.

I had 30 tickets left with 20 minutes to kickoff. If I didn’t sell them they’d be worthless — deadwood. But with undercovers swarming the stadium, the risk of arrest swelled with every sale. Ticket scalping in Brazil carried a multi-year prison sentence, and I couldn’t speak Portuguese, so I had to be careful. Avoiding capture meant closing deals quickly and moving every five minutes. These were techniques my mentors taught me on street corners, outside the track at the Kentucky Derby, in the parking lots bordering the Masters, the hotel lobbies by the Super Bowl.

I slipped behind a well-dressed straight and whispered, “Tickets? Entradas?” He answered in the affirmative. I nodded my head toward the nearest barbeque stand. I was always surprised when people followed me, a complete stranger.

My clean-cut Mormon looks usually closed the deal, but there were also critical soft skills — a smile, counting money slowly, a somber nod — that eliminated doubt if the straights were hesitant.

I was down to 20 tickets when I spotted a repeat customer. I went over to him and nodded. He knew the drill. I slipped him two tickets. He passed me the money. We shook hands.

My clean-cut Mormon looks usually closed the deal, but there were also critical soft skills — a smile, counting money slowly, a somber nod — that eliminated doubt if the straights were hesitant.

Then someone grabbed my arm.

“Cambista!” he hissed.

The guy had jet-black hair, a leather coat, and sunglasses. I didn’t know if he was a cop, a competitor, or a disgruntled customer.

“Don’t touch me,” I said calmly.

He pulled me close and flashed his handgun. Behind him, the Brazilians working the barbeque stand motioned for me to run. I was in trouble. A cop.

The man with a gun shoved me onto a bench and unzipped my bag of tickets. His face spread with a smile.

“Cambista,” he whispered.

My repeat customer slumped on the bench beside me, hanging his head. Clearly, he’d ratted me out. In plain view, the detectives in the parking lot started divvying up my tickets. Another man reached in the front pocket of my jeans and pulled out the ball of Reals from my last 10 sales. My money belt was still hidden.

A tall man opened the back door of an unmarked car and shoved me inside. We drove along a river overhung with lush tropical trees. A cross hung from the rearview. I watched it bounce to the rhythm of potholes. Houses splashed with graffiti hugged the river trails. I doggedly fought the idea that an undercover would kill me over a few grand as we drove past kids between cars begging for money.

As the stadium shrank in the haze behind us, I wondered about Brazilian prison conditions. I wondered about extradition treaties. But mostly, I wondered what my dad would think.

1997 Final Four - Indianapolis, Indiana

When I was 12, I made a deal with my father. If I beat him in one-on-one basketball, he’d take me to a Final Four game. It was the second biggest deal I’d made that year. The first was with the Mormon church.

Twelve is an important age for a Mormon. That’s when, if you promise to obey the church’s commandments, you’re given a distinction called the Aaronic priesthood, which bestows the authority to prepare, bless, and pass the sacrament in church on Sundays.

It’s basically the beginning of a bargain: If you do what the church tells you to do, they promise you’ll get into heaven. At least, that’s how I understood it at the time. But as a lunatic sports fan, I had a very different idea of paradise.

Growing up, my father inhabited the world of my dreams: Super Bowls, Final Fours, National Championship Games. He was athletic director, and blockbuster events were networking meccas for men with entry-level jobs in college athletic departments. When he would come home, he’d unzip his luggage and hand out shirts, highlight DVDs, and Nerf balls with team insignias. Then he’d whisper with my mom about which universities had openings in their athletic departments.

Dad was good at networking. As a result, by the time I turned 12 we’d moved five times to four different states — and I eventually won the bet I’d made with him as a newly-minted priest, and he kept his word. I guess he thought that at 14 years old I was ready to see a world beyond church.

We couldn’t afford a hotel room in Indianapolis, so we split one with Dad’s friends. When we got to the Holiday Inn, his buddies Darryl and Cliff towered over a bed staring at what appeared to be piles of cash. Before I could get a closer look, my dad pulled me away. One of the men noticed.

“Probably didn’t think you and your boy would be sharing a hotel room with the Kentucky Six, did you, Pete?” Darryl said.

My dad laughed.

“Who else is in the Six?” he asked.

“Well, me and Cliff,” Darryl said. “Then there’s another guy in Lexington we work with named Pain, my two cousins, Jerry and Frank. And Redd. We’re the best ticket scalpers in the country.”

My dad laughed again. I’d never seen him laugh like that at church or around the house. I wasn’t sure what a scalper was, but Darryl and Cliff were already the most interesting men I’d ever met. And my dad didn’t dismiss them or tell me not to pay them any attention like he did when I hung out with non-Mormon kids. He was just as interested in The Kentucky Six as I was.

We woke up early the next morning. My dad put on a three-piece suit and we packed into a taxi. The cab stopped at a nice hotel in downtown Indianapolis and Dad opened the door. I wasn’t invited.

“You might have better luck getting autographs on your own,” he said. “What do you think?”

I was a gawky kid with acne. Leaving Dad to roam the city on my own sounded terrifying and perfect.

“We can watch out for him,” Darryl offered, nodding in my direction.

Dad looked briefly pained, then handed me a wad of twenties. “Alright then,” he said. “Be safe.”

Seconds after he took off, Darryl and Jerry produced a dozen bundles of Final Four tickets wrapped in rubber bands. Cliff started counting out thousands of dollars on his lap. Darryl noticed me staring, cracked a big smile, and said to Cliff, “You know what? We might be able to put this kid to work.”

Darryl noticed me staring, cracked a big smile, and said to Cliff, “You know what? We might be able to put this kid to work.”

Five minutes later, we pulled up to the RCA Dome. The University of Kentucky’s Big Blue Nation marching band was parading the streets and fans had camped out overnight to buy tickets.

“You ready for some action?” Darryl asked.

He flung the taxi door open and launched into the crowd. “Who needs tickets?” he shouted. Cliff jumped out right behind him. “Who has tickets?” he barked. Redd and Jerry followed, each hollering, “Tickets!” I ran to keep up.

The Big Blue Nation horde grew denser as we neared the ticket window, pressing in from all sides. I felt a tug on my sleeve. It was Darryl. He’d cut in line. The poor guy he leapfrogged had waited all night for his spot, but Darryl was bigger, a former high school point guard with a dangerous quickness to him.

“Here’s the situation,” Darryl said, handing me an inch-thick brick of bills. “That’s four grand.” He pointed towards the ticket windows. “I want you to get in there and buy lowers, the best available.”

I’d never seen that much money in my life.

“Like lower bowl?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Darryl said. “They’ll have a map at the window. Get half-court.”

Moments later, the blinds over the ticket windows snapped open and I slipped toward the head of the line. Then I was standing in front of a window, looking at a middle-aged woman.

“I need lower-bowl half-courts,” I said.

“That’s $1,100 for two,” she said with concern. “Those are the expensive ones. You probably want something cheaper … ?”

I counted out the money.

A sign beside the window read, “Limit 2 Tickets per Person.” But I figured Darryl had given me four thousand for a reason. In a shy Kentucky drawl, I asked, “Can I get two more? For my mom and brother?”

She gave me a kind look and slid me two more tickets.

Redd materialized and grabbed them from me. “Holy shit, you got four together on mid-court,” he said, rubber-banding them to his own stack.

Darryl appeared. “What are you doing with my tickets?”

“The kid’s selling them to me. How much, son?” Redd asked.

Darryl didn’t back down. “So you’re telling me if a kid buys tickets with my money, I have to give you the tickets?”

“He just gave me the tickets.” Redd said. “Besides, you owe me. Remember that four-pack I delivered at the Marriott? What about that, you sonofabitch?”

“Do I need to put you down?” he shot back. “Because I will destroy you.”

Redd peeled four tickets off his two-inch stack and tossed them at him, disgusted. It wasn’t an admission of wrongdoing. “I gotta pay my bills, asshole.”

Darryl didn’t bat an eye. He turned to me and held out the tickets. “This what you bought?”

I nodded.

Without a word, Darryl stormed back into the crowd. I walked down the street to a hotel restaurant and sat at a table. I still had $1,800 in my pocket.

In Sunday School, we were encouraged to imagine ourselves in different situations and ask: What would Jesus do? What would Jesus do if he saw someone stranded on the road? What if he saw someone crying alone? What if he were 14 years old and a guy as big and mean and exciting as Darryl slipped him $4,000 to buy half-court seats to sell illegally?

The waitress came over and asked me what I wanted. I’d never been to a restaurant by myself before. I grinned and ordered a Coke.

2006 World Cup - Frankfurt, Germany

For the faithful, Mormonism is much more than a Sunday pastime. The church gifts its followers detailed blueprints for a lifetime of prefab happiness, seven days a week. With a divine script to follow, there can be no doubt, no sleepless nights. And for my first 18 years, I upheld my end of the bargain, primed to accept the blessings the lord would hand down one by one over decades of obedience.

After all, Mormons like to say, it works. I watched my peers who left the fold: suicide attempts, overdoses, family estrangement. By their fruits ye shall know them. Leaving the church was unthinkable. But as I approached the grown-up milestone of serving a mission, the pressure mounted. Sunday school hypotheticals were one thing, but those who questioned the tenets of the church — or even some of the more arbitrary rules — faced severe social disapproval, ostracism, and the threat of losing precious spiritual blessings.

I questioned. And I watched with mounting distress as my peers donned short-sleeve dress shirts and headed to Paris, Plano, Siberia, Sao Paulo. In Europe, you’d be lucky to convert one Catholic, but South American missions were more like pool parties. Entire neighborhoods went into the baptismal front, one after the other. I tried to at least look forward to learning a foreign language.

But my body couldn’t take it. I’d gone to church, studied the bible every day before school, prayed, expelled hate from my heart, repented, taken the sacrament, passed the sacrament, blessed the sacrament, tithed, been baptized, gone to the temple, fulfilled my priesthood duties, and abstained from alcohol. Still, I questioned. As I approached 19, I developed Crohn’s disease, and lost my faith in God. Heartbroken, sick and alone, I decided to enroll in college and delay committing to a mission for one more year.

That’s when I met Alexis. I had staples in my stomach from having a big chunk of my intestine removed, but I walked happily walked up four flights of stairs to a friend’s apartment to get to know her. She was French. Her sacraments were wine, olive oil, art, nudity, and poetry — and I was her hopeless initiate. She’d just dropped out of fashion work in Europe. I’d just dropped out of religion. Our meeting felt preordained.

We drove up to Alaska to work on a salmon boat in Juneau. I worshipped Alexis as she laughed with lifelong fishermen, operated a hydraulic crane in a storm, and shoveled ice on the aft deck in the sun. We talked about moving to Europe. Traveling. When the season was over, we moved back to Salt Lake City and took weekend trips to Nevada to gamble away our fishing proceeds.

My parents knew none of this — just that I was living in sin, haunting casinos, and writing bad poetry. My dad arranged a lunch with Darryl at a steak place in Provo. It was an intervention, and his tool, as always, was sports.

I hadn’t seen Darryl since I was 14. He looked the same, but I looked wild, sporting a big bushy beard and shoulder-length hair.

“Looking scruffy there, sailor,” Darryl said.

“I’ve been running salmon from Juneau to Sitka,” I said.

“That’s hard work,” he said, smiling.

“How’s the ticket game?” I asked.

“We went international,” he said. “Killed it in France at the ‘98 World Cup. Did two and a half million in four weeks.”

I was impressed. It seemed a big step up from the operation I’d been briefly a part of eight years earlier.

“We’re putting together a new team for the World Cup in Germany. You interested? Or are you a fisherman now?”

Ticket scalping in Germany sounded safer than risking my life at sea — or worse, becoming a poet. My dad had given his blessing. So had Alexis. I didn’t hesitate.

“I’m in.”

Three months later, I landed in Frankfurt-Au-Main carrying a backpack stuffed with $30,000 in cash. Darryl had given me my instructions a week earlier.

“Keep the money in one bag,” he’d said. “Don’t put 10 grand here and 10 grand there, that’s just more ways of getting caught. Put it all in the one bag and don’t get it seized.”

Right. Don’t get it seized.

“And get a haircut. Lose the beard. And wear a collared shirt.”

Travelers could bring $10,000 into Europe without declaring the money. I was bringing in triple that. But I had also swapped my flannel and beard for the crisp suit and Eisenhower-era haircut of a Mormon missionary. I smiled as the beret-wearing customs agent waved me through the “Nothing to Declare” line. One cab ride later, I stood in front of a gothic apartment building that looked like it had survived both World Wars.

Darryl buzzed me in to the stash house. I followed him to a room on the fourth floor where two missionaries counted money on separate couches. A World Cup game played on a flatscreen in the background. More interesting to me was the desk with a half-million worth of tickets stacked in piles two-feet high. Darryl took a seat and pulled the cash out of my backpack. I thought he was going to count it. Instead, he dropped it into a suitcase on the floor beside him.

“First rule,” he said. “You don’t tell anyone how this business works.”

He leaned forward and glared at me.

“Ever.”

“You gotta be careful,” Darryl warned me. “A ticket hustler — unless he has heard of you, or knows who you work for — will rip you off. Don’t ever trust anyone. That’s rule number two.”

Darryl didn’t need to worry: I had no idea what was happening. I learned what I could between frenzied phone calls and chaotic bursts of activity. Sometimes we had to move product as fast as possible. Sometimes we’d hand-deliver to the straights. Sometimes we’d stuff tickets in FedEx envelopes. Mostly, we whittled down the piles by selling stacks to other ticket scalpers for cash. How the tickets landed on Darryl’s desk in the first place was a mystery.

I worked as a doorman, escorting guests from the street to the stash room. I greeted hustlers from Texas, New York, Tennessee, California, and England — listening as they argued over busted orders, chargebacks, flip-its, consignments, the board, blinks, and blowouts. Cliff, who had the build of a collegiate fullback, sat next to the desk of tickets, ready to pounce on anyone who made a false move. This was serious business.

“You gotta be careful,” Darryl warned me. “A ticket hustler — unless he has heard of you, or knows who you work for — will rip you off. Don’t ever trust anyone. That’s rule number two.”

On the third day, Darryl handed me 20 tickets for Mexico vs. Iran in an envelope scrawled with the name of a hotel and the name of a straight.

“I need you to take these to this hotel in Nuremberg,” he said.

“Where’s Nuremberg?”

“Do I look German?” he snapped. “Look at a map.”

I went to the Hauptbahnhof train station. Two hours later, I got off in Nuremberg, showed a taxi driver the name of the hotel, and phoned the client from the lobby. There was a mariachi band playing; Mexican fans were passing around bottles of tequila. As Darryl instructed, I asked to see a photo ID and had him sign a receipt. First delivery, done.

Satisfied, Darryl began sending me all over the country: Munich, Gelsenkirchen, Kaiserslautern, Berlin. I would leave the stash room in Frankfurt with a satchel of tickets and return with more than $100,000 in cash. On the train rides, I learned to authenticate tickets. Scalpers have a word for counterfeits: blinks. To avoid getting blinked, I studied the weight, feel, and shine of Darryl’s genuine World Cup ticket as the train rolled through blooming fields of hops.

Between deliveries, I listened to the small talk between Darryl, Cliff, and the crew. When other hustlers found out we were Mormon and didn’t smoke, drink, or curse, they trusted us. Trust helped cash deals operate smoothly. Being Mormon advanced the business, but it also made for a genuinely warm dynamic in the stash room. Cliff and Darryl asked after my dad, mom, brothers. They spoke about their own kids ruefully, lovingly. We talked basketball. They told stories from their missions in Europe and South America.

Then, after nearly two weeks, Darryl got off a phone call and noticed me sitting on the couch, waiting for my next delivery. Normally, he’d just hand me an envelope and tell me to hurry up. Now, he stared at me.

“Imagine this was your company,” he said, waving around the room. “What would you do?”

The World Cup was heading into quarterfinal play. Brazil was facing off against France in a re-match of the ‘98 final. It was a hot ticket. Face value was about 185 euros for a Category 1 seat. Darryl had buyers at 3,000 euros each.

“I’d try to pick up Brazil-France,” I said.

He reached into a suitcase and pulled out three bundles of 10,000 euros.

“Good idea,” he said. “Find some guys who are off the pulse.”

“Off the pulse” was how Darryl referred to hustlers who didn’t know the market and couldn’t track the surges in supply and demand. I took the metro into the city center and set up next to a strip of bustling bars with a cardboard sign that said “I Need Tickets” in English, French, and German.

Crowds of sweaty men chanted old songs at the beer gardens, flags around their necks like capes. Groups of women, shrouded in face paint, looked miserable as it dripped down their cheeks in the heat. I was wearing a polo shirt, khakis, and tennis shoes. We all wore tennis shoes in case we had to run.

I spotted four shirtless guys holding signs that read “Tickets” in French and English. They catcalled women who walked by, and their pants sagged. One had a mermaid tattoo. I was pretty sure these guys were off the pulse.

“Tickets?” I asked. “What do you got?”

Mermaid Tattoo smiled and flashed a half-inch stack. I handed them a list of tickets and rates devised by Darryl: 50 percent below market. Mermaid’s colleague pulled out a pen and crossed off all the prices, penning in numbers closer to street value. He knew what he was doing. But there was one game he didn’t cross off: Brazil-France, 2,000 euros each. I pointed. “Four.”

“Oui,” said my mark, nodding seriously. I inspected the tickets, smudging them with my sweaty thumb. The ink didn’t run: legit. I suppressed a smile as I counted out 8000 euros and handed it across the table. We shook hands, and the trio melted into the crowd.

I may as well have skipped back to the stash house. My first-ever ticket deal was set to make the company 4,000 euros. Bursting with pride, I tossed the tickets to Darryl and waited for a handshake. But I wasn’t going to get one.

“What the hell are these?” he shouted. “Come here and read this to me!”

I took the tickets back and he stabbed them with his finger. The words “Obstructed View” were printed across the middle.

“You know what that means? It means there’s a fucking pole right in front of them. Nobody’ll buy them. They’re deadwood.”

“You know what that means? It means there’s a fucking pole right in front of them. Nobody’ll buy them. They’re deadwood.”

I stood there silently, crushed. My first ticket deal, and I’d been played.

“Are you worth $10,000 to me?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Then get out of my office,” he said.

Darryl was still in a foul mood the next day. Cliff had been arrested in Cologne and the Polizei had seized all of his tickets. By the time he bailed his brother out of jail, I had prepared myself for the inevitable tongue lashing. Instead, he wanted to talk about home.

“You know, most people find God when they have a disease,” he said.

My dad had told him about my Crohn’s. My eyes welled up, and it took all of my strength not to sob in the stash room. Watching me shake, Darryl softened.

“Look, I get it. Sometimes I doubt the church and I go every Sunday. But at some point you got to give something back to your parents. My dad thought me and Cliff were losers until we hit a big lick in France. Call that rule number three. If you want to make it in the ticket game, you need to grind out enough money to earn your father’s respect.”

I was silent.

“Those French hustlers played you yesterday because you were wrapped up in the romance of the game,” he said. “I told you not to trust anyone.”

Three days later the World Cup ended and I flew home to Utah.

2010 Winter Olympics - Vancouver, Canada

Cliff and Darryl hired me full time. They could trust me with a bag of money and that was enough to overlook a five-figure mistake. For four years I worked street corners, hotel lobbies, parking lots. I darted in and out of lines at ticket windows. I was finally going to all of the events I’d dreamt of as a kid.

The danger made it all the more enticing. Every ticket I sold gave me a clearer understanding of the things people will do to fuck you over for money. There were petty tricks — blinks, fake money, bad credit cards, lying about seat locations — that could cost you thousands if you weren’t careful. Big mistakes could cost more. A busted order could cost your reputation.

Ahead of the 2010 Olympics, Cliff invited me on a trip to do market research and smuggle cash into Canada. We carried the money on behalf of our new partner, “Brent Fish”, a self-ordained concierge to the super wealthy. Fish ran an office-style brokerage in Texas offering international ticket packages through a network of country clubs. Now he needed a street presence in Vancouver. Fish agreed to cover our expenses, put up a retainer fee, and give us a backend on the profits. In return, we’d help him navigate the market, handle deliveries, and fill orders for tickets he’d already sold.

Our hotel was in downtown Vancouver. Minutes after check-in, we were circling the Olympic venues, eyeing the ticket windows. I read aloud from the Vancouver Sun as we walked: projected attendance, demand, pricing.

It was still three months before the opening ceremonies and we didn’t see any hustlers in Vancouver. Rink events — hockey, speed skating, curling — were hosted in the city but the snow events would be at the Whistler ski resort. Cliff called Darryl who said he’d call around and find out who was on the mountain.

Networking with other scalpers was an important aspect of the business. Most couldn’t resist gossiping about prices and contacts. Talking and swapping stories with them kept us on the pulse and helped us find what we were really looking for: Olympic officials selling tickets under the table.

Whistler was still open for recreation. Skiers carrying gear over their shoulders walked the iced-over cobblestone paths to the lifts. At the Olympic Village, we finally bumped into two hustlers we knew: Jessie West and Gene Hammet.

Jessie had started his career as a ball boy for the Orlando Magic — scalping tickets he got from Shaquille O’Neal — and never looked back. Gene had made a name for himself at the 2008 Olympics in Beijing by partnering with the Bunevacz family who had official Olympic ties through a hospitality company in Eastern Europe. Through the Bunevaczes, Gene procured thousands of tickets from the “vault” — a hotel room with boxes of tickets for IOC insiders only. Brokers believed he could repeat the trick in Vancouver. So Gene started taking orders — selling tickets he didn’t have yet — months in advance of the opening ceremony. He was set to make a killing.

In the spirit of camaraderie, Gene doled out burners and took us to the bank with the most generous exchange rate. Workers were stringing blue lights in the trees over the icy streets, and there was a wet snow falling on the mountains like rain. For a minute, it seemed like everything would be perfect.

It wouldn’t last. A week later, Gene’s rental car was found abandoned at the Vancouver International Airport. He’d presold three and a half million dollars’ worth of tickets to the biggest ticket brokerages in the world. But his connection to “the vault” had gone bust. When it came time to deliver, he fled, his reputation ruined and his career over for good.

That I had shook hands with Gene back on the mountain scared the hell out of me. Darryl was right. I couldn’t trust anyone.

“This baby is heating up,” Fish said.

He looked out the window of our high-rise condo. Fish had flown in from Texas with two Tupperware bins full of tickets from his concierge contacts. Prices had spiked by a few hundred percent since the news of Gene’s disappearing act broke — and having tickets in hand gave us a leg up on the hustlers who’d hitched their wagons to a man who fled the country.

We weren’t totally insulated, though. Fish had ordered about $80,000 worth of tickets from Gene and most were for the Alpine skiing downhill race — the first event. We didn’t have many options for handling refunds. Deputized to run the show, I took a wad of cash and a few pairs of emergency tickets up to Whistler to reconcile the mess Gene had put us in.

“Those customers are pissed,” Fish said as I walked out the door. “It’s going to be ugly.”

“Those customers are pissed,” Fish said as I walked out the door. “It’s going to be ugly.”

He was right. The first few clients I met at the Fairmont Hotel were pleasant young married couples, all wearing the same pairs of red Olympic mittens. Other than that, it was chaos. Brokers were promising to deliver tickets by helicopter and mothers of Olympic athletes who’d purchased tickets from Fish months in advance were promising to call the papers if their orders weren’t filled. I had to move fast. Fish’s company was recognized as an official hospitality company so I commandeered a Chevrolet Tahoe with Olympic insignia on the side and a security pass on the dashboard to finish delivering refunds to clients. Parking the rig on the curbs of the hotels, I noticed all the valets wore the same red mittens, too.

Around midnight before the event, I called the folks I hadn’t found yet and begged them to accept cash refunds or a morning delivery. These were millionaire businessmen who owned their own companies — or in layman’s terms, complete assholes. When I delivered their busted ticket orders, they spit on me, threw wine at my feet, and jabbed at my chest with their fingers. “Cash? You think I want cash? I gave you cash because I needed fucking tickets!”

But I had spotted the trends. The Olympic mittens I’d seen everyone wearing had sold out in department stores. Between events, I bought a couple hundred pairs. The day before the closing ceremony I stuffed my suitcase with red Olympic mittens, knowing I could double my investment flipping them online. And there, engulfed in the smell of unworn fresh-woven cotton and with Gene in the wind, I realized I’d finally seen the dark side of the business.

2012 Masters - Augusta, Georgia

I was running down a highway ramp with $4,000 worth of tickets in my mouth. Golf fans stuck in traffic gawked. A police helicopter swooped low against the tree line. “YOU’RE EVADING ARREST!” a megaphone blared from overhead.

It was Wednesday, the day of the Par 3 tournament — the most sought-after single-day-ticket in golf. It’s when the players relax, chat with the crowd, and let their wives and children carry their bags before the main event begins on Thursday. You could make $30K to $40K in four hours if you knew what you were doing.

But this morning, business was slow. Hustlers working corners beside ours hung their heads and smoked cigarettes. Cliff made calls, trying to find a spot with some action.

“No one’s picked up anything inside the course either,” Cliff said.

“What’s the move?” I asked.

“You want to work the ramp?”

“Sure.”

“They’ll grab you if they see you.”

“I know,” I said.

Traffic was heavy and the Georgia sunrise was bubbling pink above the highway. Face value for Wednesday passes was $50 and we could flip them on the highway for $400. But when you sold more than two passes the straights took forever to count the cash — and cars started honking. Ten deals in, I was set to make a killing when the police helicopter pegged me from above the canopy.

I chomped down on the tickets and leapt over a highway barricade into the Georgia pines. As I made for the forest, the rotor downdraft swirled the grass on the side of the road and puffed up my shirt. With the chopper blasting the treetops and cops fanning out, I dove under a fallen tree and covered myself in moss and dirt.

I chomped down on the tickets and leapt over a highway barricade into the Georgia pines. As I made for the forest, the rotor downdraft swirled the grass on the side of the road and puffed up my shirt. With the chopper blasting the treetops and cops fanning out, I dove under a fallen tree and covered myself in moss and dirt.

The sun filtered through ash trees. I heard the crunch of boots in the underbrush. Georgia had just upped the penalty for scalping. They could charge me with resisting arrest, public endangerment, money laundering — and that was before they tacked on any ticket charges. I could go to prison.

Moses received the Ten Commandments on a mountain, but I met God in a forest. As far as I was concerned, the woods were a great place to reflect. I closed my eyes. I was scared. Not scared enough to go back to church, but enough to ask for an assist.

“Help get me out of this, if you’re listening,” I said under my breath.

The whir of the helicopter receded. The boots trudged away. After 15 minutes, I peeked over my log. All clear. I jumped up, dusted myself off, and looked at the tickets. Some teeth marks, but otherwise still worth a decent amount. I exhaled and returned a call from Jessie West.

I stayed in touch with Jessie after Vancouver, and he’d recently offered to connect me with one of his contacts in London. The biggest ticketing company in Europe had an opening for a managerial position. The ticket game was changing. Kids with degrees were taking the business from street corners to computer servers while police in Augusta chased me through the woods. If I kept working with Darryl and Cliff, I’d never rise beyond consigliere. A good hustler knows when to walk away — and my days of selling by the side of the road were done.

Rolling Stones 50th Anniversary Show, Nov. 29, 2012 - O2 Arena, London

My final job interview was at a tapas bar in East London.

“Hi, Candice,” I said.

“Call me Candy.” She smiled. “White wine okay?”

She had green eyes and dyed blonde hair. Here in East London, she was “fit.”

“Essentially, your job would be taking brokers out and convincing them to put tickets on our site. You’d have a staff of three, and you’d be running your own department. You’re sure you could handle that?” she asked.

“Candy,” I said, “I might be the most qualified candidate in the world.��

She swirled her wine. Then she hired me on the spot to dress up the business I’d learned holding a sign on the highway.

Tickets International was the biggest player in Europe, one of the pioneers in connecting buyers and sellers online without ever physically possessing tickets. To start the “Last-Minute Sales” department, I was given a staff of three “supply executives”, a group of women in their 20s.

Julie was from Marseilles and had worked at the UN. Her je ne sais quoi inspired confidence. Faye was from Liverpool and armed with street-corner jokes. I was concerned about Rosie, who was from Brighton and had the look of an adorable scamp who could do no wrong. But then it hit me: In our Mormon garb, Cliff, Darryl, and I smuggled money past customs agents and outwitted police with ease. With her unassuming good looks, Rosie was actually perfect. And I had just the job for her.

Ahead of the Rolling Stones 50th anniversary show in London, I secured Tickets International a lease on a cocktail bar inside the O2 Arena. Entertainment giant AEG owned the O2 and we were illegally operating on their turf. If anything went wrong, I was fired. The night of the show, our company was hosting investors and journalists from around the world to showcase the new Last-Minute Sales department.

I took the tube to the arena with Rosie and Faye. The Underground was choked with Brits in leather jackets and gold chains. Lithographed red lips and tongues adorned white T-shirts. Mick Jagger was on the cover of every paper in the city. Last-minute ticket requests came in from all over: Tel Aviv, Stockholm, Moscow, Tokyo. I had an American phone, a European phone, a Secret Service-style earpiece connected to our bar security, and a few thousand pounds inside my black wool coat.

“Where’s Julie again?” Rosie asked.

“On a food truck,” I shouted — the tube under East London was so loud you had to yell to be heard.

“I beg your pardon?” Faye asked.

“Yeah, she’s coming into the O2 with the Stones tickets on a food truck. We’re going to sneak the tickets up the food service elevator.”

Faye and Rosie smirked.

We got off at North Greenwich and walked into a cold and foggy night. Security greeted us at the entrance to the O2, checked our bags, and waved us in. My UK phone buzzed. Julie had texted me a picture of her smiling and smartly dressed — boxes of tickets right behind her on the cocktail bar.

Reselling soccer tickets in England is considered a felony to this day.

London was a notoriously tough place to do business. In the 1980s, law enforcement had officially blamed scalpers for the rampant violence that was occurring in England’s soccer stadiums. They outlawed the trade under the logic that soccer hooligans wouldn’t be in the stadiums were it not for the men selling tickets on the corner. Reselling soccer tickets in England is considered a felony to this day.

In response, London touts bunkered operations in back offices. On my visits to these lairs, well-spoken gentlemen offered me tea. I listened to them tell stories of relatives who’d been famous bank robbers and then I’d convince them they could make more money by selling tickets online. I loved learning the market from London touts, but I hated automating the game. It ate at me. But Candy kept me too busy to think about it much.

One day she grabbed me outside a conference room. “Your department is doing quite well,” she said. “We’re going to need you to scale across Europe.”

Soon Rosie, Julie, and Faye were collecting stuffed envelopes at cocktail bars in European capitals. We smuggled boxes of tickets down Las Ramblas in Barcelona ahead of El Clásico. We operated pickups and stash rooms in hotels in Milan and Madrid for Champions League soccer matches. We ran satellite operations in Sydney for the Australian Open, in Hong Kong for the Sevens International Rugby Tournament, and in Singapore for the F1. As the girls learned the ropes, our take-home increased. Between pickups I encouraged them to buy watches and handbags to camouflage our operations at customs. Our department grew by 300 percent.

My parents had never been happier. They mentioned me at family functions again.

2013 Wimbledon - Victoria, London

“Charlatans!” an elderly British lady shouted.

Rosie and Julie fluttered around the champagne bar offering drinks, excuses, and refunds. I’d rented a high-end spot near Buckingham Palace as a pickup point for our Wimbledon clientele. But delivery had been delayed; our usually calm, courteous customers morphed into a pack of spoiled monsters. I worried we might be evicted when a waiter in a tuxedo told me I had a phone call. It was the head of the Wimbledon box office.

“We have a customer here of yours with an invalid ticket,” he said in a clipped British accent. “We needn’t remind you that what you’re doing is illegal.”

I saw clients screaming across the lobby. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

“There must have been a mistake,” I said. “I’ll send Rosie right over.”

Hours later, as the last clients left the champagne bar, Rosie rang me in a panic.

“They have me! I’m stuck in the box office, what should I do?”

“What do you mean, they have you?”

“I’m in the Wimbledon ticketing office. Security has me, and they’re calling the police. What should I do?”

“Run!”

A good hustler always runs.

Rosie got away. To reward her for her daring escape, I took her to the Men’s Wimbledon Finals. Touts we knew waved hello from their corners as we approached the grounds. Chalkboards outside all the pubs advertised Sunday roast and champagne specials. I had on a blue summer sport coat I’d bought in Paris and Rosie was wearing a white floral dress and heels.

“Hope they don’t recognize me,” she said, smiling as we entered the grounds of the oldest tennis tournament in the world.

I grabbed a couple half-bottles of champagne and two plastic flutes from a green stand between the empty grass courts. Bushy green ivy swam up the walls at the gates of the centre court stadium and we were given pins with purple ribbons to wear to show we were guests of the All England Club. I watched the eyes of the ticket takers and security guards to see if any of them recognized Rosie while we held hands and walked under the concourse.

From our seats we saw English legends, football stars, fashion designers, and old actors chit-chatting with princes and princesses inside the royal box. The ryegrass of the court was worn behind the end lines, but freshly watered. The players danced lightly on their feet, loosening their long athletic strides, warming up their swings, and judging the bounce of the ball before the first serve.

“C’mon, Andy!” Rosie shouted.

In anticipation of witnessing a proud day in their history — the first British-born tennis player to win at Wimbledon in 40 years — something spiritual welled up inside the stadium. The umpire hushed the whistling chants and the crack first serve echoed throughout the stadium. He won the first set, and then the second. Rosie clenched her fists between tie breaks. The spirit was growing and more members began to believe.

Andy won three straight sets and the teary-eyed Brits gave a standing ovation. Flags waved. With the ball boys and line judges standing in attention at the net, Andy hoisted the trophy in the air and the spirit-filled crowd burst with joy — vindicating the millions of pounds spent to see the game.

Henman Hill overlooked the Wimbledon grounds and Brits wanting to keep the party going found refuge there. I grabbed a few more half-bottles and a bowl of strawberries with cream. Plump, sunburnt tennis fanatics kicked off their shoes and twirled flags in bare feet. From where we sat on the crest of the hill, you could see the ticket office. Rosie pointed out the escape route she’d taken a few days earlier. The sun lowered over the skyline and the heat from the grass courts rose in a misty haze.

Two weeks later Candy fired me for drinking on the job. Without a company to work for, I became a hustler for hire. And hired guns had to take chances. Sometimes crazy ones.

2014 Winter Olympics - Sochi, Russia

Sochi had the feel of the communist beach town it once was. Palm trees arched over broken cement. Reagan-era, Russian-made cars were parked under blockish apartment buildings with unopposed views of the Black Sea. At night, the streets were empty apart from roaming packs of Russian policemen walking their dogs. They patrolled past Lenin statues casting angular shadows in the moonlight. It felt like if you made the wrong move you could disappear forever.

Fish thought he could make a $1M in Russia. Since Vancouver, he’d assembled contacts on the Olympic committees of corrupt countries. Estonia, Philippines, and Angola were all willing to sell under the table. Fish was also dabbling in the hotel game. He’d rented rooms on a cruise ship parked in the Sochi port and had plans to mark them up in Olympic travel packages.

We flew from JFK to Moscow with Tupperware bins full of Olympic tickets stashed in the carry-on compartments. The Aeroflot food was inedible; I drank five or six vodkas to believe Fish knew what he was doing. If our stash house got raided, Fish was my only hope of posting bail. None of my old Kentucky Six colleagues were making the trip to the former Soviet Union.

With reports of Chechnyan terrorists bannering news channels, American hustlers had decided that working the Games wasn’t worth it. Cliff scoffed at our plan. Darryl didn’t like it, either. But they helped me secure my deal with Fish: expenses plus 30 percent on any tickets I sold in the street. Cliff reminded me to try and make money on the side and look out for myself. I teased him for being scared to work in Russia.

“You can say what you want,” Cliff said. “But there is a color over there, and when you see the Russian Police wearing it, you’ll understand you made a mistake.”

“But there is a color over there, and when you see the Russian Police wearing it, you’ll understand you made a mistake.”

“A color?” I asked, slightly alarmed at Cliff admitting to fear.

“Yeah,” Cliff said. “If you see cops wearing snow camouflage — run.”

Because they’d decided to host the Winter Olympics in a beach town, the Russian Olympic Committee had to build a 28-mile road up the Caucasus Mountains for snow events. Esquire reported that the ROC could’ve saved money if they’d paved the road with caviar — provided that caviar was not also procured through layers of oligarchic kickbacks. If the corruption wasn’t enough to deter potential clients, Sochi had gone into military lockdown two weeks ahead of the Opening Ceremony as the KGB hunted for an Islamic terrorist named the “White Widow” who supposedly wanted to blow up train stations.

Once we landed in Sochi, I took a taxi to see an Israeli broker I’d done business with in London. He was staying at Zhemchuzhina Hotel, the only five-star joint in town. Workers were laying tile in the lobby.

“I don’t think you understand. The entire event is at stake here. You might not be able to sell these at all,” the broker said, flipping through my consignments.

“C’mon,” I said.

“This is supposed to be the classiest hotel in Sochi? My contacts tell me Putin is staying here, and they’re still laying tile and hanging lights in the lobby? Now? A few days before the Opening Ceremony? Look around you. They might not have built the seats in the stadium.”

Stray dogs roamed the parking lot outside of the Zhemchuzhina, where I waited for a cab. The hopes of finding high-rolling Russian clientele looked grim. I was staying with Fish at a hotel outside Sochi, where we had 40 extra rooms. The following morning, Fish opened the Tupperware bins on his hotel bed — facing the horror of losing $1M if the tickets went unsold.

On my first night out, I met two women who were performing in the Opening Ceremonies and could speak English. I hired them as translators. To drum up business, I took them to the boardwalk along the Black Sea and we passed out business cards that had the word “tickets” printed in Russian and English with a burner phone number on the back. Fish hired local kids to answer the phones. We had a small-scale Russian-speaking boiler room up and running within 48 hours.

Each morning, I stashed the previous night’s profits under hotel furniture in my room, took a shower, had a glass of champagne, and dressed in Russian regalia to blend in with the crowds outside the stadium. Around 8 or 9 a.m., I would visit Fish’s hotel room, collect the day’s unsold tickets, arrange them in envelopes according to venue, and take a train to the Olympic Village. It wasn’t until about a week in that I first saw soldiers wearing Cliff’s color of terror.

In an act of corporate sabotage, one of Fish’s contacts started double-selling tickets on the Olympic secondary exchange without telling us. These sales voided the physical tickets we’d already purchased from him. Suddenly, the tickets I was selling outside of Olympic stadiums were invalid. I only found out when a Russian client tackled me in front of the Olympic flame.

One of the Russian oligarchs embedded in the ROC had somehow won a contract that allowed him to burn off excess natural gas via the Olympic flame. It sounded like an industrial blowtorch. While the enraged customer was rubbing my face in the sidewalk, I looked up and saw a battalion of Russian soldiers in snow camouflage holding AKs with silencers.

The battalion was slowly making their way towards the commotion. The client was dragging me towards the battalion. Before the trap closed, I jumped to my feet, counted out 10,000 rubles, slapped the bills in my client’s hand, and ran.

The battalion was slowly making their way towards the commotion. The client was dragging me towards the battalion. Before the trap closed, I jumped to my feet, counted out 10,000 rubles, slapped the bills in my client’s hand, and ran.

I fled to the Adler train station — a midway point between the Sochi and mountain venues — and caught up on emails. In the midst of sending a furious missive to Fish for supplying me with voided tickets, I saw an urgent note from my mom. My grandma had died.

Grandma grew up taking horse-drawn winter sleds to church on Sundays in Idaho. All six of her children played musical instruments and served two-year missions. I was the first relative on her side of the family not to attend Brigham Young University since it was founded. All of the values she lived for were lost on me. I walked down to the shore of the Black Sea, took off my shoes, walked into the water and cried. It was time to go home. In the business lobby of the Radisson, I booked my flight at the same public computer as a band of hustlers from Liverpool.

“Tough work this, wasn’t it lad? Beats working for wages though, doesn’t it, Trav?”

I nodded and told them it might be the last time I’d see them, because there were good chances of my flight blowing up. Russia had just invaded the Ukraine, and the only flights out of town were through Kiev.

“It’s alright though,” they said. “If it blows up, ye can scalp limbs, can’t ye? Arms? Who needs arms? Legs? Ye need a leg?”

They cackled.

On my way home, I called my dad to tell him what I’d gotten myself into. I told him about working in Sochi, the bad tickets, the brushes with the police and riot dogs, and the changing nature of the game that put my career at risk. The more I told him, the more he laughed. And then he did something unexpected. He encouraged me.

He said if I wasn’t scared to sell tickets outside of stadiums in Russia, then I shouldn’t be scared to sell tickets anywhere. If I understood the ticket business, I could start my own sports company. He wasn’t an advocate of backroom deals in foreign countries, but he’d found humor in what I’d become — and opportunity.

2014 World Cup - Porto Alegre, Brazil

The unmarked car came to a stop. The taller of the undercovers threw open my door, pulled out his pistol, and re-checked the safety. An abandoned building loomed over police headquarters. Slowly, I got out of the car.

No one spoke English inside the police station. Heavy-looking undercovers stood in a corner, barricaded with assault rifles. A uniformed cop grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down the hallway into detention. There were separate rooms — divided by glass walls — for recording statements. Trying to wiggle free from the cop I saw some hustlers I knew from Liverpool and Holland. They winked and smiled. I overheard a female detective interrogating a Liverpudlian tout in a neighboring office.

“How did you get here?”

“I fuckin’ hitchhiked,” he said.

We were more than the Brazilian police force could handle. The cop tossed me onto a chair in an interrogating office while the rest of the undercovers watched the Australia-Netherlands match on a small television above some filing cabinets.

The cop tossed me onto a chair in an interrogating office while the rest of the undercovers watched the Australia-Netherlands match on a small television above some filing cabinets.

The broadcast echoed in my interrogation room. I closed my eyes and imagined the view from mid-field. I sold a pair of tickets to a Brazilian girl with long dark hair. I could smell the fresh watered grass on the stadium floor and hear the Dutch trombonists playing behind us.

A detective began peppering me with questions in broken English. I told her, in worse Spanish, that I was a fan and not a scalper. I projected the nervousness of a straight and the innocence of a kid who attended church every Sunday.

A couple hours later, I had them convinced. I had to sign a statement written in Portuguese, and they gave me back my money in a white envelope. An undercover offered to drive me back to the hotel.

When I got to my room, I took off my money belt. It was humid so I opened a window and took off my shirt. I took two tiny bottles of whiskey from the mini-fridge and poured them into a glass with shaved ice. Burner phones buzzed on the dresser. I ignored them.

I looked up “cambista.” The direct translation was “money changer.” In 2008, during the banking crisis, a bunch of traders from Wall Street showed up in Latin America with duffel bags of U.S. bills and traded down multiple Latin American currencies by hand. I looked in the mirror and tried to understand how I was in league with the types of men I promised myself I’d never become.

Summer 2017 - Sitka, Alaska

Four clients found me holding a sign and handed me their tickets. Cold mist from the Pacific Ocean hung low over the tree line of the fjords. Mountains collided along a choppy coastline. Glacier current lipped at the docks of the cruise ship terminal. I took their tickets and we shook hands. The massive crowds emptying from the ship, walking up the boat ramp in front of us weren’t chanting a country’s name, or singing, or cursing rival fans. They were whispering and snapping pictures of bald eagles.

“What are we fishing for today?” the clients asked.

In the years following the World Cup in Brazil, ticket offices around the world shut down shop. Ticket International’s London office was raided under suspicion of corporate fraud. FIFA executives faced prison time on racketeering charges. The Live Nation/Ticketmaster merger was proving to be a monopoly, and the automation of the street corner forced ticket guys to find new work or get mauled on thin margins. So I used the hospitality skills I’d learned to get back into the woods.

“The fishing is good right now. The salmon are in,” I said.

“I sure would like to catch some honkers today,” said an overweight Texan as I knelt down to tie his river boots for him.

We hopped back in the truck armed with nets, 7-weight fly rods, and freshly punched fishing licenses. Clusters of Sitka spruce towered over us, covering the sky. Brushing back the low-hanging hemlock branches, I walked the clients onto a stone washout below the bank of the Sitka river. The dorsal fins of the salmon skated on the surface of the deep pools in the bend.

“My GAWD, boy, this is where you work?” another Texan gasped, trying to catch his breath from having walked a few hundred yards.

I lined up the clients and showed them how to cast, swing, and strip their fly through the school of salmon. They hooked trees in their back-casts, and popped off flies when they hooked up, not knowing how to fight fish. One of the Texans made small talk while I re-tied a fly to his tippet.

“Now what do we do if we see a bear?”

“There’s only one rule if you see a brown bear: Don’t run.”

After the clients returned to the cruise ship I broke down the fly rods, rinsed waders and boots, and hung them on a wooden railing outside of the fly shop. I walked down the street and sat on a bench overlooking the Old Sitka harbor. Seine fishermen mended their nets on the dock, charter captains unloaded their catch in coolers, and deckhands hosed away fish blood while deck bosses smoked cigarettes and cursed the sounds of roaming sea lions.

I was counting a wad of twenties when my phone rang.

“Cliff.”

“How’s Alaska?”

“Catching salmon.”

“So you’re a fisherman now?” he asked.

“Cruise ship clients think so. I’ve already broken an Alaskan state record,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve dunked 15 clients this season.”

“Dunked?”

“You know, fell in the water and flooded their waders. I’m baptizing ‘em up here.”

“So if I go on a trip with you I’m more likely to get wet than catch a salmon?”

“It’s 50-50.”

“How are the bears?”

“I see signs of them every day.”

“Signs? What would you do if you saw a bear?”

“I have a gun.”

“If I found out you were the one in charge of aiming the gun, I’d request a different guide.”

In the face of automation, Cliff had found a new market. At the Trump Inauguration in Washington D.C., he’d gotten in with one of Kellyanne Conway’s aides, buying reserved seats at a grand and flipping them out at a nickel apiece. He did the deals in the Capitol building, and after he’d finished with Conway’s aide, he popped his head in other senate offices to see if they had inauguration tickets, too — scalping the halls of Congress.

I walked along the water to the Pioneer Bar, 1,000 miles from nowhere and one of the only places left in America where you can still smoke inside. You could see killer whales spouting in the back of the bay, hunting underwater. It reminded me of Cliff and Darryl counting money in the early morning — their shadows on hotel room walls — the work of an underworld never seen by the fans outside stadiums.

Inside the bar were long-lining captains, bush pilots, and all manner of bickering, violent alcoholics. There were smoke-stained photos of old boats from the trolling fleet and a giant golden bell with a rope swing that fishermen fresh from sea would ring to buy a round of drinks at the bar.

There was also an old deckhand named Chaz I’d worked with when I first came up to Alaska. He’d smuggled rum in and out of Puerto Rico in the ‘50s and ‘60s, and he’d sailed in and out of the Caribbean Islands before they had electricity. He’d talk about what it was like to pull up to port in a boat plugged with illegal rum by candlelight. His hands were rope-worn and weathered. And somehow, there, amid stories of risks taken and fish that had slipped through their nets, I found God’s love in the dusty light pouring through the windows. I found it in the faces of the deckhands, sleeplessness leaving their faces at the thought of their first drink. I counted out my dollar bills onto the bar, and let myself disappear. The cigarette smoke made for good cover.

[datotakux3]

Upcoming Ninja Turtle Series!

Datotakux3 is back again with a story baby! After I had nothing to do since school was over, I thought it would be a good idea if I connected more deeply with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle community (as if I'm not too deep already). Since there’s the amazing Swag Turtles, and the awesome Street Punk Turtles, why not humanized Outcast Turtles? YES! You heard it! Humanized, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. But, of course, with the twist!

 I cannot give more thanks to Hashiree, SirConCon and @cjthestoryteller for giving me not only the inspiration to draw and write stories, but to make more versions of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for the community! With all due respect, please realize that as much as me and any other person who’s putting their work on the internet to see, it is not yours for the taking! Please just read, laugh, cry and enjoy the work that I do!

A quick note to @cjthestoryteller

 Man, I have not been on here as much as I should be, but what I see you struggling with absolutely breaks my heart. It really does. Sometimes, people can be so jealous of somebody’s work, because they tried and tried to do something like you and they cannot do it perfectly. It’s how humans are, and we can’t deny the fact that we get jealous from time to time because it’s normal to do so. I see that you’ve already handled the problem, but I think I should say my part. I don’t know you, I discovered your account almost a month ago (maybe I’m losing track of time) and it was like LOVE at first sight. You’re so dedicated to not only your work, but to your fans and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle franchise. Hell, you are so creative as well, more than anyone that I can think of, including me. You are most likely a bit older than I am, more wiser and know how scary people on the internet may be. But, please, for the love of the fanbase and what YOU love to do, do NOT let that one insecure (excuse my language) fuck face get in the way of you making these stories. One day, Karma is going to bite them in the ass so hard they might as well come back to you and apologize in person for the way they’ve treated you. Big love from this HUGE TMNT fan, and from many other's as well. <3

Also: I do NOT own the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, sorry!

 Now without further ado, I shall proceed to give you the official sneak peak of The Outcasts!

 Story Summary: Meet the Teenage Mutant Ninja “Turtles” like you've never seen before. Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael and Michelangelo are born human instead of being mutated. Being put into foster care soon after their birth, they were soon adopted by a martial arts master named Hamato “Splinter” Yoshi, who saw potential in the four brothers. Being trained in the way of the Ninja, the brothers were soon bullied for the fact that they were adopted. Instead, Master Splinter raised and educated them in an abandoned house far in the outskirts of New York and were told to protect each other and the city with their life from potential threats.

Warning: This story will contain tons upon tons of sex scenes, cursing, depression/thoughts of suicide, amazing fight scenes, fluff and so on. Read if you will.

“Raphael, you seriously would’ve gotten us killed!” Leonardo shouted as they carried the injured Michelangelo to the living room, carefully setting him down on the couch while Donatello quickly dug through his medical pack.

 “If I weren’t there to take out that one man, fatso would’ve been killed! And you’re blaming me for saving his life?! Some sort of leader you are!” Raphael barked back, inching closer to his older brother with a pointed finger.

 Donatello sighed and focused on Mikey. His chest rose shakily with each breath he took, his face tensed up as he tried to lift up his arm, but Donnie gently pushed it back down. Raphael did, however, managed to save Mikey from getting a bullet to the chest, but he didn’t want to take sides in the argument. After doing a thorough search, he checked off a list in his mind. Mikey has a sprained ankle, followed by multiple fractured ribs and a broken finger, but there’s no doubt that he needed to be taken to a hospital for further medical care. “Guys, Mikey needs to go to the hos--”

 “NOT NOW DONNIE!” Both screamed, causing the younger turtle to hiss in pain.

 Donnie sighed. “Concussion as well.” He ran into his bedroom and dug around his drawers to look for noise canceling earmuffs.

 “I have no clue why in God’s name Splinter made you, out of all the other people on this team, the fucking leader!” Raphael reached down to grab his pistol, starring Leo down as he paced back and forth across the room.

 “Raph, We’ve been over this, Sensei put me in charge because he felt like I had the capability to take care of you all in case he had to go! And look where we are now, he isn’t here.” Leo slowly turned half way, giving Raphael the glare. It has been like this ever since they were younger.

 Raphael and Leonardo weren’t exactly loving and cheerful to each other when they were younger. Raphael would get extremely jealous when Sensei seemed to be focused more on Leo than on him, causing Raph to do obnoxious actions on his own, which also caused him to have a permanent scar across the left side of his chest. With being the second oldest, he forced himself to believe that he would make a better leader than Leo, even if Sensei trusted him to be the “muscle” of the group.

 As Raph was going to speak another word, Donnie cleared his throat and leaned up against the door-frame leading to the back door. “Where’s the key to the car?” He demanded, putting on his glasses and fixing his leather jacket.

 “Hey, I didn’t say you could go anywhere.” Leo quickly denied.

 “And Mikey is in pain and we can’t treat him here. Now where is the keys, Leo.”

 Leo made a fist. Being too busy fighting caused him to lose focus on what really matters right now, helping the youngest brother. He walked over slowly to the side of the couch, kneeling down to see if Mikey was still breathing. It was hard to describe what he was feeling: Anger, Sadness, an urge for revenge. But now wasn’t the time. He felt around his pants until he found the keys, dossing it in Donnie’s hand before he ran out the door. “Raphael, lift him up.”

 “See, there you are giving me orders again, I told y--”

 “Do you want to lose another Hamato, Raphael?” Leo raised his head up slowly, pupils small with a frustrated expression written all over his face. “Then let’s give our little brother help, before we blame ourselves for another death.”

And there you have it! Leave your thoughts and comments below!

[married-world-blog]

Unathi

I am outside the police station, crying in my car, unable to gather myself to go and drop the charges against PayPay. I decide that I will ready my addiction, “My Worth Crowned You”, while I wait. Perhaps some divine intervention will come upon me and help me decide on a way forward.

The chapter that I read is the where a professional side-chick is killed by the rage of the wife. Dear universe, if you are trying to communicate something with me through this book, please make your message louder and not subject it to just my new found addiction in ready My Worth Crowned You. Universe, please put a gun or a knife in my hand… something – anything – and I will kill PayPay in a heartbeat. Except, I do not have a husband who will cover up the murder for me.

My phone rings. It is my mother-in-law. I am telling her everything. I am telling her what her son is doing to me, our marriage, and the elders’ investments in my marriage. The Buthelezi elders must help me deal with PayPay because their son is evidently blinded by the abuse that they feed him. He is no different to an abused woman actually. The signs, the actions, the way that he responds to all of this: he is an abused man. And he actually wants to marry by his abuser.

“Sawubona Mah”, I greet her.

“Makoti. Ukuphi?” she replies. She is cold like that.

“I am outside a holding cell mah”, I say.

There is silence over the phone.

“Angizwanga?” Her.

“I am outside a holding cell”, I continue.

“Doing what?” she coldly asks.

“Nkosinathi asked me to release the woman who put him in hospital from jail”, I say.

She is quiet.

Then she says, “Send me your location. Don’t move, I am on my way”.

…

As I am sitting in the car waiting for my mother-in-law, I see Khensani walking out of the holding cells with bloody Pay-Pay. I think about getting out and causing drama, but then I would be displaying to them how frustrated they are making me. But if I sit here and do nothing, I will be suffering alone. I call Nkosinathi’s mother and tell her to not come anymore because Patience has been bailed out by a friend and has left.

An insecurity overcomes me and I decide to follow them. I hope and pray that they do not see me. I need to know why this girl has the hold that she has on my husband and is threatening the functionality of that marriage. We get to some very stylish apartments in Sunninghill. The gate opens as they approach it. I assume she lives here so she has the remote control to open the gate. While I am sitting here trying to figure out how I will get in, a security guard approaches my car.

“Sisi, can we help you?” the guard with a foreign accent says to me after knocking on my tinted window.

“I am looking for the closest shopping centre. I was hoping that you could perhaps direct me?” I say.

“You don’t live around here?” the security guard enquires.

“No I don’t. I was visiting a friend”, I say.

He directs me but I rather focus on just removing myself from this gate.

I reverse my car without saying thank you or goodbye. I am so rude, gosh. Please forgive me.

I park my car just behind the complex and hope for something to happen. Nkosinathi calls me. I do not pick up the phone. He calls again, I do not pick up the call.

I see Patience and Khensani walk out of the complex. They seem to be going across the road. It is a nursery school there. Khensani stays outside while Patience goes in. She walks out with a child who is the spitting image of her. She has a daughter. Wow. My insecurities grow more than intense. Pay-Pay is actually very beautiful. She is wearing simple black jeans and a simple white t-shirt. She has her afro out. She has no make-up. She is a beautiful dark-skinned woman. Now I see what Nathi sees in her. Why does she not respect herself a whole lot better? She is unbelievably gorgeous. And this mother thing – it makes her shimmer even more. I catch myself smiling yet jealous at the same time.

In no time, a Jeep Wrangler parks in front of them. A hectically old white man steps out of the car. Khensani runs away. Patience tries to push her daughter out of the way but the daughter trips and falls. Khensani keeps on running. Patience is beaten to a pulp by this white man. The daughter runs and hides behind a tree. The white man shoves Patience in the car. The car drives off.

The daughter is frightened beyond belief. I am frightened beyond belief. This quiet suburb identifies no witnesses to what just happened. I get out of the car. The daughter looks at me. She is not sure if she should run to me for comfort or run away from me in order to obey the principle of not talking to strangers.

“Hi”, I say as I get to her.

She looks away. She is crying.

“My name is Thandeka. I’d like to help you”, I say.

She looks at me, hesitant. I don’t think she knows what to do right now. And honestly, neither do I.

“Look, I know your mother. I saw what just happened. I will keep you safe until she comes back. Or I can take you to a relative that you may know of until your mom comes back”, I say.

“Take me too uncle Nathi’s house”, she says. She knows my husband. Lovely. Who knew that whores use their kids in this game?

“I am uncle Nathi’s wife so you would be going to my house”, I say.

“You are?” she seems surprised.

I nod my head.

“Uncle Nathi loves my mom. And he loves me. And I am going to be his daughter soon”, she says.

I look at her.

“Actually, you can stay right here. I will tell uncle Nathi to come and get you instead”, I say as I walk away from her.

“Please don’t leave me here by myself. If those men come back, they will do nasty things to me”, she says in desperation.

I want to say that’s not my problem. Inhlonipho phela ayikho la. How can she say those things to me after I have told her who I am? The next thing I will have this little insolent brat in my house calling shots because she is Nathi’s daughter now?

But she looks scared.

“Please Thandeka”, she begs. You see what I mean? Not even a Sis’Thandeka nyana?

“Get in the car”, I say. She sprints to my car and jumps into the backseat. She buckles herself in. She looks at me. I look at her.

I drive off.

…

I get to my house and find that Nathi has been discharged. Everyone is amazed at the child that I am walking in with and Nathi is the only one who knows who this is.

“Uncle Nathi!” the girl yells as she runs to him. My in-laws are beyond confused.

Nathi looks at me while hugging the girl, seeking an explanation.

“Uncle Nathi, those nasty men came for mom again and took her. Thandeka helped me run away. I told her that you love me, you love my mom, and that I am going to be your princess soon”, she blurts out.

Nathi’s mother looks at me.

“Yini le Nkosinathi?” Nathi’s father barks.

Nathi is silent.

“Manyala mani lawa enzekayo?” his father continues.

“Uncle Nathi say something”, the girl says.

“Hey! Shut up wena man. This is not your mother’s house. You are making a noise”, Nathi’s mother yells at the little girl and she hides behind Nathi.

I am actually hurting. I feel like screaming. I have a hatred towards this child. I am growing a hatred for Nathi too. I cannot live like this. I actually want to go back home. I want to be with my mom. I need her to comfort me and I need my dad to shelter me. I don’t have any friends or siblings. I have never felt so alone in my life. My marriage to Nathi was more bearable when I knew nothing about his life outside of me.

“Can I please speak to my wife?” Nathi says.

I just look at him.

“I need to go for a run”, I say.

I walk past everyone in the room, get into my bedroom, change into fitness tights, a long t-shirt, and my Puma running sneakers. I get a cap and throw it over my braids. I get out of the bedroom, the TV room is still silent. I leave. I get to the gate of our complex. I take a deep breath. I cry a little bit. I wipe my tears and I start running. Silly me did not stretch before my run so 3km into my run, I pull a muscle. The pain is unbearable but it does not come close to the pain in my heart. I start limping, heading into the direction of a mall. I need some air. I cannot go back home right now.

“Hey”, a man stops his car next to me. This just simply reminds me of the boys in KZN who work in Joburg for three months, buy a Polo-nyana and then come back home to promise us village girls a good life… stopping us as walk to the shop as if his Polo-swag speaks for itself. I find the entire image funny, so I giggle.

“Hawu ausi ka nnete o tlo tsamaya fela and just laugh at me?” he says, trying to be smooth.

I didn’t even hear what he said at the beginning of his sentence so he can actually just drive on. I will keep limping on.

He stops the car. Typical KZN-Polo-boy behaviour.

He runs to me.

“I think you have hurt yourself a bit. Let me help you”, he says.

“Thanks but my husband is a doctor. I will be fine”, I say. He is disappointed.

“Let me at least take you home”, he says.

“No thanks”, I say. Still giggling. I guess he is reading this as me playing hard to get.

Another car stops there next to us. Tshepo aka Dr Moagi sprints out of the car.

“Ek se”, he intimidates the Polo guy.

“Sho”, the Polo guy says.

“Everything okay?” Tshepo enquires.

“The lady seems hurt. I was just helping out”, the Polo guy says.

“Thanks but I got it. This is my boy’s wife. I am sure you understand”, Tshepo.

The guys shake hands and Polo dude gets back into his Polo and drives off.

“You okay?” Tshepo asks.

I just roll my eyes at him and limp on.

“I am on my way to your house, I can give you a lift”, he offers.

“No thanks”, I say. And keep on limping.

“Thandeka, I am really sorry about everything”, he says.

I ignore him and painfully limp towards a coffee shop in sight.

I settle there, order myself some coffee and croissants. I pull out my phone and read the pdf of my addiction – My Worth Crowned You.

In the middle of Kea confronting Mohato about Ntombi the maid-mistress, Nathi sits in front of me. I look at him. I am actually annoyed.

“I heard that you injured yourself. Let me have a look”, he says.

“I will be okay”, I say.

“Where’s Patience?” he asks me.

“Nathi, ufunani la?” I ask him. Nathi doesn’t respect me yaz.

“I need to know where Patience is”, he says.

“Why would I know where Patience is? Ngi-gosha naye mina?” I clap back.

He is silent.

“Where did you find Unathi?” He asks me after a brief silence.

“Ubani u-Unathi?” I ask him.

“Patience’s daughter”, he says.

Wow, now I truly have heard it all.

“Nathi, I know ekhaya kuthiwa kumele ngibekezele. Kodwa this is just pure and uncalled-for disrespect. Awusangiboni at all. And awusangihloniphi. Akusena mshado la phakathi kwami nawe. I think it’s time I went back home. Ngizokhuluma nabantu abadala and then you and I can get a divorce. I may be a village girl, but I know my worth. I don’t care how much of a prince you are… I am also a princess. You have me rolling in mud with whores and then you have the audacity to sit here and ask me about your whore and its child? I should have left that child there. But ke, it doesn’t matter. I am driving back home tonight. I am done with you. I am done with this Patience bull-shit. And I am done with trying this marriage thing with you”, I say.

He did not expect that at all. He is beyond shocked.

“Ngicela ungahambi Thandeka. I am sorry. I will treat you better. I will respect you better. Kodwa ngiyakucela nkosikazi, please don’t leave me”, he says.

“Nathi you don’t even want me. You want Patience. You have made that very clear. And I don’t deserve to be where I am not wanted. All of this is difficult for me too. I did not choose to marry you Nathi. But you truly believe that it is an honour for me to be married to you. It is not”, I say.

“Please do not leave me. We will work this out. Please nkosikazi”, he begs. He is on his knees. The entire coffee shop is starring.

I’d be a bitch if I were to tell him to go to hell right now wouldn’t I?

“Nathi”, a voice says.

We both look up at the human hovering over us. It is Khensani…

And Pay-Pay beaten up to a pulp.

Nathi looks at me as if seeking permission to attend to Pay-Pay.

I get up and leave the coffee shop before I could even get my order.

I stand outside and wait for an uber. Nathi comes and stands with me. I order my uber ride via my app.

“I don’t know what to do”, he says.

I am quiet.

“Please tell me what to do and I will do it”, he says.

I am silent.

“I am begging you. Anything you say, I will do. Just tell me what to do and I promise you, I will do it”, he keeps begging.

“Be with Patience” I say.

My uber arrives.

“Please don’t leave me Thandeka”, he begs me one more time.

I limp to my uber and leave him on his knees outside the coffee shop.

[janethepegasus]

BMC Miraculous Ladybug AU RP Thing: Mad Scientist Akuma

An RP me and @pika-ace did relating to the BMC Miraculous Ladybug AU where a mad scientist Akuma turned the Main Seven plus the Trinity into experiments.

(Eric stirs and finds himself laying on a metal bed, it took him a moment to remember what happened and how he got here. He remembered him, Leo, Hound, Timber, Owl, Swan, and the Trinity all facing against a mad scientist akuma. Then he knocked them all out with sleeping gas, and now he's here on this metal bed...not sure how he even got there.) (Jeremy stirs and panics for a bit, not knowing where he is. But then he blinks as the memories of fighting a mad scientist akuma appear in his mind.) (But then, the two felt a strange, almost painful, feeling on their sides, they look and saw that Eric and Jeremy were stitched together, Eric's right arm and Jeremy's left arm were completely gone and their sides were stitched together.)

Eric: Wha- Jeremy: Huh?! (They look at each other, their body and then both scream)

Jeremy: WHAT THE HELL?!

Eric: WHAT...HOW...WHEN...?!

(They both scream and freak out over this)

(After screaming Jeremy starts tearing up and his breathing picks up, close to a panic attack)

Jeremy: *tearing up* Oh god...oh god...oh god...!!

Eric: Okay okay Jeremy we...just have to-to s-stay calm...somehow...

Jeremy: CALM?! How can i be calm when i'm like THIS?! *starts crying and his breathing picks up*

Eric: I don't know!!! We just have to if we wanna figure this out!!

(Jeremy starts having a panic attack, freaking out over the fact he's stitched together with Eric)

Eric: Okay okay Jeremy! Jeremy, look at me! Look at me, breathe with me, okay?

(Eric holds Jeremy's face with his left hand, the only arm he has at all)

(Eric slowly calms Jeremy until his breathing is normal again)

(Jeremy still has tears in his eyes)

Eric: It's going to be alright. This is the work of an akuma, remember? That means we can go back to normal

Jeremy: O-Oh yeah...b-but...how are we gonna find him...?

Eric: Maybe the others know

Jeremy: But...where are they...?

Eric: I don't know...but we should try to find them.

Eric: They have to be somewhere...

(They carefully get off the table)

(As soon as they got their feet on the floor, they stumbled a bit, finding it a bit hard to stand with three legs)

Eric: Easy, easy...

(They stumble for a bit until they managed to keep themselves standing)

(They manage to stumble to the door)

(Surprisingly, the door was unlocked and they opened the door)

(They venture out into the hallway, using the wall to support them)

(They walk down the hall until they eventually hear someone barking)

Jeremy: Oh god are there attack dogs here?!

(Suddenly, a door opened not to far away from where they were and...Michael wearing only shorts and a collar, run towards Eric and Jeremy on all fours)

Eric: Oh dear god...

(Michael runs up to them and starts sniffing them)

Jeremy: Uh...Michael...??

(Michael keeps sniffing them and then he barks happily, seeming to recognize them)

Eric: Okay uh...good boy...?

(Michael barks happily and nuzzles Jeremy's leg)

Jeremy: Heheh H-Hey Mikey... *stiffly pats him*

(Michael smiles)

Eric: Um, Michael, could you...um...help us find our other friends?

(Michael barks and starts sniffing around, still walking on all fours)

(He leads Eric and Jeremy down the hallway)

(Michael leads them to a door, where someone is in there, crying out)

Eric: Hello?!

???: Open the door! What have you done to my children?!

Jeremy: Joe?! Eric: Joe, it's us!!

Joe: Boys?!

Eric: Yes! Hang on we'll get you out, just...prepare yourself.

Joe: Alright then!

(Eric and Jeremy open the door)

(They look and see Joe sitting on a metal table, his arms were replaced with Owl's wings)

Jeremy: Huh. Eric: What do you mean, huh? Jeremy: That's...not as bad as I was expecting. (Michael barks and runs up to the table happily)

Joe: Well it is bad for me! That sick maniac replaced my arms with my wings!

Jeremy: That's not as bad as US!! (Joe finally gets a good look at them) Joe: Oh dear CHRIST!!

Jeremy: Yeah, we got it BAD. -_-

Eric: I suppose Michael did too... (Michael barks at Joe)

Joe: My god...

(They unstrap Joe) Eric: God only knows what they're doing to the others...

Joe: Indeed...

(They keep looking)

(They keep walking through the halls until they heard someone calling out from one of the doors) ???: *three voices at once* Jere-Bear...

Jeremy: Sebastian?!

(They open the door and see the trinity, all stitched up together to be this human Cerberus, their heads were connected to each other and so were their minds, so whatever one mind speaks, the other two speak as well.) Trinity: Hi Jeremy...!

(Jeremy just about screams while Joe and Eric look on in horror)

Joe: Oh lord all mighty...!

Eric: Jesus fucking christ...!!! (Michael tentatively goes up and sniffs Trinity)

Trinity: *smiles at Jeremy* Hi Jere-Bear...! What’s wrong...?

Jeremy: *laughs nervously* Oh where to begin...

Jeremy: You Uh...guys noticed that um...ya know...you guys are LITERALLY STITCHED TOGETHER?!

Eric: Oh god...

Trinity: *looks at themselves* Yes we have noticed! What’s the problem? :/c

Jeremy: You know what, forget it, let's just find the others and get this undone as...fast as humanly possible

Trinity: We’ll follow you Jere-Bear! :D

Jeremy: ...Great. Let's go

(They walk down the hall, looking for anyone) (Then, they hear someone singing)

Joe: That sounds familiar...

(They head towards the door and they hear Post singing)

Joe: Son!!

(They open the door and see Post sitting on a metal table, he looks really pale and skinny)

Joe: Oh my god, Post!! *he runs over to him*

(Joe hugs him)

Joe: Oh my god, son, what did that monster do to you?!

Post: *singing* I don’t know, I feel weird and weak, and I don’t know why!

Jeremy: Why are you singing?

Post: *singing* I have no idea! Whenever I talk, I sing!

Jeremy: Huh. Again, not as bad. *gestures to him, Eric, and the Trinity*

Post: *singing* Oh god! O_O

Eric: Yeah... Jeremy: Now I'm REALLY nervous about Lin and Jordan...

Eric: Lord knows what that monster did to them...

(They get Post, Joe carrying him in his arms and they keep looking)

(They keep looking until they hear Lin’s voice from one of the doors)

Eric: There he is! Joe: Lin?!

Lin: You guys hear me?!

Jeremy: Yeah, where are you?!

Lin: Okay, you guys are a couple doors away from me, so follow my voice!

(They follow his voice)

(They finally got to the door where Lin is at) Jeremy: You’re here? Lin: Yeah! (They open the door and see Lin...but Eric’s arm, Jeremy’s arm, and Joe’s arms were stitched onto Lin’s sides, making him have three pairs of arms)

Jeremy: Oh GOD!!!!

Eric: Oh god, Lin...!

Lin: I could say the same to you! And what the hell did they do to Mikey?! (Michael barks and runs up happily)

Jeremy: I-I Don’t know!! He just...acts like a dog now!

Eric: Honestly, only Michael and the Trinity seem to have pretty warped minds at the moment...

Trinity: *smiles at Lin* Hello Lin! Lin: Oh god...

Joe: So that just leaves Jordan...

Jeremy: Yeah... Eric: I hope to god he didn’t end up like some of us...

(They keep going)

(They walk down the hallway until they hear something stomping towards them)

Lin: That doesn't sound good...

(The sound gets louder and louder until someone comes into view; it was Jordan, but he has large robotic arms, metal armor all over on his body, and he looked emotionless)

Jeremy: WHOA! Eric: Oh thank god, Jordan!!

(Jordan stared at them) Jordan: *robotic* Must. Destroy. *he starts attacking them*

Lin: OH GOD. Eric: Jordan?! Joe: Run!

(They run away from Jordan, Jordan chases them down) Jordan: *robotic* Do not escape!

(They keep running)

(Jordan keeps chasing them, his eyes set on destroying them)

Jeremy: What do we do?!

Eric: I-I don’t know...!

Lin: We can't fight him, he's basically the Terminator!!

Post: *singing* Plus we’re not in the right shape to be fighting at all!

Joe: Just keep running!

(They keep running, while Jordan keeps chasing them)

Jordan: Crush! Kill! Destroy!

Jeremy: ...Swag. :3c Eric: JEREMY HERRE, THIS IS NOT A GOOD TIME TO BE JOKING RIGHT NOW!!!!

Jeremy: I CAN'T HELP IT!!!

(They keep running until they reached a dead end)

Lin: SHIT!!

(They turn and see Jordan slowly approaching them) Jordan: Terminate the escapees. *gets ready to pummel them down*

Eric: No...Jordan...!

(Jordan looks at Eric and Jeremy) Jordan: Terminate Subject E-J (He throws his robotic fist towards Eric and Jeremy)

(Jeremy makes them step out of the way, making his fist collide in the wall)

(The fist made a crater on the wall) (Jordan glares at them and keeps attacking)

Jeremy: Seriously, who has a plan?!

Lin: Ummm.....throw Eric at him? O~O

Jeremy: IM ATTACHED TO HIM!! Eric: ALSO SCREW YOU!! >:(

Lin: THAT WAS MY BEST ATTEMPT AT A PLAN YOU GUYS!!!! >:(

(Post then gets an idea) Post: *sings* Cover your ears! (The do so and Post starts singing at an unbelievably high pitch)

(Jordan freezes and winces at the pain of the noise)

(Post sings higher and Jordan starts backing away, the noise confusing his circuits)

Jordan: Noise...hurts...unable...to perform...task...!!

(Post keeps singing and eventually Jordan runs off)

(Post stops singing once Jordan runs away)

Joe: Good job, son

Post: *sings* Thanks Dad! :3

Eric: Now I guess we find the akuma

Jeremy: Yeah He has to be somewhere...

(They start looking around)

(They keep looking around until they hear a door close behind them, they turn around and they see a figure quickly vanish from sight as soon as they looked)

Eric: What was that?! Joe: Let’s find out!

(They run towards the door)

(They go in and see the sight inside) Eric: OH MY- Jeremy: HOLY- Joe: OH GOD WHY?!

(They see Bailey and James, stitched together to be a two headed man/woman)

Lin: JESUS CHRIST

Post: *sings* Oh god!! O_O

(Michael whines)

Jeremy: Oh god...Bailey...James...!

Eric: James, Bailey, talk to us!!

(James and Bailey start to stir)

Bailey: Guys...? ???: Careful now, you don’t want to disturb them.

(They whirl around)

(The akuma stands before them)

Akuma: *smirks* Glad to see you, my little experiments >:3c

Joe: You did this...

Akuma: Indeed i have, in fact, i'm quite proud of what i did to you two *points at Eric and Jeremy* and that walking killing machine also known as Jordan >:3c

Eric: You...What did you do to my husband?!

Akuma: I simply blanked out his mind of any emotions, including love. Then i installed mechanical parts onto his body, and in turn, making his brain perform like a computer of a machine. So i turned your husband into an emotionless killing machine. >:3

(Eric fumes with anger)

Akuma: In fact, why don't i send him here right now? After all, i did fix the damage you done to him, so he's good as new! >:3

Eric: How...how DARE YOU!! You took Jordan, my sweet, brave, kind Jordan and turned him into a MONSTER!!!

Akuma: Of course i did! I turned that living beast into a killing machine! He's putting his insane strength to good use! >:)

Eric: You sick...twisted BASTARD!!

(Eric lunges at the Akuma, dragging Jeremy with him, but the Akuma dodged his attempt at hurting him) Jeremy: OW!! Akuma: Careful now! If you keep flinging around your other half, you might get split apart!

Jeremy: Honestly I think I’d prefer that XS Lin: Jeremy, this is NO TIME to be morbid!! Jeremy: FINE

(Eric glares at the akuma, his anger building up) Akuma: My. aren't YOU a feisty one? >:3c

Lin: You don’t fuck with the power couple of the armada >:( James: *half conscious* How dare...? >:(

Akuma: Well, this gives me more reason to send your modified "husband" to where you all are! *pulls out a remote a presses a button*

Joe: Oh dear...

(Suddenly, they hear loud stomping heading towards them, they look and see Jordan charging towards them, eyes set on destroying everyone except the akuma) Jordan: Eliminate all targets!!

Eric: JORDAN NO!!

Akuma: Jordan YES! >:D (Jordan charges towards them and punches Eric and Jeremy, making them fly across the hall)

Lin: ERIC!! JEREMY!!

(Eric and Jeremy land on the ground, yelping at the pain from the punch. But then Jordan walks towards them, looking ready to pummel them down)

(At the last second, Trinity appears and catches his fists and starts pushing him back)

Trinity: You're not hurting Jere-Bear! >:(

Jeremy: Guys!

(Eric and Jeremy slowly get up)

Jeremy: What now? Eric: Grab James and Bailey and run? Lin: I LIKE that plan!

(They run into the room and grab Bailey and James)

Jeremy: Trinity, let’s go!! (Trinity manages to throw Jordan aside and run with them)

Akuma: Jordan, after them! >:( (Jordan nods and chases after them)

Post: *sings* We need to somehow get back to the akuma!

Lin: But how?!

Jeremy: ...Maybe with the oldest trick in the book! (They quickly turn a corner and hide, making Jordan run right past them and they start running back the way they came)

Lin: I can’t believe that worked... Jeremy: The old tricks are still around for a reason. They work! >:3

Post: *sings* So now what?

Eric: Find that akuma and get us all back to normal

Lin: Yeah! Let's get em! >:D

(They run back the way they came until they find the akuma in another lab)

(They see the akuma experimenting with Tobias, stitching reptile scales on the back of his neck and arms, and also messing with his brain, making Tobias extremely paranoid if he wakes up.)

Eric: NO...! >:O

(The akuma looks at them and his eyes widen in shock) Akuma: Wha...?! How did you escape Jordan's wrath?!

Jeremy: Pure whit! >:3

Akuma: Well, i can send him again! So he can take you away from here, as you can see, i'm a bit busy right now! >:( *quickly pulls out the remote and presses the button*

Eric: Get him! Jeremy: Sic ‘em Trinity! >:( (Trinity charges at the akuma)

(The akuma dodges the Trinity but Trinity keeps charging towards him. Then they hear loud stomps coming from behind them)

(The rest of the holders pile onto the akuma)

(Suddenly, Jordan bursts into the room and sees the Holders pilling onto the akuma. Then he starts yanking them away from the akuma and throwing them out the door)

Lin: Dammit Tank, you’re a pain in the ASS when you’re not on our side!

(Once Jordan yanked out the Holders out of the lab, Jordan closes the lab door and his eyes were set on destroying them)

(He slowly approaches them, his eyes glaring at Eric and Jeremy) Jordan: Must complete task: Eliminate Subject E-J!

Jeremy: WHY US?! D’:

Jordan: You are my first targets to terminate! After you are ceased, the others will follow!

Eric: The akuma must’ve done this on purpose since we’re the closest!

Jeremy: Yeah! Using Jordan as a weapon against us! >:( (Jordan gets closer to them, raising his mechanical fist in the air, ready to hit them HARD)

Eric: JORDAN!!!

(Jordan throws down his fist towards them, but then as soon as the fist was near them, he suddenly freezes.)

Jeremy: ...huh...?

(Jordan starts to shake and sparks start to fly off his mechanical parts) Jordan: ERROR ERROR, systems malfunctioning! Emotion hard drive interfering! ERROR ERROR!!

Akuma: WHAT?! Emotion?! That’s impossible!!! (Michael let’s out a triumphant howl clearly saying ‘That’s the power of love, BITCH!!’

(Jordan keeps shaking and sparks keep flying until Jordan collapses in front of Eric and Jeremy) Jordan: *weakly* ...Subject...E...

Eric: Jordan?!

(Eric runs towards Jordan and looks at him) Jordan: ...Subject...E...send...task...to you... *looks directly at Eric* ...eliminate...master...set us...free... Eric: Jordan... Jordan: *slightly smiles* ...Do it...for us...codename...Peach...

(Eric tears up) Eric: Oh Jordan...

Jordan: ...Subject E...see you...when master...is gone...shutdown activated...shutting down... (Jordan slowly closes his eyes, still keeping the smile on his face)

(Eric lets out a sob, gripping Jordan’s hand) Eric: Jordan...

Jordan: .......Love.......you..... (Jordan passes out and his head hangs low)

(Eric slowly looks up and glares at the akuma)

Akuma: You IDIOTS!! You made my ultimate weapon shut down!! *pulls out the remote and presses the button multiple times* Start up! Start up!! (Every button press sends an electric shock on Jordan, but he doesn’t wake up)

Lin: Its over, Dr. Whacko >:(

Akuma: No!! It's not over!! *keeps pressing the button but Jordan still doesn't wake up*

Joe: Come Children, you heard Jordan’s last words. *ruffles his feathers threateningly* We have to set ourselves free >:(

(Michael barks and snarls at the akuma)

(The holders all glare and advance on the akuma)

(They all fight against the Akuma, giving it their all to take him down) (But during that fight, Tobias wakes up, sees the fight going on and where he is, and starts screaming in fear and terror)

Eric: Oh god...! (He tries to go to him pulling Jeremy along with him) Jeremy: Hey!

Tobias: *in a paranoid matter* WHERE AM I?! WHAT AM I?! HOW DID I GET HERE?! *keeps screaming in fear*

Eric: Tobias it’s okay!

(Tobias keeps screaming and is close to having a panic attack.)

Eric: Jeremy, help me! (They go to Tobias’ side and try to calm him down)

(Tobias looks at them and screams even louder, backing away from them and shaking in fear)

Eric: Tobias it’s us! I know we look terrible but we’re not going to hurt you!

Tobias: *paranoid* Y-Y-YES YOU ARE!! YOU'RE MONSTERS!!! YOU'RE GONNA HURT ME!!! *his breathing picks up and is close to having a panic attack*

Jeremy: JOE CAN YOU HANDLE THIS PLEASE?? WE LOOK SCARY!!

Joe: *looks at Tobias, who's shaking in fear* Oh goodness, Tobias! *run towards him*

(He surrounds him with his wing arms soothingly)

(Tobias quickly looks around him, seeing Joe's wings. But his breathing was still picking up and he was still shaking in fear)

Joe: Tobias look at me, it’s alright...

(Tobias looks at Joe and just stares at him, his breathing slowing down)

Joe: That’s it, it’s okay, you’re safe

(Tobias breathes slowly until he eventually calms down)

Jeremy: C’mon Eric, let’s work on the akuma! Lin: Post, you’re the only one who’s not deformed so purifying is all on you!!

Post: *sings* Okay!

(Post transforms as Trinity and Michael have the akuma pinned)

Akuma: *struggles* Get off of me!!

Lin: Like Hell! (He walks up and yanks the akuma off him)

(He crushes the akuma, a black bird flies out, and Swan purifies it)

(The holders all return to their normal selves, those who were joined together falling onto the floor)

Jeremy: Oof! Eric: OW!

Bailey: Kya! James: Ack! Sebastian: Wah! Max: SHIT! Philip: Ow!!!

(The ones that fell to the ground slowly get up)

Jeremy: *sees his own body* Oh GOD THANK YOU!!!

Eric: *sees his own body* YES!! THANK GOD!!

(The trinity all hug and Jeremy quickly runs over and joins their group hug)

Jeremy: Guys...! Sebastian: Jere-Bear...! :D

Max: Let’s NEVER get in a situation like that again. EVER

Philip: Agreed! XS

(Everyone else hugs and Jordan stirs on the ground) Eric: JORDAN!!

Jordan: Ow...

(He gets to all fours and Eric kneels in front of him) Jordan: W-Will...?

Eric: *tears up* Jordan...!

(Eric hugs him tightly) Eric: God, Jordan...!

Jordan: Oof! Hey Peach...!

Eric: God I missed you...!

Eric: *tears up* My sweet and brave Jordan...is back...! Thank god...!

Jordan: Aw, peach...

(Eric peppers kisses on Jordan's face, tears rolling down his face)

(Jordan laughs and hugs him close)

Jordan: Oh Peach... :)

Lin: *rolls eyes playfully* C’mon lovebirds we wanna go home ;)

Jordan: Heh heh, sure! *gives a quick kiss on the lips and gets up, still holding Eric* Let's go home. :)

Eric: Yes please :)

(They all head home, Jordan holding Eric in his arms) (Eric looks at him and smiles) Eric: I love you so much... Jordan: Me too, Peach... :)

[jasonheart1]

Renck: 7 things to ponder on Broncos

DENVER -- Clarity arrives unexpectedly. 

It hit me at 6 a.m. Monday morning as I sat across Mark Schlereth co-hosting on 104.3 The Fan. We talked Rockies pitching -- with Bryan Shaw on the DL, can someone please examine Jake McGee's calf? -- childhood music favorites and, of course, the Broncos. 

Optimism reigns this time of year. No losses speckle the record. Players remain, for the most part, healthy. An argument can be crafted for the Broncos to contend. Is that realistic? I see the Broncos as an eight-win team battling for a postseason berth into December. It will take a minimum nine victories to sneak under the velvet rope, possibly 10. Denver is better. With a few days to digest, it's time to look back at seven offseason developments that will determine whether the Broncos avoid back-to-back losing seasons for the first time since 1972.

1) Case Closed

Quarterback Case Keenum requires no C on his chest. No Walt Whitman recital needed. He is the captain of the offense. He commands the huddle, and players view him as the leader. It's hard to be The Man if you don't know if you are The Man. No controversy this season. Keenum holds the keys to the offense. Here's what impresses me about Keenum. All the small things matter. That typically leads to big things. He is a film rat. He practices with purpose. I am not saying he's Peyton Manning. No one is. But Keenum brings an attention to detail and accuracy that should help the Broncos' offense finally operate at something beyond a sitting heart rate. Mark it down, if Keenum posts a 3-to-1 touchdown-to-interception ratio and/or throws fewer than 10 picks, the Broncos will end their two-year playoff drought.

2) Unleash Von

Outside linebacker Von Miller receives roughly eight realistic sack attempts a game, in my opinion. Teams game plan against him, and quarterbacks release the ball quickly to negate his rush. The Broncos learned the hard way last season that they need to be more creative with Miller. The easiest way to spring him loose is to create a threat on the opposite side with Shaq Barrett, Bradley Chubb, and when his left wrist heals, Shane Ray. The second way? Exotic packages. Line him up in different spots. Use three outside rushers in some packages. Miller represents the Broncos best player. He must be maximized through scheme tweaks. Defensive coordinator Joe Woods knows this now more than ever. 

3) Born to run

When Vance Joseph took the job, he planned to employ a physical offense built around a reliable running game. Then Trevor Siemian went off against the Dallas Cowboys, and by all appearances, offensive coordinator Mike McCoy decided to drive the ball down the field in the passing game with three-wide sets as if Manning were taking snaps. Um, yeah, that stunk. It led to sacks, picks and numbing ineffectiveness. Joseph fired McCoy, and Bill Musgrave took over. His time as OC provided a peek into this season. He will run the ball. Keenum delivered a career season in Minnesota because the Vikings committed to the ground attack. The Broncos possess the youngest running back room in the NFL, but require Royce Freeman to contend for offensive rookie of the year honors to rebound. I believe the kid starts in September. 

4) Harris leads the way

With Aqib Talib gone, the Broncos lost their voice, and a slice of their edge. Talib played with swag, and had teammates' respect because he had their backs. With Talib gone, Bradley Roby is poised to step up. He must become a more consistent practice player to achieve stardom. He has a role model on the opposite side. With Talib in Los Angeles, it's past time Chris Harris Jr. serves as a captain. Harris is ready for the role. Everyone believes the No Fly Zone will drop off. Harris coined the term. He is prepared to show why the secondary remains legit. There are plenty of leaders on the defense, but Harris' presence needs to grow.

5) Bark at the moon

Defensive end Derek Wolfe smiles again. It's a reminder of how well his neck surgery went. Wolfe is invaluable because of his nastiness and versatility. He can provide an inside rush and stop the run, but struggled to dominate because of pain the past two seasons. A healthy Wolfe provides a leader, a rudder, and deepens a defensive line that unearthed surprises in Domata Peko and Shelby Harris last season. Add DeMarcus Walker to the group, and the Broncos should be stout up front. Good teams win at the line of scrimmage. 

6) The kids are all right

The juxtaposition between the last two rookie classes remains striking. The Broncos drafted captains with high football IQ in April. It reflected in their quicker development. Receivers Courtland Sutton -- because of body control, and freak athleticism -- and DeSean Hamilton -- he takes better routes than Google Maps -- shone in workouts. The Broncos seem bent on getting them on the field. If the two combine for 50 catches and 5 touchdowns, it would provide a lift. The X-factor is tight end Jake Butt. The Broncos need a threat in the middle of the field. He showed encouraging signs in camp. If he develops into a red zone threat, teams will no longer be able to bracket Demaryius Thomas and Emmanuel Sanders. 

7) Let's be real about line in sand

I can argue the Broncos will bounce back. But there are more "ifs" than a Rudyard Kipling poem. If the stars shine, if the coaching staff improves dramatically, if the rookies excel -- you get the picture. The offensive line concerns me. Jared Veldheer must prove he's better than he showed at right tackle in Arizona. Ron Leary has to navigate a sore knee. And there's a question mark at right guard where I expect Connor McGovern to beat out Max Garcia. This is where coaching matters. The new line coaches are switching to shorter pass-blocking sets -- no more deep drops. This can camouflage weaknesses and combined with Keenum's quick release, give the group a chance. And did I mention, they need to run the ball? 

In June, everything seems clear. The picture painted remains positive. Then comes training camp, and two words: prove it. 

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Want Broncos news? Denver7 Broncos insider Troy E. Renck is your source. He talks to the players, covers the games and reports scoops on Denver7 and the Denver7 app. He is a CU grad who has covered pro sports in Colorado since 1996, including 14 years at The Denver Post. Follow him on Facebook, Twitter and TheDenverChannel.com’s Broncos page. Troy welcomes most of your emails at Troy.Renck@kmgh.com.

from Local News https://www.thedenverchannel.com/sports/broncos/renck-7-things-to-ponder-with-broncos-training-camp-month-away