#D.C. Young Fly

[movienized-com]

Da 'Partments

Da 'Partments (2023) #TipT.I.Harris #LilDuval #DCYoungFly #IanForeman #NavvGreene #ThrowedOffJuan Mehr auf:

Jahr: 2023 Genre: Comedy Regie: Tip ‘T.I.’ Harris Hauptrollen: Lil Duval, D.C. Young Fly, Ian Foreman, Navv Greene, ThrowedOff Juan … Filmbeschreibung: Angelegt im modernen Atlanta und inspiriert von realen Ereignissen, erforscht “Da ‘Partments” die feine Linie zwischen den täglichen Kämpfen der Armen und der Magie, die innerhalb einer Wohnanlage verborgen ist…

[milliondollarbaby87]

Candy Cane Lane (2023) Review

Chris Carver loves nothing more than Christmas and he is truly determined to win the neighbourhoods annual decorating contest. In order to ensure he wins he makes a pact with Pepper an Elf which brings the 12 days of Christmas to life! ⭐️⭐️ Continue reading Untitled

[flowersforbucky]

cherry blossoms

bucky barnes x reader

you give bucky flowers for the first time.

word count: 1.7k

warnings/tags: established relationship, thunderbolts era but no spoilers bc i wrote this before i even saw the movie lol, minor references to ca: brave new world, fluff, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky

author's note: okay i am so sorry if you've seen this before 😭 posted it a few weeks ago and it had a bunch of issues with the tags. so i'm going to give it another shot and hope for the best.

follow @flowersforbuckyfics for updates ♡ dividers by @/strangergraphics ♡ header collage by me

“Honestly, I can hardly even tell that Sam and Ross came close to destroying this place just a few weeks ago.”

The early spring air is particularly cool this evening, causing you to keep a tight hold on Bucky's flesh arm for a little extra warmth. You always joke that he's your own personal space heater. You suppose that's one benefit of the serum in his veins – even when the wind is making you shiver, you can always count on him to feel as if he’s been sitting beside a fire for hours.

He notices your tightened hold on his arm and comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He shrugs out of his leather jacket, holding it open for you to step into. You’re already wearing a cardigan, but with the sun now setting over the Tidal Basin, you know it’s only going to get chillier as it gets darker. So you shove your arms into the sleeves, letting him drop the warm leather that smells like him over your shoulders.

“I had just told Sam how excited you were to see the cherry blossom trees this year,” Bucky laughs, taking your hand in his once more as you resume your stroll beneath the millions of pink blossoms. “I guess he tried to leave a few still standing.”

You snort. “How considerate of him.”

You’re both being sarcastic, of course, but you do feel incredibly lucky to be able to see the gorgeous trees – and at their peak, too. Bucky had picked the perfect weekend for your little D.C. getaway. After cramming every historical monument and museum possible into the two day trip, it’s a nice change of pace to simply leisurely meander through the park with your arm in his. You think it’s the perfect way to end the weekend before flying back to New York early in the morning.

“Are they as beautiful as you remember them being?” He asks softly, glancing down at you.

This isn’t your first time experiencing D.C.’s cherry blossom trees, but the one and only other time you’ve seen them was ages ago, as a young child. You can vaguely recall the soft baby pink petals falling around you as you sprinted down the sidewalk by the water, but it’s been so long that it feels as if you’re now seeing them with brand new eyes.

“They’re even better,” you hum, looking up at all of the branches swaying in the breeze. “Then again, that might just be because I’m here with you.” You add with a nonchalant shrug.

He chuckles, unable to hide the blush that appears on the apples of his cheeks at your flirting. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been together – if you compliment him, tease him, flirt with him – he is bound to blush, his cheeks turning pinker than the flowers themselves.

You have to admit it – you like making him blush. You like that when he does, he smiles so big that it brings out the crinkles around his eyes. You like knowing that you’re the only person who can cause him this kind of physical reaction.

That’s when an idea pops into your head. It’s innocent enough – other than a couple walking with their two young children a few yards ahead of you, there’s no one else around – so it’s not like you’d be potentially embarrassing him.

You just think he’s really fucking cute when he blushes.

You pause your steps, pursing your lips to try to stop yourself from smirking. Bucky freezes, too, eyeing you with raised brows.

“What’s that look for?” He asks, his tone making it obvious that he knows you’re up to something.

“Wait right here,” you order him before pulling your arm away from his. You practically skip over to the nearest tree, reaching up to the lowest hanging branch that you can find. On your tiptoes, you delicately remove sprigs of the blossoms until you have enough to form a tiny bouquet.

You feel a little silly. You’ve never presented a guy with flowers before. But Bucky isn’t just any guy, and if any man has ever deserved flowers, you know that it’s him.

“I know it’s not quite as extravagant as the bouquet that you gave me on Valentine’s Day…” You hand him the tiny bouquet of pink flowers, thinking back to the ornate arrangement of wildflowers that he’d gifted you earlier this year. “But it’s the best I can do it at the moment.”

He opens his mouth in surprise, momentarily speechless as he accepts the flowers from you. Just as you had predicted, his cheeks begin to flush pink once more. This time brighter and more evident than before.

“For me? You shouldn't have.”

He selects one of the individual flowers and raises his hand to your head. You go still, not taking your eyes off of him as he places the stem behind your ear. You feel your own cheeks heat up at the intimate gesture.

“You know, I've always thought that pink looks pretty on you,” he tells you, moving his hand away from your ear and to your face. He cups the side of your cheek in his palm, then leans down far enough to lightly kiss your forehead.

The fleeting thought crosses your mind that it's a good thing that the walking trail for the cherry blossom trees isn't crowded this evening, because you and him are stopped right in the middle, taking your sweet time.

“We should get one, you know,” you say, nodding towards the tree closest to you. “A young one, so that we can plant it and watch it grow. We’ll have to get out of an apartment and find a place with a nice yard first, but…” You trail off in wishful thinking.

Bucky had terminated the lease to his own apartment early, choosing to move in with you. But the lease to your Brooklyn apartment will soon be up, too, and the two of you had started to have discussions about future living arrangements. Rent isn’t exactly cheap in downtown Brooklyn, and both of you long for something a bit more quiet and private.

“Whatever you want,” he murmurs. “We get out of the city and we’ll plant as many cherry trees as you want.”

One Year Later

The aroma of garlic and herbs in tonight’s dinner fills the entirety of your home from where it roasts in the oven.

For the tenth time in the last half hour, you glance at the clock while you finish washing the dishes that had been dirtied while prepping food.

It's not that you’re impatient – it’s just that Bucky is never late. Five or ten minutes, sometimes, sure. But never forty five minutes. He’d sent you a text only a few hours ago telling you that he’d be home at six o’clock, and the digital clock on the oven now reads 6:42.

You had tried to call him when you realized he was half an hour later, just to make sure that everything is alright, but his phone went straight to voicemail. You reminded yourself that he’s the worst at remembering to charge his phone, and that he is likely driving home and totally fine.

But despite how many times you’ve tried to assure yourself of this, you can’t stop yourself from pacing the kitchen floor or from glancing out the window at your driveway every other minute. You even opened said window and turned off the music you’d been listening to while preparing dinner so that you’d be able to hear the loud engine of his truck when he’s close to home.

Just when you’re about to click on his name in your call history again, you feel the familiar vibration of tires against gravel. By the time that you get to your kitchen window, his pick-up truck’s headlights are shining in the direction of the house. You exhale, relieved that you’d been overthinking. As you tend to do, when it comes to his safety.

You shove your feet into a pair of slippers, stepping outside to greet him from the front porch. Maybe it’s just residual nerves, but you instinctively lean against the bannister, crossing your arms over your chest.

He hops out of his truck and you immediately notice an expression of undeniable excitement on his face. It eases your lingering anxiety, knowing that he’s here and that he’s seemingly unharmed.

You just never fucking know with him.

“What’s got you so smiley?” You chuckle, walking down the few porch steps to greet him. He instantly opens his arms to you, and you practically jump off the last step into his embrace. Right away, you know that he’s been sparring with Sam. His t-shirt is slightly damp with perspiration and you can smell the freshly reapplied deodorant.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he murmurs in sincerity. “I was going to text you and but my phone is dead. Time got away from me while boxing with Sam…” he trails off, planting a kiss to your forehead. “And I may have had to make a quick stop somewhere on my way home.”

You pull back, looking at him quizzically. “Oh, yeah? Where’s that?”

He jerks his head in the direction of his truck with a mischievous grin. “Come and see for yourself.”

You follow him to the truck bed, your mouth immediately falling open at what lays inside.

“Is that--?”

“A baby cherry blossom tree?” He interrupts, clearly satisfied at successfully surprising you. “That it is. Stopped by the local plant nursery just to see if they happened to have any. This was the very last one.”

You’re silent. You recall the moment between you and Bucky beneath the cherry blossom trees in D.C. just a year ago, when he’d promised you as many of the trees as you like once you and him got a house with a nice yard, away from the city. You’d finally moved into your new house together just before the holidays, but between getting settled in, staying busy with work, and the weather simply being too cold to even thinking about flower blossoms until recently, the conversation about getting a cherry tree of your own had completely slipped your mind.

“I can’t believe you remembered that,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his midsection again.

You feel the vibration radiate from his chest when he laughs.

“Of course I remember the first time a girl gave me flowers.”

thank you so much for reading, as always comments and reblogs are always so appreciated 💖🫶🏻 and once again i'm sorry for the repost!

[peanutalergy]

to leave the warmest bed i've ever known - s.r. × reader

and it always leads to you in my hometown

tags: situationship angst yet again did you really think i was okay?? i think this could be any season spencer but i did imagine post prison if that even matters; fem!reader; there's nothing really explicit but heavily implied that they sleep together . . .

w/c: 1.6k

a/n: this is quite literally just 'tis the damn season by taylor swift but it's really poorly written there's nothing else to say also I gotta stop writing stuff about things I went through myself this is not a good look for me... this is probably not canon lore accurate at all sorry

spencer rolls over on the bed, throwing an arm over your waist as he nuzzles his face into your neck. with a kiss to his forehead, you start running your hands up and down his back, which gets a sleepy groan out of him. the sunlight sneaking in from a crack in the blackout curtains is the only other source of heat around you, since the covers were tossed throughout the night too far away for you to grab without waking him, so you pull him closer in an attempt to warm up.

you’re not exactly sure what this is, but the two of you know you’re stuck in it. you’ve known spencer since you were young, having lived in the same neighborhood, but it was only when he came to las vegas again, years after moving out, that you really started talking to each other, and you started seeing him as more than the kid who graduated at twelve. you've loved him since.

whenever he’s in town, whether it be for a case or to visit his mother, he stops by your apartment. he’s usually only with you for a night or two at a time; this time, he came back to stay an extra day due to the weather not allowing them to fly out just yet. he told you the whole team was upset about it, but he seemed ecstatic when he knocked on your door again only a few hours after having said your goodbyes.

it’s then, when he shows up at your door like a lonely puppy to stay the night, that you get to pretend you are his and he is yours, even if only for a few hours. when you wake up before him, you just stare at his peacefully sleeping state and hope, deep down, that this time he decides to stay. he won’t. you know it, he knows it. in a few hours, he’ll take the plane back to d.c. and you’ll take the bus to the lonely office job that you don’t have the courage to leave.

it’s not that he doesn’t love you. he’s told you and shown you just how much he loves you multiple times before. you were each other’s firsts everything, and despite having been with other people since, it’s never the same. but you’re far too different to have a proper life together. you can’t go, he can’t stay. over the years, you’ve come to terms with the fact that you can’t be with the only man you’ve ever truly wanted to be with; doesn't mean you're happy about it.

he lets out a low, quiet noise, and you realize he’s slipping awake as he shuffles in your arms. he mutters something under his breath, before opening his puffy eyes and smiling at you. chuckling softly, you whisper, “good morning, baby.”

he hums in response and presses his lips to your collarbone, which begins a series of kisses all the way up your neck and jaw, until he reaches your mouth, leaving only a quick smooch there. you don’t let him kiss you any more than that, you never do in the morning before you brush your teeth. he knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from trying every time.

“morning,” he mumbles and buries his face into your chest, pretending to be upset by your refusal to kiss him. you answer with a chuckle, still rubbing his bare back gently.

you hold each other like that for a while, probably having drifted in and out of sleep a few times, until his phone starts buzzing aggressively. he lifts up his head, reaching over you to take it from the bedside table and already looking at you apologetically.

“i thought your flight wasn’t until the night..?” you mumble, confused and startled by the sudden break of a moment of such peace and quiet.

“yeah, well…” he says as he sits up on the bed and presses the phone to his ear; you don't have to try to listen to who's speaking or what they're saying on the other side of the call anymore, you know it's about him leaving.

as he starts speaking, his hand starts rubbing your leg, a useless attempt at distracting you from what he's saying: “yeah, i'll be there in an hour.”

he hangs up the phone and presses another peck to your lips before standing up. “i gotta go, baby, ‘m sorry” he mumbles, picking up the trousers that were thrown on the floor last night and pulling them on.

“what about the weather?”

“hm, they said it's okay to fly now.”

you hum and nod, sitting up and staring at him while he gets dressed, already mourning the heat of his body next to yours, “do you have to leave now?”

“well, the airport is 27 minutes from here, so taking into consideration the traffic and all the chaos before boarding, i’d say we can have breakfast together.”

“okay.”

silence falls between you, the only sounds heard being the shuffling of your clothes as both of you pull them on your bodies. wearing the exact same thing as last night, you walk out into the kitchen as spencer goes to the living room to look for his things. “i've got some bagels we could have with cream cheese…? i'd offer you some cereal, but i know you don't like it, so…”

“oh, yeah, no, bagel is perfect. i'd love that.” he mumbles, smiling up at you from the couch, where he sits putting on his shoes.

you nod as you take the things from the cupboard, slicing a couple of bagels and tossing them in the toaster before leaning over the countertop, staring at him with a smile.

when he's done getting ready, he walks over to sit at the counter across from you, giving you a look that told you the words he would say before he said them: “you could come with me.”

“you know i couldn't, spence.” you shake your head, looking down as the toaster scares you with a jump.

“you could. you could find a better job there, or not even work, i make enough for the two of us, you could just live with me. we could actually be together.”

“you don't even know if we'd be good together, you only see me every once in a while, for like… three days. i can't just leave everything i’ve ever known like that, when i can't even be sure if you'll want to be with me for more than a week.” you speak as you spread the cream cheese over the bagels.

he's about to refute that, but you shoot him a look asking him to not do so before he can even open his mouth. he exhales and looks to the floor, before he glances up at you and says softly, barely above a whisper, “i can't be with anyone else.”

the truth is, you can't, either. in the beginning, you had tried being with other people, one night stands, or even actual relationships, but none of them made you feel the way spencer did. so you gave up on trying, and you accepted the fact that, unless either of you gave in, you'd die alone.

even scarier than dying alone is dropping everything you have to go someplace new.

you give him the plate with the food, putting some of it in your mouth and chewing as you think.

“i don't even know anyone in washington.”

“you know me.”

“and what if you decide you don't want me anymore? then i'm stuck all by myself, with absolutely nothing and no one.”

“that's not going to happen, sweetheart. i know you well enough to know i love you, and i'd love to be with you properly. and even if we did break up–which i'm certain we wouldn't–i would never leave you like that.”

you give him another look, one that begs him to shut up, because you know if he keeps talking, he'll convince you. and that's not something you can have right now. he takes the signal and stops, silence falling between the two of you until you finish eating.

“you’re about to be late.” you say, dropping off the dishes in the sink before walking around the counter to help him out.

he nods as he throws the bag over his shoulder, walking with you to the door. you unlock it, hesitantly letting him out, and you pull him in for a hug when he steps into the hallway, burying your face in his chest.

“i love you.” he whispers, arms wrapping around your waist before he presses a kiss to your lips. this time, though, you actually let him kiss you. it's worth it, morning breath doesn't matter anymore.

when you pull away, he rests his head on yours and you smile up at him, speaking just as softly, “i love you.”

“come…?”

you shut him up with another kiss, and he sighs when there's distance between you again. “bye, spence” you mumble, hugging him and nuzzling into him again.

“see you later,” with a smooch to your forehead, he pulls away and turns around, walking to the elevator. you stand there, leaning against the door until he's out of your sight, then a little more, before going back inside.

you know the rest of your week will consist of crying yourself to sleep while you wish for the bau to be needed in nevada again, and the week after that, of cursing yourself for not having gone with him.

it's a routine you know all too well at this point, saying goodbye, and yet, it always affects you the same.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Melissa Gira Grant at TNR:

Late Sunday, a reported 20,000 people joined an organizing call quickly convened by Indivisible, a group founded to push back on Trump’s first administration, in response to actions largely undertaken by one of his unelected lackeys, the chaotic tech entrepreneur Elon Musk. As the call maxed out its capacity, tens of thousands more watched via YouTube. Meanwhile, outside an otherwise unexciting federal building in Washington, federal workers and D.C. residents assembled. Inside, under orders from Musk (who apparently paid his way into the president’s good graces), a small group of young men, whose only professional experience was working for one of Musk’s or Musk’s cronies’ companies, were wreaking havoc on federal payment systems. “Musk is inside the Treasury right now with his cadre of flying monkeys, and we don’t know what they’re doing,” said Indivisible co-founder Ezra Levin on the organizing call. No one seemed to know how to stop them.

But the accounts from that small protest outside the federal building, with just a few people blocking the doors—backed up by chants of “There’s a robbery in progress”—put a spotlight on the scene and gave it a story. On Monday morning, as federal workers reported lockouts from their offices, more people joined. Some protesters took to the street outside the Office of Management and Budget and blocked traffic. And the next day, Indivisible demonstrators and Democratic members of Congress gathered at the Treasury Building in opposition to Musk’s ongoing takeover, which some lawmakers were by then plainly calling an “illegal raid,” in which he “illegally seized power.” When they tried to get into Treasury on Tuesday, they were turned away. “We’re not going to allow them to steal from our people, from working-class people!” Representative Maxwell Frost said at the rally assembled outside.

In the wake of the November election, multiple news outlets ran stories suggesting that, this time, the president’s opposition were exhausted and inclined to sit this one out. But the fact that the National Mall isn’t packed with pussy-hat-wearing women does not mean that everyone has moved on. Some may have, of course, like the group of Pennsylvania women profiled in The New York Times ahead of the 2025 inauguration, whose first experience organizing was protesting Trump’s first term. (But, to be fair, we don’t know how many people in that particular demographic have really tuned out.) The story those particular protests were telling—a man who sexually assaulted women was in the White House, and himself was a threat to democracy—has only gotten more grim, more all-encompassing, in the last eight years. If anything, there is too much to protest and there are too many villains, an overwhelming number of stories competing for attention and action. But protests are, in fact, happening—and this week, more people are starting to show up.

At the same time as some lesser-known federal office buildings became sites of protest on Sunday, thousands of people across the country were turning out in opposition to Trump’s promised mass deportations and the already-escalating ICE raids: In Los Angeles (blocking the 101 Freeway), Phoenix, Las Vegas (over several days, including hundreds outside Trump’s hotel), Dallas, and Atlanta, among others. On Sunday and Monday, a few thousand people in Washington, D.C. and New York protested Trump’s attempted bans on gender-affirming care for young trans people. On Tuesday, as Trump contemplated shutting down the Department of Education by executive order, students walked out of schools in Los Angeles, and members of the Chicago Teachers Union held “walk-ins” at 100 schools, calling for protections for immigrant students, parents, and educators.

What do we know about these protests? It’s too early to make any data-based generalizations. But based on the rapid-fire research I did for this story, including going to some of these protests (both now and in the first Trump administration), they are not primarily organized under a banner of “Resist Trump.” Protests have mobilized around Trump’s orders, but they are also targeting those who are carrying out his orders, whether that’s responding to an ICE raid in their own neighborhood or to a hospital that is preemptively banning gender-affirming care. Many of these same protesters, not coincidentally, remained active no matter who was in the White House.

Their communities did not see the Biden years as a victory but as a possible reprieve. That reprieve didn’t materialize: Biden didn’t brand his deportations as Trump did, and they weren’t media spectacles, but by the numbers available, he removed as many people from the United States as Trump did in his first term. For trans people, who Biden did at least mention in some speeches and whose rights he backed in a number of executive orders, almost all of that has been undone by two weeks of Trump. The Biden years also saw a constant onslaught of attacks on trans people at the state and local level. There was nothing to sit out. Maybe, to those who deemed protesters “tired,” this resistance doesn’t look like what they expected. Perhaps they don’t see protests led by immigrants and trans people as part of the resistance, or see these as side issues—even though those are the communities Trump is specifically targeting.

The resistance to Tyrant 47 feels and looks different from Autocrat-in-Chief Trump’s first term. #Resist47 #ResistTrump

[vague-humanoid]

I am a Black woman who for most of my life has often been mistaken for white. And I’m here to tell you that for four decades white people have openly, even sometimes proudly, expressed their racism to me, usually with a wink and a smile, all while thinking I’m white too. 

The incidents pile up, year after year — at a friend’s wedding, when I met a new roommate, at the grocery store, while riding in a taxi, and during innumerable other events from daily life.

As the nation begins, finally, to focus on the social injustice that takes place across this country — from the South where I grew up to the North where I’ve lived for the past 22 years ― I feel the collective pain. Even as a very fair-skinned Black woman with green eyes and light brown hair, I, too, have experienced racism. But I’ve also been a fly on the wall when white people didn’t know anyone of color was looking or listening.

Imagine taking a car service to Newark airport for a business trip, and the driver, a retired white police officer, tells you and your white boss that were he still a cop, he would pull over the Black driver stopped next to us, just because he is Black. Or the white taxi driver who, during a business trip in the South, freely shares broad generalizations about groups of people, looking to either find a kindred soul or spark a debate with a Northerner — one who he thought was white.

Put yourself in my shoes when you move to Reston, Virginia, temporarily while you wait for your apartment to become available in Alexandria, and your new roommate, a young, white male, one who you thought was kind and warm, warns you to be careful of venturing into Washington, D.C., because every time he goes there he gets “robbed by Black people.”

“Really, every time?” I questioned.

Think how upsetting it would be to join your boyfriend at the time (who also looks all white but is biracial) at his friend’s wedding and one of the guests states he doesn’t want his daughter going to a particular concert because there will “be way too many Black people.” 

How do you respond to something like this? How do you respond while at a social gathering where etiquette suggests politely smiling, or at least pretending not to have heard? 

There’s the executive who asks, “Is this the ethnic Cheryl?” when I wear my hair curly rather than straight. What about the random stranger in the grocery store who can’t understand the texture of my son’s hair and repeatedly asks questions about my background while putting her hands all over my son’s head.

Imagine the district retail manager who balks at hiring a Black model for a fashion show I’m in charge of planning, despite the store having a diverse customer base. “She is just not right for this crowd, if you know what I mean.” I knew. But she didn’t know — that maybe I’m not right for her crowd, either.

[chambersandfogg]

April 2nd, 1930

Dear John, 

Thank you for your March 29 letter, and for the restatement of your invitation to California. I believe you, when you say that even such dire times as these seem somewhat less so in the face of sun and an ocean breeze. But I can’t tear myself away from the Eastern coast just yet. I think I may finally have a way to make true in roads in D.C. I’m not under any delusions that I’ll get Hoover’s ear, but I have to try. 

I regret having to reject your invitation to Los Angeles, but I have no regrets about rejecting your offer of money. I’m not so hard up as to need a hand out from you, though I do appreciate the gesture for what it is. Because yes, if you must know, most of my wealth was either given away or put into stocks. But I still have the Manhattan home. It’s on the market now and while it certainly will go under asking price if it goes at all, I’m sure the funds will be enough to get me through this difficult period. It can’t last forever. 

I did have the thought—one complicated by how far in the halls of power I’d like to get over the next year—that it might be time to start thinking about killing Charles Chambers. He’s in his sixties now, not too young for his passing to be conspicuous, and losing what I have in the finance department may have been a blessing in disguise when it comes to this particular conundrum. I can fade into obscurity quietly, amidst the chaos of the current turmoil. 

Killing Charles Chambers is one thing, but who will I be once reincarnated? I’m too old a dog to learn the trick of a new name but “Charles Xenophon” is hardly suited for flying under the radar.  Have you given any further thought to your future self? Do you imagine you’ll still try to pass yourself off as your own grandson? I do see the merits in that, in terms of making claims on your own estate, but what of the scandal? You have no marriages on record, so any child you had that could have produced a grandchild would have to be a bastard. People will talk. Though I suppose you always have liked people talking about you, no matter what they’re saying. 

What we need is a conspirator, John. Someone in the law profession who might be able to ease the way for us generation to generation. Then again, we’d run into the same problem of needing to convince a new person of our nature every sixty years or so. Perhaps a family law firm—a line of fathers and sons who can aid and abet us in committing some light fraud. I never thought I’d be a man to commit any crimes and yet your presence in my life has led to the contemplation of law-breaking on several counts. And when it comes to our continued existence in society, there really is no other option. 

Until such time, I remain, for now,

Your friend,

Charles Chambers

[a letter received by J. S. Fogg]

[to read the pre-1917 entries, join Atypical Artists and get access to the archive of 24 entries (5,000+ words), as well as ad-free episodes of Atypical's whole catalogue. to receive future monthly missives straight to your inbox, sign up for free here]

[h-l-v-kennedy-blog]

Unadvised (getting so close to someone so quickly)

pairing: robert kennedy x oc (ava worthing) synopsis: months fly by and bobby is surely falling in love with ava, even if the timing isn't exactly ideal. warnings: nothing that crazy tbh, joe sr. being an asshole in passing, mentions of bobby loathing lbj. word count: 2,254 notes: after a long time, bobby and ava's story continues. i'm posting this on valentine's day, so happy valentine's, this is your little gift from me to you, readers. here is part 3.

There was a date, then two, then five and more than a dozen in the summer of ‘59, nothing explicit, for in Bobby’s family, he was the more prudish and least lewd of his brothers. But there was a linger of deep desire for Ava, that he began to fester inside him, with or without her near him.  

One month turned to two and so on. Bobby couldn’t help but enjoy any moment of her presence. But such joy wasn’t to be permanent. Jack’s presidential campaign for the party nomination was coming to a head. He was helping lay the groundwork in several states for the campaign, meaning he was travelling all around the country.

He was also managing it, and he knew what words his father would inevitably say to him. “No distractions, head in the game if we want Jack in the White House in January ‘61. After that, do who- or whatever you want. Until then, keep your nose clean and your goal is the campaign.”  

Which the patriarch Joseph P. Kennedy did say to Bobby, no earlier than in late October 1959. 

“Bobby, I know you’ve found some company for yourself, and your mother and I couldn’t be happier. But if she’s going to become a liability or a distraction, then you need to end it. Nothing is going to stand in my... Jack’s way to the White House. No young graduate who’s turned your head, no one.” 

Bobby understood the possible image it would taint. But Ava wasn’t wholly undesirable. She was raised Catholic, came from a good background (her father ran a widely successful publishing company in New York), and was educated. Sure, she was younger than him. The same could be said for Jack and his wife Jacqueline, who had a gap of twelve years, same as him and Ava. So, it wasn’t all that unseemly. However, he argued with himself, it wouldn’t exactly look the best if his courtship would be made public. “Campaign manager is busier with his girlfriend than the campaign” or some headline like that passed through his mind. Because it would derive attention away from Jack and his campaign. Which wasn’t the goal. 

All in all, Joe Sr.’s words meant in short: “Keep this to yourself, don’t overshadow your brother. Don’t bring attention to yourself.” 

And Bobby did what he thought was best. 

He busied himself more with the campaign. Ava was away in the fall and most of the winter of ‘59 anyway. On a ‘worldliness tour’ was what Ava jokingly called it when sending Bobby letters, handwritten letters from Rome, Paris, Tokyo, Berlin and London. He missed her terribly, so terribly in fact he kept one of her letters tucked in a pocket of his slacks or whatever form of pants he wore. He, one time, mistakenly had tucked a letter in his shorts while down in Palm Beach during the holidays and his younger sister Pat had pushed him into the pool. The result was a soaked and ruined letter. Something he fretted over, but to his disdain was unsalvageable. Still, he didn’t deter from keeping a part of her with him at all times. 

--- 

On January 3rd, 1960, Senator John F. Kennedy announced his choice to seek the Democratic Parties nomination for president of the United States of America, meaning the campaign was fully on.  

--- 

April 1960 

Ava was back now. And after settling herself in her shared apartment in Foxhall Village, a neighbourhood in D.C, not that far from Georgetown. She didn’t have a day job yet, and she didn’t really need one, but she knew she had to find something to occupy her days with.  

The phone rings in the hallway, she picks up the black handle. “Hello?” 

“Hello, Ava.” Bobby’s voice crackled through the receiver. 

“Hi, Bobby. Remind me, where are you again?” Ava rested the handle in the crook of her neck as she took the rotary phone into her hand and moved it into her living room, free hand pulling on the long black cord as she collapsed into a blue armchair.

“West Virgnia, the primary-” 

“Jack’s facing off Humphrey, yes, I remember.” She cut him off, remembering. “Oh, sorry, I talked over you.” 

“No, no. I’m glad you remembered, and you can talk over me all you want.” He said things like that, making her insides feel a bit warm and fuzzy. 

“Are you sure? I know it’s a bad habit.” 

“I’m sure, Ava. I like listening to you talk...I miss that.” 

“Should I buy myself a Dictaphone and record myself, and send you the tapes?” A slight laugh came from the other line. 

“I don’t think you have to go to that much trouble for me.” He tried to verbally wave off the idea. 

“Oh, but you’re worth the trouble.” She insisted. Ava had noticed that Bobby could put himself down and downplay his own qualities, and she didn’t like it one bit. 

“Just hearing your voice is enough...and it reminds me that at least one person is definetly voting for Jack.”  

She chuckled and tried to parry his words. “Are you sure, I might swing my vote, who knows?” 

“Oh.” That ‘oh’ meant he had been serious when he said what he said. 

Ava backtracked instantly. “Hey, no ‘oh’, I was kidding, of course I’m voting blue. You know my family votes blue no matter who it is. And if it’s Jack, all the better.” 

“I...I knew that...that you were kidding.” His voice became more high-pitched and reedy when he was nervous or feeling insecure. 

“Bobby, let’s move on. I’m voting Kennedy after your brother takes the nod at the DNC. We’re good, okay? Now, when did you think we could go out for-” 

“I want you to meet my parents.” He said it so fast she was almost sure she misunderstood. 

Ava froze and an empty airspace formed on the phone line. 

She managed to find her voice: “Wa-wait, what? You want me to- Bobby, I’m flattered-” 

“Oh.” Another damn ‘oh’. 

“Let me finish, all right?” 

A hum came from Bobby’s end. 

“Good boy.” A spurt of laughter. “As I was saying. I’m flattered, but are you sure we’re at that point? And you sure they want to meet me during such a important time for your family?” 

“You’re important to me.” He mumbled, softly, Ava almost couldn’t hear him. 

“Yes, I’ve gathered as much. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have stuck around even when I was abroad. You know most men, younger, would have found another, while their girlfriend is away abroad.” 

“Well...I do know. That was how Ethel and I...” Yes, the ex, a bit of sore spot, if both sides were honest. It was a shadow that they had yet overcome, and it still brought an air of awkwardness to any conversation she came up in. “...her older sister was abroad, and Ethel..and I...” 

“Ah, I see.” 

“No, but you don’t. I... I learned from that, and I wouldn’t do that to you.” 

“Firstly, since I have no younger sister to swoop in and take you away.” Ava deadpanned, making Bobby let out a nervous chuckle. 

“Yes, I know that. And she would be too young anyway.” A pause. “Ava, I promise, I wouldn’t do that to you.” 

“I know, Bobby.” 

“Good, good. I want you to know that.” 

“Good, I know.” 

“Maybe, you’re right, about it...maybe we’re not at that point, yet. But my family is very important to me and they’re a big part of my life. And you’ve well...” 

“Yes. All right, why don’t you get your brother through the West Virgnia primary, and we’ll table this? But we will talk about this again.” 

 “You sure? We could just forget-” 

“No, Bobby. We-I want to talk about it, just not over the telephone maybe, while you don’t have six hundred campaign problems clouding your brain?” 

“Okay, you’re probably right.” He conceded. 

“You know what would solve our long-distance problem?” 

“What?” 

“If I just volunteered to work for the campaign, then I’d get to travel with you and you wouldn’t have to miss me so terribly, as you do.” 

“I... I wouldn’t want to be your superior and... boss you around. I couldn’t be seen giving you special treatment. Even if you’re my...girlfriend.” Ava knew he was blushing; he did every time he called her his girlfriend. “It would be...” 

“...nice to have me around. I can type. I can lick stamps. I’d be a good worker, come on, Bobby. Please.”  

“Ava, I... I don’t think that...it’s the best idea.” 

“But don’t you miss me?” 

“Of course, I do.” 

“Then...” 

He gave in. “You’re very determined when you want something, it’s almost irritating.” 

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.” 

“No, it isn’t. And when I see you again, I’ll prove you wrong.”  

“I’ll be waiting.” 

---

Ava managed to insert herself quite well into the campaign, being a diligent worker at the headquarters in Boston, where she saw how Bobby managed the campaign with almost military and micro-managing precision. She saw that he could bite someone's head off if they were slacking off, so she knew to always look to be doing something even if she noticed he shifted his tone when he talked to her. His hand would sometimes graze her arm when he asked her for updates on phone calls she made or telegrams she sent. 

During the DNC she managed beforehand to register as a delegate from the New York state delegation, so she was down on the convention floor, cajoling delegates (many older than her) as best as she could. All the while, she and Bobby managed some private rendezvous in their hotel rooms. 

On the morning after the Democratic presidential nomination was secured for the Kennedy campaign, the choice of VP was made in the early hours. 

Bobby, not liking the choice that Jack had made, choosing Senate Majority Leader Lyndon Baines Johnson to be VP, tried in vain to convince LBJ to not join the ticket.

Defeated and irritated after trying to one last time have Jack change his mind and failing, he went over to Ava’s hotel room. He knocked on the door, waiting. 

A moment later, Ava’s figure appeared (wearing a blue silk nightgown with a robe over it) with the door opening. “Who is it?” She knew what choice had been made, but just not the who. 

She knew it wasn’t someone Bobby liked, seeing as he looked like a sad puppy. 

“Johnson.” He scoffed, pushing into her room and flopping onto her bed, behaving not like a grown man, but more like a petulant child. 

“Ah. At least you have a better chance in the South, if he can rally the Dixiecrats.” She offered him the bright side, but he let out a huff and buried his face in her pillows. “Bobby. Come on.” She sat on the bed and gently touched his shoulder. “All is not lost.” 

“But he is a brute who spread stories about Jack just before balloting. I... I don’t trust him, and... ugh.” The more irritated he’d get, the less literate. 

“I know. But that’s just how politics works, you have a enemy who’s trying to stab you in the back, but the next day, you need him as an ally, so he won’t killed by the third guy, who’s after the both of you.” 

“How eloquently put, Miss Worthing.” He turned to lay on his side, a messy forelock of hair in his face. 

Ava pushed it aside, making Bobby sigh as his eyes closed. “A literature degree comes in handy.” 

A small smile came to his lips, and he peeled his eyes open, pale blue eyes catching her grey ones. “You are...something else. You’re much more democratic than I took you for. And you surprise me, constantly. You know so much more than you let on.” 

“Well, I’m a fast learner. When I got you to let me join the campaign, the next day I was at the nearest library.” 

He reached out a hand and his fingers twisted in her hair. “And so, from books you got this... almost calming wisdom? Are you sure you’re the younger one in our pair? I feel like I’m schooled by you more often than not.” 

She chuckled shyly. “Well, I wouldn’t call it wisdom. And I don’t like the thought that I’m making you feel less than.” 

“Which you don’t. I feel...like I don’t deserve you half the time. Because, you're…wonderful." He tugged at the strands of her hair between his fingers, pulling her down to his face.

Smiling, one hand rest on the mattress to steady herself as her face was lowered to his. Their lips touched, careful, but comfortable. The way Bobby touched her was like he was handling fine china or witnessing something sacred. He wasn't too rough with her, since he treasured feeling her mouth against his, his fingers still tangled in her hair. He pulled her closer, making her fall on top of him, letting out a surprised giggle, which did make him more eager.

Her hands had found themselves on his the base of his neck, the back of his head resting against one of her pillows. His hand, that was not tangled in her hair, grasped at her upper back.

Carnal pleasure was a sin, right?

He'd repent later, he needed her more than safe passage to Heaven, right now.

///

Taglist: @jackiesgirl, @theverystrangegirl27, @fortheloveofjos, @kennediva, @stargiirl27, @melancholicstation , @bleatngheart , @rocker-chick-7 , @kimcrystal123

masterlist and earlier parts: Unexpected, Unthinkable.

[chutefullofholes]

²⁾ the last room at a drive-in motel in the small hours of the morning 👀

young veterans au side b, post crosby suicide and funeral

***the preacher quote is pulled from this sermon transcript

\\\

Curt's been a rattling tinderbox since he insisted on driving when they left D.C. Ken had offered to take over for him, said he might feel better if he slept for a bit. Even if just for an hour.

But he ignored him, fiddled with the radio and turned the volume up just enough to end the conversation.

By the time he's veering off the backroad and pulling them into a cracked asphalt lot outside a tired-looking motel, the dashboard clock reads 2:07 a.m. Curt says nothing as he shuts off the engine and pops the door, Ken following him wordlessly. His legs feel stiff from sitting too long and he rubs the heel of his palm in his eye as he trails behind.

The front desk clerk barely looks up as they check in, yawning when she pushes their key across the counter.

When they get into the room Ken sits down on the edge of the bed to strip out of his dress pants, fishing his pajama pants out of his bag to replace them with. His head throbs from the funeral, from the drive. From the way Jeanie's lip quivered when she had to accept Harry's folded flag and sit back down to tend to three little kids and a baby that had to go home without their daddy, sat in a row in their Sunday best.

Curt hasn't bothered to sit down, standing opposite from the bed at the dresser that's seen better days, both hands pressed onto the top. He alternates between swiping his tongue over his bottom lip in the mirror and letting his head droop between his shoulders.

“We can go somewhere else,” Ken says, voice careful. “Get separate rooms, if you want."

“No, Ken.” Curt says, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’re stayin’ here. Tired of driving.”

“I’d drive.”

Curt exhales sharply through his nose.

“Said we’re staying.”

Ken bites back the urge to keep arguing, breathes in through his nose and tries to force the tension out of his shoulders on the exhale.

Curt’s phone buzzing against the dresser distracts him and he turns it over, face twisting as the screen illuminates his face.

“‘s Ev.”

Ken swallows.

“You don’t have to answer,”

Curt doesn't move. Just stays stood in place, staring at the floor until the phone stops ringing, Blakely sent to voicemail for now.

Fishing around his jacket pocket, he finds his pack of cigarettes and pushes off the dresser to amble towards the worn armchair in the corner.

“If you’re gonna smoke, can you go outside?” Ken says to his back, and Curt stops just short of sitting down.

"Three in the fuckin' morning Kenny.” He says as he grabs his lighter from the windowsill. “Rather not go out there this late when we don’t know where we are.”

Ken sighs.

“Fifteen minutes outside of Philly, not back in Bagram.”

He isn't sure if he'd exactly meant for Curt to hear that, but he does anyways.

“I know we’re not in Bagram, Christ” He spits out, and goes to light his cigarette where he's standing.

Ken clenches his teeth, feeling his patience starting to fray at the edges.

“So, go smoke outside.”

“Fine,” Curt snaps, lifting both hands as he walked away. “Fine, ‘m going.”

Ken thinks he can hear a clipped g' fuck yourself under his breath as the door slams behind him. Tells himself he must've been talking a spider or a fly that got too close to his face.

He leans back, head against the headboard, eyes fixed on the water-stained ceiling and waits. The motel walls are thin, and he can hear the TV from the room next door, some late-night re-run episode of Friends.

The door creaks open a few minutes later and Ken doesn't look over until Curt clicks it shut behind himself.

"Don't start," Curt mumbles, tossing his lighter back to the windowsill.

Ken blinks, swallowing a laugh.

"Don't start?" He says. "You've been an asshole to me all day, don't think I started anything."

Curt exhales instead of giving that a proper response, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Where’s my phone?”

Ken nudges his head towards the dresser where he'd left it and Curt snatches it up with a huff, his jaw tightening.

“I gotta call Ev back,” He mumbles, his tapping his thumbs on the screen in an idle rhythm.

Ken takes his bottom lip between his teeth before he speaks, sitting up straighter in bed.

“No, you don't B."

Curt doesn't look up.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Curt.” Ken emphasizes, trying to soften his tone. “Ev’s got his mom. He’s got Helen. Not by himself.”

Curt finally glances at him, leaning back against the dresser. “And?"

Ken hesitates, trying to find the right way to say it, what's been nudging up his throat all week. “And you’ve been-” He starts and stops, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to be everything for everyone right now.”

Curt laughs something bitter and disinterested.

“I’m serious,” Ken says, kicking one leg out to the side, pushing his tongue into the side of his cheek. “Take a break for one night.”

“Yeah?” Curt quips, and Ken tell from the way he blinks that he's agitated. “Just let Blakely cry to his mama and his wife that don't understand a g'damn thing running through his head right now?"

Ken feels heat rising up his neck and into his face, the headache that had just started to dissipate looping back around. Doesn't want to fight, wants to roll over and go to sleep and go back to their life in the morning.

He doesn't think he's ever been this pissed off at Curt. Not in the way this feels, anger pushing against the back of his throat like sandpaper till it burns.

“That’s not what I said.”

Curt doesn't seem to care, fingers clenching tight around his phone.

It crosses Ken's mind that he might throw it, and it feels like someone's pressed an icecube to the back of his neck.

“When’s the last time you went outta your way to do something for someone?” Curt keeps on. “You ever bother askin’ Croz if he was okay, huh?”

Ken flinches like he's been slapped.

And swallows the Did you do that? sitting on the edge of his tongue turning sour. Regrets swallowing it a second later when Curt doesn't stop.

“You never had a problem with me taking on everyone’s shit before,” He says, pointing with the hand he wasn't vice gripping his phone with. “But now it’s an issue, huh? Because you feel guilty? You want me to stop dealing with everyone’s problems? I think I’m gonna start by not dealing with this whiny-”

Ken pushes up off the bed, both hands flying to his own face, breath coming hot in his palms.

"You are so fucking mean." He shouts as he rips his hands away, fingers curling into fists.

"I've been tryin' to help and all you've been doing is pushing me away, nothin' I can do for you, none of its good enough,” He continues, feeling something that borders on pride at how bewildered Curt looks at being yelled at. “I love you. But you've been bein' such a fucking jerk and you don't even care about how that's supposed to make me-"

“I do care." Curt says to cut him off mid sentence and it sounds more rebuttal than anything else.

He's seven years old again, sitting in the front row of the sanctuary in a pass me down suit that's too big and itchy at the wrists. His little sister is trying to get him to play tic tac toe on a scrap of paper and gets a smack on the back of the hand from their mama when she notices. His father paces at the pulpit.

"That is my doctrine. And if you see one fellow running and hollering, you know that is a hit dog. Let him alone, for if he is not hit, what is he hollering for?"

Ken shakes his head, rolls one shoulder back until it pops.

“Then act like it, please,” He says, sitting back down on the edge of the bed so hard the springs creak. "Because you're not, and it's- it's mean, you're being mean."

He isn't crying, not quite, but his breath comes unsteady and shallow enough that he figures he's close to it.

Curt doesn't say anything for a long moment. Sets his phone back on the dresser, looks at him, fixes his mouth like he's going to say something and doesn't.

He doesn't slam the door when he walks into the bathroom, clicks it shut softer than he needs to, and it feels like some sort of halfhearted apology. Feels too far from something genuine to mean anything at all.

Ken waits until he hears the water turn on to let himself sniffle into the back of his hand.

[movienized-com]

Outlaw Posse

Outlaw Posse (2024) #MarioVanPeebles #WilliamMapother #JohnCarrollLynch #DCYoungFly #MandelaVanPeebles #AmberReignSmith Mehr auf:

Jahr: 2024 (März) Genre: Western Regie: Mario Van Peebles Hauptrollen: Mario Van Peebles, William Mapother, John Carroll Lynch, D.C Young Fly, Mandela Van Peebles, Amber Reign Smith, Neil McDonough, Jake Manley, Allen Payne, Cam Gigandet, M. Emmet Walsh, with Edward James Olmos, Cedric the Entertainer, Whoopi Goldberg … Filmbeschreibung: 1908. Jahr – DER CHEF (Mario Van Peebles) kehrt nach…

[matttgirlies]

Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - mentions of drugs

y/nn = your nickname for any confusion🩷 

Chapter 22

I had just walked into the living room where I found Matt and James arguing about Colonel William. “Goddamn, Dad, call and tell him we’re through. Tear up the goddamn contracts and I’ll pay him whatever percentage we owe him.”

“Listen, Son. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Goddamn right I am. I hate what I’m doing and I’m goddamn bored.”

Matt stomped out the front door, never returning that evening nor the following few. We were mystified. For the first time he was traveling alone—without even one bodyguard. Matt didn’t even know his own phone number; nor did he carry cash. How was he going to get around? Arrangements had always been made for him.

According to Jerry Schilling, Matt caught a commercial plane to Washington, D.C., with the intention of meeting President Nixon. When he arrived he had a sudden reaction to penicillin he had taken for a bad cold and decided to fly to L.A. He called during a stopover in Dallas, asking Jerry to meet him at LAX with a doctor. He wanted treatments for the reaction. Matt rested two days in Los Angeles and then continued his journey back to Washington, D.C., along with Jerry and a fivehundred-dollar check that Jerry arranged to have cashed.

During the flight Matt befriended a young soldier just returning from Vietnam. The soldier must have told him his life story. Before the plane landed Matt asked Jerry for the five hundred dollars and handed it over to the young man, wishing him good luck. Jerry said, “Matt, that’s all we have.” Matt responded with, “Yeah, but he needs it worse than I do, Schilling.”

Later in the flight, he asked the stewardess for a pen and some paper. Matt was never much of a letter writer, but he now wrote President Nixon a letter explaining how he could assist the youth of today in getting off drugs. It was an impassioned plea, mistakes hastily scratched out and corrected as he poured out his thoughts.

Jerry arranged for a limo to pick them up at the airport and drive them to the White House. It was 6:30 a.m. and Matt was dressed in black, including his black cape, sunglasses, his large gold International belt, and a cane. He approached the gate looking, as Jerry put it, like Dracula. His face was a bit swollen, and Jerry feared that his appearance would arouse suspicion.

As soon as Matt explained who he was and that he had a message for the President, he was promised the letter would be given to President Nixon by nine that morning. Matt then had Jerry arrange for him to see John Finlator, Deputy Narcotics Director in Washington. Matt truly wanted to help kids get off street drugs. Another purpose of Matt’s trip was to try to acquire a Federal Narcotics badge for himself.

Matt was an avid badge collector. He had detective, police, and sheriff badges from all over the nation and the narc badge represented some kind of ultimate power to him. In Matt’s mind that badge would give him the right to carry any prescribed drug he had on his person. The badge would also give Matt and his Boston Mafia the right to carry arms. With the Federal Narcotics badge he could legally enter any country both wearing guns and carrying any drugs he wished.

His obsession with obtaining this badge was triggered by a private eye named John O’Grady whom Matt had hired to handle a paternity suit. O’Grady showed Matt his Federal Narc badge, and Matt’s mind started clicking immediately: How could he get one himself?

John O’Grady mentioned that John Finlator was the man Matt should see.

Matt told Jerry to wait at the hotel in case the President called while Matt himself went to see Finlator. Within an hour, Jerry received a call from Matt, saying that his request had been denied by Finlator. Jerry was surprised at Matt’s emotional state. He sounded near tears when he said, “He won’t let me have the badge.” Jerry was able to lift his spirits by telling him he’d just received a call from the White House. “The President read your letter and wants to see you in twenty minutes.”

Walking into the White House was no easy feat, even for Matt Sturniolo. The guards were friendly but cautious as they checked him out. Jerry too was searched before entering the Oval Office along with Sonny West, whom Jerry had called to join them. Sonny had been mystified by the call and was awestruck when he realized he was about to meet the President of the United States.

Matt was led separately into the Oval Office. Jerry and Sonny were told they had to wait outside, though there was some slight chance they’d meet the President later. According to Jerry, they were brought into the Oval Office in less than a minute. Jerry knew that if there was a way to get them in, Matt would do it, and he had come through. Not even the President was immune to his charm.

When Jerry and Sonny entered they saw that Matt had made himself right at home. He introduced everyone and encouraged the President to give Jerry and Sonny cuff links, and was not shy in asking for mementos to take home to their wives. By the time he left the Oval Office he had added this most important badge to his collection. He emerged smiling, a different Matt from the one who a few hours before was emotionally upset. Nixon overruled Finlator’s decision and had the badge sent to the Oval Office, where he could present it to Matt.

The argument about Colonel that started this escapade was never mentioned again.

Our marriage was now part-time. He wanted freedom to come and go as he pleased—and he did. When he was home, he was attentive and loving as father and husband. But it was clearly understood that I was mainly responsible for the parenting of Charlotte.

An incident occurred which made me realize that I needed to spend more time with Charlotte. She, Matt, and I were about to sit for a family portrait. I was dressing her while her nurse combed her hair. Then, as I started for the set, Charlotte refused to go with me. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Come on, honey.”

“No, no,” she kept saying, hanging on to her nurse. When she started to cry, I got nervous and short-tempered, taking her by the hand and urging, as if a child could decipher my logic, “But you’ve got to be happy Char! You’re going to take pictures with Mommy and Daddy.”

Each shot was an effort as we tried to coax her to laugh. For a moment we would be successful but then tears would reappear. She even cried sitting on her daddy’s lap as I bribed her with toys and little dolls to get a smile.

That’s when it hit me. My God, she’s so attached to the nurse that she doesn’t want to leave her. Now I knew I had to find more time to be with her. She had been affected by my own predicament. Busy centering my life around Matt, even during his absences, I had neglected not only my needs but my daughter’s as well.

I was torn between the two of them. When he was home I wanted to be with him, without other responsibilities, but I also wanted to be with Charlotte, knowing how much she needed me.

I began taking Charlotte to parks, afternoon parties, and daily swimming lessons at the YWCA, and I convinced myself that soon I’d no longer have to fake it with toys and lollipops and ice cream cones to get her to smile at me.

She would sit between Matt and me at the dinner table, squeezing spinach through her hands and smearing it on her face. Matt tried to convince himself that he found all this adorable, but the fact of the matter was that he was finicky about his food. With a goodnatured laugh he would excuse himself, telling the maid, “We’ll be eating in the den. Char will join us after she’s finished playing with her meal.”

When Matt was away from home, which unfortunately was most of the time in those days, I continued to dispatch my regular care packages full of pictures and home movies documenting every inch of Charlotte’s growth. When he was with us, I encouraged him to participate in Easter-egg hunts and other outings, inviting Nate, Amber, their children, and other family friends to join us.

Charlotte and I visited him in Vegas for her birthdays, having huge parties in the suite, where she received everything from slot machines to two Saint Bernard puppies (a gift of Colonel William’s) to an entire room filled with balloons—everything, in short, a two- or threeyear-old shouldn’t have and couldn’t appreciate.

It was important to me that Matt be home for Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, but he’d invariably call and say he couldn’t make it, then try to compensate by bringing home extravagant gifts like a marble jewel box filled with diamond rings, necklaces, and earrings, or a whole wardrobe of handpicked designer clothes from a boutique in Vegas. But that wasn’t the point. I didn’t want the furs and jewels—I had all I could possibly use—I just wanted him home. It was a constant effort, single-handedly trying to keep up family traditions.

Although Matt much preferred to spoil Charlotte, he did discipline her from time to time. Once he paddled her for writing all over a beautiful velvet couch with crayons. Then he immediately went into a panic, wanting me to assure him that he’d done the right thing and that Charlotte wouldn’t hold it against him. When I told him, “If you hadn’t spanked her, I’d have,” he felt better. The only other time he touched her in anger was after we’d repeatedly warned her not to go near the pool and she did.

By the time Charlotte was four, she realized she could manipulate the help. Whenever one of them refused to do something for her, she’d threaten, “I’m gonna tell my daddy and you’re going to get fired.” Since none of them wanted her going to Matt, they’d let her get her way, from staying up until all hours and skipping nightly baths to staying home from school. The result was that Charlotte had trouble learning what was right and wrong and what she could and couldn’t do.

“You don’t treat people that way,” I told her. “It’s abusive. Yes, they work for your father. But you don’t go around threatening them.” Used to seeing people jump at her father’s command, Charlotte took years to overcome this habit.

Since Matt had started performing again, our home on Hillcrest had become so public that we could scarcely get in and out of the drive. Photographers actually concealed themselves in our backyard, making their presence known at the most inopportune moments. Once, we were relaxing at the pool, sunbathing, when I leaned over and gave Matt a lingering kiss. He whispered, “What’s that noise? Shhh, be quiet. Sonny! Jerry! It’s a goddamn camera clicking off!” Matt jumped up and they all headed after the poor man, Matt leading, shouting obscenities and threats. This was one member of the press who I’m sure never returned.

In our three years on Hillcrest, we’d gradually outgrown the house. Charlotte and her nurse shared one room, Charlie had the other, and Patsy and Gee and their new baby occupied the cottage out back. Matt felt we needed more room; he wanted Sonny on call and close by. Discussions about a new home took on a new urgency.

When a couple of old regulars, broke and jobless, showed up at our door, Matt took pity on them and put them up in our living room. I awoke in the early morning to the sound of blaring music and found the two had passed out from drinking Jack Daniel’s and Coke. Half-empty glasses were strewn about the room and ashes littered the carpet. I felt my home was being turned into a boarding house.

“They have no respect for anything,” I complained to Matt later that day. “What if they fall asleep with cigarettes in their hands? We’ll all go up in flames. How long do you intend for them to stay?” I was making no secret of my disapproval. “I don’t want Charlotte around this.”

“You’re right, Honey. Maybe I’ll just head out for Palm Springs tonight.”

The search for a new home led us to Holmby Hills, an exclusive area of sprawling estates between Bel Air and Beverly Hills. We found a traditional two-story house, well-situated on a hill, surrounded by two acres of wellmanicured lawns and orange groves. It was larger than our other Los Angeles homes, with a high fence and forbidding gates to assure our privacy.

I had hoped that this home would redirect his attention to the family and that his weekends away in Palm Springs would now be spent with us. He had his own office, his own den, his own game room, his own theater, a breakfast room for private meals, and a dining room for family and friends. It was my intention to decorate this home exclusively to his liking, with ideas carried over from the Hillcrest house, which had been his favorite.

The house cost around $335,000, a little over the budget that we had in mind. With some persistence on our part, James warily let me hire a professional to help furnish it. This would be the first house I’d decorated from scratch and I found it tremendously exciting—having plans drawn up, choosing color schemes, fabrics, wall coverings, and antiques. I loved hunting for special pieces of furniture: a china cabinet that concealed a television set, old trunks to be used as coffee tables, and antique vases to convert into lamps. I was so excited with the project that I persuaded Matt not to look at the preliminary stages and to wait until everything was completed. Decorating became my passion. I found the challenge so absorbing that I was able to forget my worries over our relationship. Instead of pondering my loneliness, I was engaged in constructive work that required all the flair, imagination, and organizational ability I could summon.

At this time another fulfilling and liberating force entered my life—karate. It had been Matt’s love and hobby for years, and when I first took it up, it was just another of my efforts to get his attention and approval, as in the past when I’d enrolled in French classes because he liked the language, took flamenco dancing because he was an aficionado, and ballet because he adored dancers’ bodies.

He had long admired kung fu expert Ed Parker, whom he’d met years ago. I began taking private lessons under Ed’s guidance three times a week. I soon learned there was much more to this art than violence. It was a philosophy. I became even more involved when Matt cheered my progress.

On our return to Boston, he slept throughout the day and I enrolled in another oriental discipline, the Korean art of Tae Kwan Do. I became as obsessive as Matt in dedicating myself to this art. A mandatory requirement was memorizing forms, katas, and stances in the Korean language as well as learning the history of Tae Kwan Do.

The training was incredibly exacting. Over and over we’d execute the same movement until perfected. Perspiration poured into my eyes and yet, if I wiped it away, it would mean one hundred pushups under the watchful eyes of the entire classroom, a humiliation I did not desire and managed to avoid.

Now I could understand Matt’s enslavement to karate. It was an accomplishment, an achievement of confidence and physical mastery of self. In 1972, while Matt was performing in Vegas, I met one of the top karate experts in the United States at the time, Mike Stone. On this particular evening he was acting bodyguard to a prominent record producer. After the show they came to visit Matt backstage. Everyone was more impressed with Stone than with the boisterous tycoon he was protecting. Matt was complimentary and he, Sonny, and Red had numerous questions. Several years earlier we had watched Stone at a tournament in Hawaii and we’d admired his fighting technique.

Later that evening, up in the Imperial Suite, Matt encouraged me to train with Mike. “He has that killer quality. Nothing on two legs can beat him. I’ve been impressed with him since the first time I saw him fight. He’s a real badass—I like the cat’s style.”

Back in Los Angeles I made arrangements with Mike to drive out to his studio later in the week and sit in on one of his classes. It was a long forty-five-minute drive.

Elvis was right. Mike exuded confidence and style, as well as a good deal of personal charm and wit. A deep friendship would develop. Because of the distance, I decided to continue my training with a friend of his, Chuck Norris, who had a studio closer to my home. Mike would sometimes come to Chuck’s studio as a guest trainer.

I was emerging from Elvis’s closed world, becoming aware of how sheltered my existence had been. Mike and Chuck introduced me to popular Japanese martial-arts films such as the Blind Swordsman series, and with Mike I attended karate tournaments locally and in neighboring counties, taking home movies and still photos of top karate fighters. I wanted to capture their individual styles so I could share them with Elvis, hoping this was something we could enjoy in common. In the end, though, I made a whole new circle of friends with whom I felt accepted for myself. The martial arts gave me such confidence and assurance that I began to experience my feelings and express my emotions as never before. Accustomed to suppressing my anger, I could honestly vent it now without the fear of accusations or explosions. I stopped apologizing for my opinions and laughing at jokes I didn’t find amusing. A transformation had begun in which fear and indifference had no place. Along with this new confidence, off came my false eyelashes and heavy makeup, the jewels and flashy clothes. All devices that I’d depended upon for security I now shed.

I was seeing myself for the first time, and it was going to take a while for me to get used to the image. I had a chance to observe marriages outside our immediate circle, where the woman had just as much say as a man in everyday decisions and long-term goals. I was confronted with the harsh realization that living the way I had for so long was very unnatural and detrimental to my well-being. My relationship with Mike had now developed into an affair.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd. This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - i feel like u guys will kill me after the next chapter.. all im saying is get ur tissues!🎀

[blackinperiodfilms]

Outlaw Posse | Official Trailer

1908. CHIEF (Mario Van Peebles) returns from years of hiding in Mexico to claim stolen gold hidden in the hills of Montana. In his quest, he reunites an ensemble of fresh & familiar faces - together they fight off ANGEL, whose rationale to the gold leaves a trail of deception and dead bodies.

Cast: Mario Van Peebles, Mandela Van Peebles, Whoopi Goldberg, D.C Young Fly, Amber Reign Smith, John Carroll Lynch, Neil McDonough, Jake Manley, Allen Payne, Cam Gigandet, M. Emmet Walsh, with Edward James Olmos, and Cedric the Entertainer.

In THEATERS March 1st

[darkmaga-returns]

By J.B. Shurk

One of the peculiar things about our stark civil divide is that Americans who are extremely unhappy with the direction of our country are more likely to wave the U.S. flag than those actually steering the country on its current course.  Consider how strange that is!  When the civil rights movement and anti-war protests reached their peak over half a century ago, hippies, peaceniks, revolutionaries, agitators, and anarchists burned the American flag whenever they got the chance.  They bought in to the revisionist narratives of Marxist historians, who taught an entire generation of young people that America is an evil, imperialist, exploitative, genocidal, fascist, slaveholding nation that can never be redeemed.  

These students, in turn, grew up to become the current custodians of the federal government.  One of Barack Obama’s first initiatives as president was to undertake an “apology tour” around the world so that he could rub salt in old wounds and provide America’s enemies with planeloads of rhetorical ammunition (and pallets of cash).  In deriding President Trump’s MAGA movement, Joe Biden has repeatedly insisted that America was never that great and never lived up to its promise.  Globalist mosquito John Kerry flies around the world to praise the virtues of one-world government and bemoan America’s stubborn constitutional safeguards for individual rights such as free speech.  Having bought in to the gospel of Howard Zinn, those who hold the reins of power in Washington, D.C. are some of the most anti-American zealots on the planet!

That contradiction has produced this odd historical moment, in which people who largely dislike America run the U.S. government and people who love America largely despise the U.S. government.  If you travel through patriotic regions of the country filled with Americans who either served in the armed forces or have family members who currently do, you will find U.S. flags flying from almost every home.  Not only is Old Glory ubiquitous in neighborhoods, cemeteries, and town halls, but also other patriotic flags — including the Gadsden and Bunker Hill flags — are draped prominently from porches, barns, storefronts, and trucks.

[geekcavepodcast]

Candy Cane Lane Trailer

Chris is desperate to win the neighborhood Christmas decorating contest. He signs a contract with an elf for the best Christmas ever. The elf's spell brings to life the 12 Days of Christmas, wreaking havoc, and Chris and his family have to break the spell to save Christmas for everyone as well as save Chris' life.

Candy Cane Lane stars Eddie Murphy, Tracee Ellis Ross, Jillian Bell, Madison Thomas, Thaddeus J. Mixson, Ken Marino, Nick Offerman, Robin Thede, Chris Redd, Genneya Walton, Anjelah Johnson-Reyes, Lombardo Boyar, D.C. Young Fly, Danielle Pinnock, Timothy Simons, Riki Lindhome, and Stephen Tobolowsky. Reginald Hudlin directs the film.

Candy Cane Lane hits Prime on December 1, 2023.

[culturalappreciator]

New Hip Hop Video Release of the Week

Domani- Forever Lasting [ft. D.C Young Fly & Seddy Hendrinx] (2024)

[iamprchung]

The Spider and the FBI: Part 3 "Without Ever Knowing the Way"

FYI: Anyone who thinks I'm strictly a Skinner/Scully fan fic writer. This story is equal parts Mulder.

Synopsis: On the run from a hitman, Skinner and Scully scramble to convince their terrified prisoner, with a crippling fear of flying, to return to D.C. for his own safety. Meanwhile, Mulder's pursuit hits a snag when his car breaks down, forcing him to hitch a ride with two enigmatic young women who detour him deep into the Wyoming wilderness, leaving him stranded with no way to contact his colleagues.

References in-story of note: Circa 1999: Bugle Boy Jeans Commercial – Search YouTube, it worth the reference. Reference: Romey and Michelle - IMDb

"Without Ever Knowing the Way"

Part III of "The Spider and the FBI"

by PR Chung

I-84 BFE, Wyoming Friday, July 2nd 6:47 a.m.

"Shit! Piss! Damn it!"

This was not the usual manner in which Fox Mulder greeted the breaking dawn light, except when forced to the shoulder of the road by a knocking, failing rental car.

Steering the faltering vehicle to the side of the road he sat there watching the sunrise wondering if he should get out and look at the engine; he didn't know what good he could do, he wasn't much on mechanical tinkering. At least he had to try, it was the least he could do to maintain some sense of dignity for his gender, even if no one knew he had tried.

Shrouded in the saffron predawn light Mulder stood before the daunting spectacle of American engineering, feeling intimidated, incompetent, and doomed. Oxford had not offered a shop class, not that he would have taken it if they had, and his father hadn't been the type to pass down the traditional patriarchal knowledge of car mechanics either.

He glanced around at the nothingness- hills, mountains in the distance, deserted road to the right, deserted road to the left-- Squinting back and forth across the landscape and down the road again. He couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was he going to do?

Out of habit he had reached for his absent cell phone half a dozen times before spotting headlights on the western horizon. They grew closer, coming into view as a semi-trailer truck, then passed up the motioning federal agent like a speeding freight train.

Mulder coughed and hacked away the dust blown up into his face by the truck. Wiping his eyes he didn't see the car immediately behind the truck. It stopped a few yards ahead of him across the road, hesitating a long moment before it began backing up slowly.

He stifled his coughing, cautiously eyeing the car, expecting the unexpected as it stopped directly across from him.

It was an early model Mustang hard top with Idaho plates, maybe a 69', the blue body paint fading and the white vinyl top yellowing with age. The windows were rolled down, and he could see two young women smiling back at him.

The fare skinned redhead behind the wheel had her long curly hair pulled back into a loose, carefree bun and wore horn-rimmed glasses, while the lightly tanned brunette passenger's hair was bobbed and far too short to pull back except behind her ears.

"Are those Bugle Boy pants you're wearing?" The redhead called across the road to Mulder.

He glanced down briefly. "If I say no, are you going to drive off leaving me in a cloud of dust?"

The two women swapped playful grins.

"I won't let her." The brunette called back.

"You got help coming yet?" The redhead questioned him.

He glanced toward the open hood. "No, but after I set it on fire and make smoke signals help should come."

The two glanced at each other as if communicating telepathically.

The brunette leaned forward to look at him. "You're not a serial killer or something are you?"

Mulder laughed. "No. Are you?"

"I'm not, but I'm not too sure about her." She jabbed a thumb toward the driver grinning. Then, she called to him again, "you want to get breakfast?"

*******************************

The Chugwater Inn Chugwater, Wyoming 7:15 a.m.

Feeling relatively restored, Dana Scully opened her motel room door to a crisp, bright morning. The air was cool and still fresh with the smell of the overnight storm. It had sounded like quite a violent storm in the distance, and probably had been rather severe to the west, but only a moderate amount of rain had fallen over the motel for half an hour or so, helping sooth her restlessness and lull her back to sleep.

Closing the door, she scanned the parking lot taking a deep breath of the clean air, noticing a couple packing up their car across the way. The man appeared older than the woman did, but not by a great deal Scully noted as she watched them exchanging chat and laughing briefly, working together loading bags and rearranging the miscellaneous necessities of road travel in their vehicle.

What was their story? She wondered for a moment, setting aside her instinctive deduction fine-tuned by so many years of analyzing and observing. How had they met, she wondered, through friends, relatives, perhaps a crowded bar had set the scene, or maybe a business meeting? Perhaps some peculiar incident in a park or along a busy street? Something common or the likes of a light-hearted comedy-romance film...?

After a few minutes, the couple took a step back to scrutinize their work then kissed as though rewarding one another for a job well done.

Scully lowered her eyes from the private scene, feeling a stitch of sadness as she started toward the next room.

Just a few feet before she reached the door of Skinner and Bernstein's room she stopped as it opened suddenly. Travel bags in hand Skinner came out, stopping when he saw her standing there.

They looked at each other as though silently asking just what the hell had occurred last night. Was he angry with her? Was she angry with him?

No, she thought. Irritated maybe, but not mad. There were more than a few times when she had truly hated him, but anymore she could remain angry with him only very briefly and even then, it was more hurt than anger.

"Good morning, sir." She greeted him quietly, taken back some by his attire; a navy pocket polo shirt, jeans and navy wind breaker were a striking contrast from the definitive FBI uniform of a starched shirt, suit and tie she was so accustomed to seeing him in.

Skinner dipped his head. "Scully," he replied and appeared to be appraising her clothing as well. She too had dressed more casually than she had been the last few days; navy slacks and a baby blue cotton knit blouse rather than the two suits she'd been alternating between since Tuesday.

"I guess I should have thought to bring something more casual myself." He commented finally then nodded toward the bag in her hand. "Packed and ready?"

"Yes, I was just coming over to get the car keys."

"Good," he grunted starting toward their rental car. "My assistant just sent information on the man Mulder has in custody to the Albany County Sheriff's department."

"She did?" She questioned following him, puzzled. "How did...?

"Mulder copied my office with what came back on the prints and photo," he explained popping the trunk open.

"Who is he?"

"Steven Machenko, an ex-cop out of Pittsburgh, wanted for the disappearance of four people in three states." He announced taking her bag and putting it in the trunk. "And currently running with one Lawrence Martin Gryzwac according to Mulder. He picked Gryzwac out of a group of mug shots of those Machenko had been associated with in the past as the man who got away."

"Gryzwac?" She repeated. "The same man under suspicion for the disappearance of a witness in the DiGiovanni trial last year?"

"The same. And also suspected of the disappearances of several other federal witnesses who choose not to take protection from the bureau." He shut the trunk and looked at her. "We've got to get off the open road with this guy, we're nothing but moving targets."

Scully glanced around their surroundings. thinking. "Perhaps we can persuade Bernstein to be sedated for air travel. Stressing the reality of his life being in immediate danger we can avoid the issue of infringing on his rights. "

"The only rights anyone's going to be concerned about are last rights if we don't do something and fast." Skinner declared. He took the eye drops from his jacket pocket he’d taken from Bernstein and handed them to her.

Scully frowned at the small half empty bottle he had just placed in the palm of her hand. "What's this for?"

"You're in charge of Bernstein's pharmaceutical needs from here on out."

"All right, but..."

"I have a feeling it wasn't a stomach virus Mulder picked up."

***********************************

Wet? Gooey? What was this...? What's that rushing sound? I'm moving. I'm in a vehicle, but I'm not driving. Scully?

With a thousand questions in his mind at once, Mulder awoke to find his cheek resting in a pool of his own saliva and a wicked wind whipping at his face and hair. Next he was aware of being on his side, lying on a vinyl bench seat and staring at the back of another, only this one was a bucket seat- the fading black vinyl covered in smudges of dirt, the sort of marks gone unnoticed and uncleaned by those who rarely got in the back seat of their own car.

Wiping his face, he pushed himself up slowly, seeing the back of two heads coming into view- chocolate and cinnamon tendrils swimming in the wind.

"Hey there, sleepy head," Sally driving said looking back at him through the rearview mirror.

The brunette twisted in her seat throwing an arm over the headrest gazing closely at Mulder.

He vaguely recalled the introductions that had been made once he'd crawled into the back seat... how long ago? Good God, hadn't they reached civilization yet? How long had he been asleep?

"Or should that be sleepy-fed, G-man?" The brunette playfully questioned him.

He offered a thin-lipped smile. "I must have dozed off, sorry about that."

"No problem." she said and mirrored his smile, her eyes flickering devilishly.

He glanced at his wrist to look at the time, but his watch was in his bag, and it didn't much matter because it wasn't working.

"Uh," he began, glancing around at the sun-drenched landscape rushing past the open windows. "How long have I been asleep?"

The brunette shrugged and looked at the driver.

"A little while." The redhead answered, grinning.

Mulder nodded, beginning to feel odd about his decision to accept the ride.

The two of them seemed harmless enough, coming from St. Anthony, Idaho on their first fledged road trip, heading to an Uncle's Fourth of July celebration in Cheyenne. They seemed like two free-spirited young women who enjoyed getting away just as much as the next guy... But Mulder wasn't that next guy, he had business to take care of.

Inconspicuously he pressed his arm against his side making sure his gun was still securely in place. Relieved, he felt the solid metal pressing between his arm and his ribs.

"Um," he racked his brain for the redhead's name, plucking it up out of a sleepy notch still lingering in his mind, "Mary... Lou, uh, how long until we get to... to the next town?"

"Not long," the brunette answered turning back to face forward in her seat. She bent forward and Mulder could hear her rummaging through what sounded like plastic cases. Tapes, he thought as she straightened and put a cassette into the player. "Maybe twenty minutes."

He nodded to himself, wondering if he'd gotten the names mixed up earlier. "Uh, Sally," he tested the name on the redhead, "what’s the next town?"

"Didn't the sign say something like Jacob's Notch?" Again, it was the brunette who responded to his question.

"Yeah, that's it. Jacob's Notch." Sally answered glancing back at him through the rear-view mirror, jade green eyes just visible over the top of her horn rims.

Mulder rolled the name over in his head a few times studying the roadside and expansive landscape. He didn't recall seeing a town with that name on his maps, how big-- or rather, how small- was this place? Would he be able to get another car there or would he have to make further arrangements to get to yet another town for a car?

"We're not on the interstate anymore." Mulder realized aloud. Neither of the women responded.

"Why did you leave the interstate?" He asked.

"Jacob's Notch was closer than anything on the interstate." Sally finally answered but Mulder knew that couldn't be true, but as long as they got into a town with a phone soon, he was fine with this little side trip.

***********************************

Jacob's Notch.

It wasn't quite what Mulder had hoped for; downtown consisted of two buildings on either side of a gravel covered road that was barely wide enough to fit two cars side by side. The post office, a tiny slat-board house to their left, was white-washed and startling bright set against the blue sky, while the general store, a slightly larger slat-board building to their right, was in varying states of disrepair.

Mulder noticed an old-style phone booth set away from the general store, a black cable running directly to it from a telephone pole along the road.

"Hey, look, they serve home style breakfasts," one of the women exclaimed as they pulled off the road into the parking lot.

"Jesus," the other replied, "what, do you have to eat standing up?"

Mulder didn't care if he had to eat standing on his head as long as he had some food in him and the use of a phone.

"How far back did you pick me up?" he asked as he climbed past the front seat and out into the blaze of daylight.

Marylou and Sally looked at each other over the top of the Mustang.

"Fifteen or twenty miles?" He asked. "I'll need to tell the rental agency so they can tow the car."

"Um," said Sally, or was she Marylou?

"Well, uh," said the other.

Mulder jutted his jaw out at them. "Thirty?"

Marylou opened her mouth, but the redhead spoke first. "I think it's closer to maybe ninety-five miles."

"Ninety-five? How long was I asleep?" He exclaimed.

"Well, I think it's really closer to about a hundred and twenty-five." Marylou adjusted the total mileage between him and his rental car.

Mulder pulled his mouth in tight against the volley of curses he was on the verge of shouting at them. Hands on hips he lowered his head shaking it. "I knew we were off the interstate," he told them after a second of composed consideration. "But how the hell far off the interstate did you take me?" His voice rose in volume as he brought his head up.

"Well, duh, I just told you,” Marylou rolled her eyes, "about a hundred and twenty-five miles."

"North? South? And why?"

The redhead shook her head then cocked it to the side. "Some thanks that is for picking your butt up off the road."

"You never said where exactly you were going, you know." The other one told him.

Mulder shook his head and focused on his shoes for a moment, collecting his thoughts. God help me, I hitched a ride with Romy and Michelle. "North or South, ladies?"

"North." The redhead answered, snatching her purse out of the car, and slinging it over one shoulder. "Highway 220."

"Just off of highway 287." The other one added.

"Thank you," he said with amazing control and started for the phone booth.

"Don't expect us to buy your breakfast now." The redhead yelled at him stomping toward the general store.

"I'll save you a seat." He heard Marylou call back to him before he shut the phone booth door.

He watched her trot off after her friend, unintentionally noticing the sway of her hips and the contours of her bare legs seeing how her cut-offs didn't leave a great deal to the imagination.

"No, no, no," he warned himself, and jerked the phone receiver up to his ear.  

Silence.

“No, come on,” Mulder flipped the receiver tab several times and listened intently.

Silence.

The phone was dead. Beyond pissed, Mulder slammed the receiver down and tried to jerk the phone booth open. The door resisted, jammed, the hinges caked with ages of dirt. He fought with the door a second or two before he freed himself and started for the general store, having only more trouble with that door as well; pulling instead of pushing as the faded sign announced on the dusty glass.

Pushing through the door he immediately heard a crash, then saw a chaotic spill of cans at his feet, flowing from behind the door. He craned his head around seeing that he'd hit a shelf that was far too close to the door.

"Easy there," he heard someone warn. Turning his eyes up seeing Marylou coming through a jumble of shelves and barrels jamming the small confines of this store. "This place is even smaller on the inside than it looks on the outside."

"I had no idea..." he tried to explain kneeling to pick up the spill.

"We almost did it too," she told him kneeling as well.

"What in the hell is going on out there?!" It was like the voice of God raging from somewhere beyond the cluttered cracker box of a store.

Mulder, with his arms full of canned meats and soups, looked up to see a man who looked as old as God emerging from the clutter of shelves. He glared down at the two of them, and Mulder was convinced if the man had the power to smite them, he would have.

"Always in a damn hurry," he declared with a stereotypical grouchiness of a storeowner in a small town. "Never looking at what you're doing or where you're going."

"Okay, Yoda," Mulder mumbled then lifted his tone to be heard, "I'm sorry. I didn't realize the door... was so close to the shelves."

"We'll get all this back on the shelf for you, sir." Marylou assured the old man.

"Well, hell, that's fine and dandy but shut that damn door while you're at it," he reprimanded, "you think electricity grows on trees."

"Oh, not at all," she answered motioning Mulder to let the door shut.

Moving aside Mulder fumbled a few cans that hit the floor rolling. The old man looked at this and grunted disapprovingly before he turned to go back to what he'd been doing.

"That was a quick phone call," Marylou said helping pile cans into Mulder's arms.

"The phone doesn't work." He told her.

"None of the phones are working!" The old man's voice boomed from in the back. Apparently his hearing was in perfect, if not above average condition.

"The storm knocked them out last night." It was Sally. She was standing over the top of them, hands on hips, her mouth screwed up to one side derisively.

"The storm knocked them out last night." The old man repeated her. "Swoll up the river and knocked out the Battle Creek bridge, made a damn mess of everything all the way down to Laramie from what I heard on the radio."

Marylou looked at Mulder, her eyes etched with genuine sympathy. "We'll get you to a working phone, I promise."

*****************************

Route 34 North Albany County, Wyoming 8:17 a.m.

"How long would the flight be?"

"Two and a half hours at the most," Scully assured Bernstein over the back of the seat. He looked pale, truly torn by the idea of being killed and flying on a plane. "With the sedative, I promise you'll be half asleep before we even get you on board."

"You know this is coercion, don't you?" The man told her nervously looking out the window.

"If that's the way you see it, then fine," she replied, tired of trying to be decent with him. She had been as easy about it as she could since they had put him in the car; gingerly working his confidence, being honest and patient. "We, as agents of federal government, are fully within our rights to do whatever is necessary to keep you out of immediate harm, and if that involves administering a sedative by force then that's what I'll have to do."

"Scully," Skinner said, his voice low, cautioning.

She glanced at her superior. His expression was tense-- not an unusual thing in its self-- but he was shifting his focus between the road ahead and the side view mirror guardedly, as though watching something.

"What is it?" she asked, checking her side view mirror.

Far back on the road she saw another car, its chrome bumper gleaming in the morning sunlight.

"What?" Bernstein demanded straightening in the set. "What's the matter? Why are you so quiet?"

"Sit back and be quiet." Skinner told him.

"No. No, I won't," he jerked around in the seat looking out the back window. "We're being followed, aren't we?"

"Sit back and shut up." Scully ordered him harshly, watching the car in the side mirror. "How long has it been back there?"

"I noticed about half an hour after we left the motel. It's pacing us." Skinner announced grimly.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure." His voice was gruff, a tinge of indignantly thrown in with the growing tension.

She should have known better than to question him on something like observation, nothing quite like interrogating your boss while he was under pressure.

"They're coming closer!" Bernstein declared, still looking out the back window.

"Get out of that window." Skinner ordered him stepping hard on the gas pedal.

The car was close enough now that Scully could see it was a large early model American made vehicle- possibly a Lincoln or Cadillac, and likely with a massive engine that would overcome their gas efficient rental easily.

"Here it comes," she announced needlessly.

Skinner already saw the car surging forward, closing the gap between the two cars rapidly. He floored the gas and the engine roared, but the six cylinders were no match for the monster eight-cylinder car racing up on them.

Bernstein ducked down in his seat while Scully braced herself, just in time. Seconds later the rental car was violently rocked forward as the larger car deliberately rear-ended it, Skinner's hands grappled with the steering wheel his teeth gnashing.

A blast sounded and instantaneously the rear window exploded, glass rained down on Bernstein and flew into the front seat, tiny chunks skipping off Skinner's head, landing in Scully hair.

"Hold on," Skinner called out jerking the steering wheel to the left, taking the car onto a side road at a harrowing speed, the mid-sized rental car fishtailing wildly as the tires hit the unpaved surface.

Narrow and winding through brush and trees the road was muddied from the previous night's rain, riddled with potholes, and definitely not meant to be traveled on at any high rate of speed.

Struggling against the violent jolting, Scully turned to look for the pursuing car; it had gone sideways on the highway trying to duplicate the crazy turn Skinner had made but was quick righting itself and following them onto the road.

They hit another rough depression in the road, the car shuddered from the impact and Bernstein bounced off the rear seat and onto the transmission hump on the floorboard yelping miserably.

Skinner felt the car suddenly veering out of his control, the rear swinging in the opposite direction that he steered. Instantly, before they could react, the car pitched off the road, sliding down a muddy incline into a thick line of brush and trees leaving the car all but resting on its side.

Knowing it would be useless to try driving the car out of this situation, Skinner unbuckled his seatbelt quickly and drew his gun, ready for the driver of the sedan was undoubtedly above them on the road they'd just come off of by now.

Scully, fighting against the fun-house-like angle they'd been placed in, unbuckled herself and drew her gun, turning then to check Bernstein. He was pressed against the passenger’s rear door, shaking his head, his knees pulled up to his chest.

"You people are going to get me killed!” He yelped at her.

"A plane ride doesn't seem so bad now, does it?” Scully huffed as she rolled down her window.

Tree branches bowed toward her, threatening to spring inside the car through the window that had been holding them back. Scully turned, leaning with her back against Skinner's for leverage as she brought her feet up and began kicking at the branches, forcing her way through the window and brush.

"Follow her,” Skinner ordered Bernstein who refused to move until the rear driver’s side window exploded into a shower of glass.

"Knock, knock!” A man's voice shouted from out of sight. "I know you hear me down there!"

Bernstein had the other window down in a heartbeat, going out headfirst, Skinner following. The three of them, federal agents, and prisoner, crouched together in the thick tangle of branches and brambles, bullets zinging past them, pinging off the car.

"I hope you took the insurance on that rental,” Gryzwac yelled.

"I can't see him,” Skinner declared searching for the shooter.

"Boy, Chief, they are gonna' be pissed when they see what you did..."

"We've gotta' get out of here." Bernstein panted darting his eyes around the area desperately seeking passage through the brush. "We have gotta' get out of here now!"

"Shut up," Scully told him harshly after a bullet whistled past her head.

She too was searching both for the shooter and an escape route, but it was Bernstein who found the way-- or least what appeared to be. The man lunged away from the cover of the car headlong into the thicket, branches snapping and cracking as he trudged away like a spooked Bull Moose.

"Bernstein, stop!" Scully shouted after him.

"Damn it!" Skinner growled sparing only a glance back over his shoulder before he returned two more rounds at their unseen assailant.

Swatting at branches and bugs Bernstein crashed through the brush with Scully gaining on him despite the constant barrage of foliage slapping at her face and tangling her feet. Panting, near hyperventilation, he burst free of the second and third growth nearly stumbling straight into a swollen churning river. Wild with anxiety Bernstein started left then right, tramping along the soggy bank.

Scully stumbled free of the snarled grove stopping short of the river before spotting Bernstein.

"Stop!" She shouted and started to aim her gun at him but stopped. There was more gunfire from behind her, only closer now than where she had left Skinner at the car. She could see movement in the thicket and hoped it was Skinner.

"Bernstein, wait..."she turned and called after the frightened man trying to follow him down the slippery bank. She saw him stop and thought for an instant he had yielded but realized he had only stopped to fan something away from his face... and quite frantically.

"Watch out!" She called seeing him pitching too near the edge of the bank.

Bernstein was ducking and fanning at the wasp-like insect buzzing dangerously close to his face, only irritating it more by smacking it with the back of his hand.

"Bernstein?" Scully called out to him just as he shouted grabbing his face with both hands. "Bernstein! No!" She exclaimed sprinting toward the man, watching him stumble off the bank and into the river.

In the seconds he was still in view Scully saw Bernstein struggling against the strong current, handicapped by his cuffed hands. Reflexively she followed the man into the water, intending to help but only to quickly realize her own need of help.

She was a good swimmer, a strong swimmer, but the current was even stronger than it had appeared, and it was all she could do to keep her head above the torrent of muddy water.

Skinner stumbled out of the undergrowth firing back in the direction he'd come, just in time to see Scully dive off the bank into the raging river. His mind reeled for a second at the sight. Her action could only mean that Bernstein had gone in...

"Damn-" the curse was cut short as a bullet whizzed past his cheek. Ducking down Skinner heard a distant call, small and desperate.

"Help...!"

His hesitation was meteoric, a quick check of the woods to make sure the coast was clear. On the run he pulled his glasses off and shoved them as deep as he could into the pocket of his shirt—

better that they should break there than while wearing them, he thought briefly before heaving himself into the swirling river.

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

Continued in part 4