#I wanted a water type for dink but nothing fit

[st-hedge]

Dark link and phantom Ganon but they are weird Pokémon trainers. Haunter and runerigus for dark link. Rookidee, lampent, and zorua (only the tiniest guys) for phantom Ganon. Don’t question my Pokémon vibe check, it simply fits. Also shiny Pokémon for shiny ganlink

[z-007]

A Journey of Sadism (mental and physical)

I was born in the 21st of April 1992, in Jableh-Latakia. But, since my father was an employee for Total French company in Syria, I grew up in Damascus. At the age of 4, I was diagnosed with Diabetes type 1. It was very hard for me at the beginning when I was a child, and my mother suffered a lot, giving me insulin injections, which I found painful at that time, and analyzing my blood sugar to inspect what did I eat if the result was soaring sky high. I hated her at the beginning, simply because as a child, I didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. At 8 years old I went to a school that is Sunni Islamic Pre-Historic School in Dummar called -Young Scientists- something that I discovered later on to be ironic. In Syria, If you weren’t good at school, you were cursed, you became like a Boxing Heavybag. They also used Falakas, the art of whipping feet. It didn’t stop at that, simply because parents became part of this process too, using any tool at their disposal in beating their child, chair, water hose, hammer, clothes hanger, electric cables, let alone being slapped on the face in a way that I started feeling my bones were shaking, and my eyes will throw fire, or kicked in your head and started bleeding. All of this, was because my marks in Arabic, mathematics, history and geography were not good except in English. It was the best language to understand for me, and the subject in which I saw myself to be a good student. As a consequence of that, I started losing control and cause trouble to my so-called teachers at that time. Luckily in 2001, I found my sanctuary that took to a completely different world. It was the first time I saw James Bond in GoldenEye. I was so thrilled by the action sequence, the theme of betrayal and everything about it was cool. This was a turning point in my life to become a Bond fan. I also learnt how to sing rap songs like Faint for Linkin Park, and Bleed It Out. And all of my father’s friends who were French, British and Americans were impressed. It was something that I remember with a loving memory to those people. Later I watched the rest of the Bond films and the happiest moment in my life was when I found the complete DVD set in Tartus. Simply because no DVD store in Damascus had the complete set except one who was also our neighbor. The curse of buying films in Syria was that they were badly used CDs at the bloody beginning. It was very rare to have a CD converted from an original DVD. This greatest franchise in the whole world has sealed my internal wounds for not being a good student. Ironically, the mental case of mine came back to me when I was at High School, especially it was a time that determined who I am, luckily it passed with no harm to me, because a single mark changed future to some students .I forgot to mention, that the school principle when I was at the ninth grade, didn’t stop calling my parents and telling them not to spend a single penny on me, because he thought I will never be successful. But I brought a mark that was better than his children’s. In 2010, I became a student of English Literature in Damascus University, I remembered that I was not a bad student at that time with an average of 80 percent. But the Syrian Crisis began in 2011, the press was already screaming for blood and the political unrest escalated to the extent that we had to change residence. This was the bane of my existence to open my eyes and find myself in Latakia. I was simply cursed and hostile, because I didn’t speak like Alawaits, their accent felt like starving dogs, in other words, they bark. They are trivial, shallow minded wankers who had nothing inside their heads except clothes, mobile phones and narrating a fairytale about themselves having sex with girls and a horny 40-year-old women they come across and imagining penetrating their vaginas and sucking their nipples. I registered in Tishreen University at third year, I managed to transfer my documents to that platonic place. The professors didn’t like me, simply for participating in their lectures, and the fact that I spoke French, Spanish and a little bit Russian. As a consequence, I kept failing at University over and over. Moreover, I had different ideas, and University Professors are bigots and snobbish. Their opinion was the only one that matters. The impact of the mentioned earlier, had made my pain started with breakdowns, screaming my head off and security gathering around me like” what happened to you?”. Added to that, emotionally speaking, I had a horse sex drive in that Mohammadian society. Girls dressed in a way that said to male students, “come to me.”. The majority of women at that city showed their breasts, waist, legs, and what attracts me most their feet, especially, high heels, that gave them a very elegant look. For my good fortune, all I had in front of me was Pornographic DVDs and websites, so I kept masturbating from 11:30 pm until 10:00 am from night to daylight. Still wondering, how men attracted them, I didn’t have any idea, and the question kept circulating. I also hated the idea of marriage, especially that I always loved to live my life the way I fathomed. I didn’t like the idea of getting buried alive by being a bloody father and spend the rest of my life with only one Angry Factory, aka, one woman. The psychological problem kept increasing and started with depression; taking anti-depressants for a while and go back to my normal life when soothed down. I kept taking them every now and then. Students were not allowed to know about their mistakes at any cost, this was a University rule. Self-doubt has caused me to go to a neurologist who started doing me brain scans, simply, I just wanted to know why am I that stupid, for failing continuously and still I didn’t get an answer. I was always deprived of sleep, studying my arse off and my professors didn’t care seeing their students DIE and SUFFER in front of them. Everybody panicked from me, always avoided seeing me, treated as unusual man. At that time, due to the fact that I kept taking anti-depressants, they became ineffective and stopped giving me relief. Part of what killed me thousands of time when I’m still alive was realizing that I cannot become an MI6 agent at any cost. I simply wanted to do 1 % of what James Bond did, take notice, that I was not pursuing women, I was looking for action and suspense. I wanted to be stationed in the heart of ISIS or Spectre and operate in the shadows to protect Queen and Country. I didn’t like Hasan Nasrullah, Vladimir Putin who looked like a Bond villain or Ayatollah bloody Khomeini, even Ali Bin Abi Talib himself, and that’s why I was also crucified for being a James Bond fan. Family and friends made a laughing stock out of me. I started dinking excessively, and suicidal thoughts kept recurring to me. They didn’t stop driving me to bring a razor and wound myself to death, it wasn’t the MI6 job that destroyed me the most. It was self-doubt. Doubting my brain efficiency and abilities, and especially that I saw students whom I thought less capable to express themselves in English than I am. My family tried to see the professors in Tishreen University-Latakia, unsuccessfully. I simply couldn’t have any idea what is the main reason I kept failing over and over. How could I develop myself without knowing my mistakes?!!, I later told some people that I wanted to be an MI6 operative, I thought that might sooth my tension, however, it got things worse. I started attacking the professors while giving their lectures orally and physically. I also broke the classroom washbasin, and the entire classroom windows, then security staff gathered around me after 3 minutes, they were about to send me to an unknown destiny, later, everything stopped after the head of the English department told them not to take any action. The last problem I did was with World Literature professor, whose name is Noor AL Araby, she was a real bitch, I remembered studying her syllabus for a month, she told us that Virginia is not required for the exam, and she brought it. As a result of that, I wrote her three pornographic stories on the exam paper. Stories people see in Brazzers and Naughty America (Porn films companies). Everybody got pissed off, the story was about to be dragged from my house to a security branch for torture. Luckily, my uncle who was a Colonel in the Republican Guard he had connection to the President of the University, told the professor to drop out the case, but she was persistent to have my balls for Christmas decoration. She spread what I wrote her on the internet and about to send them to newspapers. My parents begged her not to and we had medical reports that proved that I had neurological and mental case. Then I was suspended from the University for years, from 2016, till now. She did all she could to destroy me to the utmost level. I was happy when I realized she got very agitated. Especially, there were students confirming that exam questions were paradoxical to the things she lectures about.

Suspension Time

At the time I was suspended it was a slow killer for me. Literary, I realized that I was the worst student in the history of the planet. I decided to follow Boxing, I remembered that I was fit enough for the game. I found out that I did well at round bouts on the ring. I could do sparring sessions, shadowboxing…etc. I was able to run at least 10kms per day, 300 sit-ups, 80 press ups and 20 pull-ups. I tried to be a champion but every time I kept persevering, in addition to that my left palm was broken and my right eye was wounded. I got cold and sick, and I realized that I had to spend at least 2 months with vaporizers, fertilizers and strong meds. I kept striving in Boxing with no success. I lost confidence in myself and felt humiliated. I said to myself, why didn’t I choose to work for the Syrian Secret Service, I went to the branches, and when they saw that I was discharged from the military because of diabetes type 1, they asked me to get lost. I was surprised when I found out that my dentist was an officer in the Ariel Intelligence in Syria, I told him the story, he said “this is not your fight, you might think that you can do well in the field, but your enemies are smarter than you, they know how they can take you down and destroy you once and for all. Second, we had people who kill targets, who can do silent killings, detonate and sabotage, whether male, or female, but they have nothing to lose, their parents are killed and very poor, working to make money, and you are a discharged, rich bastard and you want to join us. I’m surprised when you told me that. I was a James Bond fan like you, but believe me my friend, that the real intelligence work will never come up to your expectations. Once the film you watch finishes and the novel ends, go back to reality, what you look for does not exist. I realized that I couldn’t become an asset for MI6, or any spy agency in this world, I felt that I was under surveillance by my country. I knew that they could look at my messages, trace my location any time they wanted. That was not the real problem, suicidal thoughts and self-punishment ideas didn’t leave me. So, I talked to my uncle to send me to the Special Forces, or any Military Barracks to become a martyr, to take the bullets to my chest. I remembered when I drank wine bottle on my own, I told my parents that I wanted to wear a C4 charge belt and blow myself up inside ISIS. They were horrified, then I was unconscious and within minutes, I found myself inside the clinic, after I told my problem to the psychiatrist, about MI6 dream and the doubt that I’m under surveillance. He told my mother that I’m a Psychotic. I was injected with needles and medications that made me feel like cutting my head off. He also sent me to Damascus for electro-therapy (to take electricity directly to my brain). I also became a field of therapy by my Doctor, he was testing medications on me like Invega that made me shake while standing up. Hence, he decided to give me Zeldox 60 mg, second generation anti-psychotic. My only comfort was when I slept. Waking up to life while taking those meds was a curse. I lost my sexual drive (libido), I remember feeling dizzy all the time, I remember calling the doctor every time when I tell him about the side-effects concerning dizziness and loss of sexual drive, he kept telling me that what you say is incorrect and that it didn’t have any symptoms. By miracle, my father brought me lower dosage medication, life changed for me. I knew cat-houses in my city, every money woman I went to for an intercourse, they took a lot of money. They were abusing me. The sluts didn’t make me enjoy the intercourse the way I wanted. They were controlling me as well, and this is why I left them. After I told my psychiatrist that I reduced the dosage, he said that my condition will deteriorate. He confirmed to me that Chemistry in my brain was not right, then I told him to screw himself. Reducing the dosage had an effect as well. I remembered at a certain time that painkillers were like a bag of peanuts for me. And when night came I felt incredible fever in my head. I felt like being boiled alive. And I kept seeing nightmare afterwards, voices telling me that I will pay the price of reducing the medication dosage. Complete terror and horror kept chasing me for a very long time. After recovery, I logged into the James Bond groups on Facebook, they made me trivia to answer, did me a test about the James Bond 24 films from Dr.No 1962 to Spectre 2015. After I answered them all correctly, they called me Agent 00Zein. Made me an admin, and I had many friends from all around the world. In the 5th of October the global James Bond day , I celebrated with millions of the franchise fans. My great father, brought me a modern computer and IPhone X to follow up with these groups.

Nowadays, I’m not looking for immigration, nor women or anything else in this world. I have chosen to help my parents when they grow old, and help them. This is the best way I can pay them back. I decided to watch films about espionage world, read books, imagining the events and enjoy it fully and get my arse back to reality.

This is the only way; I cannot be punished.

I can imagine myself a soldier of 30 Assault Unit in Ian Fleming’s room 39 in WW2, or talking with Sir Alex Younger about my mission in VX or Whitehall. If not Sir Alex Younger, it could be Admiral Miles Messervy, Admiral Hargreaves, Madame Olivia Mansfield, or Lieutenant Colonel Gareth Mallory. And realize that” It was a matter of pride that the 00 Section has been chosen for this test. This painful experience kept coming back sometimes, notwithstanding, I have chosen to take with a pinch of salt, lol.

[toogaytowrite]

I Met The Devil

So, I work at this rinky dink hole in the wall bar in Texas. Everyone just calls it the Spur. Even I don't know if it has a real name beyond that. When I say this place is in the middle of nowhere, I mean the middle of the flatlands, where you can drive for an hour and see nothing but pump jacks. Oilfield worker is about the only job you can get out here, so the patronage is comprised of rowdy good ol boys, coveralls stained with black oil and stinking to high heaven. Sometimes they bring their wives, most of them come here to avoid their wives.

It gets busy on the weekends- it's the only place to get a drink for miles after all. Other times its basically empty. Very few people will drive out here on a Tuesday evening to drink alone. I've spent a lot of my shifts just flipping through the channels on the tv above the bar or dumping spare change into the jukebox. Just me and the bright blinking light outside. Thing gives me a headache, but when it goes dark for a few seconds, rotating through the light bulbs, the outside is pitch black. You pretty much rely on the thing to see at night, so you're thankful for it when you're trying to find your car keys.

Anyway, it was a Monday and everything had slowed to a complete crawl, compared to the ruckus of Saturday and Sunday night. Just me, once again, sitting behind the bar, with no one but the late night televangelists to keep me company. Some old guy just reading bible passages and explaining them. It was either that or infomercials, even the television nightlife is non-existent here. Why the owner keeps the place open on weekdays, well, your guess is a good as mine. We barely make enough money to keep that big ass light outside on.

Normally, you hear the cars pull up before the tinkle of the bells on the door. Again, we are in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and the nearest house is several miles away. Way too far for anyone to walk. The purr of engines and tires on gravel are the warnings I get that a customer is coming in. It gives me a chance to put on my bubbly bar girl face, otherwise I'm thoroughly checked out.

I heard the bells first. I didn't think that was much cause for alarm, just that I must have been having one of my boredom induced out of body experiences and missed the car noises. That, or after three years working here, I'd finally found the man crazy enough to walk ten miles of dirt road to get a stiff drink. The guy that came in was a face I hadn't seen before. Late forties, a little salt in his pepper, he looked like the older men in those commercials for 'enhancement' pills.

Anyway, he wasn't half bad looking. I've never been into the Dukes of Hazzard types that occupied the bar, and having some minor daddy issues has contributed to my major kink in older guys. He took a seat at the bar and I fumbled to look like I wasn't a slob, tuck my hair back into a ponytail, stuff my shirt back into my jeans, casually give myself a sniff to make sure my twelve hour melon scented deodorant was still doing its job. I smelled something weird, but I couldn't tell if it was me or the new guy. Must have been him.

He ordered a scotch half a second before I asked what he'd like. I wasn't even sure if we had any top shelf stuff like that, considering most of our income was made off of shitty watered down beer. We did, and he thanked me when I set his glass on a coaster in front of him. At this point, the preacher on tv had reached the part of his sermon where he demonized “heathen sodomites” and the crowd were shouting amens. I asked if he wanted to watch something else (as if there was anything else to watch), he just smiled and shook his head. Told me it was fine and called me darling. I muted it anyway- the preacher's flapping jowls were getting on my nerves.

“You know he touches kids.” His words caught me a little offguard, but as I possess a notoriously dark sense of humor, I laughed anyway. Partly because I found it funny, mostly out of surprise for the out of the blue statement.

“Yeah, they all do,” I said. He gestured with his glass to an alter boy on the corner of the stage, who the camera never lingered long on.

“He takes that one up to room, has him sit naked on the bed. Thinks as long as he doesn't touch himself then it's not an affront to God.”

I chuckled- I wasn't sure what else to say to that other than, “Yeah. Heh.” and pretend like I had work to do. I ducked behind the bar, acting like I was grabbing a drink so I could let my mouth hang open in shock, mouth “oh my God” to myself, then took a moment to regain my composure before I came back up. How does someone even react to that? That was too dark, even for me. When my head poked back up, he'd set a few bills on the counter, and was smirking at me. Thinking about that look still makes my hair stand on end.

“Share a drink with me.”

I reached for any excuse I could think of, and there were quite a few I could have given. It was against the rules to drink on the job, for one, for two, he had seriously thrown me with the kid diddling anecdote, and for three, I don't share drinks with guys I just met. But he moved his hand a little, and it was then I saw Benjamin Franklin's pursed lip stare looking up at me from the face of a hundred dollar bill. I've done a lot worse for a tip that big. I popped the cap off the least alcoholic beer I could find and our glasses clinked together. He drank deeply from his cup, I only took a cautious sip of mine.

We talked. He seemed nice, a far cry from the types I'm used to around these parts. He didn't once slip into a rant about Muslims, spit chewing tobacco down the neck of my bottle, and I got the impression he didn't have a single Confederate flag bumper sticker on his car or “Pro Life, Pro God, Pro Guns, Palin for VP” shirt in his wardrobe. He was downright charming. I even made him laugh a few times.

I'd almost forgotten about the preacher comment by the time he turned his attention back to the television.

He was still yapping about something, literally thumping his bible as he lectured on the evils of the world. Whenever his gaze ventured off camera, I had to wonder what he was looking at- was it a member of the audience or the little boy, standing motionless as a statue on stage with him?

The next words out of his mouth were, “What do you think is a good punishment for child molesters?” I nearly shot beer out of my nose. I covered my mouth before I sprayed it all over his face and forced myself to swallow. I asked why he wanted to know. He simply shrugged. “Curiosity. Humor me.”

I didn't have to think about it long. “Chemical castration has always been a favorite of mine.”

“Even that's too good for them,” he said. Those were pretty much the exact words I had in mind, but didn't want to say, on the off chance they made me sound bitter or spiteful. Which I'll admit, I am.

“Short of spending their entire lives in prison, getting their salads tossed by someone bigger than them, the only truly fitting punishment I can think of is if they eat a bullet. He could fall off stage right now and break his own neck in front of his flock. My mom used to say they deserve to get a railroad spike driven through their dicks and pushed backwards.”

“Kary must have a colorful imagination.”

Now, my mother's name is Karyn. Everyone calls her Karyn. She's got a hardon for authority and being in control, so she makes sure everyone practices the formality of calling her Karyn. The only people in this world who call my mother Kary are my father and the friends she's had since high school.

Naturally I wanted to know how he knew this.

“Because I'm the Devil.” He said with such casual sincerity, I could only stare blankly at him. When no chuckle or “aha gotcha” moment came, I could only scoff something that almost sounded like a laugh and pull my beer closer to myself. He didn't seem the type to slip something into my drink, but if those kinds of guys looked like the date rapists they were, they would be a hell of a lot easier to avoid. Anyone who just claimed to the Devil had to be some kind of crazy, right? My paranoia was pretty damn merited I think.

“Yeah, and I'm a Mesopotamian death goddess.”

“Well, it's nice to formally make your acquaintance, Nergal.” He downed the rest of his scotch and stood. Let me just say, claiming you're the Devil is not the weirdest thing a drunk guy has told me in that bar. Doesn't even crack the top ten. Of all the drunk sputum I've overheard in my years working there, this, while unsettling, was not that bad in comparison to the time a guy started crying over a bowl of salted pretzels because of something to do with bread yeast. I was fully prepared to brush it off as just him screwing with me, but I don't know. Something in his eyes made me question it. Now, whether I believe in all that fire and brimstone crap, I have to wonder.

He took my hand and shook it. “You're a good kid, Laura. Thanks for indulging me.”

I don't wear a nametag. I hadn't told him my name either. If he knew my mother's nickname, it wasn't that much of a leap to think he might know mine as well, but I instantly prickled. I thought he must have stalked me to learn these things. What other explanation did I have?

As he turned to leave and I opened my mouth to speak, the TV's sound came blaring back into existence, at a much higher volume than when I'd muted it. The sound hit my ears like speakers screeching on either side of my head. I dove for the remote to turn it down as the preacher pounded his bible on the podium with the force of a judge banging his gavel.

“We are all sinners!” He cried. “We are unworthy of God's love, we have not earned it! We do not seek it! On this planet of six billion lives, do you think the almighty cares for you ants? You spineless microbes? There is only one force on this earth that gives a damn whether we live or die, and folks, I would like to introduce you to him tonight.” It sounded, it looked nothing like the man I'd been watching only an hour ago, before the stranger arrived. There was the same feverish passion, but the way he moved. No longer was he strutting the stage with that Man of God swagger, like nothing in the world could harm him because he had God's love protecting him. He sloshed around like a drunk. Like a doll on the strings of a careless puppeteer. And he laughed.

He wouldn't stop laughing- this high pitched, hyena laughter that settled a chill in your bones. I've never heard a man make that sound before or since then. He threw his back in an almost grotesque contortion as his entire body shook with laughter. I heard something that, looking back now, I think might have been his spine popping into the mic. He drew in one long breath at the end of this laughing fit. He exhaled. There was a moment of stillness, where even the crowd's murmurs hushed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. It wasn't his voice either. It was no one voice. It was like a dozen speaking in perfect unison. He calmly reached up to his mic stand and with one sharp twist, unscrewed the microphone and the clip holding it in place, leaving the metal exposed. “I'll see you all in Hell.”

He dropped the microphone and drove the pipe straight into his skull. The wet squelch as it skewered through his left eyeball and sunk deep into his skull grew distant when the mic fell and thumped to the floor. It was only there for a millisecond, but its a sound I'll never forget.

The camera twisted off kilter, the crew rushed the stage, the silhouettes of the crowd as they shot out of their seats in a panic obscured most of the scene. And he was laughing. Even as he collapsed to the ground, fingers still white knuckled around the metal, he was laughing. I felt nausea hit me almost instantly. Blood pooled around his head, but I could only see flashes in between all the people flocking to his side to tend to him. Like they could do anything to help. He laughed, he thrashed, he went still. I could no longer hear laughter behind the screaming crowd pleading for God, God help him, oh Lord why. The bells pulled me away from the screen long enough to see the stranger's back vanish through the door. I ran after him, your guess is as good as mine what I could have done if I caught up. Though I was little more than a few feet behind him, by the time I wrenched the door open and threw myself outside, he was halfway across the parking lot. He was near the road. The eyesore lights burned brightly, reaching their peak, then went dark at the single most inopportune time. In that short beat of complete darkness, all I could hear was that gut wrenching off air shriek as the televangelist's channel cut the feed. When the lights flicked back to life, he was gone. There was nothing but miles of flatland and the few distant dots of pump jacks.

The next day I saw the preacher's face gracing a newspaper at the gas station. The local paper had only good things to say about him, calling his death a tragedy, calling him an inspiration of faith, but a cursory search online found several articles citing the discovery of his child pornography ring as the possible reason for his public suicide. Turns out the police found an external hard drive in his office with well over a thousand pictures of kids in compromising positions. Twelve victims, reports said. Obviously they can't release names, but I can't get that alter boy's hollow eyes out of my mind. I'm almost sure he must have been one of them.

Haven't seen Mr Devil since then. No one at the Spur believes me, and my mom just wrote him off a crazy person when I spoke to her about it. Hell, if I didn't have the news clippings to prove at least part of it happened, I would think I nodded off on the job and had some crazy dream. It happened. And sometimes, when I sit and turn over everything I saw that night, (which is often) I can smell that odd scent again. It goes right to my head as if he was standing right in front me. I couldn't place it then, but the more I think about it, the more I start to realize that the stranger in the bar that night smelled like something burning.

I can't say what. I'm not sure I want to know.