#I wonder why people going into tens of thousands of dollars into debt want to focus on shit that will get them a job. impossible to know

[communistkenobi]

students in the social sciences can’t explain it either lol. “people in this country see no merit in studying any subject that cannot go on a resume” that’s because they go to school to get a job! I wonder what larger structural factors contribute to this widespread relationship people have to higher education. maybe this guy can use his big beautiful humanities degree to explain it to us

[theoddcatlady]

Organ Donor

I just wanted to go to college. That’s not too far out there right?

I’m not going to give you the whole rundown of why I had to resort to what I did. All you need to know is that I didn’t want to end up in debt for the next thirty plus years and I needed to get out of my parent’s house as soon as possible.  

I looked up a bunch of ways to make cash quickly. I didn’t want to hurt anyone else to do it, of course. I’m not a psycho. But it took a little less digging and a little more dumb luck. This was about three years ago. I was applying for jobs at a coffee shop when I saw a black van pull out in front of the place.  

Three girls exited the van, I barely recognized one of them as a former classmate named Kayla, she was so pale and unsteady on her feet. But she was beaming. She strode inside and she ordered something up front, but I couldn’t hear exactly what she said.

I was more distracted by the row of black stitches going up her side.  

She was wearing a crop top so they were out in plain sight. I wasn’t able to stop staring. She didn’t seem like she was in pain, but I had no idea how.  

I guess it was on me that she noticed me staring, but she was hardly bothered. She just smiled, grabbed her cup of tea, and headed right for my table. She took her seat and gestured to the scar.

“Hey, it’s ugly, but it’s ten thousand in the bank.”  

I sputtered for a moment but the dollar signs had already flashed in front of my eyes. “What did you do?” I asked, my curiosity peaked.

Kayla sipped her tea slowly. “Mmm, donated a kidney. I could’ve made a lot more from something a teenee bit more vital, but it’ll help put the down payment on a new car!” She said in a manner so casual she could’ve been talking about the weather.

I nearly laughed because I thought she was joking. But then I glanced at those stitches again. “… Are you kidding me?”  

“What, like you haven’t heard of it?” Kayla laughed. “I think most of our classmates have donated something. There’s not exactly much to do for cash in this dying town, and we all need to get out before we drown with it.”

Ten thousand dollars. That would be amazing. “… How do you do it?”

Kayla winked before she took a card out of her pocket. “I thought you might ask. Here, if I invite someone to donate, I basically get commission. Go to the address on the card. Next week, ten PM. Be there on time or you’ll miss your chance.” With that, she threw away her tea and walked out of there.

It’s stupid how easily I went along with it. But I mean, God gives you two kidneys, you don’t really need both. And ten thousand freaking dollars. I’d have to work my ass off for so long to get anywhere close to that, and that wasn’t even considering how odds are my dad would steal my savings again if I left it be long enough.

So I was there, right on time, at the Red Corner bar with a few other people around my age. Kayla was there, it was clear she’d recruited at least three people to come with her if you include me. The rest had clearly done this before, they were showing off their various scars and talking about how much of a cake walk it was. Just go to sleep and wake up with a wad of cash.

The black van pulled up in front of the bar and the window rolled down to reveal a middle aged woman with silver strands in her otherwise black hair. Her white coat was neatly pressed and she was wearing a pink scrub shirt underneath. She just looked like your average doctor you’d go to for a well check.

“All right, it’ll be a busy night if all seven of you are going, so let’s not waste any time. You all ready? Don’t feel bad if you have to back out, there’s no shame in it.”

I glanced around to see if anyone looked hesitant. The other two newbies did look scared, but the confidence was just oozing off of the people who’d done this before. I wondered what else they could donate since they’d already likely parted with an organ. At the time, I assumed blood or maybe skin.  

“Well, all right. Hop on in, I have water ready but snacks will wait until the operation is over.”  

We all clambered into the van, which had no seats so we all just had to sit on the floor. The woman handed us all water bottles. “For all you first timers, I’m Dr. Harris. I’ll likely be operating on one or two of you tonight, my associates will handle the rest. It’s all right to be a little nervous, but I promise there’s no risk in this,” She said before she pulled into the street and began driving us someplace else.

I cleared my throat after taking a long drink. “Isn’t there always some risk with donating an organ?” I asked.

Dr. Harris laughed and glanced back at me. “Not the way I do it. You’ll wake up tomorrow morning feeling like nothing is wrong, you’ll immediately be able to go back to your daily activities. Kayla, dear, the forms are tucked in the box back there. Hand those out so we know what we’ll be taking tonight,” She said.  

Kayla popped up two thumbs before she started digging through a cardboard box and threw papers at all of us, along with a couple pens. It was a pain in the ass to read the whole thing, since the van was dark and I’d only get the occasional glimpse of light from passing street lamps. Still, I got just enough to be able to check off my ‘l. kidney’ on the list of organs I wanted to donate.  

I expected to be taken to some shady warehouse full of sinister people armed with scalpels. Instead, the van pulled up to a rather comfortable looking home in your average suburbia. Dr. Harris escorted us to the backyard, where we entered a walk in basement that had been transformed into an operating theater. Everyone else down there looked just as professional as Dr. Harris, surgeons slipping on masks and gloves or washing their hands.

“All right, let’s get the newbies out of the way first.” Dr. Harris rested her hand on my shoulder. “I think I’ll be operating on you. Come on, let’s get you ready.”

I was let into a side bathroom where I dressed into a surgical gown. I’d never been operated on before then, I didn’t know what to expect.

I did get an inkling something wasn’t quite normal when I was sat down on the table and given a red liquid to drink by a man I assume was like a nurse. It had no taste, I might as well have been drinking air. I laid down on the table as I was hooked up to all the machines and a mask was placed on my face.  

Strangely I felt no fear as I was told to count backwards from ten. I didn’t even make it to six before I was out for the count.  

Since I’m writing this, I’m sure you guessed I woke up the next morning. Along with all the other operatees, we’d been put in a guest bedroom on the main floor. Nothing felt out of place, I felt no pain. I removed my gown to check out if I’d even really been operated on.  

But there was that line of stitches up my side, and although I felt fine, I scared myself half to death when I looked in the mirror and saw how pale I was.

Dr. Harris treated us to breakfast, casually asking how we felt and if we liked blueberries in our pancakes as she shoveled bacon and eggs onto our plates. She was an amazing cook. After we had our fill, we got taken back to the cafe and told if we ever wanted to donate again to be at the Red Corner at the same time and day of the week.

And that was that… or it was going to be anyway.

Luckily for me Dr. Harris was more than understanding and put the money on a gift card so my parents couldn’t once again get into my bank account and empty it out. A few days passed before I bumped into Kayla once more at the coffee shop. She ordered me something and we got to talking. We’d not really been friends in highschool but after our little organ donor experience we’d had gotten a bit of a connection. And she is a really nice person, a bit bubbly and superficial but nice.  

We got around to talking about the donation and I asked what she’d donated.

“Oh, a kidney.”  

I frowned. “I meant this time, not the first time,” I said.

Kayla laughed and her casual smile sent chills down my spine. “I donated my left kidney the first time, and I donated my right kidney last time,” She said, sounding oh so proud of herself.

I suddenly felt cold. Like I said, it’d already been a few days since we donated. She looked fine, her skin even got a little color back into it, but both kidneys gone?  

“You’re full of shit. You can’t live without your kidneys,” my chest went tight and I found myself reaching for my cellphone, “You need a hospital-”

A blur of motion and Kayla had grabbed my wrist, squeezing it so tight that I thought she was about to break it. Her sunshiney expression had been immediately exchanged for something hostile. “Don’t be stupid,” She said in a low voice, glaring and giving my wrist another squeeze before letting go and going back to being that happy go lucky Kayla. “I promise. I’m fine. Dr. Harris is an amazing doctor, after all.”  

I felt sick as I rubbed my sore wrist.  

That night I went to Dr. Harris’ house. She hadn’t exactly hidden her street or address from us, no bags over our heads or blindfolds as she drove us there, but she wasn’t surprised in the least to see me at her front door. Before I could say anything she just gestured me inside.  

There she fixed me a cup of tea and let me sit on her couch while she told me her story.

“You know, I was once a real doctor. One of the finest surgeons in the country,” She sighed as she enjoyed her own cup of tea. “I knew if a patient was on my table, they’d make it out. I wouldn’t let them die. My fellow doctors put that up to the typical surgeon ego. We are not exactly known for being humble, but why be humble when we’re honest? And it wasn’t my pride speaking either. I just knew no one would die on my table if I was the one holding the scalpel.”  

I turned my cup around and around in my hands. “You took both of Kayla’s kidneys,” I finally said. “She’s a dead woman walking.”

Dr. Harris slammed her cup down on the side table, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin. “She is not going to die!” She took a deep breath calm herself before she glanced at her cup, which had massive cracks going up both sides. “… Damn, I really need to control my temper. It’s my temper that’s really always gotten me into trouble you know.”  

She pulled her chair closer. “It was about eight years ago when I had a patient that seemed just as determined to die as I was to save her life. A fifteen year old girl who’d been in a car accident, her body mangled and full of more glass than blood. Even when the surgery was over, my fellow doctors told me there was no guarantee she’d live. But damn it, I wasn’t going to let my patient die!” Her voice shook and a tear went down her cheek. “She was just a child. So I went with an… unorthodox method. And I saved that girl’s life.”  

“What did you do?” I asked.

Dr. Harris sighed. “I will not share all the details. Just know that it was, in the eyes of the hospital board, an act of malpractice and had nothing to do with her miraculous recovery. I lost my medical license, I was blacklisted from all hospitals in the country. I was called everything from a lunatic to a satanic sociopath. But Satan had and still has nothing to do with my work. How I managed to get the human body to work without the pieces inside is all me. With more practice on small animals, I found that it works out much better if the person whose parts are replaced is in relative good health, so I figured out my new path. Take organs from the healthy, give them to the not so fortunate, those who likely wouldn’t survive my new operative technique. I’m saving lives, and I’ll never let one be taken.”

I swallowed. This sounded like the words of a crazy person, but she sounded so devoted to it, so sure of herself, I found myself believing her.

So my next question is one maybe you’ve already guessed.

“How many organs can you take?”  

Dr. Harris’ smile was filled with glee.

“Any one you’re willing to give.”

My other kidney was next, which was foolish but I wanted to know for sure that I wouldn’t die. I waited four months to prove Dr. Harris’ words- that no matter what she took from me, I wouldn’t die.

I did both of my lungs in one go, and although I find myself short of breath more often than before, I have no real problem with it. My pancreas was next, followed by all my intestines. I have less of an appetite, but that’s not a problem. I can save money on the food bill. I did cry when I woke up after my cornea donation and found I could still see, although I can no longer shed tears and my eyes do look a bit strange if you stare at them for too long, how glassy and fake they look and how black the veins are.  

The final operation was the only one I think Dr. Harris was truly hesitant about. No one had actually checked that box before. I had enough money to begin my life, but I wanted to be comfortable for years to come.  

So I went under that knife and let Dr. Harris take the last thing I could give.  

There’s a strange emptiness inside of me now. I don’t cry, I don’t mourn, my exes all call me stonehearted. I’m not hurt by that.

But there’s an odd peace to not really caring at all.  

And in this new apartment, in this new life… I’m finally free.

It only cost me my heart.  

[gins-potter]

everything will be alright (with you by my side)

@halzekrhodestead​ sent me these requests literally a million years ago and i’m just now getting around to filling them.  sorry about the wait and i hope you enjoy it! yes i know will didn’t do emergency medicine in nyc i just decided to retcon that

Will’s skin practically crawls at the sound of the elegant string music floating out of the ballroom at the top of the stairs.  The music is nice enough he supposes, but Will’s never been able to hear violins and not be reminded of the vibrant, boisterous music his mother had filled their home with when he was a child.  But maybe it’s not the music at all that sets his teeth on edge, but rather the people lining up to enter the gala, who shed their coats to reveal expensive tuxedos and glamorous dresses.  Maybe it’s the glasses of champagne they accept as they step inside, the liquid surely the rarest of vintages and served in undoubtedly crystal flutes.

Beside them, in the tux he’s had since med school, and the tie Connor gave him before they even started dating, Will feels more than a little lackluster.

But, he rationalises to himself, he never did understand the point of hosting a charity event if you were going to blow tens of thousands of dollars just throwing the damn thing.  But he knows the cause is important to his boyfriend, so in a surprisingly un-Will-like fashion, he resists the urge to make a comment about it, and instead pastes a pleasant smile on his face.  Because after all, he’s not here to make waves; he’s here to be a buffer with a pretty face and make the night as painless as possible.

At least that’s the way Will remembers Connor phrasing it.

Speaking of, beside him Connor takes a deep, shuddering breath as they reach the top of the stairs and the wide double door entrance looms ahead.  Pausing at the threshold, Connor slips his hand into Will’s and squeezes gently.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tracing the back of Will’s hand with his thumb.  “Thanks for being here?”

Will feels his lips twitch up into a genuine smile despite his surroundings, and says, “Yeah well, you promised you’d do that thing with your tongue that I like if I came, so…”

The words surprise a laugh out of Connor, and he shoots Will a grateful look, before squaring his shoulders, as if emboldened by the exchange and leading his boyfriend inside.  Will sighs a little and accepts a glass of champagne, figuring he’s going to need it.

Into the lion’s den they go.

.

The night starts off well enough, all things considered.

Having been away from the whole scene for so long, Connor is almost immediately swarmed by artificially eager socialites who want all the details on what he’s been up to in recent years.  Will watches his boyfriend’s face and knows him well enough to know when he needs to step in and gently shift the subject matter, or when Connor genuinely likes the other person and he can sip his exorbitantly priced champagne and let the conversation wash over him.

His southside accent sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the other guest's polished speech but Will plays it to his favour, working the ‘blue-collar boy who put himself through med school’ angle that they lap up like some of their expensive wine.  His father would spit if could see him, and Will hates himself a little bit for doing it, their condescending smiles stoking the embers of that anger.  But all it takes is to see the gratefulness in Connor’s eyes to know it’s worth it, and he stamps out those embers enough that they don’t become a raging inferno.  Besides, by the pressure of a hand on his lower back, Will can tell that Connor knows exactly what he’s doing and will make it well worth his time when they’re back in their apartment.

They even survive the, thankfully brief, exchange with Connor’s father, it being the first time they’ve met in the year that Will and Connor have been together.  It’s polite, and it’s pleasant, and they smile for the benefit of the other guests milling around, but Will doesn’t miss the disapproving glint that enters Cornelius Rhodes’s eyes when Connor introduces him as his boyfriend.  And it doesn’t go unnoticed by him either that Connor introduces him as ‘Will’, but Cornelius manages to call him ‘William’ - something even his own father never calls him - a grand total of six times in the space of their three minute conversation.  

It makes Will wonder which is a bigger affront to Cornelius: that his son is dating a man, or that he’s dating someone who doesn’t come with a trust fund.

But despite it all they manage to survive the few minutes that the encounter lasts for until Cornelius gets pulled away by another guest and they can escape to the other side of the ballroom.  It would have been ideal to avoid him completely, but as a main benefactor of the gala, Cornelius was well and truly in the spotlight, and people would surely talk if the two Rhodes men ignored each other all evening.  That was certainly the reason, Connor mutters to Will as they hightail it out of there, that Cornelius had sought them out; it simply would not do for the Rhodes’ to be talked about for anything other than their roaring financial success.

But all in all the evening is going well.  Connor works the crowd with Will at his side, charming smile firmly in place as he convinces many of the other guests to sign over large swathes of money to the National Alliance on Mental Illness.  Connor chats to friends of his late mother, runs into old classmates from high school, and even gets dragged onto the dance floor by his sister.  And despite his father’s looming presence, Will can tell his boyfriend is actually starting to enjoy himself.

Which is why he feels comfortable enough to leave Connor in the hands of his sister and escape into a hallway off the ballroom when he overhears a young socialite complain to her friend about the darling little yacht her father refuses to buy her.

What’s a mere three million dollars after all?

He just needs to take a breath away from the music and the lights and the people.  But he’s not there for more than a few minutes, when a figure appears at the other end of the hallway, striding towards him.

“Mr Rhodes,” Will says, once he recognises him in the dim lighting.  He straightens, and pushes off the wall, a bad feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

“William Halstead,” Cornelius says slowly, a dangerous smile on his face.  Something about the way he says Will’s name has the hair on the back of his neck standing up, and his suspicions are confirmed when Cornelius doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.  “William Halstead.  Born to Pat and Shannon Halstead, a construction worker and kindergarten teacher from Canaryville.  One brother named Jay who was first an Army Ranger and is now a detective with the Chicago Police Department.  You went to college out of state, was involved in aid work in Sudan, before studying emergency medicine in New York.  You came back to Chicago on a whim to visit your brother, were briefly accused of murder before later being cleared, and decided to move back permanently when you were offered a position at the Gaffney Chicago Medical Center.”

The champagne flute in Will’s hand groans under his tightening grip, but he manages a guarded smile as he says, “I see you’ve looked me up.”

“Oh, I’ve done more than look you up,” Cornelius says ominously.  “Which is why I know that despite your best efforts you were unable to secure a scholarship, and the two jobs you worked through medical school barely dented your student loans.  So, let’s cut to the chase, William, how much will it take?”

Will blinks, and then laughs uncomfortably, unable, or perhaps unwilling to understand what Cornelius is trying to imply.  “I’m sorry, how much will what take?”

Cornelius exhales sharply, as if perturbed by having to explain himself.  “How much money will it take to get you to walk away from my son and never look back?”

The words cut like a blade through Will’s chest and his next breath comes out strangled and ragged.  “I don’t-”

Cornelius spreads his hands, cutting Will off with ease.  “Look, I’m a reasonable man.  And I can be very generous when I want to be.  Those loans of yours could be taken care of with a single phone call.”

Will seethes at the arrogance of the man before him, and at both the idea of someone being able to clear eight years worth of accumulated debts with half a thought, and at the implication that there was a sum of money large enough to get Will to walk away from Connor.

When he doesn’t answer, Cornelius continues.  “I know about you, William, I know your background, and I know that you and my son come from two very different worlds.  And I know that when I pass on and my son inherits the empire two generations of Rhodes’ men have built, he’ll do so with someone of the correct social standing by his side.  Someone,” he adds, eyeing Will with open disgust.  “Who is able to provide a natural continuation of the Rhodes’ line.”

“So,” Will says, realising that he being a man and a poor kid from Canaryville are equal sins in Cornelius’ eyes.  “It doesn’t matter to you that your son might be miserable as long as he marries someone you deem socially acceptable?”

Cornelius shrugs carelessly.  “I’m sure Connor will be upset for a while, he always was a…. sensitive child.”  His lips pull back, more a bearing of his teeth than a true smile.  “But I’m also sure that he’ll get over it eventually, and come to realise that I’m right.  Hell, he might even thank me for it one day.”

Will wants to tell him that there’s a better chance of hell freezing over than of that happening, but Cornelius has already continued talking.

“So, all that’s left to be settled is the price.  Name it and it’s yours.”

Here, Will has to laugh.  And not just an awkward or polite chuckle, but a real laugh, the first he’s uttered all night.  He laughs, and laughs harder, when Cornelius’s expression becomes pinched.

“Oh, you really thought that because I was still standing here and listening, you were actually going to be able to pay me off?”

Cornelius tries to smile again, but it’s lacking it’s earlier swagger.  “‘Pay off’ is such an ugly term, isn’t it?  I prefer to think of this as a business deal.  One that you would be very stupid to turn down.  So be reasonable, William.”

But Will shrugs, grinning effortlessly.  “No one has ever accused me of being all that smart.  And reasonable?  Me being reasonable is walking away from you right now instead of introducing you to the Canaryville version of a no.”

Will idly cracks the knuckles of his right hand, and feels a dark satisfaction when Cornelius’s gaze drops to the hand still hanging by his side.  But he doesn’t curl that hand into a fist, doesn’t let himself draw back his elbow and let the punch fly, no matter how good it might feel in the moment.  No, instead he just shoves both hands into his suit pockets, shoots Cornelius one more careless grin, and starts to stroll back down the hallway.

“You’re going to regret this, William.”

He almost turns back, but decides it’s not worth it.  Besides, he really doesn’t think he is.

.

Connor is blessedly alone when Will steps back into the ballroom.  He hands his glass, still half full, to a passing server with a nod of thanks and beelines for his boyfriend, slipping an arm around his waist and pressing a kiss to his temple when he gets there.

“Hey,” Connor says, leaning into him.  “Where did you go?”

“Just out for a breather.”  He pauses, then says, “Ran into your father, had an interesting conversation.”

Connor’s eyes darken and he starts to pull away.  “What did he say?”

Will huffs a breath of a laugh and tightens his grip, preventing him from leaving.  “Nothing.  Well, nothing important anyway,” he allows when Connor clearly doesn’t buy it.

He’ll tell him eventually, it’s not the kind of thing he can keep from Connor.  But later, when they’re in the privacy of their home, and there’s no chance of Connor ruining a charity gala named in his mother’s honour by punching his father in front of a couple hundred people.

“Will-”

He drops his head and nuzzles the side of Connor’s face for the briefest of moments.  “Later,” he murmurs, before pressing another feather light kiss to his skin and drawing away again.

Connor doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t try to pull away again, which is answer enough.  

Will grins, his teeth flashing.  “Dance with me?”

Connor seems surprised but nods and takes his hand, leading him out amongst the other swaying couples.  Will is sure Cornelius is out there somewhere, watching them and seething at the sight but in that moment he doesn’t care.  All that matters is Connor’s arm around his waist and his head on his shoulder, and the love they both feel for each other burning bright in their chests.

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Sixty Two

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

October 5th, 1992

“So...what exactly is a trust fund?” Emile asked, cocking his head to the side.

“It’s a bank account where your money can stay safe and sound until you can spend it as an adult,” his grandfather said. “When you’re twenty one, you’ll be able to use it for whatever you want.”

“That’s ten years from now!” Emile groaned. “That’s gonna take forever!”

“It will creep up on you faster than you think,” his grandfather said. “But your grandmother wanted to make sure you’d be responsible with the money, so that’s why you have to wait.”

Emile sighed. He understood, but he didn’t like it. “Does this mean Mom and Dad aren’t gonna give me an allowance any more?”

“I don’t think so!” his grandfather laughed. “After all, the money is of no use if you can’t exactly use it yet! They should still give you money you can use for whatever you want as an allowance.”

“Oh! That’s okay then,” and Emile ran off to finish the book he had been reading before his grandfather called him in to talk about Grandma’s will.

  May 3rd, 2002

Emile could hardly believe it. Today was his twenty first birthday, and he had driven out to the nearest branch of the bank his grandmother used to set up his trust fund all those years ago. He had never been told the exact amount of money that was put in the fund, just given an estimate of somewhere around one hundred fifty thousand dollars.

Grandma definitely knew how to invest, and because his great-grandfather had been a self-starter and had gotten a modest alcohol business off the ground, his grandmother had inherited half of that money, the other half going to his great uncle, her brother. And Emile was the only grandchild she had when she died, so all the money she didn’t leave with his grandfather, she decided to save away for him.

Still, though, Emile’s breath was blown away when he talked to the bank manager and saw the number for himself. Two hundred fifteen thousand dollars. If he wasn’t already sitting down, his legs would have given out from underneath him. He had wondered how his grandparents could afford the house they had, but this number cleared up any questions he might have had.

“God,” Emile breathed, still staring at the number on the screen.

The bank manager looked him over. “You look like you’re about to pass out, do you need some water?”

“I’ll...” Emile choked on his words. “I’ll be okay,” he breathed.

“Your grandmother was a very lucky woman,” the bank manager said.

“Luck was her being born into the family she was. Smarts are what made her be able to get everything she needed and have this much money left over,” Emile said.

The bank manager looked pleased. “You’re rather insightful yourself,” he said. “I know this seems like a lot of money to you, but I hope I don’t have to explain to you how fast that money can go away if you’re not careful.”

“No, believe me, I know,” Emile said, sucking in a breath. “Oh, God. I was planning on investing most, if not all, of the money I inherited, but this is a much larger number than I anticipated.”

The bank manager sniffed a laugh. “Son, this is hardly the largest trust fund this bank has seen.”

“This alone could pay off my college debts,” Emile said, deathly serious. “It’s a lot of money to a broke college kid who’s been working retail to make ends meet with his partner working two jobs just to stay afloat.”

“I see your point,” the manager conceded. “But don’t spend it all in one place, you understand? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Emile said, swallowing. “I could buy a house, or pay off my debts, or any number of things. But I’ll probably be investing it for the time being, watching it grow a little before I decide exactly what I’m going to do with it.”

“You’re smarter than most of the college-aged kids who get these sorts of funds,” the manager said, leading Emile out. “We’ll have the money ready for withdrawal in a couple days. Until then, think wisely on what you’re going to invest in, all right?”

Emile mutely nodded as the manager left him to walk into the front of the bank, and Remy stood up from where he was waiting on a bench. “Hey, there, stranger!” he teased. “What did they say?”

“Oh, God, let’s get to the car first, okay?” Emile said. “You’re going to freak.”

“That much?” Remy laughed. They left and got into the car, Remy looking over at Emile. “So what was it? One hundred fifty thousand, like your parents said?”

“Apparently...my parents low-balled the estimate,” Emile said, sounding slightly hysterical. “I have over two hundred fifteen thousand dollars in that account.”

“What?!” Remy asked, incredulous. “Emile, you’re rich!”

Emile laughed. “Apparently the bank has had much higher trust funds than even that, but yeah, I’m...I don’t understand how I got to be that lucky.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Remy asked.

“Honestly? I think I’m going to be boring and invest most of it,” Emile said.

“Get more money? Hey, no complaints from me,” Remy said. “You could quit your job and we’d be fine.”

“I’m going to keep working,” Emile said. “That money isn’t going to last forever, and if I use it towards what I want to use it for...well, that’s going to take a huge chunk of change.”

Remy looked over. “What are you thinking of using it for?”

“Possibly a house?” Emile said, driving away, slightly sheepish. “Like. Property and stuff. Health insurance. Boring things that I can suddenly afford. But I want to invest most of it first.”

“Makes sense,” Remy said with a nod.

“Would you want to quit one of your jobs?” Emile asked. “Because I can afford to pay a little more rent now, you only need one job...”

“I mean...” Remy sighed. “It would be nice to only have one job, but I don’t want you to spend any more money on me than you have to.”

“Remy, you’re my boyfriend, of course I’m going to spend money on you now that I have money to spend!” Emile insisted. “You’d better get used to it, because now that we can afford to not go to thrift shops when we wear something through, you’d better believe I’m going to offer to go to retail stores!”

Remy laughed. “Oh, we’re really rolling in it!” he crowed. “We can afford new shirts!”

“You’d better believe it!” Emile exclaimed with a laugh. When his laughter died down, he glanced at Remy. “So, did you apply for the manager position opening up?”

“Yeah, I did,” Remy sighed. “But the manager told me, point-blank, that he didn’t expect me to get it. Nothing against my work ethic, but they wanted someone who had credentials. Like, degree-in-business credentials.” Remy pulled a disgusted face. “As if I didn’t know anything that goes into managing a coffee shop.”

Emile wrinkled his nose. “That sucks.” He considered, and figured now was as good a time to poke the bear as any. “Would you want to start your own shop? In all honesty?”

“I mean, honestly? At this point? Yes,” Remy said. “Neither store is going to promote me, and I don’t want to work two jobs for the rest of my life. I don’t have the funds to buy a property, but if I saved up enough to rent, then maybe I could do my own thing.”

“Rem, you realize that I have enough money to help you on the property front?” Emile asked.

“Emile, no, I would never ask that of you,” Remy said. “I can save money on my own, I’ve been doing that for two months now. And it’s not a lot, but it can add up. If your investments are working out, maybe I can invest in the same things. I could get enough money to start up on my own. Might take a couple years, but I would get the money for the property, as well as the food and the staff and everything needed inside. I could get enough for the first few months of the shop just by saving until December, if I played my cards right.”

“Really?” Emile asked. He had been considering December for checking his funds, checking the market, and getting property for Remy to start the coffee shop. But if this lined up that perfectly, there was no way he could turn it down.

“Really,” Remy confirmed. “You don’t need impossibly huge amounts of money to start up a business if you know what you’re doing, and some of our friends are social butterflies, which means free advertising, and if I come up with my own unique recipes for the shop, and come up with coffee blends that by and large our friends like but the shops I currently work for wouldn’t be caught dead selling, well! I’d be officially in business!”

Emile laughed. “So, that’s something you want to try? You want to try to start your own shop?”

Remy deflated a little. “I want it...but can I actually do it? I mean, I could definitely run a shop, but there’s so many factors I don’t know about. I want to try, to see if I can do it, but if it fails...that’s so much money gone to waste. The biggest hurdle would be the space, and if I can afford the space to give it a try, but I can’t keep the shop afloat, that’s easily thousands of dollars down the drain.”

“Remy, if you think you can do it, I say you save up to give it a try,” Emile said. “You have the confidence and the culinary skill to keep a shop afloat. All it would take is the right advertising and the right people to find you, and you’d have business in no time at all. Go for it. We both invest our money, get the rewards and use them to fund whatever dreams both of us have.”

Remy still seemed uncertain. “I want to, Emile...I really want to. But I can’t stop thinking about the possibility of it going under.”

“If it goes under, it goes under. You get a different job so no one says ‘I told you so’ and we continue on. If you get a good enough property, we might be able to use it as an apartment of sorts,” Remy laughed at that, and Emile smiled as he continued, “It’s not the end of the world if something you try doesn’t succeed, Rem. But I think that this has a really good chance at succeeding.”

Remy nodded. “All right. I’ll save up the money and give it a try for you,” he said. “Do you know what you’re going to do with your money outside investing it?”

“I have a couple ideas, but nothing solid,” Emile said. He didn’t mention that Dice had agreed to take Emile’s job offer and was going to look for Toby. He didn’t want Remy to get his hopes up, and he definitely didn’t want Remy to demand he save the money because he thought it was a fruitless venture.

“Well, when you get some solid plans, let me know, okay?” Remy asked. “Because I want to know if we can get strawberries and blueberries for pancakes for breakfast.”

Emile laughed. “Of course, we can get more fruit. And better ingredients that aren’t just on discount. If you want, we can go shopping right now as a little celebration?”

“Sure! When do you get the money?” Remy asked.

“Couple of days,” Emile laughed. “They couldn’t afford to give me that much money all at once, because it’s a small branch and I’d be taking all of their hundred-dollar bills.”

Remy shook his head. “You’re Mister Rich Kid, now, you realize,” he said. “And you’re never living that title down, not once I let our friends know.”

“Oh, God, I hadn’t even thought about that!” Emile laughed. “Our friends could hardly believe I had a trust fund at all, let alone one that potentially had over a hundred thousand dollars! They’re all going to freak!”

“Even more than I will when this whole day finally sinks in,” Remy said sagely. “It’s going to take some getting used to, having wiggle room in case we screw up.”

Emile turned the car on the road they took to the supermarket. “It’s going to be nice, though,” Emile said. “We buy some food we don’t like, we’re not, y’know, obligated to eat all of it because that’s the only food we have for that night.”

“We can buy stupid things like movies that we don’t know if we like because we didn’t get the chance to see it in theatres,” Remy pointed out.

“We can go to see those movies in the theatre in the first place,” Emile pointed out.

“True!” Remy exclaimed. “Emile. This is. The best!”

Emile laughed.

[thetravelerwrites]

Monster Match #22: Tikbalang

The Traveler's Masterlist

For @severedreamerbeard​: You’ve been matched with a tikbalang!

Tikbalangs, or Tigbolan, scare travelers by leading them astray and playing tricks on them, such as making them return to an arbitrary path, no matter how far they go or where they turn. A superstition popular with the Tagalogs of Rizal Province is that Tikbalangs are benevolent guardians of elemental kingdoms. They are usually found standing at the foot of large trees looking around for anyone who dares to bestow malignancy on their kingdom's territory.

It is a tall, bony humanoid creature with the head and hooves of a horse and disproportionately long limbs, to the point that its knees reach above its head when it squats down.

In some versions, the tikbalang can also transform itself into human form or turn invisible to humans and they like to lead travelers astray. Tikbalang is generally associated with dark, sparsely populated, foliage-overgrown areas, with legends variously identifying their abode as being beneath bridges, in bamboo clumps or banana groves, and atop Kalumpang (Sterculia foetida) or Balite (Ficus indica) trees.

You met Bayani in your art class on your very first day. He had immigrated from the Philippines to attend college a year before you started school, and due to his unusual appearance, had trouble making friends. You hadn’t seen anyone like him before, and where that made some people uncomfortable, it fascinated you. He was such a sweet person that you couldn’t help befriending him.

It took him some time to open up to you, but once he did, you realized how homesick he was. His kind typically lived in the same grove they were born in for their entire lives. Moving away was highly unlikely, but to actually integrate into society was practically unheard of. As far as you knew, he was the first of his kind to attend college. Anywhere. In history.

The only reason he wasn’t in the news was because he had specifically requested not to be. In fact, his advocates had filed injunctions to prevent the media from reporting on it. He didn’t want attention for doing what millions of people did all the time.

His sweetness made you friends, but it was the shy humility and talent that attracted you to him. He didn’t think much of himself, often having heard the awful things people said about him, and you wanted him to think of himself the way you did: unique and intelligent and kind. You were nervous about speaking your attraction to him. He was new to society and you weren’t sure of his preferences, or if he was even looking for any sort of romance.

“What is it like? Your home?” You asked him once during class. The two of you were sitting a little bit away from everyone else to give his long legs enough room without kicking someone else’s chair or easel.

“It is beautiful,” He told you, starting to sketch on a fresh page. “I lived deep in the jungle on the island of Luzon, near a steam that branched from the Magat River. It was lush and green. It never grew cold there, and there were many birds. My whole family had lived there for hundreds of years undetected before we learned of the Mass Integration. I miss it.”

“Why did you leave?”  

“We had only heard that non-human creatures had joined humanity a few years ago, but we were still nervous to reveal ourselves. I was the first to decide to leave and see what the world was like. When my time in college is over, I plan to travel for a few years, then return with what I’ve learned. The rest of my clan will then decide if they wish to leave or stay.”

“Will you stay home after that?” You asked him.

“I don’t know yet,” He admitted. Looking over, you saw him drawing the thick underbrush of a forest. “I suppose I will decide when the time comes.”

“What’s been the hardest thing? Was it difficult to get into college?” You asked him.

“No, actually, passing the test was relatively easy after I took that year of tutoring. And the scholarship I received has made it rather easy.” He stopped sketching and sighed, looking out of the window. “I… I suppose I… did not realize how… small… people can be. How petty. How… superficial? Is that the word?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking that’s right,” You replied.

He sighed. “I thought, because non-humans felt safe enough to reveal themselves, that it would be… less…” He sighed again sharply. “I can’t think of the words.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” You said. “Humans have a long history of not getting along with each other, so it’s unfortunately not surprising that they aren’t exactly nice to other species of people.”

“I can’t understand that,” He said with a grimace.

“Honestly, I can’t either,” You replied sadly. “Are you drawing home?”

“Yes,” He said, his mood brightening. “See? I can’t get the shape of the houses right, though.”

“Oh,” You said, scooting closer. “What kind of houses are they?”

“Small structures, usually one room, nothing grand. Most had open sides with only one or two complete walls, built up off the ground in case of flooding. Since it gets very hot, it was better to have open homes where the breezes could blow through, and we didn’t mind the rain.”

“Like this?” You asked as you sketched.

“Sloped roofs,” He said. “And they’re all pointed toward the river, so that the runoff drains that way. Yes, just like that.”

After sketching for a few more minutes, you took your paper and laid it over Bayani’s sketch, merging the two perfectly.

“Ha,” Bayani said softly. “There it is. Home.”

“I’d like to see it one day,” You said.

“Perhaps you will,” He replied.

“Isn’t it closed to outsiders?”

“Ordinarily,” He said. “But we make exceptions for friends.”

You smiled. “Are you going to enter the art competition they had on the notice board?” You asked him after a moment. “First prize is ten thousand dollars. You could go traveling on summer break, like you want to. Get a head start on seeing the world.”

“I don’t know,” He said. “I don’t think I’m good enough yet to enter. What about you? You’re a wonderful artist.”

“Thanks,” You said. “But I’m not exactly amazing either.”

“You’re incredibly talented!” Bayani replied, earning a shushing from the professor. He ducked his head and spoke in a lower whisper. “You’ve got to win.”

“I’ll enter the contest if you will,” You told him.

“But I don’t even know what to do for the contest,” Bayani said, their face scrunched. “The theme is comfort. I’m not exactly comfortable right now.”

“I know,” You replied. “But there are things that comfort you. Your home does. Do that.”

“Meh, that’s predictable. I’d have to do something original to win.”

“Hmm, that’s true.”

“You enter and I’ll cheer you on,” Bayani said, smiling. “Competition isn’t natural to my people, so I’m still trying to understand it.”

“That’s why you should enter!” You insisted. “You have such a unique style, it’s sure to win.”

“Well, if you’re doing it, then I will, too. If only to challenge myself.”

“That’s the spirit,” You said as the professor called for the end of class. You began packing up your things and getting ready to leave. Bayani always let everyone leave first, and you always waited for him.

“I do find you a comfort,” Bayani said. “You remind me of a friend I had back home. We were always together. Until he found a mate, that is.”

“And you?” You asked, attempting to be nonchalant. “No interest in a mate?”

“Mm,” He replied noncommittally. “Not really. It’s hard to be interested in people I’ve known my whole life. There’s nothing new to learn about them. I feel like discovering new things about your partner is half the fun of loving them.”

“But what about when you’ve learned all there is to know about a person? Do you stop loving them?”

“Not necessarily,” He said, contemplative. “When you learn all there is to know about someone, then you change the situation and learn new things. I like to learn, and there’s no end to learning, now that the world is bigger than I first thought. And now that I can see the world and all the people in it, I can find someone who understands. Does that make sense?”

You laughed a little. “Honestly, that makes perfect sense.”

“What do you find comforting?” He asked. “In terms of the contest?”

“It differs on how I feel at the time,” You said. “If I’m scared, I like being hugged. If I’m sad, I like hugs. If I’m lonely… Oh. Well, I guess I’m not as complicated as I thought.”

He laughed. “How do you convey that through art?”

“I have no idea,” You said, laughing too. “I suppose I’ll figure it out.”

“What will you do with the money if you win?”

“Dunno,” You said. “Maybe start paying off my student loans.”

“Money is another thing that is odd to me,” He said, his face scrunching again like it did whenever he encountered a notion that was foreign to him. “At home, if you needed something, it was given to you. Debt is not a concept we believe in.”

“I wish it was like that everywhere.” You replied wistfully.

Outside of the Arts building, he bid you farewell. “I should hurry. The bus will be here soon and I don’t want to be late getting home. Today is my host sister’s birthday, and they’ve invited me to her birthday dinner.”

“Oh, have fun!” You said, waving. “Tell them I said hi!”

He waved back and began to jog toward the bus stop.

You walked back to your car, fumbling for your keys, lost in thought. Comfort was such an amorphous thing. Everyone had a different idea of what was comforting to them, but they often overlapped. Music, physical touch, objects, food. Different things, similar themes. How would you find a way to convey what comforted you the most?

You thought back on Bayani describing his home, the soft look of fondness he had when he was drawing it. His expression was familiar, if distant. Maybe it wasn’t your comfort you should focus on. Bayani was homesick, that much was obvious. What could you do to help?

At home in your apartment, trying to work with your roommate singing drunkenly along with the TV, you stared at an empty page. You’d been sitting there for an hour trying to draw something, but nothing was coming to you. Banging your head against the desk hadn’t helped, though it did cause your roommate to rush in with a half-empty vodka bottle, convinced someone was trying to break in. After taking the bottle awawy from him and putting him to bed, you sat back down at your desk and sighed, the blank paper mocking you with its… blankness. Fuck you, paper.

Start simple, you told yourself. A tree. Draw a tree.

You began to draw, and progress was stilted at first, but after a while, you tuned out sound and focused on your work. Time blurred and passed as if you were asleep, and before you knew it, the sun was rising.

Well, you were going to be useless today.

Looking back down, you were a little surprised to see Bayani on the page, sitting on the porch of one of those open-faced houses of his home. He was crouched over paper, drawing an undefined sketch. His face was relaxed, his posture at ease. His legs dangled over the side of the raised platform, and even as long as his legs were, they didn’t touch the ground. There were no stairs, but you imagined his people had no trouble getting up and down. Surrounding him was the forest of his home as he had described it to you, with the tall trees and flowers and birds nesting in the branches. There were younger Tikbalangs playing in the background, the younger siblings he spoke of so often.

“So this is what comfort looks like,” You said softly. “I think I get it now.”

It took a week before you were satisfied with the result, but you entered it without telling Bayani. You weren’t sure how he would feel about you using him as the subject of your submission, and it wasn’t likely that you’d win anyway, so he would probably never see it.

Two months later, you got a letter in the mail from the contest and put it away in your backpack, not thinking anything about it. When you got to school, however, it fell out of your pack and Bayani picked it up.

“What’s this?” He asked.

“Oh, I think it’s something from the art competition.”

“You entered?” He said. “That’s great, you didn’t tell me!”

“I figured I wouldn’t win, so there was no point.”

“It’s unopened. Didn’t you even look?”

“Nah,” You said. “It’s probably just thanking me for my participation or something.”

“Can I open it?”

“Feel free.”

As you were getting your stuff set up to start class, you heard Bayani open the letter and a pause, then a gasp.

“You… won.”

“What?”

“You won!” He offered you the letter. “Look!”

“You’re shitting me,” You said, taking the letter and reading it. There, at the top in big bold letters, was Congratulations! “Well, fuck me.”

“What did you submit?”

“Oh…” You cleared your throat. “There’s a copy here.” You handed it to him.

He looked at it, and was silent for several minutes. You watched him apprehensively, the din of the class fading from your ears and it seemed as if you were the only two in the room.

“This is me,” He said quietly.

“I hope you don’t find this offensive,” You said anxiously. “I just remembered everything you told me about your home and it sounded amazing. I didn’t even realize what I was drawing until I was finished.”

“It’s beautiful,” He said.

“Oh…” You replied. “Thank you.”

He looked at you with a sweet smile. “It’s no wonder you won. I knew you could.”

You smiled back. “Thanks. I was thinking… maybe I could use the money and take us on a trip to your home. I know how homesick you are.”

He shook his head. “You should spend the money on what you want, not on what I want,” He replied.

“That is what I want,” You said. “Although… if I’m honest, there is one other thing I’d like to do.”

“What’s that?” He asked.

“Take you on a date?” You said hopefully.

The smile widened. “A new experience. Will I get to learn more about you?”

“I’m hoping you’ll learn everything about me, but I also hope you won’t get bored.”

He reached across and took your hand. “I don’t think that’s possible. In fact, I think we’ll be learning about each other for quite a long time. I look forward to all of it.”

You squeezed his hand in returned. “So do I.”

To get your own Monster Match, buy me a Kofi!

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Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[loquaciousquark]

Cut for talk of COVID and irresponsible failure to social distance (my own). Also, some updates on what’s been going on here for the last month or so.

part one:

Very very long story that I am truncating as much as possible. As you all know, I am an optometrist and professor. When we shut down in March, our university made a huge, painful shift to remote learning and our student clinic ceased operations altogether. Neither students nor faculty saw patients from March 15 - the the middle of May. At the end of May, faculty began seeing patients directly in an extremely reduced schedule, and at the beginning of June, we began adding in very limited numbers of students in a rolling schedule that minimized exposure to all involved.

Three weeks ago, my dear friend Jasper contacted me and said that an old friend of hers, whom I will call Carol, was in dire straits after losing her job overseas. Carol has an extremely rocky history: a terrible car accident that left her legs and feet permanently damaged which directly led to a very bad divorce, significant student loan debt (just shy of six digits I think, compounded from the accident, since she used her student loans to pay her medical bills--for anyone reading this, do not EVER EVER EVER DO THIS--student loans are never touched by bankruptcy declarations and you will owe them until you die), and something of an inability to put down roots. She is an English teacher who has taught and traveled all over the world: Prague, Bahrain, Czech Republic, Los Angeles, Rio, etc.

When I first met her about ten years ago, she had come back to Alabama from Prague because a job had fallen through. She was completely broke and living out of two suitcases and a carry-on. She lived with us for three months for free, sleeping in Jasper’s bed because we had no other room for her, and eventually got a job in Boston and moved on. She lasted--I think--about two months in Boston before quitting and taking a job in the Middle East.

On top of her student loan debt, Carol also has significant IRS debt and is in debt to several of her friends. Over the last few years, she took several ill-advised positions overseas back to back without ever consulting a lawyer on her contracts, and did not realize until recently that one of her positions classified her as an independent contractor instead of an employee, so she owed US taxes on all her income for that period of time. Her most recent job in Prague she lost in February because she filed her visa (again, without a lawyer) incorrectly, and what should have been a brief three-week stay outside of the country became a six week stay on the couch of strangers in the Czech Republic while she waited for her visa reapplication to process. However, it was denied, and then COVID hit, and she returned to Alabama with only a portion of her possessions and tons of important paperwork left behind in her Prague apartment. She then unfortunately had two emergency surgeries on her stomach for an acute, unpredictable medical issue, and while she is well healing now, it also added on another forty thousand dollars of medical debt to what she already owed.

She stayed with her mother and sister while she was recovering from the emergency surgeries, but her family is emotionally abusive and very unkind to her, and after a few weeks she left their home and went to stay with Jasper. However, Jasper is also 8 months pregnant with her fourth child, and they both knew it was a temporary thing. Jasper knows that I have a large home with several spare bedrooms, and asked if I would be willing to host Carol for a period of time while she got back on her feet. I knew what I was agreeing to when I said yes, and Carol and I settled on a period of two months. She has now been here almost three weeks.

Frankly, I do not like Carol very much. We are unbelievably different people in every way--personality, temperament, proclivity to crying in front of other people, hobbies, interests, religion, all of it. She is a very nice person, and I think she truly does mean well. But she is the most emotionally needy and energy-sapping person I have ever met, and I cannot tolerate her company in more than small chunks. It is not possible to hold a conversation with her about any subject tangentially related to her difficulties; if I try to sympathize with her loans by mentioning my own, she shuts me down by saying at least I will have the chance to ever pay them back. If I just try to listen without commentary, she’ll wrap herself up in her own stories and talk for hours without ever needing more than “mm”s and “hm”s and my undivided attention the entire time.

She will often work herself up into sobbing tears over her situation(s), and she always informs me immediately of any new development in any of her numerous trials: which are usually negative, considering the situation, and usually resulting in more tears. She has cried on me probably more than a dozen times since she moved in, and she wields “I love you” like a weapon, more to hear the validation of the response than to truly express the sentiment. She constantly asks for advice on her situation but does not listen to any of it--seems more to just want to relive each tragic detail of her life over and over again with an audience, wondering why she’s continually “screwed over in her life.” (Really, really poor financial decisions and constantly trusting her own “intuition” over getting competent legal advice before signing contracts, are I think the biggest contributors.) She has told me so many private details about her personal views, relationships with her ex-husband and mother and sister, her financial choices, and her extensive travel and job history over the last few years that I probably know her history better than my own at this point.

I think she thinks by sharing so much that she is justifying to me her need to stay with me. What is actually happening is that I am forced to help shoulder this enormous emotional load that compounds my own mental health problems I’ve been having since all this started. I have told her more than once that she does not need to justify herself to me and that my home is open to her for two months, no strings attached. I believe she is making all the steps she needs to and do not need reports on her daily activities to “pay” for her lodging or electricity or internet or whatever. This has changed the behavior a little for the better but not stopped it.

There are moments that are not bad. As I have mentioned, she does mean well and want well for most people. She likes Hamlet and loves Jasper, who is extremely important to me. But she is extremely difficult to be around in so many other ways, and the way she constantly exclaims over how we basically think alike on all things (absolutely untrue) makes me think she either will not or cannot read my reluctance to engage on any of these topics.

(An example: I was watching footage of the SpaceX launch and despite my feelings on Elon Musk, really excited about the implications for space travel. She came in, and after misunderstanding for some time that I was not watching Space Force with Steve Carell, decided that the SpaceX program was morally bankrupt, obviously borne of shady backroom government deals, and everyone involved should have used the money to solve world hunger instead. For the record, she had not heard of the shuttle launch, SpaceX, or Elon Musk at all before the seeing the footage.)

(She also until last week had not heard of Playstation, Xbox, streaming as a concept, or any game more modern than the original Mario. Trying to order a grocery delivery online was an excruciating torment for her [took her over four days to get through selecting the items, selecting allowable replacements, and actually paying] and I will not ask her to do it again. She frequently makes comments about video games being a waste of time, and when she sees children playing outside, comments on how glad she is they are not inside playing video games. She doesn’t seem to realize her comments are a direct commentary on me; I think she genuinely does not understand that those games are what I am playing most of my free time.)

Right now, everything seems to hinge on her passing some teacher recertification tests next week and the week after. She spent $150 to give herself less than a week to study from scratch for a test she described as the hardest she’d ever taken. There were several other dates later in the summer she could have chosen, and her deadline is December, but she picked the soonest option for reasons I can’t fathom. She is also in the process of trying to get a car--right now I’m driving her everywhere--and she was ready to hand over $3800 yesterday for a ten-year-old Hyundai with a check-engine light on without even thinking of getting any kind of inspection. She is far more concerned with the color and “energy” of the car than its function, and would not have even checked the headlights and blinkers if I hadn’t prompted it.

She will be here another five weeks or so. We move around each other now better than we did before, and I hope it will continue to improve. But it’s a lot like a rock grinding a groove in the streambed from the repetitive friction, and it’s not the struggle I wanted to be having right now.

part two:

As I mentioned above, Jasper is having her fourth child in a month or so. One of her friends, someone I don’t know, contacted me and said she wanted to do a drive-by “baby sprinkle,” where no one gets out of their cars. You drop off the gifts, talk to the recipient a few minutes from the car window, and move on. I told her that I work in health care and am exposed to patients, so that sounded good to me.

The shower was this morning. Carol and I got up and drove the thirty minutes to Jasper’s house. There were four other families in cars right around the corner, and the “hostess” gave us all balloons to tie on our side mirrors. She told us we would drive around the corner, drop off the gifts, and loop around. Jasper’s husband would arrange for her to be in the front yard at the right time.

Cute enough. We go around the corner with little honks and Jasper sees us and starts crying, and it’s all wonderful and emotional and a fabulous surprise and I’m genuinely excited about it. And then people start parking and getting out of their cars, and Carol and I start looking at each other. They’re full families, too--three of the other moms brought all their kids, and soon enough they’re playing with Jasper’s three boys in the front yard and coming up asking to pet Hamlet through the car window. No one was wearing masks.

And what’s worse, when they all started looking at us expectantly through the car window, we didn’t know what to do. They were handing Jasper her gifts and obviously settling in for a good long chat; the women were hugging, talking about how they are “so over this COVID stuff, please come visit soon,” and Hamlet of course recognizes his original owners in Jasper and her husband so he’s freaking out, and after a few moments, we decided to just get out of the car.

It was the first time I really felt the social pressure to participate in an event I wasn’t comfortable with. I have no issue maintaining my social distance and my mask and my handwashing at work because that is where I have the position of authority, and I have the responsibility to model it for the students and patients--but here, I was a guest at someone else’s house at someone else’s event, and I really, really felt how they might perceive me as rude. While I didn’t know the other women, my relationship with Jasper is extremely important to me, and I didn’t want to make this special event for her difficult in any way.

So we got out of the car and joined the group. I tried to keep my distance as much as possible, especially since I had Hamlet on the leash and there were a half-dozen small children around, but at least twice I looked up and there was someone right at my elbow, and we made small talk for five minutes or so before either she drifted back to the group or I moved Hamlet into the shade away from the rest.

Cars drove by and slowed down more than once to look at us. Jasper’s husband made a comment about rolling his eyes if he saw their family on Facebook that evening. The women planned play dates, all standing very close together, and Jasper opened her gifts (that part was excellent). All in all we were probably there about twenty minutes. 

I should mention that on the drive there, we passed a public park that has a very pretty waterfall right next to the road, and there were probably a dozen families out playing. There was a festival/outdoor market right outside the the park that had a sign up about social distancing, but the fifty or so people we saw shopping there were not adhering in any meaningful way. No one wore a mask.

And what annoys the bejeezus out of me is that I didn’t either. I didn’t even think about it until after we finally got back in the car to drive away. This is the first social event I’ve gone to since the first week of March, and while I wear masks for eight+ hours every day I go in to work, it didn’t occur to me even a single time to put on even my little cloth one that I keep in the car until we were driving away afterwards. I was so flummoxed by every little thing happening differently than I expected--people getting out of cars, how surprised I was by my own susceptibility to not rocking the boat, how normal everyone else made it to stand so close they could bump elbows so that Carol and I became almost excluded from the circle--that it never once crossed my mind. I know masks are more for the protection of those around you, not to keep you from catching what other people are carrying, but I could have set an example. I could have been the health professional I should have been in the moment.

I’m just so disappointed in myself. Disappointed in my own carelessness, irritated that I didn’t say anything, continually frustrated in a deep, gut-wrenching way by the whole situation that requires this in the first place. Bewildered that so many people are “back to normal” while this thing is still spreading, and in brutal honesty wishing I could be like them and just give up the fight myself. I’m not even mad at them. I WANT TO BE THEM. Why am I continually bothering to care and sanitize and mask and stay at home when no one else is? Literally no one would judge me in this state for it more than I’m already being judged (in most cases impersonally, though I felt the potential for it today in specific) for still watching the recommended guidelines.

I am really, really sick of this. I am so sick of feeling alone in this (of being alone in this, and Carol doesn’t count). Hearing other people saying “there there, you’re doing the right thing” honestly makes it even worse. I want people to stop patronizingly telling me to do things I already know are the right thing to do. I want other people as mad as I am that I can’t do the things I want to and need to do instead of being endlessly patient and noble about all the lives they’re saving by staying home. I’m top-of-my-head-blowing-off furious that so many people are shrugging and saying “well this is just the way it will be forever and alas, so it goes” and acting like those of us who did the right thing and cancelled our plans and our trips and our visits to dear friends but who are mad about having to do it are overreacting. I’m so fucking mad about it. I’ve stayed home for two months and I’ve isolated and I’ve quarantined and my hands are cracking from the constant sanitizer/washing at work and except for today I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do for this, and I don’t want to do it. And seeing people be so heroically virtuous and longsuffering on Facebook feels as alien and upsetting to me as the people who go to the beaches with a hundred of their closest friends.

That’s probably unfair in myriad ways. I’m really too angry, including at myelf, to soften it right now.

I want a vaccine and I want to be back in my classroom teaching to fifty faces instead of a screen in my living room, and I’m honestly freaking sick of waiting at home for them to figure this out. And watching everyone else move on with their lives back to the normal I would kill to have is just one more crack in the dike.

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 11 paragraph x

In the car, out on the main road again, all was jubilation: laughter, high fives, while my heart was slamming so hard I could barely breathe. “What’s going on?” I rasped, several times—gulping for breath and looking back and forth between them and then, when they kept ignoring me, babbling in a percussive mix of Russian and Ukrainian, all four of them including Shirley Temple: “Angliyski!” Boris turned to me, wiping his eyes, and slung his arm around my neck. “Change of plans,” he said. “That was all on the fly—improvised. We could have asked for nothing better. Their third man didn’t show.” “Catching them short-handed.” “Flatfooted.” “Pants down! On the crapper!” “You”—I had to gasp to get the words out—“you said no guns.” “Well, no one got hurt, did they? What difference does it make?” “Why didn’t we just pay?” “Because we lucked out!” Throwing up his arms. “Once in a lifetime chance! We had the opportunity! What were they going to do? They were two —we were four. If they had any sense, they should never have let us inside. And—yes, I know, only forty thousand, but why should I pay them one cent if I don’t have to? For stealing my own property?” Boris chortled. “Did you see the look on his face? Grateful Dead? When Cherry whipped him back of the dome?” “You know what he was complaining about, the old goat?” said Victor, turning to me jubilantly. “Wanted it in Euros! ‘What, dollars?’ ” imitating his peevish expression. “ ‘You brought me dollars?’ ” “Bet he wishes he had those dollars now.” “I bet he wishes he kept his mouth shut.” “I’d like to hear that phone call to Sascha.” “I wish I knew the name of the guy. That stood them up. Because I would like to buy him a drink.” “Wonder where he is?” “He is probably at home in the shower.” “Studying his Bible lesson.” “Watching ‘Christmas Carol’ on television.” “Waiting at the wrong place, most like.”

“I—” My throat was so constricted I had to swallow to speak. “What about that kid?” “Eh?” It was raining, light rain pattering on the windshield. Streets black and glistening. “What kid?” “Boy. Girl. Kitchen boy. Whatever.” “What?” Cherry turned—still winded, breathing hard. “I didn’t see anyone.” “I didn’t either.” “Well, I did.” “What’d she look like?” “Young.” I could still see the freeze-frame of the young ghostly face, mouth slightly open. “White coat. Japanese-looking.” “Really?” said Boris curiously. “You can tell apart by looking? Like where they are from? Japan, China, Vietnam?” “I didn’t get a good look. Asian.” “He, or she?” “I think is all girls that work in the kitchen there,” said Gyuri. “Macrobyotik. Brown rice and like that.” “I—” Now I really wasn’t sure. “Well—” Cherry ran his hand over the top of his close-cropped hair —“glad she ran, whoever, because you know what else I found back there? Sawed-off Mossberg 500.” Laughter and whistles at this. “Shit.” “Where was it? Grozdan didn’t—?” “No. In a—” he gestured, to indicate a sling—“what do you call it. Hanging under the table, in some cloth like. Just happened to see it when I was down on the floor. Like—looked up. There it was, right over my head.” “You didn’t leave it there, did you?” “No! I wouldn’t have minded to take it except was too big and had my hands full. Unscrewed it and knocked the pin out and threw it in the alley. Also—” he pulled a silver snub-nosed pistol out of his pocket, which he passed over to Boris—“this!” Boris held it up to the light and looked at it. “Nice little conceal-carry J-frame. Ankle holster in those bell bottom jeans! But to his misfortune he was not quick enough.” “Flexcuffs,” said Gyuri to me, with slightly inclined head. “Vitya thinks ahead.” “Well—” Cherry wiped the sweat from his broad forehead—“they are light and slim to carry, and they have saved me many times shooting people. I do not like to hurt anyone if I don’t have to.” Medieval city: crooked streets, lights draped on bridges and shining off rain-peppered canals, melting in the drizzle. Infinity of anonymous shops, twinkling window displays, lingerie and garter belts, kitchen utensils arrayed like surgical instruments, foreign words everywhere, Snel bestellen, Retro-stijl, Showgirl-Sexboetiek. “Back door was open to the alley,” said Cherry, elbowing off his sports coat and swigging from a bottle of vodka which Shirley T. had produced from under the front seat—hands a bit shaky and his face, the nose particularly, glowing a flagrant, stressed-out, Rudolph red. “They must have left it open for him—their third man—to come in at the back. I closed it and locked it— made Grozdan close and lock it, gun to his head, he was snivel and crying like baby—” “That Mossberg,” Boris said to me, accepting the bottle passed over the front seat. “Evil dirty thing. Sawed off—? sprays pellets here to Hamburg. Aim it way the fuck away from everyone and still you will hit half the people in the room.” “Good trick, no?” said Victor Cherry philosophically. “To say your third man is not there? ‘Wait five minutes, please’? ‘Sorry, mix up’—? ‘He will be here any moment’? While he is all the time in back with the shotgun. Good double cross, if they had thought of it—” “Maybe they did think of it. Why else have the gun back there?” “I think we had a narrow miss, is what I think—” “There was one car pulled up front, scared Shirley and me,” said Gyuri, “while you were all in there, two guys, we thought we were in the shit but was only two gays, French guys, looking for restaurant—” “—but no one in the back, thank God, I got Grozdan on the floor and cuffed him to radiator,” Cherry was saying. “Ah, but—!” he held up the felt-wrapped package—“first. This. For you.”

He handed it over the seat to Gyuri, who—gingerly, with his fingertips, as if it were a tray he might spill—passed it to me. Boris—downing his slug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand—chucked me gaily in the arm with the bottle while humming we wish you a merry Christmas we wish you a merry Christmas. Package on my knees. Running my hands all around the edge. The felt was so thin that I sensed the rightness of it immediately with my fingertips, the texture and weight were perfect. “Go on,” said Boris, nodding, “better open it, make sure it’s not the Civics book this time! Where was it?” he asked Cherry as I began to fumble with the string. “Dirty little broom closet. Piece-of-shit plastic briefcase. Grozdan took me right to it. I thought he might fuck around a bit but burner at the head was all it took. No sense getting popped when all that good space cake still around for the taking.” “Potter,” said Boris, trying to get my attention; and then again: “Potter.” “Yes?” Lifting the briefcase. “This 40 rocks is going to Gyuri and Shirley T. Keeping them green. For services rendered. Because it is thanks to these two that we did not pay Sascha one cent for the favor of stealing your property. And Vitya—” reaching across to clasp his hand—“we are more than equal now. The debt is mine.” “No, I can never repay what I owe you, Borya.” “Forget it. Is nothing.” “Nothing? Nothing? Not true, Borya, because this very night I carry my life because of you, and every night until the last night…” It was an interesting story he was telling, if I’d had ears to listen to it— someone had fingered Cherry for some unspecified but apparently very serious crime which he had not committed, nothing to do with, perfectly innocent, the guy had rolled for reduced prison time and unless Cherry, in turn, wanted to roll on his higher-ups (“unwise to do, if I wish to keep breathing”), he was looking at ten sticks and Boris, Boris had saved the day because Boris had tracked down the slimebag, in Antwerp and out on bail, and the story of how he had done this was very involved and enthusiastic and Cherry was getting choked up and sniffing a bit and there was more and it seemed to involve arson and bloodshed and something to do with a power saw but by that point I wasn’t hearing a word because I’d gotten the string untied and streetlights and watery rain reflections were rolling over the surface of my painting, my goldfinch, which—I knew incontrovertibly, without a doubt, before even turning to look at the verso—was real. “See?” said Boris, interrupting Vitya right in the heat of his story. “Looks good, no, your zolotaia ptitsa? I told you we took care of it, didn’t I?” Running my fingertip incredulously around the edges of the board, like Doubting Thomas across the palm of Christ. As any furniture dealer knew, or for that matter St. Thomas: it was harder to deceive the sense of touch than sight, and even after so many years my hands remembered the painting so well that my fingers went to the nail marks immediately, at the bottom of the panel, the tiny holes where (once upon a time, or so it was said) the painting was nailed up as a tavern sign, part of a painted cabinet, no one knew. “He still alive back there?” Victor Cherry. “Think so.” Boris dug an elbow in my ribs. “Say something.”

But I couldn’t. It was real; I knew it, even in the dark. Raised yellow streak of paint on the wing and feathers scratched in with the butt of the brush. One chip on the upper left edge that hadn’t been there before, tiny mar less than two millimeters, but otherwise: perfect. I was different, but it wasn’t. And as the light flickered over it in bands, I had the queasy sense of my own life, in comparison, as a patternless and transient burst of energy, a fizz of biological static just as random as the street lamps flashing past. “Ah, beautiful,” said Gyuri amiably, leaning in to look at my right side. “So pure! Like a daisy. You know what I am trying to express?” he said, nudging me, when I did not answer. “Plain flower, alone in a field? It’s just —” he gestured, here it is! amazing! “Do you know what I am saying?” he asked, nudging me again, only I was still too dazed to reply. Boris in the meantime was murmuring half in English and half Russian to Vitya about the ptitsa as well as something else I couldn’t quite catch, something about mother and baby, lovely love. “Still wishing you had phoned the art cops, eh?” he said, slinging his arm around my shoulder with his head close to mine, exactly as when we were boys. “We can still phone them,” said Gyuri, with a shout of laughter, punching me on the other arm. “That’s right, Potter! Shall we? No? Maybe not such a good idea any more, eh?” he said across me, to Gyuri, with a raised eyebrow.

[rametarin]

tempting.

Reflecting on my health issues, since age 17. And my living situation.

So since around the age of 16, I’ve been plagued with unpredictable bowel problems and digestive ills. Like, everybody gets constipated every now and then, but I mean I’d get just, excruciatingly backed up and my family wouldn’t help me get seen or anything.

Basically from the time I was 18 onwards I was told my medical bills were mine. But oh by the way [Ram. Not my real name, but the name fam calls me], you gotta pay us every dollar that isn’t devoted to keeping yourself alive :^)

I’d be like, family, I cannot afford this, it’d be in your best interests to invest in my health so I can figure out what’s fucky about my bowels and stomach so this can stop happening, I can live a normal life, and we can all continue on our merry way.

Basically I was told, “tough shit, do it yourself, also pay your fair share to The Family” (aka, give mom all your money.)

It was never just fear of homelessness, but fear of homelessness while my GI tract was fucky and my teeth were rotting out of my head that made escape from here impossible. It’s why I didn’t just climb into a hole in the wall and escape this garbage fire of a mother and do that bootstrap shit. Because it sincerely made  me wonder sometimes if I was being poisoned by my mother to keep me powerless and in need of help, but perpetually weakened to where the best I could do is move towards help but just be put on a treadmill for someone elses financial benefit.

Perhaps my bitterness makes just a touch more sense now, right? Because Maine is a long-drive state. You need a car. You absolutely need a car to get anywhere. Not having one means you walk everywhere, you ride a bike everywhere and are FUCKED during the winter, or you go nowhere because you don’t have anywhere you need to be and don’t drive.

Now that said, imagine having bowel and ass problems so bad just the idea of driving makes you question if it’s safe for you to even be on the road.

That has been my existence for twenty years now, because my family wants me just close enough to extract what mom things “she’s owed,” but absolutely will not help me with anything. There’s no security in staying here because the whole fucking POINT of putting up with a family’s infantilizing “everything has its place” mentality, is you’re able to wisely squirrel away your income without paying a landlord anything and your income going up in smoke

If your mother is just the worst sort of landlord, you’re basically just paying a narcissistic bitch of a mother to be a narcissistic bitch of a mother. There’s absolutely no upside.

So I’ve been stuck in this virtual tutorial of an existence because my own digestive system was torturing me and seriously deleting my ability to operate independently. And mom, whom has always wanted absolute control over my finances and my future, saw it as a holistic way of penning me up and making be desperate. Never a wasted opportunity with this fucking monster.

Well. I eliminated cottonseed oil and chicken proteins from my diet and, while not perfect, the amount of excruciating pain and pressure and weird cold-acidic burning in my back and bowels has subsided a lot. As well as my stomach issues receded considerably.

The truth is I was loathe to even try and escape without figuring out these problems, but I couldn’t figure them out because I never had the money. I tried to get a barium enema x-ray when I was 17 and suffering a massive, excruciating flareup. I missed prom (I didn’t have anyone to go with anyway) because of what felt like it could’ve been anything from gall stones to bowel cancer.

Had a big useless cleanse that was excruciating, then had the guys that give the barium enema tell me, “lube is expensive” when I screamed about how much it hurt to have the thing shoved up my ass. My already inflamed, tender ass.

Absolutely nothing was found in my bowels. Which did absolutely nothing to explain why they felt inflamed and miserable. But it did give me a $1,700 bill, which proved.. absolutely nothing except they couldn’t find tumors or any object lodged in my butt. Given how it took me two summers to acquire almost that much working a shit job for my shithead father’s girlfriend, maybe you can appreciate how heartbreaking that is. Spending all that money and you don’t even learn WHY you’re suffering, you just learn why you aren’t.

And today I still fume with rage over being told, “ass lube is expensive so we’re skimping on it” and then be charged almost two thousand god damned dollars.

Absolutely could not get my family to help me pursue any other avenue. They just kept insisting, “it’s all anxiety, it’s all in your head. You just need to get off the computer and do more manual labor/make us money and your problems will go away. :^)”

But then they would not help me do it. They wanted me to take on all the risk while they got the guaranteed income from my needing to be around them.

My need to grow step by step was their opportunity to mitigate my life, every step of the way, so non-compliance with their exploitation would result in homelessness and complete uprooting. If I wasn’t going to voluntarily follow draconian rules, then I’d be governed by those rules anyway in the absence of them being verbally stated. Just, using poverty and immobility as a way to impose it.

But I refused to comply. I wasn’t going to suffer every day unendingly AND get my income snatched away, BY MY OWN GOD DAMNED FAMILY. A family that didn’t even pay RENT to live in the house we were living in at the time, and a family that made 65-70K a year, with another house they owned in a less convenient location worth $350K. My mother had ABSOLUTELY NO BUSINESS other than fun and profit as an excuse as to why I needed to buy, “the family,” a car. Other than making it the “family” car giving her defacto control over it but my obligation to pay for it. Just another indirect way to give her absolute control over my options and alternatives.

So I didn’t work. I sat at home and dealt with her abusive bullshit, because it was the only card I had left in my deck. She didn’t want the stigma of throwing out a sick man without a license, a car or any savings. I didn’t want to voluntarily throw myself out and die in the street.

So I dealt with my health problems as best as I could. There were a good many times living in this house, that we’ve lived in and she’s owned since 2006, that I questioned whether I should phone an ambulance and just say fuck it, go into tens of thousands of dollars of debt just goosechasing this problem, thanks to the backdoor socialized medical system that exploits the profit motive but uses government assured payment fixed to taxes in order to afford it.

That’s probably what pisses me off the most about my situation. Our medical system has been turned into a farce by socialists deliberately making medicine as toxic as they fucking can in order to then bat their eyes and go, “Bet you just want single payer and to basically make medicine another ring of the government NOW, don’t youuuuuu? It’d make all those woes go awayyyyy!” while turning the screws to our bodies by denying us affordable medicine. All while blaming capitalism for shit that’s assured to work at any cost by the government.

Other people pine for a more socialized system to make the disgusting exploitation and abuse stop. But the truth is, that’s just like wanting to marry a pirate so they’ll stop lobbing cannonballs and demanding tolls at sea from you. Yes, the actual literal war on you and your community and your personal sovereignty will be over, but you’ll also be institutionalizing pirates in order to make them stop taking complete advantage of you on their terms instead of taking complete advantage of you on mostly-their terms but you get to act like you’re consenting to it.

I digressed. Anyway...

Well. I’m curious about pursuing a shit job just to see if I can KEEP some income, but I know, and have always known, my mother will not allow me to do anything with that money but barely keep myself alive. While she uses it to just buy enormous bulk loads of garbage and hoards them in the corners, or throws hundreds of dollars at friends-of-the-family/neighbors and extracts that money from me to do it.

I know going into it that the job would be otherwise worthless. She wants her ten pounds of flesh a year from me, and if I worked, there’d be no getting around it. She isn’t going to allow me to profit living with her, in any way. Everything has to revolve around her, or I get made homeless.

But trying to hold a job would mean possible (there’s that ‘potential vs. guarantee dichotomy again) feelers out to couches to surf on. Or credit building.

It’d still be a sexless existence dictated by someone so fucking petty that they can’t help you fix a broken tooth but do miraculously have the money to buy you a cell phone and a plan, “if you want it,” purely to always have you at their beck and call and/or have control over your phone plan. And it’d mean committing to something that runs a minimum of a year while being able to have a foot crushing my neck and destroying whatever I’m trying to do in an instant.

but it’d also mean being able to financially pursue what’s wrong with me and fixing it.

But I will hold this grudge against women and the actual, objective privilege they have from the legal system and our social system in the US for the rest of my life. Everybody around me saw what she was doing to me and my life, and they’ve done and said absolutely nothing. An abusive woman in this society is basically on par with the richest barons in a young adult novel, and all you have to do to get that kind of institutional power, rich or poor, is have a vagina and be a mom.

Then other women will sympathize with the mother, whom can never be totally wrong about anything, and at best you might get silence and indifference about the way you’re treated.

You can be cornered, debased and neglected until you’re a greasy shoggoth of a person, and if it’s a woman doing this to you, it’s your fault for not escaping. After having every escape route made as torturous and unsustainable an option as possible, you’ll be held accountable for yourself.

I’ll be relieved and pleased when this disgusting pig of a woman dies of natural causes. She’ll have gotten away with grabbing my life and thrashing around with it for 20 years while the world passed me by, just to keep control, just for fun, just for profit.

But in the meantime, maybe there’s a local niche I can fill. Just enough of something to find somewhere else to live. Without conditions making it more damning to pursue than nothing at all.

But I’m not hoping too hard.

[giftofshewbread]

World Government is Rising In America!

By Daymond Duck    Published on: May 9, 2021

Here are some recent events that seem to indicate that world government is rising in America.

One, concerning hyper-inflation, economic collapse, and famine: on Apr. 29, 2021, it was reported that the price of food is soaring in Asia, a region that contains more than half of the world’s population, and history shows that soaring food prices eventually lead to social unrest (The French Revolution of 1789, Europe’s Revolutions in 1848, and a revolution in Russia in 1917).

Concerning the signs of His coming: Jesus said there will be “upon the earth, distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring” (Luke 21:25).

This is usually interpreted in one of two ways: the waves and seas roaring represent an increase in cyclones, hurricanes, etc., at sea; and roaring (social unrest, rioting, demonstrating, etc.) in the sea of humanity (Rev. 17:15).

Two, also concerning hyper-inflation and an economic collapse: it is being reported that the Biden administration is planning to spend 6 trillion dollars just in the next 6 months alone.

Some economists say America’s debt-to-GDP ratio is higher than it has been since the end of WWII, and another 6 trillion dollars will destroy the U.S. dollar.

Three, concerning world government: on Apr. 28, 2021, Pres. Biden addressed the nation and a joint session of Congress.

As expected, he accused America of “systemic racism,” a vague term that many say means because of slavery and segregation in America, black people do not get fair treatment at school, at work, in elections, in housing, in anything; and everyone in America, especially white Republicans, is guilty.

Using the death of George Floyd as an illustration, Biden said, the “knee of injustice [is] on the neck of black America.”

In response, the black Senator from South Carolina, Tim Scott, said, “Hear me clearly: America is not a racist country,” and he added, “It’s backwards to fight discrimination with different discrimination.”

Aside from wondering how this black man got elected to the U.S. Senate if America is so racist, and aside from noting that this black man pointed out that Democrats want to fight racism by discriminating against all white people, U.S. citizens need to understand that the purpose of portraying America as a bad nation is to restructure America and bring it into a godless world government.

According to the Bible, America will be subjected to a godless world government that is far worse than what we have today; and billions of people, including multitudes of the black people, will regret the day it happened.

Four, concerning world government: on Apr. 30, 2021, Dr. Andy Woods and Jim McGowan discussed the U.S.-Mexico Border Crisis on Pastors’ Point of View #163.

The Biden administration has delegated authority over the crisis to Vice-Pres. Kamala Harris, but she has not even visited the border.

For whatever it is worth, she says she is working with the radical U.S. Ambassador to the UN, Linda Thomas-Greenfield, to get the international community’s help.

Notice this!

Kamala Harris is delegating control of the U.S. border with Mexico to unelected foreigners instead of the U.S. Border Patrol, building a wall, etc.

The fact is, according to the Migration Policy Institute, during his first 100 days in office, Biden issued 94 Executive Orders that have dismantled America’s immigration policies and throw the border wide open.

Five, concerning the Battle of Gog and Magog: Pres. Biden is now involved in indirect talks with Iran over that terrorist nation’s quest for nuclear weapons.

This prompted Israel’s Intelligence Minister, Eli Cohen, to warn that “a bad deal will send the region spiraling into war.”

Cohen said, “Israel will not allow Iran to attain nuclear arms. Iran has no immunity anywhere. Our planes can reach everywhere in the Middle East.”

An Israeli attack on Iran would almost surely result in Iran attacking Israel, a war that the Bible says will happen in the latter years and latter days (Ezek. 38:8, 16).

Six, concerning the Mark of the Beast: on May 1, 2021, Dave Hodges reported on The Common Sense Show that New Zealand has just made Covid vaccinations mandatory without public notice, discussion, etc.

Seven, concerning persecution: Evangelist, Mike Gendron, bought a round-trip ticket from Texas to Green Bay on A.A. to speak at a conference.

Gendron said the only time he did not wear a mask was while he was drinking a cup of water, and no flight attendant ever asked him to put his mask on.

Two days later, when Gendron checked in at the airport to return to Texas, he was told he was banned from flying on A.A. for not wearing a mask on his trip to Green Bay.

An overnight hotel room and a ticket on another airline cost him another $600, and none of the money he paid A.A. for a round-trip ticket was refunded.

After a week of trying to straighten this out, A.A. stopped taking Gendron’s calls.

Why he was reportedly falsely banned for not wearing a mask is a matter of speculation.

Persecution of those that object to what is happening to America is intensifying almost daily.

Eight, A reader sent an e-mail reminding me that some past prophecy teachers have suggested that world leaders might use the Rapture to deceive people.

Several highly respected prophecy teachers speculated for years that globalists might promote the Rapture as an alien abduction to scare people into uniting against a threat from outer space and thereby accept a one-world government.

I consulted with a friend, and we agreed that it is time to remind people of this.

My friend even sent a link to an Apr. 30, 2021, article titled, “Pentagon whistleblower warns of UFO intelligence failure on ‘level of 911.'”

The whistleblower, a former Pentagon investigator, said there is something out there and U.S. citizens need to be told.

As it turns out, the U.S. government will release files on the subject in June.

Just know this: The Church will be removed from planet Earth by Jesus, not UFOs from outer space.

This is not to say that UFOs don’t exist or that people don’t need to know about them, but it is to say that people shouldn’t allow themselves to be deceived and scared into a world government because leaders have decided to admit that UFOs are not a conspiracy theory or because they have made up lies to convince people that a world government is needed to defend the planet.

The rise of the Antichrist over a Satanic world government is a greater threat than aliens from outer space.

Christians oppose a godless world government, but they support the coming world government of Jesus during the Millennium.

Christians oppose the false peace on earth that the Antichrist will promote, but they support the peace on earth that the Prince of Peace (Jesus) will establish.

Christians oppose the false religions of Mother Earth, the Green New Deal, Chrislam, etc., but they support the true teachings and worship of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit as recorded in the Bible (God’s will).

Nine, concerning godless world government: the fact that the Democrat Party left God out of their Party Platform is now old news, and so is the fact that on Feb. 26, 2021, Jerry Nadler, a Democrat from New York, said, “What any religious tradition describes as God’s will is no concern of this Congress.”

It has now been reported that the National Day of Prayer will not be allowed at the U.S. Capitol for the first time in 70 years.

There was a request for prayer at the Capitol, but it was denied supposedly because the Capitol is closed due to the January 6 protests.

This writer believes prayer is badly needed, and the truth is that those that have taken over the Capitol support a godless world government.

The America that was based on Judeo-Christian values no longer exists.

Jesus said the day of His coming will be like the days of Noah (Matt: 24:37).

In the days of Noah, God saw that the wickedness of man was great. He was grieved and decided to destroy man with a Flood (Gen. 6:5-7).

Ten, on May 2, 2021, it was reported that California plans to release at least 76,000 inmates.

63,000 of them have been imprisoned for violent crimes and repeat felonies.

20,000 of them have been given life sentences with the possibility of parole.

10,000 of them have been imprisoned twice.

About 2,900 of them have been imprisoned 3 times under the state’s “three strikes law.”

Critics say putting thousands of criminals back on the streets will increase wickedness and criminal activity in California.

To make matters worse, police are retiring or quitting in record numbers all over the U.S. because of the “Defund the Police” movement, the liability, and the abuse and hatred that is being directed toward them.

Finally, if you want to be rapture ready and go to heaven, you must be born again (John 3:3). God loves you, and if you have not done so, sincerely admit that you are a sinner; believe that Jesus is the virgin-born, sinless Son of God who died for the sins of the world, was buried, and raised from the dead; ask Him to forgive your sins, cleanse you, come into your heart and be your Saviour; then tell someone that you have done this.

[donnerpartyofone]

hfs my grandmother died at the beginning of 2018 and i still cannot resolve all my inheritance. she was a depression survivor and kind of a paranoid stingy person and also worked for a bank all her life, so for her it was totally cool to squirrel everything away in eight thousand different types of accounts at ten different institutions, most of which were either exclusively local to her home four states away, or else they're just obscure financial institutions i've never heard of, so it's difficult or actually impossible to walk into an office or reliably get someone on the phone. when this shit started, my husband and i would have to take time off work, rent a car, and book a hotel, just to spend five minutes with a fucking banker and then go home. usually it turned out that whatever i thought i did didn't get done and we'd have to shell out/lose hours at work all over again, to try again. i still don't understand anything about any of the types of accounts; i've only ever held cash in my whole fucking life, and so i've learned quickly that if you don't do the right thing with the right stuff at the right time, then the fucking IRS will come right after you and you will be out thousands of dollars and nobody cares that you weren't educated enough to know how to do things right or that you now have to pay for fucking experts to do everything for you--and, that doesn't always work either. most of this kind of money isn't even real, and if you make the mistake of touching it in any way or trying to make some of it into cash that you can use for your stupid goddamn life needs, then you have to collect all this documentation saying what you did so you can pay the IRS for the privilege. sometimes the institutions that are supposed to send you the documents for this just refuse to, and then you're in deep shit again because you can't file your taxes right or you're not even fully aware that you're even missing something because it's all so opaque. everything you do is a problem and it's always your fault. in the last two weeks i recieved: a new quarterly statement for an account i supposedly closed in december of last year and then AGAIN in april of this year so neither of those times worked and i don't know why and i don't know what to do differently and i don't want to keep being legally fucking responsible for this account; a letter saying i failed once again to close an account that i have been struggling to close for two and a half years, that was supposed to have been finalized last month; a statement for an account that i'm NOT SURE whether it correctly rolled over into a new account i actually do have for this specific purpose, because the paperwork for it has gone to MY DAD'S HOUSE for some reason even though that hasn't been my address for 15 years and the last time this happened i asked the bank why and they swore up and down that they have my current address and there's nothing to worry about. and of course now it's fucking corona and i can't make random trips all over the country to bother people to do their fucking jobs or at least tell me what they want ME to do and i certainly don't want to go contaminate my fucking father. every single thing about this has been a nightmare and i seem to get a letter at least once a fucking week that makes me want to throw up and die because my hundreds of hours of phone calls and interstate trips and constant emails and dogged determination to Do the Right Thing has all come to fucking nothing and no one will help me including the fucking financial advisors who i'm actually paying to deal with this shit, because that was the most responsible thing i could think to do in this chaotic fucking situation in which i am completely incompetent and impotent. yes, i know, at least i have some form of currency in this utterly horrifying time in history, but all it seems to do is ruin my fucking life and make me live in an atmosphere of constant fear and embarrassment.

if you're wondering what the fucking point of this post is, it is this: if there is any chance that you will inherit anything at all from someone in your life--even if it's DEBT or something--talk to that person about it. find out what it is, where it is, who you need to work with, and what will be expected of you when it's time for you to take possession of it. if you're on good terms, they might even be proud of you for being proactive and taking responsibility early, especially if it's something they saved for and intended for you to have, to make your life easier or to maintain a family legacy. i don't know why my grandmother thought that anyone besides her would be able to figure all this shit out, but it has reduced me to this state where i'm constantly looking over my shoulder and i'm constantly afraid that something is fucked up or i fucked something up and i won't find out about it until it's too late, and i'm constantly right.

(PS to all well-intentioned people, please don't offer advice unless you're an expert or you know something really esoteric about these experiences, i've been dealing with this since february two years ago and i'm excellent at keeping track of every piece of correspondence and double checking and following up and asking for clear instructions and repeating them back to the person who is instructing me to double confirm that i understand and all that shit. it just doesn't matter what i do. being totally fucked is my new lifestyle.)

[dumb-naive-bitch]

I'm kind of really glad that nobody reads this page of mine anymore, so then I can vent to myself about how I'm truly feeling at this moment, and put it into words without being judged or told to stop complaining.

I know 2020 has been rough for a lot of people, but its extra hard on us who thought every other year was rough to begin with. Im sick of waking up every day knowing I have to go through the same fucking motions over and over and feeling like my life is going nowhere and yet I'm just getting older, fatter, uglier, etc. Its depressing on top of my depression. It doesn't matter if you have a decent job in this day and age because you still won't be able to afford shit. You won't be able to live in a house or apartment by yourself unless you want to be mortgage/rent poor. Im going to school and I dont even fucking want to because what's the point? If you don't have a doctorate, you once again wont be able to afford shit even after you have a degree. Im over 70 thousand in student loan debt and I have absolutely nothing to show for it, with roughly 30 to 40 thousand more to go to get a basic degree that will probably increase my current pay by 5 dollars an hour maximum. How fucking exciting and motivating is that? Like what is the point of living if you can't afford to do anything or have anything despite working hard for years and years? I'm honestly so over this fucking mundane every day bullshit that has no purpose because why even bother staying alive to not be happy? I dont know what is more annoying then people saying "money can't buy you happiness" because I would slap the fuck out of that person right now. Money would keep me from wondering if I'm going to be able to pay my car payment, or the 10 credit cards I racked up because buying small things like clothes/shoes is one of the only things that makes me happy and gives me something to look forward to. Other than that, I have my dogs which I would die for, but honestly that causes me more stress and anxiety than I ever care to admit.

Its exhausting feeling trapped in a mind full of stress and worry and no light at the end of the tunnel because no circumstance in my life can ever change drastically enough to erase the despair that has become my reality. Ten plus years of major depressive disorder and anxiety with no relief because of once again not being able to afford the proper resources to get better, well that just sounds like a full circle, never-ending fuck of a life doesn't it? People out there who have it good just say shit like "start over," "find what you like to do," "get a different job," like how does any of that sound possible when you have no money to do any of those things? I'm so tired of everything being hard for me. Every fucking thing in my life is hard, yet other people get everything handed to them. Why? Do I want everything handed to me, fuck no. I rarely take help when offered because I'm not a charity case. I want my hard work to pay off, but you cannot get ahead in a society such as ours because everything costs so fucking much that you have to pick and choose between necessities. So basically, as a lower-middle class citizen its impossible for me to be happy and also live within my means, and in SC I make more than double minimum wage. How the hell to people who only make that afford to live? Or have anything nice? They will never be able to be independent, because affording housing for yourself with that salary is damn near impossible.

This short release of emotions I had planned in my head turned into a much longer bitchfest then I intended, but its just hard to go to bed every night knowing I'm still going to be me when I wake up. I truly cannot do it anymore. Im also so sick of worrying about how others will feel if I just die. They never say "I understand it must be hard for you to have to live like this every day, so I respect your decision because it is your life." Nope, they say shit like "just think how I would feel, or how so and so would feel if you were gone." Like why am I the selfish one in this situation? Because I don't want this life for myself? So fucking sorry your lives are so fucking great that you couldn't possibly see this through my eyes. No amount of telling someone how you feel is going to change how bad they truly want to hear it. Sick of trying to explain my feelings to people who don't really care to hear it, and definitely not understand it. Probably why I need a therapist. Oh wait, can't afford one so I will continue to suffer within my own thoughts and feelings.

They wonder why suicide is so fucking common among young people. Like do you see what we have to deal with? Besides the topics I mentioned previously, what about constantly seeing celebrities flash their endless shiny and fancy shit all over social media and the instgram models making you hate your fucking self for wanting to eat. Don't follow them? It doesn't matter if you do or don't because you will see it in ads or on one of your friend's pages anyway. You basically need to live off grid, grow your own food, live in a cabin in the woods without any form of media or form of entertainment whatsoever to rid that shit of your life. I also do not want that, so here I am yet again stuck again. Pitty me, pitty me hey? I dont have it that bad people will say. I have somewhere to live, a car, a job, blah blah blah. Like they know a single fuck about what races through my head all day every day. The stress, the feeling of failure, the feeling of not being good enough, the feeling of being trapped, the feeling of whats going on behind my back in my relationship, the feeling of why don't I have the motivation to do my school work, or finish the 5 projects I started, or go for a walk or run, or workout, or eat better, or want to do anything other than sit on my fucking couch and watch TV while my brain continues to race subcontiously, or why the fuck I cant just be happy? It's because not everyone is satisfied with the "simpler things in life." I want to be able to have options in my life. Like if I see something I want thats going to make me happy, I want to be able to buy it. I want to be able to go and travel to do it. I want to be able to relax and not have to worry if I buy or do that thing am I going to be able to pay my bills or buy food. Its debilitating for me. I am controlled by this disease that never lets my mind rest or be happy. Life is simply not worth living if it has to be this hard every day with no sign of a possibility to be better because of the circumstances I have been exposed to. You can't change certain things no matter what and those are things that im not willing to live with anymore. Im suffering and thats not what I want for myself. I want it gone, and for me I only have one option and I'm okay with it. I've been okay with it for over a decade now and that's never going to change. Period.

[ibrahimkhalilof]

This is How I Made $40k In Passive Income By Age 26

I’m talking here about real passive income, not the kind where you spend years writing a book. There’s one caveat though and you need money to make money.

I started investing part of my income every month at age 23. Three years later, I had made $40k in profit tax-free and could put down a deposit on my first house. All with less than an hour of effort per year. $13k per hour of work doesn’t sound bad, does it?

It’s not sexy but I relied on getting a professional job and investing my excess income. Many in my position don’t do this and sacrifice future financial freedom. You can take the profits to start up your own business with less reliance on outside help. Self-funding the initial stages gives you more credibility when asking others for more money.

My Economics bachelors and central bank experience made me confident to invest responsibly. Yet the steps I took weren’t complex and here I break down what I did.

NOTE: Lucky factors went my way with exchange rates, freak performance, and government bonus schemes amongst others. Do not read this and think similar performance can be produced reliably in the future. This is a high-level overview and I do not go into blow-by-blow detail.

Surrendered my arrogance

One of the biggest mistakes I see is people thinking they are exceptional. Investment funds have whole teams of hyperqualified people and complex algorithms. Yet 85.1% of active funds have failed to beat the S&P 500 in the last 10 years. How can you honestly believe you can win?

I bought index and active funds from the major economies rather than individual stocks. This takes the decision making out of my hands. As I’m from the UK, I invested through an ISA (the equivalent of a superpowered Roth IRA) to earn tax-free.

I spread myself out geographically with stocks in the USA, UK, mainland Europe, and Asia. My risk was dramatically reduced as I owned shares in thousands of companies. By using index funds, my fees were far lower than buying individual stocks. When I wanted exposure and index funds were unavailable, I found funds by managers with long histories.

Invested first and spent afterward

Every month, the same amount left my account automatically. I never considered this as spending money so it never factored into my buying decisions. I could start the account with significant savings from 1.5 years of working that were sitting in a low-interest current account.

There are all kinds of apps to encourage people to invest their savings. One of the tricks I dislike is rounding up purchases to send to the pot. You buy a cookie for 20 cents and 80 cents goes straight into your fund. This takes control away from you and leaves your input reliant on chance events. The return is already based on chance so why make it even more uncertain!

Some portray compounding as a type of sorcery. Yet 7% return per year for ten years on ten dollars is $9.67 profit. On a thousand dollars it is $967. Don’t make the excuse of something is better than nothing when you can put away more. It takes time to build a portfolio to the point where it can make a difference in your life. I had a massive advantage by living with my parents.

If you truly want passive income, you need to examine your spending habits too and decide if anything is a luxury you are happy to be without.

Never invested if I couldn’t afford to lose 50%

I could invest more than I did but I always kept some in reserve. If anything happened to me, I could cope with losing half the value of my investments. The amount you’re willing to risk can change over time and change your plans in line with this.

The worst crashes in the S&P history have taken the value to around half but they have always bounced back. We still didn’t fall below this even when news of the pandemic hit or when the financial crisis of 2008 struck. You can be confident a developed country’s stock market won’t completely self-destruct. Only a massive event could do this and then you’d have bigger problems!

Individual stocks can go to zero but it is harder for a fund to do so. You must feel comfortable with the unlikely worst-case scenario for peace of mind. There’s always a chance of great losses and you can’t blame anyone else if you lose more than you can handle. It is possible to lose everything!

Examined my opportunity costs

Let’s not pretend it isn’t a privilege to invest. Not only must you cover your expenses but also your debts. I was fortunate to have student loan debt with an interest of less than 2%. As long as I believed I could beat this rate, it made sense to invest extra money rather than paying off debts early.

Yet I know others are not as lucky. The average stock market return in the long-run has been 7% for the S&P. If the interest on your debt is higher than this, pay it off first! You have to decide your willingness to take the risk if your interest is less than this. I cannot tell you how much. I took a risk by investing in emerging economies and those paid off.

For entrepreneurs, when starting a business you should believe you can beat this rate in the long run. At the time, I didn’t have a business idea I thought would be a better path. You should be confident in forecasting significantly more than this to make the extra effort worth it.

Allowed the money to do its thing

There’s a secret of investing many people seem to forget. Looking at the numbers doesn’t magically make them increase. Interfering too much will backfire.

I thought about taking my money out several times when it looked like the peak. I thought about adding more whenever it looked like the bottom. Every time I was wrong. I would have lost wealth if I had acted. Trying to perfectly time the market will leave you anxious and constantly checking the news. Not to mention the lost income by needing to pay fees for every trade.

What you need to take with you

Investing in the way I did gave me much greater financial freedom. I did it while working a 9–5 and fresh out of university. The hardest part is working to get the money to invest but once you have this, it’s about making the strategy as easy as possible. These are the steps I took and can help you too.

1. Surrendered my arrogance — I bought funds, not individual stocks.

2. Invested first then spent afterward — I could only spend what I hadn’t invested.

3. Never invested if I couldn’t afford to lose 50% — I didn’t put my security at risk.

4. Examined my opportunity costs — I was sure it was the best use of my money.

5. Allowed the money to do its thing — I didn’t obsessively check on it.

Thank you for reading and have a wonderful day! Remember this is my story and you must examine the risks for yourself. I have intentionally not given the exact funds because they may not perform the same in the future.

Any actions taken are completely at your own risk, this should not be considered financial or legal advice. I am not a financial advisor. Please consult a financial professional before making major financial decisions.

[whumpsideblog]

Part one//Part Two After his fingers were broken he was collared to the pipe again, left alone for hours. Calum came back once to give him food, just plain bread and a glass of water. His deprivation of decent food better contribute to the cost of this debt, he thought.

 He had a lot to think about in his alone time. He didn’t know what Lev would have needed an absurd amount of money for, or why he never told him. He hated not knowing just how much money was left, he hated not being able to speak to Lev, he hated this isolation. He kept telling himself he had to get through it though, there had to be some good reason Lev owed this money. When it came down to it, he’d rather it be him than Lev. 

 His wrists were no longer bound so he was able to use his good hand to look through the notebook some more. He skipped the stuff he already knew, looking for higher priced things. He could have his nose broken, he could be stabbed, beaten, tased, even shot. Towards the back he found the more extreme things. Thousands of dollars off for amputating a limb, fifteen thousand dollars off to remove a kidney, ten thousand per eyeball. He wondered if anybody had ever taken up these suggestions. He hoped he could make it out of there without resorting to that. 

 He was given a whole night to recover before Calum came back.

 “What are you feeling today?” He asked. “I’m sure you had enough time to look over your choices.” He’d had more than enough time to come up with awful combinations of pain for himself.

 “Five shocks from a stun gun. A twenty minute beating. Break my nose, and then a stress position, all night.” He said it seriously, there was no doubt in his voice and Calum seemed taken aback. “How much will that take off?”

 “Slow down, what are you talking about?” He looked confused and almost angry. “You’ve been here a fucking day, that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

 “How much?” He asked again, his voice stern. 

 “I’m not going to do all of that to you, not right now.” He shook his head.

 “Why not?! Isn’t that your job?!” He wanted out as soon as possible, he had to get out and if this is what it took then so be it. 

 “Yeah, But-“ He was cut off by his phone ringing, he looked reluctant to answer it but did so anyway. Judging by his expression he wasn’t pleased with the person on the other end, all he said was a few “yes sir”s before hanging up. “Well, I guess you’re lucky my boss is a sadistic fuck.” He said, slipping his phone back into his pocket and going over to the drawers.

 “What do you mean? How would he know?” He asked, confused seeing as him and Calum had been alone this whole time.

 “There’s a camera, duh. I’m not going to tell you where but he sees everything we do here.” He rummaged around in the drawer for a minute before finding the stun gun, approaching him again. “I hope you remember, you brought this upon yourself.” He told him. Jason swallowed nervously, trying to prepare himself for the worst.

 ***

 He thought the fifth shock may kill him, too stunned to even scream, his mouth open soundlessly and his body spasming. It didn't last as long as the last four, and once Calum pulled it away from his throat Jason collapsed, crying out as he fell on his injured hand. 

 “We don’t have to continue today…” Calum said, voice hushed as he didn’t want it to be heard. 

 “N-no, keep going. I mean it…” he insisted. Calum sighed heavily. He went and dropped the stun gun on the desk before approaching him again, pushing his sleeves up as if he didn’t want them to get dirty. Jason had just barely struggled to his feet, and without warning Calum swung his fist, punching him hard in the face and downing him again. He didn’t have a chance to get up, he was kicked harshly in the ribs, one, two, three times, he was gasping for breath, unable to even cry or scream. 

 Calum grabbed a fistful of his hair, harshly pulling him up before slamming a fist into his stomach. Jason curled in on himself, almost gagging as he was sure he was going to vomit from that. He felt sick, it must’ve only been a few minutes but it felt like hours already, being punched, slapped, kicked, he couldn’t even fight back or try to defend himself.

 Once the twenty minutes were up he ended up on the ground, laying there whimpering softly, and Calum nudged him with his foot to roll him on his back. 

 “I don’t have to do this.” He insisted, looking down on him. “Do you want me to stop?” The only response he could manage was a weak head shake. Calum hesitated, finally raising his foot and stomping his heel on his nose as hard as he could. Jason let out a strangled cry, tears filling his eyes immediately. Blood was gushing from his nose and he raised his good hand to try and cover it, but Calum pulled him into a sitting position, kneeling down next to him. He ignored how Jason was crying frantically, hand covered in blood as he kept reaching for his nose. He just helped him shrug off the jacket he’d been wearing and he gently pressed the fabric against his nose, causing Jason to sob as the pressure made the pain worse.

 “You’re gonna wanna stop crying, it’ll only make it hurt more…” He warned him. “I can’t let you bleed out, just hold this here okay?” He told him, and Jason did as he said, his hand shaking as he tried to bite back his cries. He stood up, going to look through his supplies while Jason hoped the bleeding would stop soon. He felt sick and dizzy, his whole body aching from the previous beating. 

 “You’re absolutely crazy for doing this, you know that right?” He said. “It takes most people days before they even consider a broken limb, but you seem to have no sense of self preservation.” 

 “I… I need to get out… if I have to pay his debt this way then… that’s okay…” he murmured, voice muffled by the jacket over his face. 

 “You’re fucking insane.” He sighed, shaking his head and coming back over to him. “I’ll come back tonight, Okay? For now you just try not to bleed out.” He told him, giving him a serious look before leaving the room. Jason was surprised he wasn’t even collared to the pipe again, left free for once. It didn’t really matter, he tried to stand up but only succeeded in collapsing once again. He had no choice but to curl up on the floor and simply wait for the rest of his torture.

 ***

 He wasn’t sure if it was due to blood loss or exhaustion but he eventually passed out, sleeping for hours until Calum came back. 

 “Hope you got a good sleep in, you’re going to be up all night.” He told him, pulling him over to the pipe he’d kept him chained to. “I had to bring in a weight for this, I’m guessing you can’t move eighty pounds with your neck?” Jason stared at him blankly, as if he didn’t understand what he was asking, to which Calum shrugged and went to retrieve handcuffs and some rope. “By the way, you need to be sitting on your knees for this, Okay?” He told him.

 “How much have I taken off already…?” Jason murmured as he changed position.

 “Well… between your fingers and those shocks that’s six hundred… and the beating and your nose was five hundred each… you’ve already taken off sixteen hundred. Good progress but you have a long way to go.” He told him, coming and securing his wrists behind his back with the handcuffs and using some of the rope to bind his ankles together, despite the already uncomfortable position. His arms were pulled backwards, Jason was already uncomfortable and wanting to move but a length of rope tethering the handcuffs to the pipe kept him from doing so. He tried leaning back to alleviate some of the pressure, but Calum pushed him forward again. 

 “Don’t get too comfortable, it gets worse.” He told him. He left him momentarily to move the weight in front of him, before collaring him again. He unlocked the chain from the pipe and instead tied it around the weight, forcing Jason to lean forward even more to avoid the prongs piercing his skin. His shoulders were already aching, his legs already going numb. This, on top of the rest of his aches and pains, he couldn’t imagine being more miserable than this. 

 “W-what happens if I can’t do it…?” He asked, sniffling as tears already filled his eyes. “What if I can’t handle this all night…?”

 “Well, that’s the thing. You don’t exactly get a choice.” Calum told him. “I mean, I guess if you wanted to and you pulled hard enough that collar would do enough damage for you to bleed out. It would probably take longer than just enduring it though. Once you’re positioned, you aren’t out until your time is up, tomorrow morning.” 

 “I… okay…” he sighed, nervously biting his lower lip. It had only been minutes and he was already incredibly uncomfortable, yet he had several more hours to go.

 “I’ll come back to free you in the morning, Okay?” He told him, but the only response he got was a soft “Mmhm…” as Jason tried to focus on anything but the increasing discomfort. Calum looked almost reluctant to go but he left him alone, not even bothering to lock the door because they both knew Jason wasn’t moving until the next morning.

[ansgar-martinsson]

Fair Winds and a Following Sky - Part Two

Seat 7A, Business Class, United Airlines Flight 3300 - Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean

Ten years. Ten years, two months and fifteen days. That was how long it had been since Anna Fair Sky had been aboard a plane. As she sat in seat 7A, she felt like a child of that very age. Scared, out of place, downright fearful.

I want my mama....

Last time she’d flown was with her then newlywed husband, heading out of the Will Rogers Airport on a tiny jet to a small, semi-private island in the Caribbean. That flight was torturous - full of turbulence, hard banks, and ultimately a not so soft landing on the impossibly short landing strip. Anna nearly kissed the ground when they’d lit from the jet - and had taken a double dose of Xanax, bought over the counter on the island - for the way home.

But she had no Xanax now, nothing to chemically calm her except the cold glass of Business Class whisky on the tray in front of her. It was her second, no... third drink of that flight, served in a thick-bottomed tumbler, rounded spheres of ice, and just a splash of Evian water to open out the flavor. She wondered, momentarily, just how many swigs of the Scottish elixir she could down before she could pass into a joyful unconsciousness.

As many as it took, and all on the credit card. Not as if I’m going to be home to get the bill, she thought. American Express can go fuck itself for all I care right now. Let Mamma Travidge handle it. Main account’s still in her name, anyway. She can go fuck herself too.

“Nervous?” 

“Huh?”

“I asked you, dear, are you nervous?” Anna let out a shaky breath and turned to the voice. In the seat beside her was an older woman, white of hair and wizened of feature, yet she seemed to carry herself with a youthful strength, brought through in her voice as well - high-timbred and powerful. The woman set her book down across her lap and turned slightly in the seat to face Anna.

“A little, I... I suppose,” Anna answered honestly. 

The woman shifted her hand, resting her curved fingers on Anna’s forearm. “First time?”

“No,” Anna replied, “I... I’ve been nervous before.”

The woman’s eyes went wide, head cocked and lips pursed in a confused moue, but only for a moment, just for a moment before she burst out in a bark of laughter. “Oh,” she chortled. “Oh, no, dear. No, dear. I meant...,” she covered her mouth, and with her other hand squeezed Anna’s arm gently. “I meant... is it your first time flying?”

“Oh, God, no. No... not my first time flying,” Anna laughed, and the laughter morphed into a moment of half-buzzed realization. “I think I might have made a joke, there.”

“Either that,” the woman grinned and took a sip of her tomato juice, “or you’ve seen the movie Airplane a far few too many times.” She patted Anna on the shoulder, turning back in her seat and lifting her book once again. “Flight’s about half over, I think,” she said, “and it seems you’ve got yourself occupied anyway.” Her eyes flicked between the drink on the table and Anna’s computer screen.

“Oh, that,” Anna replied. “Supposing I do.”

“I don’t mean to pry,” the woman continued, turning a page of her book, “but I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been looking rather moonily at pictures of the same man nearly the entire flight.” She pointed toward the image, a black and white headshot of Anna’s quarry nearly filling the screen.

“I’m...,” Anna clipped. “I’m trying... trying to find him. I mean,” she corrected, “I will be trying to find him once I get to Stockholm.” She narrowed her eyes and closed her computer with a deliberate click. “But, I’m not sure what business it is of yours.”

“None. None at all my dear,” the woman replied factually, book still open. 

“Correct. None.”

Anna opened her computer again, re-connected to the in-flight wifi, and re-opened the search page. She skimmed through a few articles, using Google to translate those that were written in eye-crossing Swedish. 

“Do you even know who that is?” The woman had set her book back down on her lap and crossed her hands over it. 

“Him? His name is... is Ansgar Martinsson,” Anna replied.

“No,” she said, “I mean, do you know who that is?”

Anna groaned inwardly, and once again closed her computer. “I guess not. I suppose you’ll tell me.”

The woman continued, unfazed by Anna’s display of irritation. “Not a man to trifle with, I tell you,” she bent toward Anna, her words sotto voce, a whisper, barely heard over the thrum of the engines. “He’s a bit of a shark if you ask me.”

“How... how do you know this?”

“That’s why I asked you if you knew who he was. He’s famous, you know, in Sweden, in Europe. Gossip column fodder. Shows up on the pages of those crap rags now and then, and sometimes on the cover of business magazines.”

“So, he’s a businessman. I kind of got that from the....” she pointed vaguely at the computer, “the articles, and stuff.... what I was able to read, at least.”

“My son works for his company,” the woman said. “We’re from Missouri, St. Louis, you see, but my son moved to Ostermalm, that’s in Sweden too, you know,” she interjected. “Anyway, he moved there to take a job with Martinsson Construction as an architect. I’m going there to visit David... David is his name... I’m going to visit David and his family for the summer.”

“So,” Anna intoned, “Ansgar Martinsson is famous because he owns a construction company?” 

“Not just a construction company,” the woman’s chest puffed up a bit, “the construction company - this huge international conglomerate thing. He builds opera houses and civic buildings and universities, just about everything -- he even designed and built almost all of the newer IKEA stores. He’s like... he’s like the Elon Musk of construction, only better looking and less... well, weird.”

“Hm,” Anna said. “I suppose I still don’t understand why he....”

“Come on, my dear,” the woman’s lips curled in a wry, crooked, tight-lipped grin. “Just look at the man,” she said, gesturing toward the screen. “He’s quite charming. Gets out in society, goes to all of the best parties, even throws some himself now and then. He rubs elbows with the rich and famous, knows everyone... and I hear,” she added, “he’s newly single and ready to mingle.”

“S-single?”

“Yes, this is the sad bit, though, this bit here...” the woman gosspied, “his wife... she left him, some sort of traumatic, terrible thing... at least that’s what I heard. And when she did, he went missing. Missing, I tell you! Gone! Poof!” she splayed her fingers, demonstrating. “Gone for about a year and a half, maybe longer, I can’t remember. No one knows where he was or who he was with or what the hell happened to him.”

“Oh?” 

“Of course his family wouldn’t talk, and his company people, well... they were tight lipped as ever, don’t you know. My son was worried for his job nearly that whole time! It was in all the papers, all the online blogs -- so much speculation, so many conspiracy theories.... Where is Ansgar Martinsson?” She made little ersatz quotes in the air. “One paper even reported that he’d been kidnapped and tortured by terrorists. Another said he’d been taken by aliens, but I doubt that very much.”

Anna shook her head. “Oh, I doubt that too. The... the alien bit.” She inhaled sharply, ground her teeth together and looked away - collecting her thoughts, her fears, and the increasing, swirling maelstrom of confusion and... and... 

...and regret.

I know where he was....

And maybe I don’t belong where he currently is.

Wnat the hell am I getting myself into? 

Words like “society” and “famous” and “businessman” and “traumatic” clanged around in Anna’s head. The walls of the plane squeezed inward confining her, the seat a great bear trap, cramping her in place, teeth digging deeply into her flesh, tearing at her spirit. No turning back now. She snatched at her glass of whiskey and downed it, immediately raising the empty in indication to the passing air steward. 

The storm in her spirit and the deluge of spirits in her blood made her head ache, made her dizzy, even a bit sick. Thoughts of the Travidges invaded, clouding those of Alan... Ansgar.  Was he really like them? Would he treat her the same way? Was she on a thousand-dollar one-way debt-shattering flight halfway around the world only to be dragged into the same feelings of disassociation, of abandonment, of lonliness?

Of... rejection?

“You said you’d be looking for him? When you get there, is that right? Like, physically trying to find him?”

“What?” Anna blinked, the woman’s question drawing her out of her reverie. “What did you say?”

“I asked,” the woman said patiently, “you’re going to be looking for him... in Stockholm, yes?”

“Well,” she sighed, shrugging, “that was sort of the plan.”

But now I’m not so sure....

The woman nodded sagely. “I won’t ask you why, dear. I’ve stuck my nose into your beeswax enough for one flight, but I can tell you what I know. Maybe... where to find him.”

Anna shrugged. “His office, right? He’s probably there all the time. I could just go there and talk to him.”

She shook her head emphatically. “Oh, no,” she said, “they have security in that place tighter than Fort Knox. No way in hell you just sidle up into his office.”

“Then... then where?”

“My son told me... David, he told me that Martinsson is kind of an odd duck you know... has his ways about doing things,” she said, “but I suppose a lot of Swedes are like that. Really private and all. Don’t even really like to talk to their neighbors. Can’t even talk to one of them on a flight... but they do like one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Swedish folks... they love their fika.”

“Fika?” Anna squinted, nonplussed. “What’s that?”

“Coffee break. I suppose that’s the best thing to call it,” the woman said. “It’s... it’s something the Swedish just... do. It’s pretty important to them... and I hear... my son tells me that he... that your Martinsson fellow there... he takes his coffee break, his fika, at the same coffee shop and at the same time every day when he’s in Stockholm.”

“He goes to a... a coffee shop?”

“Sure,” the woman said. “No one bothers him, apparently. Like I said, the Swedish don’t molest each other overmuch. They don’t like all that chit chat... that small talk with strangers don’t you know, and if someone is sitting at a table alone they’ll just.... you know leave them be. I mean, Brad Pitt or that hunky George Clooney could be sitting in a Swedish coffee shop and no one would even think of approaching them, taking their picture or otherwise.”

“Do you...” Anna blinked, smiling blithely at the woman beside her, “happen to know where that is? That coffee shop where Martinsson takes... takes his fika?”

The woman smiled back. “Would I mention it if I didn’t know?”

[hustlemeanokay]

Warning - this got a little long winded... but it’s something that I just... I get long winded about lol. Also - I’m not trying to rag on anyone in the UK who dreams of living here... though I don’t understand it. It’s just - you should be aware and I don’t see this said enough. Yes, it’s delivered in a very passionate way, because it’s shit that is frustrating for people who live here. And I know the UK is far from perfect but the things that y’all do have down, y’all have it down pat. 

Okay, I get that the US isn’t a completely horrible place to live, currently. Like, we don’t get jailed for saying Trump’s a complete and total fucking moron. See, I can say that and not have my door busted in and be hauled off to some hole in the ground as a political prisoner. 

But when I hear people who live in, like, the UK saying they want to move to America... I swear my left eye twitches just a little bit. Like, I get it - the grass is always greener and all that but... seriously? Are... are they serious when they say that? They... they’re aware of the problems... right? 

Not the social and political problems - those are everywhere. There’s racism and sexism everywhere, there’s corrupt politicians everywhere. That’s not what I’m talking about - yes those things need to be worked on but their virtually identical no matter where you are. 

I’m talking about things like... health care. Paid time off. Employment laws. The cost of college. The cost of retirement. Fuck, the cost of living. Those things. These systemic problems that are just... glazed over. That effect every single person in this fucked up country. Unless you’re of the super rich - every single one of these things are a problem for you. 

Health care. They’re trying to get the whole pre-existing condition thing rolling again. Where, and I’m not even kidding, Trump’s dumbass admin is trying to roll back the Affordable Care Act - which would once again put pre-existing conditions back into play... which pregnancy was considered a pre-existing condition. I wish I was making this up. That’s just a small window into how fucked the system was and could so very easily be again. By the way, the ACA didn’t happen until the mid-90′s. So my generation is the first that was able to actually get pregnancy fucking covered under insurance with no bitch-sessions. And, just for comparison - for the UK peoples out there, we paid over $4000 for the delivery of our son over ten years ago and we had extremely good insurance then that we paid over $800 a month for at the time. That was just his bill, not mine. Just for him. Also - for example... we have insurance, it’s not great insurance but it’s insurance. We pay about $100 a week for it through my husband’s company now. And, to date, this year... we’ve paid... out of pocket, not including the company’s one time benefit of $1500 on an HSA card which is nice but ultimately gone in a heartbeat, so, out of our pocket... not including premiums... we’ve paid almost $10,000 in medical expenses. Only $1000 of it is out of ordinary, for my husband’s procedure that he had to have. The rest has all been RX’s, doctor’s visits, and labs. So yea. There’s that. 

Paid time off. You’re fucking lucky if you get any of that here. That’s why companies tout it as being a benefit. “Oh, this company has good benefits” Good benefits = they actually offer insurance, doesn’t mean it’s good - and you get some semblance of paid time off. Companies here aren’t required to pay you anything extra for working on national holidays and they don’t have to give you any paid vacation or sick days, at all. They are only required to give you maternity leave of 6 weeks or paternity leave, if you request it but none of that is required to be paid either. There’s Family Leave, also not paid time off. And, they will and can do anything to get around paying time and a half for overtime. And, getting into the whole Employment laws thing - companies rely on people not knowing the laws so they can get away with shady ass shit. This happens everywhere, from the corner store and the fucking McDonald’s all the way up to corporate offices. 

College. HA! There are a million bright brilliant people in this country that don’t have a degree because they couldn’t afford to go to college. Or, their parents made just a smidge too much for them to qualify for financial aid and they didn’t want to be burred under a mountain of debt. We’re talking tens of thousands of dollars of debt, what a way to start your life out, huh? Four years at a University? You’re easily looking at $40,000 plus. Easy. Like, wouldn’t be hard to do at all and that’s not even the “best” University either. That’s just like... that one over there. Oh, and student loans? Yeah, interest is charged on those bitches too. Can’t pay them? Oh don’t worry, you can put them on hold for like 36 collective months or something, but they’ll still accrue interest the entire time. And that interest isn’t fixed either, it’s variable. So, good luck with that. 

Retirement? Fuck that. You better hope and pray that social security is still around. For some, even if you do what you’re supposed to and can actually squirrel some away for retirement - you can have some rich fat fuck in an office somewhere decide that he wants your money instead and bam, your retirement is just gone. And that’s assuming you can even afford to have any of your paycheck set aside. Because the cost to live in this country can be insane. True, there are rural places where the cost of living is cheaper but you also don’t get paid shit there either. 

And you still have medical bills when you’re old. What about Medicare, you might be wondering? Oh - you mean medical insurance for the elderly? That shit’s not free anymore. Sure, going to the doctor might be. But if you need an ambulance, you’re still fucked. If you need a prescription? You’d better hope you signed up during that small window for your prescription drug plan, which carries a monthly premium, so you can get your prescriptions. Because, old people never need those, right? And what about care? Well, Medicare will cover some care, like certain kinds of home health care. But not all. And if you need to go into a nursing facility for longer than 100 days? You’d better hope you got buku bucks because Medicare only pays for 100 days. Then, you’d better magically grow younger or some shit. Or, hope you’ve been paying for nursing home insurance. And, hope you’ve been updating that policy to reflect the insane rising costs of those places. Or, if you’re lucky, hope you’ve got family that will help take care of you. To get Medicaid though, you can’t have more than $2000 in assets, at all. That includes life insurance policies with cash values. You can keep your house and like one car but that’s it - and you can’t rent that house out or sell that car once you get Medicaid or you’re benefits can be interrupted because somehow, you can turn $500 into $2000 or something. And - this is the really shitty part, say you are in a nursing home and you do manage to get Medicaid. Medicare still won’t pay a dime to the facility but Medicaid will. But... they’ll also take your entire social security check minus $60 a month. So, if you do still have a house and a car to worry about that you cannot rent out, you’ll have to somehow make that $60 pay for any incidentals you might need (think soap... toothpaste... deodorant... your favorite candies... you get the idea) and for property taxes... insurances... all of that. So... good luck with that. 

Basically... the slogan here is that you can have the American dream if you work hard. But what they don’t tell you is that even if you do get it? You’re probably not going to be able to keep it. 

You can work your ass off your whole life, get that house, build a small business, make it. Not get filthy rich, but do okay. And then you get old and can’t work anymore but it’s okay - you’ve managed to save a little and you’ve got your social security so you’ll be okay. Until you get sick. Or your health starts to go downhill. Then, you’ll watch all that you worked so hard for have to be sold off just to pay your medical bills and go to pay for your care. If you’re lucky, you’ve got kids that can help. But someone, either you or them, is going to have to lose something in order to pay for your care. 

If you aren’t rich, you’ll still not be able to make it. There’s never a break.

For a country that’s all about freedom... you’ll never have a single moment where you’ll be free. 

And for those in the UK starting to go off about VAT. We still pay taxes. We pay sales tax, property taxes, extra taxes added to our gasoline, to the liquor, to the tobacco products, to fucking tampons! We pay licensing fees, renewal fees, tag fees, registration fees, vehicle sales taxes and title fees. We pay federal income taxes, many states pay state income taxes, fuck - some cities have city income taxes. We have toll roads and toll bridges. We still pay taxes on top of all of this. So give me fucking VAT any god damned day of the week if it means I can go to the fucking doctor and not drop $200 fucking bucks just for them to renew the same fucking prescription I’ve been on for years so I can go to the pharmacy and pay $30 for a generic RX for one month. 

[artificialqueens]

Mateo's Eight, chapter three (Branjie)--athena2

Summary: Previously: Brooke agreed to work with Vanessa Now: Vanessa goes through the plan of the heist as her team meets for the first time

A/N: Thank you so much for your feedback on this so far! I would really appreciate it if you could comment on this chapter. Your support means so much to me and helps encourage me. A thousand thank you’s to Writ for being the best beta!

Vanessa is up at the crack of dawn her first full day as a free woman, hoping she’ll return to her old ways of sleeping until 10 soon, especially now that she no longer has her job at the makeup store. Going to prison doesn’t help in the job department, and it makes her feel even worse that her mom is working a double shift today. Sometimes she would be so exhausted she’d fall asleep still in her nursing scrubs, and Vanessa wants more than ever to make things easier for her.

Her bed is too soft to leave, like a giant marshmallow beneath her. She’s buried under so many blankets it makes her sweat, but she’s too cozy under their fluffy softness to kick them off.

She eats her cereal with an eye on the clock as her mom rushes to get ready, each minute dragging like time itself is stuck in quicksand.

The second her mom leaves for work, with more kisses heaped on Vanessa’s cheek, she shoots up from the table and gets the place ready. It’s like how she used to wait for her parents to go out for the night so she could have friends over, right down to the soda and chips and pretzels she sets out for Yvie, only this time they’re discussing a million-dollar heist instead of post-prom plans. Hopefully the apartment won’t be trashed after, but you never know with Silky.

A’keria and Silky arrive first, lugging boxes and bags of Vanessa’s stuff that they had taken from her and Brooke’s apartment. Vanessa tears through them, grabbing her fuzzy slippers and running her hands over the smooth jewelry box, like she’s regaining part of herself in the clothes and jewelry and dog mug.

She digs up a gray sweatshirt much too big for her, because of course one of Brooke’s things got mixed in. Vanessa used to steal the sweatshirt from Brooke’s dresser and wear it to bed in the winter, the thing so warm and oversized it was like being wrapped in a giant blanket. She’d tuck her arms inside the sleeves and bury her nose in the soft fabric, breathing in the smell of Brooke’s lavender body wash and another calming, cozy scent that was just Brooke, no way to describe it or how safe it made her feel. Vanessa wonders what it smells like now–

A knock on the door tears her away. Yvie and Scarlet try to hide grins as they stand together, mumbling that getting here at the same time is a coincidence, but Scarlet has purple lipstick in the corner of her lip when no one wears purple lipstick but Yvie.

Nina teeters in with a box of donuts that she passes out to everyone like a white, suburban Oprah, refusing to sit until she makes sure everyone has been fed.

“Is anyone else coming?” Yvie asks. “These are good chips, by the way,” she mumbles, pulling the bowl from Silky’s lap into her own.

Vanessa meets A’keria’s eyes. “Just one more,” Vanessa says, pacing around the living room. Brooke said she was coming. Vanessa’s careful combination of money and threats had gotten her, like she knew they would. If not for the money so Brooke could take care of those bills just as big as Vanessa’s, then to cover her own ass.

“Hi.” Brooke appears out of nowhere, still graceful as ever, her steps silent on the creaky apartment floor.

Vanessa digs her nails into her palms to stamp out the rage. Brooke is here. She’s in Vanessa’s apartment, standing there, and it’s all she can do not to punch her in the face.

“What the hell?” Silky asks.

“Sorry I’m late.” Brooke squeaks.

Vanessa scoffs. It was impossible for Brooke Lynn Hytes to be late. She had probably been born on her exact due date clutching a watch in her little fist, motioning for the doctors to hurry up. It was why, as much as a pain in the ass she was about it, their cons always worked, Brooke timing everything with perfection.

“You weren’t late,” Vanessa shoots back. “You were the first one here, but you went around the block a million times ‘cause you’re a coward and didn’t want to show up first.”

A’keria chokes on her soda and Scarlet whacks her on the back.

“Donut?” Nina offers Brooke.

“I’ll take another,” Yvie says.

Out of the corner of Vanessa’s eye, Silky tries to casually sweep up the chocolate donut crumbs she got all over the couch.

Vanessa just sighs, because this is her team, for better or worse.

“I’m here now,” Brooke says cautiously, cheeks tinged pink.

“Yeah, you are.” Vanessa allows herself one look at the person who betrayed her.

She looks good, as much as Vanessa doesn’t want to admit it. Brooke still manages to make skinny jeans and a black sweater look like they came straight off the runway, making Vanessa’s heart lift as she forces it down. Brooke’s tired, though. Vanessa can see it, knows to look in her eyes, where she couldn’t hide the exhaustion that makeup and her perfect posture concealed. Her long fingers play with her sweater cuff and her lip is chewed-up, both signs of nerves. Good. If Vanessa’s caused Brooke sleepless nights and fidgety fingers and burning lips, it’s only what she deserves.

Brooke sits on the couch and pulls out her notebook. That damn notebook. It’s covered in little cartoon cats, because Brooke loves cats, had wanted to adopt one eventually. Who cares what she loves, Vanessa reminds herself. She certainly didn’t love you. But that doesn’t matter. Brooke is in her debt now, and Vanessa is in control.

“So,” Vanessa begins, feeling like a teacher in front of the class, especially as she turns on the TV connected to her laptop, “I have a plan.

“In three weeks, the Met is hosting a ball for their new historical costume and jewelry exhibit. Place is gonna be crawling with money. And I want to steal. Not the Met, but one necklace.”

“A necklace?” Yvie asks in confusion. “What are we, ten-year-old’s in Claire’s?”

“Hold all questions for the end, please,” Vanessa snaps.

She brandishes her arm for dramatic effect and clicks the next slide on her laptop. “The actress Plastique Tiara will be at the event, in a dress designed by Scarlet–” Scarlet waves to the room like a Disney princess on parade, “–who will convince Plastique to wear this 112 million dollar diamond necklace.”

Everyone blinks in confusion as Vanessa brings up a slide featuring the necklace, but she plows on. “Using our combined skills, we will get in the ball, take the necklace, replace it with a worthless copy, and leave with 16 million dollars each.”

Vanessa grins smugly in the chorus of gasps that ring out and fade into awestruck silence. She can see everyone’s heads spinning, comprehending a number they–and most people–have never seen, taking in the freedom that number will give them, freedom they’ve never had. The freedom to live where they want and do what they want, to never have to worry about medical bills or loans or home repairs or emergencies.

The only sound is the scratching of Brooke’s pen. The glide of her pen used to be like music to Vanessa’s ears, and she could trace the gentle curves of Brooke’s neat handwriting for hours. Now, it just sets her teeth on edge, makes her burn with aggravation.

Nina is the first to speak. “Pardon my French, everyone,” she says, “but holy fuck.”

—

It only takes Vanessa about ten minutes into her date with Brooke to see that beneath her cool, calm exterior, she’s really just an adorable dork.

That easy grace Brooke had moved with in the department store flies out the window as she nearly trips over her own giraffe legs to open the door for Vanessa, and she gasps in excitement when she finds out the diner serves breakfast all day.

“You a breakfast for dinner person?” Vanessa asks.

Brooke nods eagerly. “Why, are you a dinner-foods-for-dinner person?”

“Nah. I’m all for eating whatever I want at any time of day.”

“Exactly!” Brooke’s eyes sparkle and it makes Vanessa’s heart soar. “Like, what makes bacon and eggs only breakfast food?”

“Yeah! If I want pancakes for dinner and pizza for breakfast, who’s gonna stop me?” Vanessa claps eagerly as their plates arrive, French toast and bacon for Brooke and grilled cheese with fries for Vanessa.

Vanessa grabs the ketchup and drenches her fries.

“You put ketchup over the fries?” Brooke asks in horror.

“Yeah, why?”

“You have to dip them! There’s no control over how much ketchup you get per fry when you put it on top!”

“I just want to put it all on at once, Mary!”

Brooke shakes her head. “Unbelievable. Next you’ll be telling me you put the milk in before the cereal.” But she grins around her mouthful of bacon.

“Of course I don’t put the milk first. I’m not an animal.” Vanessa laughs and holds a ketchup-soaked fry out to Brooke, which she pulls from Vanessa’s fingers with her teeth. Vanessa can’t even breathe at having Brooke this close to her, close enough to see tiny flecks of gray in her green eyes, which only popped out in certain lighting.

“So, um, where do you work?” Brooke asks.

“I do makeup at one of the beauty stores,” Vanessa answers. “Most people tip pretty good, but it ain’t enough to pay the bills we got, y’know?”

“Is that why you started conning? If it’s okay for me to ask that?” Brooke says.

“It’s okay. And yeah. My dad, he was…he was sick. Insurance barely covered anything, and the medical bills just kept piling up. He died a few months ago, and we still got the medical bills, and the funeral bills, and…it’s a lot.” Vanessa just shakes her head. She and her mother both work full-time and hardly make a dent in the bills after rent and utilities. She doesn’t understand how her father getting sick, through no fault of his own, could result in almost $100,000 worth of debt. It’s like trying to bring down a mountain one pebble at a time, with the mountain growing each day, too big to see the top.

“I’m really sorry,” Brooke says. Her hand hesitantly slides across the table, and Vanessa doesn’t even think of whether she should, whether they’re at that point yet, before she grabs it. It’s cool and solid and soft, helping her focus on something besides bills and dead fathers.

“It’s okay,” Vanessa says. She and her mother have helped each get through his illness and his passing, and she feels awful for thinking it, but it’s made them closer, united in the memories of the man they both lost.

“It makes me mad, you know?” Brooke’s eyes flicker with intensity. “That we still work and have to do this just to get by. I have medical bills too, and the heat broke in my apartment last week and I had to do a scam just to pay for the repair, even though I teach full-time at a dance studio. Some people don’t have to worry about that. Some people–”

“Some people buy freaking yachts ‘cause they’re outta shit to buy,” Vanessa says.

“Yes!” Brooke exclaims. “You really get it. Get me.” Her eyes shine in surprise, like she can’t believe what she just said, but Vanessa has already thought it.

“Yeah,” Vanessa agrees, reaching over to snatch a piece of Brooke’s bacon. “And if you ever have heating problems again, my place is really warm. Maybe you could even show me some dance moves.” She bats her eyelashes.

It’s a risk to throw something like out there, especially on a first date, but Brooke’s smile is all the reward Vanessa needs.

—

Vanessa stands tall in her living room, everyone on the couches still recovering from her announcement, hisses of 16 million slipping into Vanessa’s ears.

“Can I talk to you?”

Vanessa sighs. Leave it to Brooke to interrupt her moment of blissful triumph for questions. Vanessa leads her down the hall, grumbling about buzzkills under her breath.

She crosses her arms and stands expectantly in front of Brooke, raising an eyebrow to show that she’s not giving an inch in this, that Brooke better stop raking a hand through her hair and speak.

“So, do they know?” Brooke begins.

“Know what?”

“What the real mark is,” Brooke says. “I know you. I can see the bigger target here.”

I know you.

Vanessa can’t help but feel that rush of warmth at Brooke knowing her so well, remembering that connection she and Brooke once had, when they could look at each other and have entire conversations with eyebrow-raises and smirks. Brooke always knew her plans, always got what she was trying to do like no one else. It had been a relief back then, to have someone she could trust, who just knew her, knew her coffee order and favorite movies and how to cheer her up when she was upset. A comfort to know she wasn’t alone, that she had someone.

But now, it’s infuriating. That she had given all those parts of her to Brooke, and now Brooke would always have them even when Vanessa wants to take them back. Like no matter how clever she thinks she is, Brooke can see right through her. Vanessa can never free herself from that connection they had, a connection Brooke severed clean in a police station six months ago.

“They don’t,” Vanessa admits, “And I’m not gonna tell them. It’s safer that way. Less chance of someone giving me up.” She spits the last three words at Brooke with the strongest death glare she’s ever managed. If looks could kill, the whole street would be dead. Brooke at least has the decency to look embarrassed, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows.

“Vanessa, I never meant–”

Vanessa raises her hand to shush Brooke. “Don’t. Just don’t. Go over your notes, tell me if it’ll work. You do your job, I pay you, and I don’t want to see you ever again.”

“Okay.”

Now it’s Brooke’s turn to stand, still as a statue, notebook outstretched in a gloat. Her face is impassive even though Vanessa knows how much she needs this money, and steam nearly comes out of her ears. Brooke can stand here all day, with those stupid dancer legs of hers, and Vanessa needs to move this along and get back to her group before Silky and A’keria have a repeat of last year’s pillow fight.

“So, tell me. Is this gonna work?” Vanessa finally cracks, ignoring how Brooke’s smile makes her own lips twitch up, a muscle memory.

“It can work, yes. But…”

“But what?”

“This is risky. It’s risky, and intricate, and if I’m sticking my neck out like this, I want to be involved, so I can make sure this is done properly.”

The words slam into Vanessa, filling her with rage. Brooke didn’t trust her to do this, when Vanessa had planned the entire thing herself, foresaw every possible conclusion and solved every possible problem while behind the bars Brooke put her in. Brooke didn’t trust her, when they had once trusted each other with everything.

“Pretty rich of you to not trust me when you’re the one who ratted me out,” Vanessa says.

Brooke sighs. “Vanessa–”

“Whatever. You want to be involved how? You’re gonna be there the night of the ball, what else do you want?” Vanessa demands, certain she doesn’t like where this is going.

“I want to be there when you make most of the moves,” Brooke says.

“Hell no! I’m not lettin’ you breathe down my neck the whole time!”

“You have a lot to do,” Brooke argues. “You need to schedule a meeting with Scarlet and Plastique to make sure Plastique wears the necklace. Vogue has already starting hiring ball assistants and I’m assuming you’re gonna send Nina inside, so you need to get her an interview–”

“I know what I have to do!” Vanessa snaps, reluctantly impressed at how fast Brooke’s mind works, how quickly she put the pieces together. Brooke saw cons as puzzles, each step an interlocking piece to build the picture Vanessa dreamed, her focus more on the goal and how her charm could get them there.

“Then you also know you need me,” Brooke states. No emotion, no hint of desire, just pure, hard fact. “The organization this is gonna take, the scheduling…you need me.”

Vanessa clenches her fists. She had tried to downplay her desperation on the phone, but obviously Brooke picked up on it. Vanessa might be able to do this without Brooke, but can she take that chance on something this big, this important, this life-changing?

“Fine.” Vanessa sighs. “Meet me at the Met Friday at 10. Yvie’s working on a blindspot in their security cameras and I’m gonna test it. Can you get Nina that interview?”

Brooke nods. She looks at her shoes before pulling a piece of paper from her pocket, the familiar motion making Vanessa dizzy. “This is my new number. Just thought you might need it.”

Vanessa shoves the paper in her pocket and heads back into the living room without waiting to see if Brooke is behind her. She used to walk without checking because she knew Brooke would always be there, would always have her back. Now she does it because she just doesn’t care.

Vanessa stands in front of them, forgetting her annoyance of having to work with Brooke in favor of the pride and riches she would earn after this.

“Okay, everyone,” Vanessa says, “welcome to Mateo’s Eight.”

“There’s only seven of us.”

Vanessa huffs in exasperation. “Damn it, Yvie, c’mon, this was my big moment!”

“Well, there is.”

Vanessa bites her lip and makes a quick head count. Math never was her strong suit. But Mateo’s Seven just doesn’t have the same ring, so she scoops up Riley from where he’s latched on to Brooke’s ankle–the traitor; he always jumped on Brooke when she walked in the apartment, even if she had only been gone an hour–and hoists him into the air.

“Riley’s number eight. I don’t want to hear arguing.” She straightens her posture, trying to get back her earlier confidence, wishing there was some heroic music in the background.

“Welcome to Mateo’s Eight.”