#SHE DISAPPROVES AS SUCH IN THE *BASE GAME*. JUST GO AND READ THOSE QUOTES FIRST. KLEIGUY.

[the-valiant-valkyrie]

i stg i'm gonna FIND the guy who wrote wig's hamlet quotes.

[midnightmarev]

Hide and Seek

AO3 link.

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Platonic everyone. But if you squint, you might see some Loceit and Remile.

Summary: Ever wonder how Virgil always wins in hide and seek? Well, wonder no more, for I have the answer right here!

Author’s note: This is inspired by an incorrect Sanders Sides quote I made on Twitter. That quote was inspired by me writing down cosplay ideas, Virgil and Patton playing hide and seek with each other and Virgil "cheating", finding Patton super quick ;)

This is basically just fluff and Virgil being a sneaky bean.

Hide and Seek

A knock sounded on his door. Virgil groaned. Why couldn’t he just sleep? It was only, what? 11 am?

“Hey, kiddo?” Patton. “Roman and I have arranged a day out in the Imagination. Are you even up?” he added after a moment of hesitation, sounding disapproving.

‘No, I’m not, but it’s not like I can say that to you’ Virgil thought to himself. “Yeah, I’m up. Just, uh, dosing of a bit. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Yay!” Patton left. Ugh, what did they have planned this time? Horseback riding was bad enough; his rear still hurt a bit, by the way, Princey!

Virgil got out of bed and got dressed before he went to his bathroom to put on his make-up. What? He still liked to keep up his aesthetics even though they weren’t filming. Sure, they were going outside in the Imagination, and it would probably be ruined, but he still liked it, okay?!

It’d been about ten minutes since Patton had knocked on his door when he finally ventured downstairs to the commons. Patton was bouncing on his feet, keeping himself from jumping Virgil with a hug. Logan sat on the couch reading. Looked like he didn’t want to be there, either, but when faced with Patton, one can’t say no. He’ll only give you his puppy-dog-eyes, and you’ll be in a puddle on the floor.

Roman was sporting his outdoor clothes. He always did when they went into the Imagination. Didn’t want to ruin his prince outfit. He looked rather disgusted with something Remus had said before swatting his playfully on the arm. Same old.

What surprised Virgil was that Deceit was there. He usually didn’t want to partake in outdoor activities because of his reptilian traits. Roman and Patton must have made sure it was the perfect temperature. Dee was currently leaning up against Logan, eyes closed, basking in Logan’s body heat.

As Virgil came to a stop in front of Patton, he heard another door open and close. Virgil opened his arms to give Patton permission to hug him. And hug him he did!

“Alright, babes! Save some of him for me, would ya?” Virgil’s eyes widened. Patton invited Sleep as well? Or Remy, as the fanders had dubbed him. A name he now proudly wore.

Patton slowly released Virgil from the embrace. “Heya Remy! So happy you decided to come! Is Emile coming as well?” Wait, Patton invited Emile, too? Who else did he ask to join? Anton, the Critic? Antagonist? October?

“Yep! My boo will be down any moment now. Had to wrap up practising some lines for Thomas’ upcoming Cartoon Therapy episode. Now, as for you, Virgil,” Remy said, turning to look at Virgil. “You better stop pulling those long nights, mister! I am missing out on so many parties because you keep Thomas up all night with me trying to put him to sleep!” Remy exclaimed before pulling Virgil into a hug, this one lighter than Patton’s.

“You stayed up all night again, Virgil? That’s why you sounded so sleepy when I knocked on your door,” Patton chided. Virgil winched.

“Yeah, sorry, Pat. Bad habit,” Virgil said, very apologetically. Time to change the subject, because now all eyes were on him and he did not like that! “So, eh, what are we doing in the Imagination?”

Patton’s eyes lit up. “Hide and seek!” he exclaimed excitedly. Roman’s eyes lit up as well, as did Remus’, mostly because now he had an excuse for getting in the dumpsters. The rest of the sides gave off groans of various lengths and volume, the most pronounced being Logan.

“Ugh, again?” Virgil asked in disbelief. That was just as bad as horseback riding! It was physically requiring! You have to actively do something.

“Awe, come now Emo Nightmare. It’ll be fun! Or are you just scared because you know you’ll lose?” Roman smirked at Virgil. Oh, it was on!

“In your dreams, Princey. I know I’ll win. I always do. Remember?” Virgil snarked back. Virgil had the perfect strategy, one they always fell for no matter how many times they played hide and seek.

“Ooh, sounds like we need to settle some drama in a game of ‘Hide and Seek’,” Remy interjected, always one for drama.

“What’s that about drama and hide and seek?” Emile now entered the commons as well, his usual outfit in place. A young figment at his side was something they weren’t expecting, though. “Oh, this is Qikkie, by the way. I’m training her to become a therapist so she can help the other figments when I’m too busy,” Emile explained at the curious, and confused glances sent their way by the sides. Well, all except Remy, but he had his own young figment under tutorage, so of course he wasn’t surprised by Qikkie.

“Salutations, Qikkie, and welcome to the common rooms of the mindscape. Will you be joining us in the Imagination today?” Logan questioned, speaking up for the first time. Deceit still sat at his side, eyes now open at the mention of a new member to the famILY.

She looked up at Emile, who nodded at her. “I think I’ll skip this time, mister Logan. Reina is getting addicted to coffee,” Qikkie said, giving a pointed look at Remy. “And I’d rather she doesn’t go too far, like a certain someone in this room, right now.” Everyone looked at Remy, giving him variously pointed and disapproving looks.

“What?” Remy drawled, innocently taking a sip from the Starbucks coffee cup in his hand.

“Anygay,” Roman broke the silence. “Now that we’re all here, should we get going on an adventure?”

“Sure, Princey, if you call it an adventure to lose in hide and seek,” Virgil quipped, not missing a beat. That earned him a few offended princey noises. Virgil snickered.

“Play nice, kiddos. Roman, if you would?” Patton asked at which Roman responded with snapping his fingers and they all appeared in the Imagination.

They appeared in a rather large garden out in the country. There was a henhouse built into the messy garage leading out to at rather spacious chicken coop. The chicken coop had half-walls made of large roof tiles dug half into the ground to keep foxes from digging under and getting in. The chickens were outside in the coop. Usually, they would be out in the garden, but there were young chicks amongst them, so they stayed inside the coop to make sure they made it to adulthood — no doubt due to Patton’s presence.

There were fields to each side of the house accompanying the garden, and a small forest in the far end of the garden. Bushes and trees stood spread all over the garden as well as a swingset. One tree, in particular, stood out as it was the biggest of them all and held a treehouse in its treetop. Over-the-top, just like Princey.

All in all, the garden looked like a mess, chaos, but with a system in it, just like Virgil liked it best.

“Alright, Panic! At The Everywhere,” Roman broke Virgil from his thoughts. “If you think you can beat us, why don’t you start counting?” Ignoring the playful nickname, Virgil smirked.

“Gladly, sir Sing-A-Lot. Prepare to lose,” Virgil quipped back, lifting his hands to his eyes, starting to count to one hundred. This was going to be easy.

Virgil heard a lot of rustling while counting from the other sides and two figments finding hiding spots. Oh, this was going to be fun.

“…98…99…100!” Virgil made sure the last three numbers were audible to the entire garden. “Ready or not, here I come!” he sing-songed.

Virgil smirked to himself before shouting one particular fraise. “I HATE MYSELF!”

A distant “WHAT?!” was heard from behind the chicken coop, as well as some rustling. Before long Virgil could see Patton’s head. “I WILL PHYSICALLY FIGHT YOU!”

When Patton saw Virgil staring at his with a smirk on his face, Patton’s face contorted into one of understanding of what had just happened. “Oh, darn,” Patton said with a gesture of his arm before getting up and walking towards Virgil.

“Don’t worry, Pat. It was a good hiding spot,” Virgil smiled at Patton while giving him a pat on the back (pun intended). He then turned in the direction of Logan’s most likely hiding spot and shouted “INFINITESIMAL!”

A faint voice was heard from the henhouse, Logan’s pride, but soon grew in volume. “That was oNE TIME!!!” He always reacted when you mentioned that word, no exceptions.

With a smirk still on his face, Virgil walked to the henhouse and stuck his head inside the door to view Logan in the corner next to the door. “Hey, Lo.”

Logan slightly jumped before narrowing his eyes at Virgil. “Mother fu-” And that was Virgil’s cue to back out. As he walked back out from the garage to Patton, a series of unintelligible swears and grumbles could be heard from the henhouse. Virgil couldn’t help but snicker at that. Logan was no doubt pacing from wall to wall, fuming. Best to let him cool off.

“He’ll be out in a minute,” Virgil said when Patton gave him a questioning look. “Now. I have a pretty good idea where Princey is buuut; I wanna watch his reaction.” Virgil was wearing an evil smile. Oh, this would be so much fun. “DISNEY MOVIE NIGHT IS CANCELLED!”

A pained (and affronted and indignant) cry was heard from the treehouse. Definitely Roman.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! OH, CRUEL WORLD! PLEASE LET IT NOT BE TRUE!!” Roman cried out before his head popped out of a window.

Virgil stood at the base of the tree’s trunk, smirking up to Roman. “Found you, Princey,” he said, and before Roman could react, Virgil had left again.

Patton just sat at the tables and benches set in the middle of the garden field, laughing at their antics. He soon waved Roman to join him so they could chat. Logan still hadn’t come out from the henhouse, so Patton really wanted some company that wasn’t the adorable mix-breed black dog, Happy. She matched his personality so well, but Patton would also like some human company while Virgil worked on finding the rest.

Virgil smiled to himself. This next one should be a piece of cake. Or rather, a piece of deodorant. He lifted his hand towards his mouth to form a trunk and shouted “FREE DEODORANT!! NEW FLAVOUR!!”

Not even a split-second after he had uttered those words, a demonic screeching followed by a loud “WEEEEEEE!!!” was heard from behind the outer walls of the house from the dumpster area. A streak of green was all you could see, and not even a second later, Remus stood in front of Virgil. If he had a tail, he would be wagging it furiously.

He pouted when he realised he had just lost the game and it was just a ruse. No deodorant. Well, he would just have to manage with the two deodorants he had in his shoulder pads.

Logan still hadn’t come out of the henhouse and Roman was taking his sweet, sweet time exiting the treehouse, grumbling to himself. Patton was playing fetch with Happy, and Remus had taken out on of his deodorants from his shoulder pads and went to join them.

Who to choose next? Remy or Deceit? Both were quite easy, after all. He looked over towards Remus who was munching on some deodorant he got from who knows where. Virgil then smirked. “Remy it is, then,” Virgil said, filling his lungs with air. “FREE STARBUCKS IS CANCELLED!!”

Fwump. Something, most likely some wood, fell to the floor in the garage. “Oh, you better be lyin’ hon!” A loud slurp was heard a moment later. Virgil peeked his head inside the garage once again, smirking at Remy. “Oh, you are so dead, Virgie. I’ll get Logan out of the henhouse,” he added when he heard Logan’s grumbling from the henhouse.

Virgil had no doubt that Emile was close. Those two never hid far from each other. But Emile was a bit harder to flush out. He needed to think. What would get Emile super-hyped (cartoons) or make him react in outrage? Hmm… OH! Steven Universe Future was about to air!

Once again, Virgil called out, albeit quieter. “Steven Universe Future just got cancelled!!”

Bump. “What?!” Emile came into his vision with distress on his face. “They can’t! It’s supposed to be even better than the movie!”

Remy had finally gotten Logan to chill and came up Emile. “He’s using dirty tricks, babes,” he winked.

“Huh? Oh, right. I knew that!” Emile went outside with Remy, Logan and Virgil. “Oh, you’ve found everyone already!”

“Nope, not yet. Still missing Dee. And I have the perfect way to get him out of whatever hole he crawled into,” Virgil smirked, lifting his hand. A whoosh was heard, and in Virgil’s was now a bowler hat. Deceit’s spare one.

“Oh, you’re so dead, babes. DeeDee will be piiissed,” Remy snorted.

Virgil just shrugged and called out as loud as he could. “I HAVE DECEIT’S SPARE BOWLER HAT!! AND I CAN DO WITH IT AS I PLEASE!!”

The ground trembled a bit next where Virgil stood. He looked down and noticed a snake hole. Of course.

In 5 seconds, a snake emerged, and Deceit shapeshifted to his normal form to stand next to Virgil. “You WHAT?! I told you not to touch my shit!” Deceit said, grabbing at the bowler hat. It disappeared as soon as he touched it. An illusion. Deceit blinked once. Blinked twice. Then looked around him to see the others. “Oh. I totally didn’t fall for that.”

Virgil coughed to gain the others’ attention. “Found you all. Now let’s go back to bed.” And with that, Virgil turned around and walked away, back to his room, to continue sleeping.

Roman had now joined the others at the tables-and-benches set and had an unreadable expression on his face.

“… why do we keep falling for that?” he asked to no one in particular.

---

Inside the mindscape, Qikkie and Reina were laughing their asses off. They had conjured a mirror that was linked to the Imagination so they could follow the events of this day’s game of hide and seek.

“Oh, my! They are so stupid! I can’t even-” Reina laughed. “I can’t breathe!”

“Those boys are a bunch of idiots, alright!” Qikkie agreed.

Their laughter had calmed down a bit when they saw that Virgil was on his way back. He could’ve easily just sunk out, but - even though he would never admit it - he liked the theatrics of a dramatic exit.

Qikkie still had her focus on the rest of the sides in the Imagination when she heard a slurping sound followed by an “Ah”. She then slowly turned around. And pounced.

“Give me that!” she demanded when Reina evaded her.

“Never!” Reina laughed, running off, coffee cup in hand. “You’ll never get me alive!” she said over her shoulder.

Virgil entered the mindscape, watching the two newest figments chase after one-another, smiling to himself as he closed his door to once again return to the sweet, sweet thing called sleep.

All the while, Qikkie chased Reina all around the mindscape.

Endnotes: Alright. The garden and animals I described, was my garden and animals. I finally found an excuse for writing Patton meeting my dog, Happy. We don't have a treehouse though. But we do have chickens and a garage and a henhouse built into the garage. And the situation with the chickens is what we're facing right now. We lost all our chicks and almost all our hens last year to either the fox or some disease/weak immune system, so we're doing everything to make sure they grow up and such.

Qikkie and Reina are my original characters as well as my Morality and Creativity. In that order.

Please leave a comment/reblog. I would love to hear what you thought about this.

Come check out my Twitter and chat with me, if you want to, that is.

Thank you for reading. Take it easy guys, gals, and non-binary pals!

Ba-bye!

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, JEM! You’ve been accepted for the role of IAGO. Admin Rosey: Jem, you have no idea how much I flailed and screamed and went buckwild while reading this application. The quotes that you picked for the plot points set the stage for an absolutely exceptional application. I think that, with Iago, a difficult task can be capturing his core without humanizing him so that others can understand him. But you gave us insight into his being without us feeling a shred of sympathy for him. Most know that I enjoy the exploration of these sort of characters but it can be so difficult to trust someone with them. There is no one I trust more than you with our duplicitous Iago. Everyone, read this application from beginning to end and weep with me. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Jem.

Age | 25.

Preferred Pronouns | She/her.

Activity Level | I’d say my activity level is about a 6/10! My work schedule is pretty demanding, but I always try to carve out some space in my life for writing, and I’m usually able to plot and crank out replies consistently throughout the week.

Timezone | EST.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Here, here, and here.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Iago/Ivan Rahal.

What drew you to this character? | I’ve been drawn to (re: obsessed with) Ivan since literally the day his biography was posted, but I initially shied away from applying for him because I was, admittedly, a little intimidated by how unrelenting his darkness is, and I wasn’t quite sure I could do justice to a character with so many layers and so many complexities, all of them wrapped in varying shades of evil. But I found that once I began unraveling Ivan layer by layer, that intimidation gave way to fascination, and I became so completely wed to the idea of immersing myself wholly in all of Ivan’s inner workings, in dissecting his person and his psyche as thoroughly as he dissects those around him. Ivan errs on the side of evil, yes, unquestionably so, but his lack of morals is deeply rooted in discipline, and that discipline has bred a methodical, calculative process of destruction that, though morally bankrupt, is unique to Ivan Rahal and Ivan Rahal alone. He’s a villain unlike any other one villain, a monster unlike any other one monster. To delve into the motives of a man who wants for nothing and feels for no one was challenging, yes, but also vastly compelling. Initially, I wasn’t quite sure how to approach a character who’s so definitively dark, but even darkness is painted in different shades and shapes, and Ivan is no exception. He’s cruel, yes, but he metes out his cruelty subtly, and in increments, and only to those he deems worthy of his attention (usually those virtue-bound apostates). He’s rotten, yes, but his rot is tempered some by his self-control, and that leash alone makes him considerably less prone to apocalypse than he might’ve been had been born absent restraint. He’s treacherous, yes, but there is beauty to be found even his treachery: the way he transforms, the way he sheds his snakeskin and shifts it to match the changing colors of the political current. To simply brand him a “monster” is to do a disservice to his many layers, for he’s a creature far more nightmarish than monsters could ever hope to be—and he swathes those nightmares in stardust, tricking the masses into thinking him angel-born, haloed, hallowed by the heavens. He’s cruel, and selfish, and he has a severe deficit of conscience, but he’s also smart, and tenacious, and adaptive, and in this game, in this war, those qualities are invaluable—and that makes him a valuable player here in Verona. Ivan is a villain, to be sure, and one of the worst, but even the most wretched devils in the most wretched circles of hell have their limits, their lines to cross or not cross. And isn’t that what Verona’s about? Flirting with the spectrum of monstrosity; forging lines, and deigning to cross or not cross them; wading in the gray sea of morality. Ivan is a villain, to be sure—and so the question remains: what kind of villain will he be, and what kind of lines will he cross?

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

“A wolf will never be a pet.” —Kamilla Tolnoe He’s a Capulet, to be sure, but make no mistake: Ivan would just as soon slit Cosimo Capulet’s throat as he would Damiano Montague’s if it meant getting his way. The Capulets were little more than convenient to his plans upon his arrival to Verona: he needed to remain close to Odin, and he found the Capulets’ methods of war far more preferable to those of the Montagues. But Ivan’s self-interest remains paramount, and should the Capulets ever become inconvenient to his agenda, his eye might yet wander elsewhere.

“When strong, avoid them. If of high morale, depress them. Seem humble to fill them with conceit. If at ease, exhaust them. If united, separate them. Attack their weaknesses. Emerge to their surprise.” — Sun Tzu, The Art of War He’s avoided Delilah, and depressed her, and exhausted her, and separated her from Odin, and from the Capulets, and from the Veronesi. And yet still she remains. A broken shell of the woman she once was, to be sure, but Ivan was certain she’d have fled Verona by now, driven from her home by shame and gossip, found to be guilty of adultery by a jury of vipers. And yet still she remains. Curious. Dangerous. Ivan was so certain he’d well and truly broken any love Odin felt for Delilah, but he sees remnants of it in the way he looks at her, in the way he reminisces about her, in the way he shows kindness as an ode to her memory. And that simply won’t do. Not for Ivan, who would not do well to be found out; not for Odin, who would be the first survivor of Ivan’s games; not for Delilah, who would be the first winner of Ivan’s games. It’s the first time Ivan has felt—not quite panic, no, but a sort of unnerving itch, like the chessboard upon which he’s been playing has suddenly been turned around, and he’s disoriented by it. He’s more determined now than he’s ever been to expel Delilah, and all of her suspicions and wiles, from Verona.

“You have played, I think, and broke the toys you were fondest of, and are a little tired now; tired of things that break, and—just tired.” — E.E. Cummings For all of Ivan’s love of games, he’s bound to get bored eventually, no? What happens when he’s made his way through the masses of Verona, when he’s grown tired of his games with Odin, and Delilah, and Chiko, and Pandora? What will happen when he’s broken all of his toys so thoroughly that there’s nothing left to play with? What will he turn his attentions to next? Who will he turn his attentions to next? Will ever there come a time when he finds he can no longer sustain this sort of gameplay, when even his dead, wintry soul grows weary of such cardinal sin?

“What are you? A chaos.” — Anaïs Nin, Fire: From a Journal of Love He’s motivated by power, yet, but not inasmuch as he’s motivated by his passion for destruction. His life’s greatest joy is ruination: his blood sings for it, his heart thrums for it, his bones rattle for it. It’s ingrained in his very being, this endless want for destruction, this mad desire to desecrate all things holy. He’s proven time and again his value to the Capulet mob, but for all of Halcyon’s efforts to leash him, Ivan yet remains feral, untamed, and that could prove problematic, surely, for an organization based on mutual trust and collaboration. How will Ivan’s own motives intersect with those of the mob’s? What will happen when those two sets of motives are no longer compatible? What will happen when Halcyon’s leash breaks?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | If the admins felt strongly about using Ivan’s death as a plot device, I’d certainly be open to it!

IN DEPTH

“You’re terrible at this,” Ivan groaned to Odin from across the table, eyes flicking from the book in his hand to his companion. Odin, whose face was scrunched with concentration as he stared at the chessboard between them, shot Ivan a dark look. “Must you read while we play?” he groused. “It’s distracting.” Ivan snorted. He very much doubted his reading mid-play had any sway in Odin’s chess skills. In all of their matches, Odin had never once won, had never even come close to beating Ivan—not in the game of chess, and not in the other games Ivan played with him, either. “What else am I supposed to do during the hours you spend deliberating how, exactly, you’re going to lose to me?” Ivan drawled, eyes returning to the book in his hands as he kicked his feet up onto the corner of the table and rocked his chair onto its back legs, his limbs sprawling out—ever the picture of a lazy, contented cat. Odin glared at him and outstretched his palm as if to move a chess piece to make a point. In the end, he decided against it, and returned to his ruminations. Ivan blew out a loud sigh of frustration, and Odin, irked, growled, “What are you reading, anyway?” Ivan didn’t look up as he raised the book in his hands for Odin’s purveyance. “The Art of War?” Odin read the title aloud, brows knitting together. Ivan nodded in confirmation, purring, “Perhaps if you read it, you might stand a chance at winning one of these matches one day.” Odin grunted his disapproval. “What could I possibly learn about chess from a book on war?” “All life is war, Odin,” Ivan said, and the response was so immediate, so instinctive, that Odin raised a brow at him. “Look,” he said, and turned the pages of the book towards Odin, pointing to the chapter’s title: “‘There are five dangerous faults which may affect a general.’ Who’s to say you couldn’t use these faults to outmatch me in chess?” Ivan placed the book on the table, reaching over to Odin’s side of the chessboard, moving one of his rooks forward one space. “Firstly,” he explained, “there is recklessness, which leads to destruction.”

Funerals weren’t so terrible, Ivan supposed. A bit redundant, maybe—how many times in the past hour alone had family and friends alike, red-nosed and puffy-eyed, groveled to Ivan about how wonderful his father was, how kind and true and good. (It had been a concentrated effort for Ivan not to ask each of them, amidst their weeping soliloquies, if they were at the right funeral, or if they had the right Samir Rahal, or if they were deaf or drunk or dumb, because by no stretch of the imagination was Samir Rahal wonderful, or kind, or true, or good.) So—redundant, yes—but not so terrible. If nothing else, the black dress code suited Ivan well—suited Ivan almost as well as the veil of death that lingered overhead, muzzling the gathered crowd with a heavy blanket of despair. It was a hunting ground for his ilk: a garden of eden nouveau, abound with trees sprouting apples ripe for the picking. And he was the black-and-silver-scaled garden snake, weaving about their ankles, hissing nightmares into their ears, all at once at the helm and bow of their ruin. Ivan had a way about him that was nearly reptilian in nature (an ode to his true essence, he supposed)—the way he moved, the way he spoke, it was all very…snakelike. Eyes slitted with alert focus; a lean, muscled body that seemed to swagger and sway with an ease that was far too predatory; a tongue poised with venom, and a sharp set of teeth to match. And those eyes, more animal than human, turned to the crowd before him, picking through the masses with a cool, hooded gaze that eventually zeroed in on his younger brother, who stood just beyond the stained glass doors of the church house, trying in vain to light a cigarette with a now-empty lighter. Turning on his heel, Ivan slinked through the crowd and sidled up next to his brother, a matte black lighter already in his outstretched palm as he approached. (Ivan himself didn’t smoke, but he made a habit of keeping a lighter on his person—all worthwhile negotiations were made over shared cigarettes, after all.) “Why the long face, Joseph?” he deadpanned, lighting the end of his brother’s cigarette in one fluid, graceful motion. His brother gave him an incredulous look before drawing a sharp inhale, hands shaking as he took the cigarette from between his lips and flicked its bud, ash catching on a gust of wind and scattering between them both. Ivan clicked his tongue with admonishment as he swatted a fleck of ash off of the lapel of his jacket. “What did Armani ever do to you?” he drawled, face lax with cool indifference. Joseph’s only response was a vulgar gesture and a mean scowl. “So sensitive, brother,” Ivan chuckled—and he was. Of all three Rahal children, Joseph had always been the most tempestuous, too easily steered this way and that by the unpredictable tide of emotion. Messy—Joseph was always so messy, and that sort of disposition made for easy prey. “You look well for the son of a dead man,” Joseph noted, glancing sidelong at Ivan. “You don’t,” Ivan countered, eyebrows raised as he looked pointedly at his brother’s trembling hands, at his pallid face, at the way his eyes glazed over blankly. Joseph shrugged, and Ivan noted with no small delight the defeated sag of his brother’s shoulders. He was prime for ruin, riper now in all his sorrow than he’d ever been before. “Nicotine isn’t quite doing the trick today, I see,” Ivan said. “Perhaps whiskey will.” He jerked his chin at the tumbler in his brother’s shaking hand. “What, Ivan?” Joseph hissed. “Are you going to tell me what you used to tell Baba?” Joseph screwed up his voice and deepened his voice a few octaves, mimicking Ivan’s rich timbre. “Alcohol isn’t the solution, now, is it?” “Technically,” Ivan pointed out matter-of-factly, “alcohol is a solution—of the chemical sort, of course.” He expected another vulgar gesture from Joseph, a growl or grunt at the very least, but he instead looked to Ivan with round, pleading eyes, seeking salvation from the very source of his damnation. Stupid boy, Ivan almost wanted to chide him. So reckless in his trust. It was too easy with Joseph—boring, almost, to feast on a thing so bent and broken. Joseph looked at Ivan as if he were the salve to all of his wounds, not knowing that he was plague that fostered pitfalls of pestilence beneath those very wounds, nourishing his hurts with black tar and rot, siphoning the life from him without a trace. And this was perhaps Joseph’s greatest fault of all: he wanted, and he wanted recklessly. He wanted to heal the wound without first dressing it; he wanted to feel, but to feel only the good, never the bad; he wanted stability, but plunged headlong into life’s greatest uncertainties: love, drugs, death. He wanted, wanted, wanted, Joseph, and he was reckless in his wants, desperate enough to procure them that he would’ve placed his trust in anyone who claimed they could deliver him those wants, even Lucifer himself. And, well, here he was: Lucifer himself, Ivan Rahal, tongue coated with the poison of promises unkept, poised to deliver Joseph the salvation he so recklessly pursued. “Brother,” he entreated, outstretching his hand for his brother’s taking. “Come.” Joseph obeyed without question and reached his arm outward, and when his fingers clasped around Ivan’s and met with the cool, hard steel of a needle concealed in the palm of his brother’s hand, the clouds in his eyes cleared, replaced by the mad glint of a reckless man who’d just discovered a new want.

“Then,” Ivan said, “there’s cowardice, which leads to capture.” He reached across the chessboard to move Odin’s rook back one space—a fearful retreat.

“Mama,” he crooned from his place at the kitchen’s entryway, one shoulder propped against the doorframe. “You look tired.” The effort he used to layer his voice with varying shades of concern was minimal (his charades, even in his young adulthood, had long since become instinctual—more second nature than conscious effort). He pushed off the doorway and moved to her side, eyes round with feigned concern. She turned to him, face weathered, drawn, bruises of purplish blue blooming beneath her eyes from sleeplessness. She smiled at him, and if he had any heart at all, it might’ve broken at the sight: a sad, sorry widow, joyous at the sight of her imagined savior, blind to the life he leeched from her, ignorant of the poison he injected into the very marrow of her being. Yes, if he had any heart at all, it might have broken, but the foul, writhing beast that inhabited the arctic wasteland of his ribcage didn’t break: it preened at the spectacle of heartache, like a desert rose blooming in the midst of high summer. So fragile, the human spirit; so easily broken. “Nothing to trouble yourself over, sweet son,” she said, reaching out a hand to place over his own. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled up at him, and he noted with some small dismay the veins of gray that began to creep into the edges of her thick sable hair. Her age in spirit had taxed her age in body, made older by his father’s shortcomings than she might have been had she married a good, kind man. Her eyes seemed ever round with fear these past years, murky and unclear, as though she were constantly treading the tide of cowardice, fighting to stay afloat, grasping with slippery hands at the anchor of courage. He pitied her, but it was a cruel pity, not a kind one; the sort of pity that might belong to a wolf who’s just come across wounded game. Pitiful, but still hungry; pitiful, but still hunting. Ivan’s gaze slid from her hunched form to a pile of envelopes laid out before his mother: bills, he imagined, all left unpaid by his father. In one sweeping gesture, he reached out, gathered the bills in one hand, and stuffed them into the pocket of his overcoat, leaning down to press a tender kiss to his mother’s temple. “I’ll take care of it,” he murmured—and he meant it. He’d pay the bills, every last dollar, every last cent. But he wouldn’t do it for love, or for pity—he’d do it for the game. The game of giving and taking, of building and breaking; of nursing his mother with riches of love and wealth only to watch her wither at their gradual extinction. When she looked to him, her eyes were watery with gratitude, but there was a sort of murkiness there, too—a kind of cowardice; a fear of unknowing, of a mother unable to care for her brood. And he fed it, that fear—nourished it in his mother so tenderly, so subtly, that she would already have succumbed to it by the time she realized fear’s talons had burrowed into the essence of her. And perhaps it was because of that fear that she smiled when Ivan pulled a small bottle of pills from his coat pocket and placed it on the table before her. “For the exhaustion, Mama,” he said. “It’ll help you sleep.” She didn’t hesitate in taking the bottle and tucking it between the folds of her dress. Because she was fearful, and because Ivan had trapped her in that fear—a cage made by his own masterful hand, carved from the shadows of nightmares and the rot of death, stitched together with naught but the fine web of her own unbecoming, her deepest dreads and terrors. “Ivan,” she sighed, and his name on her tongue sounded like a hymn, a prayer. “What ever did I do in this life to deserve a son like you?” He didn’t have an answer for her.

“Thirdly,” Ivan said, “there’s a hasty temper, which can be provoked by insults.” He moved one of his own rooks forward three spaces. Odin raised his hand to move his own rook forward, eager to capture Ivan’s rook, but Ivan held up one of his hands, gesturing for him to wait, to temper himself.

“Son!” his father grunted from his study, the single syllable slurred with what Ivan could only assume was brandy, if he was lucky—whiskey, if he was not (Samir Rahal was not half as cruel drunk on brandy as he was drunk on whiskey.) Eyebrows raised, he exchanged a knowing look with his brother, who sat in the chair opposite him. “It’s your turn,” Ivan said matter-of-factly, returning his attention to the book in his hands (some old, weathered text about European trade stratagem). “Please, brother,” Joseph groaned, voice strained. He was only two years younger than Ivan, a young seventeen now, but when he was like this, begging, he looked much younger. Ivan flicked his gaze back to his brother to find wide, pleading eyes round with fear. Ivan heaved a sigh, exasperated. So dramatic, he was.“What’ll you give me for it?” Ivan asked, one eyebrow cocked. “Anything,” Joseph said quickly, sounding far too desperate for a man attempting negotiation. Ivan made a noise of disgust and moved with swift grace as leaned forward in his chair to smack the side of Joseph’s head with his book. “Never promise anyone anything,” he hissed. “God above, Joseph, have I taught you nothing?” His brother muttered a curse and made a show of rubbing the back of his head, but he said nothing more. “Here,” Ivan said, tossing the book in Joseph’s lap as he stood to his full height. “Read it. It might do you some good.” And so he went, off to his father’s study, straight to the fat, drunk lion’s den. But was of no favor to Joseph that he went, no (Ivan’s actions were not—not ever—motivated by anything but self-interest). He went to his father not to spare Joseph his wrath, but to incur it. It was part of their game—his father, drunk and foolish and full of ego, thinking himself a god, a Zeus of old age; and Ivan preying on his foolishness, and his drunkenness, and his ego, a Hades of new age come to usurp the gods of old and claim his kingdom come. “You rang, Baba?” Ivan said as he entered his father’s study, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He was greeted with an empty bottle of Jack catapulted by his father’s own hand that crashed into the wall just a few centimeters to the left of Ivan’s head. Whiskey it was, then. Pity—for his father. Ivan schooled his face into a mask of boredom as he brushed a mist of shattered glass from the sleeve of his shirt. “You’ll mind your aim next time,” he said cooly, turning to the round mirror hung on the wall and inspecting his face for embedded shards of glass. His skin remained unscathed, save for a few small scratches on his cheeks and chin. “The Versace,” he said, gesturing to the fabric of his shirt, “can be replaced. The face cannot.” Ivan’s indifference had always irked Samir well, and already he was incensed, outraged by his son’s insolence. “You’ll mind your mouth next time, boy,” his father growled, and he moved to take a step towards Ivan, but the motion made him sway, and he thought better of it, instead planting his feet firmly in the ground and anchoring his hands on his hips to save face. But the misstep did not go unnoticed by Ivan, and he practically purred at the advantage his father had just handed him. The game had only just begun, and already he’d won. “Sealegs aren’t working well today?” Ivan asked, one corner of his lips hitching upward cruelly. His father, with that fickle ego so easily provoked, began to unravel before Ivan’s very eyes. It was the unbecoming combination of fury and pride, Ivan was sure, that drove Samir forward a step, and Ivan raised an eyebrow pointedly at the way his father grabbed the back of his leather armchair to steady himself. “Was there a reason you called for me, Father? Or did you only want an audience to spectate your balancing act?” Rage, untethered and undiluted, eclipsed the clarity in Samir’s eyes. “I called for you,” he snarled, vicious now, “because I wanted to look into the eyes of my thieving son”—he pointed a finger at his ransacked liquor cabinet, which now housed only two lone bottles of Jack—“and hear his defense before I beat him bloody and throw him out of my house and onto the street for the wolves to devour.” Ivan flicked his gaze to the near-empty liquor cabinet, drawling, “I only drink top-shelf, I’m afraid”—a denial, a half-truth, and a half-lie all in one. He did, indeed, only drink top-shelf liquor, but he did also, indeed, pour most of his father’s liquor stock down the kitchen sink for no reason in particular other than game-playing. “I don’t think Mama would be terribly pleased with you exiling her eldest from your house, do you, Baba?” Ivan mused, ambling over to the liquor cart at the center of the room and pouring an amber-colored liquid out of the decanter and into a tumbler. “Your house,” he repeated, turning the words over on his tongue in slow, dripping syllables. “Is it, though?” he asked, raising the glass in his hand and swirling it about. “When’s the last time you paid one of those bills?” he asked, nodding to the pile of envelopes that lay on his desk—no doubt electric bills and property taxes and mortgage notices, all of which Ivan had paid and righted in the year prior. And he’d paid them not for kindness, or for decency, or for love of family, but for power—for this moment right here. He’d been steadily gaining the upper hand in this very war for just over a year now, a general priming himself for victory: fashioning his mother and brother and sister into an army of loyal allies eager to defend his honor; sharpening his tongue into a weapon of mass destruction, arming himself against his father with an arsenal of information; drawing up blueprints of Samir’s weakest points, testing for faults in his defenses and marking them down in detail. Yes, he’d been preparing for this war for a long, long time now, fighting and winning small battles all the while, and Samir, the poor fool, had only just now realized war had been waged. It was almost unfair—to go to war with a foe so disadvantaged. Samir made a gruff noise of outrage, face red with fury. “Can you remember the last time you paid a bill for this house, Father?” he asked, and he layered the question with enough innuendo that it sounded more like, “Can you remember anything at all, you miserable, wretched drunk?” Ivan moved towards the desk and began rifling about the already opened envelopes, reading their contents aloud one by one. “Electric bill—account balance paid in the name of Ivan Rahal. Water bill—account balance paid in the name Ivan Rahal. Home insurance—account balance paid in the name of Ivan Rahal.” He flipped through the envelopes unceremoniously, and each time he spoke his own name may as well have been a knife to his father’s gut. “Ivan Rahal, Ivan Rahal, Ivan Rahal,” he crooned, dropping the stack of envelopes back onto the desk with a loud thud. “It would seem, then, that this is my house after all. Perhaps I ought to exile you, Baba, and see how well you fare with the street wolves.” Samir sputtered like a fish, so consumed by his outrage that he didn’t know which vein of fury to latch onto, which battle to fight first. It was no matter, though, for whichever battle he might’ve chosen, he would’ve lost—he already had. “Don’t fret, Father—I’m not an unreasonable man,” he said, again swirling the tumbler of liquor in his hand. “You may remain here, in my house.” And then, making a show of it, he brought the tumbler to his nose, sniffed once, grimaced in distaste, and poured the amber liquid out into the dimly lit fire, which roared to life with a grand whoosh. “But I’ll not have whiskey under my roof,” he said, scowling. “Certainly not bottom-shelf whiskey.” And that was it: his final blow—placed well and delivered even better. It landed perfectly, beautifully, the way a symphony’s sonata ends on one grand crescendo, and his father, mad with rage, lunged at Ivan. He made it one, two, three steps before stumbling over his own feet, thrown off balance by the heavy weight of whiskey. He fell at Ivan’s feet, groaning something awful and spitting half-intelligible curses at his son, a god bending a knee to his usurper. Zeus falls, Hades rises. Ivan sneered down at Samir, his face cold as he crouched down beside him. “Need a hand?” he asked, only the way he said it—darkly, and imbued with shades of malignant rot—sounded more like a threat than an offer of aid. His father, cheeks, eyes, and nose all bright with redness, looked up at him, and when Samir Rahal did, indeed, take his son’s hand, Ivan knew he’d won this war after all.

“And then, lastly,” Ivan said, “there’s a delicacy of honor, which is sensitive to shame.” Ivan moved forward one of his pawn’s.

The soft, clinking ring of the pawn shop’s doorbell drew Ivan’s attention, and he watched through cool, narrowed eyes as a woman with dark skin and dark hair that tumbled down her back in messy curls strode through the front door. Ivan studied her as she weaved in and out of treasure troves scattered about the small shop, her eyes catching most often on paintings. She seemed wild, feverish, full to the brim with a kaleidoscope of life’s greatest joys: love, beauty, freedom, passion, honor. Unbent and unbroken, she enchanted Ivan, and that, he supposed, was unfortunate for her, for the epicenter Ivan Rahal’s attention was not a pleasant place to be. With quiet, slinking steps, he slithered up to her side, where she was admiring a Syrian fresco of moderate value he’d extorted from an old friend. “What’s the going price?” she asked, not bothering to break eye contact with the painting. “There is none,” he replied smoothly, to which she furrowed her brow and canted her head in silent question, her gaze darting from the painting to Ivan. “I don’t trade in the currency of coin here.” A half-truth. He did, on occasion, accept monetary payments, but most often, his preferred currency came in the form of secrets and owed favors. “What do you want for it, then?” she asked. “A name seems a fair starting point,” he said, propping his shoulder against an old, mammoth grandfather clock adjacent to the painting she was studying. She smiled then, and it was a brilliant, dazzling thing—a vision of beauty that Ivan admired not only for its capacity to be ruined, but for its loveliness, too. “Sirena De Angelis,” she said. “Sirena De Angelis,” he repeated, each syllable rich and heady on his tongue. “You’re a painter, then, Sirena De Angelis?” More an observation than a question, and when she shot him another quizzical look, he slowly reached out one hand to curl a stray tendril of hair coated in dried blue paint around his pointer finger, holding it within her scope of vision for her purveyance. Matching splotches of blue streaked other places in her hair, and speckles of it peeked through the neckline of her blouse. “You’re either a painter, or a girl with some rather…messy proclivities in the bedroom,” he purred, hooded eyes falling first to the paint in her hair, and then downward, to the low-cut vee of her shirt. She blushed furiously, and for a moment, he wondered if she might surrender right there and storm out in a fury. But his initial assessment of her rang true, and her eyes lit with a fire untethered, a passion unmatched. “Can’t I be both?” she challenged, and he smiled at that—a real, rare sort of smile, one that met his dead eyes. “You’d have to tell me, I imagine.” “And then will I have earned the painting?” she shot back. Ah, smart girl. She was learning how to play his game, and he was excited, endlessly, to have found a partner that could match him—if only for a little while; if only until he well and truly broke her. “This painting,” he said, sweeping one arm outward towards the fresco, “was recovered from the remains of the Royal Palace in Mari during a French archaeologist’s excavation in 1935.” Leisurely, he pushed off of the grandfather clock and neared Sirena in slow, lazy steps. “It’ll cost you more than a confession, signora.” He paused, one corner of his lips quirking. “Even one so delicious.” She cocked her head, considering. “What’ll it cost me, then?” He studied her, eyes fixed on hers with feverish intent, daring her to falter, to misstep. But she met his gaze with equal intensity, eyes of green smoldering with the same amber fire that seemed to emblazon the very core of her spirit. “A kiss will suffice,” he said plainly, casually. That seemed to throw her off balance, and for a moment, her full lips floundered open and closed, searching for a response. She eventually settled on: “I’m married, signor!”—which she emphasized by flourishing her left hand, showcasing the unimpressive diamond ring on her fourth finger. He’d guessed as much (he catalogued each person he met, and the wedding band she wore had not gone unnoticed during his initial assessment of her). “So am I,” he countered. That gave her pause, and some of her anger gave way to confusion, and perhaps a bit of outrage. “You’re—married?” “No,” he admitted, chuckling, and she looked positively irate at being toyed with so cruelly. “But if I were, would it matter?” “Of course it would matter!” she exclaimed, insistent. “Why?” he asked. “Because,” she huffed, “it’s—it’s—dishonorable!” He barked a laugh, the sound rich with amusement. “Ya haram,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Is that it, then? Honor?” He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “I didn’t think such a thing existed in Verona.” “Well—it does,” she said stubbornly, mimicking the action of crossing her arms over her chest: a true competitor through and through. They stared at each other for long seconds, perhaps even minutes, and it was Ivan who finally broke the silence. “Honor, like art, is subjective,” he said, and moved to stand beside her, facing the painting. She opened her mouth to argue, but he continued on before she could voice her opposition. “Here”—he pointed to the top of the painting: a sky painted in a flurry of dreamy hues, dappled with shades of pinks, oranges, and creams—“I see the beginnings of a sunset, but you may see the beginnings of a sunrise.” She didn’t argue that (she mightn’t have had a counterpoint to argue with at all). He turned to her, closer now than he’d been before, head bowed to meet her at eye level. “You think it’s dishonorable to kiss me, but I think it’s dishonorable to waste a pair of willing lips.” She held his gaze, her face taut with the busy inner workings of her mind. “We’re at an impasse, then,” she breathed, ragged, and they were so close now that the soft whoosh of air she expelled fanned his face. “So it would seem.” He studied her a moment longer, and when their lips were naught but an inch apart, he abruptly straightened to his full height, turned to the painting, removed it from its easel, and handed it to Sirena. Dazed, she took the painting, eyes round with confusion as she looked from the fresco to Ivan, then back to the fresco, then back to Ivan. “Take it,” he said, turning on his heel to retreat to his back office. “It’s worth much, Signora De Angelis,” he called over his shoulder, pausing at his office door to turn to look at her one last time. “But it’s not worth your honor.” He delivered the lie so well, he almost believed himself. She returned to the shop the next night and proved to him two things: firstly, that the painting was, after all, worth her honor, and secondly, that yes, she was indeed a painter and she did indeed have some rather messy proclivities in the bedroom—or, well, in the back office of a pawn shop, on top of a desk that was littered with various containers of paints and inks Ivan used for forgery. And so began their tryst: a mad, wild, tempestuous affair, imbued with all things rotten: deceit, infidelity, lust. They fucked viciously, desperately, grasping at each other for air, for life, for passions long denied. Each joining was more frenzied than the last, an unholy union lush with labored breathing and tangled limbs, writhing bodies and sweat-slicked skin, pleas and groans and moans, scratch marks and bite marks. And yet, in spite of its malignancy, their affair bloomed with beauty abound: he’d bring her Egyptian paints of the richest hues, and she’d paint him, and after, or during, they’d make love; he’d pull her into alleyways in broad daylight to do wretched, wonderful things to her, and she’d slip away from her sleeping husband in the dead of night and sneak into Ivan’s apartment to do wretched, wonderful things to him; she’d collect little treasures—pendants or rings or books—for him to sell in his pawn shop, and for each treasure she gave him, he returned the favor, showering her with gifts galore: a sapphire-stoned choker dating back to the 20s, a sundress embroidered with spun gold, a vintage Versace scarf. Ivan took great care to wean her on him, to immerse her in his person, in his essence. He kissed her well, loved her well, romanced her well, fucked her well. He fashioned himself the axis upon which her world spun, bent himself to her will to fool her into thinking she’d brought a god to knees. Everything she was, her world in its grand scope, became deeply rooted in him, and only once she was well and truly infatuated, once he’d pulled the wool over her eyes and led her astray from all the other sheep, did he unsheathe those big, wolfish teeth. His extracted himself from her life in increments—slow, poisonous increments. He began with small things: gone were the terms of endearment, the thorough, passion-filled sex, the thoughtful gifts, the affection. In their stead, he sewed seeds of doubt and uncertainty: screening her calls, letting his gaze drift pointedly to other women, coming when dusk settled and leaving before dawn broke. And when the early dregs of madness began to cloud her once-clear eyes, he exited her life altogether, severing himself from her so cleanly that there were times she wondered if it had happened at all, or if Ivan Rahal had been the making of a nightmare dressed in dreams. And then, when he’d stripped her of nearly everything, her love and her hope and her joy, he took what remained: her honor. Early on in their tryst, she’d gifted him one of her paintings: a watercolor vision of Ivan sprawled half-naked in her bed at dawn, hair mussed, eyes heavy-lidded and face soft from sleep. One morning, that very painting arrived at her husband’s workplace, and when Sirena returned home that evening, he cast her out of his house and his heart as thoroughly as Ivan had, and in the following weeks, Verona’s hotbed of gossip devoured what remained of her ill repute. Months later, Ivan was reading the paper when he saw it: Sirena De Angelis, 27, found drowned in the Adige on Sunday. And he felt—nothing, really. Surprise, perhaps, and maybe even a bit of nostalgia, but not sorrow, and certainly not guilt. Honor would have driven him to guilt, but he had none. Sirena had honor, and it drove her into the Adige.

There was a beauty in this tête-à-tête between he an Odin—a perverse irony in the way he laid out precisely how he would set out to bring down the lionhearted fool. He would take his time with Odin—would destroy him thoroughly, slowly. The muse that whet his appetite for apocalypse. He would desecrate all that was holy about Odin, would ransack his temple of virtue and leave that cavern hollow and wanting, a new habitat for his demons to occupy. He would water Odin’s small seed of recklessness with brandy and whiskey, with long, late nights spent at The Dark Lady, with the occasional hit of this drug or that drug. And then, he would feed his fears with whispers of his beloved’s adultery: creating imagined visions of Delilah’s eye straying a touch too far at that gala the week prior; waxing poetic about her beauty, a beauty unmatched even by the seraphs carved by Michelangelo’s own hand. And only once Odin was well and truly rooted in the trenches of his own cowardice would Ivan start poking at the weak spots of his temper, needling them, hollowing them out until he was naught but a bundle of raw nerves, easily provoked into fits of rage that Ivan would be sure to redirect in Delilah’s direction. And then he would prey on Odin’s honor, which Ivan imagined would prove the most challenging stage of Odin’s destruction, for his honor was deeply ingrained in his core, the foundation upon which his person was built. But Ivan would warp it, he was sure—would poison Odin’s honor until it was too delicate to battle his ego, until his reputation and its perseverance became his sole focus, and there was little he would not do to keep it intact (little he would not do to spurn his wife and outcast her as the villainess of the story to paint himself the hero-victim). Swiftly, Ivan reached across the chessboard to move forward Odin’s queen, which then checked Ivan’s king, left exposed without the protection of pawns and rooks. “Checkmate.”

EXTRAS

You can find a Pinterest board for Ivan here, a playlist here, and an instrumental playlist here!

MBTI: ENTJ. Astrology: Scorpio (November 2nd). Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil. Enneagram Type: Type 8. Headcanons:

OCCUPATION: His uncanny knack for weaning people on poison has long made him one of the Capulets most able dealers, and Odin has since restricted the majority of his duties to networking clients and peddling weaponry, dealing heavily in the black market trade of firearms. His silver tongue and military experience make him an extraordinary dealer of illegal weapons, and he’s cemented his place amongst the Capulet ranks as one of their best merchants, so to speak. In addition to his role as a Capulet soldier, Ivan owns and runs a small pawn shop in Verona called Handkerchief (an apropos ode to the Shakespearean tragedy from which he inherited his codename). Ivan is, and has always been, a procurer of things not easily procured: weapons, liquor, jewels, drugs, blackmail, information. And so it seemed natural, really, for him to set up shop and capitalize on his trade of black market products—a front to trade treasures for information, to curry owed favors and debt among those foolish enough to make a deal with Verona’s snake-skinned devil. By the looks of it, Handkerchief is little more than a small, homespun pawn shop in the heart of Verona, rife with trinkets, antiques, and paintings of great value. But in the back of the shop, dealings of a far more sordid nature take place, and it’s behind the shop’s plain front that you’ll find a variety of illegal goods ranging from firearms, to poisons, to drugs, and all matter of unseemly things. The pawn shop works partly as an outlet through which Ivan can peddle black market weaponry on behalf of the Capulets, but his business is equally rooted in more selfish interests, and it’s not uncommon for Ivan to trade away items of great value for information or I-owe-you favors to be cashed in on a rainy day. Whether or not he chooses to share the information and servitude he grosses from personal ventures is his own prerogative—one he handles on a case-by-case basis.

WEAPONS: His military service in the Middle East was a study in all sorts of weaponry, but Ivan’s found he’s partial to knives, old-fashioned though they may be. There’s something exquisite about robbing life with something pretty, something luxurious. It makes a dirty business something elegant, dresses murder up in glitter and gold—or sparkles and silver,as circumstance would have it. He quite likes the feel of a blade’s hilt, silver and etched with the Capulet crest, fitted against his palm like a babe burrowed against the nook of her mother’s neck. Seldom does he travel without knives—karambits, butterfly knives, combat knives—hidden beneath his jackets, in his boots, up his sleeves, and you can count on each blade in his possession to be coated in some variation of poison, be it monkshood or henbane, nightshade or yew (he’s a connoisseur of poisons, and is well-versed in those natural toxins that kill cleanly, sleekly, with no trace of his person). Veronesi at first made the mistake of thinking Ivan less skilled in physical combat than his Capulet companions, too reliant on fighting of the intellectual sort. But he schooled them all in his capacity for ruin of any kind, and he has since developed some repute as one of the Capulets most notorious assassins, skilled well in weaponry and even better in discipline and strategy (a product of his time spent fighting wars overseas). But perhaps Ivan’s greatest weapon in his arsenal is his tongue, and oh, does he use it well. Perhaps never in the history of the modern world has one man’s mouth been so capable of ruin. It’s with words that he’s laid waste to whole cities, imbuing his chosen victims with the sort of fear that rattles bones and teeth alike. He can talk most anyone into most anything with that tongue of his: he can talk enemies into lovers, can talk lovers into spies, can talk spies into allies, can talk allies into enemies—and so on. His wish is will where his knack for persuasion is concerned, and it is for this reason and this reason alone that Cosimo Capulet welcomed Ivan Rahal, a wild card without conscience or loyalty, into his ranks with open arms—because that sort of tongue could turn the tides of war.

FAMILY: The eldest of three children, Ivan was born to Samir and Esmeralda Rahal, neither of whom were well-suited to raise children. Esme, even before Ivan poisoned her against herself, seemed not of this Earth, perhaps forged from the clouds, untethered to the world and its realities. She was untethered, manic with faraway dreams and giggly lunacy (a byproduct of marriage to his father, from whom she was desperate to escape, even by means of imagination). She was horribly ill-equipped to raise a brood of three unruly children, and Samir was no better off. He was unhinged, dependent on whiskey to see him through his days and scotch to see him through his nights. Gruff and cruel and violent, Samir was no better able to raise his children than Esme, and the only bit of parenting he ever contributed to his lot came in the form of raised voices and raised hands (fists, if he was running low on Jack) when they misbehaved. No, Samir and Esme were not well-suited to raise a family, and so the Rahal children raised themselves. The oldest of three, much of what Ivan learned as a boy was self-taught. He taught himself how to read, how to play chess, how to tie his shoes, how to speak English, how to write Arabic. Then, when he was two, Joseph came, and four years after that, Yara came, and he taught them these things, too, because playing chess with someone who doesn’t know how to play chess is no fun at all. And then, when he was older, he taught himself how to drive, how to light a cigarette, how to negotiate, how to court lovers, how to hold a gun. These learned trades, though, he kept to himself, because playing chess with someone who knows all your tricks is no fun at all, either. Joseph was tempestuous—hypersensitive to his emotional keep and prone to chronic mood swings. Yara was gentle—a soft bloom of a girl too sweet to be sustained by the cold winter of the life the stars had designed for her. And their parents, one a madwoman full of sorrow and the other a catatonic drunk, did nothing to correct their children’s ills. Ivan’s love of catastrophe began here, with his father, who grew less and less alive with each gulp of amber liquor, a gradual deconstruction of man that fascinated Ivan endlessly. And it was not just deconstruction of man, but self-deconstruction of man, for what did Ivan do but place the bottles into his father’s own hand? And then, once he was weaned, what did Ivan do but take the bottles away? What did Ivan do but press needles discretely into his brother’s palm? What did Ivan do but bring his mother bottles of pills big and small, blue and pink? What did Ivan do but whisper doubt and misery into his sister’s ear? Ivan didn’t force his father into a depressive withdrawal so intense that he died of a heart attack. Ivan didn’t press the needle into the crease of Joseph’s elbow. Ivan didn’t force his sister into developing a habit of whoring around just to feel whole, alive. Ivan didn’t shove those pills down his mother’s throat. Was it not Ivan who arranged his father’s funeral and thereafter (and for some time before) looked after the family’s finances? Was it not Ivan who paid for all three of Joseph’s rehabilitation stints? Was it not Ivan who came to pick up his weeping sister whensoever she beckoned him, despairing outside of clubs or alleyways or her lovers’ apartments, seeking comfort and safety? Was it not Ivan who, when Esme was too lethargic to get out of bed, brought her groceries and fresh flowers from the market? What did Ivan do but hand his family their own instruments of destruction and let them have at it, swooping in at the end of it all to save them from themselves. What guilt did he bear in their ruination when all he ever did was give them the choice between ascent and descent. Was it his fault that they chose Hell over Heaven? Was it his fault that they suckled from Eden’s ripe apple tree like famished pests? Was it his fault that they never learned to play chess well?

APPEARANCE: He’s always belonged to the shadows, Ivan, and he dresses in their colors like a ship flying its kingdom’s sails. Black, black, black. He wears slacks and shirts of varying shades of black and grey, all embroidered with veins of Capulet silver. Jewelry gets in the way of his unique lifestyle, and so he doesn’t wear much of it, but he often dons rings, on most every finger. Rings thieved from his victims, his lovers, his foes. They’re trophies of wars waged and won, and they make the bite of a mean right hook even meaner. The only other piece of jewelry he wears is a silver cuff around his wrist fashioned to resemble a serpent with eyes of embedded emerald. It was a gift from a freshly heartbroken Odin—a trinket crafted from the melted remains of his silver wedding band and forged into a band of brotherhood—a gift to the savior who spared him his wife’s faithlessness and preserved Odin’s repute amidst a scandal tainted with shame and dishonor. Ivan wears it daily—an ode to his greatest masterpiece, his most fatal plague.

MANNERISMS & HABITS: Subtle and discrete, you must look to his body language to discern his moods: a cocked eyebrow when he’s intrigued, rigid shoulders when he’s hyper-focused, a scowl when he’s displeased, a crooked smile when he’s up to no good (and he’s never up to any good). To many, he’s an enigma, swathed in shadow and bathed in mystery, no discernible telltales to give away his moods. Ivan’s gone to great lengths to perfect the art of smiling when he wants to bite. A little faux charm goes a long way, and for none is this truer than Ivan Rahal. A master of transfiguration, he sheds his snakeskin like an art. A dance of duality, he straddles worlds with exquisite ease: the noble son, the dutiful wardog, the loving brother, the loyal soldier, the steadfast companion, the devoted lover. A purveyor of worlds, he knows well how to appeal to the masses, how to mold his person to suit his audience. Some know him to be sweet-eyed and sweet-tongued, and other knows him to be devil-eyed and devil-tongued; it all depends on what game he’s playing, what role best suits his interests. And that’s what it’s all about, really: his games. He fights dirty, kills dirty, fucks dirty. His father taught him young that honorable men are remembered for naught but dying young and dying easy. And so he lives without honor: thieving indiscriminately, killing indiscriminately, screwing indiscriminately. And this is how he gets away with it: smiles. Darkness, to Ivan, is an art, and he’s gone to great lengths to refine it. The whole of Verona knows him to be lethal, the Capulet mob’s grim reaper raised feral and trained wicked. But so easily do they forget that he’s a killer, a beast untethered by the human weight of a moral compass. He’s dark in the way he smiles sweetly with the same lips that have sneered down at the corpses of his victims; he’s dark in the way his hands curl around his lovers’ throats one night and around his foes’ throats the next (darker yet in the ease with which he demotes lover to foe). How many of his once-lovers and once-friends have suffered the winter of his cool indifference once he’s used them all up and thieved their greatest joys, their greatest loves? How many people—children, mothers, fathers, wives—have fallen pray to his foul games and tricks? With his lazy grins, a chin raised a fraction too high, hooded, cool eyes, and a masterful combination of archaic elegance, indifference, and a silver tongue always poised with lies and half-truths, it’s easy to be bewitched by Ivan’s bacchanalian beauty, to forget that he’s a killer (a good one, too)—and by the time they remember, it’s far too late.

LANGUAGES: Born in Syria, Ivan’s native tongue is Arabic, but he’s since mastered a handful of languages across the globe. He fancied himself the weapon of conversation at a young age, and he knew early on that what makes a weapon powerful is, above all, its versatility—its ability to be wielded against all manner of friend and foe. And so he immersed himself in cultures and languages across the world, diversifying his greatest weapon as well as he was able. During his early travels, he familiarized himself with German and Russian, and then, during his military tour, he picked up the Romantic languages (Spanish, French, Italian—a very small bit of Romanian). Since joining the Capulets, he’s become near-fluent in Italian and Spanish, and he’s made an effort to school himself in Zulu for the sake of his South African contacts. His versatile tongue and wide-ranging cultural scope has made him anoutstanding negotiator and conversationalist among the Capulets, and he is known well for his diplomacy by Capulet contacts in Spain and South Africa.

[i-am-very-very-tired]

With the impending release of his fifth studio album — the first since the four-time platinum, Grammy-nominated 2016 Views — Drake has many questions surrounding him. Can he again move a million units in a week? Can he prove all the doubters wrong after two years of ghostwriting allegations? Can he top “Hotline Bling” or “One Dance”? Can More Life overtake Take Care as Drake’s undoubted classic album?

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But also, can he, like so many artists in 2016 — Beyoncé (Lemonade), Solange (A Seat at the Table), Rihanna (Anti), Kanye West (The Life of Pablo), Young Thug (Jeffery) — take risks on his new album, exposing a deeper version of himself? Drake and his legion of fans — and his seemingly equal number of detractors — are waiting with bated breath for March 18 to see what the 6 God has been cooking up. But before we can call the new project “classic” or “trash,” before we spend the next few weeks debating the best and worst tracks, here’s the most important question that Drake has to answer: Can he stop attempting to control women?

Over the past eight years, Drake’s built up a reputation as being the compassionate and less threatening (read: soft) rapper who appears on The Ellen DeGeneres Show, cuddles up with professional athletes, and gets tattoos of Aaliyah. He’s played the role of Nice Guy by constantly smiling, and apparently wearing his heart on his sleeve. This appeals to the sensitivities of the women in his fan base. But, as is often the case with these so-called nice guys, Drake plays the charmer — he’ll call you beautiful, open doors for you and send you smiley-face emojis — but the minute he has sex with you, or you move on to someone else, he turns into Michael Ealy in The Perfect Guy.

Drake’s corniness, outward kindness and lack of sexual aggression has been misinterpreted as an overarching respect for women. He’s even been referred to as a feminist. But Drake is as much a feminist as Rachel Dolezal is a black woman. His entire catalog is steeped in respectability politics, accepting women so far as their body count goes.

Those songs pale in comparison to “Shot For Me,” “Marvin’s Room” and “Practice.” They are Drake at his worst.

While he’s constantly praised Nicki Minaj over the years, Drake belittled the Grammy-nominated artist during his beef with her former boyfriend, Meek Mill — Is that a world tour or your girl’s tour? — implying that it’s emasculating for a man to receive second billing to his significant other.

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As with stars of rock and country music, almost every successful rapper today, from Jay Z to Future to Chance the Rapper, has at some point performed lyrics that objectify or exploit women. J.Cole’s music has taken on more social justice elements over the years (Drake has spoken out for black causes as well). But Cole, in a 2013 song, called women “b—–s” —I got smart, I got rich, and I got b—–s still/And they all look like my eyebrows: thick as hell — and patriarchally dismisses female sexuality on 2014’s “No Role Modelz”:

My only regret was too young for Lisa Bonet, my only regret was too young for Nia Long/Now all I’m left with is hoes from reality shows, hand her a script the b—h probably couldn’t read along

Even so-called progressive rappers fall into this trap, namely the androgynous Young Thug and the genderfluid Young M.A.

Sometime between Drake’s early rise and his third mixtape being converted into 2009’s So Far Gone, the rapper known for singing about his romantic feelings and the pressure of newfound fame — with a flow that made every 16 bars sound like the hottest verse ever — became his own worst enemy. Drake, known for hits like 2009’s “Best I Ever Had” and 2010’s “Find Your Love,” became synonymous with quote-heavy memes on social media, and fake Twitter accounts such as @drakkardnoir pumped out fake deep quote after fake deep quote.

But the rapper’s verses about loving and being proud of college-educated, independent women — Sound so smart like you graduated college/Like you went to Yale but you probably went to Howard — paved the way for hypermasculine diatribes against the sexual agency of seemingly any woman he’s ever encountered. Through an examination of Drake’s four studio albums, plus mixtapes, collaborative projects and guest features, it is clear that the man who made music for folks who couldn’t get over their exes was himself struggling with the basic concept of “moving on.”

While So Far Gone doesn’t count as a studio album — it was his final mixtape before signing with Universal Republic — it gave listeners a sneak peek into the troublesome lyrics Drake would release in subsequent years. On the soothing track “Houstatlantavegas,” he raps about “saving” an exotic dancer from a strip club:

You go get f—– up and we just show up at your rescue/Carry you inside, get you some water and undress you.

I give you my all and the next morning you’ll forget who or why, or how, or when/Tonight is prolly ’bout to happen all over again.

Thank Me Later, Drake’s 2010 debut studio album, features the rapper slut-shaming women for having previous sexual partners. From “Karaoke” (I hope that you don’t get known for nothing crazy/Cause no man ever wants to hear those stories ’bout his lady) to “Miss Me” (Work somethin’, twerk something, basis/She just tryna make it so she’s right here getting naked. I don’t judge her, I don’t judge her/But I could never love her) to “Thank Me Now” (Alohas to women with no ties to men/That I know well, that way there are no lies), Drake positions women with previous sexual experience as undesirable. On the Rihanna-assisted “Take Care,” he seems to open up to the idea of women having sexual agency, relenting I’ve asked about you and they told me things/But my mind didn’t change and I still feel the same.

Thank Me Later was also at times a celebration of independent women – appreciating women’s “book smarts and street smarts” on “Shut it Down” and “Fancy” — but set the foundation for 2011’s Take Care, which was, at that point, the peak of Drake’s overt misogyny and objectification of women. On Take Care, which won Drake a Grammy for best rap album — he continues his focus on sex workers with “Lord Knows”:

To all these women that think like men with the same intentions

Talking strippers and models that try to gain attention.

Even a couple porn stars that I’m ashamed to mention.

“Under Ground Kings” (Sometimes I need that romance, sometimes I need that pole dance/Sometimes I need that stripper that’s gon’ tell me that she don’t dance) even creates a binary of acceptable and unacceptable behavior. While Drake has an infatuation with exotic dancers, he also makes it clear that admiration only goes as far as sex. “Trust Issues,” which Drake said he made for “fun” and thus didn’t include on the album, has Drake playing into the thoroughly debunked myth that women can’t want sex as much as men, rapping And it’s probably why I’m scared to put the time in/Women want to f— like they’re me and I’m them.

Those songs, though, pale in comparison to “Shot For Me,” “Marvin’s Room” and “Practice.” They are Drake at his worst, going beyond the behaviors of the paternalistic and disapproving ex. He goes from telling a woman she’s drinking away the pain she feels due to leaving him on “Shot For Me” — Yeah, I’m the reason why you always getting faded — to cursing out another for finding happiness with a new lover on “Marvin’s Room” (F— that n—-a that you love so bad).

Despite admitting that he’s a flawed individual in the latter song, in the former he tells the woman that he “made” her and calls her a “b—-.” This then leads to Drake’s most confusing and disturbing song to date, “Practice.” While acknowledging that women can have sex — the song is about a woman having multiple partners — Drake then spins it to his advantage: All those other men were practice, they were practice/Yeah, for me, for me, for me, for me. He senses “pain and regret” in the woman from her past, and then reluctantly accepts the fact that she has casual sex. He tops the song off with an uncomfortable, familial request: You can even call me daddy, give you someone to look up to.

But, Drake can still change. His lyrics paint the picture of a man who is constantly questioning himself.

It’s 2016’s “Hotline Bling” that ignited the re-examination of Drake’s entire catalog. The song is the rapper’s second-best-selling single of all time (behind fellow Views track “One Dance”), and won him two Grammys at last month’s award show. Not to mention, the visuals for the song will go down in music history as one of the most memorable music videos of all time.

But while the chorus is equal parts infectious and mesmerizing, Drake sneaks in two verses and a bridge full of “reductive stereotypes” and body-policing lyrics about an old fling. Whether about said woman “wearing less and goin’ out more” or “going places where you don’t belong,” Drake makes it apparent that he’s offended that she has the audacity to move on with her life. By the end of the song, Drake’s become so desperate that he’s even concerned that the woman is “bendin’ over backwards for someone else.” Textbook narcissism.

His guest appearances have been a mixed bag as well. On rapper The Game’s 2011 track “Good Girls Go Bad,” Drake raps Who’s still getting tested?/Where’s all the women that still remember who they slept with? and a year later added to 2 Chainz’s “No Lie”:

She could have a Grammy, I still treat her a– like a nominee

Just need to know what that p—- like

So one time is fine with me.

Over the past couple of years, Drake has put out two mixtapes, a solo effort If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late, and What A Time To Be Alive with Future. His male chauvinism can be found on tracks “Legend,” “Energy” and “Madonna” and repeatedly calls a woman “ungrateful” for living her life without him on “Diamonds Dancing.” As writer Tahirah Hairston pointed out, Drake has also had questionable lyrics on “Wu-Tang Forever,” “Own It,” “Furthest Thing,” “I’m The Plug” and even notable feminist Beyoncé’s “Mine.”

Back in October, Drake released three tracks from his upcoming More Life album — “Fake Love,” “Sneakin’,” and “Two Birds, One Stone.” Looking solely at those tracks, it appears Drake has let up a little on his control, instead rapping about success, fake friends and his long list of haters. Even his appearance on labelmate Nicki Minaj’s diss to Remy Ma, “No Frauds,” he steers clear of trying to preserve women’s sanctity.

For nearly a decade now, Drake has wrapped up his alarming lyrics inside catchy, Instagram-caption-worthy choruses and tunes. The “light-skinned Keith Sweat” gets away with this because he carefully crafted a “nice guy” persona that deflects the criticism that, say, a 21 Savage, Kodak Black or the Migos would receive.

For many men, Drake’s attitudes reflect their own attitudes and desires, which in turn reflect a patriarchal society that views women as sexual objects meant to be gazed at. For women, they’ve had to deal with sexism in the arts since the beginning of time, so choosing to not enjoy an artist because of his views on sexuality would mean giving up on music all together. And at the end of the day, Drake is just that good at his job, unquestionably the most influential and popular musician in the business right now.

But Drake can still change. His lyrics paint the picture of a man who is constantly questioning himself, consistently trying to become a better person, whatever that entails. From So Far Gone to More Life — age 22 to 30 — he’s learned all the lessons life can teach, from whom to trust to what forms of happiness money and fame can buy. But it seems he’s yet to learn that women aren’t sexual objects. They’re human beings. If the only women of the world were all exactly like the women he seems to respect — his mother or Rihanna or Aaliyah or Serena Williams — we’d call him Aubrey the Riveter. But, they aren’t the only women who deserve his respect.

He knows that. But it begs the question: Does he care?

Martenzie is a writer for The Undefeated. His favorite cinematic moment is when Django said "Y'all want to see somethin?"

[clove-teasdale]

crazy odds

*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧

A/N: challenge #1 has come! rps with @eloiseduval who helped set up something else without even knowing about it (ur amazong) and @nathaniel-schreave ‘s interview yay! I apologize in advance for any grammar stuff or typos. have fun, it’s kinda long. There’s a small thing in the end that will play a part in an arc grace and I have agreed on, so if you wonder why that’s being brought up by clove, it’s cause she’ll be involved. mentions of @brooks-schreave & @illeaillustrated ayeeee. (Changing back to my usual past tense on fics btw)

*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧

Lady Collette Bennett, also known as Jace’s mother, stood before us with the same elegance I expected from her when I was younger. Defined cheekbones, piercing eyes and perfect posture to match. 

“Good morning, ladies, I trust you all slept well,” she said, nodding before introducing herself.

I’d always admired her work as a royal planner. Organizing royal events wasn’t something just anyone could pull of successfully by chance. There were a million things consider and calculate. It’s not about what you think is right, it’s about what is right. Everything depends on the event and who will attend. If there will be international guests involved or just Illean diplomats. The true purpose of the event, the theme, the expected outcomes… Etiquette, proper manners and respectful interactions are huge priorities. 

It seemed her job during the Selection would be indulging us with such knowledge. No back talking, no disobedience, and absolutely no unladylike conduct were her terms. Her voice stern in an attempt to make sure we understood such things weren’t debatable. I feared thirty-five different minds would be enough for improbability to exist though. Always expect the unexpected.

“I am going to teach you all a proper curtsy,” she continued.  Her curtsy as natural as it should be from someone that had done it a million times. “You will do this as you greet a royal or anyone of importance. Prince Nathaniel will call each of you one by one for a short interview. You will address him as ‘your highness’ and curtsy unless he says otherwise.”

I smiled a bit at the thought of calling Nate ‘your highness’. I only ever addressed his parents with proper titles and I doubted he would want to stick with that himself. It would seem too impersonal for his taste, especially under these circumstances…or at least it would’ve been to younger Nate. Regardless of my inner thoughts, Lady Collette kept explaining. 

Some girls struggled a bit when we got to curtsies, which I had to admit was slightly amusing to watch, but I couldn’t really judge. I learned that kind of stuff since pretty much the moment I could walk. It was expected of me considering the people I was surrounded by because of my parents. 

Seats were also assigned and I was surprisingly graced by being at the end of the table in front of the royal family. There wasn’t room to establish a conversation with them unless you wanted everyone to hear, but still, I decided to take it as something good. Lady Eloise and Venus–if I remembered the names correctly from the magazines–were closest to me on the table. I was undecided on whether I’d find them appealing or not yet.

Lady Collette went through all of us to make sure we’d learned the proper way to greet a royal and I watched, hands placed inside the pockets of my dress, as different girls showed their final results. My eyes skimmed across the room, trying to determine who I’d be living with for the next few months until a scoff rose over the chatter. 

“What do you mean I need to work on my curtsy?”

I gave the blonde girl a feet away from me a glance as she tried to go toe to toe with none other than Lady Collette. She’s in for a wild ride.

Apparently, the girl thought she had these “fancy classes” mastered. When she was asked to prove it, however, her attempts were rather unimpressive and a voice next to me muttered how rude she was being. 

Without even thinking I mumbled back, “She’s not even doing it right.” 

“You’d think she’d realize that for herself.” The voice replied and I cleared my throat, realizing I’d said that aloud. The thought made me stand up straighter. Usually, people didn’t appreciate my bluntness, so I kept it for myself. Blurting it out for others to hear was one of those things I avoided.

“Yeah, I don’t think she knows what she’s talking about.” When I took a look at the girl talking with me I found Eloise staring at the same blonde. 

Brown hair framed her face of disapproval as she shook her head, an expression I hadn’t spotted in her previously. So far she’d had a sweet smile and friendly aura from afar. 

“She’s only making it worse for herself.” 

“She won’t do well with Nate if she keeps that up.” Prideful and not willing to learn… “Is she a Two?”

“I believe so. I think she’s an actress.” Her eyes narrowed a bit as she tried to match a name to the face. “Adeline Brown.”

“She thinks being an actress translates to knowing proper etiquette?” I snorted. “She’s not dealing with the same rules.” I paused to consider my words. “Actually, she’s not even playing the same game.”

I wondered if other girls thought what Lady Collette would teach us was stuff you could learn randomly. Sure, some general manners were at play, but that wasn’t the same as royal etiquette.

Eloise laughed. “And she doesn’t even know it. I almost feel bad for her.”

I smirked back. “Well, I don’t. She’s too loud.”

We joked a bit more about that, watching how the rest gave her disapproving glances too. Then I decided not to waste more of my attention on her and changed the subject with Eloise. The old nickname I used for Nate almost slipped out of my mouth during our exchange, but I shook my head at the habit. She raised an eyebrow but made no further inquiries.

I figured sitting across from her during breakfast wouldn’t be too bad as she understood sarcasm and appreciated random, nonsensical joking. She could be a good option to befriend. Or at least to try to befriend. After some simple questions, I figured she was a sweet, blue, summer and night person.

I raised an eyebrow at the last one–the only one I thought unexpected– but nodded again. “Alright, 3 out of 4 isn’t bad.”

“3 out of 4? Was that a test?”

“For myself, yes.” It’s interesting to see how well you can read someone with simple things. “I guessed everything except night. I thought you’d be more of a day person.”

“Ah, I see. I’ve always been more of a night owl, and I used to go out a lot.”

“Oh my, a party gal, huh?”

“In a way. I was more about the dancing with my friends all night rather than the,” she waved a hand in the air, “drinking too much and not being able to remember anything at all.”

“Good, you use your logic then. Had me worried there for a sec.”

“Well, you’re justified in that. You’re not the first person who equates ‘party girl’ with ‘lacking complete logic.’”

I shrugged with a lopsided grin, “Hey, you can’t blame me if I base my opinion on actual proof, right?”

“Definitely not.”

She asked for any wild backstories on my part, but there wasn’t much to say. High school parties weren’t my thing. “Too many people making noise… Also not a particular fan of watching people dancing like they need a room.”

Her nose wrinkled. “They aren’t fun to be around either.” 

I shuddered at the thought of being in the actual crowd of sweaty teenagers. Dance floors were not for me. “That would make it worse.”

“Especially when they try to dance with you and you’re obviously not the least bit interested.” She muttered.

“Well…I punched a guy once for that actually.” I remembered Dax Thomson’s face as he almost stumbled to the ground very clearly. He was the son of the renowned basketball star, Johnny Thomson, but at the moment I was only thinking of the personal space he invaded and not who it was that I was punching. I’m pretty sure I would’ve punched him regardless of knowing. He’d approached me to ‘dance’ even though I was standing near the snack bar with my back to him after all, and we were not friends. 

He even had the nerve to smirk as he backed away from me when I kept my expression stern, the punch already delivered. Some of his friends laughed in the distance and told him they knew it was a bad idea to try. The only comforting thought was that most of them knew not to mess with me. “It was just reflex since he came out of nowhere,” I added, “but I can’t say I feel too bad about it.”

Eloise snorted. “I wouldn’t either. I haven’t punched anyone, but there have been a few times I,” she made air quotes, “‘accidentally’ stomped on a foot or two. It’s pretty satisfying.” A mischievous grin appeared at the end of her statement and I couldn’t help but be amused. 

“What a rebel you are.”

She gave one last shrug with mock pride. “We are who we are.”

I mentally prepared myself as Nate stood up and gave me a small bow. “Hello Lady Clove, I’m Prince Nate.”

I smiled a bit at his insistence to make a formal introduction of himself like I didn’t know him. My curtsy was slightly more dramatic than what Lady Collette had asked for in response. “I was told I must not address you as anything but ‘your highness’ now”

“Oh really,” he raised both eyebrows and I wondered if it was as weird for him to see me in person after years of not meeting. “At least I can still call you Logs.”

It was strangely nice to hear he still kept the nickname in mind as we sat down on a small couch. Logs and Hot Wheels. I couldn’t remember how we’d gotten to calling each other that, but we had. One day to the next we were calling each other the name of the toy we played most with instead of our given names.

“I wasn’t even that obsessed,” I scoffed

He gave me a ‘yeah sure’ look. “The logs are the only reason you ever came here.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, but then crossed my arms with a smirk. “Yeah, you’re right. Only interesting thing in this old place was the logs.”

“Well when you’re seven, yeah. We have a lot of cooler things now.”

“Like the mystery room where you play your guitar that is definitely not the music room?” I joked with a short laugh, remembering some of the things he’d said to the media.

“No, the secret music room is a different room, gosh.”

I raised both hands in surrender. “Yes, yes, I know. Hopefully, I’ll figure that one out eventually.”

“I’m shocked you don’t have this place memorized.”

“Well, your secret spot was nonexistent back when I came around here.”

“It was just a room in the palace at that point.”

I smiled mischievously. “Care to give any hints?”

He feigned considering it. “Umm… Nah, it’s secret.”

I placed a hand on my heart. “Not even for your childhood friend?”

“Nope, sorry.” He didn’t seem sorry at all. “So how has your father been?”

Slightly annoying. Fixing the skirt on my dress, I decided to say instead: “Oh, you’ve probably seen him around here. He’s as good as ever, showering your father with amazing advice.”

“Yes, I’ve worked with him too you know.”

“Is that so?” I smiled, leaning forward with my elbows on my legs and resting my head sideways on my palm. “Please, do share. Is Hot Wheels growing into the mantle of heir already?”

He copied my movements, a playful smile on his face. A familiar smile and glinting eyes staring back at me. “Oh yes, little Hot Wheels is growing up to be a king one day. What’s little log doing with her life?”

I laughed. “God, I wish I knew. I’m taking a gap year for now…Film student sounds fun, but I’m still not convinced.” I paused. “As you can see I decided to go for Queen then because that makes perfect sense.”

“Ah yes, is that why you signed up? Or is it because you couldn’t wait to see us again?”

“I don’t know…” He hadn’t sounded upset when he said it, so I grinned, blinking rapidly in faux flirt. “Did you miss my outstanding presence?”

“Will it make you happy if I say yes?”

I pretended to ponder on my answer. “Good question. It could make me happier. In theory.”

“Well bummer, I have to meet more girls,” he pretended to feel bad about it as he stood up again. “Lovely talking to you again. Bye logs.”

I gave him a glare, following suit. “You’re no fun, Hot Wheels.”

He flashed me a fake smile and waved goodbye like he was in some cheesy teen movie. I rolled my eyes and headed out after a sloppy captain-style salute. He had teased me a bit more than usual, but all in all, not as awkward as I’d been afraid of. 

When you suddenly disappear without a word to come back after years of no contact… you don’t exactly expect to be received with open arms. Not that I ever did anything wrong and we were pretty young, but I stopped accompanying my dad on visits to the palace without a warning. Nothing other than an excuse, that I wasn’t even there to give myself, but was passed down to them by my dad. “School finally taking over my time,” I’d said, unable to say the actual reason to anyone.

Maybe I could make up for lost time with the Selection.

Seated to finish breakfast after interviews, we watched as the royal family filed in to eat with us, each taking a spot on the table to my left. I smiled at all the familiar faces–or at least I did till my eyes landed on Brooks and he sat on the spot that was right across from me when I turned my head in the direction of the table.

This has to be a joke.

My lips turned into a thin line as he made eye contact, a smug smile at my misfortune, practically saying, ‘Sucks to be you’. I sighed through my nose and stared down at my plate, asking myself why life hated me when Eloise addressed me.

“Not a fan of Brooks?” she asked, getting me to focus on her. I took a second to process the question.

“Uh…” my eyes flickered to the aforementioned without facing in his direction. “Well, he’s a prince.”

She raised an eyebrow with a smile. “I’m not sure I follow. He’s pretty friendly.”

I’m sure he is. I rolled my eyes. “So he claims.”

She laughed. “I actually ran into him last night and he mentioned you weren’t a fan of him.”

I stared at her without a word for a moment. Brooks had mentioned me? Was he trying to make me look bad? Way to act like a child. 

Still, I smiled a bit to be friendly. “I don’t tend to be a fan of anyone really, but he’d be at the bottom of the list.”

“Ah.” Her smile turned sheepish. “Well, sorry if I pried or anything, I’m just curious.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind sharing that he sucks,” I said, picking up the fork I needed quickly. “Are you a fan of Mr. smarty pants?”

“I certainly don’t dislike him. He was pretty sweet,” she admitted, cocking her head to one side, “but you seem to know him better than I do.”

I gave her a half shrug, sparing the girls around the table a glance. “I doubt he talked too greatly about me, but I’ll let you form your own opinion of him. He was a stupid kid and it seems that hasn’t changed much. Meaning he’s still annoying.”

She nodded. “I’ll see how that goes, getting to know him I mean.” A cautious look of curiosity crossed her eyes as she added, “Can I ask how you know the royal family already?”

“Right, I keep forgetting.” Not everyone recognized who my father was. “Clove Teasdale. Daughter of Lance Teasdale, a royal adviser to the king, usually looking out for the beautiful province of Columbia, but somehow always involved in general matters.” I made my voice slightly dramatic so it sounded more like a joke than me bragging. There was always someone that could take it as that when it was nothing but the simple truth.

She raised both eyebrows in surprise. “Crazy odds, that you’d end up being a Selected.”

What is that supposed to mean?

“Crazy odds for everyone really…” I mumbled, cautious as well, but quick to change the focus away from myself. “What’s your background? I’m pretty sure I’ve heard Duval somewhere before.”

“Well, I just mean since your family already has ties with the Schreaves, but yes.” She shrugged, easily smiling again. “Definitely small odds for all of us.” She fiddled with her fork before answering my question. “My parent’s actually founded Duval Studios, a record label.”

“Ah, yes, you are to inherit that one day I presume?”

She nodded with a sigh, and for a second it seemed like the thought displeased her. Interesting. I took a sip from my drink as she said, “That’s the plan. Although now with all this, we might have to tweak it a bit.” 

I glanced at Nate over my shoulder. “Yes, we’ll have to wait and see…”

Breakfast the previous day had turned into a slight disaster as some of the girls didn’t understand Lady Collette’s instruction of no disobedience. Even if I’d foreseen something like that to happen I hadn’t expecting it on the first day.

So much for expecting the unexpected.

They’d fought over a piece of paper. Paper. Never mind politics. Girls can start a war over a paper ball. I sighed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I could skip breakfast when Jacinda barged into the room. She was both the youngest of my maids and the most enthusiastic.

“Lady Clove, you’re on the list!” She exclaimed, holding a magazine in her hand. 

I raised an eyebrow, sitting up and noticing Fleur Quinn on the cover of the new Illea Illustrated issue. “What list?“ 

“The popularity poll!”

Oh… I took the magazine from her after she opened on the last page. I was right bellow Eloise, in the first three. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised. It was sort of nice to know people liked me …for some reason. I read over the rest of the names.

Camille Marshall. Eloise Duval. Clove Teasdale. Stephanie Castello. Venus Vale. Evelyn Fenton. Victoria Seaberg. Fleur Quinn.

A frown slowly formed. Military ties, record studio founder, royal adviser, model and previous Selected, youtube makeup sensation, renowned writer, TV icons. 

Crazy odds.

It made sense that over half the girls on the list were well known. It was the girls people connected with and knew about more that would stand out now, but Eloise’s words kept echoing in my head either way. Crazy odds. 

She’d made a fair point even if it was something easily overlooked when you considered it was basically a lottery. All odds were crazy. But still, my dad was deeply connected with the monarchy and I already knew the royal family.

“Is something wrong?” Jacinda asked and I snapped out of my thoughts.

“Huh? Oh, yes…Did we happen to keep the last issue?” 

She nodded and searched for it in the drawer of my desk. I flipped to the last pages, remembering general information from all the Selected was there. Information that I’d previously thought the magazine should’ve glossed over was suddenly important. When Jacinda asked again why I needed the magazine I told her I just wanted to look up some of the names I didn’t recognize and asked if she could bring me some tea.

As soon as she left the room I scurried to the desk and took out a notebook, opening on a fresh page. It felt stupid, like I was being some paranoid conspiracy theorist. There were plenty of those to go around, but I couldn’t help be curious. 

You can’t play chess if you don’t know your pieces, dad would always say.

10 Twos. 8 Threes. 9 Fours. 7 Fives. 1 Seven. 

Twos took over almost a third of us. Higher castes–whether you considered Four to be high or not–took over half of us. Twos and Threes alone being 51% of the total.

Crazy odds.

But how crazy, really?

[makeroomforthejolyghost]

HERE IT IS!!! i’ve been waiting 700 fuckin pages for this omg; i have such fuckin Collector’s Pride about this passage in proust bc i think it is. the only instance in anything i have ever read??? where an author describes how the interaction btwn feeling compelled to hide vs. to draw attention to their being sick[bats] plays out--and where they get it right, bc proust speaks 1. from personal experience and 2. without either undue self-defensiveness or -mockery. SO I AM GOING TO QUOTE IT AT LENGTH, w/ regrets if ur on mobile.

Neurotic subjects are perhaps less addicted than any ... to “listening to their insides”: they hear so many things going on by which they realise later that they were wrong to let themselves be alarmed, that they end by paying no attention to any of them. Their nervous systems have so often cried out to them for help, as though with some serious malady, when it was simply going to start snowing or they were going to move house, that they have acquired the habit of paying no more heed to these warnings than a soldier who in the heat of battle perceives them so little that he is capable, although dying, of carrying on for some days still the life of a man in perfect health. One morning, bearing within me all my habitual ailments, from whose constant internal circulation I kept my mind turned as resolutely away as from the circulation of my blood, I came running blithely into the dining-room where my parents were already at table, and--having assured myself, as usual, that to feel cold may mean not that one ought to warm oneself but that, for instance, one has received a scolding, and not to feel hungry may mean that it is going to rain and not that one ought to fast--had taken my place between them when in the act of swallowing the first mouthful of a particularly tempting cutlet, a nausea and dizziness brought me to a halt, the feverish reaction of an illness that had already begun, the symptoms of which had been masked ... by the ice of my indifference, but which obstinately refused the nourishment that I was not in a fit state to absorb. Then, at the same moment, the thought that I would be prevented from going out if I was seen to be unwell gave me, as the instinct of self-preservation gives a wounded man, the strength to crawl to my own room, where I found that I had a temperature of 104, and then to get ready to go to the Champs-Elysées. Through the languid and vulnerable shell which encased them, my eager thoughts were urging me towards, were clamouring for the soothing delight of a game of prisoner’s base with Gilberte, and an hour later, barely able to keep on my feet, but happy in being by her side, I had still the strength to enjoy it. (2.92-3)

fjslahgsdf i love that (in addition to being complete nonsense in context) his rationalization re feeling cold teaches him to associate illness w/ punishment and thus w/ bad behavior??? and how he slides right from there to the more obvious connection btwn these phenomena, i.e. that as a child u feel compelled to hide both so as not to let ur parents deprive you of a privilege. also haha notice that in spite of his habitual lack of interest in food the narrator describes the cutlet as “particularly tempting,” vs. his later description of “eager thoughts” inside a “languid and vulnerable shell” holy... shit... yes??? i. get maybe unnecessarily excited, when i see depicted this, like. necessary cognitive dissonance. that comes w/ chronic illness; i often see that phenomenon reduced to “we fake being well, not being sick” but that never quite feels accurate to my experience. like it’s true that’s what ur doing when you go out n try to look nice and have fun, do school &c. w/out mentioning to anyone that ur not well, yeah, but. qua sensation it’s more like a disconnect btwn the state of the fleshcase and the standard by which u judge external phenomena. like? the threshold past which you lose the ability to do that--to aesthetically appreciate or even feel tempted by food you intellectually know would nauseate you, for example--gets way higher; you develop a tolerance to the altered state, i guess, as you would to an actual drug.

anyway, also this:

For some time now I had been liable to fits of breathlessness, and our doctor, braving the disapproval of my grandmother, who saw me already dying a drunkard’s death, had recommended me to take ... beer, champagne or brandy when I felt an attack coming. ... I was often obliged, so that my grandmother should allow it to be given to me, instead of disguising, almost to make a display of my state of suffocation. On the other hand, as soon as I felt it coming, ... I would grow distressed at the thought of my grandmother’s anxiety, of which I was far more afraid than of my own sufferings. But at the same time my body, either because it was too weak to keep those sufferings secret, or because it feared lest, in their ignorance of the imminent attack, people might demand of me some exertion which it would have found impossible or dangerous, gave me the need to warn my grandmother of my symptoms with a precision into which I put a sort of physiological punctiliousness. If I observed in myself a disturbing symptom which I had not previously discerned, my body was in distress so long as I had not communicated it to my grandmother. If she pretended to take no notice, it made me insist. Sometimes I went too far; and that beloved face, which was no longer able always to control its emotion as in the past, would betray an expression of pity, a painful contraction. ... And its scruples being at the same time calmed by the certainty that she was now aware of the discomfort that I felt, my body offered no opposition to my reassuring her. I protested that this discomfort was not really painful, that I was in no sense to be pitied, that she might be quite sure that I was now happy; my body had wished to secure exactly the amount of pity that it deserved, and, provided that someone knew that it had a pain in its right side, it could see no harm in my declaring that this pain was of no consequence and was not an obstacle to my happiness (93-4)

i just?? yes? exactly!!! that is exactly how it works like it feels fucking horrible not to tell anyone but also u. don’t want to, because it will inevitably sound like a Big Deal, and sort of is a big deal In The Grand Scheme Of Things re how much it affects your life, but in order to admit that (and thus not have to worry about how to Break The News when and if it becomes relevant) you risk making it sound Tragic or Scary, which it isn’t, because it’s. normal. i like that the only role he gives to fear, here, is worry about how to navigate social situations while ill; i’ve been so indignant lately about all the time i spent accepting other people’s perception that i was afraid of being or becoming ill when... no? he’s right; that stopped being scary ages ago. what u have is a constant quiet knowledge that u are Weak and Ailing--in a way/to an extent that it may or may not be safe or plausible to hide--and a fear of how that might affect ur social existence and ability to function. and it’s so fucking nice to see that mentality figure in a story!!!

[kansascityhappenings]

The history behind Kansas City-style barbecue and its star burnt ends

KANSAS CITY, Mo. — Several regions throughout the United States have fanatics devoted to their local brand of barbecue, and Missouri is no exception. Kansas City is the birthplace of dry-rubbed barbecue drizzled in tomato-molasses sauce. Kansas City is also known for adding the sticky, finger-licking condiment onto a range of meats, veggies, and fruits.

Origins of barbecuing in Kansas City

Globally, people know Kansas City for its barbecue. Jazz, the Chiefs, the Royals, fountains, speakeasies, and President Harry S. Truman also top the list for what puts the metro in the international limelight. Even still, barbecue is often the first item tourists ask about when they hear about our city.

Smack-dab in the center of the first edition of The Kansas City Star (then called The Kansas City Evening Star), published on Sept. 18, 1880, appeared a story with the prophetic headline “The Grand Barbecue.”

On that day, Kansas Citians held a parade following the completion of a long-delayed railroad connection. The parade ended with an old fashioned barbecue attended by more than 3,000 hungry locals.

On July 3, 1869, Kansas Citians celebrated the historic opening of the Hannibal Bridge — the first permanent railroad bridge to cross the Missouri River. It also followed with a celebration parade and a large barbecue party. Before widespread modernization and cooking gadgets became mainstream, barbecuing food was one of the easiest ways to feed a large group of people.

It’s not surprising that barbecue took off in late 19th century Kansas City. Meat was relatively cheap and plentiful thanks to the city’s stockyards. After the Civil War, many freed slaves left the deep south for new destinations: Kansas City was often picked as a new home for its thriving river and rail hub and dominate meatpacking industry. These jobs promised a new life. The new residents brought with them their culinary traditions, and the city’s love of barbecue created a demand bound for profit.

Barbecuing in the modern times

Henry Perry is considered the Barbecue King and credited with starting and spreading the Kansas City barbecue trend on a wide-scale. Today the Kansas City metro has more than 100 barbecue dining options with a variety of sauces and dishes.

Kansas City-style barbecue makes use of different types of meat including: pulled pork, pork ribs, burnt ends, smoked sausage, beef brisket, beef ribs, smoked or grilled chicken, smoked turkey, lamb ribs, and sometimes fish. Occasionally, Kansas City-style barbecue includes vegetables or fruits.

The barbecue is often rubbed with spices, slow-smoked over a variety of woods and served with a thick tomato-based sauce. There are several different takes on the sauce, but the staple flavor people are familiar with blends both sweet and spicy.

Burnt ends are the crusty, fatty, and flavorful pieces of meat cut from the ends of a smoked beef or pork brisket — these are popular in several different restaurants in Kansas City from Q39, Char Bar, and sometimes Chicken N Pickle. Burnt ends used to be seen as the throwaway part of a brisket, but not anymore. It’s now a shining star of Kansas City-style barbecue.

Staple side dishes include: baked beans, fries, coleslaw, potato salad, cornbread, and vegetables.

Henry Perry brings a new style of barbecue to Kansas City

Henry Perry, the Barbecue King

Henry Perry famously cooked and sold his meats out of an old trolley barn at 19th & Highland in the historic African-American neighborhood around 18th & Vine. He served slow-cooked ribs on newspaper pages for 25 cents a slab. Perry came to the Kansas City area from Shelby County, Tennessee near Memphis. He started serving barbecue in 1908.

Before moving here, Perry spent the past 15 years earning his way in the world as a cook on riverboats tugging along the Mississippi River. He began cooking for Kansas Citians in an alley at the corner of 8th and Banks in the Garment District. He sold the meat from a stand. He also operated Perry’s Barbecue at 17th and Lydia Avenue before moving to his most well known site. 

Compared to Memphis-stye barbecue, the Kansas City kind tends to use more sauce and more meats. Customers said Perry’s sauce was somewhat harsh with a noticeable peppery flavor. His sauce had more  vinegar and was spicier than what people are familiar with today. He pit-smoked his meats, which included pork ribs and beef along with wild game — like opossum, woodchuck, and raccoon.

Perry preferred tradition over creative nuances or innovation. He was quoted in an article in The Call as saying, “There is only one way to cook barbecue, and that is the way I am doing it, over a wood fire, with a properly constructed oven and pit.”

The Call reported in Perry’s heyday that there were more than a thousand barbecue stands in operation throughout the city.

Perry’s restaurant became an icon during the city’s Jazz renaissance and during the “wide-open” days of the Pendergast Era in the 1920s and 1930s. Jazz pianists Count Basie and Mary Lou Williams along with saxophonist Charlie Parker all loved the smoked meats Perry served at his eatery.  Kansas City was known then as the Paris of the Plains.

Charlie Bryant worked for the Barbecue King. He brought his brother Arthur Bryant into the business. Charlie took over the Perry restaurant in 1940 after the legend died.

Arthur then took over the business in 1946, renaming the restaurant Arthur Bryant’s.

The Arthur Bryant’s Barbeque Era

Arthur Bryant’s BBQ | Wikipedia

Arthur Bryant’s moved to 1727 Brooklyn Avenue. In the new neighborhood, it became the rendezvous for baseball fans and players in the 1950s and 1960s — it was close to the Municipal Stadium, where the Kansas City A’s played their home games. The team moved to Oakland, California in 1968.

In 1972, journalist, food writer, and author Calvin Trillin wrote an article for Playboy designating Arthur Bryant’s Barbeque as the best restaurant in the world.

The restaurant today serves smoked meets with Wonder bread and fries in plain self-service digs. Some of its top items are smoked ribs, brisket, and burnt ends.

Presidents Harry S. Truman, Jimmy Carter, and Ronald Reagan all stopped by to eat some grub there. Count Basie reportedly spat on his ribs to keep his bandmates from eating his food while he performed. Actors Jack Nicholson and Robert Redford also have stopped by for a meal.

In Trillin’s widely read Playboy essay, he wrote about Bryant’s legendary burnt ends, the crispy caramelized edges of smoked brisket:

“The main course at Bryant’s, as far as I’m concerned, is something that is given away free — the burned edges of the brisket. The counter-man just pushes them over to the side, and anyone who wants them helps himself. I dream of those burned edges. Sometimes, when I’m in some awful, overpriced restaurant in some strange town, trying to choke down some three-dollar hamburger that tastes like a burned sponge, a blank look comes over me: I have just realized that at that very moment, someone in Kansas City is being given those burned edges… for free.”

Shortly after Christmas in 1982, Bryant died of a heart attack in a bed that he kept at the restaurant.

His niece, Doretha Bryant, sold the restaurant to Bill Rauschelbach and Gary Berbiglia.

Gates & Sons

Gates BBQ Headquarters on Brush Creek in Kansas City | Wikipedia

In 1946, Arthur Pinkard, who also worked for the legendary Perry, joined with George Gates to form Gates and Sons Bar-B-Q. The first restaurant was in the same neighborhood as Perry’s famous eatery. When visiting baseball teams and sportscasters came to Kansas City, they fell in love with the barbecue scene, and they would go home to preach about the food they devoured. They had a huge hand in spreading the word about Kansas City cuisine to the rest of the country.

George Gates initially bought the restaurant for its liquor license, intending to turn it into a pub. His wife didn’t agree with this — she was a devout Methodist and disapproved of whiskey, so barbecue became the venue’s main focus.

Ollie Gates was in high school when his father bought the restaurant. He grew up working alongside his father. After college and a stint in the U.S. Army, Ollie actively worked at the restaurant. He now owns it. Three of his five children now preside over the small empire.

Gates barbecue sauce doesn’t contain molasses. The ingredients include tomatoes, vinegar, salt, sugar, celery, garlic, spices, and pepper. 1/10th of 1% potassium sorbate preservative is added into the mix. The additive is a white salt that is highly soluble in water. The sauce is available in several different varieties.

Gates expanded in the metro with restaurants all displaying certain trademarks — the red roofed buildings and a recognizable logo — a strutting man donning a tuxedo and a top hat.

The chain consists of six area Gates Bar-B-Q restaurants: four in Missouri and two in Kansas.

The American Royal

Kansas City is home to the American Royal, a nonprofit that debuted in 1899. It featured 541 registered head of Hereford cattle, the event was held in Kansas City’s flourishing stockyards. Around 55,000 people visited the show tent that year. The annual event grew to include goats, hogs, horses, and sheep. The annual event inspired the name for the Major League Baseball team the Kansas City Royals.

The American Royal in the present helps create scholarships, educational programs, and community outreach programs. It is the world’s largest barbecue competition.

Joe’s Kansas City

Joe’s Kansas City Bar-B-Que traces back to barbecue competitions in the 1990s and the Kansas City Barbecue Society.

Jeff Steheny accompanied some friends to the American Royal and The Great BBQ Battle and this inspired him to start cooking his own meats. The first smoker he purchased was an Oklahoma Joe’s 24” smoker, christened in April 1991.

By 1993, Jeff, his wife and business partner Joy, and Jim “Thurston” Howell had made noticeable traction in the KCBS competition circuit. Their competition team, Slaughterhouse Five, ended up winning eight Grand Championships, including the prestigious American Royal BBQ, three Reserve Grand Championships, and the KCBS’s Grand Champion “Team of the Year.”

Jeff and Joy opened Oklahoma Joe’s Bar-B-Que in a gas station in Kansas City, Kansas in 1996. It was later renamed to Joe’s Kansas City Bar-B-Que. There are also locations in Olathe and Leawood.

Celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain listed Joe’s original Kansas City, Kansas location as one of “13 Places You Must Eat Before You Die.”

It’s probably the best gas station barbecue one could ever hope to find. Slaughterhouse Five continues to compete at the American Royal. They continue to take home awards too.

KC Masterpiece

In 1977, Rich Davis capitalized on the growing reputation of Kansas City-style barbecue sauce. He created the KC Masterpiece, which evolved from his “K.C. Soul Style Barbecue Sauce.”

He sold KC Masterpiece to the Kingsford division of Clorox in 1986. It now claims to be the number one premium barbecue brand in the United States. The KC Masterpiece brand tastes sweeter than the classic Bryant’s or Gates sauces.

Davis held KC Masterpiece barbecues on the White House lawn for President George H.W. Bush and George W. Bush.

The History Channel stated Dr. Davis bucked the trend of KC BBQ restaurants by developing his sauce first, then creating a restaurant. The History Channel also found that KC is the crossroads of the BBQ community, in part due to the influence of the early railroad system.

When Davis sold the rights to his sauce, he announced plans to build a barbecue franchise. New restaurants popped up around the country, but all KC Masterpiece restaurants have closed. The Overland Park location was the last to close in 2009.

Jones Bar-B-Q

Jones Bar-B-Q is an independent barbecue joint on Kaw Drive in Kansas City, Kansas owned by sisters Deborah and Mary Jones. 

In 2001, Doug Worgul featured Jones Bar-B-Q in the afterword of his book The Grand Barbecue: A Celebration of the History, Places, Personalities and Techniques of Kansas City Barbecue.

The sister pitmasters do not participate in the barbecue competition circuit. 

In 2018, they appeared on an episode of Steve Harvey’s Steve in a segment titled “The Queens of Barbecue.”

In March 2019, the sisters and their famed barbecue appeared on the third season of American television series Queer Eye. The television celebrities gave the restaurant a makeover, and the sisters started bottling their famous sauce. They had to put in a second barbecue pit to handle the new demand.

Innovations in the present

Competition over who serves the best barbecue is fierce in the present. Even President Barack Obama, when visiting Kansas City in 2014, refused to comment on which restaurant served the best grub.

Recently, restaurants have gotten really creative with barbecue. Q39 is known for its salivate-inducing sauce. The restaurant is owned and operated by Rob Magee, a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America. Magee captained Munchin’ Hogs, one of the most successful competitive barbecue teams in history. They’ve won more than 50 Grand Champion titles at dozens of contests across the United States.

Magee and his team elevated barbecue as a cuisine with unique sides and genius flavor combinations like jalapeño-cilantro slaw, bacon-onion marmalade, Béarnaise butter, to drop donuts with chocolate and raspberry sauce.

At the restaurant Rye, they have created a burnt ends hash. For those that want a meatless option, Char Bar has an option worth trying. The JackKnife sandwich contains smoked jackfruit with a taste and texture close to pulled pork.

Kansas City Barbecue Society

The Kansas City Barbecue Society has more than 10,000 members worldwide. It is the largest organization of barbecue and grilling enthusiasts around the globe. KCBS is a nonprofit organization dedicated to “promoting barbecue as America’s cuisine and having fun while doing so.”

KCBS sanctions nearly 300 barbecue contests across the country each year. It offers assistance to civic and charitable groups through the contests.

KCBS also offers educational programs, consultation services, and civic organization presentations to help spread the word about tasty and perfected barbecue.

from FOX 4 Kansas City WDAF-TV | News, Weather, Sports https://fox4kc.com/2019/11/23/the-history-behind-kansas-city-style-barbecue-and-its-star-burnt-ends/

from Kansas City Happenings https://kansascityhappenings.wordpress.com/2019/11/23/the-history-behind-kansas-city-style-barbecue-and-its-star-burnt-ends/

[living-the-fastlife]

Another year has come and gone and what better way to wrap up the year than with this End of Year Survey, created by Jamie @ Perpetual Page Turner. 

Number of books I read:

Number of rereads: Sadly I only managed to fit in one reread, A Darker Shade of Magic.

Genre I read the most from: Contemporary (a surprise since Fantasy has always been my most read genre in years past)

1. BEST BOOK I READ IN 2016:

Top 3 A Gathering of Shadows by V. E. Schwab Crooked Kingdom by Leigh Bardugo The Hard Count by Ginger Scott. 

2. BOOK I WAS EXCITED ABOUT AND THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO LOVE MORE BUT DIDN’T

Riders wasn’t a pure disappointment but I did expect more. The book served as a nice introduction to the world and I’m hoping it’s sequel can elaborate on some aspects. 

3. MOST SURPRISING (IN A GOOD OR BAD WAY) BOOK I READ

The Weight of Feathers. I knew it was a Romeo and Juliet inspired magical realism tale but I wasn’t expecting it to be so beautiful. The writing was captivating, the characters were fascinating and the book really explored the beauty in the simplicity. 

4. BOOK I PUSHED THE MOST PEOPLE TO READ (AND THEY DID)

I’ll Meet You There is the one book that I will always push onto people and I am happy to see that some people have picked up this beauty of a book. 

5. BEST SERIES I STARTED IN 2016? BEST SEQUEL OF 2016? BEST SERIES ENDER OF 2016?

Best Series Started: Nevernight by Jay Kristoff Best Sequel: A Gathering of Shadows by V. E. Schwab Best Series Ender: Crooked Kingdom by Leigh Bardugo

6. FAVOURITE NEW AUTHOR I DISCOVERED IN 2016

Sarina Bowen. I completely devoured her True North series. Great characters that I could easily realate to, swoony romances and a great exploration of multitude of themes e.g. drug addiction.

7. BEST BOOK FROM A GENRE I DON’T TYPICALLY READ/WAS OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE

This was the year for Sports Contemporary books. I’m not one to read a lot of New Adult books but the little corner I’ve discovered in Sports contemporary novels has provided some of the funniest and addictive books I’ve ever read. I’m definitely a fan of this genre. 

8. MOST ACTION-PACKED/THRILLING/UNPUTDOWNABLE BOOK OF THE YEAR

Crooked Kingdom. Can I just use this book for every question? This book was so worth all of the sleep I sacrificed. Filled with an intricate plot, unpredictable plot twists and incredibly character insights, Crooked Kingdom was hands down the most addictive book I read in 2016. 

9. BOOK I READ IN 2016 THAT I’M MOST LIKELY TO REREAD NEXT YEAR

Wolf by Wolf by Ryan Graudin. While I’m still heartbroken over the events of it’s sequel, Wolf by Wolf was another addictive read. I love the cross continental setting and the underlying themes of identity and fascinating characters were an added bonus. 

10. FAVOURITE COVER OF A BOOK I READ IN 2016

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Nevernight. I loved the book and the cover, red sprayed edges and just the entire design of the book is beautiful. The maps are my favourite part though.

11. MOST MEMORABLE CHARACTER OF 2016

The Bastard of the Barrel aka Dirtyhands aka Kaz Brekker. What can I say that hasn’t already been said about this man. He is ruthless, greedy and has a penchant for violence and chaos. However, he’s also a man full of grief and complex layers and would crawl to the edge of the earth to get his Wraith back. Every single character in this series were an absolute delight to read about. 

12. MOST BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN BOOK READ IN 2016

Saving Francesca by Melina Marchetta. It doesn’t have a flowery prose or anything fancy. Most wouldn’t name this book as their most beautifully written but the simplicity of the book is what makes it so effective in portraying the affects of depression on a family. 

13. MOST THOUGHT-PROVOKING/LIFE-CHANGING BOOK OF 2016

I wouldn’t call it a life changing book but Salt to the Sea definitely had a huge impact on me. To think that this maritime tragedy has gone overlooked when an estimate of 9000 lives were claimed by the sinking of the Wilhelm Gustloff is unbelievable. It definitely sheds a light on such a monumental event and further highlights the horrors of war.

14. BOOK I CAN’T BELIEVE I WAITED UNTIL 2016 TO FINALLY READ

Half a King by Joe Abercrombie. This is my kind of fantasy. The plot follow the typical fantasy trajectory but its the characters that makes this book so incredible. This is the ultimate underdog story and the representation of women is phenomenal.

15. FAVOURITE PASSAGE/QUOTE FROM A BOOK I READ IN 2016

“Maybe there were people who lived those lives. Maybe this girl was one of them. But what about the rest of us? What about the nobodies and the nothings, the invisible girls? We learn to hold our heads as if we wear crowns. We learn to wring magic from the ordinary. That was how you survived when you weren’t chosen, when there was no royal blood in your veins. When the world owed you nothing, you demanded something of it anyway.” – Crooked Kingdom, Leigh Bardugo

16. SHORTEST AND LONGEST BOOK I READ IN 2016

17. BOOK THAT SHOCKED ME THE MOST

Blood for Blood by Ryan Graudin. I should have seen this coming but it doesn’t mean I wanted it to happen. This event was shocking and gut-wrenching and I’m still so bitter about it. That moment hurt!

18. OTP OF THE YEAR (I WILL GO DOWN WITH THIS SHIP!)

Shazi x Khalid, The Wrath and the Dawn duology. This is my kind of romance. The swoon levels were off the charts in this series. Why? Because of the respect shown between Shazi and Khalid. They are equals in every possible way and the maturity of their relationship was incredible.

19. FAVOURITE NON-ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP OF THE YEAR

Kate and August, This Savage Song. A most unlikely friendship but one that definitely kept me on the edge. These two were on the run for most of the book and along the way they both learn to embrace parts of themselves they’ve tried to deny for so long. 

20. FAVOURITE BOOK I READ IN 2016 FROM AN AUTHOR I’VE READ PREVIOUSLY

The Unexpected Everything by Morgan Matson. My go-to contemporary author. Her books always deliver and as always the delicate balance between the friendship, romantic and family dynamics were greatly established.

21. BEST BOOK I READ IN 2016 THAT I READ BASED SOLELY ON A RECOMMENDATION

Air Awakens by Elise Kova. I love the cover but at the time it wasn’t enough to sway me. Then I read all the glowing reviews for the series and had to check the book out.

22. NEWEST FICTIONAL CRUSH FROM A BOOK I READ IN 2016

Garrett Graham, The Deal. This man, oh how he makes me swoon. I didn’t really like him at first but as his friendship with Hannah developed and blossomed into a beautiful romance he also managed to steal my heart in the process. He’s an incredibly supportive friend and boyfriend and I would snatch him up in a heartbeat. 

23. BEST 2016 DEBUT THAT I READ

A Promise of Fire by Amanda Bouchet. Again, I didn’t know what to expect from this book but I loved the incorporation of Greek mythology and the camaraderie between Griffin, Cat and the rest of the company was hilarious.

24. BEST WORLDBUILDING/MOST VIVID SETTING I READ THIS YEAR

Nevernight. Despite my qualms with the footnotes, I must admit they did ultimate help clarify some things about the world. Do I remember every detail, no, but I did finish the book with a clear understanding of the type of world this book is set in.

25. BOOK THAT PUT A SMILE ON MY FACE/WAS THE MOST FUN TO READ

The Deal by Elle Kennedy. Hilarious, addictive and swoony. The banter between the guys and Hannah was on point and there were plenty of laugh out loud moments in this book. 

26. BOOK THAT MADE ME CRY OR NEARLY CRY IN 2016

Crooked Kingdom is the only book that succeeded in making me cry this year. I won;t spoil the moment but it was soul-crushing and happened at the moment I dared to hope that everyone was out in the clear. 

27. HIDDEN GEM OF THE YEAR

Rites of Passage by Joy. N. Hensely. I would not be able to survive a military academy. I was exhausted after 5 minutes. The intensity levels are taken to new heights in this book and I definitely appreciated Sam’s determination to prove to everyone that she belonged.

28. BOOK THAT CRUSHED YOUR SOUL

Blood For Blood: See no. 17.

29. MOST UNIQUE BOOK THAT I READ IN 2016

Something  Real by Heather Demetrios. Reality TV is not something I follow but this book did an excellent job at exploring the dark side to this world and how manipulative and damaging it can be for someone so young to have her identity carved out by the producers of the show.

30. BOOK THAT MADE ME THE MOST MAD

Walk the Edge by Katie McGarry: I loved this book but Breanna’s parents drove me absolutely insane. The way they treated her was horrible and I hate how they thought that years of neglect could be pushed aside the moment she finds happiness in someone they disapprove of.

1. FAVOURITE BOOK BLOG I DISCOVERED IN 2016

I don’t know if I discovered them in 2016 but some of my favourite blogs are Nick and Nereyda @ Nick and Nereyda’s Infinite Booklist, Aimal @ Bookshelves and Paperbacks, Richard @ The Humpo Show, Deanna @ A Novel Glimpse. These are just a few of the amazing blogs I’ve come across and I’m hoping to up my blog hopping game in 2017 cause I have been slacking as of late.

2. FAVOURITE REVIEW THAT I WROTE IN 2016

I have two; the first one is my review of The Hard Count by Ginger Scott. The second is my review for Salt to the Sea by Ruta Sepetys 

3. BEST DISCUSSION/NON-REVIEW POST I HAD ON MY BLOG

I’ve not done many discussion posts but I was quite proud of my post on the ways to beating a reading slump

4. BEST EVENT THAT I PARTICIPATED IN

Again I’ve not participated in many of these because events like the twitter chats and such take place at 2am UK time. Time zones suck. On top of that when it comes to book signings, the closest one to home would be a good 2 hour drive away.

5. BEST MOMENT OF BOOKISH/BLOGGING LIFE 

My one year blogiversary. I gave myself a hefty pat on the back for reaching that milestone. 

6. MOST CHALLENGING THING ABOUT BLOGGING OR MY READING LIFE THIS YEAR

Keeping up with comments and blog hopping. I’ve been slacking on that front as of late and it is something I plan on improving on this year.

7. MOST POPULAR POST THIS YEAR ON MY BLOG

My most popular blog post was the Bloggers to Follow Top Ten Tuesday topic. My most popular review was A Gathering of Shadows

8. POST I WISH GOT A LITTLE MORE LOVE

My TV Talk for Mr. Robot and my review for The Hard Count.

9. BEST BOOKISH DISCOVERY

Bookstagram. I might not be the most active user but I love all the bookstagram accounts that have popped up over the year or so.

10. DID I COMPLETE ANY READING CHALLENGES OR GOALS THAT I HAD SET FOR YOURSELF?

1. ONE BOOK I DIDN’T GET TO IN 2016 BUT WILL BE MY #1 PRIORITY READ IN 2017

Where do I even begin. There are a lot of books I failed to read in 2016 and plan on reading in 2017. These include; The Winner’s Trilogy, Gemina and Outrun the Moon.

2. BOOK I AM MOST ANTICIPATING FOR 2017 (NON-DEBUT)

Strange the Dreamer by Laini Taylor

3. 2017 DEBUT I AM MOST ANTICIPATING

Wait for Me by Caroline Leech

4. SERIES ENDING/A SEQUEL I AM MOST ANTICIPATING IN 2017

A Conjuring of Light by V.E. Schwab

5. ONE THING I HOPE TO ACCOMPLISH OR DO IN MY READING/BLOGGING LIFE IN 2017

Comment/blog hop more. Write more discussion posts. I’m also considering writing some TV/Film reviews but I’m not sure if anyone would be interested in that. 

6. A 2017 RELEASE I’VE ALREADY READ AND RECOMMEND TO EVERYONE

Sad news. I’ve not read a single books since the first week of December. I hate this slump.

That was my reading year. How was your 2016 reading year?

      2016 End of Year Survey Another year has come and gone and what better way to wrap up the year than with this End of Year Survey, created by Jamie…