mightymeatysteroidpenis-blog

[brrambleberry]

Ghost has to attend mandatory therapy, and the receptionist is about as happy to be there as he is.

*In Ghost's opinion, this is an utter waste of time. Of all the horrors and monstrous things he had done in his enlistment, one disobedience was all it took for the higher ups to send him to talk about his feelings. As if they hadn't demanded that he terminate and bury them for nearly 20 years. The other option was prison, and they knew better than to stick him in a cement casket with abusers and scum. So the next best option was to shove him through double doors he had to turn slightly sideways to enter, and into a shitty little waiting room. He walks through the parallel rows of skeletal folding chairs and right up to the tall desk. He's not quite sure who he was expecting to greet him, but it sure wasn't her.*

*A young woman sits on a swivel chair. Her black hair is teased up into a 60's updo, bordering on a mess but it looks good on her. Long sharp nails, like gleaming red apples. A cheeky diamond is inlaid where a beauty mark might sit on her upper lip, and eyes with lashes like a fan neglect him for her computer screen. A name tag reads 'Nettie'.*

Ghost *is quiet, that partly how he got his bloody name, but he knows that she knows he is there. Women generally do, they have a sixth sense for when someone of his size and nature are prowling in the shadows nearby. He's not quite sure what to do in a situation where he needs to draw attention to his own presence.*

Ghost *clears his throat*

Nettie "Yeah I see you there mate, kinda fuckin' hard to miss. Just gimme a sec, I need to flick off this email..."

Ghost *says nothing. His jaw twitches and he shifts himself to keep the exit within sight. This was ridiculous, he couldn't remember the last time he experienced something as civilian as waiting for a pesty receptionist.*

Nettie *pops a bubble with the gum she's been idly chewing. Half-heartedly pushes herself away from the desk, and unfolds her legs to stand.* "Right, why are you here then?"

Ghost *knows that she's expecting details for the appointment, but today has been a drag. The only thing that could make it better was to make it another person's problem.* "I kill people for a living."

Nettie "This is a service for veterans love, you're not going to win any bingos here with that. Who are you here to see?"

Ghost *shrugs and hands her the referral, a strong desire to get this over with as soon as possible.*

Nettie *clips it from his hands quickly. Popping another bubble, she raises an immaculately groomed and arched brow.* "Dr Martin eh? You must have been a very naughty boy."

Ghost *had been idly watching her mouth as it worked the gum. It was driving him a bit mad, something about it was goading. Odd woman to pick for reception, someone as cheeky and infernal as her. His glare snaps back to her eyes at her last sentence. He narrowed them, who the fuck did she think she was talking too?*

Nettie *had already moved on. She moved back to the computer and tapped away. The printer in the corner whirled awake, and she returned with warm, crisp forms printed on the stark white paper clamped to a clipboard.* "Right, I need you to fill these out, shouldn't take more then two or five minutes. I'll find you pen, well, hopefully anyway. You lot always take 'em with you, and now it's a pain in the arse to find one that isn't drier than my nan's crack. Anyway, you can use this one. Please give it back once you're done love, cuz that's my favourite. If you don't, swear on my bleedin' Louboutin's I will hunt you down and pester you till I get it back."

Ghost *takes the clipboard shoved in his direction, remaining silent and quickly scratching through boxes with ticks and answers with monosyllables. This woman is fucking loony. He slides it onto the desk surface, and speaks up for the first time.* "Here, your preferred pen, safe and sound. No need to ransom the rest of my sanity for it."

Nettie *plucks her pen back up and twirls it with a sweet grin.* "Some girls' just wanna watch the world burn, Skelly." *She ends with a playful theatrical wink. It pulls an amused huff from his chest. A corny batman reference is more reassuring than anything he would have expected in this linoleum purgatory.*

[anecdotal-acorn]

I AM A CHANGED WOMAN. OH MY G-D. I can't think coherently. But here are my thoughts on Sweeney Todd (3/30/24 matinee)

Act I

- I almost jumped out of my skin when they said “swing your razor high, Sweeney,” in Ballad of Sweeney Todd, like if that was possible I would have done it lol; the ensemble was so scary, there was a bright white light change, and the music got super loud, it was awesome

- Seeing Joe Locke in that opening number, something about him made me realize “oh he's gonna be great,” like his really intense pained vibes, his Toby really wears his heart on his sleeve

- WHEN AARON JUMPED OUT WITH THE SPOTLIGHT ON HIM!!!!!!!!!!!! I think my soul left my body (& it's still in the theater)

- Aaron’s weird cockney accent that he clearly has so much pride in, like King you could've just done a normal voice but no, he chose to do his own strange thing and it was giving Prince James One Royal Holiday (his Hallmark movie, iykyk) tbh

- When Mrs. Lovett threw flour across the stage at Sweeney to get his attention in Worst Pies

- The shadow/silhouette projections going through the story in Poor Thing, they were so tantalizing they actually managed to distract me from Aaron lol

- AARON’S MY FRIENDS WAS LIKE HEARING AN ANGEL SING FR

- It really didn't seem like he snapped when he said “my right arm is complete,” it seemed like he was a depressed man who finally found passion and drive again, not someone who was going crazy

- Maria was IMMACULATE as Johanna, the most gorgeous voice and acting…her halting, jerky movements really showed how damaged Johanna is, yet she still had this grace about her underneath, true beauty that couldn't be stamped out of her, even with all she endures

- Joe Locke was so light on his feet in Miracle Elixir (also he seemed to be having a great time, which goes for everyone during the whole show honestly)

- The lights changed color with each line of the song, like there was orange, white, then blue

- Aaron leaned over when he was standing by his little razor table and Sutton’s Mrs. Lovett ate that shit up, she crouched down to check out his butt for a solid twenty seconds

- When the Judge came into the shop Aaron had this huge grin on his face, he was so excited to kill him and he just spent too long relishing the moment

- Epiphany was a full-body experience I swear

- When Mrs. Lovett stared at his package in A Little Priest

- And then Aaron laughed when he pointed down at her cupped hands and said “what's that,” you could tell it was a genuine laugh from Aaron and not a Sweeney thing

- Aaron’s buttery voice when he sang “the history of the world, my pet”

- And he did a little growl too (don't look at me. DON'T)

Act II

- his voice was SO well-suited for Johanna Act II

- SUTTON FOSTER’S FEET IN BY THE SEA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I was hoping SO HARD that she would do that, and she did and it did not disappoint; Miss Foster how does it feel to be living out my dreams, thank you queen for letting me see that and live vicariously through you <33333333333

- she struck a pose like she was taking photos for Playboy when she said “me in stripes”

- “Not While I’m Around” was emotional af, Joe Locke did not have to go that hard but he fucking did

- For some reason I was the only one who clapped when Johanna shot Fogg? Is that not an applause-worthy moment??

- He was so giddy when he finally killed the Judge

- Aaron actually scared me when he was gonna kill Johanna, and esp when he chased down the stairs after her like a hulking monster

- the scariest thing was that even as things unraveled, he didn't seem to be “losing it”; he seemed to be getting even more intent on his revenge, stronger, more deft and precise, more confident, more powerful in his evilness

- he was scary af when they were looking for Toby too, so menacing

- his growl when he said “you lied to me”

- how he crawled towards Mrs. Lovett like an animal and scrabbled at the floor to grab her

- How loud the fire roared when he put Mrs. Lovett inside

- his body language (hunched shoulders, limp limbs/posture) seemed maybe almost remorseful once he threw her in the fire? Like as if he was thinking I'm glad I did that, I had to, but I'm exhausted and can't exactly process that she’s actually gone because of me

- The way Johanna held Anthony close when she saw the bodies

- Aaron’s acting when Toby killed Sweeney—he didn't fight him off, he just looked so sad and tired, like he wanted to be dead (what a wonderful interpretation of the lyric “she was his reason and his life”)

- UGH when Sweeney and Lovett hold hands and step into the pit, finally weightless, they’ve got each other, Sutton and Aaron are right, it IS a love story, oh my g-d my heart

I don't know if I'll ever be able to stop thinking about this. It was SO GOOD!!!!! Anyway thanks for reading my rambles if you got this far hahaha, hope you have a lovely day

[awingedinsect]

-Flood me like Atlantic-

Chapter 6

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: swearing, blOOd, allusions to witchcraft, nudity, reference to drug use, wound cleaning, talk of de@th.

The forest is trying to swallow him. He wants to close his eyes and banish the vision of the branches reaching for him, draped in billowing sheets of moonlight and clawing at his limbs. But every time he does he falls; tripping over the bony roots choking the gravel path.

His feet are numb now, and his knees scraped from the countless amount of times that they’ve hit the ground. He wants to be held. Wants any arms but his own to wrap around his shaking shoulders. But all he feels are his own nails, skittering over his body and digging new marks into his ashy skin.

The moon seems to be changing shapes above, but he concentrates on the tiny stones as the light flickers on them like a dying bulb. He needs to move. He needs to find somewhere to curl up and sleep for as long as possible. And maybe then, just maybe, he’ll wake up from this nightmare.

There’s new voices in the wind and it terrifies him. The light flickering on the leaves around him are a million eyes and they’re watching him. Taunting him. Staring at his inadequate self and how much it’s failing him. His voice is stolen- even the sobs slipping past the wobbly line of his lips are silent and pleading, so that not even a god can answer them.

The moon flickers with its last bit of strength before zapping out in the big black ceiling. It abandons him, and so does the ground beneath.

He falls either up or down and loses his own body somewhere in the darkness, probably never to get it back. And he’s resigned to either wake up some day or just die here, where the night has claimed him as its own.

“Hey mate, you alright?”

Gravel is crackling somewhere beside him. He’s still not awake.

“The fuck you on, bruv, you need me to call an ambulance?”

He groans hoarsely, unable to peel his face off the rocks. His body is curled up on the ground and leaking black blood between the tiny ravines, gluing him in place as what seems to be a hand comes up behind him and turns him over.

“Jesus Christ, you’re fuckin bleeding man! What the-“

He’s vaguely aware as he’s flipped over and his face is brought into the light. There’s a moment of nothing but pure silence; the newcomer suspending his limp body like fresh roadkill. Then he’s fucking dropped back to the ground and an obnoxious cockney accent starts cursing in rage. He thinks they walk away.

Seconds later, but what feels like a small eternity, the hand is back on him and flipping him over with less ceremony than before. His eyes are glued shut with blood and tears and exhaustion. But either way, he doesn’t give a fuck what’s going on as long fingers grab his face harshly and inspect him in what seems to be revived moonlight.

“What the actual fuck.” The voice bites.

Where has he heard that voice? He swears it’s pissed him off before. And yet right now, it sounds like music to his battered ears. He could almost cry, feeling lean arms snake under his and start to haul him across the gravel. The ground shreds his heels, a hot breath cursing above his sticky bangs. He doesn’t remember getting cut in the forehead, but then again-

Everything is hazy.

He’s vaguely aware of being dragged through a doorway before everything goes black once again.

• • • •

“I don’t know, he was passed out on the fucking driveway!”

Vessel hears a distant voice seemingly screaming into a phone. The few seconds of silence between bouts of panicked explanation sounds like they’re coming from the end of an enormous tunnel; probably somewhere back in the land of the living.

He groans, feeling his skin come in contact something cold and slippery as he tries to move.

He’s in a tub.

And not one he can flop out of easily; as his vision comes to, he sees his own blackened body sprawled out in what appears to be a vintage claw foot, set in a tiny bathroom filled with shelves and the musk of dried herbs.

It’s dark in here, save for a few candles dripping down the sides of a drawer table, casting his sprawled body in a flickery orange that makes him recoil. He was evidently dumped here, long limbs stuffed quickly into this porcelain prison, and abandoned.

“…no, no, stay right fucking there.”

The voice is starting to come clearer through the wooden door. “-Both of you. I can handle it.”

Vessel rolls his head over the back of the tub and is immediately clobbered by the spout. As if he wasn’t in enough pain.

“I don’t fucking know! I’ll figure it out. No, no, I’ll figure it out. I know I can’t bring the cops up here. Where the hell did you put the gauze though? And I need, like, disinfectant or something. Fuckin’ wanker was rolling around in something and he’s absolutely disgusting.”

Vessel doesn’t care what happens at this point. However, he’s starting to feel his mind clearing up. And it’s now that the situation is slowly, truly seeping in.

He’s shaking uncontrollably, trying to look down at himself. His head is throbbing, probably from the latest in a succession of falls. He wraps an arm around his stomach, panting and feeling his fluttering heart rate climb in his carved-up chest.

The bleeding looks like it’s stopped, for the most part. But he can feel the lack of blood turning his mind and body to tar. Every move hurts. He starts to grit his teeth, trying at all costs not to scream when his thumb touches the slash down the front of his stomach.

There’s tears in his eyes again.

“It’s the same fucking guy, I’m telling ya.” Comes the voice. “He’s covered in ash and shit. And… and runes. Bad fucking runes. Like, I don’t know if I’ll get it out of the house, bruv. I’m serious.”

Vessels sticky eyes roam slowly, wincing painfully with every breath he takes. This place reeks of witchcraft. And noticing the collection of little bones on the window sill, he wonders if he’s gonna get sacrificed again.

If so, he wishes they’d get it over with.

He’s shivering so harshly he swears it’s shaking the room, then suddenly he wheezes and scrunches his eyes when the overhead light flicks on and the door swings open.

And now he remembers.

It’s the bass player from the Blacklit Room. His hair is down and in eyes, but Vessel can feel the wrath in them all the same as long legs and dubious intentions carry him to the side of the tub, staring down at the pitiful sight. Vessel suddenly feels very exposed.

“You?” He croaks up at him. He hasn’t heard his own voice in hours, not since he’s pretty sure he spoke to a god. It’s hoarse from screaming.

“Shutup.” The man commands, bending down to pull a square basket out from under the drawer table and shuffle through it. He doesn’t look him in the eyes. “Don’t fucking talk.”

Okay.

Crumpled up against the wall of the tub, there’s nothing he can do but try to stay conscious while he waits for whatever happens next. And after some muttered curses in an accent almost too thick to understand, the bass player gets down on his knobby knees, long fingers clasping a collection of medical tape, bandages, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol in a talon-like vice.

“Hold still.” He commands, setting the articles on the lid of the toilet and reaching for the dangling detachable shower-head. He turns the handle above Vessel's head in tiny increments, until a thin stream of ice-cold water splatters into the tub and makes Vessel seethe in shock.

“I’m gonna rinse off the bad bits and bandage em up quick as I can.” The man… III? Says. “Then you’re getting the fuck out of here.”

Although that’s fair enough, the idea of continuing to pursue existence he’s not directly forced into living makes him want to throw up. But all he does is nod, a pained, deep sound that he hopes resembles confirmation leaving his cracked lips. He closes his eyes.

“The light.” He whispers half-intelligently. His voice sounds like a broken motor, wheezing on smoke and rumbling from somewhere deep. He hates the sound of it. “Off. Please.”

“I said shut up.” III says, continuing to adjust the knob until a semi-warm stream trickles over Vessel’s chest. Then he hunches over him, the bathrobe on his shoulders falling in as he starts making circles with the water across Vessel’s torso. Black water runs off in little waves to reveal pinkish white skin beneath, turning a harsh red around the path of Venus's knife. He shudders hard at the feeling.

Murky grey water rises slowly up around his hips, and he’s at least thankful for the warmth for a second before III notices and unplugs the drain, leaving him once again a shivering and now wet shadow of a person.

He wants to simultaneously kiss and murder this man.

After a few minutes, III deems him sufficiently peeled and turns the water off. Vessel watches through tunnel vision as he grabs a roll of bandages off of the toilet and starts unwrapping them on his large hands, eyes flitting between the cuts and the antiseptic as he apparently forms a plan.

“…Why don’t you call the cops?” Vessel whispers, wet bangs dripping into his mouth. His eyes drag up to IIIs, wondering if they’ll meet. They don’t. “Aren’t you… confused?”

Surprisingly, III doesn’t tell him to shut up. Only glares at him briefly as he unscrews the bottle of alcohol.

“Think they’d help you?” He asks. “Look at yourself in the mirror, blud. You look like you got jacked up on shrooms, rolled around in the ashes of your victims, and turned yourself into some kinda human sacrifice.”

“I didn’t kill anybody.” Vessel says, voice severe. “…It wasn’t fucking me.”

III pulls the bandage off his hands and sets it down momentarily, reaching into the tub to pour the contents of the bottle over Vessel’s stomach. “Sure, man.” He says. And immediately, Vessel decides that even though he hasn’t killed anybody so far, tonight might actually change that.

“Fucking Christ!” He screams, writhing under the liquid fire as it’s poured mercilessly over him.

“Fuck…”

“Hold still.”

“Fuck you.”

“And you, bitch.”

After a few seconds he stops, reaching instead for some cotton. And Vessel is left to sit there in the aftershock and pray that things take a less painful turn.

They don’t, really. Over the next few minutes, he’s completely at the mercy of the musician. And he can feel his frown growing, lips curling as he fights hard to stop the tremble in his jaw. Eventually, as a hand splays over his chest and III starts to tape down the strips of cotton, he does catch a sight of himself in the mirror behind his nurse’s bowed head. And the sight is a pitiful one.

His face is still mainly black, with big white trails cutting down his cheeks and pooling in the dip of his neck. His eyes are blown out and swollen, not as hidden as he’d wish by his hair. But as he looks he could almost swear he sees something strange on his forehead. He notices for only an instant before he’s startled by a hand touching him exactly there; pulling his face back into the light and swiping his bangs with a long thumb.

“Fuckin- what are you-“

“I've fixed up your stomach, now I gotta deal with this shit.” The bassist mumbles, now holding Vessel’s face in one hand and squishing his mouth no doubt on purpose.

“Jesus…”

“What is it?” Vessel asks, unperturbed by the palm over his mouth.

“You should know, you were there.” He replies. “You’ve got a symbol on your forehead. Branded, like some sick fuck. You telling me you had nothing to do with it?”

“Branded?” Vessel repeats, eyes stinging as the skin on his forehead is pulled and prodded beneath the pads of calloused fingers.

“Of course I had nothing t-to do with it. You think I’d do this to myself? What’s it say?”

III sighs, releasing him only long enough to grab more cotton and rubbing alcohol.

Brilliant.

“I think it’s a mix of some old runes. And no, I’m not gonna read them. There’s probably enough bad mojo in this place as it is to have me making protection spells for weeks. But it’s ain’t cute, blud. It ain’t cute.”

There’s something vaguely sensual about the next few minutes. It’s probably the blood loss. III’s hot breath on his face as he holds his hair out of the way, dabbing carefully above his eyes…

It doesn’t sting as bad as it did earlier, either. And Vessel honestly feels close to falling asleep again. It’s only when his eyes finally meet III’s that he clears his throat, looking up hazily as the last bit of bandage is wrapped around his head.

“Thank you.” He says quietly.

III looks down at him, silently, tucking the end of the cloth strip in. He pulls Vessel’s hair out of the front and lets it fall back into his eyes.

“I’m gonna find you some fucking pants.” He says, standing up quickly and collecting the crumpled paper and mostly-empty bottle on the toilet.

“I can’t get up.” Vessel says, testing his limbs and immediately wincing. He’s sore as all hell.

“Give it a minute, you’ll be fine. Just get up and wash your fucking face, you look like a fuckin’ pound hound.”

Suddenly Vessel is hit in the face with a towel, and if it weren’t for literally everything else he’d have something to say about it. But he just counts it as a blessing, instantly doing his best to wrap himself up as he stumbles out of the tub like a newborn giraffe.

“You can have the sofa.”

Although he hasn’t even half-considered finding a way back to his motel, the invitation surprises him all the same.

“Do you live alone?”

“No, dipshit, but my boys are at the doctor an hour out. Getting a checkup on that fucking arm you broke.”

“I broke?” He repeats, still struggling to make the little towel enough for his whole body as he collapses against the wall. He rolls his head back against the flowery paper, wishing death on himself once again. “You mean that bloke IV?”

“Met him?” III asks, washing his hands and opening the door. Vessel glimpses a short hallway and some more modest furniture beyond, yellow light leaking into the space as the bathroom overhead turns off. “Fucker. You don’t get his room.”

“Hey, I’m still getting over this fuckin’ black eye, you know.” He shoots back. “You absolutely flattened me, you bastard.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t hard. You’re built like a twig and now you’ve got the strength of one, so watch your damn mouth.”

Vessel watches from the doorframe as III leaves down the hall, shouting back at him and turning into another room. “They’re gonna be back in a few hours, so don’t be a cunt and stay on the fucking sofa, else I’ll dump your ass back outside. Understand?”

Vessel ignores him, instead doing his best to stay upright as all the pain in his body flares. After a minute, III returns, chucking black sweatpants at his head with a final command to wash his fucking face. He does so briefly, bringing a handful of water up from the sink and smearing it around before spending ten minutes putting his pants on.

He throws up bile and the few bites he took of a bagel sandwich for the next five.

Once he finally leaves the bathroom, the cabin is dark, III nowhere in sight. But he couldn’t care less as he finds his way to the living room and falls down on the leather, hoping to god that when he wakes up, he’ll be anywhere but here.

He barely manages to pull a quilt off the floor and onto himself before passing out deeper than dreams can find him for the next several hours.

[nirikeehan]

"aftersome adj. astonished to think back on the bizarre sequence of accidents that brought you to where you are today — which makes your long and winding path feel fated from the start, yet so unlikely as to be virtually impossible." for Thaliaaaa perhaps?

Okay, listen. This one is weird, but maybe I'm planning a Dragon Age/Curse of Strahd crossover and sometimes you just wanna smush two blorbos from two different pieces of media together and see what they do. Like introducing cats.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1202

Metrion belongs to the incredible Curse of Strahd: Twice Bitten podcast which, as far as I can tell, has absolutely no fanfic to its name. Until now I guess 🤷‍♀️

---

 “Sit, and we can make you presentable, yeah?” 

Thalia sits. The cottage is ramshackle and abandoned, one of many in this desolate Nevarran backwoods, the misty, wild place known as Barovia. 

“If he knows you by the tattoo,” the man says, “we can take away the tattoo, easy peasy.”

He’s a strange man, the one whose company she has found herself in. Young like her, she thinks, with tan skin and dark hair. He used an affected posh accent she saw through right away, which he has since dropped. What remains — a cockney reminiscent of Free Marcher peasants, is more authentic. He speaks in a nervous mumble almost always. There are times she thinks him selfish — when they fought wolves together on the road he dove for the bushes and shot timidly with a crossbow — but others, like now, she detects a hint of what could be compassion. 

“Did you always want to be a magician?” Thalia asks, eying the array of stage makeup he sets out on a rotting table. 

He shrugs, not looking at her. “You do what you’re good at, right?”

“I suppose.” Thalia chews her lip. “But what I do and what you do seem a little different. I could never just travel around, doing magic tricks for entertainment.” 

Metrion smirks. “Why not? Cause you’re a highborn lady?” The posh accent is back, mocking her own inflection. He reaches out, takes her chin. “Here, look this way, love.” 

His fingers are long and thin, hands covered by black gloves that must be needed in this constant damp chill. She frowns at an odd patch of magenta poking out between sleeve and glove on his wrist. Thalia is forced to look away, staring deep into his unsettling yellow eyes. 

“It’s not that,” she says as he scrutinizes her complexion. “In my neck of the woods, real mages weren’t allowed to roam free at all.” 

“You sayin’ I’m not a real mage?” Metrion shoots back, feigning hurt. 

Thalia tries not to roll her eyes. “You’re an actor, that’s clear as day.”

“Can it only be one or the other?” A twitchy smile. He has long incisors; one is inlaid with gold and seems to wink at her in the dim light. 

“Are you inviting me to join your act?” Thalia asks playfully.

“Yeah. Definitely. We can be Metrion the Magnificent and Thalia the— the—”

“Thrilling?” she supplies. 

“Yeah. I like that.” He frowns at his makeup kit. “Right. You’re paler’n me, so I’m gonna have to do some blending, but I should be able to manage it. Gonna need you to hold real still, though.” 

Apprehension threads through Thalia. She remembers the day, many years ago, she had to sit very still for another man, one who had needles and ink instead of sponges and pigment. “—Won’t hurt you,” Metrion adds quickly, as if sensing her discomfort. “I’m a real pro with this stuff, I promise.”

“Yes. Of course.” Thalia shifts in her seat, wringing her hands. Her palms begin to sweat. She thinks of the long series of bizarre events that led her to this moment, in the hands of someone who should, by all accounts, be a charlatan. Yet the touches on her cheekbone and brow are light and practiced, and against her will she relaxes. 

“It’s quite a piece of art, this ink,” he murmurs, perhaps to put her further at ease, but Thalia only tenses. He blinks. “Sorry. Meant it as a compliment.” 

“I know,” Thalia breathes. “It’s not you.”

“I’m a bit of an amateur tattooist myself, but ah, never did nothing like this.” 

With each swipe of his sponge, Thalia imagines the tattoo disappearing from her face, leaving her right eye unmarred for the first time in a decade. “I didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter.”

Metrion’s hand freezes. “Seriously?”

“I mentioned that in my neck of the woods, mages couldn’t just roam free.” She chews her lip. “We were confined to a place called a Circle of Magi. This was the security measure in mine, to make sure we didn’t escape.” 

“Shit.” A long silence. “You really ought to come to the Sword Coast, we don’t have nothing like that there.” 

Thalia lets out a slow breath. “It’s all right. Things have changed there, somewhat. Mages have more freedom now, though there’s always reminders of the old ways.” 

“Yeah. I get that.” Metrion continues dabbing and swiping at her face, brow furrowed with a troubled line between them. “And I know a thing or two, about things done to you against your will.” 

“Do you?” Thalia says skeptically. “You don’t… strike me as a man who would stick around for that sort of punishment.” She pauses. “No offense.” 

Metrion bows his head over the makeup kit, eyes obscured by the hair falling into his face. Peeking out from the headband he wears are wisps of hair that shine white in the torchlight. He’s awfully young to be going grey, she thinks, but then again, she can’t speak to the life he’s lived, no more so than he can for her. 

“’S that a polite way of calling me a coward?” The hurt in his voice, this time, is real. 

Thalia tries to protest, but he cuts her off. “No, no, maybe you’re right, a little bit. Or a lot. I dunno. Fuck. I never wanted to be in this place. It’ll wear you down, break you, faster’n you can run. We been told the devil knows our every move, that it’s all a game to him. That we’ll stay alive as long as we keep things interesting. But I dunno if painting your face would make much of a difference in the long run, if he’s got an eye on ya.” 

Metrion sounds mournful, apologetic, as if trying to break bad news as gently as he can. Thalia reaches out, with a pang of sympathy, and touches his elbow through his long overcoat. He freezes, dares to meet her gaze only briefly before averting it again. 

“He must have a weakness,” Thalia says. “Everyone does.” How can she explain to him that she once stood down a man who would be god? What’s one more vampiric tyrant, in the face of someone like Corypheus? 

“Dunno about him,” Metrion mumbles, sighing. 

“Still,” Thalia insists, trying to smile, “I appreciate that you’re trying.” 

“Yeah. Yeah. ’S all we can do, I guess, in the long run. Lie down and die, or try to live.” He shakes his head as if to clear it and snaps shut his makeup kit. “On that cheery note — you’re all set, love.” 

“Thank you,” Thalia says softly. “Have you got a looking glass I can borrow? I’m… curious.” 

He gives her a small hand mirror caked with layers of dust and pigment. Thalia squints past it, to the pallid face beyond. Her cheeks look gaunter than she remembers, her eyes a ghostly blue. But the tattoo has vanished as if it never existed, and she turns her face this way and that in wonder. 

“Maybe you are a real magician after all,” she whispers, and he looks at her with eyes so raw she worries he might cry.

[overlookmax]

i know no one will see this but here are my thoughts about sweeney todd on broadway

(side note: this was my first time seeing the show fully. i knew the story and characters but i had never seen it all the way through)

1. the stage, i was seated on the right orchestra and i could see perfectly. in photos it doesn’t look that way but the stage is really close to the audience. i would recommend sitting in orchestra. the front mezzanine also looked like a good view, i wouldn’t be able to say if it was though.

2. the set was very simplistic which i think fully works for this production. this show focuses a lot on lighting which was so mesmerizing. (theres a reason they won that tony) i’m not an expert on broadway sets and such so i don’t have a lot to say but every set piece is very expertly made and executed.

3. every actor and actress fully embraced their role and did the absolute most with it in the best way possible. the cast really seems like they have fun with their roles. when i was there their was an understudy for the begger woman, mia pinero, and she was absolutely fantastic.

4. the music is incredible. i don’t think i have to convince anyone that anything that stephen sondheim has composed is amazing. most of the songs don’t have big choreography or sets or props or whatever because the actors and actresses are so captivating on their own. it takes so much talent to be able to entertain an audience just on your own and this company just absolutely blows it out of the park. every song was perfectly executed and played out. i’ll talk about my favorite performances by josh groban, annaleigh ashford, gaten matarazzo, daniel yearwood, and more in their own paragraphs.

5.josh groban as sweeney todd- i’ve seen many people say that josh isn’t a good actor/ he doesn’t much emotion when he sings and fully completely 100% DISAGREE. josh is incredible and soo captivating. he’s was a little more animated at times then i was expecting but that doesn’t bother me at all. i truly believe that he was born to play this role. he’s very intimidating as the character (best way i can describe it) in a way i’ve never seen. i always get worried i won’t like the singing in live musicals cause it won’t sound like the soundtrack but josh’s voice is incredible. i love his baritone it’s so unsettling yet soothing which i have no idea is possible. his voice is just so nice to listen to. the way they staged the song epiphany was not how i was expecting but i still absolutely loved it. it didn’t big bold action or lighting or whatever cause josh groban is enough to make the scene just so incredible. i loved his chemistry with annaleigh ashford, they were (despite the murder and cannibalism) so adorable together.

6. annaleigh ashford as mrs. lovett- was her accent cockney? no. was she hard to understand at times? yes. did i mind? absolutely not. they were literal 30 second laugh breaks and chears whenever she was on stage. i honestly can’t even describe how amazing and funny she was. she IS the sondheim it girl. i think she was also born to play this role. she is so ridiculously funny. easily the best performance of the show. with the song by the sea it was literally just them sitting on chairs on stage and yet it was probably one of the best performances. again, the chemistry they have. it takes a lot of talent to make two murderers cute and somehow they do it effortlessly. again again again, annaleigh ashford is incredible.

7. gaten matarazzo as tobias ragg- i get that this so very much stunt casting but gaten is truly great. he’s an incredible actor and singer and you can tell he really loves performing on stage. the relationship between lovatt and toby is so adorable and annaleigh and gaten really make it. gaten really embraces this role and again does the most with it. the ending i was not expecting and gaten really makes it so unsettling and sad.

8. daniel yearwood as anthony- as you know jordan fisher did leave the production sadly but daniel is amazing. i know i’m just repeating the same thing for each person but truly he is great. he’s an amazing singer and really captures the emotion in each scene.

9. maria bilbao as johanna- again just incredible. her singing was mesmerizing and beautiful. i though she was great. i wouldn’t say that she does anything mind blowing but that’s not a bad thing! i loved her i’m just trying not to repeat the same mantra for each character/ actor

10. mia pinero as begger woman- like i said she was an understudy. i think this was her first time performing this role but she was great. she was also very very sweet! i saw her at stagedoor and she talked to a lot of people but she was just so nice and i loved her so much.

11. i’ll condense this and just say that all the actors/actresses were incredible. i wouldn’t say that any person in the company wasn’t good or wasn’t as good as everyone else. the ensemble was just as captivating and mesmerizing as the main characters. at no point in the show was i ever bored.

12. stage door- i was standing directly in front of the stage door behind a few people. only three people came out- josh groban, mia pinero, and jamie jackson (judge turpin) all were very nice and i got all their signatures! for josh and jamie a very nice woman held up my playbill for them to sign and i was able to give mia the playbill myself and told her how incredible she was! i was next to three girls, two were in their twenties and one i assumed was in her thirties since she mentioned having a son. they were all very nice and i talked with them throughout the stagedoor. however behind was a young boy who would not shut up about gaten lol. i’m not trying to complain about him since he obviously didn’t know stage door etiquette but he kept holding his phone above my head and he got really mad at my sister for trying to stand next to me. he was really annoying and everyone around seemed to agree. besides that all the people at the stage door were very very nice and i’m very grateful cause this was also my first stage door

Overall! this show was incredible and i wish i could just sit and watch it over and over again. i’m very glad and lucky i was able to go. i would absolutely recommend any go if they can. being in times square is kinda annoying but the experience is worth it. that’s all! thanks to anyone who read this lol.

[ath3nasgard3n]

Know What I Want - Johnson x Fem!OC (Part 1)

Summary: None of the pinups Johnson loved ever loved him back. So when the bombastic and unapologetically cocky lead singer of the Bang-A-Rang's most popular jazz troupe, whose stage act is just as raunchy and ten times more explosive than that of the pinups, relentlessly pursues him, he has his reasons to be cautious. Little does he know that genuine love and a touch of insecurity lies beneath the singer's tantalizing surface.

Overview: Fem jazz singer OC, slight angst, mainly just worldbuilding in this first part, shameless self-insert, OC has a gay best friend, etc etc.

Word count: 1876

Notes: HIIIII I haven't published any fanfics since I was like 11 so I apologise if this is shite. I really wanted to flesh out the world that this character lives in so this first part is just a lot of that - I'm currently working on a part 2 that explores the depths of her relationship with Johnson a bit more. Hope you lot enjoy this!! xx

Diana Porter walked into the stuffy and crowded Bang-A-Rang, the Brawlers’ unofficial headquarters, at 5 o’clock sharp on a chilly Saturday evening. The biting cold of the winter’s nights was still clearly lingering, despite the sprouting roses and sudden cases of hay fever, as Diana rushed to get into the front door and shield herself from the cold. The loud music and abrasive wall of assorted voices and beer glasses slamming down on tables filled the air as her eyes adjusted to the usual harsh, bright-coloured lighting of the Bang-A-Rang. Smoothing her black mini dress down, she made a beeline to the front bar, the heels of her black Mary Janes hitting the hardwood floors with conviction.

“A Cosmopolitan, please.” She pulled a $10 bill out of her gold clutch, drumming her long crimson nails on the mahogany countertop. All she knew about tonight was that Moonlight Serenade were on at 7, the Bang-A-Rang’s booker had pulled some rocker outfit who were expected to be on at 8:30, and the Reveries were on at 10. Must be closing early for whatever reason, Diana thought to herself as the bartender handed her the pink glass filled to the brim with her favourite vice. Maybe they also secretly hate us for sandwiching some explosive rock gig between two jazz groups, she then thought. She held her glass up to her berry-stained lips before she heard a slick Cockney accent from behind her.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Lady Di herself,” Diana turned her head to reveal a scruffy black cat brandishing a fedora, a black tuxedo vest, and a uniquely thick pair of hipster frames that belonged to none other than Sonny Gordon, the Reveries’ double bassist. “When’d you get here?”

“Just now, Mr. Rollins,” they both chuckled as she gave his hand a firm shake, “How have you been?”

“Not too bad, just trying to make sure everyone’s sorted for tonight, you know?” He said gruffly to her as she nodded at him in understanding, remembering last week’s gig when their drummer, after drinking several double whiskeys two hours before the band’s set, decided to join a couple of the Phoenixes up the river without telling anyone. Sonny took a sip of his beer, his eyes briefly scanning the Bang-A-Rang to see if any of the other guys turned up before looking back at her, silently wishing for a change of subject.

“Well, give us a twirl, then!” he quipped as he took her hand and held it above her head. She threw her head back and laughed, doing a quick spin. “Going for a proper 60s mod look tonight, eh?”

“I was thinking Sabrina the Teenage Witch crossed with Carmella Soprano.” She responded.

“Yeah, no, that explains the tights. And the coat.”

The two turned back to face the bar and sip their drinks in a brief moment of silence, admiring the red backlights and assorted bottles of liquor. Checking her manicure for any chips before once again observing tonight’s Bang-A-Rang crowd, Diana piped back up. 

“Gawd, how are there so many Brawlers here already? Moonlight’s barely even set up yet.” The redhead gestured towards the sparse-looking centre stage, littered with a few amps and cords that were yet to be plugged into anything. Sonny turned back to Diana, looking scorned and a bit sheepish as he pulled a packet of Newports and a Zippo lighter out from his back pocket.

“Cop night.”

“Fark, now?” Diana whipped her head back around to him, gritting her teeth slightly, “Wasn’t that meant to be months ago?”

“‘Problems with funding’, Joel called it. As in, Matty fucked up because that puppy-eyed boy of his started freezing right up when some new copper pulled them over and a couple blokes from the state force got involved.”

“No way!”

“Yup. Had to wait for whatever legal bullshit to blow over before the Brawlers could host their little shindig,” Sonny explained as he brought a cigarette up to his lips and lit it.

“Wow, when’d all that happen? Johnson never said anything to me about all that…”

“Maybe a couple months ago?” Sonny took a drag from his cigarette. “You gotta stop hangin’ round with that one, you know.”

“You only say that because he scares you.”

“Hey, just because the man’s a doberman personified doesn’t mean I can’t criticise him otherwise.” Sonny frowned, his voice hushed. “He’s always away, Di. It’d kill ya.”

“Sound observation, Mum.” Diana joked and took the cigarette from Sonny’s fingers, flashing him a cheeky smile before bringing it up to her lips. She blew the smoke towards the front door. “What’s it to you anyway? It’s not like I got my panties all in a twist when the Les Paul guy left you behind exactly like I told you he would.”

Sonny finished his pint. “I suppose you’re right. It’s always those fucking guitarists, I tell you.”

“Ay, not Louis! He’s alright.”

“Yeah, righto. A gentleman and a scholar, Louis.” Sonny looked off somewhere behind Diana, with her eyes following his tracks to find the Reveries’ guitarist stood by the other end of the bar, toying with a pinup’s tassels and leering like nothing she had ever seen. She scoffed before the two Reveries broke out into giggles and facepalms. The fervour died down slightly. Diana let out a momentous sigh, looking off into nowhere in particular.

“Ah, fuck, I’m really gonna have to play it up for these cops tonight, huh?”

“I dunno? Just do what you usually do and then get the hell out of here.” Sonny caught the bartender’s attention, tapping his thick silver rings on the side of the pint glass with a quick ‘thanks, mate’ before getting a refill. “Unless, of course, you plan on seeing Johnson again.” His flowery emphasis on Johnson’s name earned an eye-roll from Diana before she spotted Louis once again from across the bar, gesturing for her and Sonny to come backstage. She nodded to him before grabbing her drink and turning back to Sonny.

“That’s enough from you, you East End prick. Grab your pint, from the looks of it we’re having a band meeting.”

“Yessir, Major Larrikin!” Sonny stiffened himself up like a soldier, to which the redhead scoffed at him and grabbed his arm to lead him to the back of the Bang-A-Rang.

Wafting through hordes of broad men in denim Brawlers’ jackets and tiny pinups done up to the nines, Diana held her Cosmopolitan up high and her head up higher, tossing her hair back and pulling her leopard-print fur coat further over her shoulder. She and Sonny eventually made their way through the rest of the crowd towards the back door, before Diana spotted Johnson at the Phoenix’s usual corner table, alone. His tall frame was laid out across the booth, a glass of whiskey in one hand and his usual cigarette in the other. Typically being the quiet, stoic backbone of the Phoenixes, there had been a recent shift in the tall brunette’s demeanour. Something almost imperceptible unless one knew what to look for, which Diana always did with him. 

Diana tapped Sonny on his shoulder and nodded over to Johnson with a quick ‘I’ll be there in five’, receiving an eye roll and a disgruntled ‘alright, then’ before he and Louis swung the back doors open. As they disappeared through the corridor, she smoothed her dress down and flicked some of her maroon locks back to the front of her head, turning back around and making her way towards Johnson’s table. When Johnson spotted Diana, she smiled at him sweetly before she sauntered over, retaining her confidence and usual brazenness as she sat down next to him in his booth, crossing one firetruck-red leg over the other.

“Hey there, doe eyes.”

Johnson took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes locked onto Diana’s with a newfound intensity. He leaned back, placing his glass down onto the table and nodding towards her, the corners of his mouth twitching up slightly.

“Diana.”

Johnson's gaze flickered to hers, then to the floor, a slight flush creeping up his neck. He does not return her smile, nor does he comment on her overt flirtation. Instead, he dragged on his cigarette, the ember glowing as he inhaled deeply. His eyes darted back at her before his hand moved, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Diana looked back at Johnson, her expression clouded with confusion before she realised he was gesturing for her to sit across from him, not next to him. She closed her eyes and scoffed at him, clearly offended as she stood up and turned on a black heel to face him.

“The boys and I go on at 10.” Diana’s eyes shot daggers through Johnson’s. His gaze was languid, but not wholly uninterested. “Will you still be around by then?”

“Should be.” Johnson kept his cigarette pursed in between his lips as he spoke, inhaling deeply before taking it in between his fingers. “Matty’ll come around later.”

Diana hummed at his response. Her gaze was thick with bitterness and, ultimately, confusion, boring into Johnson’s unyielding expression. She let out another sigh, turning back around and making her way to the back doors, not wanting to expose herself to Johnson’s callousness again that night.

She had a show to put on, and if ignoring her second favourite vice would demonstrate her showmanship and dedication to her craft, then so be it.

-

By the time the clock hit 10, the Bang-A-Rang was teeming with deep blue uniforms and glittery dancers. The stench of booze and sweat clung to the hot air in the room as the Reveries took to the stage, warming up with a slow, bluesy rendition of “They Can’t Take That Away From Me”. Diana shed her leopard-print coat after the band’s first number, earning a few cheers and whistles from the crowd. Around half an hour into the set, somewhere in between “Too Darn Hot” and “I Wanna Be Loved By You”, she lowered herself down onto the edge of the stage in front of a table full of cops. Microphone in hand and four drinks deep, she slid a red polyester-clad leg right across the lap of a cop, taking his hat off the top of his head and placing it on her own before standing back up and flinging the hat over at him. As she brought herself back up onto the centre of the stage, she could’ve sworn she saw a pair of dark eyes piercing through its smokey sweat-soaked surrounds; piercing right through the singer’s sultry and impersonal demeanour. While she kept her image up for the rest of the Reveries’ set, she wondered how a man could act so cold to her and then, upon looking at her do her usual stage-act, immediately exude such intensity, such brooding… passion? Jealousy?

As she wrapped up a boisterous performance of “Blue Skies”, the band’s routine closing number, she pondered as she took her final bows with Sonny by her side. She wondered what Sonny would say to her if she told him all she had been thinking during the second half of their set. “Don’t be daft, Di.”

That’s right. Don’t be daft.

[lyledebeast]

Gentlemen, Rustics, Accents, and Imperialism

Reflecting on binary oppositions in The Patriot, I'm surprised (and a little embarrassed) that I haven't discussed one of the more obvious ones: foreigner/native. Oh, this is a thorny one! For the sake of what I'm hoping and praying will be brevity, for once, I'm going to focus on how this distinction is portrayed through characters' accents. It turns out that accent choices do a lot of heavy lifting in this film to conceal historical truths, particularly those that paint South Carolina Patriots in an unflattering light.

The first accent to cover is the most often heard foreign one, and it is, almost, one accent. Although the 18th century British Army was full of men who joined to escape a life of poverty or at least found it be a better option for supporting their families than the professions available at home, we never hear them. There are no Cockney redcoats in this film. The accent we do hear often--from Cornwallis, O'Hara and Tavington--belongs to the landed gentry. The only British character who does not share it is the wounded private Tavington interviews after Martin's massacre in the woods, who is also the only speaking British soldier below the rank of captain. By comparison, the Americans have different accents and are represented by people of different classes, upholding a distinction between the oppressed, poor native-born population and an oppressive, wealthy foreign one that has little basis in historical reality.

While the difference in class and accent for Americans is more accurate, the accents themselves are not. The one belonging to Martin and his children, Charlotte Selton, the Howards, and James Wilkins is recognizably American but not distinctly Southern. More likely, Colonists would have had accents reminiscent of their, or their parents', country of origin (something AMC's Turn: Washington's Spies captures far more effectively than The Patriot). The development of distinct, regional accents takes generations. Interestingly, the more rustic characters, the ones we first meet when Martin and Villeneuve recruit at the rowdy tavern, do have clear, modern Southern accents. I'll return to this later, but for now I wonder why there has been time for some South Carolinians to develop a thick backwoods Southern accent but not for others to develop the kind of genteel Southern drawl spoken by such specimens as the Epps in Steve McQueen's 12 Years a Slave. In this respect, Charlotte and Tavington are near perfect opposites. He has lost the land and wealth that were his birthright but kept his accent; she lacks the accent but has the plantation full of inherited slaves.

It also bears mentioning that all the Black characters, enslaved and free, have American accents even though the transatlantic slave trade was still in full force and Charleston harbor was the busiest slave port in the colonies. Occam and Martin's workers could just as easily have had African accents, but perhaps that would too readily remind the audience that they did not simply co-exist with White South Carolinians but had, or been born to parents who had, been kidnapped from another continent and brought to the colony against their will.

Another accent The Patriot wholly silences is, of course, Cherokee. Indeed, no Cherokee person speaks in the film at all even though fighting them is a significant part of Martin and other characters' backstories. Part of the reason characters like Rollins and Billings do have recognizably Southern accents is likely deference to the stereotype that Southerners are more "rustic" than Americans from other regions, but there is something even darker at play. Since regional accents take so long to develop, that the characters Martin fought the Cherokees alongside have one indicates that their families have also inhabited this land for a very long time. The narrative presents them as South Carolina natives at the expense of the actual Native people they forced to give up land they'd inhabited for centuries even as they rebelled against oppression at the hands of British "foreigners."

That there are two scenes featuring Cherokees filmed but not included in the final cut--a flashback to Fort Wilderness at the beginning and a a brief, unheard exchange between Tavington and Cherokee scouts--illustrates the difficulty of fully erasing Native people from the history of place in which they played such a significant role. Similarly, we see many Black people on Charlotte's plantation and in the sea island community to which she and Martin's children escape, but almost all of them are in non-speaking roles. The Patriot asks us to sympathize with South Carolinian Patriots for their oppression under British rule but ignore their participation in the "ugly business" of imperialism through African slavery and Native genocide. The story may not be able to erase people without whom colonial South Carolina would be wholly unrecognizable, but it can certainly silence them.

[ljblueteak]

From "Memories of Michael" by Terry Southern:

Summer of '66 at the top of Duke Street, in the heart of Old Smoke, I...had my first larger-than-life living-colour confrontation with a certain Michael Cooper, Esquire....I moved on a couple doors along Duke Street to the Robert Fraser Gallery and Grill, as we were later wont to call it. I tried the door and found it locked up tighter than Dick's hat-band.

"Looking for Robert, are you?" asked the young dandy, and when I turned I saw something I was to come to love--his extraordinary smile, piercing; and somehow both shy and knowing, almost conspiratorial....

"Yes," I said. "I'm supposed to meet him here at four." It was almost five now.

Michael laughed. "Oh, I expect he's hopped it," he said, affecting a slightly Cockney accent. "Off to Meerakesh, if my guess is any good. Having a right rave-up with Bill Willis and Chris Gibbs about now, I shouldn't wonder, ho-ho!"

I peered through the gallery window; in the shadows I could see the great B-52 sculpture by Colin Self, which he had said was inspired by Doc Strangelove....

"Hold on," [Michael] said. "Is this a bloody Thursday?" I replied that it was indeed Thursday.

"Then Bob's having tea at his mum's."

"And not the right rave-up you had imagined."

"Yes, he has tea with his mum every Thursday, rain or shine." He considered it. "I should very much like to know what they talk about." He laughed. "Robert's poor taste in choosing his friends, most likely. Although she's a very nice woman. Actually quite charming."

"So he won't be coming back here to the gallery."

"No, we'll have to catch him at Mount Street. Have you been to his flat in Mount Street?"

I said that indeed I had....

Many of my memories of Michael involve Robert Fraser. They were ideally suited for the remarkable friendship they enjoyed. Each regarded the other as a grand eccentric, with Robert playing a sort of older brother of a more conservative stamp.

He had a rather protective attitude towards Michael, although it was Michael who was dominant in terms of influence; it was he who always managed to get copies of the latest Otis Redding or Sam Cooke, or to know about a private screening of a Bruce Connor film; and whenever he made a trip to New York, he would invariably return full of enthusiasm for the work of some new artist he had met through Larry Rivers, Andy Warhol or Den Hopper.

He once persuaded Robert to install a 45rpm record-player under the dashboard of his car--a remarkable Italian device that would absorb the bumps and cobbles of Old Smoke without skipping a note. With Michael as DJ and 'Strawberry Bob' at the wheel, driving like a demon, eye glasses glinting in the changing traffic lights, mouth fixed in a smile of stone manic hilarity, we would tool about the city, blasting with our rock'n'roll. A memorable period.

...I once heard [Michael] defending Keith [Richards] in an amusing exchange with Robert. It was during an evening at Mount Street.

"Well young sir," said Robert, waxing indignant, "buzz along the rialto has it that those two esteemed cronies of yours--Squire Richards and Anita Pallenberg--have shown some rather bad form, rather bad form indeed."

Michael brightened. "Oh? How's that, then?"

Robert took great glee (while feigning high seriousness) in recounting how Keith and Anita had run away together, into the North African night, leaving Brian to his own devices.

"'Spanish Tony' brought the news," he said in solemn conclusion and waited for Michael's response. It appeared, however, that Michael had already heard about it, from Christopher Gibbs, and in more detail.

"They left Brian half of the hash and half of the albums," he said in loyal defence.

Robert seemed to weigh the matter anew for a moment, but he remained sceptical. "Including the Little Richard?" he demanded. "I would wager my life they did not leave the Little Richard!"

From Blinds & Shutters (bold mine)

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 93: August 2004

Gerry is not, by nature, an early riser. He’s something of a night owl, actually, prone to staying up until the wee small hours with paintbrush and stereo and then collapsing for the better part of the morning. He’s the sort of man who would have worked the swing shift at the factory during the war or taken third watch on a sailing vessel, keener-sighted with nothing to light his way but a quarter moon and the occasional amber glow of a street lamp than with full sun in a cloudless sky, and should he tend towards one of the Fears would be well on his way to being the monster under the bed or the shadow in the alley.

But he can get up early when it’s important, so he steps out into the grey light of pre-dawn, locks the shop door behind himself, and sets off across London.

He doesn’t bother going to the house. It’s going to be chaos this morning, with Aunt Lily probably trying to delay things as much as possible and Martin actually considering staying and Melanie bullying him out the door while simultaneously forgetting half a dozen things, and Uncle Roger in the midst of it all being helpful in the most cheerfully unhelpful way imaginable. He can picture it all in his mind’s eye. No, best he stay away. He knows where they’ll be, so he stops long enough to pick up another pack of Woodbines and smokes one as he makes his way to the King’s Cross St. Pancras Underground stop.

Over the years, Gerry has traveled out of every station in London, most of them a dozen times, and St. Pancras has always been his favorite. There’s no real reason for it, especially since they don’t usually spend a lot of time waiting in the stations—his mother, and by extension Gerry and his siblings, have the timetables memorized and their timing down to almost an art, so they never have to wait more than eight minutes unless there’s a delay. He supposes it’s the memories. King’s Cross, just across the road, is good too, but he prefers St. Pancras if he has a choice. He usually doesn’t.

It’s raining, and it’s also early, which means limited traffic. Gerry leans against the wall just outside the Tube entrance, smokes his cigarette, and waits. There’s a café just over there he could probably wait in if he really wanted to, but he’s afraid of missing them if he does.

Suddenly he sees a familiar car pull up to the curb, exactly where he thought it would. Smiling, he flicks the remains of his cigarette into a puddle and moves towards it as the doors open and the occupants—or three of them, at any rate, he doesn’t know if the fourth is there—climb out.

“Carry your bags, miss?” he asks in his best Cockney accent.

“Gerry!” Melanie drops the suitcase she was starting to haul out back into the boot and hugs him tightly. Since he’s gone on a growth spurt since the last time he saw her, she misjudges slightly, but it’s no less welcome. “Are you just getting back in from—where was it this time?”

“Salzberg, by way of most of the former Austrian Empire. And no, I’ve been back since Tuesday.” Gerry hugs her back. “Been a bit busy, but I wasn’t going to miss this. Hey, Martin.”

“Hey.” Martin smiles brightly and comes over to hug him. He’s hit another growth spurt, too, and for the first time Gerry finds he has to look up at his little brother.

That never stops being a novelty, does it? A voice, tinged with melancholy, murmurs in the back of his mind, and Gerry agrees before it occurs to him that he doesn’t know where that thought, or for that matter the voice, came from.

“I can smell the cigarette smoke,” Martin whispers in his ear, bringing his attention back to the present. “Those things’ll kill you, you know.”

“I know, but you can’t blame me for needing stress relief today,” Gerry whispers back, giving Martin an extra squeeze before letting him go.

Uncle Roger gives him a fond smile and claps him on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you again, Harold.”

“Gerard,” Gerry corrects him automatically. “It’s good to see you, too, Uncle Roger.”

For just a second, there’s a flicker of something in Uncle Roger’s eyes, but it’s there and gone in a flash. “All right, all right. We’ve left it enough time for you to grab something if you hurry. Have you got your tickets?”

“Right here, Dad.” Martin pats his jacket pocket.

“Mine’s here.” Melanie holds up her bag, the one Gerry bought her in Cairo five years ago. It makes him absurdly happy that she’s still using it.

There’s a few moments of confusion as Gerry and Uncle Roger get Melanie and Martin’s luggage out of the boot and Melanie and Martin reassure him several times that they have both money and tickets, and then there’s another round of hugs in the rain. Then Uncle Roger turns to Gerry.

“Where are you going to school?” he asks, sounding slightly confused. “Which train will you be taking?”

“I’m staying right here in London, Uncle Roger.” Gerry carefully doesn’t look at Melanie. “Mum needs me at the shop. But I’ll make sure they get off safe.”

“Oh. Good. Thank you.” That thing flits through Uncle Roger’s eyes again, and this time, it lingers long enough that Gerry is able to identify it—mingled fear and dismay. He knows he’s forgetting things, and it’s upsetting him. “I need to get home to my bride. Make sure you phone when you get safely to school, all right?”

“We will. Love you, Dad.” Melanie hugs her father tightly one more time. “Tell Mum we’ll call.”

“Of course.” Uncle Roger kisses her forehead, then turns to Martin and hugs him as well. “Let us know when your first performance is and we’ll come see you.”

“I will, Dad. Love you.” Martin smiles wanly as he hugs him.

They wave as Uncle Roger pulls away. Then Gerry hefts Melanie’s trunk, which is much heavier than the time she took it to Poland, and turns towards the café. “Come on, let’s get out of this rain and have a bite.”

It’s a forgettable little place, the kind that changes names and hands like a small child changes shirts, but it’s also a place that knows its customers. The food they serve is hot, quick, neat, and above all cheap. Gerry buys breakfast for all three of them and takes it over to the table in the corner.

“How much time do you have?” he asks.

Martin checks his watch. “My train leaves in an hour.”

“Hour fifteen for me,” Melanie says. “Could’ve left later, honestly, but I wasn’t going to ask Dad to come out here twice and…”

“No, I get it,” Gerry assures her. “That’s good, though, it’ll give us a bit of time.” He pauses, then adds, not bothering to hide his smirk, “You’re leaving out of St. Pancreas, right?”

Melanie punches him in the arm, not gently. “Shut up. I can’t believe you let me call it that. At least Martin thought I was talking about a different station.”

“I thought it was cute. So, St. Pancras?”

“Yeah.” Melanie sighs. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and Gordon will be my engine.”

“I don’t think you’re going quite that far,” Martin says. “And he pulled the Express, remember? So if you’re not stopping at the exchange, it won’t be him.”

Gerry laughs. “Speaking of…well, not exactly, but I’ve got something for you.”

Melanie blinks. “For me?”

“For both of you. Hold on.” Gerry reaches under his coat for his bag.

He left Austria ahead of his mother, much to her annoyance, because it’s important that he be here for this. Melanie and Martin are both going away to school for the first time, and Gerry wants to be there to send them off. Especially since, for the first time since they were eight years old, they won’t be attending the same school, or even in the same city. Martin is heading up to Edinburgh, where one of the best music programs in the UK outside of London offered him a place, while Melanie heads to Folkestone and the school her mother attended.

He knows they’re both excited. He’s known that since they started telling him about applying. But he also knows they’re a little nervous, and a little melancholy, and he’s hoping to alleviate that a bit.

There are two packages of roughly the same size and shape, but Gerry was smart enough to put different colored bows on them before he labeled them. He presents Melanie hers first, just because it’s on top. “Go on, open it. Something to help you out when you get there.”

Melanie removes the bow and sticks it on the band holding her hair in place, then rips through the paper and lays the gift bare. She stares at it for a moment, then looks up at Gerry, eyes wide and shining. “For me? Really?”

“So you don’t forget the way,” Gerry tells her.

She touches it lightly, then draws back hastily. “It’s not under glass!”

“It’s canvas. It doesn’t need glass. Go on, you can touch it, the paint’s long dry.”

Melanie carefully traces a line, her face creased in concentration. “What’s that dot for?”

Gerry leans over Melanie’s shoulder as Martin does the same on the other side. “The green one there is Martin’s school, more or less. The blue dot is yours. And the copper one on the close-up map of London is me, obviously, not that you’ll forget where I am. But, you know, if I was going to mark important places on it, I reckoned where we were living was important.”

Melanie laughs quietly as she scans the drawing. It’s not exactly a faithful or detailed map; Gerry didn’t put most of the real cities in the United Kingdom on it. It has all the places they’ve gone for Martin’s birthday or hunting books for his mum, the cities where Martin and Melanie will be, and—most crucially—all the fictional places in England that they’ve been able to work out the locations of: Pepperinge Eye, the Island of Sodor, the Gump…it’s not exactly a map of fairyland, more just an alternate England, or several alternate Englands. Places they wish they could really escape to and be free of the Fourteen.

“I love it.” Melanie lays it on the table and gives Gerry a hug. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it forever.”

Gerry hands Martin his. “And this one’s for you. It’s not the same thing, but I think you’ll need this more.”

Martin is much more methodical about opening his gift, carefully working the tape loose and removing the paper carefully. After a moment, he, too, has exposed a framed picture. He gasps and his eyes fill with tears, but he smiles when he looks up. “Gerry, this is so good. It makes you really want to reach out and take their hands.”

“That was the idea, yeah.”

Melanie looks over Martin’s shoulder. “Do you really think I look like that?” she asks, sounding awed.

Gerry smiles at her. “You do.”

It’s not exactly life-size, but it’ll do well enough, he figures. One of Martin’s deepest, darkest fears is of forgetting faces; he still can’t really remember his grandfather’s, and even if they’re only going to be apart for a few months—this time around, anyway—he’s terrified of forgetting Gerry and Melanie. No matter how much they promise him they know he’ll still love them even if he can’t recall their faces, it still worries him. Add that to the forgetfulness that’s afflicted him since he was Marked by the Spiral, and the only thing Gerry could think of to give him was a picture of them. And he hopes that if Martin knows that Gerry painted it for him, rather than just framing a photograph, he’ll have less trouble believing he’s loved.

Does he really doubt that? The voice in the back of his mind sounds shocked. Doubt you? How can he believe you don’t love him?

Gerry mentally shrugs and tells the voice, His self-esteem isn’t great. It’s not that he doesn’t think I love him, it’s that he doesn’t think he deserves it.

It doesn’t feel like talking to himself, but he can’t quite put his finger on who he is talking to.

“I wish I could do something like this for you,” Martin says softly. “So you don’t forget I love you, too.”

Gerry wonders, for a fleeting second, if Martin is reading his mind, but that’s not the hold the Ceaseless Watcher has on him right now and it would be a cruel thing to do to—well, to anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old, and especially not to Martin. The last thing Martin needs is to be able to read his mother’s mind and know exactly what she thinks of him.

“Martin,” he says, “I’ve known that for eight years. I’m not likely to forget it any time soon. Cross my heart.”

“I love you, too,” Melanie tells him. She reaches for their hands and squeezes tightly. “Both of you. And, Martin, you write me and let me know when your winter concert is and I’ll try to come too. If nothing else, I’ll see you at the Christmas holidays, right?”

“Of course,” Martin promises. He reaches for Gerry’s hand to close the circle. “Will you come, too?”

“I’ll try,” Gerry assures him. “And like Melanie said, I’ll at least see you over the holidays. I’ll look in on Uncle Roger and Aunt Lily for you, too.”

Melanie frowns. “I wish you could get out of London, too. I know you never went to school like—well, not traditionally, anyway—but maybe you could get into university or something?”

Gerry hesitates, then drops his voice, even though he knows no one is there to overhear. “I’m not going to stay in London. Once you two get through your first term, once we’re sure you’re going to get out, I’m leaving. I’ll come back to visit you two, and then once you go to university, I’ll figure out somewhere to live close to you. Then once you graduate, we can get a house together somewhere Mum and Aunt Lily can’t get at us and start a new life.”

Martin looks hopeful. “Do you really think we can?”

“Of course,” Gerry says stoutly.

“I like that idea.” Melanie grins. “Okay, you’ve got a deal. Once we’re sure escape is possible, we run away together.”

Gerry squeezes their hands and lets go, glancing at the clock on the café’s wall quickly to check how much time they have left. “Oh, it’s possible, all right. It’s more than possible. The three of us together? There’s nothing we can’t do.” He grins. “Including escape our mums once and for all.”

[ohtumbly]

My Gacha OCs so far (part 1)

This post is incomplete.

I'll begin with some of the characters I made. I'll introduce myself at the end of the post.

My characters in Gacha Club as of now:

Isabel

First appearance: No. She does not have a character made in any Gacha game.

Character gender: Female

Character element: Water

Rating in the character gacha: ☆☆☆

Age: 13

Location in the real world: London, England

Favourite food/drink: Vanilla soft serve

Occupation: Student

She is a fairy magician, with long black hair in two low twintails tied with pink ribbon, and a pink hairclip bonds the side of her fringe. Her eyes are light blue. She wears a deep blue top hat with a pink stripe and a white lily flower, a sparkly light blue dress with white stars around, short puffy white sleeves from the dress, a deep blue vest over the dress, pink bow-tie, a pair of white gloves, white full-length stockings and a pair of shiny black mary-janes. Her fairy wings are pink and blue with a little yellow. She also holds a simple black magic wand with white ends.

- An alternative outfit with a blazer instead of a vest can be obtained from the costume gacha.

Isabel is a charming, lively girl who can help people with her magic, but they don't always work.

Despite living in London, she does not have a Cockney accent, but Somerset instead. She would sound something like Penny from Open Source Objects.

Honaka

First appearance: Gacha Life

Character gender: Female

Character element: Fire

Rating in the character gacha: ☆☆☆

Age: 9

Location in the real world: Tokyo, Japan

Favourite food/drink: Rice Cake

Occupation: Student

Honaka is a normal-looking human. Both her real self and virtual avatar has reddish-brown hair.

Her hair is styled into a long ponytail. Her eyes are crimson. She wears a large pink bow over her ponytail, white long-sleeved shirt with a white collar pink ribbon tied in front of the collar, blue skirted overalls, long white socks cut to half her thigh, and deep blue shoes.

Honaka is a dog enthusiast who likes dogs of any breed. She can treat any dog like it's hers.

She has a basic voice.

Mabel / Girl Scout Mabel

First appearance: Gacha Studio

Character gender: Female

Character element: Wind

Rating in the character gacha: ☆☆☆☆

Age: 14 (15 in the real world)

Location in the real world: Minneapolis, Minnesota

Favourite food/drink: Spaghetti Pomodoro

Occupation: Student

In both her real self and virtual avatar, she has blonde hair in two low, short twintails, tied with a black bow on each one. Her eyes are sky blue. In the virutal world, she wears a dark green beret, a light green button-up top with a darker green collar, red neckerchief, and a dark green sash with badges pinned on it, a dark green skirt, white socks with a ring of black around them, and protective brown shoes. This is the same outfit Mabel wears in the real world when she's out to the camp. When she's at her bedroom in her real home she would wear wear any minimalist outfit such as a T-shirt or singlet and shorts, along with a pair of round glasses.

- Her old Gacha Life outfit back in 2018 was a yellow short-sleeved top, green sash over her shoulders, beige skirt, and a yellow and green cap on her head.

Mabel is an American girl scout. She could be clumsy helping and mess things up, but she's trying her very best. She's the oldest in the Dokitown Daycare (she's the only 14-year-old), and one of many human people without any inhuman appendages.

She has a regular American accent in Gachaverse, but her real self keeps the Upper Midwest accent.

Camilla / Miss Lady Luck Camilla

I made this character first in: Gacha Studio

Character gender: Female

Character element: Fire

Rating in the character gacha: ☆☆☆☆

Age: 19

Location in the real world: Atlanta, Georgia

Favourite food/drink: Parfait

Occupation: Vlogger

Camilla is a very lucky girl who can win a lottery or get the best in gachas. She has long brown hair with short sidelocks, striking emerald-green eyes, eyeshadow, and nails polished pink. Her default outfit has a pink hairband with a large bow on it, heart-shaped sunglasses worn over her head, a fuchsia patterned dress, a dark coloured belt and tall boots.

- She has the most outfits in the costume Gacha.

Camilla is a sweet and lovely girl who enjoys shopping.

She has a soothing Southern accent.

Jodie

I made this character first in: Gacha Life

Character gender: Female

Character element: Water

Rating in the character gacha: ☆☆☆

Age: 10

Location in the real world: Stuttgart, Germany

Favourite food/drink: Cheesecake

Occupation: Student (real world), Artist (GV)

Jodie is a little girl who takes up upright painting on a canvas sitting perfectly on an steady easel. Her father (who does not have a Gachaverse character) is a mural artist who makes magnificent murals on walls with spray paint. She has blonde hair in two drill pigtails, blue eyes, wears a white beret with a small bow, a blue dress with long sleeves, long white socks and blue wellies. A new default outfit for Gacha Club was given to her in the middle of 2020 that changes to a white blouse with a collar and long sleeves, a deep blue knee-length skirt, long white socks and polished black shoes with a single buckle each.

Diagnosed with autism, Jodie was given a different mindset. One that makes her not very hardworking and would tend to lose focus. But that wouldn't stop her from being looked down upon by others. She usually acts normal and speaks smoothly. In the virtual world, she is one of some homeless children that stays in the Dokitown Daycare. There in her room, is where she keeps her paintings, and her canvas when she wants to paint something again. She looks around town for anything she would like to paint a picture of.

Her voice is a childish voice in a light German accent instead of a strong one.

Sara

First appearance: Gacha Club

Character gender: Female

Character element: Dark

Rating in the character gacha: ☆☆☆☆

Age: 24

Location in the real world: Nashville, Tennessee

Favourite food/drink: Soup & Salad

Occupation: Owner of So-Cheap Sara's

Sara was the first new character I've made when I began Gacha Club. Sara owns a diner called So-Cheap Sara's in Gachaverse, where a mean can get under 10 gachabucks. She has long brown hair with short sidelocks in front of her ears. Her eyes are violet with doll lashes. Her outfit is a 50s waitress uniform made up of a white headpiece, purple button-up dress, short puffy sleeves, small white gloves, white apron, short white socks and roller skates.

Sara likes to sing along to classic 50s tunes. She goes around her diner giving out milkshakes, iced tea, lemonade, sliders, waffle fries, hot soup, toasty sandwiches, and fresh crunchy salad, to her mellow customers every luncthime. The creator (me) would usually go there if he's looking to get a milkshake.

She has a light Southern accent.

Ben

Character gender: Male

Character element: Wind

Rating in the character gacha: ☆☆☆☆

Age: 12

Location in the real world: London, England

Favourite food/drink: Pancakes

Occupation: Student

Ben is a small boy with big ambition. In real life, he has neat brown hair a black sweater, long blue pants and platform shoes. He in Gacha Club however looks different. His brown hair isn't as neat, and his eyes are blue. He has a leather flight cap with avaiator's goggles, a beige scarf, a black jacket with long sleeves over a loose white t-shirt, a belt with a buckle, blue jeans, leather kneepads and leather boots.

Ben keeps his calm, even in the toughest of situations. He likes steam locomotives, steam tugboats and old airplanes. In the virtual world, he is one of some homeless children that stays in the Dokitown Daycare. In his room, his table is occupied with a fully-detailed model railway set, his shelves full of trains and boats, and a collection of classic biplanes. The shelf also keeps a remote-controlled seaplane which he takes it to the beach.

He has a Cockney accent, that similar to Ten Cents from Tugs.

Minazuki

First appearance: Gacha Club

Character gender: Female

Character element: Water

Rating in the character gacha: ☆☆☆☆☆

Location in the real world: Osaka, Japan

Favourite food/drink: Shortcake

Occupation: Student

Her name means (the month of) June, the rainiest month in Japan. She is an elf-like person with pointy ears, with long, light blue hair in two low twintails. Her eyes are light blue with shy-looking eyelashes. Her default outfit is a white lotus flower on her head, a necklace with a blue gemstone, a white off-shoulder toe-length dress with short sleeves, yellow wellies, and usually carries a polka-dotted umbrella. Alternatively, she might wear a yellow raincoat and rain hat over her dress and head respectively, but that's a different outfit obtained from the costume gacha.

She's a wise girl who separates the wrongs from right.

Minazuki has a soothing, silvery voice.

Jake & Jane

First appearance: Gacha Life

Character element: Light

Rating in the character gacha: ☆☆☆☆☆

Age: 7 (both)

Location in the real world: Des Moines, Iowa

Favourite food/drink: Chicken sandwich (Jake), garden salad (Jane)

Occupation: Farmer's son (Jake), farmer's daughter (Jane)

Jake & Jane are farmhouse twins who work and play together and would never be seen apart. Both have brown hair, hazel eyes, and wear the same red polo shirt with short sleeves. Jake has short hair, puffy yellow knee-length shorts with suspenders, white socks and brown shoes. Jane has her hair tied into a ponytail, a denim skirt with suspenders, long socks and black shoes with a single buckle.

Both Jake and Jane have been helping their father carrying wheelbarrows of melons and pumpkins, and feeding the animals. It was a lot of fun for them and they wouldn't give in.

Jake and Jane both have a generic American accent, something like Tommy and Tallulah from Tickety Toc (US dub)

Belle / Lifesaver Belle

Character gender: Female

Character element: Water

Rating in the character gacha: ☆☆☆☆

Age: 21

Location in the real world: Miami, Florida

Favourite food/drink: Mocktail

Occupation: Lifeguard

Belle is a former swim instructor and current lifeguard. She has reddish-brown hair in a ponytail. Her eye color is blue. Belle's outfit is a red two-piece lifeguard outfit that consists of a sports-bra-like top, red hi-cut briefs and no footwear. She also sports a red and white visor cap with a white circular rubber attachment with a red cross on it. The red cross represents the medical red cross.

Belle is a brave lifeguard and is always ready to jump in to the scene to save lives, but when she's on the watchtower, she keeps all her focus on the sky, the sea and the sand and nowhere else, so she might lose focus on other things. Her real self does regular routines and behavior.

She has a generic American accent, but her courage would make it sound a bit harsh.

And here is me, myself. My real name isn't used here.

The Creator / Creator

First appearance: Gacha Life

Character gender: Male

Character element: Water

Rating in the character gacha: ☆☆☆☆☆

Age: (follows my age)

Favourite food/drink: Milkshake

Occupation: Creator

The Creator who made Dokitown with his tablet and pen. And with these two tools, he can create anything and bring them to Gachaverse. His outfit in Gacha Life has blue hair, one white pupil, one black pupil, a jacket, belt, long pants and a pair of shoes. In Gacha Club, he is called DJ Creator, and has dark bluish-grey hair, a black t-shirt, track pants and chuck taylors.

He's mostly chill, and sometimes jokes getting through hard times.

He has a light Australian accent with a bit of Asian essence, so he would sound something like Jeff of the Wiggles, but younger

[celiastjamesoscar]

i was fine after falling over honestly, my friend came and sat down with me whilst we laughed shes such a sweetheart 🤍

im getting the iphone 14pro, im so happy, my mums boyfriend bought me it! he’s so sweet and he’s learning latvian for us even though he has a very predominant cockney accent, its so funny to hear 🤭

i just googled the peppermint rumchata and it looks delicious, as its winter my go to is an irish coffee, or sometimes i get it with baileys instead of whiskey, you should try it love its so good <3

have you been sleeping better at all? i rewatched the babadook and i now have to sleep with a light on 😭

Your friend is such a sweetheart for that <3

Your mom’s boyfriend is a doll for buying that for you!! I want to get that one, I just don’t want to have to spend the money on it. Awww, he’s learning Latvian for you guys, I really like this guy! Justice for his accent

That drink was really good mixed with some hot chocolate!! I couldn’t even taste the alcohol which led to me drinking a bit more than I should have 😭 I’ve never had an Irish coffee before, but it looks amazing!

I have been sleeping a little bit better. This morning I had a dream I got a 3% on my last chemistry exam and I woke up freaking out 😭 The Babadook is so scary for no reason!! I have beef with that movie, so i understand sleeping with a light on because of it

[notasapleasure]

Behind the Beautiful Forevers, National Theatre (2015)

David Hare's adaptation of Katherine Boo's book about a Mumbai slum. It follows various people and their interconnected stories, and Joplin is one of those playing multiple characters in the play: Sub-Inspector Shankar, the Prosecutor, and an unnamed extra.

First off, just a warning for anyone who might need it, as Sub-Inspector Shankar is not above committing a little light torture to get the results he wants. The story is pretty heavy too - there's self-immolation, suicide and violence.

And yeah, I am just here taking my little screenshots, and I am not above saying a uniform can look good on the right body even when said body is wielding a stick or belt as an instrument of torture. But you all know that from these blog posts already... First watch was for going oof at the story, second watch was just for going mad taking screencaps.

---

Oh HI Assad Zaman! He has a motorbike.

He.....oh dear. He had a very bad time as Deepak Rai, aka Kalu. Brutally murdered for breaking into the airport grounds to steal metal. (but he also turns up as a number of other characters)

Hmmmm hello Mr Officer Sir. That IS a moustache!! Sub-Inspector Shankar Yeram aka Fishlips 🙃 (I'm not making it up!)

He wants to keep the murder rates low! Get the certificates, look after his kids....just say the murder victim was suspected of having TB, the coroner will know what to do. Tell the other pickers he was murdered though, we wanna keep them scared!

Among the British actors putting on their Indian accents, he's at least doing a posher one but umm. If you know he's a Cockney you still know.

Holy SHIT did he just pick up Sunil the picker one-handed skdjdjjfjfjff 💀

The problem is I'm trying to have critical thoughts and then it's just 'HURRR. LOOK HOW BIG HE IS.'

Oh no, torturing a man for evidence is bad for his back :(

"Can you tell me what they've been charged with?"

"Yes, I can." 😐🤌

The tick of pulling the trousers up is splendid. The moustache is glorious. The bribery by tiffin is kind of charming. But the accent....bb it's not your best :') I guess it's a struggle to project and do this accent together?

Beginning of the second act (the rains have arrived - hence hat).

He sort of takes pity on the woman whose eldest son, husband and daughter have been jailed for beating a woman who then self-immolated (which they didn't do). I say sort of, because money and tiffins are very much involved, but he helps get Abdul a school certificate to ensure he'll go to juvie rather than adult prison.

As an aside, the second act hits SO much harder. The audience laughter is rarer, quieter, more nervous - in the first half it often made me uncomfortable, like the characters were grotesques to be laughed at. The themes come together too - younger generations who have seen either tenuous opportunity or brutal reprisal based on their parents' approach to getting on, asking themselves why they have to act 'dishonourably' or unjustly to improve their lot. And their parents standing by the hard work they've put in - whatever the cost - in order to improve things for their families.

Probably my least finest hour was trying to get a shot of Joplin's butt dancing in the background while Meena is in agony from the rat poison she's taken.

But if you do watch the play - and I really do recommend it - fair warning that Meena and Manju's interactions will wreck you, even if nothing else does (and there's plenty else that should).

THE MOUSTACHE IS GONE

He's now the lawyer for the prosecution (against the Husseins for Fatima's death).

LIES! DAMNATION AND LIES!

gosh isn't he big though.

I think the accent is better without the moustache?

They still have him hauling bits of stage around in his suit :') And once you're on the look out for him in the unnamed role in between scenes as the copper and the lawyer he's on stage quite a lot. But the cast is large and the story is dense, so if you do watch, be aware that focussing on Joplin will make the story near-incomprehensible and in focussing on the story you might miss a lot of his background appearances. Which is why I'm glad I watched twice :)

---

Rating

Dead? Nope! Not one version!

Evil? Nearly everyone in the play is morally compromised and sees the bribes and the selfishness simply as the only way of surviving with the hand life has dealt them. It's worse from the professional classes because of the additional power they wield, as you'd expect, and though S-I Shankar does what he does for his children's education, one feels he does relish it somewhat, too.

Affects the plot? He does indeed!

It took a while to warm on me, but the second act really made it all come together, and re-watching with a better idea of the characters and themes was really satisfying. The performances all round are great. And on a thoroughly basic note, the uniform is hot, the suit is well-fitted, and yes there was that time he picked up a dude one-handed. 3/5. The speaking roles he has really aren't nice people, looks notwithstanding, and the accent...not his best.

There are shitloads more screencaps too, but I couldn't be bothered to knit them together tonight - when I've watched the last three plays I'll set up a fan blog and a google drive with all of them in for people to take and use as they want.

[mal-mchale]

Mallory Justine McHale

"I want you to show me the worst of you More than your words can do Tonight I’ll be whatever you want me to be Tell me your fantasies"

Nicknames: Mal Pronouns: She/Her Sexuality: Lesbian Magic status: Mundus Nationality: British Ethnicity: Mixed Accent: British, Londoner, borderline cockney at times, accent has morphed slightly due four years in Canada Height: 5’7 Build: Strong, toned, jacked Complexion: Lightly Tanned Eye color: Hazel but depending on the lighting can be more of a light, golden brown Hair color/length/style: Dark brown, almost black, shaved on the sides, long on the top, a bit wavy, usually styled with product back and blown dry to keep it out of her face Tattoos: A thunderbird in flight, black and grey, on the back of her shoulder, the number 15 on her ankle usually covered by her socks Piercings: Cartilage, ears, and barbells in her nips Daily jewelry: On duty: A small necklace with St. Christopher on it that her Gran gave her. When she's not on duty or in the gym: a mixed and matched rings Occupation: Firefighter, Swynlake Fire Department Relationship Status: Single What would you find if you Googled them?: A UBC Hockey Bio with scoring records, a really old LinkedIn that hasn't been updated since 2020, a probably her name in couple local news articles from NTO when Swynlake comes to their aid for large fires What natives would know about them: -General Knowledge: Moved here in 2019, worked for InterPride for about a year, started at the fire academy in 2020, Officially graduated and joined the Fire Department in 2021. - Relationships: Ava Harper (2020-2022)

[allthemusic]

Week ending: 4 March 1954

Well, I like the look of this next song, not least because it looks like it might be by a band? We don't seem to see many bands at this point, or not in the way you'd have today. There are "X and His Band" type swing ensembles galore, and backing singers are sometimes credited with a name that makes them sound like a band, but again it's usually "X and the Singing Lads", or something of that ilk. Or a solo singer / a duet. Which makes me all the more intrigued about this next track which actually reached No. 1! The first band to hit the top spot?

I See the Moon - The Stargazers (peaked at No. 1)

Well, we being with a janky pub piano. It's a sound I would have written off as a one-off novelty if I hadn't been doing this project. Since I am, I can fairly confidently say that this is just the logical development of what Winifred Atwell is doing, a sort of deliberately out-of-tune, rowdy style.

The Stargazers, of course, take it one further by featuring a duff-sounding tambourine, a depressed-sounding trumpet and a drunk-sounding mixed chorus. The Stargazers themselves? They don't sound a very professional outfit, if so - you could have told me you pulled this lot out of a gutter at 2 am on New Year's Day and I wouldn't not believe you.

The overall effect should be bad, and I think it is bad? Only it's also somehow quite fun - a rowdy, nursery-rhyme sort of knees-up that you can't help but get behind as it lurches back and forth. It's got the sort of simple nonsense lyrics that you could legitimately sing while drunk: "Over the mountain / Over the sea / Back where my heart is longing to be / Please let the light that shines on me / Shine on the one I love." Repeat ad nauseam, possibly literally if you've had as many pints as these folks sound like they have.

Actually, when I said nursery-rhyme, I wasn't wrong. The "I see the moon / The moon sees me" line comes straight from a nursery rhyme attested as far back at 1784, in the wonderfully named compendium Gammer Gurton's Garland: or, The Nursery Parnassus which is also the first attested source for such notables as Goosey Goosey Gander, Roses are Red and There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. So that's something - a song with heritage.

Then we slip into a bit with lots of people passing the lyrics round, with a bunch of spoken "uh huh" bits. There seems to be a real range of unrealistic comedy accents, including a lot of Cockney and some cod-Italian? The overall effect, somehow, is Muppets. I can't explain why. Just listen, and you'll get the idea. In fact, the whole song could very convincingly be performed by the Muppets.

We get one really annoying bit as a man patronisingly commands the hordes to "let the little lady with the tambourine sing", following by an actually infuriating giggle, and then a repeated gag about her being rubbish at singing. First she tries to come in too soon, then she misses her cue, then the man has to tell her to sing louder, then to sing quieter. It's desperately unfunny.

Still, it's mostly back to likable, especially as she pipes down and contents herself with the odd, rather field-marshall-esque cries of "Everybody all together" and "Everybody once again". Which - and this might be a reach - actually feels like a rather Beatles-like "all together now" moment. It's straight from that most British institution, the music hall. And you know what, I like it! I don't know why anyone committed this to vinyl, or why anyone bought it. But I enjoy that it exists.

That was a journey. I can't wholeheartedly recommend that you listen to this. At the same time, if you do, I really hope you enjoy it. It's a journey, for sure!

Favourite pick of the ambiguously-drunk bunch: I See the Moon

[watching-pictures-move]

Put On Your Raincoats | Corrupted Beauty (Revell, 2018)

While this is very much a product of the digital era, meaning that it’s shot with digital cinematography that doesn’t do much to give the images much sense of depth, and the sex scenes go on for on for a pretty long time, it does remind me somewhat of Andrew Blake’s work from the early ‘90s. The focus here is more on atmosphere than narrative, more on making the performers look as glamorous as possible than on pure bodily objectification. It’s also, shockingly for a modern pornographic feature, under an hour and a half, so I figured I might as well give it a shot, especially as I, ahem, may or may not be a fan of one of the performers here.

Instead of a plot, we get a string of sex scenes contextualized by the desires of the female narrator. The prelude to the first scene has the narrator discussing her desire to be with a woman, and then to double-team a man, meaning that whatever conversation she would have had with her accomplice would have failed the Bechdel test. And I must admit that the combination of the sound mixing, the exact tone with which the narrator speaks, and what seems like her attempts to mask a Cockney accent were a touch grating. But anyway, I imagine most people who aren’t me are skipping past these parts to get to the good stuff, so I will register my protest and move on. (The lack of any plot progression probably is probably conducive to this viewing approach, as one can skip to their favourite scenes and not worry about narrative dependencies.) The narration does feel rather catered towards the interests of straight male viewers, but it is less crude and anatomical than it could have been, and for what it’s worth, the director, Scarlett Revell, is a woman, so at the risk of boiling these things down to the creators’ demographic details, there is perhaps a feminine touch here. Gonzo generally takes the perspective of the male participants, but there is an attempt here to filter the action through the perspective of the women.

Blake’s work brings to mind a fashion shoot, like a more graphic layout from Vogue in motion. This doesn’t have the same look (Blake’s use of film I think gives his movies a certain visual texture), but is similarly attentive to its aesthetics. The set design is minimalist, white furniture, wooden floors, walls with the faintest hint of mauve, captured in slight reddish lighting that gives the performers a certain alluring glow. And while the action itself isn’t especially fetishistic (the acts depicted are pretty vanilla, if spirited in execution), the fetishistic trappings of the mise-en-scene (gimp masks and bodysuits, latex/PVC dresses, a marital aid mounted on the heel of a shoe) give this a distinct enough visual signature. (I should note that I detected what seemed like continuity errors with respect to the tears in the gimp’s bodysuit, but I should concede that the tears could have expanded offscreen through the magic of editing.)

So anyway, that’s a whole lot of words for saying that this is nice looking and hot and the ladies are too.

[intimidating-fettuccine]

I would love to hear your headcanons for the creeps ethnicitys

We had this discussion a LONG time ago on the blog for a few of the creeps, and I cannot remember a lot of it for the life of me, so prepare for my opinions to have changed.

Jeff: Born in Louisiana, moved to Cali when he was younger so he only has a bit of a southern Louisiana accent in him. Prefers what he remembers from Louisiana over Cali culture.

BEN: Born in Florida, with Greek roots from his mom's side. Mostly speaks in a Floridian accent but he has some Greek mixed in from all the time he spent with his mom growing up.

Liu: Like Jeff, Born in Louisiana, moved to Cali. Still has a very very strong Louisiana accent, has a love for things from Louisiana like Jazz and New Orleans cooking.

Jane: Born in California, speaks with a Califiornian accent. Loves and misses her life in California.

EJ: Doesn't remember it, but he was born in Austria. Has a slight accent, but it's somewhat faded because he doesn't have many memories from his time there, and he doesn't have much memory of his language. Mostly speaks in English due to the ease of being surrounded by English speakers.

LJ: Made in the Overworld, placed in England. Speaks with a Cockney accent and is quite happy about that fact.

Toby: Born in Illinois, speaks with an accent. His mom is a big fan of their Chicago roots, and so he takes after her a bit, misses the lakeside.

Tim: Born in Idaho, does not speak with an accent.

Brian: Born in Idaho, does not speak with an accent.

Slender Brothers: Born in the Underworld, their father has Germanic roots, their mother has Italian roots. Slender does not speak with an accent, Trender has an Italian twang, Offender has a muted Germanic twang, Splendor does not speak with an accent.

Clockwork: Born in Alabama, speaks with an Alabama accent. Only thing she misses from Alabama is the food.

Bloody Painter: As I said, Born in France, speaks with the accent. (Click here for the post about Helen being from France that sparked this post.)

Doctor Smiley: Born in Russia, moved to the US with his family as a teen. Still has a bit of a Russian accent, and is still fluent in the Russian language. 

Sally: Born in Oregon, does not speak with an accent, doesn't really have any knowledge of life in Oregon to be attached to.

Jason the Toymaker: Made in the Overworld and only ever lived there. Designed with French aspects, and he has a light French accent, but it's not very strong.

Puppeteer: Born in New York but with Spanish roots, speaks with an amalgamation of a Spanish/New York accent. Misses the hustle and bustle of city life.

Zalgo: Born in the Underworld, doesn't have strong family roots from any sort of country. Doesn't speak with really any accent.

Candy Pop: Born in the Underworld, doesn't have any specific accent. Has a mixed family line from a lot of different roots.

Hobo Heart: Born in the Underworld, but spent a lot of his time on Earth in the midwest. Speaks with a midwest accent.

Nina the Killer: Like Jane, born in Cali, has a Cali accent. Doesn't miss it too much.

Kate the Chaser: Born in Colorado, speaks with a Colorado accent. Misses the freedom of all the outdoor activities she could get up to.