#Silly Songs with Larry did not prepare me for this

[kidsomeday]

Look cancel me if you want but honestly I think the most realistic part of Trigun Stampede is Nai read The Bible and was like “you know maybe humans were a bad idea.”

[bjfinn]

SPORES

(from an idea by @the-silly-station)

"Never Gonna Give You Up" by Pete Waterman, Larry Stock & Matthew J. Aitken, ©1987 All Boys Music Ltd., Sids Songs Ltd., Mike Stock Publishing Limited

"Why do I have to take another shower?" Beej protested. "I already took one just last week!"

"And now it's time for another one," Barbara said. "You know the rules: if you want to live here with us and the Deetzes, you need to shower once a week minimum."

"I never agreed to that!"

"Yes, you did! Now get in the bathroom!"

"No!" the demon scowled, crossing his arms defiantly. "I'm not taking a shower, and you can't make me!"

In reply, Barbara took hold of his ear and twisted it.

"Ow ow ow ow ow!" Beej yelped as she dragged him by the ear into the bathroom. She kicked the door shut, locked it, and released him.

"Get undressed," Barbara ordered.

"I always knew you had the hots for me, Babs," Beej said, rubbing his ear.

"Now!"

"It'd be more fun if you joined me." She raised her fist threateningly. "Okay, okay! Getting undressed now -- see?"

He took off his jacket and tie, carelessly tossing them aside.

Barbara, frowning, picked them up off the tiled floor and hung them on the doorhook. "You really should take better care of your things," she said.

He shrugged off his suspenders and removed his shirt, and then he looked at her pointedly. "A little privacy here?"

"Seriously??? " She turned around to stare at the wall while he removed his trousers.

"Okay," he said. "You can turn around now."

Barbara did her best to keep her eyes on the demon's face -- Beej was like a horny teenager, and she knew what she'd see if she looked down.

She turned him around to face the shower. "Get in!"

He did as instructed, pressing himself against the wall furthest from the showerhead. She reached in to turn on the water.

"No, don't! " he yelped. "I mean, just give me a minute to prepare myself, okay?" He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, then several more. Finally, his eyes still squeezed shut, he nodded. "Okay, I'm ready."

Barbara turned on the water.

Beej whimpered, twisting, trying to get away from the water.

"Every single time," Barbara sighed. She took a washcloth, wet it under the flow, squirted it with body wash and handed it to her friend.

Slowly, reluctantly, Beej rubbed the soapy cloth over his body, still keeping his eyes tightly closed, his face a mask of disgust and misery, his hair light blue tipped with white.

"Don't forget to wash everywhere," she said, not unkindly.

"I KNOW, BARBARA!" he yelled through the tears.

Barbara was glad that he always kept his eyes shut while showering -- it hurt her to see him in such anguish. He had a real fear of water, especially showers.

"Why do you hate showers so much?" she asked him. "I mean, you like rain, right? And the ocean."

"It's different," he said. "The rain feels different -- I can't explain it. A shower ... it's like the water's tryna hurt me. But rain feels like it's my friend. The ocean, too. I know it doesn't make sense -- but that's how it feels."

Eyes still shut, he handed her the washcloth and took the bottle of baby shampoo she gave him in exchange.

"Do your hair," she said gently, "and then it'll be over and we'll get you dried off, okay?"

"Okay," he said.

*****

When Beej came out of the shower, Barbara put a towel over his head, and he started rubbing it furiously against his scalp. Once his hair was only damp, he moved on to the rest of his body, turning his back to her -- after showering, the demon was always unusually modest, as if he felt exposed and vulnerable only when he was clean.

As he dried himself, Barbara noticed a small laceration on his back -- it was on the right side, just below his ribs.

"What's that scratch?" she asked.

"What scratch?" Beej asked, turning around comically as he tried to get a look.

"This scratch -- right here." She touched it gingerly.

"Ow!" he yelped, flinching as if she'd poked him with a sharpened stick. "That hurts! And not in a good way!"

"Sorry, sorry," Barbara said. "It's not very big -- maybe half an inch? But the area around it is red, inflamed. If you were human I'd think it was infected."

"That's silly," Beej scoffed. "I'm a demon, remember? Demons can't get infections."

"How did it happen?"

"I don't know," he replied, sounding perplexed. "I didn't even know it was there till you touched it."

"Lemme get you a band-aid." She went over to the medicine cabinet and took out the box of band-aids. She put one over the wound. "This'll help keep it clean."

"Thanks, Babs -- uh, Barbara. For everything. You're a good person."

*****

The next morning, Barbara asked Beej to show her the wound.

"Any excuse to see me naked, huh?" he smirked.

He turned his back to her and lifted his shirt. Gingerly she peeled the band-aid back and exposed the scratch.

"How's it looking?"

"Well, it's closed up," she told him, "but it still looks inflamed. Shouldn't it have healed completely by now?"

"Should've, yeah. Don't know why it hasn't."

"Maybe you're still a bit weak from the fight with Juno," she suggested. "Let's put a new band-aid on it for now -- I'll keep checking it every day, okay?"

*****

Delia was worried -- Beej was acting strangely, even for him. Her attempts to help the demon deal with his issues (his many, many issues) had been going so well, and the hobbies his found family had been introducing him to were allowing him to channel his hyper-chaotic energy into less destructive areas, but for the past few weeks she'd noticed a change. He'd become more sullen, more troubled. And the others had started to notice it as well.

"Do you feel guilty about finally destroying your mo- Juno?" she asked him.

"What? No!" he scoffed. "No way -- she deserved it! No one threatens my family and gets away with it. No one!"

"Are you sure? It would be perfectly normal -- she was still your mother, after all."

"She wasn't my mother," he said. "She was a breed sow, nothing more. You're my real mom -- you love me more than she ever did."

"So what's bothering you, BJ?"

He shrugged. "I -- I don't know ... I just feel ... off, somehow. I can't explain it."

"Is there something we can do to help?"

"I don't see what," he replied.

*****

"What's going on, Beej?" Lydia asked.

"Whaddya mean?"

"You seem ... I don't know -- kinda down lately. Like something's bothering you."

She took his hand. "You know you can talk to me, right? If something's going on? I'm your friend -- maybe I can help."

"I'm okay," he said. "Really. Nothing's going on."

She looked at him for a long moment. "Okay, well ... if you ever need to talk ..."

"I know," he replied. He kissed the tip of her nose. "Thanks, but really -- I'm okay."

*****

That night, after everyone else had fallen asleep, Beej lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sometimes -- most of the time -- he liked to share the Maitlands' bed, with Adam on one side and Barbara on the other, but lately he just wanted to be alone. And that bothered him -- he hated being alone, always had.

*****

A week later, the scratch still hadn't healed. It had remained closed, but it looked like it was getting worse.

"I don't like this at all," Barbara said. It's even more inflamed now -- and what are these little bumps?" She peered at the wound closely. "They look like ... like they're under the skin ..."

"It itches," Beej said, and reached around to scratch.

"Don't," Barbara told him. "Don't scratch - it might make things worse."

As she watched, a couple of the bumps pushed their way through the demon's epidermis. Tiny white spheres, each atop a slender white stalk.

"What are those?"

"What?" Beej said, alarmed. He tried again to see what Barbara was talking about. "What are they?"

"Does it hurt?"

The demon shook his head. "No, no pain -- it's just ... itchy. Uncomfortable. Whaddya see?" he asked. "What are they?"

"I don't know," Barbara replied. "They look like ... mushrooms."

"Mushrooms?"

"Enoki mushrooms, to be precise." She touched the tip of her finger to one of them, and it flinched. "Did you feel that?" she asked.

"Feel what?"

She frowned. "Okay, so whatever they are, they're not part of you. They're just ... growing in you."

*****

The next day, Beej's back was covered in the bumps, and a lot more of the... mushrooms had broken through his skin. Barbara made him wear a pair of rubber gloves, to stop him from scratching.

"Don't take them off," she instructed him. "Scratching spreads the infection."

"You're not the boss of me," he grumbled, but he did as he was told.

*****

Another week passed. Beej was surlier, more suspicious, more prone to sudden outbursts of rage than even when they'd first met. He was also zoning out more often, as if he was on autopilot.

There was no doubt about it -- Beej was getting worse.

"I think the ... infection is affecting his mind," Barbara said.

Lydia nodded. "He snapped at me this morning -- like a ... rabid dog, almost." She put her hands over her face and took a long, ragged breath. "I'm really worried."

*****

"How can this be happening?" Adam asked. "He's a demon -- how can he be infected with something?"

"It must be a Netherworld infection," Lydia replied. "Maybe he got it when we ... sent him back, and it's been incubating all this time."

"Whatever it is, wherever it's from, it's getting worse," Barbara said. "It's affecting his mind more and more. If it is from the Netherworld -- and it must be -- any cure will be there."

"Even if we can find a cure," Adam asked, "how do we give it to him? Like Barbara said, it's affecting his mind -- I don't think he'll be a docile patient."

"And I don't think we'll have much time before ... before he's past curing."

"So first we have to figure out how to trap him and keep him trapped," Charles said, "and then one of us has to go to the Netherworld to look for a cure. The question is, who?"

"I'll go," Lydia said.

"No!" Charles replied. "It's too dangerous!"

"I'm the only one who can go," she told her father. "If Barbara and Adam go, they won't be able to come back. If you or Delia go, you'll get lost --"

"You could get lost, too," Delia pointed out.

"Yeah," Lydia conceded, "but I spent more time there than any of you. Besides, I'm the strange and unusual one, remember?"

Charles shook his head. "I don't like this," he said.

"Lydia's right, Charles," Delia told him. "She's the best equipped to do this -- she's seen more of the Netherworld than you have. Lydia is Beej's only hope."

For a moment, Charles looked as though he was going to continue arguing against the idea, but then his shoulders sagged. "All right," he said. "I still don't like it, but you're right. Lydia will go to the Netherworld to find a cure."

"I'll be okay, Daddy," Lydia said. "I promise."

"Okay, so ... now that that's settled -- how do we trap a demon?" Adam asked.

"A salt circle," Delia said suddenly.

"A what?"

"A salt circle -- salt is purifying. He won't be able to escape a salt circle."

"You're forgetting one thing," Barbara said. "Beej can eat food with salt on it. And he went in the ocean at the beach. I don't think salt'll work."

"Oh, you're right," Delia said, nodding dejectedly. "What about silver?"

"He has that silver ring," Lydia reminded her. "The one he says he got from Rita Hayworth 'as a token of her undying love'." She smirked at the thought.

"And iron won't work -- he's used my cast iron and stainless steel skillets," Delia told them.

"Holy water?" Adam suggested.

"He says it stings a bit, but that's all," Lydia replied. "All we need --"

"Water!" Barbara exclaimed.

"The ocean, remember?" Lydia was getting exasperated. "And he likes rain."

"I know, but he hates showering -- hear me out," Barbara said. "What if it's not actually the water that he hates?"

"No," Adam replied. "It's being clean."

Barbara shook her head. "I don't think so -- afterwards he doesn't rush to get dirty again."

"Where are you going with this?"

"What's the difference between shower water and rain? Or the ocean?" She paused, waiting for a response. "Oh, come on, you guys -- it's chlorine! That's why he said the water in the shower feels like it's trying to hurt him -- it's chlorinated!"

"So we need a ... circle of bleach?" Delia asked.

"No," Adam said suddenly. "Not a circle, exactly -- a moat. We can build a moat, fill it with bleach and trap him inside it!"

"First of all," Charles said, "where are we going to build a moat?"

"Guys! Listen to me!" Lydia said, completely exasperated. "You're all overthinking this! Beej is a demon -- all we need to trap him is a pentacle! We draw one on the floor and get him inside it -- he won't be able to break free."

"Where are we going to put it?" Charles asked.

"We can paint it on the floor in the basement -- Beej doesn't go down there very often, so he won't see it before we're ready to trap him."

Charles shook his head. "I'm not sure I like that idea, pumpkin," he said. "We just finished the basement -- it's a new hardwood floor. Putting paint on it --"

"Painter's tape!" Adam said suddenly.

"What?"

"We use painter's tape to make the pentacle -- it's specially made to be easy to remove, and it won't ruin the floor."

"All right, but how do we get him inside? He'll see it."

"If he's distracted enough he won't notice it," Lydia replied. "And we all know how easy it is to distract him."

Charles nodded. "I'll go to the hardware store right now -- the sooner we get started, the sooner it'll be ready." He looked at his ghost friend. "I just hope Lydia can find a cure for BJ," he said. "He's ... grown on me."

Adam laid a hand on Charles' shoulder. "He's part of the family."

*****

"There!" Charles said, as he and Adam finished making the six-foot-diametre pentacle according to Lydia's directions. "All finished!"

Lydia looked at the trap appraisingly. "Looks good," she said.

"Are you sure we'll be able to distract him enough that he won't see it?" Adam asked.

Lydia looked at him pointedly. "This is Beej we're talking about, remember?"

"We just have to stay positive," Delia said. "The universe is attuned to positivity."

"I really hope this is going to --" Barbara began, but she was interrupted by the demon's sudden appearance.

"What's goin' on?" he asked, baring his teeth like a predator scenting prey. His eyes were wild, and he looked like he was about to pounce on one of them. "What're all of you doing down here in the basement? You guys talkin' about me behind my back?"

"No, of course not," Delia reassured him.

"Yes, you were," he said in a singsong voice.

"We're just --"

"YOU'RE LYING!!!" he roared, his face inches from hers. "I KNOW WHEN SOMEBODY'S LYING TO ME -- I'M THE MASTER OF LIES!"

"BJ, please," Charles said, "there's no reason to --"

"No reason to what, Chuckles? No reason to scare anybody? No reason to hurt anybody? No reason to KILL ALL OF YOU??? " Suddenly he had a machete in his raised hand. He advanced on Charles, brandishing it menacingly.

Suddenly he stopped, and in a conversational tone he said, "I'm sure you're all wondering why I have this machete -- I mean, I'm a demon, after all. I could just go feral, right? You know I can -- Dee here's even seen it. She'll tell you, won't you?

"Or I could just kill all of you with a thought, a wave of my hand -- like THIS!"

The others flinched as he demonstrated, but nothing happened to any of them.

"Huh, nothing happened," Betelgeuse said. He looked at his hands. "I wonder why? Oh, yeah -- BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO KILL YOU THAT WAY! IT'LL BE SO MUCH MORE FUN TO EVISCERATE YOU! TO SLAUGHTER EACH AND EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU AND BATHE IN YOUR --"

"Now! " Delia shouted.

Lydia barrelled into the demon, shoving him into the circle, the machete clattering to the floor. He snatched at the girl, but she twisted away from him and got herself safely out of the circle.

Betelgeuse was in a frenzy, growling and snarling, howling and roaring, but he was trapped inside the circle, unable to break free.

"Hurry!" Adam urged Lydia. "Find a way to cure him before it's too late!"

She nodded. With the piece of chalk she drew a door on the wall of the basement, knocked three times, and stepped through into the Netherworld.

Delia hugged Charles, burying her head against his chest, and he rubbed her back in a gesture of comfort. But Adam and Barbara could see the look of anguish on his face.

"Save him, Lydia," he whispered. "Save my ... my boy."

*****

Lydia rubbed her arms as she looked around -- she'd forgotten how cold it was here. "Should've remembered to bring a sweater," she said to herself.

She started walking -- she had no idea which way to go, but like the Cheshire cat said in Alice in Wonderland, "If you don't know where you're going, anywhere will get you there."

She knew one thing -- she needed to find someone who could help. If only there were doctors or hospitals in the Netherw-

Of course! She needed to find a doctor who had died!

"Even if they don't know what to do, they might know someone who does," she said. "But how do I find --"

Tina.

She worked in the processing department -- she probably knew almost everyone here. She might know a doctor.

*****

Betelgeuse was no longer raging, but the demon's snarls were still terrifying to both the Deetzes and the Maitlands. If he should break free from the circle, he would devour all of them.

Delia was still sobbing against Charles' shoulder, and Barbara and Adam were holding each other tightly, all of them hoping and praying that Lydia would soon return, safe and sound, with a cure for their friend.

"She won't find a cure for me," Betelgeuse told them.

"You don't know that," Charles said firmly.

"Yes, I do -- this was Juno's parting gift. Now that she's been eradicated, the cure is gone, too." There was no regret in his voice, only ... cold, malicious satisfaction.

"I don't believe that!" Adam said angrily. "There must be a cure!"

"It doesn't matter what you believe, sweet cheeks -- the cure is gone, kaput, finito. Just like Juno. Just like Beej will be soon enough. There'll only be me, and I'll infect all of you."

"Why?" Barbara asked. "Why do you want to do that, Beej? We're your family! "

He simply laughed, a horrible cackle that sounded like --

"Juno?" Adam asked, horrified.

"What? " Barbara asked. "That's Juno??? But how --"

"My sweet boy thought he could destroy me!" the demon said. "Well, I ain't that easy to get rid of! I scratched him, left a tiny part of me in him that would survive and grow. I must admit, it was a clever plan, though -- blocking his ears so he couldn't hear the spell. Which one of you thought of it? I know it wasn't him -- he's just not that bright. And it couldn't have been his new mommy or daddy -- what would either of you know about such things? And you two," Juno-in-Betelgeuse said to the Maitlands, "you know even less!" The demon thought for a moment. "The girl -- of course! BJ's 'best friend forever'! She's the one who came up with the idea, isn't she?" A smug smile played across Beej's round face. "I'll have my fun with her when she gets back."

*****

"Tina?" Lydia called into the darkness. "Tina, are you here? Please, it's me, Lydia -- Beej needs help! Tina?"

Nothing.

Lydia sat down on a rock. She'd been walking for what seemed like hours without encountering a single soul.

"Please?" she said softly. "Can somebody help? Anybody? "

She was utterly alone.

How was she supposed to find anyone in this place? The last time she'd come to the Netherworld she'd been searching for her mom, but hadn't found her.

She closed her eyes in resignation. It was no use -- Beej was going to be consumed by whatever it was that had infected him, and there was no one who could --

"¿Chiquita? What are you doing back here?"

"Tina!" Lydia exclaimed, leaping to her feet and throwing her arms around the ghost. "I thought I'd never find you!"

"I came as soon as I could get away -- plane crash. Seventy nine dead," Miss Argentina explained. "It's a very busy day in the office." She sat down on the rock and took Lydia's hands in hers. "¿Por qué estas aquí, carita? You know it's not safe for breathers, even with Juno being gone!"

"It's Beej," Lydia told her. "Something's wrong -- he's sick. Infected."

Tina frowned. "No es posible," she said. "Demons can't get sick."

"That's what he said, at first -- but he's changing."

"Changing? How?"

"His personality -- he's becoming more evil than ever before. And there's things growing out of him ... like mushrooms, or something. He's been infected, and I need to find someone who can cure him."

Tina's dismay was plain. "¡Dios mío!" she breathed. "The spores."

"What's the spores?"

"Es una infección por hongos -- how do you say ...? A fungal infection. Very rare. It takes over the mind, eats away until there is nothing left." She put her face in her hands. "¡Ay ay ay -- pobrecito!" She looked at Lydia with tears in her eyes. "Lo siento, carita -- there is no cure."

"There has to be a cure! Or someone who can make a cure!"

*****

The Deetzes and the Maitlands had returned upstairs -- it was too difficult to watch what was happening to Beej.

"When will we ever be rid of that ... that demon bitch? " Charles snarled.

"Lydia will be back with a cure soon," Delia reassured him. "I know she will."

"Delia," Barbara said gently, "we may have to face the possibility that --"

"Don't say it!" Adam cut in. "We need to believe that everything will be all right. That .. that Beej will be ... will be all right." He looked like he wanted to punch something -- anything.

"Adam --" Barbara began.

"No! He's our friend and we owe it to him to stay positive!"

*****

After some thought, Tina had taken Lydia back to the processing centre. "I'll check the records," she'd said. "Maybe there's a scientist or someone who has knowledge."

Now she was digging through the files. "You need someone who has been dead long enough to know about Netherworld diseases ... Aha! " she exclaimed triumphantly, holding a file folder aloft. "Doctor Sunil Chaudhury. He died in --" she checked the file "--1987. He was a researcher of fungal infections. If anyone can help, it will be him."

"Where can I find him?"

Tina skimmed through the file. "Here it is -- he has a laboratory in J Sector. That's not too far from here. Come, I will take you!"

*****

"Are you hungry?" Delia asked. She'd brought a plate of food downstairs. "I brought you some dinner. It's your favourite -- meatloaf and mashed potatoes."

Betelgeuse just snarled and snapped at her.

She pulled a chair over and sat. "It must be awful for you -- being possessed by that ... that horrible old hag."

"Beej isn't here any more," the demon said. "It's just us girls, dearie."

"You're wrong," Delia replied. "He's still in there -- I know it. I can feel it."

Juno scoffed.

"You're not as strong or as smart as you think you are," Delia told her. "See, there's something about me that you don't know."

"Oh, I know everything I need to know about you," Juno said. "You're a ditz who believes anything she hears about anything so long as it's packaged as New Age bullshit."

"Do you know why I believe in New Age spirituality?" Delia asked.

"Why?"

"Because I can see auras."

Juno narrowed her eyes.

"I can see Beej's aura," she went on. "It's not as strong as it used to be, but it's still there. And so long as I can see his aura, I know he isn't gone."

She stood and went back upstairs with the plate of food. She scraped the meatloaf and potatoes into the trash, put the plate in the sink and, gripping the edge of the counter tightly, began to cry.

*****

Trapped in his own body, Beej could do nothing to let his friends -- his family -- know that he was still here, that Juno hadn't yet taken over completely.

He wanted to scream, "I'M STILL HERE! I'M STILL ALIVE!" But he couldn't -- Juno was in the driver's seat.

Then Delia said that she knew that he was still in there because she could still see his aura, and that gave him a glimmer of hope.

"It doesn't matter if she can see your aura," Juno said. "You'll be gone soon enough, you ungrateful little shit."

"Fuck you," he replied.

*****

"Here we are," Tina said when they had arrived at Dr Chaudhury's lab. She knocked on the door. "Doctor? It's Tina -- from processing. There's someone here who needs your help."

"Yes?" Dr Chaudhury said when he opened the door and saw them standing there. "What can I do for you?" He was a slim, dark-skinned man with glasses and a pleasant Anglo-Indian accent.

"This is Lydia -- she needs the help of a micólogo."

"Now is not a good time, I'm afraid --"

"Please, Dr Chaudhury," Lydia said. "My friend has been ... infected by some kind of fungus -- Tina called it 'the spores'?"

He looked at her, frowning. "You're not dead," he remarked. "Why not find a living mycologist?"

"My friend's name is Beetlejuice," she told him.

"Juno's son is your friend?" he asked, surprised. "How did you become friends with someone like him?"

"It's a long story," she replied. "Please -- can you help me? It's urgent -- I need a cure, a treatment, anything."

He opened the door wider. "Come in," he said.

*****

After Lydia had finished her account of the events of the past few weeks, Dr Chaudhury was silent for a long moment.

"¿Puede ayudarla?" Tina asked him.

He shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure," he said. "The spores, as you call them, are a sort of cordyceps -- you've heard of zombie ants?" Lydia nodded. "This is similar -- but it's a manufactured infection. You said that your friend had a scratch on his back?"

Lydia nodded. "He doesn't know how it happened, though."

"He had struggled with Juno," the scientist said. "She may have infected him -- she always detested him."

"Es cierto," Tina agreed. "She blamed him for losing her ability to shapeshift."

"So it was Juno who did this to him???" Lydia fumed.

"I believe so," Dr Chaudhury said.

"Can you make a cure?" Tina asked.

"I will need access to Juno's home, her office ... there should be something somewhere that I can use to make a cure for your friend."

"Vamos ahora, entonces," Tina said. "I will take you."

"Wait," Lydia said. "We don't need to go anywhere -- we took a sample of the fungus." She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a small zipper bag filled with the mushrooms Barbara had culled from Beej's back.

Dr Chaudhury took the bag with a smile. "Very nice," he said. "Let's get to work."

*****

Well," Dr Chaudhury said, looking up from his microscope, "these fruiting bodies -- mushrooms -- are definitely Netherworld in origin. Most interestingly, they're still alive, and seem to be sentient to a degree."

"What do you mean, 'sentient'?" Lydia asked. "Like intelligent? "

"To some extent, yes," came the reply. "They display self-awareness, and intent. Their purpose is to infect, and they want to fulfill that purpose, even now, even separated from the mycelium -- the main network of the fungus."

"¡Dios mío!" Tina gasped.

"This is crazy! " Lydia wailed. "You're telling me that my best friend is being taken over by an intelligent fungus that was created by his mother?"

The doctor nodded.

"How can it be stopped?" Lydia asked. "How do we kill it without killing Beej?"

*****

Beej was almost catatonic now -- he was sitting in the centre of the trap, just staring into the middle distance, his eyes unfocussed. The only sound he was making was a soft humming.

"I don't think he has much time left," Barbara said. "If Lydia doesn't come back soon ..."

"She'll be here in time," Adam told her. "She has to."

Suddenly a door opened up in the wall of the basement, and Lydia ran out, right into Adam's arms.

"I got it!" she told them. "At least, I hope I do."

"Where is it?" Barbara asked hurriedly. "We need to give it to him now! " "It's in the kitchen," Lydia replied. "It's something we had all along!"

*****

"Vinegar??? " Delia said, incredulous.

"What are we supposed to do with it?" Charles asked. "Pour it down his throat?"

"Yes!" Lydia said. "Well, we also need to shower him with it -- it needs to be taken both internally and externally."

"How do we shower him with vinegar?" Adam asked.

"Super Soakers!" Delia said. "We've got several in the garage, remember? We fill them with vinegar and blast him with it! And I've got lots of vinegar for pickling -- gallons of it!"

"Adam and I will get the Super Soakers," Charles said. "You guys get all the vinegar ready."

"Wait," Barbara said. "Are you sure this'll work? I mean, it just seems ... too simple, don't you think?"

"We don't have a choice," Lydia told her. "If we don't try it, Beej is gonna die. I know it sounds crazy, but at this point it's his only chance."

*****

They headed down to the basement, each of them carrying a Super Soaker filled with vinegar. Charles also had an extra two-quart jug of the stuff -- he had a plan for how to make sure the vinegar got in the demon as well as on him.

"Hi, guys!" the demon said -- he sounded like himself again. "What's goin' on? Are we gonna have a water fight? Where's mine?"

Lydia began pumping the barrel of her Super Soaker.

"Wait," Delia said suddenly. "Let me try talking to him one more time."

"Delia, no!" Charles said.

"Charles, he's our son," she told him. "What if this doesn't work? What if ... what if the vinegar kills him?" Her eyes welled up at the thought. "Please -- I need to try. It might be the last time I get ... get to talk to him. The last time I get to tell him that I love him. That we love him."

Charles nodded, blinking back sudden tears of his own. "Be careful," he said.

"Trust me, Charles -- I know what to do."

She approached the circle and held her hands out to the trapped demon. "Beej," she said, "it's me, Delia. Do you remember me?"

"Of course I do," he replied. "You're my friend -- you're my mom."

She's not your mom, Juno's spores whispered to him.

"Yes, she is," he said aloud. "She's my mom and she loves me more than you ever did."

Lydia's eyes welled with tears. "That's right, Beej," she said under her breath. "Fight it! You can do it!"

"Come on, BJ!" Charles whispered.

"That's right," Delia said. "I love you. You're my son."

You're MY son. You belong to ME -- forever.

Betelgeuse shook his head. "I'm not your son -- you always hated me. She -- they -- don't hate me. They love me."

Delia nodded. "We do love you, and we want you to get better and come back to us -- that's why we're going to have another water fight, Beej. It'll be fun, and it'll help make you better.

"Take my hand, Beej," she said. "Take my hand, and we'll have a water fight."

The demon stepped forward and reached out to take her hand, but then he stopped. "It's a trick," he said, his eyes blazing with madness once again. "You're trying to trick me! You don't wanna save me -- you wanna kill me! Oh, you guys think you're sooo smart, don'tcha? Smarter than old Beej, right? Well, I got news for you -- I'm smarter than all of you put together! You can't con a con man! Now you're all gonna die! "

He lunged forward, screaming in agony as he crossed the edge of the pentacle.

Charles tossed the Super Soaker to his wife. "NOW!"

The demon roared as he was hit with five high-powered streams of vinegar. Whether from the force of the multiple blasts or from the acidic liquid itself, he fell to the floor of the basement and went into a foetal position, and the others kept soaking him with vinegar until he was completely drenched and whimpering.

Charles got the remaining jug of vinegar and went over to the demon. He flipped Betelgeuse onto his back and tossed a rag over his friend's face, and proceeded to waterboard the demon with the vinegar.

"GAGH! AAAGH! NO! STOP! RRRAAAAHHHH! " Betelgeuse kicked and sputtered, thrashing about as he choked on the liquid flooding his system.

"I'm sorry, BJ," Charles told him in an anguished voice, "but this is for your own good!"

Finally the jug was empty. Charles tossed it aside, breathing like a bull.

Beej lay there on the floor, not moving.

"Did ... did you kill him?" Adam asked.

"He was already dead," Lydia pointed out.

Suddenly Beej coughed and began snoring, and everyone, Lydia included, let out a sigh of relief.

"Let's get him up to his bed," Charles said. "We'll strap him in until we know if it worked."

"It worked," Delia told him. "His aura is better already - not a hundred percent, but better. More like it used to be." She turned to her husband and put her hands on his chest. "You were magnificent," she said. "A real tiger. Rrrawrrr!"

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Come on," she said. "We've got a demon to tuck in."

*****

After a month and a half of drinking and bathing in vinegar, there was no sign of the infection. Beej's skin had cleared up and he was back to his old self -- no trace of madness. Well, only his regular madness.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Beej," Lydia said, when the demon came down for breakfast. "We were all really worried about you."

"Yeah," he replied, "me, too. Thanks for ... for ..."

Lydia hugged him. "We couldn't stand by and do nothing," she told him.

"What was it like?" Barbara asked.

"Not good," he replied. "I was trapped inside myself -- I could see and hear everything, but I couldn't do anything, you know? Juno -- the spores, whatever -- they were in complete control of me, of everything I said, everything I did." He looked at the floor. "I'm sorry for everything, guys."

"Oh, Beej!" Delia said, coming over to him and giving him a hug. "We know it wasn't you! It wasn't your fault, honey!"

"Of course it wasn't," Charles added. "It was her fault. Juno."

"Thanks, guys," Beej said. "I did learn one thing, though."

"The importance of family," Adam said, nodding confidently.

"Yeah, no," Beej replied. "I mean, I already knew that. I learned how much I hate vinegar! Seriously, I never wanna go near that stuff again!"

Charles chuckled. "That stuff saved your life."

"Yeah, well ... it's still pretty nasty."

He looked at the others. "I learned something else, too, though."

"What's that?" Lydia asked.

"How important it is to be yourself. I nearly lost myself, you know?"

The Maitlands nodded.

"That spore fungus is a horrible thing," Barbara said.

"No! I mean, yeah, it is, but that's not what I'm talking about here. I'm a demon! I'm supposed to be evil -- I'm supposed to cause death and destruction! And you guys ... you guys tried to change me -- you tried to take that away from me. Juno -- the spores, whatever -- they were right -- I'm just your pet! Your dumb little demon dog that'll do tricks for treats!" He turned away, his hair a mix of magenta and purple.

"Oh, Beej, no," Delia said. "That's not true! You're family! We love you!"

Charles spoke up. "BJ," he said, "it took me a while to ... warm up to you. After all, you forced my daughter to marry you, you repeatedly threatened every one of us --"

"Good times, huh?" Beej said, a sardonic smile on his face.

"My point is," Charles said, "eventually I did warm up to you. I ... like having you around -- we all do." The others nodded in agreement. "You're the reason we're all together -- in fact, you might be the glue that holds this family together."

"Beej," Lydia put in, "you're my best friend. My weird dead older brother." She took both his hands in hers. "You saved me from making a terrible mistake that day on the roof. You saved all of us from your mother, from those guys who broke in ... all because you wanted to be part of something. Something special. But you need to realise that you're what makes us special.

"We never wanted to change you -- we were just trying to help you fit in with us breathers, don't you see? You bring ... a bit of chaos into our lives, and we need that sometimes. We need that -- to remind us that, no matter what, life is worth living, just to see what happens next."

Beej was in tears now. "I love you guys so much -- but I can't be me if I stay."

"Why not?" Adam asked. "Why can't you be yourself? So you're a demon -- okay, so what?"

"So you guys aren't gonna want me to stay if I go back to scaring the crap out of people! I need to be feared! I need to hear that sound again -- that sound of people screaming in terror!" He looked at them. "I need it like ... like breathers need air and water -- without it ... I'll die. Well, I won't die -- I'm already dead -- but --"

"We get it," Lydia said. "It's part of who you are."

Beej nodded. "So I have to go -- find somewhere else."

"You are not going anywhere, young man!" Delia was adamant. "We are your family, and we love you, and you belong here with us, dammit!" She looked at him, and the demon could see the love in her eyes -- the love he'd craved his entire unlife. "You're my son. You'll always be my son."

"Why do you have to leave for good?" Adam asked suddenly. "Why can't you just ... I don't know, take a few days' break from us now and then? You know, like a mini-vacation?"

"That's a great idea!" Barbara exclaimed. "You can go somewhere else for a bit and then come back!"

"You guys still want me to come back even if I go around causing death and destruction?"

"People who love you don't turn their backs on you just because you did stuff they don't approve of," Lydia said. "You're still my friend, even after I killed you, right?"

He nodded.

"The world is already so filled with death and destruction," Charles told him, "a bit more won't matter, now will it?"

"Chuck! I'm impressed!" Beej said, grinning. "That stick must've really hurt coming out!"

"What stick?"

"The one you had shoved up your --"

"Yes, well," Charles interrupted. "Go. Do what you need to do. Just -- not here in Winter River. Or Connecticut. Or the eastern seaboard. Or --"

"I think what Charles is saying is that we understand and support you," Delia cut in. "There will always be a place for you here, with us -- no matter what."

"Really?" Beej said, his eyes welling up again. "You really mean that?"

She and the others nodded -- even Charles. "We really do."

"You might be a demon," Barbara said, "but you're our demon."

"And we're never gonna give you up!" Adam added.

"Thanks, guys," Beej said, wiping away his tears. "You guys are the best! Now I'm gonna go and give somebody the fright of their life!" He turned to Delia. "I'll be back in time for dinner."

And with that, he vanished.

Barbara looked at her husband. "Rick Astley? Really?"

"What? I thought it was appropriate!" He took her by the hand and started to sing:

Never gonna give you up

Never gonna put you down

Never gonna run around and desert you

Barbara added her voice to his as she and Adam danced, and Charles took Delia's hand to join in the fun.

Never gonna make you cry

Never gonna say goodbye

Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you!

[sharpnothashtag]

My dad was a music minister. I was at church every time the doors were open. I watched VeggieTales before I could speak. I spent long nights in the church while Dad worked and Mom prepared for VBS. When I was too sick to go to school, I slept in my dad's office on a handbell cushion.

I was at church almost as much as I was at home. I did my homework there; I ate meals there; I worked one of my first jobs there.

When I was 12, I joined the youth group. My friends left me. I still had baby teeth when my Sunday School class, who had decided I was gay, gang sodomized/raped me with a box of tampons. When I asked them why, they said this was for when praying the gay away didn't work.

I put it out of my head. They were trying to save my soul, right?

A few months later, the leadership team (older people from the youth group) beat the shit out of me in the garden my mom and I started years before as a mother-daughter project. When I asked them why, they said they cared, and they didn't want me to go to hell for being gay. They HAD to beat it out of me.

I cleaned myself off and put it out of my head. This literally meant that they cared enough to keep me from eternal damnation. I was worth saving, right?

No one talked to me. I stopped talking at church. I was kicked out of every group except for my dad's choir. I only sang--I wouldn't speak unless I was with my dad. Every once in a while, I would muster up the courage to say something, but then my entire body would tense up. I didn't deserve to be there. Something was wrong with me.

I had accepted Christ. I read my Bible every single morning. I prayed for God to change my circumstances or change me. The Jesus they were talking about didn't seem like the one I read about in the scriptures, but that didn't necessarily mean that I was right about that.

I was truly, truly alone.

Through all of this, I was a teenager who LOVED VeggieTales. So, at the end of the day, even though I was alone, I had Bob to give me a good talking to; I had Larry to keep me laughing. I had Jimmy and Jerry and Jean-Claude and Philipe and Junior and Archibald and Scooter and Madame Blueberry and the Scallions to keep me going (and yes, all the rest, too). When I had a question about scripture, I brought it to Grampa George. When I was having a bad day, I'd go talk to Laura and Annie. When I needed a hero, LarryBoy was always there for me.

At 14, I was an on-and-off member of the Praise Team. We sang contemporary Christian music by Chris Tomlin, Hillsong, Casting Crowns, etc. I listened to it and sang it constantly. I did that kind of singing nonstop for different churches until I was 24.

My background in Dad's choir was mostly Hymn arrangements and Gaither Vocal Band. I sang a LOT of that as well. When I got to college, I was hired to do that at churches as well as the Contemporary thing.

Finally, at 24, I discovered that I was NOT past my church trauma--in fact, I was just remembering most of it. I changed denominations to get back to a more traditional service.

I've worked hard in therapy on my church trauma, and church is still hard for me. I keep going, and I continue to heal in new ways every day.

In my head, I still had the community of Veggies. Even though I also had people, the Veggies were always there to keep me grounded in what my faith was really about.

Today, on my way to church, God told me to play some Christian music in my car. As a rule, I don't listen to that in my car unless I'm working on something specific. I kept trying to find something that wasn't going to trigger me.

I stumbled across this:

This album is every bit as silly as you think it is.

Every single one of these songs is really triggering for me. They make me feel like I don't belong, even though it's been years since I experienced that. My heart rate skyrockets, and I can't breathe.

Not today.

Because today, Bob and Larry were there to remind me that God can redeem anything. The silly voices in my head/on this CD reminded me that NOTHING can separate me from the love of God. Not barbed wire, or a mean dog, or a really bad haircut. Not people who hurt me beyond what I'm ready to talk about here. Not my dad's death. Not PTSD. Not anxiety. Not OCD. Not Prozac. Nothing.

Why?

Because God made me special, and God loves me very much.

[tommodirection]

Little Sister

Harry Styles x Tomlinson! Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: swearing, playful mentions of Larry

Masterlist

A/N: Heylo! I hope you enjoy this! I’ve been working on this for about a month now, never being able to finish it, but I decided to sit down and finish it tonight instead of wallowing in self-pity! The Larry mention at the end is meant to be funny and playful, not something to take seriously! Thank you and have a nice day! ❤️💕🥰

—

When your brother went to audition for the X-Factor in 2010, you expected him to come home after, maybe with a signed record deal, maybe not, but home nonetheless.

Instead, he was put into a boy band with four other boys, and moved out. Your mother was proud, of course as anyone would be, but that also meant her oldest child had left the nest.

That left you, now the oldest in the house, and your four younger sisters. Your mum was handling it the best she could, but with Mark out of the house constantly, it got stressful for her.

You didn’t like Mark that much, sure, he was nice, and he treated your mother alright, he just didn’t seem like a commitment kind of guy to you.

You were adopted shortly after your mum left Louis’s father. Mark was accepting of the fact that she already had two kids, but became a bit offended when she took your side in an argument instead of one of their kids.

You loved all your siblings equally, well, Louis a bit more than the other girls, but you still loved them no matter how their father acted.

When Louis left, you were left to help your mother with the other girls, Mark not being much help. You were often left to help them get ready for school, get ready for bed, and you even had to run errands for your mother.

Since you were only 16, and hadn’t gotten a driver’s license, you had to walk almost everywhere, but you didn’t mind, not when you were helping your mother.

Having a brother who had recently become a famous member of a boy band, also meant you had to watch all the girls at your school drool over him. This also meant that a lot more people were trying to be friendly to you.

Most of the girls at your school loved Louis, probably because they thought they had the best chance with him, not that they had any chance.

However, you preferred Harry. You always had a soft spot for sweet boys with curly hair, but this time felt different. It probably was just a silly little crush, you’d obsess for a few weeks and then get over it.

You were so, so wrong.

You watched your brother and his mates smash their way through the charts for the next two years, becoming the best boy band of the generation.

The whole family was immensely proud of him, even Mark. You were particularly proud of Harry, though the rest of your family didn’t really care.

The small crush hadn’t faded, instead it had grown in the past two years, each time you saw him on a photo your brother sent, or on TV, you flushed and your heart started racing.

He was just perfect. Perfect hair, perfect eyes, perfect dimples, perfect smile, perfect lips, perfect everything.

It honestly kind of upset you sometimes.

There you were, the sister of one of his best mates, same age as him too, and yet you had never met him.

That all changed when the band went to Madison Square Garden at the end of the year.

Since you were eighteen and finished with college, you were allowed to go with your mother to go see Louis perform.

As you and your mother approached the stadium, you felt a wave of awe wash over you. Your brother’s face was on the fucking front of Madison Square Garden. He was getting paid to be here.

Where the fuck did you go wrong?

The driver that Louis had hired pulled up in the front, allowing you both to get out along with Liam’s mum, Karen, who was a lovely lady.

You all climbed out of the car onto the busy New York City street, people busling past your trio to file into the large arena.

Your mother grabbed your hand and Karen’s as well, pulling you both into line.

Meanwhile, the boys were sitting in front of the camera, discussing their feelings about the upcoming show. Zayn and Liam were currently in the dressing room, and Niall was finishing his dinner, so Louis and Harry were left to be interviewed.

“You know, this is a big show for us, obviously,” Harry said, trying not to be gesticulative as he spoke, nerves buzzing through his body.

“Yeah, of course it’s big cos it’s MSG, but this is also the only one that all of us have at least one family member in the audience. Liam, Niall, and Zayn have their mums, Harry has his mum and stepdad, and my mum and sister are coming, which is of course rattling, you want them to be proud of you,” Louis said, leaning back on the couch.

Harry paused for a moment, “Wait, which sister?”

“Y/N, she’s finished with school, so mum let her come down, she’s ecstatic,” Louis smiled and Harry nodded, trying to keep a straight face for the camera.

He had never met you, he’s only heard stories from Louis, and seen pictures that his mum always sent him of all the girls.

He thought you were adorable, who wouldn’t? He wouldn’t call it a crush, he hadn’t even met you. However, there was definitely something about you that drew him near you.

Once you had gotten inside, Karen insisted on going to buy something. The concert was starting in a few minutes, so there weren’t many people at the tables, most already in their seats.

She was beaming, looking at all of the stuff with her son’s face on it, your mother bearing a similar smile. Karen spotted the cardboard cutouts of the boys. And her eyes lit up.

She rushed to buy one, your mother chuckling, but you could tell she was contemplating on buying one herself.

The pair began to walk away, the camera crew following them, but you stayed behind, stepping up to the cashier.

Your mother must’ve noticed you weren’t there, as seconds later she was at your side, rubbing your arm lightly.

“Whatcha buying?” She asked, humming as she moved her hand to your upper back.

You felt yourself flush as you ordered the Harry cutout. Your mother was laughing her arse off, clutching her stomach as she doubled over.

You felt embarrassed, but understood her reaction. Karen turned around to see the commotion and saw the cashier handing you the Harry cutout. She gave a light chuckle and waved you both over.

Your mother pretended to wipe a tear from her cheek, smirking at you, “Aw, my baby’s in love!” She teased and you bit your lip.

“Shut up,” you mumbled weakly.

The camera crew saw the interaction, getting the whole thing on tape. As you passed the camera, you gave it a small, awkward smile, stuffing the Harry under your arm.

The show was amazing, you didn’t expect any less.

The boys were energetic, entertaining the audience as they jumped and ran around the stage, clearly enjoying themselves.

You were placed in the front, along with the other mothers and Robin, Harry’s step-father. During Louis’ solos, you and your mother would cheer the loudest, the others doing the same for their respective child.

Each boy came to wave to all of you, grinning as they sang. Louis just made a funny face at you and your mother, almost missing his cue.

The other boys did similar things, running to wave while they were singing, but Harry hadn’t come over yet, something that was clearly disturbing Anne.

During a brief break in between songs, Harry came to sit on the edge of the stage in front of all of you. The fans surrounding you all were screaming, some laughing when he gave a bashful wave.

He brought the microphone to his mouth, interrupting Liam’s monologue.

“That’s my mummy!” He pointed to Anne, making her giggle as he bounced up and down where he sat. “Hi mummy!” He yelled, giving an over enthusiastic wave, the audience loving every second.

A grin spread across your face, watching the interaction warmed your heart. Anne was loving it, she blew Harry a kiss, and he caught it, pressing it to kiss cheek.

“I love you mum,” he said, seriously. The audience and all the boys on stage letting out a sweet ‘aw’.

“I love you, Hazza!” Anne tried to yell above the audience, her voice being drowned out, but Harry understood her perfectly.

He turned his attention to the rest of you, “Hi everyone!” He waved again, his grin still just as wide. His eyes scanned over each of you, and his met yours. “Y/N? You’re Lou’s sister, right?” He asked and you nodded, trying to ignore your mum poking your arm. “Damn!” He yelled and you felt yourself gaping, Louis standing up quickly.

“Excuse me?” He asked, in mock offense.

Harry realized his mistake, “No, no, no! That came out wrong,” he turned to you, “I didn’t mean any disrespect, I just mean that I imagined you being like,” he held up his hand a few feet off the ground, “this tall based on how Lou described you, and that is certainly not the case,” he affirmed and Louis playfully rolled his eyes.

“Sure,” he dragged it out, “I’m sure that’s what you meant,” he joked, and Harry stood, brushing off his bum.

“Anyways! On with the show!”

—

A few months later, the boys sat huddled around a table in the film director’s conference room.

The film was finally completed, and the boys were invited to watch it and suggest changes. The boys were a bit into the film now, mostly taking the piss out of it and teasing each other.

Then came the footage from Madison Square Garden.

The boys stayed silent the whole time that the mothers were speaking, being quiet for the first time since the film started.

After showing the mothers’ thoughts on them performing at MSG, it cut to the interviews backstage. It was mostly just the boys’ preparation. Harry and Louis’ interview showed up, and the teasing started right up again.

“Louis, did you see the way his face lit up when you mentioned Y/N?” Liam said through laughter, Zayn and Niall laughing with him.

Harry was glaring at the boys, trying to avoid looking at Louis, a furious blush coating his cheeks. Louis was trying to hide his smile, looking at Harry out of the corner of his eye.

Truth was, he didn’t mind at all. Sure, it was a little weird, but he knew Harry, and Louis knew about your little crush on him, your mum had told him about it and had even sent pictures of the Harry cutout, now set up in your room. He would rather you date Harry than some random kid from Doncaster. You and Harry would work well together, he may even dare to say you were perfect for each other. There was only one problem; you hadn’t met.

The boys had finally calmed down and the rest of the film continued. While Liam and Niall were talking about the time they had to be smuggled through a bread van, Louis took his chance. He leaned over, catching Harry’s attention, “Don’t listen to them, if I’m being honest with you, I wouldn’t mind if you dated my sister,” he whispered, Harry immediately getting flustered.

“I, what? I don’t know what you’re talking about, you’re mad,” Harry mumbled and Louis chuckled, patting Harry’s knee.

“It’s alright lad, no need to explain yourself.”

The topic wasn’t brought up again until the movie came out.

Well, it technically hadn’t come out yet. Each boy was allowed to stream it at their home, they were sent digital copies. Louis had invited you over to watch it a week before it officially came out, and of course you had said yes.

You decided to spend the week with him, needing a break from managing the house with your mother. You had felt guilty, seeing as it was now her alone, Mark had left early on in your brother’s departure. Although, Dan, her new fiancé, was there to help out a bit.

You pulled up outside his apartment building, parking and grabbing your bag from the passenger’s seat. You made your way into the apartment, keeping your head down as you knocked on the door.

Louis opened it, throwing his arms open with a large grin on his face. You set your bag down, giggling as you wrapped your arms around him, squeezing him tightly.

“I missed you,” you mumbled into his chest.

“I missed you too,” he said, swaying with you in the doorway for a moment. He pulled away, a shit-eating grin on his face. “I hope you don’t mind, but I invited someone else over too!”

“I don’t mind,” you said, squinting at your brother, why was he being so cheeky about it?

“Great! Alright, come on in! Harry’s on the couch, and before we watch the film, we’re gonna watch interviews!” He ushered you inside, grabbing your bag.

You stopped once you had entered the house, turning back to Louis, “Hold, go back there for a second, did you say Harry’s here?” You asked, quickly panicking.

You were answered by a voice behind you, “Louis, is your guest…” Harry trailed off as you turned around. He gaped for a moment, clearing his throat quickly, “Oh, uhm, hi Y/N, Louis didn’t say you were coming,” his eyes left you to quickly glance at Louis.

“Hi,” you mumbled, biting the inside of your cheek.

It was quiet for a few moments, and Louis interjected, “Ready to watch the interviews?” He asked, not even waiting for an answer as he dragged both of you to the living room.

He sat down on the couch, pulling you and Harry on either side of him. “They sent me a weird version they made that has the interviews first, and the movie immediately after,” he leaned over and picked up a napkin he had set on the table.

On it were two times stamps, one that was pretty early on, and one that was presumably later in the film. He scrolled on the TV for a moment, getting the setting right and pressing start once the DVD was processed.

He began to fast forward through most of the interviews, you were a bit confused when he came to a stop in the middle of the interviews. You were about to say something, but he turned the volume all the way up, pressing play.

“If you had to set up your sister with one of the band, and you could trust them, who would it be?” The interviewer asked, leaning forwards as she spoke.

Liam and Zayn erupted, “None, none of them!” They both chided, clear looks of disgust on their face.

Louis sat contemplating for a moment, both Liam and Zayn looking at him with knowing smiles, “I have an ideal pair in mind, I’m not going to verify who, the lads already know who it is, my sister doesn’t, but I’ve got a plan,” he smirked, nodding enthusiastically.

The Louis next to you looked at his napkin again, fast forwarding it again, this time you were sat for a little bit longer, the tension in the room growing thicker. Both you and Harry had a feeling that he was talking about you guys, but neither of you dared say anything.

He unpaused it again, this time it was the actual film, iit showed you and your mum, along with Karen, it was the MSG footage.

You began panicking, trying to grab the remote from Louis, “Louis, Louis, turn it off, turn it off!” You yelled as you tackled him, reaching for the remote he was holding high.

He ducked to his side, quickly stuffing the remote down his trousers as the film continued playing. He gave you a triumphant smirk, but you narrowed your eyes, “don’t think I won’t look in there,” you threatened, and he shot up, running to the washroom, giggling the whole way.

You let out a grunt of defeat, collapsing on the couch and shrinking in on yourself, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh god, ‘m so so sorry Harry,” you grumbled, sinking further into the couch.

Harry let out a low chuckle, “It’s alright, love. I’ve already seen the movie,” he admitted and you let out an exasperated sigh.

“Shit,” you mumbled.

“Hey, nothing to be embarrassed about,” he assured, you felt him put his hand on your knee, making you flush even further. “In fact, if the roles were reversed, I probably would’ve bought a cutout of you too,” he began rubbing a small circle on your knee.

You removed your hands from your face at his confession, looking at him in confusion, “Wait, really?”

“Of course! When we first got together as a band, you called Louis, and he stepped outside for a minute to talk to you, when he got back, he had the biggest smile on his face. At first we thought that it was a girl he’d been talking to, but then he told us it was his sister, and I just had to know more about the girl who made him smile that big. He began talking about you, and about your other family of course, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how he described you, then he showed me pictures, and you just blew me away, as cheeky as it sounds,” he laughed lightly, your eyes traced his profile, “then I saw you at MSG, and I was even more shocked, you were much more mature than the last picture Louis had showed us. I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl who smiled brighter than sun, the one who loved her family more than anything, the one who could make anyone laugh just by speaking, and I hadn’t even met you! But now I’ve actually met you, and even seeing you wrestled with Louis earlier, it confirmed everything I already thought.” He paused, his eyes opening quickly, “I-Uhm, if you don’t like any of that, you can just ignore all of it.”

You sat in disbelief, joy overwhelming you, “Wait, so you like me?”

“I mean, yeah, if that whole speech wasn’t convincing enough, I can show you my diary,” he offered, and you put a finger to his lips.

“As tempting as that is, I really want to kiss you right now, is that alright?” You asked, scooting closer to him on the couch.

“Yeah, that would be amazing,” he giggled, placing his hand on your cheek as your lips met.

It was awkward at first, you were both angled on the couch, neither position comfortable. You shifted closer, slowly crawling onto his lap, quickly pulling away to make sure it was okay with him. When he gave you a subtle nod, you connected your lips again, his sweet, oddly sugary, plush lips. You ran your fingers through his curls, quickly tangling them. He put his hands on your waist, pulling you closer to him as you continued to kiss. It was heavenly, everything you had ever dreamed of. Of course, your paradise had to be interrupted by something.

“Oi Oi!” Louis yelled from the hallway, “I get you like each other and all, but this is my couch, come on lads!” He complained, causing you to hurry off of Harry’s lap, taking a seat beside him. He playfully scoffed, pointing a finger at you, “Now, I’m going to get some food from the kitchen, no snogging while I’m gone!” He demanded as he walked out of the room.

You and Harry giggle to yourself, he turned to you, a playful smile adorning his face, “y’know, now that I’m dating a Tomlinson, maybe the Larries will finally back off,” he joked, earning a chuckle from you.

“Oh darling, you’re forgetting one thing,” you chided, he turned to you, obviously confused. “I’m the biggest Larrie of them all,” you teased.

“Oh shut it!” Both he and Louis yelled.

Permanent Taglist (If you want to be added just let me know!): @notsosmexy @ladytommomomoa @franchesca-791 @alwayshave-faith @bxtchboy69

[velianmagicalgirl]

A Letter to my Favorite Person

So I wrote this thing for Bono... I started working on it last night but I severely underestimated both how much I wanted to write and how long it would take me to write it so I had to finish it up today. So I guess in that I discovered that me and B have something in common. We're both writers and we both turn everything we write into novels because we are incapable of writing anything short. So here it is, I'm putting it under a cut because like I said, it's quite long (3500 words). It's also full of sappiness the likes of which you've never seen before. So just be prepared for that. You've been warned. But otherwise, enjoy :) (and Bono if you read this I'd not know whether to be super happy and amazed or to throw myself out the nearest window...)

Okay, so how do I even start something like this… Believe it or not, I’m not always the best at expressing my emotions or how I feel to other people. It’s not that I don’t know how I feel, I’m pretty good at that, but when it comes to talking about it, that’s where the words just kind of leave me. I guess I just kind of worry that if I truly express what I say, people won’t understand what I mean or something like that. And because of the fact that I tend to experience emotions very strongly, I worry that I might come off as too much to people.

But screw it, a lesson I’m in the middle of learning is that for people you care about, it’s important to communicate with them and tell them how you feel because, well, nobody’s a mind reader.

And well, I just have a lot to say and I want to say it. So here goes (prepare for ultimate sappiness the likes of which you have never seen before. You’ve been warned)

So, to my dearest Bono, the man who has changed my life, I just want to say… thank you? Wow, like you’ve never heard that before, right? But who says hearing “thank you” a lot is a bad thing? Obviously if a lot of people thank you for something, then you’ve done something right, and something right you’ve done indeed.

Obviously I’m sure that on some level you know just how much your music and you yourself have helped people, touched them, made their lives better, etc. I mean, you could see it every night when you got up on that stage in front of all those thousands of people. But those stadiums can only hold a few thousand people at a time and there are so many more people around the world that have been touched by you; your words, your songs, your activism and the fact that you actually go out there and attempt to make a positive impact on the world.

It reminds me of how in Paris in 2015 the entire audience sang the whole first verse of One without you having to do anything. The look on your face said it all about how happy you were, and how amazed you were. Or how, in Berlin in 2018 when you lost your voice during Beautiful Day, I’m sure you were terrified, but you didn’t need to be because the audience picked up the words and sang for you. You told them “thank you” afterwards, like you’re always so surprised at what people would do for you, or how much you inspire others, but you don’t need to be, because just that kind of guy.

I was originally going to write a poem or something, before I decided on writing this because I felt it was easier for me to get out everything I wanted to say like this, but one of the lines I thought of for the poem went a little something like this:

There is a man that has everything But he gives it away like nothing There is a man that has everything But he gives it away for nothing There is a man that has everything But he gives it to those who have nothing

I was just thinking about this the other night and it just kind of came to me that “wow, here is a man who has quite literally everything but is also incredibly humble and kind to everyone to the point where nobody that’s met him has ever had a bad thing to say about him,” and I just kind of thought to myself “wow.” I don’t really know where I’m going with this, but I just wanted to point that out. I guess my point is that, you look out in the world and sometimes it’s so easy to get overwhelmed by all the darkness and the terrible things that people sometimes do, that it’s also easy to forget that there are still good people out there that are doing their best to make the world a better place for no other reason than because they want to, and because they think it’s the right thing to do. People like that are pure souls; they are rare but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. And you sir, are one of those people. You may not want to be called that but it’s the truth. It kind of reminds me of the Lord of the Rings quote, “there’s still some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for,” and of course, the lyrics to Song for Someone/13 , “if there is a dark, then we shouldn’t doubt that there is a light, don’t let it go out.” Honestly, I think this may be one of the most important lyrics in any of your songs because it is just such a universally important message. Whenever you’re going through a hard time, it’s important to remember that there is a light, that you are not alone, that the darkness can be fought.

But anyway, going back to what I first said, you may have some idea of the amount of people’s lives you changed but do you really know just how many that is? And over the course of so many years? That must be an impossibly huge number.

But anyway, after this stupidly long preamble (preramble) I guess I should finally get to the whole entire point of this letter or whatever you’d call it. But hey, I guess that’s one thing we both have in common right? Everything we write turns out to be insanely long and rambly. And tagenty. What was I saying? Oh, right.

I just wanted to say that you mean a lot to me. I am one of those uncountable people that you’ve helped in some way. In a myriad of ways actually. In so many ways.

Over the past year, my mood has gone up and down like a rollercoaster for obvious reasons. Sometimes it was so hard to be positive about anything when you looked out into the world. Sometimes I would just give into despair. What were any of us doing? What was the point of anything anymore? But other days I would feel great. I would feel like I was a better person than I was before. And I would be so happy and grateful for all the friends I’ve made that I didn’t have before. And then I would go back down again. It was a real rollercoaster, and still is.

Basically, what I’m saying is, a friend once told me not too long ago that “U2 has a habit of coming into your life right when you most need them,” and looking back on that, I can say she was right. It all happened on December 25th, 2019, you know, Christmas. I was thinking of buying myself a record player but it turns out my parents were nice enough to buy one for me. Of course they got me some records to go along with it. There were a lot of them actually, but I don’t really remember them. I just remember the one that stood out to me more than the others: The Joshua Tree by U2. I actually got really excited when I saw it because I had actually heard it before, a long time ago but I never actually got around to listening to the whole thing, so I was happy that now I had the chance. I don’t think my mom realized what she had started when she did that, and neither did I at the time. I’m not going to recount the whole entire story here because that’ll take too long (that’s another story) but basically that was the moment that U2 and you too (wink wink) entered my life. And what happened a few months later? The entire world changed.

But you know what? It was okay because I had you there. Suddenly it was like I had a new friend there with me, and anytime I wanted a reprieve from the world outside, all I had to do was ask. You could make me smile, you could make me laugh, you could make me cry, but in a good way. I immersed myself in all the stories of things you had done for people, putting your kindness on display. How you could make someone’s entire day just by smiling at them. I would read those stories and I would get this feeling like my heart would burst and I would get this huge dopey smile on my face and then I would go scream into a pillow to get out some of the emotion. And then I would feel silly because here I was, a 21 year old girl, sitting alone in my room, and the guy I was basically tripping over was 59, about to turn 60! And now he’s 60, about to turn 61! And I am still only 22. But you know what, that doesn’t matter, because sometimes people are just that good, and you’re one of those people.

I remember reading one story in particular about some kids who were sitting outside your studio. You saw them, got out of the car and went up to them and signed the albums they had. You could’ve stopped at just that, you’d already made their days, you’d already given them enough happiness to power an entire country for a year, and certainly nobody would expect you to do more. But you did. You allowed them to come into your car and you drove them around for a bit while showing them a preview of How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. And I just thought to myself, “who does that? Surely this can’t be real? Surely this person can’t be real,” but you are real. And you really did do that. And for no other reason than out of the kindness of your own heart. You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to do any of that. But you did. Because you’re just that kind of guy. Later on in the story, Larry mentions to the reporter who was in the car when this happened, that “he really has this insatiable urge to be all things to all people, even when we try and stop him,” and I think that’s the perfect way to describe it. Making other people happy is genuinely something you enjoy and you will go out of your way to do it for no other reason than because you know just how happy you will make those people.

And then I’m sure my parents saw what was happening and they laughed and teased me and said “oh there she goes” and yeah, they were right, there I went. And here I am still am. I don’t even know if this is making any sense anymore but sometimes, when you’re telling someone how you feel, it doesn’t always make sense. Because emotions, these weird tricky little things of the human experience, don’t always make sense. But what I mean to say does make sense, at least in the way that these kinds of things can.

These things that I feel aren’t just surface level little crushes. I think they are more than that. Because it isn’t just about how you look or the fact that you are a singer or whatever (although those things are nice I must admit, especially the first one ;) ) but something deeper. It’s because everything you do, everything you say, comes from your heart. Everything you do oozes that sweet beautiful passion of someone who really means what they say, and lives it. You’ve said it yourself before, when you’re singing, you’re not merely just singing the songs, you are living them, you are them and I think that’s beautiful. And in an era of fake people, I think that is a big part of what drew me to you. I think I could tell by watching you and listening to you that you weren’t like the others, you were real and you lived every second of it.

And I just think it’s great to have someone to look up to that is real and undeniably himself. I could learn from that. Really, I could learn a lot of things from you. Because you are so wise and intelligent, sometimes I am just wowed by the things you manage to say. You know a lot of things about the world that I couldn’t know simply because of experience. I guess you could say that I am innocence and you are experience. It’s very interesting when innocence and experience can interact with each other. The experience sees the forgotten youth and the innocence sees the wiseness and intelligence that comes with having lived the world. And both of them can learn from each other.

And for a man that is so unapologetically, so unabashedly, so undeniably himself, I could learn a thing or two from that too. I’ve always watched you be loud and proud, say what you want, be spontaneous, and go out on a whim. Whenever there was something you wanted to do, you would just do it, (whether you should’ve or not) and sure, that’s left you in a few bad situations, but you still did something. You were never left wondering “what if?” You have always been a man of action and I admire that about you. You’ve never been one to care about what others thought of you and that is something that I admire so so much. Me, not to be dramatic, but I feel like that was stamped out of me some time ago. I find myself always caring about what people think, even if those people aren’t even around. I feel like I can hear them in my head when I’m alone, just trying to do something I enjoy. And sometimes I start to wonder if it’s really other people or if it’s really just me. But I need to learn to be unapologetically me, just like you. Because after all, I’m the only person who can, right? So maybe if you stick around for a bit longer, I can do that. But only if you stick around.

Because of all that, you really are such an inspiration to me. You’re really someone who goes after what you want instead of just sitting there wondering what other people would think. And maybe I should do that too.

You’ve shown me the power of song, the way that music can move our souls and transcend us to that other place. Music is an amazing thing I think, and I’m sure you agree. It has the unique power to transcend barriers and bring people from many different places together. And I’ve been constantly wowed by your ability to write. So much of music is empty these days it seems, but you fill that hole with your irresistible passion once again.

Everything you write comes from the heart, and where else could it come from but there? I don’t think it’s possible to write the things you do without throwing your entire soul into it, which is what you do. And when you sing those same songs, the passion is on another level. It really is infectious, contagious, irresistible and incredible, it pours out and spreads over everyone like a wave until they’re all caught up in this feeling, this high that takes you to another place, if only for a few minutes. While you’re there you can find important answers to things that you wouldn’t have found otherwise. It’s a magical place.

And I think I understand just how that feels from your perspective now. When I’m alone and there’s no one around, I like to sing too. I’m not very good, in fact, I listened to myself once and wanted to throw my entire computer out the window, and I beat myself up over it for days. I told myself “how could you possibly think you were good? You don’t even know anything” and then I started thinking “what’s the point if I’m not even good?” but then, a few days later, I realized that it doesn’t really matter whether you’re good or not, what matters is if you enjoy it, if you have fun, if, in that moment, you feel like you’re releasing something held captive in your soul, if you’re telling the world (even if that world is just your bedroom) what you have to say. What matters is if, in that moment, you go to that other place. And, if you do, then that’s really all that matters.

So, because of you, because of your passion, your refusal to be anything other than unapologetically you, I think I will try. And maybe someday, we’ll meet and sing a duet together (HA!).

Another thing I love about you is your dedication to the things you love and care about. I have a feeling that anyone who knows you personally is very privileged because they get to know one of the kindest, sweetest, and most caring people there is. And of course who benefits from that the most? Of course your special woman, Ali. I used to think that such beautiful relationships like that weren’t possible in the real world, and that they only existed in fiction but it makes me happy to see that they are possible. Maybe not possible for everyone, but just the fact that they are possible at all makes me happy.

A friend told me that she met you once, in Boston in 2018. She called out your name and you looked at her, your eyes met and she forgot everything she had been meaning to say, but according to her, that was alright because your expression softened like you just knew what she wanted to say. And you know what? I believe it, because that’s just the kind of person you are. Kind, gentle, sweet, and softhearted, with eyes that can see right through us (and hopefully they’re not afraid of anything they’ve seen). I know I said at the beginning of this that it’s important to communicate because people aren’t mind readers but scratch that, maybe you are one, and I’m not writing all of this because I want you to know, but just because I wanted to be the one to tell you.

And finally, I just want to say, on a more personal note (as if this whole entire thing hasn’t been personal) I am so grateful that you came into my life. I feel like I was saved in a way. At the beginning of 2020, the world outside was good, but the world inside me wasn’t quite so. I don’t want to go into details because honestly, it’s just too embarrassing to think about and sometimes I wish I could just forget it all, but for a few years before that moment on Christmas morning, I had lost my way. I had strayed from the path and stumbled into somewhere strange where I shouldn’t have been, and I was stumbling about, constantly trying to make sense of where I was and I just kept falling. But then on that morning, and over the next few months, a light appeared. It called to me and showed me how to get out of the place I had fallen into. And when I had finally gotten out, there was a man standing there with gorgeous blue eyes and the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. He reached out his hand towards me and I grabbed it.

And so, over the next few months, even as the world outside turned dark and scary, the world inside me had turned into a light. Even as the world outside turned dark and scary with so many questions, so many unknowns, it was okay, because you were there. The first new thing that I had seen from you was in March 2020 when you put out that song you called “Let Your Love Be Known” and I think that’s what I’m doing right about now. I’m letting my love be known.

I know that in reality, you probably wouldn’t want to hear all this stuff practically elevating you to God status or something, but as you’ve said before, you already have a messianic complex, so why not puff it up a bit?

But for real, thank you. Thank you for existing, thank you being a light, thank you for being there, thank you for helping me.

Just thank you.

[adultswim2021]

The Brak Show #1: “Leave It To Brak” (AKA “Mr. Bawk Ba Gawk”) December 21, 2000 - 5:15AM | S01E01 regular series version aired October 7, 2001 @ 11:00PM

I’m trying to break the habit of assuming only my friends are reading my various blogs, but I failed in one fundamental way: I didn’t really describe the premise of Sealab 2021, like, at all. Despite digging into it’s roots somewhat by watching it’s various pilots, I failed to include even a paragraph with the basic premise of the show. I’ll try not to make the same mistake with Brak. Instead I'll make a DIFFERENT mistake by writing way too long of a blog entry.

On December 21, 2000, after Sealab 2021, The Brak Show, then titled “Leave It To Brak” debuted. Who the fuck is Brak? Brak began life as a villain on the 1960s iteration of Space Ghost, a fairly garden-variety Saturday morning action kid’s show. He appeared in, I wanna say, a very small handful of episodes. I’ve seen the whole series, and I don’t think he was like, a regular or anything. Without looking it up I'll say he was on it twice. In the show he was a space pirate and had whiskers. He has a very memorable design. I’ve never been sure if we’re actually looking at Brak’s face or if he’s wearing a helmet. His fangs imply that we’re looking at his actual face (or at least his actual jaw), but that little curtain thing that hangs down from his, uh, ears? Is that a naturally occurring part of his head? It suggests that his wardrobe is actually his body, and vice-versa. He just looks absurd, making him perfect fodder for an absurdist revision.

Brak as we know him today was first used (barring some kind of Cartoon Network commercial that I’m unaware of) in Space Ghost Coast to Coast, appearing with Sisto. Sisto is his twin brother who appeared in the 60s show. Why Brak was targeted for comedic revision and not Sisto eludes me. I’m guessing “HI MY NAME IS BRAK” just sounds funnier than “HI MY NAME IS SISTO”. Anyway, in the first Coast to Coast episode they are voiced by C. Martin Croker (RIP) doing a Beavis and Butt-head parody. Eventually Andy Merrill took over the role, basically turning Brak into a, uh, childish adult. Okay, he’s basically doing a retarded guy voice. Sorry, but it’s time to grow up.

Space Ghost Coast to Coast debuted in 1994 and remained a cult hit on the network until it was moved to Adult Swim and eventually canceled in 2004. The concept of Space Ghost Coast to Coast was Space Ghost, a super hero from the 60s, now hosts a modern 90s late night talk show, interviewing live-action celebrities on a monitor that hangs over the set. Random obscure Space Ghost villains would show up with skewed personalities from their original 60s counterpart. Brak was easily the runaway star of the touted rogues gallery. He would come in and cheerfully sing a song about beans or something else equally wacky. He rarely had a definable role on the show, he was just a figure that was around and would wander into the set.

A second 90s Space Ghost spin-off was commissioned called Cartoon Planet. This was an actual kiddy show that aired during the day as opposed to Space Ghost Coast to Coast which was kid-friendly but meant for adults. This time Space Ghost, Zorak (Space Ghost’s bandleader on Coast to Coast), and Brak would host an hour of classic cartoons, with little absurd skits between segments set in a studio SORTA like the Space Ghost Coast to Coast set but different. LOTS of Brak’s fandom is based on these skits, which were a little more silly and lighthearted than the material on Space Ghost Coast to Coast. The skits were popular enough that they repackaged them into their own half-hour show, sans classic cartoons. This was an early point of confusion for me. Beloved Brak songs turned out to be from Cartoon Planet and NOT Space Ghost Coast to Coast, so I'd tune into Space Ghost wondering if they cut out all the Brak segments or what?

Cartoon Planet would answer viewer letters (conceivably real ones; they DID include various ways to contact “Ghost Planet” at the end of both Space Ghost Coast to Coast and, I’m guessing, Cartoon Planet, which I never did see in it’s original form). They actually answered the reason for Brak’s lack of intelligence (brain-damage caused by Space Ghost, using an actual clip from the 60s show). I bring this up not out of genuine concern for continuity or canon; these aren’t huge concerns for the writers of these shows. The real reason Brak is dumb is because Andy Merrill thought the voice was funny, probably. I bring it up because generally the premise of Space Ghost in the 90s is that even though he IS a super hero with super hero abilities, he’s also an actor who makes cartoons about being a super hero. So, it can be concluded Brak’s brain damage is from a stunt gone wrong and not carried over from the fiction of the show.

The premise of Space Ghost Coast to Coast is that Space Ghost has captured evil villains Zorak and Moltar and is forcing them to work on the show. But they also freely reference their personal lives outside of the show, breaking character. They are actors who are sticking to a premise only when it’s convenient. Yes, it’s fun for the kids to pretend that Space Ghost has enslaved his enemies to work on his talk show, but the reality is that when the camera turns off they all go home to their apartments or wives or whatever. This concept feeds directly into The Brak Show: we aren’t watching Brak’s real home life; Brak, cartoon character and actor, is playing himself in a sitcom. His mom isn’t his real mom. His Dad isn’t his real dad. Zorak isn’t his real best-friend. They are all actors. This isn’t played up in any significant way on the show itself except for a few moments and certain episodes, but THAT IS WHAT’S HAPPENING and you wouldn’t really understand that just by watching this episode and nothing else. You would have to have been paying attention all this time to Space Ghost Coast to Coast, Cartoon Planet, and also, yes, Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak.

Okay, Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak isn't REALLY required viewing for this series. But guess what? I watched it for the first time ever in preparation for this and now we all have to deal with Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak. Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak (sorry I keep repeating the full title which is Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak) was a two-episode special presentation that aired on Cartoon Network while Space Ghost was on hiatus and before The Brak Show's stealth premiere. It (Brak Presents The Brak Show Starring Brak, that is) was a Sonny and Cher style variety show, featuring Brak and Zorak on stage together performing songs, intentionally corny sketches, and a LITTLE BIT, but NOT A LOT of backstage drama; which could be argued to have been part of the show itself. Variety shows doing sketches fictionalizing the backstage antics of the production is nothing new. There are also live-action integrated celebrities, and the show comes to a screeching halt whenever they show up. Maybe their performances are hampered by having to perform on a green screen, but these segments come off lame and pandering. Space Ghost Coast to Coast would make it's name featuring washed-up, kitschy, or counter-culture celebrities. Here we are treated to Monica, Freddie Prinze Jr. (whose segment in particular really drives me up a wall), some wrestler guy, and a lady who's name I don't remember. Okay, I admit I fast forwarded through the second of the two episodes a LOT. Sitting through one episode in real time was just too much to bear.

Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak is written off by a lot of Brak fans as a substandard product, and they're not wrong. I myself never sought out the whole special until I started writing this blog. But there's one thing I'll give it, the visuals (minus the live-action celebrity parts) are actually pretty fun. There's a lot of weird character designs, and the same playful use of stock footage and kinetic editing from Cartoon Planet carries over into this. Skipping past the celebrity guests and watching the special on mute would be the preferred viewing method here. Honestly, I've never been that charmed by Brak's songs. I never cared much for Cartoon Planet.

Brak Presents the Brak Show Staring Brak eventually became The Brak Show, but with one more step: a scrapped audio-only pilot. This pilot appears as an audio commentary track on The Brak Show Volume 1 DVD set. I discovered it by accident. In preparation for this blog I popped the DVD in, saw there was commentary for Mr. Bawk Ba Gawk, and pressed play. Instead of Andy Merrill and Pete Smith dryly talking about their creative process, I was treated to what would have been the audio for a Brak Show pilot (there are stage directions being read in lieu of visuals), roughly the length of an 11 minute episode. This version plays up the backstage antics of Brak's variety show much more, kinda like Larry Sanders meets Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak. Returning from the show is Brak and Zorak, along with Allen Wrench, a talking Allen wrench that appeared in Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak. On Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak, Allen had a crazy high-pitched voice. In this audio pilot he sounds closer to Meatwad from Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Also present in the audio pilot is Thundercleese, who curiously sounds like the regular series version of Thundercleese. In “Leave it to Brak”, Thundercleese sounds slightly different. Maybe they went back and rerecorded Thundercleese for the DVD?

That FINALY brings us to the actual episode. “Leave it to Brak” was the first episode of “The Brak Show” proper to air (though if I remember correctly from what was reported way back when, they wanted to call the actual show “Leave It To Brak” but couldn't for legal reasons). It feels more like a first episode than Goldfish does, which was the first episode I saw when Adult Swim officially began in 2001. “Leave it to Brak” introduces each character with fake studio audience applause. They even introduce Sisto, who simply walks in front of the camera, farts, and is not seen again. The premise of the show is this: Brak stars in a family sitcom. His mom belongs to the same species as Brak, but his dad is a tiny human voiced by George Lowe doing a Ricky Ricardo voice. According to this episode; Brak is roughly high-school aged, but it's all a pretense to get this cast of weirdos together under one roof. Again, Brak is a cartoon character playing himself here, so we're not meant to actually think these are his real parents; Brak is not half-human, necessarily. It's all just for the sake of this dumb show.

The plot of the episode is this: Zorak, Brak's best friend and worst influence, convinces Brak to help him kidnap the mascot of their rival high school, a chicken named Mr. Bawk Ba Gawk. Having done this, Brak grapples with the morality of his actions, tries to deceive his parents by dressing the chicken up like a little man, is caught, and is taught a lesson. There's a comedic final scene that reverses the lesson Brak supposedly learned, and then it ends. Somewhere in there we are introduced to Brak's giant robot neighbor who blows up Zorak for ripping up his lawn.

The Brak Show was possibly the most anticipated show when Adult Swim was announced. We all quietly ignored how much Brak Presents The Brak Show Starring Brak sucked; mostly because this was touted to be a show for adults. Afterall, Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak's biggest shortcoming was the fact that it was the first Brak-centric product to pander directly to children. Brak was always seen as a uniquely weird creation that just so happened to appeal to kids, kinda like Pee Wee Herman or Joe Camel. Also the idea of parodying the sitcom genre seemed novel, despite the fact that it wasn't really a new idea. Now it just comes off like a shallow observation: boy, old sitcoms sure were corny, right?

I don't know exactly how to pinpoint what was so disappointing about this show. I can see there was a genuine effort to make it funny. Dad was a decently funny character. They weren't just trying to mock sitcoms, they were trying to build a genuinely strange world that resembled our own. Brak lived in the suburbs but there were aliens and robots everywhere. Sci-fi situations casually reared their ugly heads into the lives of these characters. I mean, look at the plot description of Brak stealing a high school mascot; it's an ACTUAL SITCOM PLOT. There's no real subversion to it other than the fact that Brak and Zorak from Space Ghost Coast to Coast are doing it. This could have been decent as a one-off special like Tim & Eric's Bag Boy staring Steve Brule. But they made more.

Oh wait, I figured out why The Brak Show sorta sucked. It's the fact that the show was a musical. Fuck, I hated that so much that I blocked it out of my head until this moment. Every episode had musical numbers in it sung by Brak and the family. Ugh. They were supposed to be funny nonsense but I never liked it. In fact if there were ever an edit of the show without the songs I would probably remember it much more fondly.

This version of the pilot had very simplistically drawn backgrounds. When the show went to series they redid the backgrounds with photo-realistic settings and props. It's a much more appealing look. This version of the pilot was briefly featured in an episode of Sealab, where Murphy was flipping through the channels on his monitor. He flips past this and Aqua Teen Hunger Force and maybe Space Ghost? This was back in the early days when every show seemed like it was connected to each other. I miss that. The “regular series” of The Brak Show used to give the show a different parodic on-screen title; “Mr. Bawk Ba Gawk”, which aired fifth on Adult Swim, had the opening title “B.J. And the Brak”. “Goldfish” used “Leave It To Brak”, which causes some episode guides to get confused over which episode is which. In fact, Adult Swim's website features the pilot version of this show and incorrectly uses the plot summary for “Goldfish”. I'm not linking to it because the listing says it expires today. But go look for it if you want.

The other big difference between this version and the “regular series” version is there are a few missing bits here and there. For example, the pilot version starts with Dad asking Mom for another biscuit. She sighs and says “maybe later”, to which dad just shrugs off. There's also a cut song I call “Kiss you hot” that dad sings to mom. There's probably other differences here and there. Oh, Brak's clock is the beeflog illustration from Brak Presents the Brak Show Starring Brak. Isn't my life fuller for being able to make that connection? God, I'm so glad I watched Brak Presents the Brak Show Staring Brak last night instead of getting an extra hour of sleep.

So what's good in this? I REALLY like the scene where Bawk Ba Gawk is at the dinner table and everyone keeps stealing his little hat to wear. Mom scolds Dad for wearing the hat, to which he mutters “I'll do what I damn well please”. Mom then plucks the hat from his head. When we cut to the wide shot, she's wearing it. Funny! SOLIDLY VERY FUNNY. But the series generally suffers from them trying to cram in weird pointless bits of absurd comedy. Only sometimes does it work. Not sure why. But that's how it goes, I guess.

[jessethorn]

Some Interviewing Thoughts

My friend is working on a book about how to podcast. He sent me these questions about interviewing and since who knows how much of my answers will actually end up on the pages of said book (which I will plug when it is time, I bet it will be great), I figured I’d just post them here, in case they’re useful to anyone. 

If you are not familiar with me or my work, I am the host of the NPR interview show Bullseye with Jesse Thorn (I am the Jesse Thorn of it). I also did a podcast called The Turnaround where I interviewed interviewers about interviewing.

Can you tell us something about your process?

I'm usually at least somewhat familiar with the guest's work - that's why we've booked them. Not always, but usually. So I have that advantage going in to the prep process.

I try to take a full day to prepare. If there's a book, I usually read it over the preceding week or so. If there's a movie or a show, I see it when I can. The rest I cram in before the interview. I don't have Lexis-Nexus (maybe I should?) but I go on Google News and search for as many news pieces as I can about the guest. I prefer big profiles and long interviews. I'll start with whatever's in the Guardian or the Times or the New Yorker, or online sources with deep archives like the AV Club. And I read as much as I can. Usually a few dozen things. Depends on the notoriety of the guest. I'll also read a bit about the work - film or book reviews, just to get other people's perspectives on it, see if there's stuff I haven't thought of. And usually at the beginning and end I'll read... wait for it... Wikipedia. Because it's usually better than people's bios, and it helps me remember the rough narrative of their life and work. I'll also try to listen to or watch at least one interview - maybe when I'm driving in to the studio. That just gives me a feeling of what it's like to talk to them, so I'm not surprised.

While I'm prepping, I keep a document open on my computer in a writing app called Q10 that saves a text file automatically to a folder that's synced across my devices. If a thought I want to make sure to ask about occurs to me while I'm reading, I drop it in there. Not usually in question form, mostly just a phrase, like "loves to play mandolin but isn't good at it" or something. Generally I'm looking to move past what other people have asked. When I read a response that my guest-to-be has to someone else's question, I'm thinking, "what does that response make me curious about?" I can figure out how to do the exposition to get there. And I'm often thinking in a way improvisers call A-to-C. There is a piece of information, I think "what does this make me think of," then I think "what does *that* make me think of?" It helps avoid obviousness. It's important to know how other people ask someone something, so you can ask something different or at least ask in a different way. Because generally you don't want someone's patter, you want a fresh, in-the-moment thought or reaction.

While I'm doing this, if I find media I want to incorporate or ask about, I send it to my producer, who's pulling clips. They'll give me a list of clips, including the ones I specifically wanted, before the interview, and I'll give that a look-over so I can remember roughly what I've got.

In the end, I have maybe a list of six or eight things I want to try and remember to ask about, a list of six or eight clips, and a lot of information in my head about who the person is. Once in a while, I'll have a question written, but generally only because it's something sensitive and I want to say it exactly correctly. Like a question about a crime someone was accused of or a time someone's colleague was harassed or a time someone said something particularly shitty. Those I don't want to be phrasing on the fly. Generally, though, it's just a few phrases so I don't forget to ask about a funny thing I thought of. I just interviewed the soprano Renee Fleming, and the list had "singer breaking wine glass: is that real" on it.

In general, I'm trying to think about a general outline for the interview - like "we'll talk a bit about the new thing first, then circle back to childhood, then through the biography" or whatever. And I'm trying to be curious and think about why they make the choices they do and what I find myself wondering about. Besides that, I want to know enough about the person I'm talking to that I can just focus on conversing with them. 

 What things do you think are most important or key to your ability as an interviewer?

I like and respect the people I interview. If they seem like an asshole, I don't invite them on my show. They're generally pretty brilliant, or they wouldn't be able to make the great art they make. So my job is to just meet them where they are and talk to them like a person. I probably show a bit more of myself than most folks at NPR do, who are more news-oriented or reporter-oriented, but my interest in the person sitting across from me is sincere. If I share something of myself, it's because I think it might be meaningful to them and help them understand that we are both people, and we're having a chat.

I also don't try to hide my interest behind posturing faux-impartiality. They're there at my invitation, I'd be a real heel if I'd invited them but wasn't interested in what they were saying. I listen when they talk, and react to what they say. I don't try to control the conversation except to the extent I need to do so to make a radio show. I goof around in goofy parts and respond in a humane way in emotional parts. And in general, I know that it can't go that wrong, so I don't really give a fuck. You only get one ticket, might as well enjoy the ride, as Devin the Dude raps. 

 What do you do to put people at ease or when you sense that they're' holding back? Is there a time you remember when that happened? 

I try to put them at ease when I meet them, before I even sit down at the mic. Or before we start if they're in another studio. That really is just basic human stuff. I come out of my office, go over to them, say hi, I'm Jesse. Shake their hand, smile. Let them know we're gonna talk for an hour or so, it'll just be talking, we'll make them sound great. For most guests if there's something that might be sensitive, I'll let them know it isn't live and if there's something personal they don't want to talk about, to just let me know. (That never actually happens.) Maybe I ask them something about their outfit or something I wondered that wasn't really for the air, like about a sports team I heard they like or something. Just talk to them like a nice person would. 

If the interview is rolling and they're holding back, I maybe ask them something friendly and surprising, something that makes me look dumb, maybe something silly. If they're really polished but not revealing themselves, I might ask them a question that requires a heartfelt answer - like I dunno... "are you afraid of death?" Mostly though I just know that I have some time and that if I talk to them in a nice human way they'll usually come around to responding in kind. 

 What do you keep top of mind when interviewing?

The person sitting in front of me. The actual conversation happening at that actual moment. 

 Could you describe how you go about preparing for an interview, and approx how long that process takes?

I went through it pretty well above, but as far as time goes - outside of consuming the media the person is there to talk about, their book or film or whatever, I'd say I try to give it at least six straight hours. And I'm very fast at it, since I've been doing it now for twenty years. Before it was maybe eight or twelve. But again: that's in the context of most of my guests already being very familiar to me.  

Was there a time when something totally unexpected happened during an interview? What did you do in response? How did things turn out?

I once played a clip for Michael K. Williams of a dance track from the 80s, this song where he'd appeared in the video. It was his big break. And I thought maybe he'd be happy to hear it, kind of amused, but he started crying. And he was in a studio in New York, I couldn't really tell if he was sad or hurt or happy or whatever. But I just let him do his thing. Because I didn't need to control the moment. I have him some time, and he shared some incredible memories. 

 Are there some people you look up to as interviewers? What did you learn from them?

I think Ira Glass is always very deeply interested in other people's feelings. It is absolutely sincere, and he just asks about them. On more than one occasion, I have had him ask me about my feelings when I was interviewing him. He obviously doesn't do the same kind of interviewing I do - he is really looking for a few illustrative or moving highlights - but the way he does that is very inspirational to me.

Terry Gross is extraordinarily modest. She is a brilliant genius, but she is always glad to highlight the guest and what is great or interesting about them. She also always asks for examples, always brings the conversation to specifics and stories when it could be vague.

I did a series called The Turnaround, where I interviewed interviewers about interviewing, and talked to all kinds of famous interviewers, from a variety of media. 

Susan Orlean, who writes for the New Yorker, can find a story anywhere. She just shows up and is extraordinarily curious and recognizes when something is interesting and pulls the thread. That's another improv technique - a scene is built on the first distinctive element. You spot it and you grow it. 

Larry King is always hyper-present. He did years and years of long live radio shifts. He absolutely trusts his curiosity. He told me he once asked a pilot if, when the plane took off, he knew it was going to land. He is unafraid of looking like a fool as long as he is following his curiosity.

Reggie Osse, Combat Jack, he knew everything about the subject he was interviewing people about. Everything. So he always had a little anecdote or a little insight that opened things up. His show was loooooong, but that was because he was always relating to something someone said about something in a club in 1998, and that led to this, and all of a sudden you're armpit-deep in amazing stories.

Jerry Springer really respects everyone he talks to, and cares about them and their story. Including folks who other people might laugh at or scorn or pity. He just goes in and tries to give them a chance to be heard.

Elvis Mitchell is a real critic, and he has more expertise in entertainment media than anyone I've ever met. I mean he knows more about his seventh-greatest area of expertise than I do about my first. He's really masterful at talking to artists about the actual content of their work. Themes and ideas. In a clear and concrete way. So many people substitute anecdote for insight, and I am very grateful for his insight. 

Marc Maron is like a genius puppy. He just pokes and prods and guesses, and he's so smart and is crackling with such energy that he finds stuff because people step up to meet him. He also is so raw, emotionally, that people just try to take care of him by sharing themselves.

Audie Cornish is astonishingly clear-eyed. She knows what she needs to know, she knows the context, she goes and gets it.

Howard Stern will just ask about anything. And you know he will talk about anything. So you feel obliged to tell him. And he always asks about the biggest and most important stuff. Like how did you lose your virginity or do you believe in God or whatever. He just does it and what are you going to do, not answer?

That's only a few, I could list a million more. I would say that something they share is that they are all actually curious. It is not a performance of curiosity; they want to know about others.

Are there any stories you could share of times when you learned some valuable lessons about interviewing? Do's and don'ts? 

I once interviewed Betty Davis, who is a legendary (and legendarily reclusive) funk musician. She was on the phone from Pittsburgh, patched through by her label since she didn't want anyone to have her phone number. And she was very polite, but very fragile-sounding. She hadn't done press in a few decades, and hadn't even picked up her ASCAP checks until a fan tracked her down and hand-delivered them. She gave me a lot of one sentence answers to my questions. It was really, really hard, but I remember thinking of something I'd read in Jessica Abel and Ira Glass' This American Life comic, which is that if you don't say anything, people will fill the space. So when she finished her sentences, I just waited. For a long time, sometimes. Like five or ten seconds, which is FOREVER. And every time, she added to her initial remarks. And that saved the interview. 

Another time I went to a fancy hotel in west Los Angeles to interview Bill Withers. He's done some press since then, but at the time he hadn't really done any in like fifteen years. He's older and incredibly smart and a little grumpy. And when I sat down, he kind of started giving me the business. Because whatever - I was a young white guy there being presumptuous enough to bother him, a guy who really had nothing to gain from the interview. And I remember at some point he was giving me a hard time and I kind of poked back at him, and he laughed, and after that it was one of the best interviews I'd ever done. I think just because he was like, "oh, this is a person, too. He's not an idiot, he's here because he cares, and maybe he's even interesting to talk to."  

What do you know now that you wish you'd known when you were starting out?

That it's going to be fine. I think I learned that from doing the Turnaround. Because I wasn't going to make money from it, I just figured I'd let myself off the hook preparation-wise and emotionally and so forth. Just let it go. And it was some of my best work. Because I trusted it would be fine, followed my actual curiosity, and talked to everyone like a person. Once my therapist asked me why I was anxious about interviews, and I told him I didn't want to mess it up and look foolish. And he said, "Does that happen?" And I was like... "No. I guess not." And he's like, "So, why be anxious?" And I was like, "CHECKMATE DOCTOR CARR."  

If there were one thing you'd like someone who's just starting out to know about interviewing, what would it be?

Be curious. Ask open-ended questions. Remember that whoever you're interviewing, whether it's Buzz Aldrin or Michelle Obama or Little Richard is a person just like you are a person. And enjoy yourself!  

[vfdbaudelairefile13]

Misery Loves Company Part 2

Chapter Twenty-One:

The One With The Clever Invention and the Reunion

Olaf looked around his fake restaurant looking for the damn orphans. Grumbling on about whatever under his breath. Esme slowly picked at her food. Olaf looked at her confused as she simply shrugged her shoulders. Jerome was seated at their table, asleep with a half-empty martini glass that was set loosely in his fingertips.

“You know this food is so much better than all that other delicious food at that other place,” Esme explained.

“Excuse me,” the hook-handed man said rushing to his boss. “You know how the orphans disappeared?” he whispered to Olaf, who merely nodded. “They managed to make it back to the penthouse.”

“And you didn’t stop them?” Olaf hissed back angrily.

“I thought that would be too suspicious,” the henchman whispered back.

Olaf growled and smacked his henchperson’s arm angrily. “Why I oughta,” he warned. He slowly stood up glancing over at Esme. “I think we’ll skip dessert, please.”

“Yes,” Esme agreed happily. “Yes, this food is so in, it’s actually hard to be in my mouth. What do you think, Jerome?”

Jerome groggily replied. “I’m sorry, I’m feeling so sleepy. It must be something I drank.”

“You can sleep it off on way home, please,” Gunther replied in a hurry. “Hurry to penthouse to make sure nothing has been stolen during the dinner,”

He began to rush out of the restaurant before Larry stepped in front of him, still dressed in the ridiculous salmon costume. “You’re not going anywhere,’ he replied blocking Gunther entirely.

Esme looked at Larry confused. Larry awkwardly smiled and then looked back at Unther who looked ready to kill Larry. “Not until you entertain us...with a song?”

“What?” Olaf hissed angrily.

“My sources have learned you’re quite the chanteuse,” Larry explained loudly as he noticed restaurant patrons were looking at him and Olaf.

“No, that’s the lighting. My skin is regular foreign color,” Gunther replied looking at the audience. Gunther glared at Larry intensely.

But it didn’t phase Larry. He glared back at the man who killed his friends. “He’s just being modest, everybody.”

“Gunther hasn’t been modest a day in his life, please,” Gunther said to the audience. “Now if little fish man would get out of my fucking way, please. I must really be going to check on shiny, sparkly money,” he said hissing the last part.

“I heard your songbird skills more or less favorable reviews in one small magazine,”

Through gritted teeth, Larry could hear Gunther growl. “No, no, silly fishy, you must be thinking of other foreign man,” he said as friendly as he could.

“Why you’d have to launch a citywide manhunt,” Larry said pointedly as if he was trying to tell Olaf that he wasn’t getting out of the restaurant without his identity being revealed. “To catch a singer this good. Won’t you please grace the crowd at this in restaurant with a little song?” Larry begged as the crowd started to applaud.

Olaf shook his head and hand indicating to Larry that he wasn’t going to do a little song and dance number. He was going to go catch some orphans. Before he pushed Larry out of his way, Mrs. Poe stood up. “I know the readers of the Daily PUnctilio would love to hear about a foreign man singing in a restaurant,” she informed Gunther.

Jacquelyn sat there at the Poe’s table, a smirk plastered on her face as she nodded to whatever Mrs. Poe was saying. Gunther glared back at her and then looked to Esme for help. “Mmmm, mmm, mmm! Think of the publicity,” she whispered. He could see she was of no help to him either. No one was, the Squalors, the Poes, the patrons, nor were his henchmen who were all so eager to do a musical number.

Gunther growled. “No! No! No! Absolutely, what’s the word? Never as long as I live! ” He pushed Larry out of his way just for Jacquelyn to rush up from her table and block his path.

“Pretty please,” she smirked. “For Secretary’s Day?”

Gunther rolled his eyes as he sighed. He was ready to kill Larry and Jacquelyn right where they stood. The only thing stopping him was that there were too many witnesses and not enough possible ways to escape. Larry and Jacquelyn smirked at the villain when Larry was able to get the whole restaurant shouting “For Secretary’s Day!” Gunther tried to do a fake-out but Jacquelyn saw passed it and block him from the other side of Larry. She held her fists up at her chest waving them slightly as she and Olaf kept dancing around Larry. Jacquelyn looked in the man’s wicked eyes as the crowd chanted.

“You won’t get away with this,”

“Oh, but my dear sweet Jacquelyn, I already have,” He replied. “Have you seen what happened to Snicket?”

Jacquelyn and Larry glared daggers at the man as he tried to pass Larry again, only to nearly run into to Jacquelyn. “You may have got Lemony, but you’ll never get his daughter!” she hissed.

Gunther smirked. “In time, Jacquelyn. I hope you will find that you were wrong. Little Violet’s luck will run out,” he said as he turned to the crowd seeming to give up. “If you insist,” he informs the crowd as he takes a few bows. He glared at Jacquelyn and Larry as they stood proud and smug about what they believed was a tiny victory against him. As long as he was still able to keep this disguise, his plan was not at risk. This may cause a few unexpected bumps in the road but he’ll figure out what to do with that when he needs to.

______________________________________________________________

Klaus Baudelaire had only seen a few of Violet’s inventions. He had seen her Sunny mannequin that the kids used to trick Olaf at Prufrock, he’d seen her noisy shoes she made to keep the crabs of the Orphan Shack away from them and he had seen her craft a mobile with a bucket, a light bulb and the help of their baby sister’s teeth. But these were simple inventions, the one that she was trying to construct was supposed to take the two half-siblings through the dark, eerie ersatz elevator shaft.

A smile appeared on Violet’s face as her head shot up. “Follow me,” she ordered her brother as she began to run down the hallway. “We’re gonna need a big basket big enough for two people,” she explained as she ran.

“What about the basket Esme uses to hold all of those rutabagas,” Klaus suggested as he followed her.

“Good thinking,” she replied. “Grab that for me. I’m going to get a few other things,”  she turned a corner as Klaus continued to race down the hall to where Esme keeps her rutabagas.  It took Klaus a moment or two but he eventually knocked the basket over. He quickly ran to the opening and began to frantically push the rutabagas out.

Violet raced down a couple of corridors until she finally reached Esme’s gigantic handkerchief. She pulled it down from its post, making sure not to rip it. As she pulled it along, she glanced around the rooms to see if she could use anything to attach the handkerchief to the basket. As she continued to get closer and closer to where she had told Klaus to meet her, she worried she’d have to waste more time searching the penthouse again. Just as she was near the front door, something had caught her eye that caused her to turn into one of the other rooms. For some reason, Esme has a big ball of rubber bands just sitting there in one of her many rooms. Violet dropped the handkerchief in the doorway as she began to unravel rubber bands and throwing them to the ground. A few moments later she noticed Klaus rolling the basket on its side to the door. “Hey, in here. Come help me,” she called out. He stopped rolling the basket and began to help her.

“How many do you think we’ll need?” he asked as he helped her unravel the big rubber band ball.

“Just grab a lot,” Violet ordered. “Any extras I’ll shove in my backpack,”

“You and that backpack,” he said rolling his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“It’s like you and that locket,” he explained. “Although I understand the locket. It’s sentimental,”

“I don’t understand,” she admitted as she stopped unraveling rubber bands and began to tie the rubber bands together. “What does my locket have to do with my backpack?”

“It’s just I never see you without it,”

“So?”

“It’s just weird. Like I said I understand the locket. It’s sentimental, you have a picture of Mom in it but the backpack,”

Violet shrugged. “You wouldn’t get it,”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not curious,”

She rolled her eyes. “If you ever live life on the run, you’ll understand it,”

“Oh,” Klaus said. “It’s something your Dad taught you,”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I learned at a young age that you gotta be prepared for anything,”

“But a backpack?”

“Yeah, only pack the essentials. Because if there’s ever a time where you need to leave and quick...you best be ready.” Violet frowned. “You won’t have time to pack,”

“Are you crying?” he asked after catching her wipe her eyes.

“Yeah,” she admitted throwing the rubber bands down. “I am,”

“Why?”

“It’s my fault,” she whispered.

Klaus looked at her confused.

“My dad…” she whispered. “I emptied his...backpack...to shove all that proof in his face,”

“Violet…” he interrupted.

“He stayed behind because he had to put it back in there,” she said aloud, more so to herself than to Klaus.

“Violet, don’t,”

“God, you’re so stupid, stupid, stupid.” she cried smacking her face. Klaus walked over to her and grabbed her hands. “Why did you have to empty his backpack and throw all of that shit in his face. Why did you think it was okay to tell him you hate him!” she screamed.

“Violet!” he yelled. “You can’t do this to yourself,”

“You blame yourself for Sunny and the Quagmires getting kidnapped, so don’t even start with me,”

“That’s different! I am to blame for that! Your father’s death isn’t your fault! You didn’t cause the blaze,”

“I emptied his backpack...I slowed him down,”

“Did you ever think that maybe...he sacrificed himself for you?” Klaus suggests. “Think about it, he was willing to do it for Sunny and I. And we have no relation to him...besides through you. If he is willing to risk his life for two kids that aren’t his...who’s to say he wouldn’t give his life for his own daughter.”

Violet shook her hands free from his grasp to wipe her eyes. She had never thought about it like that. “So he...stayed behind on purpose,”

“I can’t know for sure,” Klaus said. “But...I would bet my inheritance,”

“But…”

“Violet, you are not to blame. Whoever started the fire is to blame,”

Violet’s eyes got dark. She had her suspicions on who started the fire that claimed the life of her father and she was determined to figure out that mystery if it meant risking her life.

“I won’t let him take anyone else,’ she whispered as she grabbed the rubber bands and harshly went back to work. Klaus unraveled thirty more rubber bands before dropping them next to Violet.

“What can I do?” he asks.

She patted the ground next to her. “Help me tie these rubber bands,”

Klaus watched as her hands worked, effortlessly tying the ropes. He had seen this knot before, he just couldn’t remember exactly where.

“What knot is that?” he asks sitting next to her.

“The Devil’s Tongue,” she replied. “My father taught it to me,”

Klaus gave a small smile. “My mother,” he stopped. “Sorry, our mother,” he corrected. Violet gave a small smile at this. “Taught it to me when she forced me into Boy Scouts for a year.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she told me that it was invented by female Finnish pirates,” Klaus told Violet. “Do you think they learned it from the same place or taught it to each other?”

VFD! Violet thought as she gave Klaus a refresher course on how to tie the knot. She debated whether or not she should explain to Klaus what VFD was and what the Quagmires may have meant when they continuously shouted it whilst being kidnapped. She decided against it. Feeling even more like a hypocrite. “They...probably taught it to each other,” she replied as both siblings went to work tying the rubber bands with the Devil’s Tongue Knot.

“Who do you think taught it to who?” Klaus asked.

“I think Mom would’ve taught Mr. Lemons,” she guessed.

“You’re probably right,” he said.

Both siblings continued to tie the rubber bands until finally, Violet said that the ersatz ropes that they created were the same length. She glanced at her brother. He looked at her with a face full of guilt.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him as she continued to work on her invention.

“I’m sorry,”

“Sorry? For what?”

“You know the other day when we spent the day with Jerome?”

Violet looked at him confused. “Yeah, what about it?”

“You know how you pointed out where you and your father lived and a few of the places he took you?”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t say anything but...if that was true...you were a lot closer than I imagined,”

“What do you mean?” her heart sank a bit.

“A lot of those places I hung out with my parents, and our mansion wasn’t far,” he admitted.

He watched as her expression got colder. She didn’t reply. She merely tied the rubber bands cautiously to the giant handkerchief.

“If…” he started. He stopped, trying to word this the best way he could. “If I would’ve known about your existence, I would’ve searched for you.”

Violet stopped tying her invention together as her head shot up to reply to her brother. She looked at him but she didn’t know how exactly to take that statement. If he didn’t know of my existence at all, I was either a shameful dirty little secret or a forgotten mistake? She thought. Was it easy...to go on like you didn’t miss your own daughter.

She glanced back down at her invention, not replying to Klaus. Just offering him a small smile that she hoped masked the pain she was feeling. The uncertainty. The other distressing detail to Klaus’ statement was that if Klaus was telling her the truth and the Baudelaires resided on the same side of the city that the Snickets resided, how did her father not learn this with all of his researching and claims of looking for her. Either he was lying when he said he was looking for her or that he was lying when he said he never found her. What if he had found her and met with her privately asking if she would be okay with meeting her actual eldest child? What if she had said no and her father only hid the truth to preserve her feelings. So many soul-crushing, negative thoughts plagued her mind. The worst part about it was that the only two people who can answer that were dead and they were never coming back.

“Vi?”

“Why did you tell me that?” she asked as she shoved the remaining rubber bands into her backpack quickly.

“I’m afraid,”

“Of?”

“Well let's see, quite a few things actually,” He replied in a sarcastic tone. “Abandonment, Olaf, dying.”  

Violet rolled her eyes. “No faith in me, I see,” she said laughing.

“Oh, I have faith in you, ” Klaus countered. “I have no faith in our luck,”

Violet gave a small smile. “Help me, push,” she said as the two siblings began to push the makeshift hot air balloon towards the ersatz elevator.

Violet threw her backpack in and hoped in. She turned to Klaus. “Room for one passenger,” she joked.

He looked at the invention and then at the darkness that engulfed the interior of the elevator shaft, then at Violet. “The rubber bands will hold?”

“Absolutely. That knot has never failed me,”

Klaus nodded his head slowly as Violet helped him into the basket.

“You nervous?” Violet asked.

“I’m anxious,” he admits. “I’m not sure if I’m ready to do this,”

She gave a low chuckle. “Me neither,” she admitted. “But it’s like my father used to say, ‘If we wait until we’re ready, we’ll be waiting the rest of our lives,”

And with that, Violet tipped the basket. To Klaus’ and violet’s surprise, the basket fell gracefully and slower than they both could have possibly imagined. It made their stomachs flip but for the most part, the ride down the elevator shaft was calm. For a mere moment in their lives, Violet Snicket and her younger brother, Klaus Baudelaire felt as though their lives were going to be okay. But it was not okay. It was not half okay. It was not even one twenty-seventh okay. The climb down the shadowy passageway felt like falling into a deep hole at the bottom of a deep bit on the bottom floor of a dungeon that was deep underground. And even if Violet’s invention wasn’t making the situation worse, it didn’t do much to make it any better. Because this is the least okay situation that either child had ever encountered in their short lives. Even as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they were afraid to look anywhere else, particularly down. The whistling of the handkerchief as it helped the two children down the ersatz elevator shaft was the only noise either child could hear because they were too scared to speak. And the only thing they felt was sheer terror, as deep and as dark as the passageway itself, a terror so profound that I have slept with four night-lights ever since I visited 667 Dark Avenue with my associate and saw this deep pit that Violet and Klaus had found. But I also saw, during our visit, what Violet Snicket and Klaus Baudelaire had seen once they had seen the bottom of the dark, empty elevator shaft. By then, their eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and they could see the end of their journey.

Violet and Klaus heard the thump of their basket finally hit solid ground. Violet looked around the basket until her eyes caught on something metallic and shiny. A metal lock. The lock was secured around a metal door, and the metal door was attached to a series of metal bars that made up a rusty metal cage. By the time my research had led me and my associate to this passageway, the cage was empty, thank God, and had been empty for a very long time. But my extensive research on these two cases has informed me that the cage was not empty when Violet and Klaus had reached it. AS they arrived at the bottom of a deep and terrifying place, the two orphans looked into the cage and saw the huddled and trembling figures of Duncan and Isadora Quagmire and Sunny Baudelaire.

___________________________________________________________

Olivia grumbled all the way to the Snicket taxi. “We didn’t find the Quagmires or Sunny Baudelaire,” she pointed out.

“Not yet,” Jacques countered.

“They could be anywhere,”

“Anywhere but 667 Dark Avenue,” Jacques replied. “So we learned something.”

“That’s not enough,” Olivia whined. “Those poor children, they must be so scared right now, and all alone.”

“They have each other,”

“I barely know anything about any of this!” She explained angrily.

He sighed as he climbed back into the taxi. “Let me bring you up to speed. The Quagmire and Baudelaire kidnapping is the result of a murder which is the result of an arson, a moving violation, a misdemeanor, two poison darts, three civil suits, and a stolen object.”

“That seems complicated,”

“The world is complicated,” Jacques admitted. “That’s usually the case,”

She sighed. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this insanity,” she admitted aloud. “Maybe I should just go back to my library, where things are safe and organized, but also so lonely and unfulfilled. And I had met a wonderful secretary I was hoping to ask out,”

Jacques smiled at that last part. “Well, as a volunteer who needs help saving his niece and fixing what he’s fucked up, I really don’t want to take you back to Prufrock. You’re needed Olivia Caliban. But as a cab driver, I have to take you where you want to go. So it’s up to you, Olivia.”

He turned to her. “Why am I needed?”

“I can show you...but once you see it, it may be hard to turn back,” she explained.

“Is it far?”

He frowned. “It’s close, but I’ll have to turn back,”

“Let’s do it,” she said as he began to drive.

_____________________________________________________

“I’m dreaming,” Duncan cried. His voice was a hoarse whisper from utter shock. “I must be dreaming,”

“You found us!” Isadora cried, her voice just as hoarse as her brother’s.

This story is not about a happy reunion.

“We’re so happy to see you,” Isadora cried staring at Violet, wiping tears from her eyes.

“I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my whole life,” Violet replied, a smile appearing on her face.

I’ve read hundreds of newspaper articles, diaries, and more than one lavishly illustrated catalog in an attempt to understand this sad chapter in the lives of Violet Snicket and the Baudelaires. The horrors I have found are best expressed not with words but with the description of a sound you’ll see again in this chapter. It’s the sound of a long scream in the dark. As the two half-siblings rejoiced at finding their friends and baby sister. They had no inkling of the terror, the horror, and the dramatic fall in the dark that they would experience in this elevator shaft before this chapter in their lives was over. If you continue to read on, you may find yourself screaming as well.

“Isa, pinch me, I’m dreaming!” Duncan cried again.

“How can you be dreaming,” she asked. “If I’m having the same dream,”

“Hey, I once read about a journalist,” Duncan explained. “Who was reporting on a war and was imprisoned by the enemy for three years. Each morning, she looked out her cell window and thought she saw her grandparents coming to rescue her. But they weren’t really there. It was a hallucination,”

“I remember reading about a poet,” Isadora explained. “Who would see six lovely maidens in his kitchen on Tuesday nights, but his kitchen was really empty. It was a phantasm,”

Violet and Klaus quickly hurried out of the basket and rushed up to the cage. Both children stuck their arms through the cage.

“No,” Violet cried, as she reached for Isadora. Isadora shot back to the far corner of the cage as if Violet were a poisonous spider instead of a long-lost friend for whom she had feelings for. “It’s not a hallucination. It’s me, Violet Snicket.”

“And it’s really me,” Klaus said as he reached for Duncan. Duncan shrank back into the far corner of the cage as if Klaus wanted to hurt him. “It’s Klaus Baudelaire, I’m not a phantasm.”

Duncan and Isadora looked at one another but stayed in their corner.

Klaus’ heart shifted in his chest as his eyes got wide. He tried to peer around the dark cage. “Sunny?! Sunny!?” he called out desperately. “ Where’s Sunny?”

“Sunny?” Violet called out.

“Violet…?” a small voice called out. “Klaus?”

“Sunny?” both older siblings cried.

“ Vi! Klaus!” Sunny cheered as she ran full force into the bars reaching her tiny arms out grabbing at their pant legs. “Just us…” she cried as she gripped their pant legs until her knuckles were white. She didn’t care about the pressure she felt in her fists or where the bars pressed up against her. “ I love you! ” she cried desperately.

Violet and Klaus wiped their tears as they fell to their knees, reaching in and wrapping their arms around Sunny the best they could.

Violet and Klaus blinked in the darkness, straining their eyes to see as much as possible. Now that they were no longer in the basket, slowly falling to the bottom of the elevator shaft, they were able to take a good look at their gloomy surroundings. Their long climb ended in a tiny, filthy room with nothing in it but the rusty cage that the basket had landed right in front of.

“How did you find us?” Isadora asked after a moment. She still stayed in the corner with Duncan.

“It was Klaus’ idea,” Violet explained.

“It’s was Violet’s invention,” Klaus countered. Both children were smiling as they wiped tears from their eyes.

Violet released her grip from Sunny as she grabbed the lock. Klaus looked up desperately. “Can you pick this lock?”

“Not without any tools,” she said walking to her backpack. She took out the spyglass and turned the light on, shining it on the inside of her backpack. Scanning it frantically.

Isadora took out her spyglass and turned the dials to make her spyglass produce light. “How did you know which markings to line up?” she asked.

“A trick I learned before my father died,” Violet muttered. She frowned, zipping up her backpack. “But that’s not important right now. What’s important is that I don’t have any tools,”

“Surprisingly,” Klaus muttered.

“Shut it,” she warned. “I don’t have proper tools,”

Violet shined the light towards the cage and she wished to hell she wouldn’t have. With the bare light, Violet and Klaus were finally able to get a good look at Sunny and the Quagmires. And that view was no less gloomy. They were dressed in tattered rags, and their faces were so smeared with dirt that Violet and Klaus may not have recognized them if the two triplets had not been holding the notebooks they took with them wherever they went and Sunny didn’t have her four super sharp teeth. But I am sad to say, that it was not just the dirt on their faces, the clothes on their bodies, that made the three look so different. It was the look in their eyes. A look that made Violet and Klaus’ hearts shatter. The two Quagmire triplets and their baby sister looked exhausted, they looked hungry, and they looked very, very frightened. But as Klaus glanced into his baby sister’s eyes, a new wave of pure hatred for Olaf rolled over him. Because most of all, Duncan, Isadora, and Sunny looked haunted. When Klaus looked into his sister’s brown eyes the innocence she once possessed, the innocence that once shined from her giving her the nickname ‘Sunshine’ was gone. It had vanished. There was no trace of sunlight in Sunny’s eyes. Klaus couldn’t help but blame himself. He looked up at Isadora and Duncan who shared the same eyes as Sunny. The eyes that he fell in love with were now pitiful oceans of darkness, Duncan didn’t look like himself. Even Isadora seemed cold and distant. Violet noticed the same thing Klaus did because she could feel a wave of hatred and bloodthirst wash over her.  The word ‘haunted’ as I am sure you know doesn’t apply specifically to places that can be haunted by ghosts but can also be used to describe people who have seen and heard such horrible things that they feel as if ghosts are living inside them, haunting at their brains and hearts with misery and despair. The Quagmires and Sunny looked this way and it broke Violet and Klaus’ hearts to see their friends and their sister look so desperately sad.

“It’s you,” Sunny said. Her momentary happiness was fading because she didn’t seem as excited as she just was. Maybe it was the reality of the fact that she was still stuck. When her siblings caught a glimpse of her though, both were ready to murder Olaf. She was as filthy as the Quagmires and her uniform from Prufrock was in shambles just about. Klaus and Violet could see bruising all around her little arms and even around her neck. Her arms had bruises that looked at though someone had held her down into place. Her face was bruised, she had fingernail scratches and what looked like shallow cuts in random places on her small body. Both older siblings had to close their eyes and turn their heads to try to wash their memory of their baby sister like this.

Violet noticed the spyglass in Isadora’s hand. “How’d you know to give it a half-turn counterclockwise at that specific marking pattern?” she asked her.

“We learned that in the Incomplete History of Secret Organizations,” Duncan explained as he and his sister crawled to the front of the cage where Sunny sat.

“You found it?” Klaus asked happily.

“Right before we were kidnapped,” Isadora explained. “We took as many notes as we could,”

“We may be kidnap victims, but I’m still a journalist,” Duncan gloated.

Klaus smiled as he reached his hand in the cage again. Slowly, he took a long look at Duncan and noticed that his face was bruised. Not too bad, Olaf must have only slapped him around. There were a few fingernail marks on Duncan’s face as if Olaf was digging his nails into the orphan boy’s face. Klaus frowned as he gently placed his hand on Duncan’s bruised cheek. Duncan blushed but he didn’t move away. He actually leaned in more to Klaus’ touch as if he craved a soft, kind touch. He closed his eyes and sighed happily as he put his hand over Klaus’ to press it against his face harder.

“It’s really you,” he whimpered as he smiled at Klaus.

“I’m so sorry,” Klaus whimpered back.

Duncan shook his head slightly. “It’s what friends are for,”

He smiled at Klaus. Klaus smiled back.

Violet knelt down and reached into her pocket, retrieving her black ribbon. She glanced at Isadora remorsefully. The triplet’s hair was frizzy and tangled, it was obvious that it hadn’t been cared for in days. She had similar bruises on her neck and face that matched her brother’s. She had a swollen lip and Violet noticed that along Isadora’s arms she had a lot of scratches and what looked like rope marks. Violet shuddered as she stared at Isadora.

“It’s you,” Isadora whimpered happily when she caught glimpse of the black ribbon.

“This is still yours,” Violet pointed out.

Isadora smiled. “He took it from me when he caught us,” she cried. “He said he needed it to piss you off,”

“Here, turn around,” Violet told her. Isadora was hesitant but listened.

“You know we’ve learned many haunting secrets,” she informed Violet as Violet began to slowly run her fingers through Isadora’s hair in hopes of untangling the girl’s hair.

“Let me know if it hurts,” Violet informed. “Now what did you learn?”

“We learned a lot about our parents, and your parents, Klaus,” Isadora explained.

“And your father, Vi,” Duncan added. “We were right, everything is connected.”

“Well, what exactly did you learn?” Klaus asked. Sunny glanced up at him, but she didn’t say anything. She just stared at his chest silently as the four older orphans talked.

“You can tell us when you’re safe,” Violet said as she managed to get Isadora’s hair partially untangled. She untangled it enough for her to be able to tie Isadora’s hair up in the black ribbon. “There, beautiful...as always,”

Isadora couldn’t help but blush when Violet had said that. Once Isadora was sitting facing Violet and Klaus again, Sunny pulled everyone into a hug, the best they could manage with the bars of the cage in their way. The five children embraced as much as they could, half-laughing and half-crying because they were all together once more.

“How in the world did you find us?” Isadora asked as Duncan and Sunny nodded indicating that they were curious about that as well. “We don’t even know where we are,”

“You’re in a secret passageway inside 667 Dark Avenue,” Klaus explained.  “But we didn’t know you’d be here. We were trying to find out what Gunther...that’s what Olaf is calling himself now...was up to, and our search led us all the way down here.”  

“We know what he’s calling himself,” Duncan explained. “And we know what he’s up to,” He shuddered and opened his notebook, which Klaus remembered was dark green but looked black in the gloom. “Every second we spend with him, all he does is brag about his horrible plans, and when he’s not looking, I write down everything he tells us so I don't forget it.”

“Still a journalist, I see,” Klaus said smiling. “The next Moxie Mallahan, ladies.”

Duncan smiled and blushed at that. As Violet, Isadora, and Sunny all giggled.

“And I’m still a poet,” Isadora pointed out, smiling at Violet as Sunny handed her her black notebook, that looked ever blacker in the gloom. “On auction day, when the sun goes down, Gunther will sneak us out of town.” she recited as Sunny clapped.

“How will he do that?” Violet asked. “The police have been informed of your kidnapping and are on the lookout,”

“Yeah, he also brags about outsmarting the police and their citywide manhunt,” Isadora informed rolling her eyes.

“Bastard man,” Sunny added.

Duncan looked into Klaus’ eyes desperately. “Gunther wants to smuggle us out of the city and hide us away on some island where the police won’t find us. He said he’ll keep us on the island until we come of age and he can steal the Quagmire sapphires. Once he has our fortune, he says he’ll take us and…”

“ Stop!” Sunny begged as she slammed her hands on her ears. “ No hear!” she screamed, she didn’t want to hear what Olaf planned to do to her once he got the Baudelaire fortune from her.

“ Don’t say it, ” Isadora pleaded doing the same to her ears. “He’s told us so many horrible things. I can’t stand to hear them again.”

“Don’t worry, Isa,” Violet reassured. “We’ll alert the authorities, and they’ll arrest him before he can do anything,”

Isadora ignored her and leaned in closer to the older female orphan. “Violet...he’s told me...he’s told me what he wants to do to me...what he’s going to do to you. What he plans to do to our brothers and Sunny.” she started to shake. “It’s so twisted and fucked up…”

“He’s told us so many things that he’s already done,” Duncan whimpered.

“We’ll get the authorities,” Klaus promised.

“But it’s almost too late,” Duncan explained. “The In Auction is tomorrow, I believe. He’s going to hide us in one of the items and have one of his associated place the highest bid.”

“Which item?” Violet asked worriedly.

Duncan hurried flipped the pages of his notebook, and his eyes widened as he reread some of the wretched things that Gunther had said. “I don’t know,” he cried as he gripped Klaus’ tie and pulled him closer to the cage. “He’s told us so many haunting secrets, Klaus. So many awful schemes, all the treachery he’s done in the past and all he’s planning to do in the future. It’s all here in this notebook, from VFD all the way to this terrible auction plan.”

“We’ll have plenty of time to discuss everything,” Klaus explained. “But in the meantime, let’s get you out of this cage before Gunther comes back,”

“Klaus without the proper tools,” Violet explained studying the lock. “We’re tough shit out of luck,”

“They’re coming with us, right now.”

Violet studied the spyglasses. “I think it’s an electromagnetic circuit,” she explained smiling. “It’s not just light, it’s heat.”

“I wonder…” Isadora began as she and Violet pointed their spyglasses at the lock.

“ The Incomplete History of Secret Organizations said it can be used for all sorts of things,” Duncan explained.

“Melt?” Sunny pondered staring at the two girls.

“Did it melt?” Klaus asked after several moments.

“No,” Violet pouted. “It just got hotter. It’s not going to work I can feel it overheating.”

“There’s got to be something else you can use,” Klaus suggested desperately.

Violet handed Klaus the spyglass as she began to tie up her hair.

“Look, Duncan! Look, Sunny!” Isadora cried happily. “She’s thinking up an invention! We’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Every night since we’ve been kidnapped,” Duncan explained. “We’ve been dreaming of the day when we would see the Violet Snicket inventing something to rescue us.”

“Hero!” Sunny chimed in smiling at Violet.

She frowned. “If we’re going to rescue you guys in time,” she said, thinking furiously. “Then Klaus and I have to get back to the penthouse right away.”

Isadora looked nervously around the tiny, dark room. “You’re going to leave us alone?” she asked.

“If I’m going to invent something to get you out of the cage,” she replied. “I need all the help I can get. Klaus has to come with me,” She looked around, noticing newspaper on the ground. “Can you hand me that newspaper?” she asked her brother. “Heat rises,” she whispered.

“What?” Klaus asked.

“We have to get back to the penthouse,” she reiterated.

“You’re really leaving?” Duncan asked desperately.

“ No! ” Sunny yelled gripping on to both of her siblings. “ Don’t go! ” she begged.

Violet and Klaus looked at one another, both their hearts shattered.

“We gotta find something there to get you out,” Violet explained to Sunny. She turned to Klaus. “Gather the handkerchief as tight as you can.”

“I see what you mean. Heat rises,” he said but he couldn’t move, Sunny held on to him for dear life.

“ Just us…”

Klaus wiped tears from his eyes and sighed. “Sunny…”

“ Scared, ” she admitted, looking into her brother’s eyes.

Klaus turned to Violet. “Maybe I should stay here,”

“No, Klaus,” Duncan said. “You gotta help Violet,”

“Duncan’s right. We will take care of Sunny. We’ve been for days,”

Sunny turned to Duncan and Isadora, softly growling at them both in anger.

“I know, you have...and thank you,” Klaus said smiling at the two triplets.

“Sunny,” Duncan said calmly as he gently pulled her grasp from Klaus. “They’ll be back soon.”

“I’ll come back for you and the Quagmires, Sunny. I promise.” Violet said as she hopped back into the basket. “Duncan, Isadora, you saved me and my siblings back at Prufrock, we’d be in Olaf’s clutches if not for you.”

“Sunny, you saved me from Olaf,” Klaus said looking at his sister. “Countless of times. Now it’s my turn. I miss you in an inordinate amount,” he reminded her. “I will be back,” he glanced up at Duncan and Isadora. “For all of you,”

“So I’m sure you know,” Violet called out to her friends.

“What?” Isadora asked confused.

“What friends are for,” she replied.

Klaus gave his baby sister two kisses on her forehead. One from him and one from Violet. He glanced at the Quagmires. “Just us,” Klaus said looking at Sunny.

As Isadora placed her comfortably in her lap, Sunny looked to Klaus. Holding up five fingers. “Five,” she stated. “Just us, five.”

Duncan and Isadora smiled at Sunny as Klaus bid them goodbye as he hopped into the basket alongside Violet.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be out of danger before you know it,” Violet said as she turned on her spyglass and watched as her and Klaus’ makeshift hot air balloon began to rise.

“In case anything goes wrong,” Duncan called out, flipping to a page in his notebook. “Lie it did last time, let me tell you,”

Klaus put a finger up to his own lips as he glanced down at Duncan. “Nothing will go wrong this time, we promise.”

‘But if it does,” Isadora tried. “You should know about VFD before the auction begins.”

“Don’t worry about VFD,” Violet called back. “You can tell us when we’re all safe and sound.”

“We’ll see you soon,” Violet and Klaus called down.

“Love you!” Sunny yelled.

“See you soon!’ Duncan and Isadora replied.

Duncan, Isadora, and Sunny all crouched together worriedly as they watched Violet’s invention rise further and further until they couldn’t see them anymore.

Violet and Klaus both wiped tears in their eyes. They were happy and sad. Happy that they had found the Quagmires and Sunny but sad that they were forced to leave them. Both orphans couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. It was like they were in the dark while being in the dark about what horrifying event is in store for them very soon.

[wozman23]

An Ode To Conan (AKA Conan Ode’Brien)

The year was 1995... or maybe '94... or at least sometime around then, give or take a year. I had just entered, or would be entering middle school, at age eleven... or twelve. With a new school came a later bedtime. So around that time I discovered two things: Saturday Night Live, and Late Night with Conan O'Brien. That was when my world changed.

For as long as I can remember, I've been a silly kid. My parents even used to throw an extra letter in my name and call me “Jokey.” Occasionally, they still do. But now, looking back, nearly 25 years later, I don't know if I'd have ever predicted just how much of my joking nature I'd be able to maintain at this point in my life. Today, at 37, if you ask me to sum up my personality in two words, they'd be “weird” and “funny.” As most age, they lose those traits. They'd instead define themselves as a “Personal Trainer” or a “Civil Engineer.” But I'm still just “weird” and “funny” - a goofball rebelling against the notion of “growing up.” I stubbornly keep the letter 'y' on the end of my name when most Josephs my age pick a more mature alternative. I have little interest in being anything else, and aspire for nothing more.

Much of that is thanks to a tall, freckled, red-headed idol I found on the late night airwaves of NBC, who danced as if he had strings on his hips and let people touch his nipple. I grew up watching cartoons like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Disney movies with comedic voice actors, and blockbuster movies like Ghostbusters and Mrs. Doubtfire, but I'd never seen anything as wildly experimental as Late Night. The (arguably) grown man at the helm still retained such a whimsical, silly, absurd outlook on life. He was a big kid, just having fun. It blew my mind. I was hooked. And it showed me that even if I was weird, I wasn't alone.

The absurdity of Conan and Late Night continues to be unrivaled, even to this day. There was a Masturbating Bear, who just went to town on this oddly nondescript jock strappy looking thing, Preparation H Raymond, an overly goofy looking character, with buck teeth and massive ears, who sang songs about applying a cream to irritated buttholes, and Triumph The Insult Comic Dog, who eviscerated Star Wars nerds and crashed the Westminster Dog Show. Clutch Cargo bits, where moving mouths were inserted into pictures of Arnold Schwarzenegger, Michael Jackson, and Bill Clinton, always brought the laughs in the early days, with both Robert Smigel's impressions and the disregard for making things look authentic. The In The Year 2000/3000 bits provided the rapid fire jokes of randomness that I aspire to write today, one of my favorites being: “Babies will start listening to dance music when Lady Gaga teams up with The Goo Goo Dolls to form the super group, Gaga Goo Goo.” Other recurring bits like Celebrity Survey, SAT Analogies, and Made-For-TV Movie Castings provided similar repeatable formats that brought laughs night after night, as did Actual Items, a swipe at Leno's Headline's bit. If They Mated provided us with the horrors of what the love child of two celebrities would look like, in worst case scenarios. Desk driving bits and car chase spoofs with model towns and cars always delivered. There were the silly Satellite TV Channel bits, with the standout, the Men Without Hats Conversation Channel, as well as the truly pointless – yet my all-time favorite character – Cactus Chef Playing ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’ on the Flute, created solely to poke fun at the criticism that the show was absurd. Conan Sings A Lullaby was always some macabre fun. At one point, The Walker Texas Ranger lever swept the nation, ultimately resulting in one of the oddest clips ever to grace television. “...Walker told me I have AIDS.” Constant cameos delighted, with frequent appearances from Larry King and Abe Vigoda, who were both always willing to go the extra mile for a laugh. And occasionally, my beloved comedy worlds would combine with someone from SNL like Will Ferrell showing up, dressed as a sexy leprechaun, or engaging in some other antics. Jim Gaffigan birthed the Pale Force cartoon. Hornymanatee.com became a thing. Remote bits, like Conan playing old timey baseball, were always instant classics. Plus, the show birthed the idea of travel shows, with trips to places like Finland and Toronto - the second of which has one of my other favorite remote bits, Conan training with the Toronto Maple Leafs. So much memorable, silly, recklessly avant-garde stuff happened in those years of Late Night. And all the best moments happened when Conan acknowledged the astronomical stupidity of it all. It was always a pleasure to watch, and it all felt expertly crafted just for me.

In the end, a program that got off to a rocky start, fighting off cancellation time and time again, blossomed over the course of fifteen years into a comedy juggernaut and bastion of brilliant buffoonery for my generation. It was practically perfection.

Then the first transition happened...

Like many, I was apprehensive about the switch to The Tonight Show. It was great to see Conan inherit what was formerly known as the pinnacle of late night talk shows, but I wondered if America was ready to watch a bear play with his dick at 11:30pm, especially the demographic that had enjoyed Leno's far more traditional approach. I think we now have that answer. NBC managed to repeat their past mistakes, and fumbled another smooth transition of hosts. Things got kind of ugly, but Conan managed to land on his feet at TBS, where his show continued to run for another eleven years, giving him and his employees - who had relocated to Los Angeles at the start of The Tonight Show - steady work.

The one issue with the migration was that Conan no longer retained the rights to any of his intellectual property. Exceptions were made, but most of this bits and characters were absent from the now titled show, Conan. There was also one less show a week. However, new bits were concocted regularly, like Coffee Table Books That Didn't Sell, Basic Cable Name That Tune, and NBA Mascots That Should Never Dunk. New characters were spawned, like Minty, the Candy Cane That Briefly Fell on the Ground, Punxsutawney Dr. Phil - The best Dr. Phil bit since Letterman’s Words of Wisdom - and Wikibear. Will Forte showed up atop a stuffed buffalo as network owner, Ted Turner. Experimental stand-up sets, like Tig Notaro pushing a stool around or Jon Dore & Rory Scovel being double booked provided some of the best stand-up sets ever. Embracing a digital, web-based format, they introduced new segments like Clueless Gamer, catering to my love of video games. There was Puppy Conan, and Mini Conan. Plus, they doubled down on travel shows, creating the Conan Without Borders series, which I believe to be Conan's best work to date, and a shining example of who he is as a person. There were Fan Corrections, which allowed me to influence his show for five minutes, and throw my own zaniness into the world, and back at the man who stoked the funny fire in me. At some point in life, I may achieve greater things, or have children, but I may still always say that the greatest day of my life was the day I was on Conan.  

So Conan did have bright spots, but to me things were never quite the same. They were still good, but not amazing. Slowly it felt like things were beginning to decline. Longtime writer/performer Brian McCann left to return to New York. A while later, so did Brian Stack, finding a job with Colbert. The show was eventually cut to a thirty minute format. They spun it like it was a good change for the show. I however had my reservations. While I'd hoped for more experimental comedy, it seemed like the first half of the show was cut in favor of still getting in sizeable celebrity interviews. The band was gone, as were the options for nightly music acts. That meant no more fantastic moments like me discovering Lukas Graham with his subdued “7 Years” performance. Stand-up was pretty much gone too, which meant no more killer sets like Gary Gulman's bit on state abbreviations or Ismo's foreign take on the use of the word “ass” in English linguistics. Occasional product placement reared its ugly head. They had to keep the lights on, and they found a way to. So I continued to watch practically every show over the course of the eleven years.

When the pandemic hit, I found myself with more free time. So I decided to check out the Team Coco podcasts, cherry picking from the best guests of Conan O'Brien Needs A Friend, The Three Questions with Andy Richter, and Inside CONAN: An Important Hollywood Podcast. Never having paid attention to any podcasts, I found a love for them. And sometime amidst the pandemic, watching Conan interview some random celebrity, from some show I probably didn't care about, through Zoom, I kind of became at peace with the idea of a nightly Conan program ending.

From middle school, to high school, and then to college, I tuned in when I could. Without the luxury of the internet in its currently glory, or DVRs, I'd tape episodes on a VCR. Barring two or three episode of Conan that I missed while working two jobs, I've seen every episode of Conan, every Tonight Show, and a good streak leading into the end of Late Night. But I will admit that towards the end, it has sometimes felt like a chore.

One thing I didn't drag my feet on was attending tapings. It was one of the first things I did when I came to LA. Over the past few years I was fortunate to get to attend three tapings of Conan. In hindsight, I probably would have went more often. I brought family and friends along with me when they visited, but the treat was primarily for me. When he announced that the final few weeks of shows might have an audience, I knew I must go. I put in for two tapings, and fortunately the stars aligned for the third to last show with Seth Rogen. I was hoping for Ferrell, or Sandler, but it was great! It was the first show where masks were optional and it went recklessly off the rails. Like Conan, I've never been into pot. It's another of the things I enjoy about him. Like him, I don't really have a problem with it, but I've never tried it because I don't think it's for me. I’m the same way with alcohol. With a friend in town this week, I tried one of the beers he bought. I hated it, but I struggled through it. I’ll occasionally drink some fruity wine cooler but that’s about it. So seeing him reluctantly try the joint Seth handed him because he didn't care since the show was wrapping was great. Unseen in the TV edit was that after that segment, Conan and his producer, Jeff Ross, had a lengthy discussion as the band played. As the band wrapped up, Conan came back up and said to expect a rough edit on the show since they wouldn't be able to air them smoking. Turns out they could, which made for good TV. It was a symbolic moment where a man who's spend his entire career blazing his own trail – no pun intended - did so once more, knowing he had nothing to lose. I also put in a ticket request for the last show on the morning of because registration reopened for some reason, but I never got a confirmation. I'm excited to watch it tonight, but also sad to see things come to and end. But at least I can say I was there in the end.

For 28 years Conan and cast have delivered the show they wanted to make. Contrastingly, compared to the other late night shows, its always been far more apolitical, which I appreciate. Comedy to me is about dissociation. It's why I favor and write left-brained jokes about random subjects. No one really needs to hear another hackneyed Trump or Biden joke. Regardless of the state of the world, I could tune in to Conan for a mostly unbiased, silly outlook on the world. Conan always seemed to bring out the best in the guests too, making his show the premier show to tune into when someone was out in the circuit promoting something. Even the stereotypical animal segments or cooking segments provided ample laughs.

Most of the talk will be about Conan himself. But a very large part of what has always made Conan's shows great wasn't even him. A large cast of stellar writers and performers brought countless characters to life. Brian McCann and Brian Stack were longtime favorites. There was the No-Reason-To-Live Guy with his kayak, Hannigan the Traveling Salesman, Artie Kendall the Singing Ghost, and The Interrupter, to name just a few. Even people who had no business performing were utilized brilliantly, like original announcer Joel Godard or Max Weinberg both acting like creeps and perverts, trombone player Richie "LaBamba" Rosenberg being a dolt, and graphic designer Pierre Bernard in his deadpan Recliner of Rage segments. Jordan Schlansky was a comedy well. Andy Richter also deserves more praise. His quick wit makes him the perfect sidekick. I can't even begin to enumerate the amount of instance in which he was lightning fast with a witty response to someone or something. His more recent Sports Blast segments were absurdly stupid, and his Hillbilly Handfishing remote stands out as one of the best.

The late night talk show concept is built around volume. With 4368 episodes among three iterations of shows, there's a lot of time to fill. Things didn't always work, but most of the time they did. That's what you get when you experiment and evolve the medium. I've been thinking a lot about my history with the show, and it's amazing just how many silly bits, characters, and moments still bounce around in my noggin. I've only covered a small sample of the many great moments over the years. It's always seemed really weird to me that Conan has kind of been the underdog. To me, no one holds a candle to his brilliance. I can only liken attending his tapings to a few other experiences: the time I finally got to see Michael Jordan play as a Wizard, or Rush's final R40 tour – three great entities who may not have been at the height of their careers, but were still massively impressive none the less. Conan concluding tonight is very bittersweet. The future is uncertain. The details for his HBO Max show are nebulous. It's going to be far more small scale. I've always admired how much Conan has taken care of his cast and crew. He paid his writers during the strike, and his entire crew during the pandemic. But they will certainly fracture now. Will any of the writing staff follow? Will longtime performer Dan Cronin be there? Will Andy be back? Time will tell, but until then, television, the internet, and the world of comedy, will be a little less funny. In many ways, I wish we lived in a world we he still hosted Late Night, or a successful Tonight Show. But the late night landscape has changed a lot in the last few decades, so who’s to say this wasn’t the better timeline. If there’s one thing I cling on to that keeps me hopeful about the future, it’s Conan’s closing monologue from Late Night. Especially its ending: "It's time for Conan to grow up... and I assure you that's just not going to happen. I can't. This is who I am, for better or worse. It's just, I don't know how."

That hits me just as hard as it did in ‘09, if not harder. The more things change, the more they stay the same. The guy that started hosting in ‘93 is the same guy we see today. He’s still just as childish, just as absurd, just as brilliant, and a man of integrity. And as long as he is, so too will I be.

[mintyvan]

21 - Flip For It

filling the request Jealous van, makeup sex with van, anything bondy-related, reader can’t decide between van + bondy, and van teaches you how to play guitar. Rated M for the smut!

summary The reader is Van's girlfriend, but she quickly falls for Bondy too. Van is jealous, Bondy is eager, the band is about to go on tour; who will she choose?

note this is the longest thing I’ve ever written, at 17825 words. Grab a cuppa and sit yourself down for this one. I thoroughly loved writing this. Enjoy!

___________________

“Van, I CANNOT do this!” you yell as your hand painfully slips off the guitar strings again. “My fingers have been cramping for hours, and I don’t even know if this thing is tuned correctly.”

He had been standing at the kitchen counter making tea, and he turned around and sat a cup down in front of you. “Have a break if you need it, love. But I know you can do it. Gotta be positive and all that.” He stood over you, bad posture taking a few inches off his height.

With a huff of frustration, you state, “But you said it yourself that most people quit after a few weeks! I don’t wanna be like that.” You look up at his clear blue eyes, the dissatisfaction clear on your face.

You had been Van’s girlfriend for years now, and watching him play guitar with the boys on tour (when you were invited to come see them for a few days) was one of your favorite memories. At night in hotel rooms, they’d bring out a few acoustics with Bob tapping on pots and pans or hotel room tables when all his gear was locked in the other rooms. They’d sing and play and dance until the early hours of the morning when one of the tour managers would come in and banish everyone to their respective rooms with a “You all have to be up in four hours! What are you thinking?”. Out of everyone, you were the least musically inclined; you always got that hot feeling in your cheeks when a new friend of the band’s handed you a guitar thinking you played too. The blush would creep up on your chest and your cheeks and you had to pretend it was because Van was still wooing you with his prodigious musical ability - which he was, granted - but you didn’t want to let him know how much it affected you to feel incredibly inferior to him in every aspect in music. After all, music was his entire life, and you had been desperate to avoid any contact with it until now.

You had always wanted to learn an instrument but never had the time to learn how to play. There were the fourth grade piano lessons, but those lasted about a week and a half before you quit because your fingers weren’t long enough to do octaves, and all the classical songs you wanted to learn required that you could do that. When all your friends were in the school chorus or band or orchestra, you were taking the other elective classes that interested you more than the chance to potentially and eventually fail again at music.

That insecurity was still rooted deeply in you as you grappled at the frets and struggled to strum the chords; after Van tried to teach you melody, he realized a better fit for inexperienced you would be rhythm, and set you to learning some of the easier parts in songs you both loved, not to much avail.

“Honey, come to bed,” Van whispered a few hours later, peeking out of his room across the hall from Larry’s. You had been working tirelessly through the evening and into the night, watching how-to videos on Youtube and trying to remember the patterns of fingers and strums while Van, Larry, and Bondy shared a few drinks and played Fifa; their activities were practically the same regardless of whether they were on tour. It was all a blur to you as you concentrated hard.

“A few more minutes, I’ve almost got this one part I think,” you replied, placing your tongue between your lips again in concentration, fingers trying to hold the strings down. Your eyes were starting to go in and out of focus from exhaustion.

“Right. See you in a few.” He tiptoed over, careful not to make the floorboards creak, and kissed you on the cheek softly before heading back to his bedroom.

****

Bondy’s heavy footfalls on the linoleum kitchen floor woke you. The tiny night-light above the sink cast an orangey glow across his chiseled features as he stepped around the table to reach the fridge. After pouring himself a glass of water, he sensed your gaze, and his bare feet padded over to you.

You hadn’t realized that you’d fallen asleep with the guitar cradled in your arms, and you only noticed as Bondy started to softly chuckle as he picked up your feet from the couch and put them on the coffee table so he could take a seat next to you.

“Still trying to pick it up?” he asked, in reference to playing the guitar. You nodded sleepily as he took it from you and started to play it quietly, and almost absentmindedly. The guitar looked like it belonged in his arms, as if it were an extension of him. He played it easily, though his eyes were heavy-lidded.

Suddenly, you decided to vent the frustrations you were harboring about guitar. Maybe it was the cover of night, or Bondy’s comforting presence next to you. Or the countless hours you’d practiced with Van, all for nothing. But something was making you speak out for once.

“Van’s not the best teacher - I mean, he plays really well, but I don’t think what he’s telling me is getting through to me. May I?” You nod to the glass of water on the table, questioning, and Bondy nods back, indicating you could take a sip. After washing away the feeling of sleep from your mouth, you continue. “I just don’t get it. I’ve never been good at music. I think it’s ‘cause I have a different way of thinking than most people. I mean, not super different, but just a little backwards or maybe I see other patterns than what I’m supposed to. And, God, I’m bored all the time. I need something to do to pass the time.” Your voice got quieter.  “And I’m just embarrassed every time some of you start playing and I can’t take part. I feel like an outsider or something.” You looked down at your hands folded in your lap and twiddled your thumbs.

Bondy listened quietly to your confused ramble, and when you were finished, he said, “Maybe I could teach you the basics. Sometimes it can help to just forget everything you’ve heard and start again from scratch.”

You nodded your head, and considered. Glancing at the digital clock numbers glowing bright blue on the end table, and realizing you still had a couple of hours left until you really had to go to sleep, you nodded as Bondy handed the guitar back to you and started explaining everything from a true beginner’s perspective.

*****

“Babe! Ya never came to bed last night,” Van said, a little disappointed, to your almost-lifeless body on the couch as he strutted into the living room. He was wearing the white button down (your favorite), black jeans, black suede boots, and that black belt with a big square silver buckle. His hair was washed clean and his reflective sunglasses were perched on the bridge of his nose. Grabbing his keys and then popping a quick kiss on your lips, he exited through the door to the driveway. Shortly after, Larry emerged from his room, Bondy in tow, the both of them looking exceptionally cleaned-up as well.

You tossed off the blanket that was laying over your legs and headed for the bedroom to get changed. Today half the band was doing an acoustic session on the radio near where Van and Larry lived, hence Bondy’s overnight stay. You were excited about this performance - you had never seen them sing and play on the radio, let alone even been in a radio station, so you were bright-eyed and curious as you drove up to the radio station behind Van’s car-full of lads.

Arriving at the station, you marveled at all the wires and microphones and equipment snaking around chairs and tables in the room. The walls were completely soundproof between the studio and the outer rooms, allowing no sound to come out from inside the transparent box, and prompting Larry to cut up with you while the boys were preparing to speak. He kept making faces and yelling things at you from behind the glass, which you couldn’t hear, until Van smacked him on the arm and told him to go wait outside with you until they were done setting up.

Occupying a chair next to Larry in the back corner of the radio booth as the band and the radio hosts sat down and placed headphones on their heads, readying the equipment for on-air, you felt a little useless. You wondered if this is how Larry felt some days on tour, his job as guitar tech typically being given to hired sound people at festivals; taping setlists and carrying water out to the stage didn’t seem like fulfilling time, but you knew he enjoyed other aspects of the job too. You almost felt bad for him, and empathized with his need to act silly sometimes to get people’s attention; especially when Van told him to “shut the fuck up” earlier as Larry was bantering with Joe, preventing him from doing his job. You realized this faux “all-business” attitude Van fell into was probably why Larry enjoyed your company, and why Van may have been eager to bring you along sometimes. Their love-hate relationship was obvious.

Soon the band started the interview, with Van speaking up most of the time; you loved the way he told the host exactly what he was thinking, and didn’t hold back at all. Confidence emanated from him, and today he spoke with flourishing hand gestures. The slight tone of his muscles was peeking through the white fabric stretched over his shoulders, and you couldn’t help but think he looked incredibly sexy. You bit your lip so as not to let a rogue facial expression betray your thoughts.

The interview passed relatively quickly, and you were pleased to see what everyone looked like in action, promoting their content. You could tell they truly loved what they did, and how much they appreciated fans’ support. As they stood from their chairs to perform, the radio host played a short song over the radio so they could go off-air to prepare.

Bondy took his guitar from the stand, and made direct eye contact with you and motioned for you to watch his hands. Then he nodded his head towards Van’s hands, and with that gesture essentially told you to spot the difference. Van noticed the nonverbal interaction between you and Bondy, and cocked an eyebrow, but if he thought anything of it, he didn’t say.

They played the regulars - 7, Cocoon, and Kathleen - and wowed the radio hosts, as usual. Normally, you would have been excited to just watch Van sing, but listening to how the acoustic guitars blended the sounds together piqued your interest in not just Van’s vocals, but how fluid his rhythmic hand movements were in matching Bondy’s melodic ones. You noticed how both men played the same chords, but Van strummed in a sort of “backup guitar” fashion under Bondy’s perfect plucking. Never before had you noticed what real talent Bondy had, since previously you’d avoided even looking at musical instruments, and it fascinated you.

At the end of the session, you congratulated the both of them on a job well done as they walked outside the heavy black doors of the studio for a smoke.

“So glad we have a few more days off before the next appearance,” Bondy sighed, exhaling a cloud of smoke skyward.

“No, mate, we’ve got that fancy party tomorrow night to celebrate the year anniversary of the album’s release. We’re booked in that club, you know the one that’s like an underground bar, and though they said no outside people would be allowed in, ya know they let ‘em in for revenue an’ all that,” Van replied, snaking a cigarette out of the box. He held it daintily between his long fingers, seeming to barely touch it at all. It floated around as he spoke with his hands.

Bondy rolled his eyes in defeat, crunching his boots on the asphalt. “Is that the one where we have to dress up a little, like the Brits? Photo ops and the like?” You tried to stifle a laugh, but you choked out a giggle. You loved the way Catfish thought they had to dress up only “a little” for the Brits.

“No, that one’s in a few weeks. This one’s casual.” He fumbled around for his lighter, patting his jacket pockets, then his pants pockets. “Got a light, love?” You handed Van your lighter, both of your hands brushing together, causing you to blush. Still, years later, every little thing he did made your heart flutter. “Oh, almost forgot, we gonna practice guitar tonight?” he asked as he lit the cigarette.

Your eyes immediately went to Bondy, but he was studying the asphalt beneath his boots. You hadn’t told Van yet that you decided against him being your guitar teacher.

Looking back at Van, you realized you’d have to say yes, otherwise he’d know something had changed. You’d been so eager to have Van teach you before, and had even told him one of the many personal tales of chagrin you felt regarding your musicless childhood. You practically begged him to teach you in his spare time, which he could be using for other, more entreating activities while off tour.

You rationalized in your head. Having Bondy teaching you guitar was not wrong, but somehow you felt guilty because you’d asked Van and convinced him to forego other events. Not to mention Van hated when people went behind his back for even the smallest of offenses - you took Larry and the jaffa cake incident as a perfect illustration of this. To avoid hurting his feelings, you just smiled and said, “Course, babe,” to Van with the most positivity you could manage.

*****

“Ye can’t let him try to force the chord patterns on you. Remember what I told you - remember sounds above everything,” Bondy’s voice crackled through the receiver. You were lying backwards on Van’s bed, feet propped up on the pillows, twirling your keys around your fingers.

“I know, I know. It’ll be fine,” you tell him. “I won’t forget what you’ve already taught me.” A pause crept up, and you didn’t know what to say. You settled on a friendly “See ya later” to break the awkwardness of saying goodbye; you hated speaking on the phone for this very reason. You gladly hung up, and as you waited for Van and Larry to come home from afternoon grocery shopping, you decided to casually scroll through Instagram. You missed being able to freely post what you wanted to; all your old friends were posting selfies with their partners, recording silly videos, and showing off their love. Being Van’s girlfriend meant that you couldn’t really post anything about him without having to reveal your relationship to the public, and Van was an extremely private person, particularly wary of social media. Sometimes you wish you had a relationship with someone whose love you could also share with the world, like Chrissy Teigen and John Legend.

Your train of thought was interrupted by the sounds of Van and Larry busting into the house with giant paper bags crunching as they tried to carry all of the groceries inside. Van’s laugh echoed down the hall as Larry tried to juggle some fruit, and failed, as told by the muffled thumps on the floor.

Van jogged from the kitchen to the bedroom, and seeing you on the bed, exclaimed a cheery “Hello, love!” midair as he jumped onto it, landing to hover above you. He rubbed the tip of his nose across yours. You put your phone down and placed a hand on his neck, guiding his lips to yours. His long fingers brushed over your hair and down your neck, tickling your collarbone. Breaking the kiss, you replied with a simple, “Hi,” and a smile, and looked into his eyes. They were darkening to a deep indigo by the second. You caught onto his mood, and a smirk was shared between the two of you. His lips reconnected with yours, and the kiss deepened. He lowered himself over you, and his knee went between your legs as one of his hands slid underneath the small of your back. The other was starting to slink up your shirt, and as his fingers trailed higher up your stomach, he placed an open mouthed kiss on your neck, causing you to suck in a sharp breath of air and arch your back.

“That’s fuckin’ gross, mate!” Larry yelled at the sight of both of you on the bed through the open bedroom door. He couldn’t help but awkwardly smile in embarrassment as he stepped through the doorway to reach for the knob and close it behind him, leaving you and Van to indulge in each other.

****

The next morning you awakened to soft kisses being pressed to your shoulder. Remembering the night you and Van shared, you smiled and kissed Van’s hair.

“Mornin’ darlin’,” Van whispered when he felt the contact. From his position, legs intertwined in yours and cuddled into your side, he was at eye level with you for once. You loved when he did this; you felt so connected to him, especially with one side of his body running the length of yours. You didn’t have to crane your neck to kiss him, either. It was perfect. His arms were wrapped around your naked torso, and his skin was warm in the silk sheets. You recalled when he bought them for you at a specialty boutique:

“I’m picky ‘bout my linens. Gotta have the best for me girlfriend and me, we’re gonna be spending a lot of time in the bedroom,” he told the shop worker with a wink. Your cheeks burned red all the way out to the car as Van whisked the shopping bags off the counter with a crooked grin.

Unfortunately, you knew the morning’s cuddling had to be cut short. In order to be able to attend the band’s party tonight, you had to reschedule the dinner you had with your mother for lunchtime, and she was not keen on her children being late to family events. Actually, she wasn’t keen on anything or anyone at all.

You parted from Van in a sad huff as you told him you had to get ready for lunch with your “pain-in-the-arse” mother; he whined from loss of contact. The silken sheets pooled around his waist as you rose from your side of the bed, and his abs rippled when he propped himself up on his elbows. You, still naked, sat on the vanity’s chair to wipe your face with a cloth and prep your skin for makeup.

As you applied moisturizer and primer, you noticed Van’s gaze on you in the mirror. You straightened up your back, and pretended not to notice how ravenous his eyes appeared. While opening drawers as sexily as possible to tease Van a little in retrieving the rest of your makeup, your eyes glanced across a black silk handkerchief in the rear of one of the drawers. Picking it up with your forefinger and thumb, you dangled it in the air beside you, watching Van’s reaction reflected through the glass. His eyes opened wide and his mouth dropped open, and he looked at you incredulously for a moment. You only smirked.

“We’re deffo gonna employ that one day,” he said, just as a voice called for him in the living room.

“God, Larry ruins everythin’.” He chuckled, rose from the sheets that beckoned he stay in bed all day, and pulled a pair of track pants over his legs. He looked fucking beautiful, even in such casual attire. His necklace glinted in the mid-morning light, and his eyes sparkled as he wrapped his arms around you from behind, kissing you on the cheek as his bare chest pressed into your back, his messy hair falling onto your face. “You look lovely. And don’t stress about your mum. She’s not the greatest person, but she’s still your mum, so you got to love her” he said in his raspy morning voice. “See you tonight.”

“Wait!” you called after him. He stopped right before he reached the door. “Aren’t you going to be here this afternoon?”

“Nah, gonna go visit me grandad. His Irish folk band’s on ‘tour’ here this week, and he’s stayin’ near here.”

“Gotcha. Right then, see you tonight hon.”

****

“Y/N, I don’t know why you put me through this much stress,” your mother said as you plopped down in the cafe. She was sitting there, back straight with her driving gloves on. “I waited almost twenty minutes for you! I was about to leave,” she scoffed. In her lavender suit, matching hat and gloves, and pursed lips, she was the picture of cookie-cutter aristocracy. Something you hadn’t wanted anything to do with since she’d remarried.

“Come on Mum, I’m sorry I’m late. Van didn’t wake me up on time this morning.” She gave you a look that said Don’t test me.

“Relying on that boy for everything now! What am I going to do with you,” she sighed, clutching her cup of tea close to her brooched bosom. In spite, the corners of your mouth turned down. Her entire “holier than thou” speech was going to be laced with hypocrisy. You waited for her to continue; she always did. After a few heartbeats, she spoke up again. “You’re going to end up like that fellow Larry. Wind up with nothing someday, without a job or degree when someone replaces him. You should talk to Steve, the baker on the corner. He’s got a job opening. Or your cousin Matilda, in accounting. I’ve asked around town, and they’d all be pleased to have you working for them.”

You cut her off at that. “Mum, I’m not taking pity jobs from you. And I’m not going to end up like Larry! He’s got a stable job, he’s a great guy… And I do my own things, I don’t cling to Van. Plus… I’m just enjoying being young, not having anything pinned down.” Sighing, you sat back in your chair. The waiter came over and took your order, and then realizing the tension in the air, stepped to serve other customers nearby.

Your mother sighed, and sipped her tea. “You were going to go to university, get a prime education, and get a job away from here. I never thought I’d see you posted up like a groupie at that frontman’s flat. Living off his money like a housewife. You were always better than that,” she said, drumming her fingers on the table in front of you. You gasped at her harsh word choice. Your mother had always disapproved of everything that you did because you never did what she wanted, but she had never gone this far to insult you for it. Angry, you leaned forward and looked her directly in the eyes.

“His name is Van,  not “that frontman,” and we’ve been dating for almost five years. He’s been over at our house plenty. You know he’s wonderful. You even liked him before you remarried that guy. I love Van, and I wouldn’t mind being his housewife, anyhow! What is it with you always making me feel bad about myself? And the digging into me right as I arrive today? What have I done to deserve this?” The last part you practically whisper-yelled across the tiny table, trying not to attract the attention you knew your mother craved.

With the force of your voice, and the strain in your heart, your eyes started to sting as you realized a tiny truth behind her words. You just said you wouldn’t mind being his housewife. When you were in school, you wanted to be a doctor. Help people. Do something in the world. Make a difference. Change people’s lives. Your grades in school were good, but the fun of being with Van and the band was everything to you at the time, and his happiness took precedence over yours, so you never graduated.

You’d been trying to deny it, that you weren’t falling into a rhythm with Van where his work and money supported everything you did. But it was happening. You were his dependent. He paid for rent, food, drinks, even your phone bill. Your chest heaved, and your mother started looking at you with interest. She knew she’d struck a chord, and figured her work was done.

“Well then Y/N, let’s change the subject. I’ll tell you about Veronica’s new hair, boy is it god-awful..”

But you didn’t listen to the rest of it. As she spoke about the town gossip, your chest burned with hatred and guilt, and you felt tiny and helpless sitting in the chair in front of your mother. Sobs were threatening to escape, and you were in a public place. You tried to reign in the bitter tingling before your eyes, and a million scenarios were passing through your head. You couldn’t get a well-paying job because you dropped out of school when Van did. You couldn’t live on your own because you didn’t have a job. You couldn’t help with the band because you had no management, sound engineering, or instrument experience. Pigeonholed by your life choices, you couldn’t do anything other than what you were doing currently. And you were stuck. For half a second you considered breaking up with Van as your mother suggested, but the thought of losing him consumed you and made you choke out a sob and interrupt your mother mid-cackle.

“Mum, I’ve got to go.” You resigned yourself from the table, and ran down the steps of the restaurant to the parking lot. You put your car in drive, and let the tears spill. You wove through cars as fast as you could to get back to your only home - unfortunately for the circumstances, Van and Larry’s.

You missed your shot to achieve your dreams. You’re relying on a man for everything you’ve ever wanted. You can’t do anything. You want to give up? Great. It’s the thing you’ve always done, nothing new. Thoughts raced through your head and the tears kept coming as you drove on, but finally you thrust your key into the lock of the house and ran past the living room. It barely registered with you that Bondy was there, sitting at the kitchen table on his phone as you flew past him to the bedroom.

As soon as you slammed the door behind you, you let the tears flow freely, staining the silk sheets possibly permanently with the makeup you’d applied so happily earlier. You cried into the pillows to muffle the sounds, and lamented all in your life that you ruined.

****

A soft knock on the door betrayed the silence you’d immersed yourself in. You’d stopped crying a while ago. You were staring blankly ahead at the door, numb. Unfeeling. Unimpressed.

“Come in,” a monotone voice that didn’t sound like yours answered for you.

Bondy poked his head around the door. “Ah… you want to maybe… play guitar?” His kind, sympathetic eyes revealed that he took pity on your state, curled into the sheets and face thick with runny mascara. He was apprehensive. You probably looked terrifying.

“Okay.” You answered, and closed your eyes. Something dropped onto the sheets next to you. Opening your eyes, you saw it was a packet of makeup wipes.

“Let’s go, then. I’ll ready everything.” He left to get the guitars, and you slowly opened the crinkly package of wipes. You cleaned your face off, realizing mascara had even dripped lines down to your chin. Bondy returned with the guitars, and you forced yourself to cheer up a bit.

Bondy didn’t ask questions, for which you were grateful; you loved that he minded his own business. He started straight into the lesson, handing you a guitar and sitting himself down on the bed next to you.

“So we’ve been over chords a bit, and what sounds they make. Oh, let me see your fingers.” He held a hand out, asking for your left hand. You held it out to him, and he delicately lifted your wrist with one hand and felt the pads of your fingers with another. With a satisfied look, he continued speaking. “You’re getting the roughness you need to hold the strings down. I can tell you’ve been practicing.”

You wanted to look away from him; after the emotions you’d just swung through, having Bondy touch you so delicately, almost intimately, was enough to make you blush.

He noticed, and yet again, said nothing. With a small smile, he asked, “‘Ya listen to Frankie Cosmos?”

“Yeah. Her music is good. Simple, a little weird, but… good.”

“Glad you like it, because her song School is the first you’ll be learning. Super easy.”

He showed you the chords you needed to learn --- E and A, for the most part --- and taught you about bar chords, because she used them in one part of the song. Bondy even took your hand with the pick and strummed the song for you, as you practiced moving your hands over the frets with a chord change. The strings still cut into your skin, but it was easier than before to maneuver around the instrument; it was starting to feel less foreign.

Then, Bondy let you practice on your own for a few minutes, and once you got the general gist of it, he started playing rhythm to back you up, even though the original song didn’t have it. His playing sounded much better than yours, and you still messed up a lot, but it was fun. By the time you had been playing for an hour, a wide smile was plastered to your face. Bondy had taught you two of her songs, and you were eager to attempt the singing-with-a-guitar part.

Before you could, though, Larry walked right past the doorway and saw Bondy, hovering close to your face, smiling and repositioning your hands on the guitar, and your happy expression and tinted cheeks.

“What’s going on here?” He asked, pointedly. You knew it looked worse than it was.

“Teachin’ Y/N how to play guitar,” Bondy said, and you kicked him in the foot.

“What? Thought Van was doing that?” Larry asked, and looked at you for an answer.

“....He is.” You looked back between Bondy and Larry.

“Ah… I’m going out for a smoke.” With that, Bondy left the room.

Larry began once more. “Y/N, I’m gonna ask again, what’s going on here? What would Van think?” Always Van’s lookout.

Hearing his name washed over you all the feelings you’d felt earlier. You had tried not to think about how much being with Van had slid you into a useless niche that felt very permanent, and you wanted to convince yourself that your mother was just exaggerating the role Van had played in your life decisions, but Larry opened the floodgates with the comment that confirmed everything. And so, you lost it.

“What do you mean what would Van think? I’m allowed to learn guitar if I fucking want to. Gonna go tell him behind my back?” God, so many raging emotions you’d felt in the span of a few hours. You could tell Larry was shocked at your tone by his wide eyes and open mouth, but you just couldn’t hold it in anymore. Bondy had distracted you for a while, but it wasn’t long enough to make you genuinely happy.

Larry’s voice rose in pitch. “But the way Bond looks at - Nevermind bout that. You need to be more careful! Secrets aren’t good in this house. Van’s going to be livid if he finds out Bondy’s out here doing this with you.” His voice relayed that he thought a lot more was going on that guitar-playing. You couldn’t believe he thought so lowly of you. You were done with people making assumptions. Your heart hurt and your eyes welled up again as you spit venomous words back at one of your only friends.

“Larry, no offense, but what I do with my free time is none of your goddamn business. Not to mention that this is something I enjoy doing, and I don’t get a lot of that lately. For once I need to do something without Van’s permission! That’s all I’ve done for the last few years! I’ve settled on being his lady in waiting. I don’t even have an income. I couldn’t do anything if it weren’t for Van. My personal dreams are all gone. My dreams were Van’s dreams. They’ve been realized. I have nothing. Not all of us can tour with our best friends and get free shit.” Mouth open, obviously gutted at the reference, Larry turned, shocked, and retreated to his room, flinging the door shut with a bang. You didn’t mean to say it. The tears silently dripped over your cheeks. Your mother’s words infiltrated your own. You let her get to you. You had let everyone get to you.

Head in your hands, you sat on the bed, sniffling and regaining your composure. You dragged yourself solemnly to the shower to get ready for the party you’d forgotten about. After you undressed, before you turned the water on, you heard the front door slamming loudly. Larry had left.

****

Larry was Bondy’s ride to the party. Bondy had no choice but to ride with you, not that he minded. The ride over wasn’t awkward, as you had previously expected. Bondy was ever-so-cool, and if he had any reservations about earlier, he didn’t show it. You both bantered about the shitty music on the radio, and talked about your own music favorites. It put the horrible day you’d had in the back of your mind. You asked each other for a ciggy at the same time, and called “jinx!”, eventually owing each other a soda. At one point, Bondy used a funny voice to recite lines and lines of puns, and you couldn’t stop laughing and had to pull the car over to calm down. You’d never heard Bondy laugh so loudly in your life; it was a hearty, merry sound. You realized you really liked spending time with him because he made you forget how shitty life could be sometimes.

As soon as you and Bondy arrived at the bar in the city, Van was at your side, hugging you, taking you to meet people, and showing you off, leaving Bondy to mingle with others himself. Obviously, Larry had kept the conflict earlier to himself.

You were glad you wore the outfit you did - black dress, green army jacket with your buttons pinned to it, and your silvery doc martens - because everyone was looking at you. You had to admit, you loved the attention you got when Van introduced you as his girlfriend. It helped ease the part of your mind that persuaded you didn’t matter, and put you in a better mood.

Listening to everyone speak so highly of Van made it easier to forget what your mother said. He truly was an angel; and after all, it was kind of your fault that you’d let him guide your decisions. He never asked you to do any of it. He was always thankful for your support and your presence, and he believed he was repaying you by supporting you fiscally and emotionally. Well, most of the time.

“Baby, you don’t have a drink! Let me grab her one, excuse me everyone,” Van said to the group you were currently speaking with as he butted into the conversation with a playful air. He held your hand and pulled you along to the bar, where he ordered the most expensive drink they had, to spoil you. He smiled proudly as you sipped from the rim. You loved how territorial and chivalrous he got with you around others. He’d tug you closer into his side, letting everyone know you were with him and no one else.

Fast forward three hours, when anyone and everyone in the bar was pissed drunk. Slurred words and happy laughter filled the air. Van decided to take advantage of everyone’s distractions and planted a hard kiss on your lips. By this time, just as Van predicted earlier, the bar had let in people who weren’t invited, and it was turning into a proper club scene. You two weren’t into that, so you settled for a steamy makeout on the fire-engine-red booth in the corner, and in drunkenness, your demeanor had improved considerably.

Wandering hands touched skin and roamed the fabric of your dress. No one dared interrupt your tangling limbs in the booth; people were busy singing karaoke. Others were engaged in intimate conversations. Some, jealous, peeked over at Van in the booth and wished they were you.

Van’s touches became more urgent, and his tongue rolled between yours. You could taste the alcohol and smoke in his mouth, but you didn’t care. His mouth was warm, comforting, and laced with want. Breaking the kiss, he pushed you gently upright against the booth; you liked how his hands felt pressing your skin. He kissed your neck and helped you out of the booth.

Smirking, he took your hand and led you out of the area of booths to a storeroom closet. He pushed you back against the closed door, the doorknob rattling and the wood creaking. His hips slid against yours as he lifted the hem of your dress up, bunching it around your waist. You were tempted to take the damned thing off because it was getting in the way, but it was a bit difficult to undo, and why did you think to wear anything at all with Van around?

You hazily circled your hips, grinding down against him as you hooked one of your legs around his hips, the clunky heel of your shoe digging into his backside. You were both breathless, moans and groans leaving lips as you moved against each other, and his hands were everywhere. On your waist, your hips, blunt nails digging into the skin of your stomach as he reached up to your chest.

Your lips parted, reddened and plumped from biting to keep quiet, and a soft whisper of a sigh brushed against his jaw. “Fuck.” Your hips twitched when he pulled the strap of the dress aside to kiss and lick, his teeth grazing the top of your chest with precision. Your fingers threaded through the hair on the back of his head, jerking him away to kiss him, open mouthed and heavy, teeth clashing and tongues curling.

You could hear the noise coming from outside, music thumping, causing your body to thrum with the vibration. His deep guttural moan when you slid your hand down his bum to pull him closer between your legs made you so wet. “God.”

“Actually, I go by Van,” he snickered. You bit at his earlobe in retaliation.

His lips were on your neck, teeth and tongue sucking and biting as he descended. Down the valley between your breasts, over the bunched material of your dress. Suddenly his unruly hair was under the fabric and he was running his tongue along the skin above your panties. Your fingers found purchase in the grooves of the door to keep standing upright.

You couldn’t believe you were doing this – with all your friends and colleagues right outside, eating and drinking and being downright merry.

Actually, you could believe it was happening with him; it was Van, and he did things to you no one else could ever imagine doing to you, and you surely let him.

Earlier you had too many of those fancy drinks and the feel of his hand traveling up and down your spine as you danced to slower music – heads bent close and whispers of “I’m glad you’re here” and “I love you” passed between you – brought you back to the high school days when it was always just you two. Always touching, always kissing, always full of love and lust and heat.

And now here you were, leaning against the door, a leg propped over his shoulder as his fingers hooked into the sides of your underwear, bringing them down inch by inch until they were dangling off your ankle and his head was back between your legs and his fingers slipped into you and you couldn’t keep in the whimpers. You were glad it was loud out there.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you breathed, raking your fingers through his hair, keeping him close. Only you could contradict yourself at a time like this.

He looked up at you, eyes half lidded and raised eyebrows, but he kept his tongue flat on you as he hummed, causing you to clench tightly around his fingers. He pulled back and with his voice all husky and deep, he asked, “And do you want me to stop?”

It was hard to speak when he kept moving his fingers, curling just right, and he was looking up at you with a smirk on his face, lips swollen and red from being on your skin.

“No,” you thrusted your hips, chasing his fingers. “I want...I want. Ugh, just come here,” you  grab for his shoulders, putting your leg back down as he stood up. He pulled his fingers out tantalizingly slow, causing you to whimper at the loss.

“Shh.” He rubbed his nose against yours, unhooking his belt as your hands joined the effort to bring his skinny black pants down just enough. He had his hands on your thighs, hitching one back up around his hips while the other hand glided along your backside, pulling you closer.

“I doubt they can hear me.” You teased yourself along his length, and his head fell forward to your neck, his panting breath coming out sharp and jagged. “Mm,” you pointed to the floor beside you, “purse, condom.”

He bent down to pick it up, handing it over for you to dig through. He genuinely laughed, “Thought you were going to get lucky, did you?”

“Oh please, you’ve been staring at me all night.” You tore open the package, and carefully put it on him. He bit his lip, moaning at the feel of your hands around him. “Not to mention the rest of this weekend. Maybe I was right in being a bit presumptuous, huh?”

With your hand wrapped around him, you pushed your hips up, guiding him in. You both moaned as he slid further in, getting used to each other’s bodies. His hand on your ass brought you closer, pushing him in farther. “Oh, fuck.” As he started moving slowly, his voice rose in pitch. “Yeah, you were definitely, definitely right.”

Smiling wide, you joked softly, “Shh, you don’t want them to hear you.” But you’re cut off by your own loud gasp as his thumb came to the apex of your thighs, rubbing as his hips moved even faster. He kissed you deeply, muffling your moans – and you were already treacherously close, god he needed to slow down. Slower.

Pulling on your bottom lip with his teeth, he rolled his hips just right, causing your legs to tremble. “I guess we’ll just have to find some way to keep each other quiet, won’t we? Just make sure not to call out my name too loudly.”

He dodged the hand flying at his face, half-laughing, half-moaning as he found just the right spot to make you scream.

****

Shuffling out of the closet, you both looked around the bar. No one seemed to have noticed you were gone for too long; also, you had taken measures to smooth Van’s hair back down, straighten your dress and jacket, and wipe off Van’s hands before exiting so as not to look like you’d just been doing something scandalous. Besides, Larry could always make up an excuse in the event someone did ask for either of you. You both could relax.

The rest of the night passed by uneventfully, other than when Benji accidentally broke a glass. You and Van were tired from the closet sex, and had been drunk earlier, so you couldn’t drive home. Bob offered to drive you, Van, and Bondy back.  Bondy was wildly drunk, mumbling to himself about tight spaces, party people, and broken cigarettes; therefore, definitely staying with Van and Larry again.

Sat with your forehead pressed to the cold window in the backseat, you watched the shops of Chester pass by. Bob’s driving was slow and steady, allowing you to drink in the night drifting by in your woozy state. Stopped at a red-light, through sleepy eyes you peered through the foggy fall night at the street corner. The little sign on the corner shop, illuminated by the neon blue of the DAWSON’S MUSIC sign in big letters, drew your attention. “NOW HIRING,” it said.

In your state of drunkenness, you still managed to write it down in the notes in your phone, and set it to remind you tomorrow afternoon. Van was passed out asleep in the middle seat next to you, and Bondy was in the passenger side in front of you, calmer now and also gazing through the window. After using so much energy to pick your phone up and enter that piece of information, you slumped into Van’s side for the rest of the car ride, mind flickering between consciousness and sleep.

Bob pulled into the driveway eventually, and you and Van stretched your sore limbs upon exiting the car. Van motioned with his hand over his shoulder to Bondy as you dug the keys out of your pocket. You three stumbled past the living room, through the kitchen, leaning on each other, and all of you collapsed into Van’s bed. Sandwiched between Van and Bondy, you were warm. Safe. Satisfied. You felt Van’s arm snake over your waist, and Bondy held your hands with fingers interlaced loosely between you - or was it the other way around?

****

Aspirin and water were desperately needed the next morning. Bob came over to see how everyone was, and he found the place a disaster. The front door was unlocked, and Bob waltzed right in; “You all could’ve been kidnapped,” he relayed to you later. Someone had knocked over a lamp on the way through the living room, and the bulb was shattered on the carpet. A loaf of bread was out and stale on the kitchen table next to a tub of butter. And when Bob found you, Van, and Bondy, legs all intertwined and makeup smeared on the both of them, he pretended he didn’t see it.

“Larry’s the fuckin’ lamp perpetrator,” Van told Bob once he was up and about. “Y/N and I just fuckin’ jumped in bed last night without a care. Real easy, slept amazin’. Didn’t hurt nothin’.”

You and Bondy shared a look, about to burst into laughter.  

“I slept like a fuckin’ baby. Always do when Y/N and I party all night,” he winked at you, teeth showing in a wily grin. However, you didn’t feel the same cheerfulness that Van was emanating. Something wasn’t right. Normally, Van should’ve been embarrassed that he and Bondy downright snuggled face to face - at least, he was extremely disconcerted when Larry tried to make out with him one Christmas as a result of some misplaced mistletoe and heavily consumed alcohol.

Did Van not remember that Bondy slept next to you last night? And that through the night, you had managed to cover everything with your mascara? You were known to roll around when you were drunk. But the loss of pressure when Bondy left the bed to right himself in the morning should have been enough for Van to wake up. Though he was a hard sleeper.

“And where’d you sleep last night, Bond? Get into bed with anyone? Ya’ had that lusty look in your eyes every time Y/N and I peeked at ya” Van cackled as he picked a slice of stale bread off the table and chewed it. Confirmed. Van did not know Bondy slept there at all last night. “You were absolutely fucked, mate.”

Bob’s eyes went wide, and you noticed. How did Bob know? Your eyes narrowed. You decided to keep your mouth shut, and shot Bob a look as well. You’d rather not deal with this. A confused Van was somewhat irritating.

“Yeah, ah… jumped into bed with some real hotties.” You snorted at Bondy’s answer.

“Bond! Fuckin’ legend, mate! We’re gonna have to talk about this at some point. I’ve got to know. Gonna go find Larry now though.” He stalked through the hallway to surprise Larry by yelling his name. Larry was probably in his room; he hadn’t spoken to you since you’d screamed at him. Rightfully so.

Later, when you’d gone out to the shed for a private smoke to deal with your thoughts, Bondy followed you and sat down on the ragged couch in the space next to you. Behind closed doors, you could talk freely.

“That’s so weird, Bond, how did he not know? I mean, hell, you fussed about getting my lipstick off your forehead for what seemed like five minutes. You also weigh a fuck ton and when you got off the bed, the dip you’d made in it practically sprung up. He’s absolutely oblivious.” The smoke huffed out of your lungs and hovered in the small space.

“He drank too much. He did happen to be passed out all the way home. But it’s odd that he remembers everything with you and nothin’ with me.” He lit his own cigarette and held it between his lips. The afternoon light filtered through the curls at the nape of his neck. He looked… pretty.

“Selective memory?”

“Don’t know if it works like that, love.”

Your head was swimming with all the thoughts rushing around in it. After a pause, you sighed. “We should’ve told him that happened, Bondy.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause now if he finds out later that we all shared a bed, especially after that ‘I’m horny as fuck’ look, he’s gonna think something’s up! He’s gonna think you’re trying to get at me or summat! Especially with the guitar thing already on our shoulders. Larry’s eyes are peeled. Bob’s too, for some reason. And I want Van to trust me, always. We’ve been together for so many years, imagine what he’ll do if he thinks we’re cheating. He’ll fall into despair. And now that I’ve sat through that conversation and blatantly lied to his face, complacent with your answer, and now that you’ve done the same, we’re fucked. We’ve got to keep this to ourselves.”

“He wouldn’t think we’re cheating. We’re fine.”

“This is VAN we’re talking about. Hopeless romantic, wouldn’t hurt a fly, tells everyone the truth no matter what -- we’re dealing with the most sensitive person when it comes to love. Not to mention, Larry and Bob know how close we’ve become recently, and it looks bad from the current angle and lack of communication.”

Bondy slumped further into the sickly green couch as he chuckled, releasing a puff of dust from the cushion. “We’re fucked.”

****

A few weeks, eleven secret guitar lessons, and about a hundred cigarettes later, you were stopped outside Dawson’s Music. Nervous.

Ever since you and Bondy had spoken in the shed, it became your unofficial practice space. No one ever went out there, and it was pretty secluded in the gardens that no one ever tended to, so it was a good place to meet. No one had the chance to suspect anything saucy was going on with Bondy if they didn’t know you were spending time with him in the first place. One day, post-guitar-lesson and after a raucous bout of laughter at Bondy’s attempt to sing as high as Tame Impala in The Less I Know The Better, he stopped laughing and looked down at his shoes. The music seemed extra loud when no one was speaking.

“Bond? You good, mate?” He looked up at you from under the brim of his hat, following a long pause, and said, “I think you should go get that job at Dawson’s.”

“What? How’d you even know I was considering?”

“Saw you that night in the car, looking at the sign. And then struggling to write it in your phone. Rearview mirrors are good for something, it seems.” The corner of his mouth turned slightly upward.

Mouth wide open, you stared at him. He continued. “By what you said to Larry that one day, ‘bout you needing to do your own thing, it seemed good.” Your eyes narrowed.

“You were listening?”

“The walls in this house ain’t so thick. Went out to the back behind you and Van’s room for a smoke and heard everythin’ through the window.”

“Oh.” Silence wafted in the air.

“Sorry.”

“No, Bondy, it’s okay, I just got heated in the moment and I said all those things because I had gone to lunch with my mom and she tore me up about my current situation.”

Bondy lit a match and pulled it up to his face to light the cigarette between his teeth. The sun was setting and the shed was darkening little by little. Orange beams of light shone through the two dirty windows and illuminated the dust floating in the room. “Still think ye should do it,” he said. With a puff of smoke, he stood up, took the cigarette from his lips, and handed it to you. “Come on, then.”

So there you were, standing on the street as people were walking by, wondering why your boots felt stuck to the sidewalk. You looked over your shoulder, and Bondy waved at you from the car window, and motioned for you to go inside.

****

“Van, honey! Listen!” You held the phone up to his ear, and a voice he’d never heard crackled over voicemail.

“Hello Y/N, we’re pleased to inform you that you got the job you applied for at Dawson’s Music. Please don’t hesitate to email us with your schedule so we can arrange your shift accordingly. Thanks and have a great day.”

Van looked down at you with surprised eyes, picked you up, and swung you around in his arms. “That’s amazing! I had no idea you even applied!”

“Thanks! Yeah! I’m super excited. Bondy was actually the one to push me to apply. I’m so happy I went through with it.”

“So proud of you, love. So proud. Hows’about we celebrate with some tea and kettlecorn and a movie?”

“You know me so well. Of course.” Van set to making the kettlecorn in the popcorn pot his dad had given him for his birthday last year, and you brewed the tea. Every so often, Van would wrap his arms around your waist and set his chin in the crook of your shoulder, watching you unravel the tea bags or pour hot water into the mugs. A little check-in every so-often. You loved how he subconsciously felt the need to be close to you.

Plopping down on the couch, spooned by Van under a soft knitted blanket, you felt at home. The fabric of his black tee was so soft, and you nudged farther back into him.

“Don’t be playin’ that game, love,” he snickered, kissing the side of your neck just below your ear.

“You’re just so comfortable,” you say, wriggling until you’re turned around facing him, completely disregarding the movie. He looks over your head and shoulder at the tv; you kiss his jaw softly, and then his chin. You wrap your arms around his waist, snuggling up as close as you can get, and press soft kisses to his collarbones peeking through the neck of the tee.

Just then, the front door burst open with an elated Bondy standing there. He was drunk, obviously, cigarette hanging from his lips.

“I’ve done it!” he yells, making his way to the fridge in the kitchen. Larry walked in as Bondy was fishing through the beers. He found his favorite kind, and popped the top open on the edge of the counter. Through Larry’s uncontained giggles, you saw Bondy saunter over to the hearth where Van’s TV was propped above. You felt Van’s vocal chords vibrate as he asked Bondy what the hell he was doing there and laughed.   

Bondy ignored you both on the couch and slung his arm out to grab the propane torch Van used to light the fire in the chimney.

“Fuck, Bondy, put that down!” you said, and Bondy made steady eye contact with you as he lit the torch, flame puffing loudly from the pipe, and brought it to the cigarette in his mouth, blasting the tip of it completely.

“Mate,” Van coughed out between bronchitis laughs, “what the hell?”

“Bought myself a fuckin’ house in the neighborhood today, boys!”

Van’s eyes narrowed in confusion. You felt his heartbeat quicken between his chest and yours. His eyebrows knitted together as he thought. “But you… hate it here?”

“What? No. That was last year. You’re livin’ in the past!” Bondy laughed as he held his arm out one of the living room windows, keeping the cigarette smoke outside. He fell to his knees and tried to grasp the beer he set on the chimney ledge without letting the cigarette in his other outstretched arm in the house.

Larry looked at Bondy with a confused look as well. Then, he glanced at you, who seemed to be the only one excited to gain a new neighbor.

“Where is it?” You asked excitedly. Bondy pointed somewhere off to the right down the street with a spaghetti arm. You knew you’d get the actual address later.

“That’s amazing! Now we can visit you all the time!” you bounced, sitting up on the couch next to Van. “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you! I got the job at Dawson’s Music.”

“No fucking way, that’s fucking brilliant!” Bondy exclaimed, ashing the cigarette on the windowsill and flicking it outside in one motion. He picked you up off the couch and hugged you tightly, his curls tickling your neck. He smelled like booze upfront, but with notes of sandalwood and a light hint of floral underneath. You sighed into his arms. Why did boys have to smell so nice?

****

More weeks pass. It was time again for another acoustic session, this time led by a major video company you couldn’t remember the name of. It was the last session they’d be doing before starting the US tour.

The boys drove themselves to the session as a mini-roadtrip from Chester to London, and you rode in Van and Larry’s car. They laughed the whole way there, as Van and Larry both had erratic driving skills. Van constantly shot sexual looks at you in the backseat from the passenger side, and you hoped they’d later be cashed in for the actual thing.

The London bar was basked in an orange glow from industrial lighting hanging from the low ceiling. Fairy lights trailed around the edges of the room, and the warm light reflecting off the burgundy walls of the room allowed it to softly fade into the shadows at the edges. Candles in glass jars on rustic tables twinkled as people shuffled in to watch.

Your seat had been picked early on; you opted for a table between Van and Bondy, because you loved it when Van would finally open his eyes while playing and look to his right.

When the lights went down and the boys were illuminated only by the fairy lights, the audience was in awe of them. They all looked incredible, and matched the scenery. You never thought you’d see the day when Catfish played a bar gig in such a sweet way, but you were thankful it happened.

As the beginning chords of Hourglass sounded out, clear and compelling, your heart thrummed with them. The other boys fell silent as Van played, and this time he sang all the lyrics directly to you.

His eyes were open the whole time, filled with sadness of having to leave you on tour again; the reality couldn’t be denied any longer. You forgot the presence of others as he sang, belting the lyrics with strained neck and hands. Tears welled up in your eyes as he sang the chorus, almost acapella now. Soft “oohs” and guitar chords sweet and melancholic coaxed your tears out as they dripped down your cheeks.

And then it was over. You wiped them away as the audience murmured about who you were, and how some of the boys couldn’t take their eyes off you the whole time.

When the bar had cleared to its normal capacity a few hours later and your emotions had settled, you sat for a drink with Benji. You declined a beer and went for a soda; you knew if you got day drunk now you’d really feel the longing for Van and the boys on tour.

Benji got called away from the bar by a sound tech, something about his bass guitar, and Bondy plopped down in the seat next to you.

“Emotional, that was.” He was speaking of the Hourglass serenade.

“Yeah. Trying not to think too hard about it. I’m going to lose it for the first few days off by myself. Always do. I eventually get used to it though. As bad as that sounds.” You chuckled, and took a sip of your soda.

“Can’t fuckin’ believe we’re leavin’ again. But we’re also itchin’ to get back out there.”

“I know you are.”

A silence creeped in between you two, but it was comfortable. It had gotten easier speaking to Bondy on a personal level. He was the only other person you spent about as much time with as Van. That used to be Larry, but after you insulted him that day, he had tried to avoid you. Bondy knew this well, but Van was oblivious, and it was both funny and awkward to watch Van try to plan events where you and Larry would sit next to each other or go to the grocery store to buy supplies together. You or Larry would cringe and try to back out of it while Bondy cackled mirthfully in the background, as usual. Hence Larry driving most of the way to London today.

“What are you going to wear to that fancy party tomorrow?” you asked him, and his eyes narrowed in confusion before widening.

“I haven’t actually got anything,” he laughed, feet propped up on the barstool.

“Johnny Bond. This is probably the fanciest party you’ll ever attend. Why haven’t you thought to get any clothes for it?”

“Actually I do have a suit, thank you very much, it’s just in Newcastle. I moved all my shit into my mum’s house there, and I’ve been taking weekend trips there and back to cart it all to the new house. The formal wear hasn’t made it yet,” he stated.

You checked your watch. Half past noon. “I wonder….” you asked him frivolously, toothy grin peeking from your lips.

“I’ll start the car,” he stated. He stalked off to the back of the bar with a smile.

****

In Bondy’s little Volkswagen, surrounded by record store bags, CD jewel cases, old shirts and leather boots, you hit the A1 just before quarter one. Speakers loud, hair blowing in the wind, shirt ruffling, you felt happy. Bondy was smiling too, his hat having been blown to the backseat by a large gust of wind. His hair was flying around his head too. The beat of the music drummed in Bondy’s old speakers. You could feel it in your chest.

From the safety of your sunglasses, you studied his face as he drove on into hour two of the trip. Hooded eyes framed delicately by little eyelashes, nose sloping down to plump lips and small teeth. Curls resting on his cheeks. Freshly shaved. Freckles dusting above his cheekbones. Your eyes traveled over his taut jawline, and the veins in his neck, strained a little from laughing, and something deep inside you hummed. You shifted your legs on the seat and looked away for a few moments, trying to understand, trying to focus on anything but how you were feeling towards him. The music playing over the speakers didn’t help you shake that grandiose feeling of attraction. Looking back at him again, you saw the wind had let the neckline of his shirt fall below his collarbones, and they stuck out slightly, a little red from sunburn. Your cheeks burned red, and you couldn’t help but feel happy to be with him right now.

“What you smilin’ about over there?” he asked, finally noticing your stare.

“Oh, nothing, just--”

It was then that you noticed your phone lit up through your bag on the floor beside your feet.

“Hold on.”

You fished it out of your bag, and answered Larry’s call. In the background, you could hear Van yelling.

“Why the fuck’s she answering your calls but not mine?” you heard him shout, a few feet away from the receiver.

“Y/N, where the fuck are you? We’re worried sick!”

“Hey Larry, chill, Bondy and I are going to get him a suit for the party tomorrow.” You heard Larry sigh, and relay the information to Van, who was somewhere nearby. You could hear parts of their muffled conversation crackling through the phone.

“She’s always with him now, mate. Don’t know what the fuck I’ve done wrong,” Van said. You missed what Larry said back to him next. And then a, “Nothing’s going on,” from Larry, trying to assuage Van’s fears.

Then, you could feel the receiver exchange hands through the crackle of noise.

“Babe, it’s Van.”

“Hey, love. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going.”

“Next time just tell me, okay.”

“Alright. As soon as we get to Newcastle I’ll let you know.”

“Newcastle?!? What the fuck, Y/N?! What in the actual fuck are you doing?! That’s five fucking hours away?” You held the receiver away from your ear because his yelling was so loud. You and Bondy exchanged a look. His said, sorry, and yours said, I didn’t think we were doing anything wrong.

“Van….Van, honey, calm down, okay? I’m just helping him with an outfit! He already had a suit, so why should he buy another one? We’ll get there around dinner time, and I guess we’ll come back early in the morning.”

“So you’re staying the night there, too?” You could feel the hurt in his voice. It was more reserved. It broke you a little.

“Baby, I’m sorry. It was a spur of the moment decision. I… I shouldn’t have gone. I know it was stupid. And I should have told you. You would have kept me from doing this.”

In trying to appease Van, you also managed to hurt Bondy’s feelings. Next to you, he slumped a little farther into his seat and placed his arm out the window, looking away from you. But you knew it was better this way.

You hung up with Van after he felt he’d left the conversation in a good place. He’d called you seven times before Larry’s two.

The rest of the drive passed in silence.

****

“Mum, we’re about thirty minutes out from you now,” he spoke softly into his phone. Between the “mm”s and the “yes”s, you didn’t get much to go off of in terms of Bondy’s mother’s personality. But when you arrived, you realized there was no need to prepare yourself. His mother was the exact opposite of yours.

As soon as the car pulled into the secluded drive, a long winding thing out in the country, she was on the porch, waving him in with a dish towel, bright smile on her face. She was round and motherly, dressed in an apron, hair swept into a bun on the top of her head, secured with a clip. The first thing she did was pull you into a hug.

“Hello there! I’m Beatrice. You’re so beautiful, your name is Y/N, right? Bondy’s told me so much about you.” Her warmth enveloped you, and you immediately wanted to adopt her as your stand-in mother. Bondy blushed in front of you for the first time, and you couldn’t help but feel like you’d experienced a rare side of him no one else had seen.

“Hi mum,” he said, wrapping his skinny arms around her large frame, and leading her into the house.

It seemed it was a Bond family tradition to cook large meals for dinner; you could tell Bondy enjoyed stirring pots and tasting sauces for his mum. He looked at home in the kitchen, and you could imagine him, smaller and more curious-eyed, looking up at his mother asking to help her.

The sweetness in the room was almost too much to handle, and you felt as if you were intruding on a private moment. You wandered into the lounge, and perused the photos on the hearth. Bondy was a cute child, and handsome even in his awkward years.

You thought about the first time you visited Mary and Bernie’s house; it was just as warm and it smelled like cinnamon. You were wrapped in one of Van’s sweaters, sleeves too long for your arms so the sweater paws hung next to you. The photos of Van on the end tables were like mini shrines to him, and Mary gave Van the same looks Beatrice gave Bondy.

Thinking of Van made you peer down at your cell phone. No texts or calls. You guessed he was giving you space. As guilty as you felt, you also craved the taste of independence you were getting. Doing things with other people and making other friends was the first step in becoming your own person again.

Bondy came into the lounge and told you he was running out to the shed to find some old guitars you could play on. You nodded, and smiled as he left. Domestic Bondy made your heart flutter.

Suddenly, the phone rang in the kitchen and Bondy’s mother answered the phone.

“Oh hi Mariam!” her chipper voice answered. You chuckled to yourself. She was adorable.

You continued to walk through her house, imagining a little Bondy galavanting in the small hallways and the sounds of his guitar echoing through the walls. You didn’t want to admit that this made you see a side of Bondy you couldn’t deny a little love for.

“Yes, Mariam, she’s lovely,” Beatrice spoke hushedly in the kitchen. You felt bad for listening, but you were intrigued. “This is the first he’s ever brought…” she trailed off, murmuring to the other woman on the phone. “She’s absolutely beautiful. Polite and sweet. I love her already,” she spoke.

Your eyes went wide as you realized Beatrice thought Bondy was bringing you home to meet her. As if you were together. A hand went over your mouth, and you started to panic.

Thankfully, before you could take another strained breath, Bondy was at your side with the guitar. You let the feelings of panic subside for the time being so you could enjoy playing with him.

You were getting good now, especially since you practiced in your spare time. You didn’t want to show Bondy how much you’d learned, though; you were saving your newfound talent for the afterparty tomorrow, where you’d show the guys how determined you were to take part in their art. You planned to play a few songs for everyone to surprise them.

After losing yourself for an hour or so with Bondy, singing songs and playing guitar, Beatrice called that the meal was ready; Bondy apologized for not helping as much as usual. Beatrice just smiled and said everything was perfectly fine.

“So, Y/N, what do you do?” she asked. A question that had plagued your life since you’d left school. Now, though, you had a solid answer.

“I work at a record and instrument store called Dawson’s Music. I was just recently promoted to the manager of the store. I’m really surprised at how fast I progressed in the ranks! They really seem to love me, and I love them… It’s just a nice environment overall. I never thought I’d be dating a rockstar and working in music, with my previous experience. But that’s another story for another day. Bondy was the one who really pushed me to get the job.”

In the moment, you hadn’t realized your false affirmations of Beatrice’s earlier phone call; she didn’t understand that “dating a rockstar” and “dating her son” didn’t mean the same thing in her context. However, Bondy failed to correct you, and so it went unnoticed by you.

“I’m so glad! I bet you’re feeling mighty independent!” It seemed Beatrice had the same intuitive quality as Bondy.

“I really am. I think I’m happier than I’ve ever been.” At that, both Bond family members’ smiles beamed brightly, and you felt good.

“How about a little toast to that, then?” Bondy stood up, pulling a bottle of pinot grigio from a grocery bag. It was your favorite.

You laughed, eyes narrowing. “Thought you hated white,” you teased.

“Think I can make an exception.” He uncorked it, and poured two full glasses, one for each of you, and a glass with enough for a sip for Beatrice. The glasses clinked together, and you sipped happily on yours. Bondy’s face contorted as soon as he sipped his.

“‘M fine, I swear,” he said, trying to sip more to get used to the taste.

****

Bondy had given up on the wine a long time ago, resorting to a few highball vodkas and “whatever juice I can find in this fuckin’ fridge.” You both were drunk by now, telling stories across the table to starry-eyed Beatrice.

Eventually, she retired to her bedroom with a “goodnight” and a flourish of her dish towel. Bondy led you outside and you both sat in the dewy grass, staring up at the sky.

Beneath the stars, you realized you missed Van too.

****

Clothes needed to be removed after sitting in the wet dewy grass; you both were too drunk to realize what connotation a situation like this would have on any other night. You tiptoed up the stairs to Bondy’s room, where you peeled your jeans and shirt off and let them fall to the floor. Bondy had done the same. Clad only in underwear, you both climbed into his bed, pressing pillows between you two, trying not to acknowledge the zing you felt every time his fingers brushed up against your skin.

When you woke, the pillows were all strewn on the floor from your sleep movements, and you were entwined with him, pressed up against his chest.

****

Racing back to Chester with the formal suit in tow, you made it to Bondy’s house just two and a half hours before you needed to leave for the party. He lived five houses down the row, and two up the next street away from Van, so as soon as he parked the car, you darted up the street for a much-needed shower.

“Look who’s home,” Van said, enveloping you in a tight hug. “Everything’s good?” he asked, tentative. The underlying meaning was there, but you chose to ignore it. At least he was being pleasant.

“Yep. But I’m in desperate need of a shower.”

“Pop on in! Larry just took one so the water’s still hot. And I’ve been eyeing that dress in the closet for weeks, waiting to see you in it. Today’s the day!” he exclaimed, and plopped down on the couch.

You cursed men for not having to spend so much time to get ready. It took you the whole two and a half hours to wash, shave, dry your hair, fix your hair, do your makeup, paint the nails that had chipped, put the dress on, practice walking in the sky high heels, and choose a clutch that went with it.

You had opted for a long-sleeved black dress, backless, with a sweetheart V at the front. The shimmery black fabric was breathable, so it was fine for a summer night. It hugged your figure tightly before it cascaded to the floor. You decided to do your hair in big waves, to complement the dress; you even had extensions put in last week so your hair would be long enough to do a Pinterest blowout.

Stepping out of the bedroom with your smoky eye, tall heels, and fire-engine red clutch bag, you knew you looked good. You hadn’t felt this good in a long time. You walked to the living room, where the boys were doing finishing touches to their own suited looks. As soon as you walked in, all eyes were on you.

“Whoa, babe.” Van dropped to his knees in front of you. “You’re so… fuck. You’re a goddess. How’d I end up with her, lids? The universe dealt me a good hand, yeah?”

Your gaze went from him to the other boys in the room. Bob was smiling, admiring your beauty. Benji was staring wide-eyed, not saying anything. Bondy’s mouth was hanging open, and his hands were frozen where he was buttoning up his shirt. Larry was stunned, but went back to gelling his hair in the foyer mirror.

Van stood up, and walked in a circle around you, admiring every angle the dress had to offer. “Babe, this… I thought I was excited when it was on the hanger. This is somethin’ else.”

“Okay, stop drooling. We’ve got to leave in 5.” You told him, but locked eyes with each of the others to make sure they’d quit looking too.

****

The party passed as all cocktail parties do; photos as they get out of the vehicle, photos as they enter the venue, tapas to munch on during, awkward conversations with people you’ve never met, and then more photos. Your heels were killing you. You could tell the boys were tired of posing and answering questions.

“Let’s take a breather, yeah?” Van asked you, and signaled the others to follow him.

A storage room in the back of the venue was found, and half the crew lit up cigarettes as soon as they stepped within the door frame. They bantered back and forth, thankful to be somewhere they could be themselves. You kicked off your heels and noticed an old wooden acoustic guitar in the corner. Your plan was to wow them after the party, but you figured with all of them together, here and now, you could play just as well and they wouldn’t be expecting it.

You strummed it once; surprisingly, it was in tune. Bondy turned his head first; you knew it was because he was attached to all things guitar. You started playing, and only when they all looked around the room at each other and realized it wasn’t each other, that they realized it was you.

You laughed as they turned around, shocked. Van’s eyes were bugging out of his head. He sat down on a crate next to you.

You played his favorite song, and then Bondy’s, and then sung a little bit of Cocoon for fun. By the end of it, they were all singing along, and in a much better mood to get back to the party. Van was the last one to stand and return to the crowd outside.

****

Stepping into the vehicle to ride back home with the other boys, Van blindfolded you before you could push his hands away.

“Vaaaaaaan….. Wait a second. Is this that scarf from the drawer?”

“Why, yes it is. How perceptive of you.”

“This is like, a bit kinky,” you heard Benji say.

A stifled cough. Bob.

“I don’t know what to think of these two anymore.” Larry.

“I’m kind of into it.” Bondy.

“You would be.” Bob.

The rest of the car ride was just you listening to the boys, and trying to figure out what Van was up to.

The sleek black limousine pulled up to a stop at two places, and you felt people’s weight lift off the seats each time. At the last stop, after someone else had gotten off, Van said to the driver, “Go round the block one more time, for good measure.” He did.

Van helped you out of the car. You probably looked ridiculous, wherever you were, in a formal gown with a black scarf wrapped around your head. It was probably denting your hair, too.

Van carried you inside, and as the smell of the house hit you, you knew it was home. Van set you down, pressed your front up against the cool metal of the door, and started whispering in your ear from behind, hot breath tickling your neck.

“Does he do what I do for you?”

“Wh--?” His fingers over your mouth muffled your response. “Does he do what I do for you?” he repeated, voice calm, but angry. He ran a finger down your arm, touching your hand lightly. Blindfolded, all of your other senses were heightened. Van knew this. It was the reason for the extra go-around on the block. Your skin tingled where his finger had touched.

And then suddenly, his body was everywhere, encircling you from behind. He pressed his hips up against your ass, hard, lips on your neck and pulled your hips back into his as he rucked the dress up around your hips, fingering the edge of the simple black cotton underwear you chose to wear tonight. “God, how do you do that?” He rasped out in between kisses, his tongue running along the column of your throat.

You let out a muffled whimper, caught behind bitten lips. “Do what?”

His answer was to turn you around and lift a bare leg over his hip as he ground against you roughly. His touches were unexpected, and his hands were rough on you.

“He can’t touch you like I can,” he angrily whispered in your ear. He pressed you up against the door, cradling your face in his hands as he planted a kiss on your lips. “You’re mine.”

You tried to ask who he was referring to, but it came out as a moan when he bit your earlobe. You sighed into his neck, and his hands trailed down your back to paw at the zipper of your dress.

“Bedroom,” he growled. He carried you to the bed, slammed the bedroom door, and untied your blindfold. His eyes were revealed to you, angry and red. It was visible all over his face. Jealousy. He’d found out how much time you’d actually been spending with Bondy. How well you could play guitar confirmed all his suspicions.

He helped your hips out of your dress, and let it fall to your feet.

Again, he whispered, “You’re mine.”

His hands snaked up to your breasts and his thumbs curved the swell on the underside of the flesh. He caressed your arms, and then lifted them over your head, and laid them on the pillows. He tied them loosely with the scarf he used to blindfold you.

With open mouth kisses, he descended from your neck, to your breasts, across your stomach, and down to your underwear. His teeth tugged at the fabric, and he pulled them all the way off, nipping at your ankles before returning between your thighs. He thrust in a finger with no problem; the fact that Van was jealous over you spending time with another man evoked something in you that set off a tidal wave of wetness. You squirmed beneath his touch as he licked, sucked, and finger-fucked the moans out of you, coaxing your deepest frustrations out of you.

“You like that, huh? Can’t get this with him, can you? I’m the only one who gets to fuck you” he whispered into your wetness, blowing on your most sensitive parts. The cool rush of air made you shiver.

Suddenly, he stands up, unbuttoning his shirt, and unbuckling his jeans and boots, the metal clinking as he threw his belt down.

“Come.” He directed you to sit on his lap. Slowly, as he lowered you onto him, your moans pierced the air. “Louder. I want everyone in the neighborhood to know how good you’re being fucked tonight.”  

You rose up on your haunches only to push back down again, skin sticking and you both groaned as you looped your tied hands around his neck, holding onto him, his hands already fully cupped around your breasts, the pads of his thumbs causing your nerve endings to explode as they pass over your nipples.

You felt it start to coil deep in your belly, in the apex of your thighs, as you twisted your hips just right. The delicious feeling trembled through your limbs and into your center. The feel of his hands on your waist, fingers digging into the skin under your hips as he let out a breathy “Oh fuck” and takes you higher. Your hands held tight around his neck for leverage as you sat fully astride him, as he was buried deep inside you.

You gyrated slowly, rubbing against him, moans leaving your lips. You watched his face, his mouth falling open and his bottom lip pulling down as his eyelids fluttered in ecstasy, a look of pure pleasure on his face. His hands fell slack from your chest to come and rest on your moving hips, helping you with the motions as your body started to tighten, ready for a release.

He sat up quickly, folding his knees under him and surprising you as he wrapped both arms around your waist and lied his head against your sternum, panting breath coming out hot against your skin. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, still tied with that black scarf, ends of it tickling his back. Your hands were drifting through his hair, pulling it tightly between your fingers as you moved. The actions caused him to hiss and bite on the upper swell of your breasts and you just couldn’t get enough.

You were pressed up close against him, from groin to torso and his knees were bent, cradling your lower body between his thighs and abdomen. “Oh, my god,” you whispered, as he bit lightly at your nipple and brought a hand down to the curve of your ass, fingers digging in and helping you move faster.

You had never needed a release this bad or this fast before, and with your movements gaining speed and a line of sweat running down the middle of your back and the sound of your bodies moving together and don’t even get started on the whimpers and groans coming from him that had your body finally giving in as you quaked with your release.

Your thighs tighten around the tops of his hips and your whispered “I love you”s and “you feel so good”s bring him over the edge and honestly, if he held you any tighter – your trembling bodies riding out your orgasms together, lips and tongues on necks and promises of more to come etched on your skin – you might just break.

And when he laid you back on the bed, head resting on your stomach and small grin on his face as he kissed your skin lightly, you could hear through his whispered nothings brushing against your skin his own “I love you” surfacing and you couldn’t deny that this time was different – heady and emotional and jealous and so goddamn good you wouldn’t be able to feel your legs tomorrow – than the rest; that somehow you were a little bit closer to Van than you’d ever experienced.

(And two hours later, when you had a leg lifted over his shoulder and his head was between your thighs and the cool tile of the shower was pressed against your back, you thought this might just be what heaven feels like.)

*****

“You’ve got to choose.” Bob said it through a mouthful of muffin. He’d taken you out to lunch with promises of photography and lemonade.

“I know.”

“Both of them are losing it over you.”

“I know.”

Back up a few days, and there was you, blindfolded, in your beautiful black dress, pressed up against the door, Van whispering jealousies in your ear.

What you didn’t know was that Bondy was sitting at the kitchen table, stunned to silence at Van’s blatant territorial display. That he was listening to every moan you made, itching to be the one causing those sounds, dying to see you come undone.

The pain Van had caused him was enough to push Bondy to confide in Bob. And Bob didn’t like being in the middle of people’s drama. Especially when it involved hearing about someone one you love have domineering sex with another person you love. Bob was uncomfortable, to say the least.

“Y/N, they go on tour tomorrow.”

“Bob, I just…. I love them both, alright? Both of them have seen different parts of me. If I’m with one, I miss the other. It’s stupid.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. You’ve been with Van for five years, and these feelings for Bondy have developed over the course of a few months. If I were you, I know who I’d pick. But, I’m not you. I’m sorry. I wish I could choose for you.”

“Should I just let them go off on tour, and not hear from me for a while? Let them get their shit done, and visit later? I really don’t want to be a Yoko.”

*****

You watched them go at it, Benji pointing out every creature in the film trying to explain the best way he can in his nerdy excitement, and Bondy commenting on how stupid the characters sounded or looked. You liked these moments, when everything has died down for a soft quiet moment and you’re not thinking of boys on tour or job promotion or paying rent. It’s just nice.

Wrapping your fingers around the cold metal of his rings, you leaned over to whisper softly in his ear, “It’s a movie, they don’t always have to make sense.” You lifted his arm, wrapping it around your shoulders as you nuzzled into his side, resting your head on his chest.

He groaned, the noise reverberating in your ear. “Yeah, well, they should try and explain it better for people like me, darling.”

You laughed, fingers dropping to poke at his thigh. “You’re in a band that tours the world, I’m sure figuring out the complexities of Star Wars is the least of your issues.”

He quieted down, rubbing his thumb along the tip of your nose as you raised your eyes up to look at him. Playfully rolling his own eyes, he conceded, “Whatever you say, love.”

You preened, eyes crinkling in the corners as your lips rested on his, a smile pulling through at the easy intimacy.

You pulled apart as you hear childish phony gagging beside you and Bondy laughs as you playfully swat at the curls hanging in Benji’s face. “Like I don’t have to see you kissing Dani on the doorstep every afternoon,” you said, raising your eyebrows with a pointed look.

He flushes deeply, bowing his head bashfully. “Yeah, yeah.”  He wipes his hands on his dark black jeans as he stands. “Anyways, I got to hit the hay. I got a meeting for really early tomorrow.”

You tilted your head. “Wait, what about the rest of the movie?”

“Just finish it without me, mum. It’s not like I haven’t seen it a million times.” He smirked. “Night guys.”

“Night,” you said, eyebrows creasing and skepticism rising.

“Night, lad.” Bondy stretched out on the sofa as Benji disappeared around the corner. He raised his arms, groaning lightly as his muscles protest the action. His velvet shirt lifted up slightly, and your eyes were immediately drawn to the strip of skin and dusting of hair on his abdomen. Your heart jumped as the sight. His eyes locked onto you, smiling softly. “What is it? Think he’s gone to bed a bit to early?”

You giggled, lifting your legs to curl underneath yourself as you faced him. “Oh yeah, totally. I mean, it’s only 8:30.”

“Oh,” he bit his lip, eyes drifting to your lips. “Well, in that case…” His voice drifted off as his hand curved around the neck of your shirt, bringing you closer. His breath ghosted over your lips as he left a small peck, his hand reaching up to caress your jaw. You deepened the kiss, moaning as you tilted your chin just so, hand reaching forward to wrap around his knee. His tongue ran over his lips, tangling with yours and it just felt so damn good.

You sighed against his lips as he fell back along the couch, pulling you on top of him. “And what about the movie?” Your breath stuttered as his hand found itself resting in your back jean pocket, forcing your hips to rock against his.

“Another time,” he groaned out, his lips coasting from your lips to your jaw to the curve of your neck. Your eyes rolled back, whole body dropping into his as you gave in.

“Shit!” you exclaimed, waking up from the dream drenched in a cold sweat, breathing ragged and electrified. “No. No fucking way. No.” You rolled out of bed, peeled off your clothes, and stood under the shower. Bob was right. You needed to choose.

*****

Saying goodbye was hard. They left, and you didn’t kiss either of them in front of each other. You and Van shared a few sweet kisses in his bedroom that morning, and you kissed Bondy’s cheek when Van went to find the toilet at the airport.

A few months had gone by, and you’d heard from Bondy about as much as Van. They were both pining for you, even abroad, but you let that settle to the back of your mind. You had been working hard, doing long hours at the music shop, and managing sales at another music shop down the block. This one was corporate owned, and you were quickly becoming one of their favorite saleswomen, especially since you could play guitar almost as well as Bondy could. You were still extremely thankful for his help.

You had saved up enough money to fly out to visit them for a few days in any American city you chose. Did someone say, Miss Independent?

Stepping off the flight in California, you were nervous. Heart pounding as you greeted the both of them, trying not to give one more attention than the other. They, however, had other plans. The first night after their show, the boys took you out to a club, and offered to buy you any drink you wanted on the menu. Bob rolled his eyes the entire time, sipping his virgin bloody mary, and you got drunker and drunker, and started falling all over both Bondy and Van. 

It was Bondy who won the opportunity to dance with you; he managed to bribe the club owner to play Tame Impala over the speakers, and since that was the music of your friendship, you had no choice but to take Bondy’s hand and lead him, walking backwards, to the dance floor. You ground against him, hot and sweaty under the lights, while Van sipped his drink. He was enjoying this; he didn’t know just how 50/50 you were split on your attraction.

It was Van who won the opportunity to let his lips touch yours; the dancing had shaken Bondy up so much that he had to dart to the bathroom soon after the regular music was back on. You weren’t down from your dancing high yet, and you needed to feel something. Someone. You grabbed Van by the neck and smashed your lips against his; he returned the favor with as much fervor and passion as you had begun with. Bondy watched from afar when he emerged from the bathroom, only thirty seconds later.

That first night, you ended up in your hotel room with Van.

On the last night of your stay, after drinks were shared all around, you asked Bondy to play guitar with you in a back room, for old time’s sake. As you drunkenly tried to finger the strings properly, miserably failing, Bondy tried the same.

“Helloooo? Anyone here?” Van called from the hallway, obviously drunk too. He was enjoying these games too much.

“Quick! In here!” You giggled, forcing Bondy into the storage closet, leaving your guitars propped against the wall. You heard Van open the door, and Bondy started to breathe like a laugh was coming on.

You pressed your finger to his plump lips; the contrast between his pokey beard and the soft skin of his lips stirred something in you. You paused, waiting for the coast to be clear, feeling a slight tingling inside. You became hyper aware of how close you and Bondy were in the closet; his fingers brushing your thighs, his knee touching yours, his hair tickling your cheek.

Bondy moved your finger away from his mouth. His breath fanned over your face.

“I can’t take this anymore.”

He pressed his lips to yours, and his fingers wound themselves in your hair. Your noses knocked and your teeth clinked. You couldn’t get close to him quickly enough. His knee spread your legs, moving to press closer to you. You kissed back, relishing the feeling of his lips and tongue finally on yours. He kissed rougher than Van, but his movements were more calculated. One of his hands traveled to grip your ass, the other still tightly wound in your hair. Your hands were on his chest, quickly traveling lower. When you imagined what his fingers would feel like inside you, how well he played the guitar and how strong his hands looked, you moaned. It was muffled in his mouth. His hands felt for the waistband of your shorts, already knowing what you desired. He pulled the shorts and underwear down in one motion, and he felt how soaking you were for him. He inserted a finger, and you almost lost yourself completely. Two, and you were gone.

There was no room for sex in the closet, so Bondy made do with what he could; not like his hands weren’t the most magical things that had ever graced you. All those years of melody guitar playing were paying off in a way you’d never thought they could. He hit every angle that would make you scream, he’d whisper lowly in your ear, comforting you, guiding you, and he sucked your neck, beard tickling wherever he kissed, sure to leave bruises behind. He picked up speed and you pressed your head against his chest, but he made you look him in the eye as your climax rushed over you in powerful waves. When the last whimper was uttered, teeth released bitten lips, his fingers slid out of you, your pants were pulled up, and he had found some stray napkins for his hands, the door swung open. Cold air rushed in. Van was standing with his arms crossed.

“We need to talk.”  

****

“There’s no way I can decide this right now,” you told them. “I love both of you.” You were far from settled. You were still a little drunk, too.

“What about something completely random?” Van asked. Bondy was silent. Scared that the storage room closet was the only taste he’d ever get of you.

“Oh! Oh. I’ve got it.” You look around, searching for your purse. Picking it up, you trawled the inside of it with your fingers. You pulled a coin out and showed it to them.

"So... we flip for it." Trying to steady your shaking hands, you held it tightly. "One of you, call it."

"Heads!" Van yelled, and the coin deftly left your hand, twinkled above you, flipping over, and over, and over, with either boy’s fate engraved on the sides. Finally, it fell back to your hand. You picked it up quickly, and flipped it onto the back of your hand. You took a deep breath, and opened your eyes. You moved your fingers out of the way so they could see.

Their heads leaned in. They both stared at each other.

"Best two out of three?"

[229greenkill]

On Saturday, February 15 at 8 PM, please join host Marc Delgado  for  his highly praised music performance series The Song(writer). This month he his guests will be Chris Maxwell,  Holly Miranda and Ambrosia Parsley. BYOB. Ozubar offers unique soft drinks and snacks at unbelievably low prices. Seating 45. Tickets are $10 dollars and may be purchased at the door or reserved on this page.

About Marc Delgado

Marc Delgado has just enough time

left to do what he wants to do.

There is, after all, limited time…

He lives in Woodstock, NY

with his wife

Artist Melanie Delgado

& their daughter

Mary Scout

& the ghost of their dog

Spike.

About Chris Maxwell

Chris Maxwell wrote, recorded, and mixed [his new record “New Store No. 2] with the help of drummer/producer Jeff Lipstein in his studio, Goat House, which sits next to his red house in the Catskill woods of New York, where he has lived for almost twenty years now. It’s close to a wide stream, which looks a little deep-southern if you happen to see it at dusk. He writes and records music for TV in the studio, and makes other people’s records there. For New Store No. 2 , he knew how to round up the talent, which is a talent all its own. On here he’s got Cindy Cashdollar, Rachel Yamagata, Marco Benevento, Amy Helm, Zack Djanikian, Conor Kennedy, David Baron, Mark Sedgwick, Jay Collins, Aaron Johnston, Jesse Murphy, Cheme Gastelum, and Larry Grenadier, among others, along with longtime collaborator Ambrosia Parsley

Maxwell titled the record New Store No. 2 after a song written about his maternal grandfather, K.J. Jamell, who came from Beirut, Lebanon, and settled in a small town in Arkansas and opened a store there. It’s a sort of fractured fairy tale of the melting-pot American dream and the disappearance thereof. “He was like an alien,” Maxwell says about his grandfather. “Nobody could understand him.” I like the way he uses the word “alien” and for a second actually picture a cartoonish alien figure—someone from a faraway galaxy—and then later wonder if Maxwell himself sometimes feels that way. I certainly do. And maybe that’s why I connected so strongly to his first record and now to his second one. I’ve found a fellow friendly alien. Someone who lets you feel a little less ashamed of the squirrel skeletons out in the family garage.

So take your time with this record. Listen a lot before you try to fit things together. Take joy in the bursts and swells. Bask in the parts that hurt. Embrace it all.

About Holly Miranda

There are ways to look back without getting stuck in the past, and to use what is behind as fuel to move forward. Ambrosia Parsley knows this balance well. “I’m certainly guilty of magical thinking,” says Parsley. “Sometimes I wonder things like… Hmmm, if I hold my breath for five minutes, will the universe reward me with the perfect line to finish this song? I may also be superstitious about certain fatalistic tendencies. I think they allow me to walk away from things, to recognize them for what they are, and at some point forge on. So I keep them close. It gives me a bit of a dark wrap, but I do really enjoy the light–I only wish that it came to me as easily.” The New York singer-songwriter is no stranger to conjuring success, selling a half-million records over the last 15 years with her band, Shivaree, having music in the films of Quentin Tarantino and David O Russell while working with the best and brightest, from Laurie Anderson to Chuck D to Hal Wilner to Dave Sitek. In 2006, though, Parsley gave us the slip, ending her band to raise her son in the Catskill countryside. Songs occasionally crept out—as did Parsley herself, sometimes appearing onstage at small clubs or backing friends—but her promised full-length solo debut repeatedly hit snags. Rather than retreat or show regret, the Parsley carried on, finally releasing Weeping Cherry in France in 2013. And now, 18 months later, the album is finally set to be released Stateside this April through Brooklyn’s Barbès Records, and boosted by a new bonus track (“The Answer”). “I’m walking through life with Gomer Pyle’s mojo,” laughs Parsley. “I’ve lost records to record companies, to miles of red-tape silliness, you name it. In one way it’s been good, because I’ve had so many babies hit on the head with frying pans that I don’t take any of them as seriously as I used to. That’s somewhat liberating.” Despite the dark, mysterious and ghostly qualities of her music and persona, Parsley has never been much of a gloom-and-doom girl. Learning to look beyond the expectations that often come with achievement, her songwriting continues to evolve and find new wings. When speaking about her career she may use terms like “fairy dust” and “silver linings,” but at its core, Weeping Cherry is a work of reflective therapy, an opportunity for its maker to speak to loved ones lost, and to treat the past as prologue. In quick succession, in the span of a single year, Parsley endured the deaths of a series of friends, bandmates, and relatives. The songs of Weeping Cherry are, in her words, “basically conversations with dead people—with the exception of one or two, which feature my tried and true: sin, punishment and redemption. I hadn’t written a solid collection in a really long time, but this one was more exorcism than exercise. And even though it’s such a dark one, I never had so much fun making a record.” Working with longtime collaborators Chris Maxwell and Phil Hernandez (aka The Elegant Too), as well as contributors Danny McGough, Joan Wasser, AA Bondy, Benjamin Biolay, and those dearly departed, Parsley recorded the album piecemeal over many months. The first song captured was “Rubble,” a slow, sexy crawl of a tune that features the singer’s stirring vocal climbing the swelling acoustic tide to a quiet cacophony. “It’s about being afraid of getting dragged down under the bed…into hell,” she says. “Sitting there thinking about all the bad things you’ve ever done, and being pulled under, metaphorically and literally.” Remarkably, the song happened in an instant, without preparation—a rare occurrence for Parsley. “Chris and Phil started playing it and I started singing it and it just happened like that, all at once. It’s the one time it’s ever happened, when I didn’t have anything prepared, some little nugget of an idea to start from. But it was as if the soul of the record just strolled into the room and then everything else got built around it.” Another song, “Catalina,” deals with the passing of a close friend and early collaborator. “A year after we scattered his ashes off Catalina, there was a terrible fire on the island,” she says. “He was such a hell-raiser. I was actually sort of surprised it took him that long to set that place on fire.” As a guitar strums over keyboard chords and soft, steady drums, Parsley’s voice echoes out poignant and emotive, yet confident and full—it’s a cathartic experience just listening to her sing the words, “These prayers are meant to bring you back/Dancing through the fires of the dead.” “I can get let myself get weepy every day,” says Parsley. “But as time goes on, and people really close to you start going, the world becomes a collection of ghosts; they’re still very much with you.” As is her nature, Parsley refused to let the process of creating Weeping Cherry be anything short of a celebration of–and conversation with–the past. “I don’t feel like the record sounds really sad because we weren’t really sad when we were making it,” she says. “I usually can’t write about anything while I’m sad. I can only write about it once it’s funny, which can take a really long time, after its been in the bottle a while. We tried, in between a few nightmares, to sound pretty and joyous. I don’t want to be the designated bummer–I like to laugh and dance too much for that.” And as for that seemingly tearful album title? “It’s named after a big cherry tree at the bottom of my road,” she says. “But, also, did you know that kamikaze pilots often painted cherry blossoms on their planes? So, in honor of my friends who were kamikaze pilots, it felt right.”

About Ambrosia Parsley

There are ways to look back without getting stuck in the past, and to use what is behind as fuel to move forward. Ambrosia Parsley knows this balance well. “I’m certainly guilty of magical thinking,” says Parsley. “Sometimes I wonder things like… Hmmm, if I hold my breath for five minutes, will the universe reward me with the perfect line to finish this song? I may also be superstitious about certain fatalistic tendencies. I think they allow me to walk away from things, to recognize them for what they are, and at some point forge on. So I keep them close. It gives me a bit of a dark wrap, but I do really enjoy the light–I only wish that it came to me as easily.” The New York singer-songwriter is no stranger to conjuring success, selling a half-million records over the last 15 years with her band, Shivaree, having music in the films of Quentin Tarantino and David O Russell while working with the best and brightest, from Laurie Anderson to Chuck D to Hal Wilner to Dave Sitek. In 2006, though, Parsley gave us the slip, ending her band to raise her son in the Catskill countryside. Songs occasionally crept out—as did Parsley herself, sometimes appearing onstage at small clubs or backing friends—but her promised full-length solo debut repeatedly hit snags. Rather than retreat or show regret, the Parsley carried on, finally releasing Weeping Cherry in France in 2013. And now, 18 months later, the album is finally set to be released Stateside this April through Brooklyn’s Barbès Records, and boosted by a new bonus track (“The Answer”). “I’m walking through life with Gomer Pyle’s mojo,” laughs Parsley. “I’ve lost records to record companies, to miles of red-tape silliness, you name it. In one way it’s been good, because I’ve had so many babies hit on the head with frying pans that I don’t take any of them as seriously as I used to. That’s somewhat liberating.”

Despite the dark, mysterious and ghostly qualities of her music and persona, Parsley has never been much of a gloom-and-doom girl. Learning to look beyond the expectations that often come with achievement, her songwriting continues to evolve and find new wings. When speaking about her career she may use terms like “fairy dust” and “silver linings,” but at its core, Weeping Cherry is a work of reflective therapy, an opportunity for its maker to speak to loved ones lost, and to treat the past as prologue.

In quick succession, in the span of a single year, Parsley endured the deaths of a series of friends, bandmates, and relatives. The songs of Weeping Cherry are, in her words, “basically conversations with dead people—with the exception of one or two, which feature my tried and true: sin, punishment and redemption. I hadn’t written a solid collection in a really long time, but this one was more exorcism than exercise. And even though it’s such a dark one, I never had so much fun making a record.” Working with longtime collaborators Chris Maxwell and Phil Hernandez (aka The Elegant Too), as well as contributors Danny McGough, Joan Wasser, AA Bondy, Benjamin Biolay, and those dearly departed, Parsley recorded the album piecemeal over many months. The first song captured was “Rubble,” a slow, sexy crawl of a tune that features the singer’s stirring vocal climbing the swelling acoustic tide to a quiet cacophony. “It’s about being afraid of getting dragged down under the bed…into hell,” she says. “Sitting there thinking about all the bad things you’ve ever done, and being pulled under, metaphorically and literally.” Remarkably, the song happened in an instant, without preparation—a rare occurrence for Parsley. “Chris and Phil started playing it and I started singing it and it just happened like that, all at once. It’s the one time it’s ever happened, when I didn’t have anything prepared, some little nugget of an idea to start from. But it was as if the soul of the record just strolled into the room and then everything else got built around it.” Another song, “Catalina,” deals with the passing of a close friend and early collaborator. “A year after we scattered his ashes off Catalina, there was a terrible fire on the island,” she says. “He was such a hell-raiser. I was actually sort of surprised it took him that long to set that place on fire.” As a guitar strums over keyboard chords and soft, steady drums, Parsley’s voice echoes out poignant and emotive, yet confident and full—it’s a cathartic experience just listening to her sing the words, “These prayers are meant to bring you back/Dancing through the fires of the dead.” “I can get let myself get weepy every day,” says Parsley. “But as time goes on, and people really close to you start going, the world becomes a collection of ghosts; they’re still very much with you.” As is her nature, Parsley refused to let the process of creating Weeping Cherry be anything short of a celebration of–and conversation with–the past. “I don’t feel like the record sounds really sad because we weren’t really sad when we were making it,” she says. “I usually can’t write about anything while I’m sad. I can only write about it once it’s funny, which can take a really long time, after its been in the bottle a while. We tried, in between a few nightmares, to sound pretty and joyous. I don’t want to be the designated bummer–I like to laugh and dance too much for that.” And as for that seemingly tearful album title? “It’s named after a big cherry tree at the bottom of my road,” she says. “But, also, did you know that kamikaze pilots often painted cherry blossoms on their planes? So, in honor of my friends who were kamikaze pilots, it felt right.”

About Green Kill

Green Kill is a multi-use performance space dedicated to a diverse and growing creative community. Green Kill’s mission is to create artistic opportunities through peer to peer organization of talented and dedicated visual, performing and literary artists.

Find out how you can support green kill here: https://greenkill.org/2019/07/12/please-support-green-kill/

Green Kill is a handicapped accessible exhibition performance Space located at 229 Greenkill Avenue, Kingston, New York, 12401, 229greenkill@greenkill.org, open Tuesday to Saturday from 3  pm to 9 pm, with a selection of events on Sundays. Green Kill is closed on national holidays. The phone number is 1(347)689-2323. For the event schedule please visit http://greenkill.org/events. Exhibition viewing hours are Tuesday-Saturday, 3-5 PM or you may make a special appointment by contacting 229greenkill@greenkill.org or phoning 347-689-2323.

The Song(writer), March 21 On Saturday, February 15 at 8 PM, please join host Marc Delgado  for  his highly praised music performance series 

[shadowlineswriting]

26-30

“The Hunchback of Notre Dame” (1996)--Folks, this movie is messed up. It is not a kids’ movie. It’s an adult movie that someone decided to turn into a cartoon. There are all kinds of concepts in here that children cannot understand, and that may raise questions you aren’t yet prepared to answer, so I’d think twice about letting your kids watch this. That being said, it’s a lot nicer than the book (which is one of the most depressing stories I’ve ever read) and, just for the record, this is one of my favorite soundtracks of all time. Yes, the story is terrible, but dang the music is good! 

“Hercules” (1997)--This is basically the opposite of Hunchback. This movie is lighthearted, hilarious, and leaves you with a smile on your face. The music is also fantastic, but whoever wrote this script knew what they were doing. “Hercules” always makes me laugh when I watch it, guaranteed!

“Anastasia” (1997)--I just realized that all three films in this post have epic soundtracks. What a happy coincidence! I am very interested in the Romanov family, and what happened to them barely a century ago. I’ve read many books about it and I know that Anastasia did not really survive the massacre. However, since we already know that, I have no problem with the creators of this film taking some liberties and basing a story around whether or not she did. Meg Ryan did a great job voice acting, as did John Cusack, and their characters are totally likeable. This is a great movie! Also dark, but not in the same way as Hunchback.

There were two other VeggieTales groupings, as well, so enjoy your Silly Song with Larry!