#The Rock Salesmen

[grimmpheonix]

Wii Sports Baseball World Cup Season 2 Fanart

I'm so excited to see what happens next in the Wii Sports World Cup, so here's some fanart!

[ievaxol]

aetheryte stations and plazas as a transitional space. the quiet humming of the crystal. the blue light. muted goodbyes and exhilirated "good to see you again!"s. the salesmen peddling potions that they swear will make you able to teleport. the ones watching it spin as they wait for someone long past due.

how soothing wouldn't it be to sit by the aetheryte and let time pass? the air feels a little thicker right next to it, charged with ambient aether. see the ones attuning, tapping into the lifestream with furrowed brows and parted lips. feel how the city inevitably bends around it, passing around it like a river is split by a rock.

"I'll see you over there", a firm grip, a forceful smile. what one person can traverse in seconds another will journey towards for days. the novelty of an adventurer popping into existence. the horror of not all of them following along.

the inn posters and the food stalls, the helpfuls and the not so much. benches where the wood and stone have been worn smooth by decades and generations of travel.

[twomp-tournaments]

ROUND 5: FINAL ROUND!!

* that guy represent every single News guy that has ever existed in the history of ashur gharavi :3

[anxiouscowboy]

Old man Blondie and Tuco sitting on their porch in their respective rocking chairs, sipping iced tea with their shotguns in hand, just waiting for one of them no good traveling salesmen to come along so they can scare the shit out of him a la Secondhand Lions.

[allseeingportrait]

Okay okay I know I said I’d elaborate only if people were interested but I’m impatient godsdamnit

Ally the first in Tempo’s friend group/criminal syndicate is Bonesaw! They/It are a jack of many trades- a surgeon, a mad doctor, an instrument salesmen whose instruments are all very good at dishing out harm as well as music- the troll wears many hats, and wears them with dramatic flair and pride!

Bonesaw is a Gothic Rock troll- a subspecies who love the macabre, sleep upside-down like bats, can’t stand the sunlight, and feed on the very songs of unsuspecting trolls. Not to worry, though- anything less severe than a starving gothrock troll will just leave the unfortunate second party with a sore throat and desaturated coat for a few hours.

If you can guess what inspired this foray into the darkness, you get a prize!

[megamanrecut]

Alright, I've been busy and it's taking me awhile to get the next part of Diamond in the Rough up, so here's a little drabble/teaser for a short Become the Night interlude/sequel. (Note: I am in in a rush so apologies for the roughness/spelling errors lol also possible some details may change later for better continuity with everything)

Become the Night 2 Teaser (Now on Ao3)

It was a warm summer day outside Dr. Light’s laboratory. Dr. Light was away at a work conference, Rock and Roll had taken Rush into the city to go shopping, while Proto had stayed behind to work on the skycycle and be on call if Dr. Wily and Snake Man were to strike.

But the emergency satellite scanner remained quiet. Proto was bored—Dr. Wily hadn’t attacked in over a month, and his armor was sitting unused in a heap in his room, collecting dust. He was wondering if he should have gone into the city after all with Rock and Roll—shopping and malls weren’t his thing, but playing at the arcade with Rock and teasing Roll over her music tastes could be fun—

The doorbell rang.

Normally, Proto hated answering the door. Though Dr. Light’s laboratory was located in the country and didn’t receive many visitors, Proto preferred to ignore the few that came, who were mostly salesmen anyway. But today, Proto put down his tools, put on a pair of aviators, and answered the door.

Outside stood a man with short auburn hair. Despite the heat, he was dressed in a formal, tight-collared suit of black wool with orange embroidery and gold buttons. Everything about him looked extremely expensive, as though he were royalty—a strange visitor for Dr. Light’s boring, quiet laboratory in the country. He glanced around furtively, checking the lawn, then stared at Proto with familiar piercing pale eyes.

“Are you Proto?” he asked in a low voice, his lips barely moving, as though afraid the welcome doormat might be eavesdropping.

“Uh, yeah,” responded Proto without really thinking as he stared back (he was not dressed as ‘Break Man’, his public-facing hero identity, after all, nor did many know who ‘Proto’ was). 

The man (or android, as Proto had instantly figured out, despite the flawless disguise) nodded curtly. “My name is Mr. Turner. We haven’t met—“

“Oh I know who you are,” Proto interrupted, grinning broadly at Turner. There was no mistaking the resemblance of those pale eyes. “You’re Elec Man’s little brother!”

“I—what?” Turner wrinkled his nose. “I’m not—that’s not—“ He gave a small, annoyed cough, then changed the subject. “…Are you alone?”

“Yes.“ Proto opened the door wider. “Here, come in.”

Turner stepped warily over the threshold into the brightly lit foyer. After glancing around with a still expression, apparently listening to make sure Proto was actually alone, he began to walked around with perfect, straight backed grace, hands clasped behind his back.

“Checking for bugs,” Turner informed Proto in a cold, crisp tone as he inspected the dull knickknacks on the perfectly ordinary accent tables.

“Good idea, always forget to do that,” Proto replied, hiding a smirk. He was reminded a little bit of a peacock or a very self-conceited show dog.

Then he noticed Turner’s eyes were lingering on the framed pictures, and grimaced slightly inside. He wasn’t proud of this collection, especially not around a Syndicate member—most were family photos both dorky and domestic, yet it was a bit difficult to tell what Turner was thinking as he stared at them.

“So uh, what brings ya to this neck of the woods?” Proto prompted.

Turner turned his cold piercing stare on Proto. “I have a mission for you from your former employer. Top secret. I heard you used to do work for us…as some sort of assistant, or something.”

“Special asset, in the end—a mission from the Syndicate? Really?” Proto asked keenly, taking a step toward Turner.

A mission from the Syndicate would be dangerous—Syndicate missions were always dangerous. Proto missed the danger—fighting Dr. Wily and his goofy inventions didn’t have quite the same thrill as risking his life battling murderous scrappers and powerful mobsters. Yet, he had been placed in a forced retirement from vigilantism a year ago…still a bit of sore spot.

Turner’s eyes fell away from Proto to glance out a window. “Yes, but you must know, I can’t pay you for your work.”

“No problem. I will do it pro bono.”

“Then you accept?”

“Sure.”

“If you double cross me, I’ll make you regret every day for the rest of your short life.”

At this point, Proto was trying very hard not to laugh. The android was clearly trying to act both as impressively tough and coldly professional like Elec Man—a nigh impossible feat. “Of course. But…listen, junior, me and your older brother go way back. There’s no way I’d do anything to hurt you guys!”

“My name’s not ‘junior…’ Turner replied, bristling.

“Well, until you tell me your real name,” Proto responded with a lazy shrug. “And junior, no offense, while you’re earning extra credit in acting lofty and superior, you’re only a B in intimidation and a D in lying. Honestly I’m afraid if I even touched you you’d break like a china doll. Nice try, but lets can the gangster talk and cut to the chase.”

Turner looked affronted. “What do you mean?”

Lowering his voice, Proto took a step toward Turner, his amusement fading. “Junior…you’re supposed to be on a mission in California. You’re a long way from California. Call me crazy, but I don’t think you’re supposed to have any contact with me at all, least of all giving me orders! What the hell is going on? Where’s Elec Man?”

“I—I—” Turner appeared to be valiantly clinging on to his tough Syndicate facade, but a slight shiver shook his shoulders.  “I don’t know,” he admitted finally.

“…Is he in danger?”

Turner’s head almost made a small jerk, as though he were about to nod, but he quickly controlled it and said, sounding genuinely lost, “I don’t know. We—I—need Cypher’s help.” 

For a brief moment, Turner had looked imploringly at Proto, but then his gaze had darted away again.

Suddenly, the situation seemed much less fun, though Proto gave Turner a reassuring smile. “Well you got 'im. C’mon. We’ll take our air raider.”

Continued in Part 2

[asjjohnson]

The Operative D storyline continues. Random GIW!Val.

When Jazz was eighteen, the GIW came by to see if she'd be interested in working with them. She turned them down immediately, and was a bit disturbed about them offering. She was worried about how much they might know, or learn about, but didn't mention the incident to Danny, since she didn't want to worry him. When Danny joined them two years later, and she heard about it, she paced back and forth in front of Danny as she gave an hour-long upset and panicked rant. (...Danny didn't get much out of it, just sat there bored and a bit confused.)

When the GIW came to Valerie (a few weeks after Danny), Valerie asked what she'd get out of it. She wasn't too impressed when they'd shown up at her door, and she kind of treated them like door-to-door salesmen. It took a lot for her to accept the job. She's one of the highest paid operatives there is. She has so many health benefits, days off, etc. They almost decided not to hire her because of her conditions, but then they saw her in action (*beep beep* "Ah, hang on a second." Valerie activates her suit and flies out her window. The two operatives stick their heads out the window to watch open-mouthed. Valerie comes back in through the door in her normal clothes, saying, "Sorry about that. So, what I was saying about vacation days..." The operatives glance at their belatedly-beeping ghost alert messages).

Her and Danny are their two young star operatives. Danny has his Fenton tech and some ghost knowledge, while Valerie is the best out in the field. But Danny... he's just an average agent besides the gadgets he brings in. Average rookie pay, etc. He'd never even considered negotiating for more. Him and Valerie are opposites. While Danny tends to be nervous and a little awkward, Valerie's like a rock.

Danny and Valerie were of course put in two completely different locations. No reason to have both of their valuable agents in one place.

---

Danny's walking down a white hallway with another operative.

"I've heard someone from the Wisconsin division's visiting for the next two weeks. Some bigshot sent out to inspect our methods and tech."

"O-oh?" Danny almost trips.

"It's nothing to worry about, Operative D. You've been here three years, you know how it is. Operative Red will just look around, give us a list of things to improve on."

"Operative Red? You mean 'R'?"

"No, Red is someone else. I've heard they're the only operative in history to be allowed a nonstandard codename and uniform."

Danny hears a voice as they near a door up ahead.

"Wait. You're tellin' me this thermos will disintegrate a ghost—but only if placed on this table?"

Danny speeds up, hurrying to push the door open.

A woman in white is twisted around examining the underside of a table, a skeptical frown on her face. "...But that's not how Thermoses wor—"

"Valerie!" Danny interrupts, slightly out of breath.

Valerie hits her head on the underside of the table and then straightens while spinning around, curls fanning out from a low ponytail.

She's wearing a Guys In White suit, but the tie and gloves are red instead of black.

"Danny?" she asks with wide, surprised eyes. "I... I never thought you would go into this field. I thought you had your heart set on being an astronaut."

Danny shrugs nervously, afraid of her learning too much. "Yeah, well. The pay's good."

Valerie smirks. "Yeah."

Danny takes a good look at her. "Wow. I haven't seen you since high school." Then comments, "You still have your hair."

Her eyebrows knit as she frowns. "...Why wouldn't I? Danny, you know the Guys In White don't require a certain haircut, right? You could even grow out a ponytail if you wanted."

"No!" Danny shouts in horror. Then stutters out, "I mean, uh, I like my hair as it is. I like it black."

"What?"

"Uh. Not floaty. Completely hair-like. Never on fire."

" ...What...?"

"Ma'am," the other operative whispers to her, "Operative D's just like that. He spouts nonsense when he gets flustered."

"He hasn't changed at all." She shakes her head with a fond smile.

(Meanwhile, Danny continues to babble while panicking about how to keep Valerie from discovering the lies about the Fenton tech, and trying to figure out what to do about his pranks as Phantom.)

---

A few days later, after a prank gone wrong...

In a small room lined with shelves of assorted gadgets, on a small table, a thermos shakes and bangs around.

"Ah... a little help here? Anyone? Hello?"

There's a moment of silence.

"...I knew I should've made a contingency plan for this."

[freakingoutthesquares]

Material World: Pulp Photograph: Ed Sirrs New Musical Express, 10 October 1992 Transcription: Acrylic Afternoons

Where are you and what are the vibes like? We are in Norwich and the vibes are like shimmering shards of incandescent plywood.

What was the last thing you ate? Nick Banks: Chicken In A Bun Candida Doyle: Branston Pickle Steve Mackey: Cucumber (whole) Russell Senior: Earwax Jarvis Cocker: A Skoal bandit

What was the last video you rented? Girl On A Motorcycle and we still owe six pounds because we took it back late, so because of that we've had nothing since.

What was the last good book you read? Dead Babies - Martin Amis The Cement Garden - Ian McEwan One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey Woman In White - Wilkie Collins Bonfire Of The Vanities - Tom Wolfe Steppenwolf - Herman Hesse

Fave political figures? Arthur Scargill, Harriet Harman, Michael Foot.

What TV shows do you try not to miss? Open University - Particle Physics Module One.

What sports are you good at? Water, pocket billiards, table tennis, cards, arm wrestling, gambling.

Which public figure do you most despise? Sebastian Coe (he gives Sheffield a bad name - he stood for Parliament because he couldn't run for toffee).

Fave TV shows of yesteryear The Spirit Of Dark And Dirty Water Double Deckers Hope And Keen's Crazy Bus Banana Splits Cheggers Plays Pop Any public information films

Most embarrassing records in your collection Ours, because our mothers insist on playing them when relatives and insurance salesmen come round.

Name three great songwriting partnerships Chinnichapp, Bacharach & David, Peters & Lee.

Fave punk rock records Candida: 'Another Girl Another Planet' - The Only Ones Jarvis: '1 2 X U' - Wire Russell: 'Pretty Vacant' - The Sex Pistols Steve: 'Bingo Master's Breakout' - The Fall Nick: 'Roadrunner' - Jonathan Richman

Fave historical figure Vlad The Impaler and the Whore Of Babylon.

Worst lyric you've ever heard "Kick yourself in the head/Pretty soon you will be dead..." ('Get A Life' - Julian Lennon)

Who's overrated? Wim Wenders, Jacques Poos (Foreign Minister of Luxembourg), Bob Dylan, Graeme Hick, John Barnes.

Who's underrated? Fellini, potatoes, Donovan, Momus.

Who's sexy? Jarvis: Jan Francis Steve: Jane Birkin, Charlotte Gainsbourg Candida: Jack Nicholson Russell: Ingrid Pitt Nick: Sue Carpenter

Punchline to fave joke "Elvis Parsley"

Where would you like to retire to? Jarvis: Whitby Russell: Scarborough Candida: Shetland Steve: Galway Nick: Cardigan Bay

Name a record that can make you cry Nick: 'Honey' - Bobby Goldsboro Candida: 'Romeo And Juliet' - Dire Straits Steve: 'Blue Afternoon' - Tim Buckley Jarvis: 'Always Coming Back To You' - Scott Walker Russell: 'She's A Lady' - Pulp

When were you last drunk? When we dressed up as a bottle.

What was the last dream you can remember? Candida: Eating live cockroach sweets Russell: That Rotherham was a major international conference centre Jarvis: Sticking up toads at the top of my gran's cellar steps Steve: Being dressed in women's clothes at a disco

Three records guaranteed to make you dance 'French Kiss' - Lil' Louis 'Groove Is In The Heart' - Deee-Lite 'Disco Inferno' - Trammps

What was the first record you heard? Nick: 'Mr Tambourine Man' - The Byrds Candida: 'Love Is Just Like A Merry-Go-Round' - Sandie Shaw Steve: 'Itchycoo Park' - The Small Faces Russell: 'The Ring' - Wagner Jarvis: 'The Strange World Of Guerney Slade' - Max Harris

Fave fabrics Dacron, Trevira, Courtelle, Lycra, Dralon, Velour, Towelling, Darron, Suedette, Moleskin, Velvet, Sharron.

Motto "That which does not destroy us makes us stronger"

[writingsofwesteros]

I can see the people of Kings Landing hating Jamie even more. Stev actually cares for them, she treats them like she would any other Lord or Lady, she visits from time to time to see how everything is and what needs fixing or funding, helps with the orphanages, food shortages, the crimes, everything. Only to have her be sad and lonely, stuck with Jamie fucking Lannister in the Red fucking Keep. They hate him, can not stand him what so ever. Having seen and heard how happy she was on Casterly Rock from sailers or travellers, salesmen etc.. with Tywin and all of her little children it made them feel relief that she’s actually happy with someone. The fact that her children are respectful to the servants and the public and the fact that she still helps Kings Landing people even from all the way over there makes them hate Jamie and Cersei all the more, he threw away a gem a wonder if a woman for well.. Cersie. They know Stevs children besides the eldest boy aren’t from Jamie but again, they don’t care, it’s like a secret everyone knows but no one talks about because they respect her that much. Cersei on the other hand, raised an incestuous, immoral, annoying little cunt and none of them can stand him so damn right they’ll be whispering about him and how shit of a queen she is. The fact Jamie chose that loony over Stev is mind boggling to them. They’re all for Stev and Tywin of it means she’s happy.

!!!!

hehe, i love the small folk thoughts, they are lovely and funny!

[warrioreowynofrohan]

If anyone wants it, for the Aug. 1 Dracula Daily, here’s my attempt at translating Mr. Swales, though it lacks the colour of the original. People who are more familiar with this dialect, let me know if I’ve got anything wrong - there are places where I’m guessing about certain phrases.

Mr Swales: “It’s all nonsense - these ghost stories and legends are only fit for getting children and silly women to make a fuss. They and all of the supposed supernatural omens are all invented by preachers and busybodies and salesmen to scare and scam fools and get folks to do something they don’t otherwise want to. It annoys me! Why, they’re the ones that, not content with priting lies on paper and preaching them in pulpits, carve them on tombstones too! Look all around you [they’re in the graveyard] - all these tombstones are falling over from the weight of the lies written on them. ‘Here lies the body’ or ‘Sacred to the memory’ written on them, but in near half of them there’s no body there, and no one cares about remembering them! It’s all lies! My God, but it’ll be a strange sight on the Day of Judgement when the dead are raised, all trying to drag their tombstones with them to prove how good they were, and some not even able to hold onto them because their hands are so slippery from their bodies lying in the sea all those years.”

Mina: “Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these tombstones are not all wrong?”

Mr Swales: There might be a few that aren’t wrong, except when they make people out to be better than they are; for people will think a little bowl is like the sea, as long as it’s their own. All lies! Now look, you come here as a stranger and see this churchyard. [Mina nods.] And you think that these stones are about people who are buried here, safe and snug? [Mina nods again.] That’s where the lie comes in! Why, there are loads of these that are completely empty! And my God! how could they be otherwise? Look at that one, read it!

Mina: Reads: ‘Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, age 30.’

Mr. Swales: “Who brought him home to put him here, I wonder! I could name you a dozen whose bodies lie in the Greenland seas up north, or where the currents have carried them. And there are their tombstones around you! You can read the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey - I knew his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in 1820; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777; or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year later; or old John Rawlins, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in 1850. Do you think all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds at the Judgement Day? I doubt it! I tell you, when they got here there’d be sho much shoving and crowding and jostling that it would be like a fight up on the ice in the old days [when he was a sailor in the far north], when we were trying to hang up our catch of fish by the light of the aurora borealis.”

Mina [paraphrased]: But surely you don’t think people will need to take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgement.

Mr. Swales: Well, why else would people have tombstones?

Mina: To please their relatives, I suppose.

Mr Swales: Ha! To please their relatives! Why would it please their relative to have lies written over them, with everyone here knowing they’re lies? Read the lies on that tombstone?” [The seat where they are sitting is on top of this stone - it’s a flat tombstone, not an upright one.]

Lucy: Reads: ‘Sacred to the memory of George Carson, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on July 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved son. “He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.” [That last line is a Bible quote.]’

Lucy: “Really, Mr. Swales, I don’t see anything funny in that!”

Mr. Swales: “You don’t see anything funny! Ha! But that’s because you don’t know the ‘sorrowing mother’ was a hell-cat that hated him because he was hunchbacked and lame, and he hated her so mich he committed suicide so she couldn’t get the life insurance she bought on him! He blew the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for scaring the crows. It wasn’t for crows then - it brought them to him! That’s how he fell of the rocks. And, as to hopes of a gloripus resurrection, I’ve often heard him say myself that he hoped he’d go to hell, for his mother was so pious she’d be sure to go to heaven, and he dudn’t want to be where she was. Now isn’t that stone a pack of lies? and won’t it make Gabriel laugh when Geordie comes panting up with his tombstone on his hump, and asks it to be taken as evidence [of how good he was]!”

Lucy: “Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and I cannot leave it; and now I find I mudt go on sitting over the grave of a suicide.

Mr. Swales: “That won’t harm you, my pretty girl; and it may make poor Georgie happy to have such a pretty girl sitting on his lap. I’ve sat here on and off for nearly twenty years, and it’s done me no harm. Don’t worry about the people lying beneath you, or those that don’t lie there either! It’ll be the time to get scared when you see the tombstones run away with and the place all bare! There’s the clock [chiming], and I need to go! Good-bye!”

This isn’t just local colour - there is one thing in this conversation that’s relevant to the plot (in addition to the things other people have mentioned about how it ties into the themes of the book, which I hadn’t thought about before!).

[cartoonrival]

rank the kuwtu parents in how likely they are to be involved in a multi level marketing scheme

i think most of them are actually a no but you can still get the reasoning for it. anyone not listed i don't have anything particular to say about them

vulnerable to a serpent-tongued salesman -> never in a million years

naruto; he's a little stupid. hinata had to get him out before the damage was irreparable

rock lee; doesn't realize it's a scam, just doesn't respect the idea of get-rich-quick

hinata; from a wealthy family, wouldn't be interested anyways

sakura; way too much on her plate. if you suggested she does literally any more work she might pass out and die

orochimaru; knows its a scam. thinks its deplorable that they're preying on people who are strapped for cash to wring them out and give them nothing in return

sasuke; not thinking about whether or not its a scam, just could not have less respect for salesmen

shikamaru and temari; nothing getting past them

[kitten4mula]

WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE PERSON

My favorite person.... Hm hard to say cause I want to say WardenGrassy but I feel like if I say that I will be attacked on the streets for liking someone who is in trouble with everyone else. So I'm going to go with a safe answer and say Randy the Rock salesmen.

[suzilight]

Don't recall where I was when I took this pic. Great marketing.

"The Pathfinder Hemp and Root is inspired by the apothecarial mysteries of Old West snake oil salesmen, alternative medicine, and the supernatural marvels that go hand-in-hand with them."

GOLDEN HOUR HIGHBALL

2 oz The Pathfinder Hemp & Root Spirit ½ oz lemon juice top with dry ginger beer lemon wedge garnish Serve over rocks in a highball glass

[witch-and-her-witcher]

‘not wanting to let go’ hugs for the fam please 🥺

two ghosts | Yenralt, Ciri's POV, PG-13 only for swears, 1,700 Words

"Suck ... My ... Fat - Ah! Yes!"

Aggressive clacking of buttons fills the room. Paired with the intensely focused gazes of the two teens donned in headphones, bathed by the TV's glow in an otherwise dark bedroom, it's the most common scene for Friday nights in the off season.

"Ciri, left!"

Ciri pivots her player, but only in time to see the opposing shooter before her screen flashes. "Mother fucker!" The controller is tossed onto the soft bedding. It's only moments later that Dara becomes overwhelmed by the other team and joins her in equal dismay.

The duo pulls their headphones off.

"Well, that sucks," Dara laments.

Ciri rubs the back of her neck with one hand and pushes the other up to stretch her back. "I think we have another twenty before the next game starts." Her anger dissipates as quickly as it flares, realization of how long they've been playing in her stiff joints and empty stomach. "Wanna go down to the kitchen?"

Opening his mouth to answer, the other teen pauses. A dull plink plink catches both of their attention. Dara cocks his head to the side, Ciri scrunches her brow in concentration.

Plink. Plink plink.

"Is that coming from outside?" Ciri turns the TV off to cut out its light from the glare of her window and flops down on her stomach to peer out into the back yard.

Dara stretches out beside her, elbows pressing against each other's. "Oh, shit, is that - "

They see the dark clad figure just as he pushes back his hood, the shock of silver hair catching in the moonlight. A cupped hand releases whatever was held previously, and he squats to pick through the rocks that line the meticulously maintained garden path.

Ciri inhales sharpy.

"Is that - ?"

"My dad."

If Dara has to witness her dad's vodka fueled crooning's that lead to a night spent sleeping curled on the lawn furniture without a response from her mother, Ciri might die of embarrassment. Her dad straightens, no sway in his movements she notes, and his face is screwed up with determination with the next rock he hurls just next to her mother's bedroom window.

A resounding thunk echoes this time.

The response can be heard inside the house, teens peering over their shoulders as the door at the other end of the hall can be heard getting cast open. If Ciri thought the tone in the opening of the door was aimed at her, she would be diving for cover. As it is, her father knows what response he will elicit and has had decades of practice being the subject of her mother's ire.

There are no other sounds in the house - her mother always seems to float just above the surface of the ground, grace and elegance bundled up in the body of a middle-aged hippie. She doesn't look anywhere close to her age, claiming her homeopathic remedies are the cause - although, her dad used to shoot Ciri a knowing wink back before ...

Dara and Ciri turn their attention back out the window.

"I don't think I've seen your dad before," Dara says, assessing the tall, lithe man with currently only one of his many scars visible, the one that runs down the side of his face. "What did you say he does again?"

"Traveling salesman," Ciri lies easily.

"Are traveling salesmen always so ... jacked?"

Ciri shrugs. Her dad is standing, feet squared, face just as determined as earlier. Maybe the conversation they had leaving the gym the other day, when he joined her during her off season work out, stuck with him.

"Ciri, I think I fucked up."

"So? Fix it."

"I don't know if I can."

"Have you actually tried, dad? Really tried?"

They both knew the answer: the rest of the car ride home, or to her home rather, was silent.

When Ciri's mom had asked for a divorce nearly a year ago, her dad had taken off on a contract to a distant land without so much as cell reception, let alone the infrastructure to deliver divorce papers. Six months later, he returned: a sulking, brooding, occasionally drunkenly sobbing mess. Visiting him at Uncle Jaskier's was about the most depressing shit Ciri had seen, so obviously devastated by the split but frozen by his own stubbornness and inability to act in the ways that really mattered, for the people who really mattered.

Her mother is standing, arms crossed, storm of dark curls and youthful almond skin radiant in the moonlight. There's a distance between them that may seem inconsequential, but Ciri knows it's like a vast chasm. Equally tight-lipped, it's the little moments that Ciri has noticed the hollowness in her mother: the longing stares towards the empty spaces her father used to fill like his chair in the library, the forlorn sighs followed by hours with fingertips dug into the garden soil, and the prolonged times spent locked away in her bedroom.

"She's really letting him have it," Dara whispers, eyes darting to the side, "Are you okay?"

Ciri nods. "This is the most they've talked since she kicked him out." Her dad has remained in the same position, aside from the slight sag in his shoulders: worn down. Ciri knows it's not from the heated words, but from the lack of them for so long. Her parents have never been perfect, but they worked, they loved - when they had their heated arguments and got passed whatever issue hung between them. It was the lack of anything spoken between them, the lack of love, the months leading up to her mom kicking him out that did the most damage. Ciri had felt it, seen it, but distracted herself with school, sports, friends - anything else.

Anything that didn't remind her of the empty feeling house. Like living in a house with two ghosts, floating in the same space without any notion of the other.

Her mother's arms dropped to her side, no longer wildly gesticulating along with her words. Her dad takes a tentative step forward. Ciri chews her bottom lip. If they knew they were watching ... But that's what he gets for throwing rocks at the window like a teenager.

"I'm sorry."

The words are audible in his deep expression, the change in her posture like a coat of armor shed.

Another step forward, this one not as cautious.

He's close enough now that when her mother reaches out and slaps both open palms against his chest, he can pull her into him completely. Arms wrapped tight around her mother's small, wracking frame and head tucked safely under his chin.

Ciri gulps and spins away from the window on to her back. She didn't realize her heart was racing until now.

Dara whistles low in astonishment. "So ... Do you think ... ?"

The teen shakes her head, pressing the heel of her palms against her eyes. She doesn't want to get her hopes up. To have the house full again, her family full -

"Wanna kill some fucking zombies?" she asks, shooting up.

Dara smiles. "Hell yeah."

--

The teens stumble down the stairs to the kitchen in a barely awake stupor, stomachs growling and noses following the scent of breakfast.

Ciri squints, rubs her eyes, and squints harder.

A boyish grin is on her father's face where he sits beside her mother, elbows on the counter, head ducked but tilted towards her like there's something amusing about the way she gingerly sips from her mug of coffee.

"Good morning," her mother greets serenely.

Dara grunts his best polite response, drawn towards the freshly cooked sausage on the stove top and too familiar in the home not to help himself.

Ciri raises an eyebrow at her parents, hands resting on her hips. Like hell they're breezing over this.

As always, sixty percent of their words are unspoken between each other, but shared looks. A few moments pass and then her dad is filling his mouth with a fork full of food, staring contently at his daughter. A small smile and wiggle of his eyebrows as he chews, the give away.

"Your father will be visiting more often," her mom announces with finality.

"About damn time." Ciri lets her long legs carry her behind her thick-headed parents, wrapping both of her arms around their necks and pulling them closer to her. Her dad pretends to choke on his food from the hold, but both of them place a hand on the arm hooked around them.

Ciri was afraid this embrace wouldn't happen, both of them had drawn this out passed the point of dramatics. She doesn't want to let go again, ever.

As they've done since she was young, her parents turn to place simultaneous kisses on either of her cheeks while Ciri scrunches her nose in mock disgust. Her mother's perfume, the soft scratch of her father's stubble. Home.

"Dara, you'd better not think you can eat all of that while I'm distracted," Ciri shoots, cracking one eye open to glare at the boy trying to sneak the last of the sausage onto his plate. She gives them both one last squeeze before releasing her parents. "Although, I guess i can just steal some of yours - " Ciri snags a piece of toast from her dad's plate before he can swat her away and jumps just out of his reach.

"Geralt, you'll need to make more," her mother says with a slight eye roll, "They've been eating us out of house and home."

Us. Ciri's heart dances.

"What do you expect, Yen, they're teenagers. My brothers and I never stopped eating at their age."

Her mom snorts, a sound the walls of their house haven't heard in a while. "Just at their age?"

Ciri takes her dad's seat as he rises to return to the stove, purposefully leaving his half-eaten breakfast behind for her. It doesn't feel real yet, but she imagines with each visit it'll start to set in, until they aren't visits anymore and he's back with them completely.

Her dad ropes Dara into helping him cook, who looks even more bewildered standing beside the "traveling salesman" now that he's in a tight-fitting tee that reveals the rest of his musculature and work souvenirs. It's a terrible cover story, they really should think of something better.

Sighing happily, Ciri rests her head on her mother's arm. Yeah, it'll set in, but it doesn't need to be quickly.

--end--

Well. That took a life of its own, blame Harry Styles!

[rinrinlovee]

you. drop the vampire lore

alright alright so

Vampires and vampiric characteristics have been recorded since Greece, but the folklore we know of now was generally born from the medieval ages (of course). However, with consumption during the 19th century, there was another rise of vampire panic - which produced a lot of the classic media and tropes we still use now

The signs of the vampire curse wildly vary from region to era, but for the sake of not writing an essay we'll just mention the popular ones. Worth mentioning that a lot of the vampire lore was also used as a means of racism towards Transylvanian residents and those of lineage. In general, rampant diseases were the hallmarks of a vampire. Tuberculosis, anaemia, rabies, and most other illnesses that inflict the blood/cause palor.

I'm most well versed with nineteenth century, so the focus will be on the tuberculosis induced vampire epidemic. To identify a vampire, exhumation of the body is always needed. Classic signs if the corpse of your loved one has reanimated is if keratin has grown, blood still in the body/coughed up (see: consumption), body in a different position, and if another member of the family has grown ill. Again, contagious diseases

In folklore, there is many ways to ward off, kill, and cure vampires. To shackle the corpse, the classic stake in the heart, shove a rock between the jaws so it cannot bite, decapitation. Burning. Burying your dead is also a way. It was said that decapitating then burning your dead to ash, only to feed it to whoever may be cursed to turn is a way to cure the disease. A poultice of medicinal herbs hung around the neck was to heal the curse also. And, of course, victorian snake oil salesmen had a field day with the hysteria. There's so many balms and potions and tinctures that supposedly cure vampirism it'd be impossible to list them all.

In general, vampirism and vampiric folklore was a way to explain the unexplainable. Why people fell ill, why signs of life continued after death, how disease spread. A really fascinating history, it's amazing to see how the legend continues to thrive even now

[burlveneer-music]

Elite Terrorism Modulus - s/t LP - noise rock from Dayton, Ohio, out today from Orange Milk Records

There is something about tiny rust belt cities that is charming and mythical and Dayton, Ohio is no exception. Home to some of the best Funk music ever made, Zapp, Ohio Players, and a 90’s renaissance of indie rock, most notably Guided By Voices, Brainiac, Kim and Kelly Deal, with a strong harsh noise scene - Being, Developer, Yes, Collapse, Dan Rizer etc. Dayton is a fertile place for weird and fun music. There are many ways to embrace and channel this spirit. Elite Terrorism Modulus’s first LP lives in this musical geist of its hometown. The band made this record soundtracking a long mythology where buildings are gods and dilapidated malls are places of worship. A sincere subversion in music, they are a jam band influenced by Don DeLillo, private press gospel LPs, Spring Breakers, Naqoyqatsi, Five Starcle Men, Sonny Sharrock and Chrome. The self-titled record possesses the fervor of this music community, endearingly weird, really energetic, and very midwestern. The record spans from free jazz, hardcore, noise, and at times melding into absolutely absurd lo-fi strangeness. It's a great record made in a place that is considered obsolete by many, a demonstration that compelling art is thriving in the flyover states. Drums - Griffin Girard Bass - Danny Berg Vocal, Alto Sax, Programming - Fred Grof Guitar - Chance Berberich Electronics, Cut-up Noise - Matthew "(Property) Developer" Reis Produced by Smiffmaff & The Salesmen Art and layout by Seth Graham