#This somehow took less time than the MTA I did

[gayseadragon]

Bdubs and Cub designs!!

I decided I wanted to do a design for each active member of Hermitcraft, in alphabetical order, so these are the first two :) They’ll be posted pretty infrequently but I’ll tag them all #hermitcraft A-Z for finding’s sake :)

[slapshot-to-the-heart]

Flatbush & Atlantic: part i

Quick note: This is taking place in the 2020-21 season, as if the Islanders still play at Barclays; I know they won’t in actuality. In the story, I’m also going to be taking some liberties with what the duties of a team’s general counsel and legal team would actually be in charge of. My understanding, as a pre-law student, is that it’s more on the corporate angle, dealing with contracts and stuff — in addition to that, Cass will also be dealing with some more immigration and employment law as well. 

part i

October 1

“Adiós, mamá. Hablamos pronto. Te amo.” Cassidy hung up, breathing out a tense sigh and rubbing her temples with the heels of her hands. Talking to her mom usually helped to calm her down, bring her back to Earth, but for whatever reason it wasn’t taking. She took a brief glance at the casebook open on her dinged-up Ikea desk. Federal Indian Law. She liked the class, genuinely, but her day had started off bad and gotten worse pretty damn quickly. First she was out of her favorite tea, then her advisor cancelled their meeting, then it started raining as she walked back to her MTA stop, so she had missed the train. Another came fifteen minutes later, but the damage was already done. The only bright spot in the day, aside from calling her mom, had been the cute guy at the Polish deli down the street who had put extra peppers on her Philly cheesesteak. She unwrapped the sandwich, taking a moody bite out of the end. A caramelized onion dropped to the floor. Sighing, she leaned down to pick it up, hurtling it in the direction of the trashcan but only half-looking to see if it reached its target destination. Despite the name, Cass had never had a cheesesteak before she moved to New York, and it wasn’t even because she wasn’t a sandwich person. No, Cass loved a good sandwich, but between her proclivity towards a good BLT and her mom’s homemade Mexican food, she just hadn’t gotten around to it. 

Her laptop dinged with an email notification. What now? She swiped over to the mail page, taking another bite as she read the subject line. Experiential learning requirement - unmet. Her brow furrowed. Unmet? Clicking it open, she scanned the email, clearly something automated from the registrar’s office. Yet to complete Columbia’s experiential learning requirement...We suggest you connect with professors...You have until October 8 to submit...Cassidy never finished her sandwich. “Oh my God,” she muttered to herself, feeling her cheeks heat up. “How could you do this? How could you be so stupid, Cass?” She was normally so on top of everything, never missed a date, never forgot an assignment, so how could she have missed one of the only things left to do to graduate? Her law school required all of the graduates to complete some sort of experiential learning requirement — some kind of externship, clinic, summer associate position, anything to get them “out in the real world.” That’s when it hit her. She had coached her high school’s mock trial team the summer after her first year, and interned at the Hartford County DA’s the summer after. But they paid her. Her school had a weird ‘double-dip’ policy, where you weren’t allowed to take a position for class credit and get paid at the same time. It was a confusing rule, convoluted and bizarre and probably a little bit elitist, but it was a rule. As if the day couldn’t get any worse, and then somehow it did. 

Turning to her laptop, she started searching for just about anything that could possibly help her. The school’s website, the Manhattan District Attorney’s, state offices, NGOs, federal prosecutors, anyone that might have a lead. Frantically dragging over her resumé and throwing together a cover letter that probably (hopefully) looked way more interesting than it actually was, Cassidy fired off email after email after email. Two hours later, she had sent off some twenty-odd applications, hoping that at least one or two would end up panning out. Glancing at her watch, she let out an exasperated breath. 12:22 A.M. Her classes didn’t start until nine, but it took almost an hour and a subway connection to get to Columbia, and she had to eat and shower before. So, really, it meant getting up at about seven. She needed to go to bed. 

Stomach reeling and feeling more resigned than anything, Cass haphazardly brushed her teeth, flossed — it didn’t matter how tired she was, she’d never forget to floss — and clambered into bed, wearing a faded, way-too-big Rangers t-shirt. I’ll be okay. She took a deep breath. It’ll be okay. It has to be. Cassidy Cabrera Shaw was tough as nails and stubborn as hell, and she wasn’t going to let everything she had worked so hard for fall apart so easily. 

Whenever Cass was nervous, or anxious, or afraid, she was never able to sleep well. She ended up waking up at ten past six, sitting in her bed for fifteen minutes praying that she’d fall back asleep, and finally accepting her fate that sleep just wasn’t going to come. Rolling over, she grabbed her phone from where she had left it charging on the nightstand. Nightstand was maybe a generous term for it; technically, it was a wooden milk crate that she had spray painted white when she and the other girls had moved into the apartment two years prior. She had a little bit of money set aside from college, but every penny possible was going towards tuition and those ungodly-expensive books that she had to buy every semester. The mattress and frame were from Ikea, and Cass had brought some things like bedding and a desk from her old room. The rest of it — rugs, lighting, and decorations like her six-inch ceramic peacock (his name was Charles) had come from a combination of Goodwill runs and senior citizen yard sales. 

Wincing as she did so, Cass pulled up her email, bracing herself for the inevitable barrage of rejection. After scrolling past ten or so automated “no longer hiring” and “position has been filled” messages, one caught her eye. She had sent a few emails to professors of hers, not expecting to hear anything back for a few days. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but there certainly were advantages of going to school in a city as massive as New York. All of her professors knew someone and had some kind of connection from their own education, or days in the practice, or childhood summer trips to the Hamptons with someone who just so happened to be a judge on the Second Circuit Court — that last one was last year’s employment law professor. One particular subject line caught her eye. Thought you might be interested, Professor Murakami had written. David, as he preferred to be called, was her Sports Law professor from last year. She didn’t go into the class expecting to enjoy it all that much, if she was being honest. She had gotten a crappy registration time and most other classes were filled, so it had started out as a placeholder and nothing more. Over the semester, though, it had quickly become one of her favorites, combining pieces of everything else she had studied into one cohesive course. Cass also wasn’t in a position to be turning down any potential offers, so she opened the email and started reading. 

I got your email, Cassidy, and think I might be able to help. Okay, so far, so good. I happen to have a contact in the counsel’s office of one of the professional sports teams in the city. That’s exactly what Cass was talking about — where do these people meet each other? Is there some kind of exclusive speakeasy you’re given the password to as soon as you’re admitted to the state bar? Chris Cohen works for the Islanders, and I remember you talking about how interested in hockey you are. Okay, true, but the Islanders? She had practically been born with a Ranger’s jersey on. Beggars can’t be choosers, she thought. I gave him a heads-up that I’d likely be sending a promising candidate his way, so just let me know if this sounds like something you’d be interested in and I’ll send along your contact information. 

Cass couldn’t respond fast enough. Yes, please! 

---

Wednesdays were her ‘easy’ days, if you could say that. She had Environmental Law and Human Rights back-to-back, but anything after noon was pretty much fair game. That being said, it certainly didn’t mean that she was any less stressed. There were at least a hundred pages to read before class the next day, she had a sample essay due for bar prep, and her mind was still racing about the email. Grabbing a gyro from the cart outside of her last class of the day, Cass stress-ate with one hand while continually refreshing her inbox with the other.  Food wasn’t allowed in the library, so she ate the last few bites right outside the doors, throwing away the wrapper and squeezing past the hordes of clearly overwhelmed first-years running to get to class on time. 

Popping her Airpods out of their case and into her ears, Cass briskly made her way up the stairs to the third floor, crossing her fingers that her usual spot, a big blue chair over by the research desk, was open. She was in luck, pulling out a water bottle and laptop and getting to work on editing. Four hours later, she had reached some semblance of satisfaction with her work, shutting off her computer and making her way to the subway. There was about half an hour before she had to transfer to the line that would take her to the apartment; squeezing into one of the last free seats, she tugged out a textbook and a highlighter. Why her professor insisted on assigning the entire text of the United Nations charter was a mystery to her, but she’d rather jump off a cliff than be cold called on without an answer. Transferring at Grand Concourse took about ten minutes — it was rush hour, so the first train to come was entirely full — and another twenty or so minutes later, she was letting herself into her shared East Bronx apartment. 

Hanging up her denim jacket by the door and toeing off her sneakers, Cass let out a not-so-subtle exasperated sigh. 

“One of those days?” Alicia piped in from the kitchen. Alicia also lived in the apartment, one of the four sorority sisters-turned-roommates who had made the move from Connecticut down to New York after graduation. Cass padded into the kitchen, where she was greeted by Alicia in front of a skillet and rice cooker, intensely sautéeing some vegetables.

“You have no idea,” Cass said, hugging her from behind. “Whatcha making?” There were obviously some nights when not everyone was home — most often either Cass or Ryanne, who was in med school — but they always tried to have a few nights a week where someone would cook a meal for the whole house. 

“Japchae, it’s my mom’s recipe,” she replied. “I called her and asked how much sesame oil to use, and she just said ‘until it tastes right.’ Like, I love you, Mom, but that doesn’t really help my cause, does it?”

Cass snorted. “Oh for sure, it’s the same way with me. Do you remember the first time I made tamales down here?” Cass had grown up eating and making tamales with her mom and abuela, but she had never been allowed to really take the reins. She had the recipe, though, so the first night after they were moved in, she ventured down to the closest bodega, bought the ingredients, and decided to try her hand making them from scratch. The recipe, however, left out the key piece of exactly how much water to use for steaming — Cass didn’t know, and her mom had always just eyeballed it. So she had ended up putting in way too little and setting the stove way too hot, and to make a long story short, ended up setting off the fire alarm. The one saving grace was the extremely attractive police office that came to double-check the false alarm, but even he couldn’t wipe the mortified expression off of her face. 

“How could I forget?” Alicia responded with a grin. “Go put your shit down, it’ll be ready in a few.”

Cass playfully rolled her eyes, heading towards her room in the back. “Yes, mother.” Their apartment was a three bedroom; while obviously it would have been amazing for everyone to have their own, it was still New York City and none of them were exactly rolling in the dough. Cassidy and Ryanne were obviously still students, and while Alicia and Stella had actual jobs  — Stella worked international business down by Wall Street and Alicia did something with satellites in Queens — none of them were exactly inclined to set out on their own just yet. So Stella and Alicia shared a room, and she and Ryanne had their own. She shrugged off her jacket, slinging her backpack onto the bed before chugging the rest of her water bottle and checking her phone. Two new emails. A 20% off coupon to Lush, and one from Chris Cohen. Chris Cohen? It took her a minute to remember, but when she did, she couldn’t read it fast enough.

Honestly, Cass didn’t read the whole thing, but got enough information to know that she had an interview Friday afternoon at the office in Brooklyn, that Chris  — he had said to call him Chris — said she came with a stellar recommendation from Professor Murakami (an old law school buddy, figures) and that there was no way in hell she was going to fuck this up. She wouldn’t let herself. 

---

Cass was lucky her Thursdays were so packed; if she had any extra time to stress over her impending interview, she would have, but she couldn’t. She had two ‘free’ hours in between classes, but after she had scarfed down lunch (Alicia had, mercifully, made plenty of leftovers) it was the only stretch she had to hit the gym. Coupled with the time it took to walk there, change, and shower after, there really wasn’t much in the way of downtime. After classes was her bar prep group, and the day was so exhausting that it was pretty much all she could manage to take the train home, microwave dinosaur chicken nuggets, and stumble into bed. After flossing. 

---

If Cassidy lived in any other city, she would have felt wildly out of place on her morning commute. Who shows up to school wearing a suit? She wasn’t an absolute masochist, so her heels were in her bag. But for once in her life she didn’t feel so out of place among the presumably-highbrow, presumably-making-six-figures crowd surrounding her. The suit had been her first big purchase for herself  — she had scraped by without one in college, but invested as soon as she had a little saved up from her summer job at a boutique in town. Her mother had always told her that it was the woman who made the clothes, rather than the other way around, and Cass always did what her mom said. 

Samaira, one of her friends and another editor on the Columbia Law Review, caught up to her as they both left the twice-weekly morning meeting. “You seem kind of jumpy, Cass. What’s up?”

Cassidy wrung her hands and shrugged her shoulders. “I told you that I missed the internship requirement thing, right?” Samaira nodded. “Well, I have an internship in,” she paused to look at her watch, “two hours, and I’m so nervous I’m going to mess this up. I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t get it. There’s not time to look for something else, there’s no alternative, and I don’t know what to do if my own stupidity and forgetfulness is the only thing standing in between me and something I’ve worked so fucking hard for—”

Samaira cut her off. “I’m going to stop you there. That’s bull, Cass, and you know it. You are the furthest thing from a disappointment. You’re one of the kindest, sharpest, and most creative people I know, and you’re not going to let something as petty as a deadline stand in your way. Time gets away from all of us sometimes, and it’s nothing to beat yourself up over. I want you to be confident and have faith in yourself, because you deserve it, but if you don’t, it’s okay. I get it. I believe in you enough for the both of us.” She squeezed Cass’ hand. 

She managed a watery smile. “Thanks, Samaira.”

“Any time,” she replied easily. “I’ve got to run to class now, but I want to hear how it went the second you get out, okay?”

“I will.”

Samaira rolled her eyes. “I mean it. You’re going to crush this, Cass. Love you!” She added, waving goodbye as she turned the corner.

There was half an hour before Cass needed to head over to the interview, and before she knew it her feet had taken her to her favorite spot on the north side of Central Park. Grabbing a bagel, she thankfully found the bench empty. After finishing the bagel — she would have preferred cheese, but they were out, so cinnamon raisin it was — and the better part of her Hozier-dominated acoustic playlist, it was time to catch the train. She jumped on with barely a second to spare, grabbing a strap and trying to avoid bumping into anyone. 

A seat opened up about halfway to Brooklyn, and Cass took the opportunity to unceremoniously tug off her much more practical flats and switch into the much more professional ankle-strap heels that had been stuffed in her backpack all day. For a fleeting moment, she was worried what everyone around her would think; she was, after all, technically changing on public transportation. A man got on at the next stop who was dressed head-to-toe in neon orange while carrying a Pomeranian in his purse. Nobody batted an eye. She got over herself pretty quickly.

Getting off at the Barclays Center station, Cass pulled out her phone, opening up the camera to give herself a quick once-over. As much as she hated it, first impressions really were everything. Lipstick? Not smudged. Hair? Minimal flyaways. Teeth? No spinach to be seen. Triple-checking that she had the time right, Cass walked through the doors of the office building, Islanders logo emblazoned on the wall behind the secretary’s desk. 

“Hi,” she said tentatively, catching his attention. “I have an interview with Chris Cohen at 2?” 

The secretary nodded, smiling warmly at her. “No problem. I’m Josh, you can have a seat over there,” he nodded to the small waiting area off to the side, “and I’ll call you when he’s ready for you to be sent up.”

Cass didn’t wait for more than five minutes before Josh gave her the go-ahead, and she was soon headed up the elevator to Chris’ office. “Fourth door on the left. It should have his name on it,” Josh had added. 

She raised her fist, knocking quickly on the frosted glass. It swung open a second later, a kind-looking man with glasses and salt-and-pepper hair answering. “You must be Cassidy. I’m Chris Cohen, so nice to meet you. Come right in,” he said, ushering her through the room, where several other associates sat at desks, and into his office. 

“David’s always good at keeping an eye out for me in his courses, and I was happy he passed you along,” Chris said, pulling out her resumé. “And you’re a 3L, correct?” She nodded. “Good. So let’s dive right into it. What courses and work experience do you have that you feel best position you for success in this position?” Much though Cass was loath to admit it, if there was anything she was good at, it was talking herself up. There was a reason her high school superlative was “Most Likely to be Able to Talk Their Way Out of a Ticket.” She launched into a well-rehearsed response, making sure to lace in her love for hockey once or twice. If nothing else, it would hopefully at least get her some brownie points. He had a few questions about her resumé, asked about her work on the law review, a few hypotheticals about contract law. She was batting a thousand until he asked the dreaded final question. “Do you have any questions for me?” 

Cass was wracking her brain, trying to come up with some intelligent-sounding thing to ask, but nothing came. “Uh—” she started, but was saved by the bell. Or, rather, saved by a frantic door opening and a panicked-sounding Mat Barzal bursting into the room. “Chris, I’ve got a problem.”

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Jigsaw // Red: Part Two

Nothin’ Good Comin’

A/N: I re-watched all of season 2 before finishing this. So now my pain is your pain, sorry. Time for Billy to get some revenge. 

Warning: murder, death, violence, mentions of sexual assault  

Word Count: 3,259

Prompt: (i have a feeling this is the furthest thing from what you were hoping for, anon. But...I just can’t see Billy fluff like that so I hope you don’t hate me! Thank you for sending a request!) 

The light came in through the curtains, the silver-gold brilliance of the sun’s first rays marking the early start of a new day. Normally, Billy would have been awake for an hour or two already, moving about in the semi-darkness, performing his morning routine; workout, coffee, shower, news. He liked starting his day before the world did, feeling like it gave him an edge, a sharpness that he could use to his advantage, and he took advantages whenever he could grab them. But it wasn’t a normal morning. It hadn’t been a normal night, either, the two of you lingering in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness, neither of you willing to close your eyes for too many minutes. Instead, the hours were spent committing everything to memory- the way he felt your moans through your kiss, your chest pressed to his. The soft flutter of your eyelids and the way it felt to sink into you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, twined with his or thrown over his shoulder. The way his name sounded and what it did to his heartbeat and his breathing when you sighed it into his ear. He wanted to etch you into his bones and tattoo you into his memory. Every freckle, every eyelash, the distinct weight of your body draped over his, the gentle warmth of your breath on his skin, all of it, all of you.

You brushed your fingertips over his eyebrow, tracing the curve of his orbital bone until your light touch found the birthmark between his cheek and lashes. The fingers of your other hand were threading through his hair, long dark strands spread out over the pillowcase. He didn’t dare open his eyes, the lids shutting even more tightly as you lowered yourself over his chest, lips finding his and fitting together seamlessly. Each kiss that you left him with erased every pair of lips that weren’t yours from his memory, his palms forgetting the feel of anyone’s skin but yours with each press and pass over your back. Billy savored every second of closeness, every last shadow as the night melted into morning and painted the patterns of the window frame on the sheets, holding you like it was the last chance he’d ever have, like he couldn’t get you close enough.

In a way, he couldn’t. Somehow, against any natural instinct or ingrained behavior and contrary to what he thought was better judgement, somehow in the time between getting back to you after his last deployment and the dwindling hours left before he’d be torn away again, Billy Russo had fallen in love with you. And that love presented itself in the form of a dull emptiness that was only quelled when he was with you. It was an ache that he always seemed to have, but he’d shoved bullshit and bravado into it for years, packing it down and trying to fill the deep gouges that his life had scraped into him through neglect and abuse. It stung, like rock salt being pressed into a bleeding wound, but he grew up learning how to grit his teeth and bear it, letting it make him hard, calcified and sharp. With you he’d felt something he never had before; comfort and happiness and ease with himself as he was in the moment. With you, that ache was filled and soothed, the calluses shaved away from the jagged edges around his heart, leaving it less protected and more open than ever before.

“Good morning, Billy,” you mumbled sleepily against his lips, slowly breaking the kiss to melt against his side with a sigh. You trailed your fingertips up and down his chest as you tucked your face into his shoulder.

Billy stayed silent, concentrating on the sound of your breathing, the warmth of your body, the smell of your shampoo. It’s the last good morning for a while, gotta make it count. He tightened his hold on you, flexing his arms and pulling himself closer.

You wrinkled your forehead when he still hadn’t said anything a full thirty seconds later, lifting your head to look at him through the curtain of your hair. Swiping it aside, you propped yourself on your elbow, his hand resting on your hip, thumb slowly circling around the bone. “Hey,” you reached for his face to make him look into your eyes instead of where he was touching you. “Look sharp, lieutenant, what’s wrong?”

Billy stopped the motion of his thumb to bring his hand up behind your neck, fingers combing through the hair at the nape. She knows what’s wrong. The ache throbbed but was immediately healed as you dropped your lips to his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his eye. “Nothin’,” he fibbed, returning your kisses with one of his own, lips brushing the tip of your nose. “Just tired.” He grinned. “You kept me up all night, I’m gonna have to sleep on the plane.” He knew he wouldn’t.

The smile that you answered with lit the room more than the early morning light that was spilling in. “Had to remind you what you’re coming home to, Billy.”

His chest tightened. Home. The word, to him, had always just meant The States. His apartment was just where he stayed. The few foster families he’d been placed with and the group home he’d spent most of his childhood in didn’t count. They were obligatory, state mandated and regulated constructs designed to make unwanted kids forget that the world didn’t give a shit about them. But home was something he could finally have, because he had you. He tugged you down on top of him. “Like I could ever forget.”

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  .. .. 

He bolted upright, your name on his lips, breaths coming quick and shallow, and sweat beading on his brow despite the chill in the drafty old warehouse. She… Eyes darting over the dilapidated couch cushion, he searched for any sign of the phantom warmth he still felt leftover from your touch in his dream. A sound somewhere between a sob and a grunt, between anger and despair forced its way from his mouth and he gripped his head with both hands. She’s gone. It was a dream, she’s gone. Another harsh sound escaped him as he stood from the couch to pace the cracked concrete floor. The sky outside was still inky black, illuminated by neons and streetlights. He figured that he’d only gotten a few hours of sleep, but waking up in the Hellscape that his reality had become after the juxtaposition of your body over his and your breath on his skin that his tired, fractured mind had conjured would make it impossible for him to get anymore rest, impossible to do anything but move. Before he knew it, he’d tucked your photo into the pocket of his now sweat and muck ridden sweatshirt, pulled his hood up over his head, and barreled down the steps and out into the night.

He didn’t know where he was going until he was sitting on the dented aluminum bleachers, the cold seeping through the thin scrub pants he wore. The distant hum of engines rumbling over the crumbling streets of the boroughs and the muffled shouts from the housing projects behind the ball fields finally drowned out the teasing whispers leftover from his dream. His left knee bounced erratically as he let go of the illusion and focused on the moment. Staring at the dusty home plate on the other side of the chain link fence, the gears started turning, slowly at first before gaining traction, and a plan started falling into place. I know how to flush ‘em out…Frank…Madani… I know how to get their attention…then I can make ‘em pay. He pulled his sweatshirt more tightly around himself, leaning back on the seat behind him and stretched out his long legs on the one below. He found the photo in his pocket, fingers gliding over the glossy paper, and he nodded off, sirens wailing three bridges away as a lullaby.

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  .. .. ..

The sunlight bore into his closed eyelids, slicing them open as birdsong filled his ears and he woke with a start and a gasp. Wide eyes taking stock of his surroundings, he recalled the events of the previous evening, recalled the plan that he’d formed. With a sniff through flared nostrils, Billy cracked his neck and rotated his left shoulder until it popped, releasing the tension that always built up as he slept before standing from the bleachers, hands shoved in his pockets and filthy socked feet carrying him out of the park and around the corner. It was early enough on a Saturday that not many people were out in this part of town, unless they were still straggling back home from the night before, drunk from bars or yawning from overnight shifts. He found the blue MTA sign for the bus that would take him where he needed to go, and stood there quietly waiting for it to come into view. A woman was sitting on the bench under the covered bus stop, but she had no reaction to Billy’s arrival. Typical New Yorker, blinders on and headphones in, doesn’t wanna know how scared she should be. The air brakes puffed as the bus turned the corner, and the woman stood right behind Billy, close enough that when she gripped the rail to board, her fingers brushed his.

He found a seat and took it silently, forgoing fare in favor of a glare that the bus driver didn’t have the energy to deal with, and stared straight ahead at the seat in front of him, the oblivious woman taking a seat a few rows behind him. Before the doors closed and the bus took off, a young man reeking of stale beer and the heavy smell of whiskey staggered by, shooting a look in Billy’s direction, and laughing as he fell into the seat right behind him. Billy narrowed his eyes as the guy leaned around his seat, nearly falling out of it as the bus began moving.

“Look at you,” he was right beside Billy’s ear, arms leaning on his knees and sunglasses perched on his head. He snickered drunkenly. “The hell happened to your face? The hell are your shoes?” Billy narrowed his eyes and cracked his knuckles. The jerk looked around, trying to get the attention of their fellow riders. “Look at this Edward Scissorhands lookin’ fuck. What’s the matter, Ed? Mommy put your face in a blender?” He laughed then, and shoved the back of Billy’s head, a low growl barely audible coming from somewhere in his throat. “You are one sorry sack, buddy. A real fuckin freak.”

The bus stopped then, and the man stood, laughing as he staggered back out. It wasn’t Billy’s stop. But it was close enough. With a devilish grin he stood and followed the guy down the aisle, the driver letting out a sigh of relief at Billy’s departure. Down one street and through the alley of another he followed his new friend- who happened to be of the same build and size- until they were alone, between two buildings, the man stopping and flicking open a decent sized pocket blade. In a whirlwind of motion that came more naturally than breathing, Billy blocked the attacker’s stab, peeling the knife from this hand by bending it back over his wrist and letting it clatter to the floor. In less than fifteen seconds he had his arm snaked around the asshole’s neck and a grip on his mandible. With one hard crack he snapped the man’s neck and dropped his limp body to the ground. Thanks for the new duds, asshole. Billy stripped off the last remaining vestiges of his hospital stay, clothing himself in the dead man’s jeans, shirt, boots and jacket, plucking the glasses from his head and bending to pick up the dropped blade. Pulling the photos from the pocket of the sweatshirt, he tucked them in the inner pocket of the black, faux fur-lined coat, making sure that he kept you with him as he continued on. He walked back out of the alley leaving his dirty clothes and the corpse of the idiot who pissed him off behind him. That was a good warm up. Back on track.  

It was just a few more blocks and he didn’t mind the walk, preferring motion to stillness and questioning how he ever stood being holed up in some sniper post for days at a time. Before he knew it, Billy was walking up the front steps of a rundown old house that felt disgustingly familiar. He made quick work of the lock, letting himself in as he used to, and took a seat at the kitchen table, waiting for Arthur to waddle out from his bedroom. A half empty bottle of shitty amber liquor stood on the table next to an ashtray and yesterday’s paper, a stickball bat propped against the wall in the corner. Fucker still has that? Unbelievable. His lip curled and he shook his head aggressively, recalling the three times he’d spoken about Arthur in his adult life: once with Frank while they watched Jr.’s little league game, once with Madani while he was using her for intel, and once with you, the only person who’d truly understood.

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  ..

“I didn’t… I didn’t talk about it for a long time. Didn’t know how to- didn’t know who to talk to, ya know? Didn’t know who to trust. Didn’t know- Hell, maybe there was somethin’ wrong with me, right? Maybe I did somethin’ wrong and that’s why-“ He sniffed, nose wrinkling as he shook his head. “Took me a while but I figured it out. Grown man calls you pretty…you know nothin’ good is comin’.”

“That’s fucked, Billy, I’m… “ your hand found its way into his, and he flipped his palm over so that you could twine your fingers together. “It makes me sick that you had to deal with that I… “ you shook your head but your eyes stayed focused on his. “I know what that’s like, not knowing who to trust… thinking you were wrong… this was someone who was supposed to…who you were supposed to look up to and…” you exhaled, anger and heartbreak written on your face.

“Hey,” he shrugged and pulled you closer to him, running his other hand up and down your bare spine as you lay tangled in bed. “It’s okay. Bastard got his, and I’m alright.” Got you now, the rest I can deal with.

“Yeah,” you kissed his cheek just above the hairline of his beard. “Yeah y’are Billy.”

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  ..

The exchange was quick- a few questions about his face, a few denials of any past wrongdoing, Arthur’s fat, wet frog lips glistening as he took a sip of his boozy coffee. The insistence that he’d been unfairly punished finally shattered what was left of Billy’s calm. Unfair. This asshole doesn’t know unfair. This asshole doesn’t know punishment.

“I was happy to love you kids,” he snarled at Billy. “And some’a you” he said it with disdain for the fact that Billy wasn’t one of the some, “were happy to love me back.”

It happened in a flurry of chairs scraping over the linoleum, mugs shattering on the floor and muffled, fearful sounds from the old man. Billy grabbed for the stick, snapping it over his knee easily to leave two jagged, splintered ends. He plunged one straight through the layers of fat over Arthur’s heart to pierce the muscle and cease its beating, ridding the world of one more piece of shit and leaving a nice big crimson puddle of blood, knowing that Madani and Frank would read his message loud and clear. The satisfaction of bleeding the lousy life out of his childhood abuser mixed with the vengeful rage resulting in a dizzying high that made him feel strong for the first time since leaving Krista in a heap on the floor of his hospital room. He helped himself to a leftover sub sandwich in Arthur’s fridge, found a small wad of cash crumpled on a side table, and left the scene, closing his jacket to cover up his shirt, drenched in blood.

Kicking the other half of the broken stickball bat towards the lumpy form of Arthur’s body, Billy exited the house through the backdoor in search of somewhere he could stake the place out. The house next to Arthur’s had been condemned, deemed unlivable, the tool shed in its yard looking more structurally sound than the house itself. Perfect. He hopped the short fence easily, throwing a look over his shoulder to ensure than no nosy neighbors were peeking through their curtains. Satisfied that he hadn’t been spotted, he slipped into the shed and waited, knowing that as soon as Madani got wind of this she’d be there with all her justice and her jealous hatred, knew she’d find her way onto the crime scene even though she didn’t belong there, knew she couldn’t let go of her desire to see him behind bars. Not gonna happen, Dinah.

Only a few hours passed by, Billy silently staring through the window of the shed, belly full and adrenaline levels back to normal, fingers grazing over that glossy photo in his pocket as he waited. When he saw her go into the house, he grinned. So predictable. He’d purposely left Arthur’s kitchen curtain open so he could see what was going on inside, his eagle eyes not needing the scope of a gun for accuracy. Billy had taken a lot of damage through the years, but his eyesight was still as keen as ever. He watched Madani pull her phone from her pocket and make a call that he knew wasn’t to her superior. Yeah, that’s right Madani, call your dog. Call Frank to clean this up for you. A few more minutes went by before he saw her leave, and he exited the tool shed to follow her. The first car he tried was locked, but a second, older model was left open, the owner probably hoping for someone to steal it for the insurance. Billy was happy to oblige, hotwiring it before Madani had even pulled out of Arthur’s driveway. Keeping his distance, he trailed her all the way back to her place, the edges of his brain tingling and stinging with memories of being there, of being with her and wishing it was you. I’m sorry, it should have been you. It always was, for me.  

She parked her car and he watched her nervously check her surroundings, one hand near her waistband on the gun she never left home without. He gave her a few minutes before exiting the stolen car and finding the stairwell, climbing unseen to her floor. He opened his jacket, wanting her to see his shirt and how it had gone from crisp white to deep red, wanting her to know what she was in for as soon as she laid eyes on him. He knew she had locks on her door, and he knew she’d bolt them behind her. But he knew it didn’t matter- he knew he’d be able to break the door down, throwing all of his weight and the weight of his hatred, the weight of his anger, the  weight of your loss straight through the bolts and locks. Nothing was going to stop him from getting through that door.

Nothin good is comin for you, Dinah. Nothin good at all.

.

.

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@something-tofightfor​ @its-my-little-dumpster-fire​ @suchatinyinfinity​ @gollyderek​ @thesumofmychoices​ @obscurilicious​ @traeumerinwitzhelden​ @jigsawlover10​ @getlostinyourparadise​ @breanime​ @nananananananananananabatman​ @lexxierave​ @songforhema​ @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes​ @lysawayne​ @roses-in-your-country-house​ @ymariejp​ @belladonnarey​ @audreychaz​ @songtoyou​ @stories-you-wont-hear​ @luminex3​ @ificouldhelpyouforget​

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[netpanty88-blog]

Lousy Commutes? Transit Advocates Throw the Book at Andrew Cuomo!

Mostly, we look at the crumbling subway and bus system in raw, cold data — cratering ridership numbers, ever-upward fare projections, depressing maintenance statistics.

But sometimes, it’s best to put a human face on the story of transit misery.

On Monday, the Riders Alliance did just that, releasing its long-awaited book, “The Worst Commutes of 2018.”

We wish we could say it fiction. The book, which is dedicated to “New York Governor Andrew M. Cuomo and the leaders and members of the Assembly and Senate,” aims to remind lawmakers of “the big toll of poor transit service and the anxiety it brings New York’s working families.” The group says congestion pricing would end a “generation of disinvestment” at the MTA while also improving the delivery of goods and services from a reduction in traffic.

The book contains 45 commuter horror stories. We’ve excerpted the best of the worst below (read the full book here):

Thank God I Didn’t Have to go to the Bathroom

I got stuck on a G for nearly two and a half hours because of signal problems in the entire area surrounding Bergen Street.Thank god I didn’t have to go to the bathroom and thank god I have a phone fully charged and a book. I thought, “Ok, this is it, these are the people I will spend the rest of my life with. I’ll never see my cat again or my partner and we will starve to death in the G train.” I was going into some pretty dark places of my mind. I was thinking, “What is happening in the world outside? Is this going to be on NBC4? I bet people are tweeting right now about how shitty the G train is. I have lost two hours of my life I’ll never regain.” I thought,“This is it. I need to make peace with this, become friends with all my fellow inmates, and just accept it.” People began sharing stories about where they were supposed to be, and what they were missing. Upon release, I immediately contacted a Lyft. No way in Dante’s G train hell was I going to get inside another public transit vehicle.

Tara S.

I Missed My Job Interview

I was nearly an hour late to an important third round job interview at Burberry. I live in Jamaica and take the E to 34th Street, which normally takes me 45 minutes (at the most).The morning of my inter- view, scheduled for 11 am on 57th Street, I left at 10am. I anticipated arriving at the location at least 15 minutes early, including the walk. But the E stalled for at least 10 minutes before reaching Kew Gardens, the next stop. I tried to call the interviewer but I kept losing service. Then the train proceeded to stall and crawl in and between each stop going all the way throughout Queens. At 11:50, I finally arrived and the interviewer was very perturbed. She told me,“I saw online there was a power outage at 42nd street, so I understand.” Had the booth attendant told us the train would be delayed, I would have called in at 10 am or taken the LIRR, but that didn’t happen. I haven’t heard from them since. Thanks, MTA.

Dave W.

I Am On Thin Ice at Work Due to Timeliness

I, along with many coworkers, am on thin ice due to timeliness. My once 25-minute commute now has me leaving more than an hour early for work “just to be safe.” Only I still find myself arriving late. For the last two weeks, the EMFR trains have stopped running at 9:30 pm. But that’s when I get out of work. Even when I leave early, I still somehow miss the last train home because they close inexplicably early! Last week, miraculously catching my train, I stayed on board until 36th Street in Queens. Like most trips in and out of Queens, there were delays. After 45 minutes, I had to just get out and take a cab home — only to have to do the same thing over again the next night. I’m looking for new work within walking distance so I can avoid taking the train on nights like this. I also miss being able to explore the city reliably. It’s sad.

Nicollina A.

I Have No Idea Why, But it Took More than Two Hours

At 8:35 am, I left my house in Astoria. At 8:45, I approached my station to find the surrounding streets filled with confused people. They seemed listless, meandering in all directions, on their phones, asking each other questions with no answers, crowding all the bus stops. No CitiBikes were available. At 8:48, though, I boarded an N train but then the announcement came: “We are having significant delays. I have no idea when we will start moving.” At 9 we started moving. At 9:02 we stopped, having only traveled 1 stop. At 9:10, I got off the train in response to the following announcement: “What the crap is that? Why didn’t we tell the customers? Why didn’t they tell us at the terminal? … Ladies and gentlemen, we are not moving. I have no idea when we will ever start moving. We recommend you take the M60 at street-level.” By 9:12 I was at the bus stop but didn’t get on the bus for another 33 minutes. Another hour later, more than two hours after leaving home and still bewildered by our subway, I arrived at work in Chelsea.

Eugene L.

I Could Have Walked Home — And Back — In Less Time

After a long day at work, I went to the City Hall station where I hoped to catch the southbound R train to Brooklyn.After a45-minute wait, my foolish hopes were dashed when we were told to take the R train to Canal Street and from there board a southbound train to Brooklyn. After an additional 15 minute wait, I took the northbound train to Canal Street, where I waited another 35 minutes for a train to Brooklyn. While I was waiting, it occurred to me that I left my office more than 90 minutes earlier and I was further away from home than when I started. It took an additional torturous hour to get home. I calculated that my 7-mile commute had an average rate of speed of 1.2 miles an hour. I could have walked home and back to work in less time.What other subway system can boast that type of service?

John R.

It’s Streetsblog’s annual December donation drive. Please give from the heart.

Source: https://nyc.streetsblog.org/2018/12/03/lousy-commutes-transit-advocates-throw-the-book-at-andrew-cuomo/

[davidfostercomedyblog]

On The 6: My Worst Commute on the MTA

I’m not sure I’ve ever listened to J.Lo’s debut album, but somehow I doubt it was about train delays and track work or the ongoing incidental persecution we’re all under as a result of the dysfunctional MTA (Maybe yo’ Train Arrives), specifically the 6 train. Had that been the theme I assume the CD cover would have looked a lot different than “the Lo” kneeling on a satin bed in her sexy two-piece. More appropriate would be someone’s grandma slumped over the dirty wooden benches on a cold, crowded train platform, miserably wondering if the train will ever arrive.

 My story of my worst commute is not only about the microcosm of one bad trip, but my present commute, in general. I’ve been taking the train to work for 21 years, and not until the wonderful opportunity of being hired as an acupuncturist at Bronx Wellness in 2016 had I experienced such a consistently terrible journey. Call me spoiled, but I’ve never had to take a train and a bus for a grand total of 50-75 minutes each time, since developing the rule that if a bus transfer is a regular part of your life you should be astutely focused on changing your life.

 The crosstown bus at 116th St. is practically unserviceable, as going home from work (east to west) I’ve given up on waiting. Every night I walk from Lexington to 8th Ave. (no matter the temperature) and can honestly say the bus ends up passing me less than 5% of the time. Its inconsistency is at least consistent: I never wait therefore I’m never disappointed. The 6 train, on the other hand, is another story.

 Only about one third of the uptown 6 trains actually continue to the line’s promised destination of Pelham Bay. The others’ last stop are either 138th St. (the very first in the Bronx), 149th, or the majority, which end at Parkchester, just three stops shy of my job; far enough away that you wouldn’t want to walk, but close enough that in moments of sheer desperation I have. Obviously there are buses at Parkchester that you can transfer to, but even more obvious is the fact that those buses don’t come. The walk is 1.2 miles, the equivalent of 24 blocks, which for four months out of the year is at least climactically tolerable. The other eight are bitter cold or disgustingly humid, and I’ve often wondered if I reap the same health benefits of powerwalking when doing so while enraged. Really if they wanted train maps to be accurate the 6 would be represented by a rainbow of colors (instead of just green), each one stopping at a different location, and maybe instead of the “6” they’d dub it the “?”

 It took me about six months, but much like a cynical bachelorette dating through perpetual disappointment, I finally found peace in the fact that the train I board each morning would not be the one to take me to work. On most days is a sabbatical at Parkchester, if not before, and like subordinate prisoners, mindfully learned of the routine, we all get off and wait on the platform for our second 6 train of the same ride on the 6 train, many of us shaking our heads, muttering under our breath, promises of leaving New York, fantasies of vindication. Maybe I’ll one day record an album called “Off the 6” – or “On and Off the 6: A Symphonic Tale of Delays.”  

 Unfortunately no amount of Eastern Zen philosophy that is often my subway reading material could prepare me for one fateful Saturday morning in June, 2017. It was hot as hell, which in New York usually means equally humid, and as I waited for the M116 bus I continuously hit my mental snooze button on when I’d have to just start walking east. I knew a one-mile walk meant foregoing bodily dryness and cleanliness, but eventually my clock reached its final alarm. I had a 10:00 patient and had to go.

 I hustled across town, figuring somewhere between 7th Ave. and Lenox that my perspiration predicament was remediable: I’d just take off my boxers when I got to work and hang free for the day. Hey, “Dress Down Saturday.”

 I wished I’d gotten iced coffee instead of hot, but firstly was naïve enough to think I’d actually be sipping it on that classic overly air conditioned bus, ironically trying not to freeze on those hot summer days. Secondly, I try to practice what I preach, and Chinese Medicine does not condone drinking ice cold drinks. I digress.

 Finally I arrived at 116th and Lex, drenched in my own funk, only to discover that dreaded pink tape that surely has appeared in all New Yorkers’ nightmares, strewn across the staircase entrance screaming the implication: “No trains.” I looked further to find a literal sign confirming said implication, instructing me of how to proceed.

 For uptown trains take the downtown train to 86th St. where you can get off and transfer to the uptown 6.

 I’ve never understood the (non-disabled) people who instead of walking actually take this suggestion of waiting for two MTA trains to arrive instead of one and taking themselves in the opposite direction in the process. WTF?!

 “FU@*!”

 That’s a direct quote, full volume. As an adult I’ve learned that not all people who appear insane are actually insane. Many are just victims of (life) or the mass transit authority. Either that or I’m now clinically insane enough to not realize as much.

 I’d already walked the mile across town. What was another nine blocks? Maybe I won’t wear a shirt today either. “Naked Acupuncture at Bronx Wellness: You keep your clothes on. We’re the ones disrobing!”

 I powerwalked up Lexington to 125th St., collapse-jogged down the steps and dutifully leaned over the tracks to peak down the dark tunnels for any sign of light, any sign of hope, unafraid of possibly falling into the tracks and being crushed into nirvana. I looked in the opposite direction as well, an illogical habit typical to most New Yorkers, desperate that help may come from any direction. I realized the hot coffee was catching up to my bladder, put my hand (what I hope was) subtly in my pocket and prayed for a quick rescue.

 The update signs said three minutes. Great. I’ll pee and even be on time!

 It just wasn’t to be, as three minutes later the train arrived with that awful sound of what could only be described as a mass transit fart, letting all nearby straphangers know: This asshole is now out of service.

 Suddenly the sign that had read 11 minutes for the next train read simply: “Delays.” Translation: We have no clue when or if another train is coming.

 I cursed and looked at the floor. I looked at God and shook my head. I wondered why life is like this, why the MTA is so awful, whose fault it is, and if it’s a result of stupidity, selfishness or both. I thought about my few patients who work for the MTA, how they’re such sweet people and probably not to blame. Still I thought of how much better their health insurance is than mine, how it covers acupuncture and mine ironically does not, and how the same good fortune applies to the conductor of the train that just farted in my face and shitted on my day.

 As my blood boiled and pores poured I resigned to watching the minutes tick away on my phone, with each one growing more skeptical as to whether my first patient would get seen. I texted my boss and squeezed my sphincter with religious fervor.

 9:20 became 9:30, which became 9:34, at which time the train pretty much had to come for me to make it to work on time. I looked around the humid platform as Saturday’s Harlem 125th St. gradually began to resemble a weekday at Grand Central, most fellow victims pacing, shaking heads, inquiring wherever possible, getting no answers as transit employees threw up dumbfounded arms, and a remainder of folk with a lesser sense of urgency looking just whipped. Whipped by life, whipped by the immediate system and system on a whole, mindless pods in the dysfunctional system that makes more money in a year than probably everyone on the platform combined will earn in our lifetimes. I genuinely wondered whether any train would come, and even if it did, who knows where it’d be headed? Finally, at 9:41 I swallowed my principles and ran up the steps, angrily hopping two and three at a time. I disregarded my pathetic budget, resigning myself to a cab ride that would cost about what I make per patient.

 Thankfully a cab was close by. They probably circle the train stations waiting for frustrated (non) riders like me to pour out. I rolled the window down and the ride up the Cross Bronx actually felt great, a cool breeze drying off at least the more surface parts of my body, and by the time we got to Soundview I’d stopped cursing and felt calm enough to provide acupuncture. Unfortunately I ended up arriving a few minutes late and my patient couldn’t wait, thereby costing me two patients worth of money and a day of lesser graces with my boss. More importantly, the patient had been a woman dealing with post-stroke symptoms of hemiplegia and by my estimation in need of acupuncture at least once a week. I never saw her again. The MTA’s dysfunction cost me a percentage of my pay and this poor woman some undetermined physiological set back in her steps to recovery. Shameful.

[thedeadshotnetwork]

What We're Thankful For, 2017 Remember how horrible 2016 was, and how thrilled we were to leave it behind? So many people we loved died—Bowie, Ali, Prince, Shandler, Zsa Zsa, George Michael, Gene Wilder, Carrie Fisher, Sharon Jones, Leonard Cohen, Florence Henderson. Harambe . On and on. So many things we loved died too. The truth , for instance. Civility . Trust in institutions, after a long fight, also shuffled off this mortal coil. There were no signs 2017 would be any better. In fact, with the election of Donald J Trump to the land’s highest office, many believed democracy had suddenly found itself on life support. But in such desperate need to turn the page, we placed a bit of hope in the changing of the calendar year anyway. We were so ready to move on, to say “ Fuck 2016! ,” that on January 1, 2017 we woke up to a silly art prank— Hollyweed —and allowed ourselves to believe it somehow meant things were already looking up. How naive we were. It can feel impossible in this waking nightmare to feel there is anything to be hopeful about or thankful for. But unlike the end of ‘16, things actually do appear to be ticking upward. The investigation into Russia’s meddling in the election is closing in . There’s a Reckoning underway for men who abuse their power, and it just might stick . Trump’s approval rating has hit an historic low , and he's largely revealed himself to be a walking disaster who can’t get anything done. Because of him, people are tired . But they're also active . And there is evidence the pendulum may finally have begun to swing the other way. This could again reveal itself to be naiveté. But for the purposes of this post, we’re running with it—welcoming any and all good news, especially during the holidays, which can be especially tough. In that spirit, we once again asked the staff at VICE.com to write a bit about what they’re thankful for in these bad (but getting better!!) times, personal things or people or places they cling to when the world appears to be crumbling. We may not be out of the mire just yet, but the things we’re thankful for help us weather the storm. My Bike For anyone who’s not familiar, New York City’s public transportation is usually a horrorshow . Subways rarely come on time , and when they do, you run the risk of getting stuck underground for hours , having your face peed on by a complete stranger , catching your first glimpse of a dead body , or witnessing the brutality of the animal kingdom in all its glory . So my third summer in New York I decided to buy a bike and I’ve never been more thankful. Not only is it just a better alternative to the shitshow that is the MTA , a great group activity, and something you can (but shouldn’t) do drunk , but I started to grow more connected to a city that often feels like a concrete tourist wasteland. Riding my bike through Brooklyn’s sprawling neighborhoods, to Rockaway Beach, down to Coney Island, over the bridge into Manhattan, and up and down the West Side Highway, taught me more about the city than a random constellation of subway stops ever could. I got my head above ground and out into the place I now call home, and learned about others who call it home in the process. (Bragging about all the exercise I was getting didn't hurt either.) The day I finally became happy in New York was the day I gave in and got a bike. That’s all it took. I stopped relying on everyone and everything else—the uncertainty of the train schedules, the wait time for a bus, and the cost and terrible music of an Uber or a cab. If you want to understand a city, and to better feel your place within it, get on a bike (you should also throw on a helmet) and just go— while you still can . —Lauren Messman, Associate Editor Quitting Drinking, Superhero Movies, and Guy Fieri Photos: Eve Peyser on Instagram / Wikimedia Commons I've spent most of 2017 writing about the Trump administration , and the triumph of evil. To put it mildly, the world is not well, which is inconceivably frightening, and on a personal level, very demoralizing. A saving grace has been not drinking . When I quit last October, I did so because I knew if I kept drinking I would die. Drinking was always an escape for me, a way to not feel like myself and not be accountable to myself and my loved ones; at the same time, it exacerbated my suicidal ideation and depression. I don't think I would've made it through the most chaotic year of myself if I was still drinking alcohol, a substance that has only plunged me deeper and deeper into chaos. I'm incredibly thankful for my boyfriend, a fellow non-drinker. Together, we spent much of the year looking for other, less harmful ways to escape from this shit world. As it turns out, a good, wholesome way to take our minds off all the horror that is 2017 is watching superhero movies. Suicide Squad , The Dark Knight , Deadpool , Thor: Ragnarok , Batman Robin , whatever the film's Rotten Tomatoes rating, they offer a form of escapism that makes me happy without hurting myself. Same goes with Guy Fieri, and the wonderful stars of the Food Network. I am especially thankful for Guy Fieri's unapologetic Guy Fieri-ness—it's genuinely inspiring to me. Despite the insanity of 2017, it was also the year I learned to love the things I love without being embarrassed about it. — Eve Peyser, Staff Writer, Politics TEA At some point in the last three decades America decided collectively to get really into coffee to the point where I assume schoolchildren in the coastal elite bubble are educated in cold brewing and Aeropresses and why burr grinders are better. I come here not to denounce coffee snob culture (I have paid $5 for a pourover and did not complain about it) but to raise up tea culture. Sometimes I don't need to mainline all that caffeine that comes in your average cup of "good" coffee. I just want a hot drink to read while I watch a mature, adult television program such as a Ken Burns documentary or HGTV. Green tea, bitter black tea with some milk, herbal teas that can taste like flowers or orange or mint—it's all good, apart from Lipton's, which thank God is mostly not served outside of the Midwest, diners, and certain institutional settings. (I'm talking about hot tea here; iced tea is also excellent.) Teabags are fine but really you should have a teapot and loose leaves, which will feel charmingly eccentric to Americans. Next time someone comes over offer them some tea, or better yet just tell them you are making tea and they can have some if they want, because that's the kind of person you are: a hospitable drinker of tea who even has those little mesh balls you put the leaves into. Tea gives you something to do in the kitchen when you want to check out of a family gathering. It warms your hands during cold winter nights. I won't go so far as to say that drinking it makes you a good person but I'm sure that it's harder to be a vicious asshole while drinking a nice cup of hot tea, and isn't that what the holidays are all about? —Harry Cheadle, Senior Politics Editor Yoga When it feels like things are in a tailspin, and I can't stand reading one more headline or wondering why I'm bothering putting money into a 401(k) when Donald Trump could literally blow up the planet at any moment, there's really only one thing that consistently makes me feel better: yoga. For me, practicing yoga is the difference between near-constant low-grade anxiety about the state of the world and the ability to fucking chill about it. When I'm feeling shitty, I've learned to put those feelings aside for an hour and hit the mat instead. Nine times out of 10, I feel somewhat better afterwards. So yes, I am thankful for my yoga practice. (On a related note, I'm also thankful for weed, for very similar reasons.) —Kara Weisenstein, Associate Editor The 2017 World Series Champion Houston Astros This year I flew home to Houston, Texas, to visit my parents. The trip was supposed to be quick, just two days. It ended up being nine. Many of them were spent in the dark, without electricity. My trip was the same weekend another visitor came to town: Hurricane Harvey. Even as He began slowly churning in the Gulf and was projected to come knocking as soon as I touched down, I went ahead with my travel plans undeterred. As a Third Coast native, I'd lived through many a ‘cane, and figured the trip would be just a tad bit wetter than I'd hoped. I was wrong. Though my folks were largely spared , I was beginning to see—through Facebook, texts, calls—that many old friends, neighbors, colleagues, and relatives were not. The scope of destruction was massive, the exact kind you might expect when a year's worth of rainfall is wrenched from the clouds in just a few days . Everyone got touched. Efforts to recover were similarly massive. All the donated money and funds both federal and local helped people rebuild homes, surely, but spirits around the region were also in massive need of renovation. That came in the form of the Houston Astros. This was, in a word, unlikely. These are the Astros. Just a few short years ago they were the worst team in the sport . (The Dis-Astros they were sometimes called when I was growing up.) And even when they've managed to field good teams they always find a way to fuck things up. So when they found themselves this year in the World Series facing a favored Los Angeles Dodgers, the most expensive squad in baseball , there was nary a reason to believe they wouldn't be swept like they were the one and only other time they'd found themselves playing this late into the season. But they won. In seven thrilling, totally fucking insane games , they won. Quickly the photo updates of various rebuilding efforts and the lasting evidence of Harvey's destructive rumble were replaced on my Facebook feed with reaction videos of the last World Series out, photos of the various victories along the way, GIFs of improbable plays, and plans to attend the parade. Nothing will ever erase Hurricane Harvey's enormous impact on the city of Houston. But because of it, the Astro's championship season couldn't have come at a better time. —Brian McManus, Special Projects Editor My Fringe-Ass Dad My dad is fringe, in the same way Frank Reynolds is fringe —in fact, he’s a lot like Frank Reynolds, interspersed with a little bit of Homer Simpson, a dash of Harrison Ford, and a whole lot of Larry David. Once, he hit a deer while he was driving through rural Georgia in his sedan, and instead of doing anything about it, he left the chunk of fur that had lodged itself into his crumpled grill in place, neglected to clean the blood from his hood, and started calling his shitty four-door the “Deer Slayer 2000.” He rips cigs. He doesn’t pay parking tickets, as a rule. He’s been wearing the same army-green coat every winter for about a decade, despite the fact that there’s a gaping, tattered hole in the left elbow. Another good one: Five hours into a bender with my reprobate friends at a grimy Atlanta bar, after too many games of pool (couldn’t really see the balls) and air hockey (somehow wound up with bloody knuckles) on which we bet a pickle-back apiece, everyone in attendance—including, of course, my fringe-ass dad—decided to go to the Clermont Lounge . It’s a seedy, smoky strip club that’s really more of a dive bar than anything, and it is (for lack of virtually any other word in my vocabulary) fringe. But we didn’t have a way to get there. So my dad—who, thankfully, was sober enough to drive—had all eleven of us pile into his tiny, beat up sedan: Two in the front seat, seven in the back, and me and a buddy in the trunk. We all easily could’ve died, and though two people vomited on the way there, we made it, and everything turned out fine—better than fine. It was fucking awesome. We drank, and sang, and ran around like idiots, and danced our asses off. I bought my dad a lap dance. The point is this: My dad is extremely fringe, and I have never laughed harder, or marveled more, or appreciated to a deeper degree anything than I do his fringe-ass self. This Thanksgiving, I’ll eat turkey, and pet my dogs, and probably play a few games of Trivial Pursuit, all of which will be nice. But what I’m most excited about—what I’m most thankful for—is the chance to get weird with the lawless, depraved (and, by the way, huge-hearted, shockingly brilliant, impossibly selfless) psychopath who raised me. Here’s to you, Dad. Stay fringe. —Drew Schwartz, Junior Staff Writer Whitney and Brandy in 'Cinderella' While cleaning my apartment the other day, I was looking for some Whitney Houston to jam to. I stumbled upon the 1997 Rodgers Hammerstein's Cinderella soundtrack, which featured Brandy and Whitney Houston. This was the only version of Cinderella we were allowed to watch growing up, and for good reason—the movie sparked my love and appreciation for Whitney Houston and made me dream of being a princess like no other Disney movie had before. The soundtrack took me back to simpler days where every holiday season my mother, sister, and I would watch the scene with Brandy gliding around the dance floor with her prince. We were in awe of the beautiful ballroom filled with cool-colored gowns. From the mixed-race cast to the banging soundtrack, this movie was a huge part of my childhood. I am thankful for this version of Cinderella that was ahead of its time in so many ways. —Janae Price, Editorial Assistant These Things Image by Lia Kantrowitz Sometimes talking or writing without putting my foot in my mouth is hard work. I’m truly thankful I have a job where I don’t often have to express myself with words. In that vein, here is a collage of other things I’m thankful for. —Lia Kantrowitz, Senior Illustrator New Jersey I'm back at my mother's house right now in New Jersey for Thanksgiving, and I'll be here for four days—the longest stay I've had in my home state since I moved to New York five years ago. I don't miss this place until I'm here, but I often find myself defending it, even in Brooklyn. I only grew up once, but you'd be hard-pressed to convince me there's somewhere better to do it. I'm from a land that people go through to get somewhere better—to New York, to Philly, to the airport. It makes you restless, flamboyant, and (sometimes) overtly obnoxious. It's everything I enjoy about life. There's something in the air, beyond pollution, that will always make me feel at home here. Even just exiting the tunnel on the train from Manhattan, once it emerges on the other side of the Hudson, makes me feel different. The smokestacks. The factories. The toll booths and swamps and power lines. Finally I can say "fuck" every other word, and no one's going to say shit. In New Jersey, you learn things. You learn how to speak, to tell stories. You learn how to drive 80 miles an hour eight inches from the back of another car. You learn you're not fucking special. You don't have to make up your mind here. You can elect a man who might as well be the mascot for corruption, and then you can tell that guy to fuck off and pick the dude who's going to legalize pot. You can watch The Jersey Shore with irony and without irony, simultaneously. You can listen to Bon Jovi, and understand why he's brilliant and silly, and you can listen to Bruce Springsteen, and understand why he's brilliant and silly. Plus, we have better bagels than Long Island. And better emo music. Fuck them. —Alex Norcia, Copy Editor, VICE.com and VICE Magazine November 23, 2017 at 04:23PM