#also i thought he was doing 'Black comedian white person voice' but after listening a bunch | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kathyprior4200 · 4 years

Text

Inside Alastor’s Head (sensitive content warning)

Part 1

“Use the princess to convince Lucifer to hand over Hell to me. Get to know Charlie and her family, see how this so called Happy Hotel works. I can’t wait to see her face when she realizes it’s actually the Hazbin Hotel. Has a better ring to it, anyway. May as well speed up the process by bringing in Niffty and making grumpy Husk join in. It’ll be everything Charlie’s dreamed of…and when it all blows up in her face, I’ll be enjoying my popcorn.”

“So Charlie likes music and dancing, too? How marvelous! These hotel residents can enjoy my singing and illusion magic. (They won’t know what’s coming next.)”

“Who, me? Evil? Why would you think that? It’s totally unlike me to broadcast my massacre of demon citizens who stand in my way. (Except it is.) Man, seeing them running and sacred…reminds me of game I used to hunt when I was alive.”

“The demon princess wants to redeem sinners. Ha! Probably the silliest claim I’ve ever heard. A nice refresher from the usual grim news on the Picture Show. Her singing was a nice bonus. Oh, the good old days of being on the air…basking in the attention and glory. I told jokes, advertised shows, announced fun events. I even got to report on murders for the news, probably my favorite part. Soooo close to being able to advertise Jambalaya. Several other announcers got the part, so I wore a disguise, snuck in one day and sliced their heads off. Still loved the expressions on their faces. Here in Hell, I have no opponents in the radio business. ”

“Those overlords look scary and cocky, but they’ve heard the tales of me…they’re scared deep down, for good reason. Sir Pentious didn’t stand a chance when I summoned black tentacles to wrap around him and his ship. Along with my powers, I have shadowy spirits to do my bidding. That’s why you can sometimes see them when I attack. You don’t need brute force and insults to win someone over. All it takes sometimes is some illusions, a little help from the Loa…and just smiling all the way through.”

“My microphone cane surly comes in handy. It’s what allows me to project events in front of me and broadcast them on the radio. It has a life of its own, but I’m in control, of course. All part of the magic deal with the Loa.”

“I enjoyed watching the picture show and going to the circus when I was a boy. Watching the animals and the performers was lots of fun. I may have burned down the circus tent after being rejected from a comedian role. But it was only an accident: my fingers slipped when I was getting cigarettes for father. Whenever I got sad, my mother told me “You’re never fully dressed without a smile.” Her motto still rings true to this day.”

“I enjoyed hunting deer in my human life, yet I also feel some connection to the animal. They’re majestic, agile, and are free to travel pretty much anywhere. Though they’re often attacked by hunting dogs…or in my case, police dogs. The beasts mauled me just before I died. It was back in 1933. Thus, for my so called evil deeds, I arrived down here in Hell. And I gotta say, it’s quite a fun place to be!”

“Sex and romance don’t interest me. Don’t get me wrong; Charlie is a charming demon belle, and Vaggie is adorable and feisty…but they’re just a means to an end. Maybe I’m too self-absorbed to want to deal with being judged by others. More fun, less responsibilities when you’re on your own. Though, I’ll admit, I did meet a lovely lady in my human life, but, certain circumstances led to a tragic end. Don’t get me started on Angel’s disturbing sexual remarks. That gross stuff makes my skin crawl. (Heh, that stuff bothers me but seeing the blood of my victims does not. Go figure.)”

“When I smile and touch people, I’m in control. It’s the quickest and obvious way to show my dominance. Frowning shows doubt, weakness, and I can’t afford to appear weak. When other’s try to touch me, it’s always unexpected. I can never tell what it will feel like on me. My space, my rules. Touch me too much, and I hate it. Like when he…my father…did things to me…in front of mom. Abuse, molest, he did it to both of us when the drinks were in his system. You can see why I was shocked and overjoyed when I finally stabbed the life out of him. I fled into the woods in the hours before dawn, the police hot on my tail. Saw the faces of deer before I got shot in the head. The dogs came upon me and…nothing.”

“I got my love of cooking from my mum. One of her favorite things to make was jambalaya. A tasty cuisine of rice, chicken, sausage, shrimp, a whole bundle of things. She added so much spice to it (and accidentally burned herself making it), it almost killed her. I thought it was fabulous, the heat invigorating to my taste buds. The secret spices she used by accident? Ghost peppers and Wasabi. It reminds me of home in New Orleans…a world of music, daily life, and alas, racism. People who didn’t know me at the radio station, white people and sometimes black people, badmouthing me for my mixed Creole heritage. Once I perfected my shooting with my rifle, well…they got what they deserved in the dead of night.”

“Ah, I loved the stock market crash of 1929! There were so many orphans, so many kids in distress! Perhaps it made me feel better to know that there were those who had it worse than me. I’ve had my share of bad luck, it was about time for others to experience some of their own.”

“I sometimes kill people at random, when I’m especially mad. It’s sort of like a game: the more you kill, the more dominant you’ll appear. I’m not fond of killing innocent children or chasing people, I mostly prefer to catch people off guard. To slaughter them behind the curtain, if you will. I would never rape or eat another person…such uncouth, disgusting behavior. Chasing my victims takes too long. Best to go at my own pace and decide their fate for them. But no worries; for women and innocent strangers, I make their deaths as painless as I can. Gotta keep being a gentlemen in some aspects.”

“Voodoo had been practiced by my ancestors, way back in Africa. I read about the Loas and many of them were just like me: well-dressed, powerful, lovers of food, wine, the good life. From what was passed down to me, I was able to communicate with them. They granted me their powers to use in my afterlife…but only if I was willing to suffer an “early, gruesome death,” along with the loss of a potential lady partner… you know the rest. I know some of the symbols and they provide me with visualization of the spells I want to conjure.”

“Singing, swing music, the radio, dancing, and dad jokes…those hobbies brought light to my otherwise mundane, grim human life. Even if other people don’t find those jokes funny, I always get a kick out of them. They’re so simple…a basic for any comedian. Though I do wish I knew how to tap dance. Maybe my magic can help me out...”

Part 2 (Sensitive Content Warning)

“Hello mortal humans, wherever you may live. For those who may not know me, I’m Alastor, the Radio Demon from Hell. Thank you for tuning in to 66.6FM, the only radio station in Hell and the only one I can talk into in your world.

You may be thinking, demons aren’t real. Hell and Heaven aren’t real. He’s probably just using a low radio voice for effect. Well in a way I am, (laughs). But I can assure you…I’m very much real, though not really alive anymore. You see, with the help of some imps from Immediate Murder Professionals, my shadow has access to portals from Hell to Earth. He is Rotsala, and he can travel through radios like I can. He’s been lurking everywhere; in your car radios, those alarm clock radios you have in your homes. And recently, (with Vox’s help), he’s figured out how to access online podcasts, if that’s what they’re called. Thanks to him, I’ve gotten updates on your modern world. It’s very strange and very wild…I’ll never really understand it. Mostly because I’m from the early 1900s and I’ve been in Hell for decades.

Now, if you remember from last time, I discussed my thoughts on the Hazbin Hotel in Hell and Charlie. About how she was a lovely friend and you she would be of great use to me to take her father’s place on the throne. And you got a glimpse of my love of cooking, sewing, singing dancing, along with the obvious killing and eating people part. I could talk for hours about myself, but not this time. On this broadcast, I’m here to talk about all of you.”

“No, no, no, don’t try and turn the radio off. I have it stuck on full volume, so much that even covering your ears won’t do. You probably already know that I constantly smile to show my dominance and power. Frowning indicates weakness. But…I have learned there are a few exceptions when it comes to showing other emotions. I am…actually upset. Very rarely do you find me in this state. So unless you want my shadow to rip you apart from your insides, I suggest you listen very, very, carefully.”

“First, let’s discuss this global pandemic that you all are dealing with right now. You refer to it as the corona virus or Covid 19. It seems that everywhere, people are dying right and left as this virus rapidly spreads. Jobs are being lost, entertainment sites shut down, people stuck in their homes for months, wondering if they’ll make it through all this.”

“I’ll admit, this pandemic is just as entertaining as the Stock Market Crash of 1929. So many orphans, so many hungry people waiting in line for food, or not being able to be with their loved ones. Mostly it’s fun to watch because I’m already dead and I like watching others suffer. (sighs)”

“But yes, it’s also a mixed bag. When I took a peek at modern New Orleans I was frankly stunned like a deer in the headlights. (audience laughter). How utterly lifeless it was! Bands not playing live anymore, restaurants closed. Even more shocking, Mardi Gras was cancelled! I grew up with the parades and the laughter and music in my previous life. To have all that taken away…I might as well have died sooner. It really is a shame how we take everyday life for granted…we’re not concerned about death or loss until it hits us right in the face. Trust me, I’ve been there. Back when the 1918 Spanish Flu killed my mother. Back when I cried at her gravestone even with a large smile on my face. That day that I lost all sense of humanity and became the demon I was destined to be.”

“But what of you folks? You wear facemasks every day, you wash your hands, you pray every day that somehow, you and your families and friends and loved ones will get through it in several years. Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. One good thing about the pandemic: the enforcement of the six foot rule. Social distancing is essential, and I think it should be mandatory in Hell! I hate being tainted and touched, that’s why I wear my gloves all the time. If only Angel Dust had that rule drilled into his head, it would make my afterlife so much easier. I always wash my hands before and after cooking, and especially after getting my victims blood all over them. You should too. Pure common sense. You can never be too clean and careful no matter where you are. But enough about that.”

“Hell is being more overpopulated than usual, and now I can see why. Thousands of people dying and being sent down here…I bet that stuffy hothead Stolas is having a party now that he’s not lonely anymore. You all are careless fools. You huddle close together during protests or pool parties or fight each other in grocery stores. All you think about is yourselves, hording toilet paper and food and not thinking of those who might actually need it more than you.”

“That drama gets old fast, even for me.”

“Many believe they have their rights taken away just because they can’t go to the Picture Shows anymore. Well let me tell you this: nurses, teachers, policemen, caregivers…they’re all risking their lives on the front line trying to heal others and slow down the spread of the virus. They witness deaths all the time and for every person they don’t manage to save, they feel guilt that will weight them down for weeks, months or even years. And the majority of you laze around, too absorbed in your own worlds to take notice.”

“Want something to do to cure your agonizing boredom? Well, sadly, killing and cannibalism isn’t recommended as you would put your health at risk. But you can try new recipes at home. Learn how to make classic foods, especially good Creole dishes like Jambalaya. If you can make it better than me and my mother, I’d be impressed but we all know that’s not going to happen. Sing along to some songs. Listen to the radio. Watch some classic musicals.”

“Or for the online folk, watch the Hazbin Hotel! Make art and stories about me torturing my enemies. Laugh at all those who ship me with other characters because we know that I’m not interested in sex and romance. But to be heard…those who attack other people in the fandom over tying me down with Charlie and Angel and whoever else…stop it. Enough is enough. Respect other people’s fan works and let them indulge in their crazy imaginations. I belong to no one and I will befriend and flirt with others however I see fit. “Some asexuals and aromantics can still fall in love and enjoy sex.” Yes, that’s true, but my standards are different. Back to the virus…there are some people that deserve to get sick from it. The whole world could get infected and die but I’ll still be thriving in Hell…provided that I don’t get killed.”

“I don’t really care about any of you. I’m just here to bring you the harsh truth. Doctors and essential workers are trying their hardest to make sure you all and enjoy your mundane lives. There’s no need to glorify them as heroes either. Just treat them with respect and move on. Patience is a virtue…I know that many of you need to go back to work, but putting others and the community at risk will just create an ongoing vicious cycle of misery. But if you want to expose yourself in the name of “making America great again” or wherever else you are, then be my guest. I’m always up for more prey to hunt down here.”

“Now, onto the second topic: protests. Believe it or not, I, too, was saddened and shocked by the death of African American mortal George Floyd. He’s up in Heaven, not with me, so don’t fret.”

“Yes, I’m entertained by the violence, cars setting on fire, the screams and yells, very thrilling! But to be honest, sometimes I feel safer in Hell in comparison to what’s going on in your world…and that’s saying something.”

“All the riots going on, protesters being sprayed with teargas, being hit with batons. Looting, shooting, all of this madness going on. Charlie says that inside every demon is a rainbow, but I say inside every demon is a lost cause. Perhaps we’re both right. Though they’re may be some good inside everyone, we’re all imperfect lost causes. We’re subject to sin, violence, discrimination, and endless chaos. We are failures. It’s inevitable. There was no hope for me, and now there’s no hope for any of you.”

“Police brutality needs to end. They are supposed to protect you folk, not use power to push everyone back for no reason. The rioters who looted stores, set cars on fire and put others in danger like that, need to take full responsibility for their actions. They don’t need to unleash their pain and rage onto the city and others. Killing and chaos is my job, no theirs.”

“Racism, sexism, homophobia, they’ve been around since mankind became civilized. Black Lives do Matter. Those who have been downtrodden, beaten up, pushed to the side like dirt, need to have their voices heard. Otherwise, those in power will keep using and abusing their power and authority until there’s nobody left.”

“Just take those white police and your president for example. The policeman arresting George Floyd and pressed a knee onto his neck for no apparent reason, other than he was a person of color who so happened to be caught doing something wrong, at least to them. He kept saying “I can’t breathe” and no one stepped in to stop the situation. The policeman was arrested but that’s a mere slap on the wrist in comparison to a life lost. The cops involved need to experience the same fate.”

“And don’t even get me started on this Trump. A narcissist who sees himself as America’s God and has a cult of brainwashed voters and supporters. One who throws tantrums whenever someone disagrees with him. He sees women as sex objects and minority groups as tools and trash to be disposed of. Tear-gasing innocent protesters while holding a Bible posing for pictures. Satan himself would be shaking his head at this. Life on Earth was Hell for me and apparently it’s gotten even worse.”

“And not to mention Trump boastfully claiming that he’d unleash vicious dogs and military force on protesters. Only a few people would see that he inadvertently made a reference to when African Americans and ethnically diverse people were attacked by police dogs when protesting and trying to make their lives better. As a biracial French Creole who was mauled to death by dogs, I’m offended and appalled.”

“Oh but I’m just a fictional character who can love or hate anybody. I bet I love Trump and Angel and world suffering and sex just because I’m a crazy furry demon. Right? Right?”

*intense static and screeches*

“GROW UP. WAKE UP. IF YOU THINK ANY OF THOSE THOUGHTS, THERE’S A SPECIAL CIRCLE IN HELL FOR YOU.”

(deep breath) “Apologies.”

“All Lives Matter? Wrong. A pathetic way to derail from the main problem and include white people so they can play the victim. The truth is, no lives matter except my own. Second to my life is my mom, Charlie and her friends. (Except Angel). Charlie’s project of rehabilitating sinners will eventually come to an end when humanity suffers a Greater Depression and all fall down into Hell. I have all of eternity to witness the end.”

“Onto the last topic. You know that I secretly desire to take over Hell and spread chaos to Earth and Heaven, yes? If Charlie behaves, she’ll get to rule by my side along with Husk, Niffty, Mimzy and Rosie. Will that happen? Who knows? You’ll have to stay tuned for the next episode, if it even comes. (laughs). You’ll never know what happens next, just that everyone enjoyed my jambalaya at the hotel.”

“Oh dear, did I strike a sensitive nerve? Did that hurt your insides and your mind more than our previous topics? You’re even more pathetic than I thought.”

“But have you ever considered any underlying reasons as to why I enjoy spreading chaos and destruction? I may not be God but I do have god-like powers.”

“The obvious answer? Sheer absolute boredom! I’m always seeking new forms of entertainment to enjoy. And what better way to do that then to watch sinners scream and tremble at my presence? Of course, I would always like my friends to smile and have fun with me, singing dancing, making deals, or whatever.”

“But let’s say I was God? Why send Exterminators to reap Hell of demons every year. To curb overpopulation, yes, but to also remind demons of their place. God and the angels and the chosen reside in “paradise.” Only those who are fully “good” and devoted to helping others and believing in God can enter. It’s the perfect fear tactic: remind demons that they are lost causes who deserve to suffer and potentially met their end.”

“Perhaps I do want to help Charlie with the hotel. Not just for entertainment but to introduce her to the way real life works. Seeing others fail will happen no matter what and that will be a pleasing sight. Demons reside in Hell due to the lives they’ve lived before. There’s no undoing what is done. Even if she does manage to redeem a sinner or two, there will always be those who try to claw their way up and then tumble back down to failure. I am a deal-maker, perhaps the most untrustworthy one in Hell. I want to test others, see how powerful and smart they really are.”

“This all ties in to a larger lesson that is bigger than any of us can comprehend. With the pleasures of drugs, sex, killings and sin, comes the cost of knowing you are seen as outcasts deserving of death by those in the heavens. Whether it’s Angels, Exterminators, Overlords or people in politics and management, the elite have always used power, fear, rules, and any means necessary to keep people in line in the name of “order” and “God’s will.” Lucifer would explain this better than me as he has centuries of experience. I’m willing to bet that Charlie will learn this the hard way, sending off sinners to “paradise,” only to find that she and her parents are stuck down here forever. Earth is between Heaven and Hell; it is full of good and evil, the sins and freedoms of Hell but also the passiveness and illusions and sheep mentality of Heaven. It’s all too easy to blame others and deny what’s going on around you. Go to Heaven for an enlightened life and forget about the criminals, the homeless, and the misfits below your feet.”

“Let me tell you what my name means. It means “tormentor,” “avenger.” I’m a seeker of entertainment who loves to torment others to boast my status. But I am also one of vengeance. Retaliation against anyone who takes advantage of others. Those in Heaven, Vox, Valentino, Lucifer, my father, all of those who treated me like dirt for who I was… my magic is there to benefit myself…but it is all used to teach others a deeper lesson in mortality and what one believes.”

“And me being an anti-hero could somehow lead to my redemption? Ha! No. As long as more episodes don’t come on the air, then I will continue my rampages and broadcasts in Hell. And if anyone lays a hand on me, my mother, or Charlie and my friends, then they will wish they had met their fate from the virus instead.”

“Agree or disagree with me. I don’t care. Thank you for listening and as always, stay tuned.”

#alastor #hazbinhotel #covid_19 #protests #black lives matter

8 notes · View notes

girlwithwolftatoo · 5 years

Text

Prey -a Joker fanfiction

Title: Prey

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Slight cursing, implicit lemon content

Words: 2,592

(This is a continuation of Naked )

Arthur slammed the door behind him, his hand reaching a cigarette and a lighter and proceeding to put it in his mouth, giving a last venomous glance at his workplace. He hated it, he hated all that disgusting faces hiding behind silly makeup and wigs, he hated how people like Randall would succeed despite their lack of humanity and interest just because they were normal, or as normal as Gotham would prefer to their children. He hasn’t told yet to Penny about getting fired, and was planning how to explain himself as he was trying to comfort his soul telling himself he was finally free to dedicate his time to become a comedian, as he always dreamt.

After a couple of squares he stopped just enough to drop his done cigarette on a pile of rotten garbage. The news about three rich young boys murdered in the subway was already on everyone’s mouth, covering the first page of local diaries and being repeated at the radio or any other device since soon on the morning, but the sensation of listening the same story wasn’t as unnerving as he thought. The memory came as an old silent movie, the characters moving without a sound and he was one of them, watching himself outside of his body, like if another person who looked like him was the shooter, and he, Arthur, was just another spectator.

The Gotham Public High School for Irregulars was closing his doors, as a tiny leak of students walked away from the building, ready to get to work or to their houses for attending their family or even children; a tiny silhouette grabbed her backpack’s straps and walked down the street, head lowed and mumbling to herself. Arthur contemplated the closing door, his mind running fast to a new and worrying thought: the last night, after the blood lust, someone noticed him, someone saw him locking into the bathroom and coming out a few minutes later, sweaty and bloody, the ghost of his actions still steaming his face. Did she know what he did? Would she imagine that, behind that destroyed grimace and trembling hands, a murderer was hiding, crawling back to his cave inside a tortured soul, tired but not sleepy, probably waiting for a moment to rise again?

His eyes fixed on the tiny figure with the backpack, the dark, messy hair as a fluffy crown around that little head, and he wondered if she could see behind his damaged exterior and find that dark face he showed up last night. He had to know, he had to be sure she wouldn’t reveal his secret, no matter the cost.

Violet didn’t went straight home, her feet took a path downtown, passing by stores she didn’t visit, restaurants she didn’t come in to take a meal, places she just noticed by the corner of the eye, moving like a ghost, unaware about the shadow following her steps with the help of the thick crowd, a pair of blue eyes chasing her like a wolf behind a deer.

She entered a convenience store and Arthur waited outside, his mind racing like crazy about how to confront her, or… whatever he was doing to preserve his secret untouched. He leaned behind the crystal door and saw Violet at the counter changing a dollar before facing the same door, which made the man jump and turn back in order to remain unnoticed. The doorbell swung open and the young girl came out, holding a package of cigarettes in her left hand as the right kept the strap of her backpack in place; Arthur blinked, for a moment he thought she was a minor but it seemed he was wrong, and in a certain form, that discovering made the things easier for him… “Because if she actually knows something we can… take care of it” a voice whispered inside his mind. Arthur got frozen, turning his head around in fear.

“No” he murmured to self, a hand moving to a side of his head, “I can’t… do that again… it was a mistake…” He didn’t pay attention to the people around who could hear him, he had to keep that voice (that new, hidden self) shut, for the good well of everyone, but still he kept walking, just in time to see his neighbor waiting at the bus stop, the backpack open to put the cigarettes inside and looking to her sides with eyes wide open. That single movement made Arthur doubt, could she saw him following, chasing her up? A couple of guys who looked in their twenties passed through, blocking the view so none of them could see the other. Arthur heard one of the guys saying in a joyful voice:

“Picking your mother from her hooker job, Martínez?”

Violet didn’t answer, lowering her head like an ostrich as the two guys walked away, laughing and saying something vicious about her mother. Arthur’s eyes followed them, the blood suddenly boiling in his veins and the same inner, dark voice whispering something about what people who mess with other’s mother deserved, but he didn’t pay enough time for that as the bus appeared in the corner and the girl put in line to take it.

He knew how to act like a ghost in a crowd, and Arthur managed to take the bus without warning Violet of his presence, taking a seat behind so he could fix his eyes on his neighbor (prey). She was staring at the window, melancholy drawing over her features and her eyes shining from unfallen tears; the light of afternoon made her tan skin look like bathed in gold, or at least that’s how she looked for Arthur, which legs bounced uncontrollably with every minute passing by, his hands reaching something from nowhere and squeezing it hard. He needed something, something warm and soft covering his flesh, like liquid fire burning up to avert the deaf pain as he noticed the bus was coming closer to his neighborhood and with it, the moment to tell his mother he was unemployed was coming too.

Violet almost jumped from the bus and Arthur followed, breathing in release as he knew he was finally safe, if she tilted her head and saw him she would think Arthur was just coming back home as usual, ignorant about the time he was being her shadow. But he forgot that detail at the moment she tripped over a missing paving stone, resulting in her falling and so her backpack, which opened so all their content went on the floor.

Arthur hid quickly into an alley near, leaning to watch the girl picking up her things quickly, like she was afraid of someone looking, and getting back to her path in fast steps. He sliced out of the alley as she entered the department building, but a bright, pink thing on the floor near to where she fell off called his attention. He picked the rectangular shaped thing and saw it was a pencil case, Violet probably didn’t took it in her rush of enter the building and now he, Arthur, had it into his hand. He had to give it to her owner, of course, and he rushed into the building with the case burning in his palm, but Violet was already gone.

“I guess I’ll have to knock at the door and give her this” he thought. But once again, the dark voice came from the depths of his mind and murmured a… better idea. And he agreed and went straight to his own department, the case still hanging from his hand.

The lights of the Flecks turned out, and a shape came out of the door, wearing nothing but his shirt and a pair of sweatpants, walking to avoid any sound until reach another door, knocking it softly. He had his speech prepared, one for Violet and one for the mother, depending of who will attend, but the seconds passed and nobody answered his call. He knocked once again, a little louder, the same silence welcoming him. Arthur swallowed hard, snorting as he prepared himself to speak loud, thought it wasn’t part of his original plan and as he pressed a hand against the wood he said:

“Hello? Mrs Martinez? Sorry for bothering you now, but… I’d like to give…”

The door swung open, making Arthur almost trip inside. The department was darkened except for the T.V light, but there was nobody around watching it; Arthur gave a few steps inside, turning his head like an owl searching for someone, a sign of life in the tiny department. There was the kitchen table facing the living room, the leftovers of mother and probably daughter chilling unprotected, the backpack resting over the couch, still closed, like the only signs of people living there.

It took a few seconds before Arthur was aware of he was doing: he was already between the living room and the doors who should belong to the bedrooms of the women, and then he froze, some of them could came out to turn the T.V down or something, and they would see him, a stranger stepping in their place, and they would freak out and… No, better not think about that. To get some calm Arthur put his free hand inside his pocket and felt a cold surface meeting his fingers; a whimper came out of his throat, what an idiot he was, bringing the fucking gun with him, even when he didn’t remember when he put in in his sweatpants, now they would think he was robbing or something worse. But it was too late to turn back so, as he struggled to control his voice, spoke once again:

“Hello, um… I’m very sorry for coming in but the door was open and, um… I’m Arthur, a neighbor, I… I just wanted to bring this… thing, I think it’s from her daughter, uh, Violet, that’s her name, right?”

Arthur kept walking as he spoke, choosing a door randomly and pressing his hand against it; and just like the other one, this opened too without effort.

“Please, I’m not going to… hurt you or something, I just wanted...”

But the man went paralyzed as he saw the tiny room, bathed in moonlight and almost empty except by a couple of furniture, including a bed that was against the window wall. Someone was on it, half covered by thin, white blankets, her head rested on a worn out pillow, where her dark hair bestrewed like the black peeks of the Sun, her face drawing a calmed, sleepy smile as a hand rested on her chest and the other was laying upon the mattress. It was Violet, sleeping like a baby, unaware of the man staring at her in pure fear but also arousal, a sudden adrenaline rushing through his body and making him close the door behind him and approach the bed.

He didn’t dare to speak as he leaned over the girl, his hands sweating and his throat trying to spit a laugh, for he proceeded to put the case on the nightstand to cover his mouth and avert the imminent noise, his eyes fixed on the purity of her face. For the very first time he was able to see her in her true colors, without blood, without that age worn clothing who covered her from the world in a miserable shade, looking like an innocent creature away from the cold and cruelty of the reality. He found himself wanting to run a hand over her, from hair to toes, picturing her shape below the blankets, feeling another human being to remember himself he was just like her, he was still human, still real.

A pair of brown eyes opened and stared at Arthur. His heart made a bump and he backpedalled, reaching the gun in his pocket like a reflex, as Violet lifted her head a little in utterly surprise.

“I’m sorry!” Arthur whispered, lifting his free hand towards her. “It wasn’t my intention… I didn’t meant to… your door, I mean, the front door was open and I…”

Violet smiled, leaving Arthur out of his senses.

“You’re Arthur, right?” she asked, sitting by the bed and holding the blankets on its place.

“Y-Yes, I…” Arthur’s hand grabbed the gun, a cold sweat running on his back.

“And you just… stormed in my house, Arthur”.

“No! I didn’t want to… Your door was open, and I wanted to give you…”

“My mother went for more booze, she had forgotten to close the front door again” Violet commented, dreamy eyes following Arthur’s moves. “Such a big mistake, don’t you think? Someone could come in and rob… I’m lucky it was you who noticed it, right?”

The man blinked owlishly, why was she acting like they were having a perfectly common talk on the… bus stop or something? Violet was still smiling, and an infant-shaped feet was showing up outside her blanket, swinging for a mysterious music Arthur couldn’t hear.

And then, Violet stretched her arm to reach Arthur and murmured:

“Come closer”.

The man was trembling, his mouth getting dry as he obeyed the girl’s command, leaning to reach her height as the little hand grabbed one of his wrists. Her eyes traveled up his arm just as her hand did, caressing the rough fabric of the shirt with innocent curiosity before casting her glance upon Arthur’s, who dropped the gun in the pocket and lifted his other hand, grabbing Violet’s in a quick move, making the girl gasp in surprise. Arthur lifted the girl’s hand to his face, making her palm place on his cheek, his eyes already devouring her due to the warm and softness of the tiny hand, rubbing it from his left cheek to his chin, and then placing her fingertips on his lips, his warm breath blowing on the delicate surface and making Violet chuckle like a little girl.

Just as fast as Arthur did, Violet reached fir his other hand and placed it on her own face, but instead of rubbing through it, she lowered her moves and Arthur’s hand fell upon the jugular, pressing so slightly yet making Arthur able to feel her pulse. A sudden anxiety made his hands feel itchy, the memory of the bus came like a hurricane and Arthur grabbed her by the neck without applying pressure, noticing a gulp running down her throat as he freed her other hand, which went behind his head making him lean even more over Violet.

The blanket sliced to Violet’s lap, leaving upper body exposed. Arthur saw the light tank top protecting her flesh before resting his face on her breastbone, kissing the uncovered skin and her cleavage as she pressed her hand further, encouraging the man to keep going, running the other one through his back, her heartbeat as the only sound filling the bedroom; Arthur reached the border of the tank top, and lifted it with one hand as the other left Violet’s neck to get on the mattress, exposing her breasts and leading his mouth to one of them, licking the rounded surface and reaching for the already hardened nipple, sucking it like his life depended of it, listening Violet’s violent gasp and moaning…

With a painful whimper, Arthur opened his eyes, one of his hands pressing the bulge of his sweatpants. Looked around, feverish and exhausted, he was in his own living room, sleeping on the large couch, the pencil case and the gun still on the table.

#joker 2019 #joker x reader #joker fanfiction #arthur fleck #arthur fleck x OC #fanfiction #female OC

17 notes · View notes

dgcatanisiri · 5 years

Text

I think the better term is “outrage culture.”

It’s the cultivated attitude of both the accessibility by way of social media to other people - particularly people with high profiles or celebrity status - and the fact that social media records everything that leads to little things being held in the back pocket for the next fuck up and mistake and then gets used as ammunition.

Some people are bad. Some people are misinformed. Some people are ignorant. Some people will change when exposed to new thoughts and new ideas. Some people change their mind and viewpoint over time. Some things are unforgivable. Some things are said and done without awareness of what’s wrong. All of these things are not a binary black/white situation, because if someone is willing to listen and learn, odds are, more often than not, they will understand what happened, what’s wrong, and why it was a mistake.

BUT... With social media, particularly social media like Twitter, where there’s a character limit, imposing a sense of brevity on any interaction, there’s a tendency to take a specific thing and condense it down to a broad bad thing. And often, by the time the original context is cleared up, the outrage will remain, even if it’s undeserved.

Now the hurt and pain inflicted by a bad thing being said, even if in ignorance, is valid, I’m not going to get into that particular subjective matter, if you’re hurt, you’re hurt, I won’t try to say that you shouldn’t be hurt. But we (broad sense societally) do have a very real tendency to jump to the worst possible conclusions AND frequently take them in isolation.

Someone saying a transphobic remark said five, ten years ago should not be held up as the person being transphobic today. I came of age in the time the phrase “that’s so gay” was used by most everyone, but that doesn’t mean anyone who used it is homophobic. The thing about “lizard people” is, to my understanding now, based on antisemitism, but I didn’t know this until like a year or two ago, because the concept was presented separate of that initial context.

Hell, dig around my blog, or, god, dig out old LiveJournal posts of mine, you’ll probably find things that are transphobic or misogynistic, or worse. That doesn’t mean that they represent my thoughts now, years later.

But it is human nature to get defensive when attacked. And that’s why I go with “outrage culture.” Because when it becomes a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, etc. total strangers hitting you with “thing is bad!” then a human response is to push back against it or disengage entirely, and, with the outrage machine going, both are taken as proof that the person was always bad and have just shown their “true colors,” when it’s really more like they wanted to step back and parse through the emotions stirred up.

This isn’t helped by a lot of those swept up in the outrage often going to extremes - social media, in all its forms, has opened the floodgates when it comes to strangers dropping into your inbox and telling you to kill yourself because you said/did [thing].

There’s also the fact that “cancelling” only seems to really stick and deplatform marginalized voices, rather than, say, white male comedians who expose their penises in public. Not saying that marginalization prevents fuck ups, of course not. But marginalized people seem less likely to be given a second chance after a fuck up.

So look. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t feel angry or upset in seeing someone fuck up. But the outrage that gets generated often seems to go over board. Hell, I’m afraid that I’M going to see calls of me talking out of my ass, for excusing and apologizing for [insert name here] when I haven’t named any names and am just commenting on a trend.

Like... I just think we need a little more in terms of critical reasoning. It’s not that I don’t understand empassioned anger and rage. But... Here’s a naming of names: James Gunn. Someone dig up a decade old tweet, which had long since stopped being reflective of his views, got him fired from GotG. As it turned out, the person who dug it up was trying to get that result BECAUSE it would cause people to tear him down, and this was a right-wing troll, out to attack him for his “SJW beliefs,” things like that. Now, he bounced back from it. But others don’t get that option, that opportunity.

It’s easy to tear people down. But if this is how every mistake, every bit of bad history gets treated, eventually, ALL of us will be torn to shreds. Again, I do acknowledge there are lines, and being hurt by those statements is valid. But... I think we kinda allow ourselves, as a society and culture, to fracture too easily, and, as a result of that, bad faith actors have an easy in to drive us apart, rather than allow us to come together, to heal, to learn, to grow.

I don’t think the way things are is tenable, not just for social causes and justice, but even just basic discourse and dialogue.

#dg rambles #dg rants

4 notes · View notes

halogensleep · 6 years

Text

pour your gasoline on me (let's torch the whole world down) [ch. 1]

Prompt: Assassin!Charlynch AU - After Charlotte wakes up ziptied to a chair at the mercy of a knife wielding Irishwoman who doesn't take no for an answer, her black and white life becomes colourful in every sense of the word as they begin a game of cat and mouse that won't end well for either of the hitwomen.

Charlotte awoke to a sore head and her good white shirt ruined. For a moment. For the briefest of instants. For the second before her wrists realised they were zip tied behind the chair, numb from the pressure, she was both nervous and impressed, simultaneously.

There was a reason clients handed her the cheque book and told her to write whatever number came to mind… she was supposed to be untouchable, invisible, the queen of shadows, the go to woman when problems needed to disappear. Apparently, somebody hadn’t just been looking in her direction, they had been watching her, learning her, picking apart her cloak of invisibility thread by thread.

Whoever he was, Charlotte became instantly certain that she would kill him the long way around. A bullet or knife would be too fast. A steam iron set to eco-mode on the other hand? Well, it would certainly be an interesting way to show him the scenic route of his own mortality once she got these zip ties off.

“Ah, the bruiser is awake!” A chirpily Irish—and definitely female—voice greeted from the warehouse door.

Charlotte said nothing despite her surprise, her unmoving stare fixed on the damp brick wall on the other side of the warehouse. She exhaled as the sound of footsteps crept around her immobilised position and suddenly became a tangible person to look at with big brown eyes and long gingery copper hair. If it wasn’t for current situation, the zipties, the abduction, the knife glinting in the Irishwoman’s hand, Charlotte would have been looser with compliments. The woman was beautiful, a present threat, but beautiful nonetheless.

There was no mask or disguise which was either fantastic news or terrible news. Charlotte was leaning more towards the latter. An old hitman with eager lips who had found himself the star witness of a federal prosecution had gone to the trouble of warning her once that this wasn’t a career that came with much longevity. In fact, it was the last thing he ever said before the slash wounds on his arms finally bled out—it was important the job looked like a suicide, Charlotte loved the jobs that required a feminine eye for detail the most—but now, immobilised, staring into the eyes of the woman who was no doubt getting ready to deliver a swift coup de grâce with the small knife in her hand, Charlotte couldn’t help but wish she had listened a bit harder to that old snitch.

“Well… not much of a talker, are you?” The Irishwoman pouted and twiddled the tip of her knife. “I won’t pretend I’m not offended.”

Charlotte smiled politely and said nothing.

“You realise I’m holding a knife?” The Irishwoman glanced down at her weapon, eyebrow craned by the oddness of the silence.

“You couldn’t spread butter with that thing.”

“Catty of you,” The Irishwoman didn’t skip a beat.

Charlotte smirked and busied herself with all the creative ways this pretty red haired woman was going to die at her hands as soon as she got loose. And by her own estimations, the Irishwoman with her long slender jaw and bright white teeth was more than just pretty… apparently she was quite the comedian too. It left her at odds with her experience and training. A successful career up until this moment had been based on the ability of reading people, facial expressions, speech patterns, involuntary movements, that sort of thing. Charlotte found herself slightly at a loss trying to pick apart the woman staring at her. There was no nervousness, no anger, no cynicism or bitterness, just overwhelming and abundant chirpiness as if they were two friends meeting after a long time apart.

She felt her disadvantage grow weightier.

“Ah,” The Irishwoman smiled suddenly, nodding her head a bit. “Thinking of ways to kill me?”

“It’s one way to pass the time,” Charlotte said coolly.

“I just want to chat, silly billy!” The Irishwoman rolled her eyes and straddled Charlotte’s restrained hips, plonking herself down on the jerking lap. “It would seem you know a friend of mine, Hadiq Sharma ring any bells?” Her lips curled into a smirk.

Her fingers danced over the white lapels of Charlotte’s shirt during the interim of silence that followed. Charlotte scowled at the cockiness and looked away.

The steam iron was going to be set to linen-mode for this troublemaker as soon as she figured a way out of this place.

“Can’t say I know him,” Charlotte lied.

“We can get to that in a moment.” The Irishwoman waved her hand. “I thought we could get a little better acquainted first…”

“Is that so?” Charlotte’s breaths became tight and measured as the troublemaker sitting over her lap pushed herself forward slightly.

“It is so nice to meet you, Charlotte. Well… officially meet you, I mean.” The Irishwoman jollily waved her knife at the miswording. “You’re considerably more dressed than the last time we were alone together. Speaking of which, you really shouldn’t use shampoos that contain parabens… absolutely terrible for the environment.” She gravely shook her head. “Also, you should make a habit of checking behind the shower curtain for intruders but I suppose that’s by the by now.” The knife was waved again like a plaything to punctuate her point. “After all, if horror films have taught us one thing it’s that you never know what sort of monster could be lurking behind the shower curtain, do you?” The Irishwoman breathed it out as a confession.

“You were in my bathroom?” Charlotte lifted an impressed brow.

“Oh, and the one in Connecticut too. Nice family pad by the way, was difficult tracking down the money orders and wire transfers with all of the fake names you used but I really do love a challenge.” The Irishwoman prodded, and Charlotte felt her blood run cool. “I didn’t put you down as the bleeding heart type but it was very sweet seeing how cosy you keep your sister and baby niece. They love you a lot, you know.”

“If you hurt them…” Charlotte didn’t need to finish the threat.

“Don’t be silly, Charlotte. Honestly, you make me sound like a sociopath! When your old battle buddy came knocking on the door looking for you, Molly insisted that I came in for a coffee and a sit down. Oh how we laughed as the baby photos came out of the cupboard!” The Irishwoman beamed with delight. “I didn’t have to so much as bend one of her fingers back… she told me everything I needed to know and then some.” The knife was traced gently along her straining neck.

The rage became visceral and embarrassing, humiliating even. Six years of doing this and nobody had so much as known the area code of her cell phone number. Charlotte realised this was an intricate torture in and of itself. The Irishwoman wasn’t gloating for the sake of gloating, she was inflicting a sense of claustrophobia, forcing a state of overwhelming stress, preparing her for an interrogation. Charlotte swallowed as the knife was traced along her jawline.

That was it, Charlotte realised. This was an interrogation, methodical and deliberate.

“I get it now…” Charlotte started to pick at the thread, the cogs turning as she closed her eyes. “You were part of the IRA,” she lengthily exhaled.

“Excuse me?” The Irishwoman laughed. “Suddenly a detective, are we? Sort of xenophobic that you assume I’m a terrorist just because of the accent but I suppose you’re not wrong...”

“That’s what you tell clients when they ask questions,” Charlotte opened her eyes and rolled them slightly. “That you were in the Republican Army. I’m sure you ham it up a little more than that, maybe talk about big jobs and political hits you and your cousins never actually did. It’s part of your cover story so nobody finds out you were a police officer, once upon a time at least.” Charlotte lifted her brows. “I’m getting warm, right?”

The Irishwoman’s smirk barely faltered, but barely was enough for Charlotte to know she was bang on the money.

“You are as formidable as they warned me you would be,” The Irishwoman pushed forward with a whisper and pressed her lips to Charlotte’s ear. “Do you know what a police officer never does, Charlotte?” She asked it so quietly, so hushed, almost flirtatiously.

“Retire with a pension?” Charlotte smirked.

“Funny,” The Irishwoman nodded and smiled too.

There was a flash, a small glint of steel in the air and then white-hot pain in Charlotte’s thigh where the knife was buried. She cried out. The pain reverberated through her extremities, only growing more substantial the more she twisted and twitched the limb. The Irishwoman just hushed and petted her cheek, making silly crooning noises that only made Charlotte want to horribly kill her all the more.

The Irishwoman continued her point, “A police officer knows to never leave witnesses, Charlotte.” It was said with a serious nod. “Now I’m willing to bet you know how this is going to end for you, so how about you give me what I want and I make this mercifully quick?” The Irishwoman talked over the sound of her pained grunts.

“If you really did your research...” Charlotte exhaled and caught her breath, wincing and lifting her chin. “You would know I’m really into this sort of shit.”

“Your sister mentioned you were captured behind enemy lines, there’s no need to harp on about it any more than she did.” The Irishwoman rolled her eyes in boredom, shuffling a bit on Charlotte’s sore and bloody lap.

“Nothing like being tied to a chair with time to kill.” Charlotte did the smug thing with her eyebrows and ignored the pain. “I really enjoy being a pain in the ass in these type of situations, I’d clear your schedule if I were you.”

“I am so glad you said that because I feel exactly the same way.” The Irishwoman leaned back on Charlotte’s lap, twisting the knife in her leg slightly to punctuate her point. “But this is just the warm up… my methods are far more brutal and psychological, love. Please don’t make me show you the hard way.” Her tone became severe and stern.

“If you’re about to threaten to kill my baby sister, go ahead.” Charlotte was prepared to roll the dice. “Honestly? She’s kind of a nag.” She nodded in exasperation.

“Funny.” The Irishwoman jabbed the knife again.

Charlotte hissed, glaring and irritated. “You know, I’m beginning to really not like it when you do that,” she said.

“Do you have a preference as to where I scatter your niece after I’ve chopped her up?” The Irishwoman pouted slightly and narrowed her eyes, as if she were deep in thought. “Anywhere of sentimental value? There’s something about tiny coffins that makes me feel a bit queasy. Unless you play ball with me, Charley-poo, that’s going to be the state of things.”

Charlotte snapped her head up.

“Ah, there we go, got your attention now.” The Irishwoman patted her cheek. “So here’s what I’m thinking, you can tell me what I want to know and I’ll make this as quick or slow as you like… or you can piss me about and I’ll visit that lovely house in Connecticut and put some colour on the walls. Lady’s choice?” She tilted her head, eyes glimmering with playfulness.

Charlotte thought of her niece’s smile and her little chubby fingers, the way she never shares with other children, the glimmer of rage in her babyish stare when things don’t go her way, all of the things that imbued her with a sense of pride, and she felt herself give up instantaneously. There were few things she cared selflessly about in this world—maybe half a thing on a particularly good day—but her niece and her cat were always up there on the list.

It was becoming more certain by the second that her card was finally up and it was equally as exciting as it was terrifying. Many sleepless night had been spent thinking about her perfect death; other people dreamed of passing away in their sleep, old and feeble, but she wanted to leave this world white-knuckled and spitting blood in the eyes of adversaries, taking world-altering secrets to her grave with nothing more than a final ‘fuck you.’

But, the Irishwoman knew about her stupid little perfect baby niece.

All things considered, today was racking up to be a bad day at the office.

“What is it exactly you want to know about Sharma?” Charlotte sighed and craned her neck, willing to play ball.

“You accepted a job to kill my client, a very bad move all things considered.” The Irishwoman wagged her finger disapprovingly. “Who paid for the job?”

“I have no idea.”

“I don’t like that answer.” The knife was yanked free and buried again instantaneously in the same spot. Charlotte gagged with the pain and threw her head back. “Shh, you big baby!” the psychopath crooned. “We can stop as soon as you give me something a bit more substantial, love. Shall we try again?” She offered, softly.

“How am I supposed to know who wanted Sharma dead!?”

“Please don’t make me press this knife in any deeper. I hate it when people spurt blood, it would be very selfish of you.”

“There’s who pays for the job and who orders it along with all the middle management in between! Even if I wanted to I wouldn’t be able to make an educated guess.” Charlotte grew frustrated with the line of questioning. “There’s a lot of people who want Sharma dead, he controls half the counterfeit trade and he’s a terrible driver!” Charlotte shrugged indignantly.

The Irishwoman tutted in disapproval, the knife was buried into the femur bone instantaneously. Charlotte threw her head back and clenched her eyes. Whoever this woman was, she deeply loved her work, and Charlotte was beginning to admire just how much she admired it, a professional approval almost.

“I’m beginning to think you’re just dragging this out because you like me.” The Irishwoman leaned in so close the warmth of her breath was felt on Charlotte’s lips. “It’s one of the more interesting come-ons I’ve had, I’ll give you that.” Her brown eyes twinkled mischievously.

“How many times did you rehearse that line in your head?” Charlotte rolled her eyes.

“Brave, you’re a tough girl.” The knife was pulled out and jammed in again. “It’s a little show-offy.”

“Jesus Christ!” Her tiny world became nothing but pain and the threat of more pain, and it left her more than slightly exhilarated. “What can I say?” Charlotte hissed sarcastically and gathered herself. “Maybe I just want to take you to a bar when all of this is over with?”

“You know the way to my heart. And unfortunately for you, I know the way to yours too.” The small glinting knife was pulled out of her leg and pressed into her breastbone. “I’m getting bored, Charlotte, and I’m starting to wonder what you look like without skin. Don’t make me find out…”

“Mr. Rabbit.”

“Is that your safeword?” A slender eyebrow piqued.

“It’s the name of the man who delivers jobs for the Collective, that’s what he called himself. Mr Rabbit. Codeword for the Hadiq Sharma job is, ‘the carriage clock has been fixed.’ I have a phone number for him and that codeword for when the job is completed but I don’t know how far up this goes and I certainly don’t ask questions. You think I give a shit who orders the jobs or balances the cheque books? I pick up the name, I name my price, I do the job, I take my money, that’s it!” Charlotte reared forward with adrenalin. “I’m telling you the truth.”

The Irishwoman pouted and huffed a long, disappointed sigh. “So you are,” she frowned and put the knife away. “You want to give me the number? It’ll go some way towards me not murdering your family...”

“It’s in the burner phone.” Charlotte nodded to the tray beside them where her things had been laid out. “If you think he’s just going to tell you who his master is just because you asked nicely… well.” Charlotte shook her head gravely and wanted to laugh at the thought, almost.

“You’ve been very helpful, this is the most fun I’ve had on a first date in years.” The Irishwoman smiled and patted Charlotte’s cheek. “Now, do you mind waiting here for a second while I make a phone call?”

“Please, take your time.”

“Gracious of you.” The Irishwoman shuffled and stood up from Charlotte’s lap.

Charlotte felt her body sink with relief as the Irishwoman grabbed the phone and scrolled through the contact list. The chance of her miraculously escaping were slim to none, but she would gladly take a moment’s respite from her current predicament. The phone dialed out and was promptly lifted to the Irishwoman’s ear, she blew out her cheeks and nodded her head side to side, impatient and playful.

“Hello is that Mr. Rabbit?” The Irishwoman chirped, and the noise of a deep voice speaking on the line was just about audible. “Well, that’s because I’m not the Queen. My name is Becky Lynch. Yes, I know it’s not what you were expecting but the Queen can’t come to the phone right now. She’s a little tied up.” The grin was gleaming and pleased. “Now as I understand it, Mr. Rabbit, you had some business with the Queen concerning a man named Hadiq Sharma...” There was a pause. “Yes, that’s the one! Nice fella! Smashing beard! Terrible driver!”

Charlotte closed her eyes and shook her head at the silliness of it.

“Now, Mr. Rabbit, sir, I understand you represent a co-operative of buyers who require the kind of services that I just so happen to offer. I have to tell you, it’s been impossible to get a contact number for you to submit my resume.” The Irishwoman played with her wet knife. “Anyway, I killed Hadiq Sharma last night. I made it look like a mundane accident, needless to say the carriage clock has been well and truly fixed. I was hoping I could collect payment for the job and that you will consider my services next time you go to market?”

Charlotte snapped her eyes open and felt them bulge out of her skull.

The Irishwoman just smiled coyly at her, fingers waving, phone tucked between her chin and shoulder.

Charlotte realised she had just been played like a fiddle.

“Wonderful to hear, I look forward to speaking to you soon.” The Irishwoman hung up the phone and strolled back over to Charlotte. “He was lovely, what a nice man!” She gushed chirpily.

“So let me get this straight...” Charlotte blinked and grinded her jaw. “You just screwed me out of a paycheck and went to all of this trouble…” She looked around at the warehouse, looked at her stabbed thigh, then looked back to her smiling captor. “All to introduce yourself to the Collective?” The fury became palpable.

“I like to think of it as female entrepreneurs helping one another up the corporate ladder.” The Irishwoman plonked herself back down on Charlotte’s lap, her weight awakening the pain in her pin-cushioned thigh. “Think of this as a chamber of commerce meeting.”

“You could have just went with that in the beginning!”

“You would have thought of a way to fuck everything up if you thought I was about to take over your patch. It was easier when you thought this was just a simple job gone wrong, especially with sweet little Emily on the line… as if I would ever kill a child.” The Irishwoman rolled her eyes, and the knife came to a menacing rest on Charlotte’s shoulder. “You know I have to kill you though, right?”

“I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

“It’s a shame, really. I felt like we had a connection, you know?” The Irishwoman whispered with mocking, saddened eyes. “Any last requests?”

“What time is it?” Charlotte narrowed one of her eyes, suddenly remembering.

The Irishwoman stared at her in disbelief, but she humoured Charlotte nonetheless and peered at the screen of the burner phone. “One fifty-eight, to be precise,” she answered. “Why? Are you running late for something?”

“Do you mind if we hold off for two minutes? I have a thing about odd numbers…” Charlotte sighed and was entirely serious. “A round two o'clock feels like a good time, right?”

“If movies have taught me anything it’s that you’re stalling for time before your old platoon buddies burst through the windows with guns—”

“Most of them are dead or married to codependent wives who never let them go anywhere fun, but you already know that.” Charlotte interrupted with a serious look. “Honestly, I just really don’t like odd numbers.”

“Well alright.” The Irishwoman blinked, slightly offset.

“So why did you give up being a police officer?” Charlotte blurted, determined to pass the seconds towards her death with small talk, curiosity getting the better of her a bit as the human conundrum remained precisely that. “You start killing for a living for any particular reason?”

“No. Just money, mainly,” The Irishwoman lied. “What makes a soldier with a gleaming service record and a bronze star to boot turn to this sort of thing?” Her nose wrinkled.

“Money,” Charlotte lied too.

The truth was far simpler; she just really enjoyed killing people. The squelch. The gasp. The last bit of life slipping from someone’s eyes. The way windpipes felt when they were crushed beneath her fingers. The creativity. The sacredness of it. They were such simple pleasures, really. The irony was that she didn’t stumble on her favourite pass-time until after leaving the Army. Her MOS was 35M, human intelligence collection. It was a vocation that made her an expert in picking people apart and getting to the source of secrets. It was interesting, but it wasn’t using an orbital sander at four in the morning to grind off tattoos and other identification markers before dumping a body downstream interesting.

“Do you miss it, being a soldier I mean?” The Irishwoman prodded.

“Do you miss being a police officer?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither.” Charlotte sighed. “What made you do it in the first place?”

The Irishwoman sighed too. “I quite liked the thought of having a gun. I suppose I could have joined the IRA, but I’m not much political. Also, I liked the sirens. Sirens are always fun.”

“Hm,” Charlotte hmph’d at the unravelled mystery. “Well, I think our two minutes are up.”

“Are you rushing me to kill you?” The Irishwoman became befuddled. “Aren’t you going to beg or try… something?”

“Death doesn’t scare me.”

“I would ask what does scare you but some mysteries are worth keeping.” She patted Charlotte’s shoulder and got up from her lap. “For what it’s worth I was a big fan of you work. Johnny the War Dog? Two Teeth Billy? You made artwork out of those jobs. I mean, strychnine in the air vents? Poetic. If there was a Hall of Fame, you would be up there.”

Charlotte nodded and couldn’t help but agree, she was a damn fine soldier and an even better hitwoman. All things said and done, she had certainly lived life with a vengeful sort of passion for her work. It wasn’t a husband and children in the suburbs, but she stood by her life choices which was more than what most people could say.

“Let’s get this over with.” Charlotte lifted her chin and offered her throat. “Nothing too gory or creative.” A serious brow was raised. “Take my wallet, make it look like a mugging gone wrong. It’ll take a while but my sister will eventually put out a missing person’s report and someone will identify my body, you’ll be long gone by then but at least they’ll have something to bury.”

“Are you serious orchestrating your own murder?” The Irishwoman smiled slightly, impressed, her eyes gleaming with what appeared to be an instantaneous sort of fondness.

“You’ll understand, one day.”

“Goodness,” The Irishwoman shook her head and looked away for a moment, she stepped forward and looked at Charlotte again, far more sobered this time. “You really are growing on me.” The knife jabbed shallowly into the side of Charlotte’s throat, the blood spurting a bit.

Funny really, she had watched the process of death up close, an admirer of sorts. But now it was happening to her and it was nothing as she expected. Charlotte imagined the process of dying would feel like she was being forced out of her body, but this wasn’t that. Charlotte closed her eyes and tried to remain calm and dignified, the blood dribbling and pumping and leaving her quickly. She felt heavier. She felt as if she was slipping inwards. The process was… interesting.

“Saint Mary’s is three blocks north,” The Irishwoman whispered close to her ear. “Your Carotid is nicked, I’d give you ten minutes at best. Twelve if you apply hard enough pressure.” The surprise became dumbfounding as her wrists were snipped free from the restraints. “Consider this a one time gift. And if you die? Well... it was a mugging gone wrong.”

Charlotte collapsed forward and pinched the wound with numbed fingers, hissing as she dug inside the cut and forced the source of it closed as best she could. The Irishwoman was long gone by the time she got up and started dragging herself to the door.

She slung herself down the stairs, slung herself across the cement floor, threw herself out onto the street, each movement a gigantic push as her fingers squeezed and pinched the source of the bleed. Charlotte had never felt so alive before, not even a little bit, and it was growing more and more exhilarating by the second.

She got less than twelve steps down the street before passers-by were stopping and hollering and fetching help. Apparently, today, luck was on Charlotte’s side after all; one of the do-gooders was an off-duty EMT. Charlotte sighed in relief as the wounds on her leg and throat were tended to, a car whizzing up and parking along the side of the pavement ready to rush her to the hospital.

Twelve minutes wasn’t even a competitive amount of time at all. Charlotte thought the Irishwoman had definitely tipped the odds in her favour, either that or she was offended by the implication of the alternative.

Charlotte slightly smiled to herself as strangers bundled her into the car. A single name, Becky Lynch, was all she had. But she knew come hell or high-water she would find the Irishwoman again. Charlotte wasn’t sure what this now was. Maybe war. Maybe cat and mouse. Maybe nothing or everything. It was, however, unfinished business, and Charlotte had just the steam iron to make it neat and tidy once her cardiovascular system had been put back together.

…

Seven hours of surgery, two weeks in the hospital, and three new pink scars later, Charlotte had finally made it back home to her apartment. The police report read that she had been the victim of a mugging gone wrong and Charlotte kept the details as vague as possible. This was her mouse to chase, her woman to burn the world down in search of. Now that her sister and most importantly, her niece, were out of Connecticut and somewhere safe, Charlotte felt the urge to stretch out and immediately set to work.

The apartment was exactly how she left it as she opened the door and limped inside, which struck immediate alarm bells. There was no sour, pungent smell from the chicken breasts that had been left to thaw in the sink a fortnight prior. There was no two week accumulation of leaflets that had been shoved underneath the door. The litter tray by the bathroom door had been used which meant Fuzz Aldrin had been coming and going, somehow. The latter was as relieving as it was nerve wracking, she had worried the cat might have gotten himself into trouble over the last fortnight while she was away. His inquisitive happy purrs as he prowled around her ankles indicated he was more than okay.

Charlotte grabbed the loaded 9mm kept inside the hollowed bible on her bookcase before she limped any further inside.

The kitchen and living room were checked barrel first with the breakfast bar used as cover, then the bathroom, the bedroom, the balcony, and the bedroom once again just to be sure. Someone had certainly been in the apartment, Charlotte couldn’t shake the feeling. Things were left so perfectly that it felt out of place. Charlotte lowered her gun with a sigh and trod back to the kitchen, well aware of who exactly had been here.

If she needed a more concrete symptom that her suspicions were correct, the Irishwoman was feeling particularly generous. Charlotte found the post-it note stuck to the refrigerator door. She pulled it off and began to read.

Used your place as a base while you were in the hospital, hope you don’t mind. I replaced your groceries. Your cat is fat and disgusting but I’ve kept him alive and named him Big Bastard, he seems to like it.

P.S: Glad you survived.

P.P.S: Your vibrator needs new batteries.

Love, Becky.

Charlotte screwed the post-it note in her fist and threw it across the room. To add fuel to the fire of her bad mood, she now had to move out of her apartment, ideally today. The workshop out of the city where difficult problems were dealt with still remained a secret. It was an old mechanic shop out in the sticks with no heating, no hot water, and no listening ears for miles around... the perfect location for making bodies more manageable or getting information out of a person before a job could be finished. The owner was long since deceased which Charlotte knew because she was the one who killed him — rule number one of the smart business rule book, never accept a loan from the Hungarian mafia and then object to chopping stolen cars, a lesson the owner learned the hard way. The Hungarians took no issue with her using the abandoned building from time to time after he was dealt with, and in exchange she gave them a more favourable price when work needed to be done.

Charlotte sighed and came to terms with her frustration. For the foreseeable future, until the troublemaker was neutralised, the chop shop would now be her home away from home.

…

When Charlotte had asked on that fateful day what it was that made her join the police force, Becky told the truth and lied simultaneously. It was a little bit for the gun, for the permitted naughtiness of it. Mostly, she joined the Garda because above all things, she liked to hunt.

It had started as a wain when her grandfather would drive out to the Wicklow mountains with her sat on his lap the entire way there in the rickety excuse of a van to hunt the elusive Sika stags. Beautiful creatures. She wanted to weep for every single one them when the bullets rang out and they fell down in a heaped, huffing piles of horn and fur. It was without a doubt the only period of her life that she had ever felt a faint sense of empathy, the desire to weep for the beasts and yet never the gratification of following through with it.

To begin with, uncles and old men that she had to call uncle because they were friends of her grandfather had all disapproved of her presence. Mainly because of her sex, mainly because of her disposition. But with age she grew to understand the addictiveness of wielding power like that, hunting predators, outsmarting wild things, crouching in the warm wet night while the strumming and crooning insects sung the beasts to an unsuspicious state.

By the tender age of eleven, the men would walk quickly and crowd around the van as it returned from Wicklow, eager to see what the wee girl, the little hunter had managed to do. It was an unofficial test that bore more weight than her grandfather ever let her know. Her father had died in the troubles and she was without brothers, the only grandchild of the big man, and with that came expectation.

When he died, she didn’t feel much at all, she had loved him but that was that, she missed him because she was told to miss him, she missed him because the person who snuck her sweets and cleaned her gun when she was feeling too lazy to do it herself was no longer around. If her path had ever been clearly defined it was that she was expected to become a small vestibule of him and take up arms for the cause, one day. The stag hunter would grow up big and strong, take her smarts and put them to use as a leader for their people. Becky didn’t quite grow up big and strong, but she was the best hunter, the keenest strategist, insurmountable in smarts, hungry to hunt things other than stags and deer. There was a darkness in her, an unburdened urge to hunt and kill that was felt and noticed by the others, whispered about.

It was her fifteenth birthday when she watched from a blockade while a Garda shot down a man with a knife in his hands who had been causing trouble… it was love at first sight. By eighteen, her turbulent, passionate streak for strategy and blood had been placed in a uniform. The people called her a traitor, bricked her mother’s windows, did worse than that, but Becky didn’t care. For all intents and purposes, she had a license to hunt. When she entrapped some of the very men who had raised her, who had ate at her table, who had drank and raised arms with her grandfather, convincing them she was only part of the Garda as reconnaissance, the force went so far as to hand her a medal and promote her to the special detective unit after the trial came to a close.

Entrapping her people wasn’t a particularly difficult task to do, her cheerful and chirpy disposition were qualities that enamoured people and convinced them she wasn’t a threat but rather an ally, a constant and faithful friend. They were the beasts, and she was both the crooning insects that kept them unsuspicious and the speeding bullet that would put them down before they knew it was too late.

The job was enough until it wasn’t anymore. Then, she just disappeared into the night and found herself here — hunting for the sake of hunting, hunting at the behest of whoever paid the best money. She had eventually come to learn of the one called the Queen of Shadows, the woman without a name, the woman who made problems disappear, and it niggled her in places that she didn’t know could be niggled; it left her curious and infuriated by the intensity of her curiosity; until eventually she decided that she would have to hunt her too just for the sake of putting an end to it.

The trouble was that every bit of the hunt only left her with more questions. Every tiny piece of information only left her hungry for more. Every step closer towards capturing the woman she had come to learn was Charlotte Flair, decorated war veteran, keeper of secrets, lurker of shadows, mother of one repulsive cat, only made her wish she could take two steps backwards and draw it out a little more… it was infuriating, and it was delicious, and it was too much fun to let come to such an anti-climactic end as a fatal stabbing in a disused warehouse over little more than a paycheck.

After the cheeky post-it note in the kitchen, Becky imagined that the game would be reciprocated, chasing one another would be a fun way to pass the time between jobs but there was no take up on Charlotte’s part. It was offensive. It was maddening. It was above all things clearly a trap… but Becky couldn’t leave it alone.

God, she wished she had left it alone.

The Queen had been gone for some months, those who knew of her said that she must have got spooked and quit while she was ahead. They were wrong. For beasts like her and Charlotte, there was no such thing as quitting while ahead. There was only hunting, climbing, racing, jaunting and galavanting towards the next big thrill.

When the newspapers read that a newly-elected house representative had turned up dead, tragically stabbed in the throat during a mugging gone wrong in one of the only camera dark spots of the parking garage beneath his building, Becky knew the game was back on. Only the Queen would be ballsy enough to take on a job with heat and visibility like that. Only the Queen would be brazen enough to stick a message inside of the hit. And only the Queen would be smart enough to get away with it too.

After a few months of covert nosing, Becky found out through a low-level contact who ran with the Hungarians about the chop shop, conveniently named, where people went when someone wanted them to disappear. It was a lead, one that Becky enthusiastically felt put her at least four steps ahead of Charlotte Flair.

Like an unsuspecting stag beneath the crooning hum of insects singing the warm night to sleep, Becky didn’t realise it was too late until it was too late. She had trekked two miles on foot beneath the cover of early darkness toward the lone building down the road with unmistakable red gas pumps outside just like her contact had described. She was convinced she had the element of surprise… right up until a single barbed dart hit her in the chest from more than a hundred feet out.

The paralysis was almost instantaneous, the warmth and wooziness was coming more than it was going as footsteps from down the road grew closer. She tried to reach for her gun to no use, and so she huffed and kicked and moved like a wounded stag, dragging herself only a tiny distance before the tranquiliser took hold and rendered her completely immobile.

“Thank you for doing the hard part for me,” Charlotte whispered and crouched over her, grinning a bit as she slung the dart gun over her shoulder. “I was getting worried that I might have to come and look for you.” The words were chuckled out victoriously.

Fuck, she wished she had just left this alone.

“Cat got your tongue?” Charlotte prodded her slumped figure with her foot. “It’s alright, I put you down with enough Telazol to stop a lion in its tracks. Stop fighting and go to sleep… there will be plenty of time to catch up once you’re awake.”

Becky was reluctant, fighting the slumber with laboured breaths and everything she had until she couldn’t fight anymore. She faintly felt herself be picked up and thrown over a broad shoulder in a fireman’s lift, carried up the road with her slack head bouncing awkwardly against the dart rifle. Then, there was nothing but darkness.

Hours had passed by the time she came around, groggily, wincing into the bright light of flood lamp pointed directly at her eyes. The pain within her body was unreal, was impressive, was the start of something worth taking notes over. The most palpable points of dull throbbing agony were located on her shoulder blades and the backs of her arms where meat hooks punctured the skin and suspended her off the ground like a car that needed work underneath. Becky closed her eyes, unable to look at the uncontained joyful grin of her captor — which was by far the most agonising part of this whole ordeal.

“So,” Charlotte spoke first after a moment, pleased with herself. “What’s new in your life?”

Becky opened her eyes and watched Charlotte sit down on the chair opposite, folding her long muscular leg over the other with a content look on her face as the accoutrements of her work were lined up on an old, metal roller chest where tools had once been kept.

Whatever this was, the Queen wasn’t in any rush to move things along. It wasn’t surprising. Capital murder was an artform to the Queen. A lengthy creative process if her previous work was anything to go by. Becky just inhaled and tried to ignore her blistering headache.

“You’re awfully quiet today.” Charlotte posed it as a thoughtful acknowledgement.

“Just deep in thought,” Becky whispered through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes, her body swinging slightly from the suspension which only compounded the pain. “Wait.” The coolness of the breeze was felt in deeply private crevices, on stiff cold nipples that she was only now realising were exposed. “Did you…” Her eyebrows craned with absolute shock and the pain was briefly forgotten. “Well that is just completely unchivalrous and shameful!” Becky swung slightly from the ceiling with the outburst.

“You don’t need clothes where you’re going, babe.” Charlotte didn’t even bat an eyelid as she reached over to switch on one of her tools.

“You better be switching that iron on to press my delicates!” Becky hissed, a sudden apprehensive panic rushing through her.

Charlotte smiled and peered at her naked body with fluttering eyes, “I’ll iron your delicates, sure.” She craned a cheeky, unburdened eyebrow and glanced between her legs.

“That is not what I meant and you know that!” Becky flailed a bit more, the agony pulling and tugging at her sore, immobilised limbs. “This is me safewording, Charlotte! I safeword!”

“Well I really did not enjoy being stabbed multiple times, Becky.” Charlotte wagged her manicured finger. “Consequences, consequences.”

Becky became beyond exasperated. “You don’t get to whip out a fucking iron like Marie Kondo when I only used a vegetable knife on you! If I had known this would be the craic I would have at least took a steaming hot piss on you and cut a few fingers off for good measure!”

“Coulda, woulda, shoulda. I could make a joke right now about you not sparking joy, but I’m above that.”

“Get ta fuck.”

Charlotte grinned, her pearly white veneers beaming and on show like a snarling predator from the sheer enthusiasm of her smile. Becky suddenly noticed how strangely overdressed she was for the occasion. Her long blonde hair was coiffed and salon finished, her lipstick carefully applied and touched up, her manicure recent and well kept. It made no sense given that she was staying off the grid. It was as if she had prepared herself for a date, for a deeply important encounter with someone special, and had gone to some lengths to do so too.

Charlotte lowered her voice to a threatening tone, “I am going to hurt you in ways you didn’t know—”

“Why do you look like that?” Becky interrupted, which possibly was not one of her brightest ideas given her current predicament swinging from the rafters by the gristle of her arms and shoulder blades.

“Like what?” Charlotte blinked.

“Pretty, like you’ve done yourself up.”

“What?” Charlotte became defensive and screwed up her brow.

“Do you always get your hair and nails done to torture someone or is it special, just for me?”

“Excuse me—”

“Ah ah,” Becky interrupted again. “It’s polite to return a compliment with a compliment. Shame of my life, anyone would think you were born in a barn.” She rolled her eyes.

The Queen paused and blinked, as if deliberating on whether to hit her with a red-hot burst of steam iron or play along a little bit. Becky hoped it would be the latter.

“Well.” Charlotte cleared her throat, building herself up for it. “I guess you look nice too. I like that little tattoo on your thigh, it’s cute...” Her voice trailed and her eyebrows wiggled as if she hadn’t spent much time thinking about it.

“Thanks,” Becky blushed slightly, surprised by the playfulness. “It’s the coordinates of my first murder, do you have any keepsakes—” Becky stopped mid-sentence as she heard Charlotte grab something heavy. She glanced down as the Queen lunged at her, just as the scalding heat singed the sparse blonde hairs on her thigh. “What the fucking fuck!” The scream was a long bloodcurdling noise as the iron sizzled and bubbled her thrashing leg.

Charlotte pulled it away and sat herself back down, unbothered.

The troublemaker let out the tiniest little whimper, her body slipping into shock to protect her from the horrendous pain. She craned her head forward with a long sob, aware that this was no longer as fun as she had hoped it would be. The skin was seared off completely when she opened her eyes and looked at it, the flesh red and burned in a neat triangular shape where a tattoo used to be.

She had it coming, she knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier to process. For some unknown reason she thought Charlotte wouldn’t follow through, that she had managed to endear herself too much to the Queen for any sort of real damage to be done. It was hopeful. It was silly. It was beyond naive. And Becky suddenly realised just how fucked she actually was. This woman was more like her in all the worst ways possible than she previously accounted for. This wasn’t just a playful battle of equals… it was a war of sociopaths, it was untred territory, it was dealing with a creature that couldn’t be emotionally manipulated with any sort of ease and somehow that only made it all the more tempting to try.

It was, above all things, dangerously exhilarating, and it only added more layers to her profound curiosity.

“I really didn’t like being stabbed, Becky.” Charlotte reiterated her point. “And as for threatening my niece? Well, that’s a curling iron in one orifice of your choosing.” She lifted her brows, unimpressed.

“What is it you want exactly?” Becky asked.

Charlotte shrugged. “What are you offering?”

“To listen very carefully?”

Charlotte inhaled deeply and picked up the steam iron again.

“Wait!” Becky yelped and swung. “Mary Mother of God! Wait, wait, wait!”

Charlotte paused with an expectant look, the iron steaming in her hand.

“I’m just… trying to understand you.” Becky blinked and stared into her cold, unfeeling blue eyes. “I’m not asking what I can do for you. I’m asking what is it that drives you? What is it that you want?”

Charlotte paused, her cold blue eyes twitching ever so slightly. She huffed and put the iron back down for a moment, folding her arms like an exasperated teacher with an unruly, promising pupil.

“The Interlevin AF10, with all the bells and whistles,” Charlotte answered after a moment, entirely serious.

“Ah, of course.” Becky nodded. “And what exactly is an Interlevin AF10?”

“An act of God. Wireless digital temperature control, self cleaning, twelve adjustable shelves, a four compressor walk in industrial refrigerator unit that could survive a nuclear fallout.” Charlotte’s expression became fierce and impressed, as if she were describing an instrument of war. “There’s a two year waiting list.”

“That’s what you want?” Becky blinked. “A walk in fridge?”

“That’s what I want.”

“Seems achievable.”

“And you?”

“And me what?”

“What is it that you want? What brought you up here?” Charlotte inhaled and stared intently, her icy blue eyes carrying a weight of expectation for the truth. She slowly sat herself down in the chair, her fingers locking together over the ball of her knee.

When the dust settled, when the realisation sunk in that they were doing this for the time being instead of the steam iron, tight, taut, her sore and broken body still tensing, Becky licked her lips and sighed, at a complete loss for an answer.

“Well.” The beads of sweat ran the contour of her brow. “You never called me back.”

Charlotte laughed and picked up the steam iron.

“I’m being serious!” Becky hissed and made her stop. “I mean, don’t get me wrong I probably would have stabbed you a bit more once I got here…” She rolled her eyes and Charlotte seemed to appreciate the honesty, her hand lowering the iron ever so slightly. “But I just came for the sake of coming… because I wanted to see you, mostly.”

“Huh,” Charlotte raised her eyebrows.

“Sorry if breaking into your apartment was a bit much.”

“About that, you didn’t replace my eggs.”

“Sorry about that too.”

“I’ll live.” Charlotte smiled, and Becky got the hint that she might not.

“So you’re going to kill me?”

“Probably sooner rather than later,” Charlotte said.

“How boring,” Becky whispered and rolled her eyes.

The Queen got up out of her seat and fetched something off of the metal roller drawer. It was small, was concealed in her hand, was nothing but a green cap poking out of her fist. She stepped closer and Becky realised it was a syringe.

“Oh for fucksake,” she closed her eyes, exhaled sharply, utterly indignant that this was all that would become of the little hunter of Wicklow mountain. “How anti-climatic.”

“You expected more?” Charlotte lifted a brow as she bit the syringe cap off.

“I expected your best work.” Becky chewed furiously. “The hooks? The iron? All horrendous but second to none… this on the other hand?” She nodded at the syringe. “Pathetic.”

“What can I say? You’re annoying to be around.”

“Well I didn’t want to say anything but you don’t have the bone structure to pull off platinum blonde highlights,” Becky lied just to be acidic.

“My bleeding heart…” Charlotte frowned. “Any last requests?”

“Feel free to fuck my corpse before you bury me if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“What?” Charlotte blinked.

“What?” Becky realised it might have been a bit much.

“Did you just—”

“No.”

“Well alright,” Charlotte looked away, embarrassed, unable to move past it. She shook her head and stared at Becky again, “Did you seriously just ask me to—”

“No, you filthy pervert!” Becky lifted her chin.

“Oh, I’m the pervert?” Charlotte nodded mockingly, sticking a hand on her hip. “You need to relax.”

“Well hanging naked girls on meat hooks to torture them doesn’t scream well-adjusted childhood, does it!” Becky stated the obvious.

“Not girls!” Charlotte pinched her brow. “Girl. One. Singular. There is no plural! Stop making this weirder than it is!”

“Oh of course, pardon me, just a couple of girls catching up are we now?” Becky nodded mockingly.

“I can get the steam iron?” Charlotte nodded to the roller cart. “I’m not above burning your face off.”

“But it’s such a pretty face,” Becky whispered, frowning at the thought of being maimed like that. “Alright, sorry, I may have overreacted a little bit. Please, go ahead and murder me with your little syringe of cowardice.”

She watched the Queen look to the ceiling, then look to the floor, exhaling, shaking her head, utterly exasperated and livid by the imposition of the most unruly captive she had ever taken. It was a small thing to be proud of, Becky thought. Death was terrifying, was perhaps the only thing that truly frightened her, but this was a small platitude to take to the grave that made it a bit more bearable.

“Get on with it then, you big lump.” Becky tilted her chin.

The long hypodermic needle was slammed into her chest, the contents pushing inside her pulmonary system, her lungs shuddered, pushed and pulled, hyperventilated slightly and only made the few moments before her death incrementally shorter as a result. Becky held her breath and blinked hard, staring into those icy blue eyes for a symptom of… anything.

Charlotte just pushed a small smile and waited.

“What was it?” Becky felt her swallowing grow harder.

“Something fun.” Charlotte turned around and grabbed her coat off the back of the chair. “It was nice seeing you again, Becky.” She put the coat on and walked out of sight towards the door.

There was no kiss goodbye, no long victorious speech, just footsteps leading further away and then a door being unlocked.

“Wait, you’re not going to stick around?” Becky shouted, panicked slightly as the door opened.

“I want to remember you alive,” it was said almost gently, almost lovingly, lingering slightly before the door finally closed.

She felt drowsy, felt her head become heavier, felt furious that she was being overdosed on opioids and shit ones at that if her lack of high was anything to go by. Becky blinked and tried to stay awake, tried to think of something other than her furious infatuation because Charlotte did not deserve that kind of permanency.

Her grandfather, she remembered him, remembered his cumbersome hands, the smell of rolling tobacco, the flat peaked cap, the chunky knit cardigan. There was no love, no longing, no emotions of any sort really, but she remembered the little girl she once was when he was alive and that was something. She remembered the beasts and how she used to want to cry for them when they fell down. She remembered the way her uncles faces fell and crashed like buildings when the jury returned their guilty verdict. The former brought her more happiness than the later.

And then, slumping forward, she fell asleep.

…

The sound of birds chirping and cars whizzing up and down the street greeted her ears as she stirred like a lazy half-slumbering animal. Once again, she was sore, was bruised, was wincing into the tenderness of her burned leg, but she was alive and that was more than she had anticipated. Her throat was dry with inactivity and the room was too bright for her wincing eyes. She sighed and ouched as her arms and shoulders attempted movement, forgetting and remembering simultaneously the torture they had been subjected to.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a thick European accent greeted jollily.

Becky snapped her eyes open and looked to the man at the door. He was fat, middle-aged, hairy, badly dressed and wearing enough gold jewellery to put a drag queen to shame. He wasn’t just any Hungarian. He was the Hungarian. He was the crime boss, Laszlo Varga. And if the ancient seventies decor of the bedroom she was currently being kept in was anything to go by, she was in his family home.

Becky swallowed and stared at him, unsure of how or why she was here.

“Relax, little bird.” He smiled and came in, dusting the wooden desk with his hand to perch on the edge of it. “You’ve been asleep for more than a few days, take your time.” He smiled a bit.

“I was dead,” Becky blinked and ordered the events in her mind.

“No, little bird.” Laszlo shook his head. “You were sedated.”

“Sedated?” Becky widened her eyes.

“Well, not before you were punished a little bit.” He nodded at the bandaged thigh and the carefully tended shoulders that had been sewn up and seen to. “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly did you do to piss the Queen off so bad that she… how do you say… ironed you?” He chuckled with gleaming, impressed eyes.

“I think she was just feeling frisky.” Becky craned a brow and winced as she sat up on the bed.

“Hm,” Laszlo nodded slightly. “She doesn’t usually play so well with others, little bird, you got off easy.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Then tell me your name?”

“Becky.”

“Ah.” His lips fidgeted. “No nickname, then?”

“I don’t need one.”

“Me neither,” he agreed and looked to the sunshine beyond the window. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here…”

“The thought did occur, yes.”

“I need a job doing, a difficult one, a hit the Queen herself won’t take. She brought you here three days ago and said you were the woman for the job. At first I wanted to put you out of your misery like a broken little bird, less problems that way.” Laszlo chuckled. “But it would seem your work is impressive. My nephew, Andras, recommended you highly.” His tone became slightly displeased.

“Your nephew is Andras Wojcik?” Becky winced, and it felt like a detail that she should have known about before killing him as violently as she did.

“Yes, my sister’s boy.” He explained, nodding slightly. “Well, he was my sister’s boy. I believe you murdered him and put his balls in his mouth? Please, I don’t need to know which one happened first.” Laszlo raised his hands as Becky’s mouth opened to correct the order of things.

“And you’re not angry about that?”

“I hate my sister.” Laszlo shrugged.

“How lucky for me.” Becky breathed a sigh of relief. “So who is the mark Old Queeny is too scared to whack?” She lifted a curious brow.

“Andre The Cannibal.”

“He died years ago,” Becky chuckled to herself.

She was far from an expert in the field of European gangsters but when it came to Andre The Cannibal she didn’t need to be, he was a myth, an urban legend, a hitman who supposedly ate his victims, a big earner for the downtown morbid tourism scene that the Hungarians had their hands in, and he had died at least thirty years ago if she could just about remember the finer details of his Wikipedia page. Her laughter began to peter slightly as Laszlo’s expression remained fixed and serious.

“You’re not kidding,” Becky blinked in shock.

“Andre… he did a lot of work for us in the early days but he caused a lot of problems, made too much of a stir.” Laszlo shrugged and twiddled his thumbs in thought. “We paid him to disappear and he did just that, the whole thing was very civil.”

“So why now?”

“We made a lot of money with the tourists coming to see the old haunts, the restaurant where he cooked people, the street his burned body was found, these sort of things.” Laszlo mused and clasped his hands. “But… the last few years we’ve been lucky if we’ve filled two buses a week.”

“Wait,” Becky began to laugh in absolute delight. “Not only do you want me to track down a dead man but you want me to make the hit messy and loud so people know he was alive in the first place?” It was as if all her luck had come at once.

“Bingo.” Laszlo grinned and pointed his finger like it was a gun. “Andre lives, Andre dies again, someone writes a book, Netflix makes a documentary, everybody is happy, I get my tourists back. The Queen doesn’t like tracking people down and he’s been gone for a long time so it won’t be easy work. She brought you to me with high recommendation, said you would be the woman to get it done.”

“Well colour me flattered!” Becky singsonged. “How soon can I get to work?”

“Heal first, work later.” Laszlo stood up from the desk. “How much will your work cost?”

“Do what you love and you never work a day in your life, my mother used to say that.” Becky sighed happily and pushed a slackened smile. “Half a million, all of my expenses covered, and your loveliest smile.” She turned back to the Hungarian jokingly, anticipating that negotiations would start and he would work her down to the number she actually wanted.

“Done.” Laszlo smiled so wide his fuzzy red cheeks bunched and bulged. “Rest for now, I’ll call the Queen and tell her you’re off limits for a while.”

“What?”

“You didn’t think it would really be so easy, did you?” He nodded at the bandaged wounds. “She is a cat and you are her little mouse. Just because she let you live this time doesn’t mean she isn’t planning bigger things.”

“Well now that does sound exciting…” Becky felt herself fall in love with that bastard woman a little bit more.

…

Charlotte began to wonder if the little troublemaker was alive or dead, she had anticipated retaliation or maybe even a postcard at the very minimum. Laszlo kept tight lipped on the matter, said he was equally in the dark but that the pre-paid cards were being used and things seemed to be progressing as expected. It should have been easy to let go of, their last meeting had made them more than square by anyone’s standards. But Charlotte just couldn’t put the bitch down, still, now, months after the fact.

It was more than infuriating, and it had began to affect her work too, the preoccupation, the wondering, the slight infatuation of it all. She had barely enjoyed the last three kills and one of them was a Saudi Prince. A real life prince. The son of a king—albeit one of the middle ones with a penchant for bad business deals who weren’t too important in the grand scheme of things—but the son of a king nonetheless. It should have been one for the scrapbook but instead it felt like a chore, like a small way to pass the time until the troublemaker could crop up on her radar again.

Charlotte’s phone buzzed on the table of the airport bar that was now setting up to be home until her delayed flight was ready for departure.

Laszlo Varga, 1 message. ‘Turn on the news,’ it simply read. She exhaled and already knew what was coming. The phone was slung back down and her laptop was opened. She typed in the address of different news outlets in different tabs, all of them loading with similar headlines and gruesome, censored pictures.

Cannibal Hitman Thought To Be Dead FOR THIRTY YEARS Discovered Mutilated In Downtown Street Where His Infamous Slayings Took Place.

Pictured: The City Street Where Andre The Cannibal, Thought To Be Dead For Thirty Years, Was Discovered Dismembered By A GIRL SCOUT.

Reign Of Terror Comes To Final Close As Hungarian Mobster Famed For Eating His Victims Meets A Fitting Fate.

Buzzfeed’s Buzz Of The Day: Ten Reasons Why Trump May Give The Man Responsible For Murdering Andre The Cannibal The Presidential Medal Of Freedom.

Andre The Cannibal: The Failings Of A Police Investigation, And The City Commissioner Who Is Expected To Resign In A Statement This Afternoon.

The Irishwoman had certainly been busy. Charlotte scanned the headlines and chewed the inside of her mouth, infuriated by how impressive it all was. She closed the tabs one by one until a different headline all together caught her attention.

Police Search For Witnesses After Local Restauranter Discovers His Walk In Refrigerator Stolen After Closing The Business For A Period Of Mourning.

It made Charlotte smile and look away, she brought herself back and read the headline again, then once more just to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. She scrolled down the page and looked at the blurry images picked up by the security cameras.

Bingo.

She would recognise that ass anywhere.

��

“Tell me you’re not a little bit impressed!” Becky said chirpily to the shocked, disbelieving face at the door.

“Is that the Interlevin AF10?” Charlotte couldn’t take her eyes off of the bomb shelter in her workshop. “All the bells and whistles?”

“All the bells and whistles.” Becky nodded and clambered down from the workshop table.

Charlotte stood there and blinked, her expression mute, her brow furrowed slightly, her eyes registering reality but her brain disbelieving it, still. It was cute to watch. It was everything Becky had hoped it would be, which was a low bar of expectation to meet considering the only thing Becky had hoped for was the absence of steam irons and other mean things of that nature.

“How did you even...”

“I killed the owner’s mum,” Becky whispered softly, smile slackening, nibbling her bottom lip as if it was the sweetest gesture she could muster. “He closed up shop for a few days so I snuck in when no one was around.”

“You just snuck in and stole a walk in refrigerator?” Charlotte rubbed her chin, nodding as if it was comprehensible, nodded even though she still didn’t understand, completely gliding over the part where someone’s mother had been suffocated with a pillow.

“Well, Laszlo lended me a crane and a flatbed truck.”

“Of course he did.” It compounded Charlotte’s frustration. “You kill Andre The Cannibal, paint the whole of Ninth Street with his body parts, and then you steal a fucking walk in refrigerator all in the same weekend.” She thrusted her hand in the direction of her new fridge. “Of course you did that,” Charlotte quietly rubbed her temples.

“You’re right it is a bit impressive, isn’t it?”

“You’re not armed.” Charlotte suddenly noticed, looking her up and down, weighing up her chances. “Awfully presumptuous of you.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t,” Becky opened her leather jacket and her gun glinted the light.

“Is this you bringing me a gift or you looking for a mexican standoff?” Charlotte opened her own jacket and lifted an eyebrow, the handle of her pistol sticking out slightly.

“Maybe both?” Becky smirked and closed her jacket.

“I will shoot you.” It wasn’t said with any sort of meaningful conviction.

“I missed you,” Becky said it as though it were the easiest thing in the world to say. “Besides… you could have killed me but you gave me the Andre Sopa job instead, this is just me returning a gift with a gift.”

Charlotte hmph’d and seemed to become stuck. “It’s starting to become unsettling how you just show up like this.” The confession was exhaled earnestly.

“You could hide from me if you wanted to, my guess is that you don’t.”

“You’re easy to become interested with.”

“Ooft,” Becky became pleased. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charlotte Flair.”

“What is it you want, Becky?”

“I honestly don’t know…” Becky exhaled and swallowed. “At first I wanted to kill you, and I think I still might. Right now I just want to understand you, I suppose?”

Charlotte became quiet and thought about it for a moment.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?”

“I’d like that.”

#Charlynch #charlotte and becky #charlotte flair #Becky Lynch #Charlynch Fanfiction #WWE Femslash #Lesbian Story #Charlotte x Becky #Becky x Charlotte #Lesbian Fic #wlw fanfiction #wlw story #wlw assassins #lesbian assassins #enemies to lovers

32 notes · View notes

loversclubbing · 7 years

Text

Boys (Reddie)

Word Count: 2,136 Trigger warnings: transphobia, panic attacks, implied alcoholism Tags: trans!richie, reddie, first kiss Dedicated to: @reddiestenbrough, for being an absolute Gem and sticking with me through every single stage of writing this fic and being pretty much solely responsible for my happiness recently 💚 Also available: Here

Everyone kind of knew the Richie situation, even if they were too polite to say so. Richie never spoke of it, always turning the topic of parents into a joke about Eddie's mom. It was impossible not to notice, however, the way that he walked home through snow in the winter, the way his clothes were never mended and sometimes not even washed, the way he'd joke about every inappropriate subject except alcohol. They'd all caught on when his dad stopped showing up to parent teacher conferences, school plays, and birthdays that he wasn't around anymore.

As with many situations, it was all okay until it wasn’t. Richie was in good spirits, cracking jokes and screwing around, and it seemed to Eddie that nothing was significantly worse than usual. That was until he showed up one day dressed up to the nines with a face like thunder. It felt like a scene from a movie, where he walked down the hall and every face turned to stare.

Richie Tozier, the Richie Tozier, nerd of the year, the boy who never shut up about the length of his dick, was wearing a dress. His long-ish black hair was tied back with a pastel pink ribbon, his face smeared with makeup (that he seemed to have struggled against), and his feet clad in pink sneakers.

In fact, if it weren't for the soda bottle glasses magnifying his tear-filled eyes, he would be totally unrecognisable.

Eddie knew about Richie's past. He, Stan, and Bill had been sworn to secrecy the summer after fourth grade, the first time they went swimming at the quarry.

Richie had told them how, aged 7, he’d stopped living as a girl and his parents had to move the family from Nebraska to Maine to keep Richie safe, because people are evil, especially if you're anything outside their idea of normal. He arrived in Derry in the middle of the third grade with an awkward haircut and an even more awkward personality. He was introduced to the class as Richard, and nobody, not even the teachers, knew that he had ever been anything else. It had to be that way, but through a combination of trust and fear that the water would turn his white underwear see through and expose his big secret, Richie came clean. It hadn't really been mentioned after that, and the longer Richie lived as a boy, the more confident he became. It was the safety and security of being true to himself that turned him into the wise cracking asshole he is today.

Well, not today. On this day in particular, there wasn't a hint of the rude comedian. He was a shell, quiet and anxious and on the verge of a total breakdown.

Eddie didn't know what to do other than grab Richie’s shaking hand and pull him into the boys’ bathroom. Stanley and Bill followed nervously, shooing away all their giggling and jeering classmates. Once in the bathroom, he checked that all the stalls were empty and starting telling everyone what to do.

“Stan, watch the door from outside. Don't let anyone in until I've got Richie sorted. Bill, run to my locker. The combination is 5-12-32. There’s a pair of red galoshes and some jeans. Bring them here, as quickly as you can.”

At that moment, he turned to Richie and his tone changed. Instead of being in full on leader mode, his voice became softer and his movements more gentle.

“Rich? Richie, dude, I need you to listen to me. I have a spare shirt in my backpack, and Bill’s bringing some pants and shoes. Okay?” Richie didn't nod, so Eddie continued. “I have baby wipes as well, I can get the makeup off you. But you gotta calm down first, okay? I can't help you until you're breathing normally.” “Sorry.” Richie gulped, the tears he'd been blinking back beginning to spill. “I’m sorry.”

Eddie looked to Stan in the doorway, making fearful eye contact. Richie Tozier didn't cry. Richie Tozier had three emotions: ridiculously positive, intensely angry, and terrified. This was none of those things- this was sadness, distress, pain. Richie Tozier didn't feel pain. Richie Tozier was unbreakable.

And yet here he was, broken.

Bill stumbled back into the room, passing the clothes to Eddie. Eddie smiled gratefully, and gestured for Bill to go stand outside with Stanley.

“Richie? It's just us in here. I've got clothes you can put on, and then we can sort out the makeup, okay? I need you to try and calm down first, though, I can't help you while you're crying.” “Sorry.” “You don't have to apologise, okay? But I have to help you and I can't do that quite yet.”

Richie sniffled and threw his arms round Eddie, sobbing and sniffing into his shoulder. Eddie pulled the taller boy closer into him. He was trying the ignore the intrusive thoughts of how many germs were in the snot streaming from Richie’s nose onto his shoulder. Things like this were the reason Eddie brought spare clothes, but obviously he didn't need them as much as his friend today.

After a few minutes, Richie's tears calmed down and he pulled away from the hug. Eddie found himself missing the contact.

After a deep breath to steady himself, Richie untied the laces of the pink sneakers and tossed them carelessly to the side. He smiled weakly as Eddie passed him the jeans and slid them on under the dress. He pulled the ribbons from his hair and slid his glasses off his face, and pulled the dress off over his head. Keeping his head bowed to avoid eye contact, he took the blue shirt from Eddie’s grip and pulled it on with shaky hands.

Eddie glanced out of the window and acknowledged the rain, pulling off his canvas sneakers to replace with the galoshes. He got sick easily, and rain seeping through his shoes always ended up giving him a cold. He didn't mind giving away the sneakers until Richie had his regular shoes back.

When Richie's outfit was all on, he spoke again, his voice still sounding a little cracked and broken. “You can look now.” “Thanks.” Eddie shifted his gaze from the window back to his friend, and it was heartbreaking to look at. With his hair down and regular(ish) clothes back on, he looked more comfortable. But the smeared makeup had taken on a kind of grim comedy, and Eddie clocked for the first time that Richie’s nails had been painted a pearly pink and were digging into his palms with force. Eddie’s breath caught in his throat, but he knew realistically that it was the wrong time to panic or cry. Richie was his priority right now.

“Mind getting a little closer?” Eddie asked, rifling through his fanny pack. Richie silently moved forward so the knees of their crossed legs were touching. “Thanks. I'm gonna take off the makeup now, is that alright?”

He was careful to say the makeup, not your makeup. He didn't want to make it seem like the girly stuff was a part of Richie. The shaky boy nodded and Eddie carefully dabbed at his face with a baby wipe that he’d pulled from his fanny pack. The room was eerily quiet as he gently removed all the makeup, so Eddie started rambling.

"These wipes are hypoallergenic so you're not gonna break out or whatever. They smell pretty good too, I mean not that you smell bad or anything but, you know, it's nice." "Cool." "I used to have another brand that smelled great, but they weren't hypoallergenic and they made my face sting so my mom changed which ones she got. It's important to have wipes, y'know? Like, what if you spill something and you need to clean it up? They're overlooked." "Eddie?" "Yeah?" "Shut up."

Eddie smiled a little, because this was the first time ever that Richie was telling somebody else to stop talking.

“Can I see your hands? I need to use some antiseptic where your nails have dug in.” “Is the makeup gone?” “Totally. You wouldn't know it was there.”

Richie reluctantly placed his hands palm up on Eddie’s knees. They were shaky, but no longer to the point where Eddie couldn't work on them. He dug into his fanny pack again, taking out two pre-packed antiseptic wipes, two cotton pads, and a small bottle of acetone. l

Taking Richie’s left hand gently into his own, Eddie tore open the first wipe packet with his teeth and started wiping away the grime and hints of blood from his palm. When he glanced up, he noticed that Richie was staring dead at his face. Eddie offered an encouraging smile, and the corners of Richie’s mouth turned up in response. He pasted some small band aids over the crescent moon shaped gouges, and repeated the process on Richie’s right hand. He then poured the acetone onto the cotton pad and started clearing off the nail polish. They both stayed silent while he did, listening to each other's breathing to keep calm. A few minutes later, Richie looked just like he always did.

“Thanks.” Richie murmured quietly. “No problem man.”

It felt odd to not be flinging insults back and forth. That wasn't the only thing that felt strange. Seeing Richie like this was scary- he was quiet, he was emotional, he was afraid. It hurt seeing him that way.

There was an unspoken agreement among the Losers that Bill was their fearless leader. Beverly was the mother of the group, Stanley was the logic, Ben was the brains, Mike the emotional support, and Richie was the comic relief. When he wasn't cracking jokes, the world seemed to lose its balance.

This wasn't like the serious moments where he’d initiate a group hug, or speak quietly to Bill until the leader stopped tearing himself apart about Georgie. Eddie knew Richie was capable of turning it off when the situation called for it, but this didn't feel switched off; it felt like the light had been forcibly torn out of him. There were no words for it, nothing he could think of to say. Eddie felt like he was forcing himself to hold back tears.

His voice cracked as he called “Stan? Bill? You can come back in.”

The other boys walked in- Bill looked as nervous as Eddie, but Stan was totally normal.

“Nice shirt, Trashmouth.” he said, smirking at the slightly-too-small bright yellow shirt that read ‘I WAS A PARTICIPANT IN THE 1988 DERRY SUMMER FAIR HALF MILE FUN RUN!’ Richie’s eyes lit up at the insult. “Thanks, I borrowed it from your mom last night.” “Not likely, little boys full of shit aren't her type.” “Awwww, Stanley, no need to project your mommy issues onto me.” “Fuck you, Tozier.” “That’s Eddie’s job.” he winked, and Eddie spluttered, blushing for a few seconds before rolling his eyes and pulling Richie into the tightest hug of his life.

Bill, being Bill, dropped to his knees and joined the hug, holding the boys as close as he physically could. Stan also edged down to join them, gently draping his arms over the huddle of trembling preteen boys, because despite the image he tried to present, he cared deeply about Richie, as he did all his friends, and seeing Richie in that state had shaken him somewhat.

They stayed that way for almost thirty seconds, before Stan came up from his awkward squat and shook his hands off.

“I love you dearly, and I’m glad you're alright, but that floor is fucking disgusting and I think I just knelt in piss.” “What level disgusting? Eddie’s mom’s face, or Eddie’s mom’s underwear?” Eddie gasped, swatting Richie on the arm. “Dude!”

Richie just responded with a shit eating grin, and jumped to his feet, signalling that it was time to leave the bathroom. Stan and Bill walked out side by side, and Richie hung back for a few seconds with Eddie. He turned to face him, and the cheeky smirk slipped from his face again.

“Thank you for this. I mean it, sincerely. I didn't want any of you seeing me like that.” “I get it.” “You don't. You can't, but thank you. Of all the loser hypochondriacs in the world, I’m glad I found you.”

Eddie looked almost ready to protest, but Richie quickly silenced him with a peck on the lips.

“I-I-I-” Eddie tried to form a coherent sentence, but was too busy acknowledging the fireworks in his stomach and the smirk on Richie’s face.

Before he had a chance to respond, Richie bounded out of the room, hollering “Don't be late for geography, Eds!” as he went.

Eddie waited for the blush on his cheeks to die down before following.

#reddie #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #trans!richie #richie tozier/eddie kaspbrak #it #it 2017 #wes

317 notes · View notes

mozgoderina · 7 years

Text

Sources, influences, racial politics (ArtsATL) / Glenn Ligon

Since the 1980s, conceptual artist Glenn Ligon has incorporated practices of literature, Abstract Expressionism, photo-based media and appropriation to critically explore issues of identity, politics, sexuality and personal desire, to dazzling effect.

The materials Ligon employs to create his large-scale, often monochromatic works are as varied and textured as the subjects he explores. He moves seamlessly across screen printing, oil paint, white neon painted black and even coal dust, and uses quotations from Gertrude Stein, James Baldwin and comedian Richard Pryor in many of his most widely recognized works.

In 2011, Ligon’s first major mid-career retrospective, “Glenn Ligon: America,” was exhibited at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York. Although drawing comparisons to artists such as Jenny Holzer or even David Hammons is tempting though tenuous, a more precise parallel is to Abstract Expressionists such as Jasper Johns or Robert Rauschenberg, whom Ligon frequently cites as early influences.

The High Museum of Art’s inclusion of Ligon’s 1988 work “There is a consciousness we all have …” in its current exhibition “Fast Forward: Modern Moments” is felicitous. The piece — a relatively small rust-colored work of oil on paper — uses the text from commentary by former High Museum Director Ned Rifkin (then chief curator of the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden) in a New York Times write-up on the celebrated sculptor Martin Puryear. The quotation reads, in its entirety: “There is a consciousness we all have that he is a black American artist (by madison ), but I think his work is really superior and stands on its own.” The quote suggests a cultural blindness to which the art world was recently exposed again by way of a series of controversial reviews by Ken Johnson in The New York Times, more than 20 years after Ligon produced the piece.

ArtsATL spoke with Ligon in advance of his artist lecture at the High Museum this Thursday, January 10, at 7 p.m. Following is an edited excerpt of our conversation.

ArtsATL: In the summer of 2011, I went to your retrospective at the Whitney Museum of American Art. It was really interesting to see the progression from some of the earliest works to the current neon “America” works, so I wanted to start off by just talking about that progression a little bit. One of the things I noticed was this shift from the use of color to a lot of black-and-white monochromatic works and then back to color in the mid-to-late 2000s. I’m thinking of those very early more personal works. What caused that shift from more colorful personal works to using other text or to reappropriating text in your work?

Glenn Ligon: With the works that have color in them — the Richard Pryor joke paintings and the coloring book paintings — I think the shift there was in some ways trying to think about color again, because I started out as an abstract painter. So before the text work I was doing abstractions, but they were just abstractions and very involved in color and composition. I decided that that wasn’t the direction in which my work was going.

The Pryor paintings were a way back to color [while] still using text; it allowed me to think about color more but also think about it in relationship to someone like Andy Warhol and his self-portraits from the 1960s. And also it’s just a very simple idea that Richard Pryor needed to be in color.

ArtsATL: The Richard Pryor works are interesting. They are so bright that they’re almost kind of difficult to look at, because if you stare at them too long, they start to kind of vibrate.

Glenn Ligon: Yes, I think, partially, if you look at the Warhol portraits, he’s a master colorist. A lot of combinations have that kind of electrical charge, and their juxtapositions become difficult to look at or obscure the image — that’s what I was interested in. Also because I think Richard Pryor’s a comedian but he’s not funny, so I was really interested in work that made the viewer work to see [it] but was difficult to look at.

ArtsATL: With a lot of your work, you really make the audience work for it. When you [read it] deeply, all of these complications arise. I’m thinking of the text work created with oil stick on just a white background, where the text starts out as this clean line and gradually crescendos into this mass at the bottom of the canvas you can barely read. When I look at this work, it reminds me of music in the sense that you are using a pre-existing phrase, but you are making it your own or replaying it much like a score in your own way. Obviously literature is a big influence in your work, but I wonder if music is anything that you think about as well.

Glenn Ligon: I was just recently at a concert by Steve Reich, and he was talking about some pieces from the ’60s — “Come Out” and “It’s Gonna Rain” — and the use of repeating, out-of-sync human voices. I’d been listening to Reich for years, and I’d never thought about it in terms of my work. Then suddenly I thought, “That’s ridiculous! Why have I never thought about it?” It makes perfect sense. It’s my work, basically.

So it was interesting to think about how music has been important, though it’s not been in the forefront. I did a piece for the pianist Jason Moran for a concert based on Thelonius Monk called “In My Mind.” What he asked me for, or what I thought he asked me for, was something for an album cover or poster, so I took that phrase “In My Mind” and repeated that and made a drawing out of it. When I went to the concert, there was a whole section where that drawing was being projected on the screen behind the musicians and they were playing, as Jason said, to the spaces in the drawing, and using the spaces as pauses.

I thought that was amazing, this relationship to music in the work, although not something I had thought about consciously but something Jason understood. So yes, I think music has been a kind of touchstone, particularly Monk, who I think was influential when I was thinking about making the Richard Pryor paintings, because the playing is so idiosyncratic and so much his own, but absolutely masterful and virtuosic.

I was thinking about that in terms of thinking about Pryor, who can seemingly get up and tell a story, but then realized that Paul Mooney was his writing partner [and] if you listen to different albums they are pursing their material. They changed the jokes to make them more effective. It’s very interesting when you realize he’s not just up there telling stories. There’s a kind of deep back and forth.

ArtsATL: What is it about text that you find so intriguing? I’ve listened to interviews where you’ve talked about your upbringing and how your mother would buy you and your brother books.

Glenn Ligon: Well, I think for a black working-class family, education is the cliché, education was the key, so there’s a lot of emphasis placed on reading and literacy as a sort of way to achieve. Also when I was younger I was interested in writing too, so I think I was more interested in writing than in art.

ArtsATL: Did you ever want to be a writer when you were growing up?

Glenn Ligon: I did, but at some point I realized that writing is as hard as making art, you know? It got to the point where I could make art as a profession; I just thought, “Well, I know lots of artists write,” but I find it as hard. I’ve written a fair amount for magazines, but it’s maybe once a year. We just published a book of writings right around the time of the Whitney show.

I think literature was around in my childhood, and it’s also a place where you’re legitimately allowed to be alone. I grew up in the South Bronx; it was kind of a turbulent neighborhood. I couldn’t justify staying inside all the time unless I was doing something that required being inside. So I think literature became important to me early on.

But I also grew up around appropriation and text. Why write your own when there are texts in the world? Appropriating text is a way of getting certain ideas into the work directly. In a way it’s very straightforward — like, “Oh, I want these ideas in my work; well, just use them.”

ArtsATL: I think a lot about advertising and the work of artists like Hank Willis Thomas, Barbara Kruger or Martha Rossler and this sort of engagement with the idea of being perpetually surrounded by language. It’s how we navigate the world, so I want to ask you about this interaction with public space and your surroundings and how that comes into the work. You’re operating from this very interesting perspective, which is basically you’re in this body, as am I, as an artist, where you are endlessly navigating this idea of being a black artist or being a gay artist or being an American artist, and there are all these things that play into the work in interesting ways.

Could you explain the process of creating “Notes on the Margins of the Black Book,” in which you juxtaposed images of mostly black nude men taken from Robert Mapplethorpe’s “Black Book” with comments about the images collected from people at a bar that Mapplethorpe frequented?

Glenn Ligon: You’re asking a hard question. Specifically with that piece, I just thought that Mapplethorpe was an interesting figure because he was the subject of a big retrospective, also at the Whitney, very celebrated and because he had this body of work that dealt with representations of black men. Because my work wasn’t figurative, I thought it was an interesting project — to use Mapplethorpe’s images as a sort of ready-made material on which to operate.

But instead of defacing it or whatever the impulse would be would seem very simplistic to me, I thought let’s create this context for it. Put the work in the context of all these debates around black male representation, gay sexuality, censorship, AIDS, personal desire. Put all of that next to the work and let the viewers sort it out. And they can choose. They can not read the text and look at the photos or read the text and sort through those issues in the same kind of process that I went through when thinking about that work. It’s just a way to open up that work to a sort of larger context.

Sometimes I think I am interested in that, and sometimes it’s more hermetic. I think I make abstract paintings. They’re text-based but they’re essentially abstract paintings, so in some ways they’re sort of rooted in the specificity of the text I’m using, but in other ways they feel very far from it and it’s the trace of that language [that] is more interesting to me than the specifics of what that language is.

ArtsATL: You’ve mentioned that some of your influences were people like Robert Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns, who are both Southern artists. Could you talk about that?

Glenn Ligon: It’s probably less about them being from the South, though I think there’s some interesting work on Rauschenberg’s paintings from the ’50s which I love: “The Black Paintings” and “The White Paintings.” There’s a historian, Mignon Nixon; I think she is actually from the South and she’s at the Courtauld [Institute of Art] now. She did some work on Rauschenberg’s “Black Paintings” and was asking, “Well, if you look at what was on the covers of those papers at that time, it was all about civil rights groups.”

I don’t know what he made of that or what importance that takes, but I think it is interesting to think about how work that is seemingly not about something can be about something. But I think I was interested in Johns and Rauschenberg — I think more in Johns because of the use of language, but now increasingly in Rauschenberg — because I’m very fascinated with how he made images work and with decontextualizing very familiar images. Johns, too, you know [American flags] and all of that, but also because they were painters, and I gravitated more towards them than I did towards Barbara Kruger or Joseph Kosuth. I wanted to remain a painter, and they provided certain kinds of models. Someone like Kosuth or Kruger provided certain kinds of relationships to theory and appropriation and critique of consumer culture, so I was trying to walk the line between those.

ArtsATL: Because your work is so closely connected to language and is also often connected to American history, I want to ask about context. I’m thinking about James Baldwin’s Stranger in the Village, which you’ve also referenced in your work. How do you feel that your work changes in different environments? What are the responses to your work outside the United States?

Glenn Ligon: Well, I had a funny sort of encounter. I had a year-long fellowship in Berlin in 2000, and I was making work for Documenta that Okwui Enwesor curated, a body of paintings based on Stranger in the Village. I had an interview with [American critic] Blake Gopnik, who was doing an article about American artists living overseas. He came and picked my brain and then when I got the article it said, “Glenn Ligon’s issues don’t translate in European context.” And I thought, “Well, James Baldwin? Stranger in the Village … what doesn’t translate?” I thought that was fascinating, this kind of blindness or the inability to extend the reading of a text from a different era to a present situation.

I have a show coming up in Japan in March, and one of the neon works I was thinking about using is one that says “negro sunshine,” which is from Gertrude Stein. I asked the curator if she could find the Stein book that it’s from and tell me what the translation is into Japanese. And she said, “Well, it’s not so good. It’s ‘the sunshine of black people,’ ” and I thought that was great. It’s fascinating, but it loses the specificity of the word “negro,” a word in American context that evokes a particular time period.

That kind of slippage is really interesting. It’s not something I’ve worked with extensively — most of the work I’ve done has been in English — but it is an area that I’m thinking more about exploring. But it’s tricky, because one has to sort of dive into a language that’s not your own or trust people’s interpretations.

ArtsATL: Right. It is really tricky. It’s also interesting, this sort of discomfort you feel with not being entirely fluent in a language and having to trust somebody to translate for you.

Glenn Ligon: I guess also it’s trying to understand what kind of cultural presuppositions come out of thinking about translation. That word “negro” is not really translatable into Japanese, and so it’s “black people.” Why didn’t they just leave it? If you can’t translate it, just leave it. So I found that all kind of fascinating; whether I can work with that as material, I don’t know. It’s increasingly interesting to me as I start to show in places outside the United States.

ArtsATL: I want to talk about the very beginning of your career. I just turned 29, which is right around the age you were when you received your New York Foundation for the Arts grant. Could you talk a little bit about that transition? I know you were working; you had a “day job” and then you got this grant and it freed up time that allowed you to become a full-time artist.

Glenn Ligon: My mother joked that the day I knew I was an artist was when the government said I was an artist. The NYFA doesn’t trust artists with individual grants any more — they now have to be administered through a handler — so this was back when the government would actually send you a check. I just decided it was a moment where I could try to be a full-time artist for a while.

I don’t remember the amount of the grant, but it was enough to take some significant amount of time off from work, and I thought, “Well, what does it mean if I start working full time or try to have a proper studio?,” because I was working out of a basement in my house. So that was a huge, huge shift — I guess that was in ‘89 — and I had just started to show, a few works were selling. It just became this sort of launch pad for this thing called “being an artist” which I was already doing, which I was just sort of doing part time and kind of decided to do it full time then.

ArtsATL: It’s really interesting, because very rarely do I get the opportunity to hear artists talk about that progression or that jump between working in your basement, or your mother’s basement, and then suddenly becoming a full-time successful artist.

Glenn Ligon: Well, also I didn’t go to graduate school, so it took me a long time to get a working practice. . . . I never had two years where all you had to do was be in your studio.

ArtsATL: I read somewhere recently that you’re working on a piece based on Walt Whitman’s work.

Glenn Ligon: Yeah, it’s a big neon piece for the New School. It’s going to be in the student center in the new building they’re making.

ArtsATL: What made you choose Whitman for this project?

Glenn Ligon: Well, I think because the New School has such a history of social engagement. It was started by refugees from Europe during the ’30s, and not started by but stocked with refugees from Europe. There are some very famous Orozco murals there that were illustrating the history of Communism basically, that are kind of fantastic, and they also collect widely and exhibit work in their various buildings. So I just thought that the history of the New School was about a certain kind of populism, and it would be interesting to think about some author who embodied that. The piece concentrates on Leaves of Grass, more specifically on the city as subject matter and thinking about bodies and how one encounters bodies in the city and desiring those bodies. So essentially it’s a big piece about cruising in the student cafeteria. I don’t think they know that.

Source: ArtsATL. Link: Sources, influences, racial politics Illustration: Glenn Ligon [USA] (b 1960). 'Warm Broad Glow (reversed)', 2007. Photogravure and aquatint on Somerset paper (62 x 90 cm). Moderator: ART HuNTER.

#art #contemporary art #glenn ligon #conceptual art #article #interview #brainslide bedrock great art talk #artsatl

7 notes · View notes

myupostsheadcanons · 7 years

Text

Myu Reads

I am making a list of books/series that I read and enjoyed over the past few years, especially since I began listening to audio books regularly. I am making this list not in order of favorite to least but In The Order of Fluff to Grimdark.

The Wind in the Willows.

Charming characters, each with unique personalities, a classic, well-written series of short stories that has lessons for all ages to learn.

The Wizard of Oz.

Experience the magic of Oz. Much of which was removed in the classic movie adaptation. It wasn’t a dream after all.

Anne of Green Gables.

The tale of a spunky orphan girl being taken in by an middle-aged brother and sister duo.

A family dynamic that is not seen in modern westernized settings any longer.

Slice of Life. Light reading. The first book is the best book.

Howl’s Moving Castle.

Howl is a roguish wizard out to have fun and games manipulating the world around him. Sophie just wants to make hats and live a simple life, but is forced by a curse into adventure and into the path of Howl.

The movie and book are only alike on the surface. There is more charm in the books and Howl actually has a backstory.

Mrs. Frisby and the rats of NIMH

A tale of a mom wanting to save her children, told on top of the story of humanity corrupting nature and abusing animals.

A true “strong female protag” without the need of the female being either cruel, cold, or emotionally distant.

A Wizard of Earthsea

The movie Tales from Earthsea used the character’s names only and lifted elements from all the books rather than just adapting the first one.

Honestly I remember more from the sequel books more than I do the first one.

The Chronicles of Prydan (The Book of Three, The Black Cauldron)

A hero’s tale of a simple boy, an assistant pig keeper, wanting to become something greater and finding out that being a hero it isn’t all glory and fame.

Characters and Lands based off of old Welsh mythologies, the same ones that also inspired the Welsh folk heroes that later became King Arthur’s Court.

The Once and Future King

The Sword in the Stone half of the book would have made it closer to the top of the list. But the second half involved some rather graphic deaths and fights (a gory depiction of killing a unicorn among them).

Edgar Rice Burroughs John Carter of Mars (Barsoom) and Tarzan

Both characters helped define what would later become the modern super hero genera.

John Carter was a direct inspiration to Super Man and the Tharks popularized the idea of little “green men” of Mars. (The entire population of Barsoom are very color-coordinated, tbh. Green, Red, Black, White, Yellow). Many ideas created in this series are prolific in Science Fiction of today.

Tarzan of the Apes can be read by itself, no need to get into the later books. The original character is so popular that any attempt to stray too far from the core characterization leads into disaster. The movie “Greystoke” is perhaps still the best adaptation of the character to screen, and it was a deconstruction of the character.

Redwall

It is easy to get away with whole-sale death when it is done with animals, however many of the animals act human-like and that needs to be taken in consideration

Baby’s first “Dark Fantasy”. Dialog is written plainly for younger audiences, but subject matter is straight out of adult fantasy (mass murder, kidnapping, slavery, war of attrition).

Harry Potter

If you just watched the movies you are missing out on a lot of the descriptions and world-building in the books, especially in the second half of the series: Goblet of Fire, Order of the Phoenix, Half-Blood Prince, and Deathly Hollows.

The second half is when the series went from older-child reading to young adult as the characters went from child to teenagers in the books themselves.

Ready Player One, Armada

An easy introduction to retro 80′s and 90′s pop culture, old computer games, and science fiction dystopia.

If you are a layman, a young adult, or didn’t pay attention to most of the media during that era the books do gloss over and explain most of the references made.... sometimes too often.

Armada is not as well seeped in pop culture as RPO, but it is a much more streamlined story and you can get a clearer judge on the author’s actual writing capabilities without the kick-back of nostalgia.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

There are just somethings that can’t translate well from text to screen.

One of those series that is best when read in High school or if you are a fan of British Humor.

The Scarlet Pimpernel

A masked hero come to save French Aristocrats and Nobility from the guillotine of the Revolutionist Government. Among one of the first novels to set down the common tropes for heroes with secret identities to come.

History and backstory might be a bit too heavy for younger audiences to understand.

The Complete Sherlock Holmes Collection

There are two great audio book versions of this: one by Simon Vance, the other by Stephen Fry. Vance is a long time audio book professional and also narrated the Dune books and in general just having him read the book is a good indicator that it would be done well. Fry is a famous comedian and colorful character actor and was in the recent Holmes movies as Mycroft Holmes.

Barns n Noble has a beautiful leather-bound hardback edition of the Complete Collection as well for $25, if you are the type of person that reads the book and listens to the audio at the same time. The book will look nice on your shelf afterwards.

Victorian/Edwardian Horror-Romance: Frankenstein, Dracula, Phantom of the Opera

Classic stories, adapted and retold many times, it is always nice to get a perspective on the original works if you are only familiar with their newer incarnations.

Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children

Darker than the movie.

A reminder that all N*zis are bad.

Children characters get killed just as often as adult characters

Deals heavily with mental issues and adults/authority figures gaslighting children.

Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane, Stardust

A couple “lighter” examples of Gaiman’s work.

Stardust is classic fantasy with a bittersweet ending.

Ocean is told mostly through the POV of an adult remembering his “magical” neighbors as a kid and his traumatic experiences with his parents and babysitter.

The Lost Fleet Series

What the modern space battle genera should be.

The battles are in real-time, using real physics. It may take hours or even days to find out if that heavy ballistics missile is going to hit its target or if the target moved out the way.

The characters are typical for the genera, but are still engaging. Though the love-triangle rears its ugly head.

NPC’s (Spells, Swords, and Stealth Series)

A new game is hitting select markets. One that has consequences not only for the characters in the game, but the players. NPCs inside the game find themselves thrust into the role of adventurers when a PC party drops dead in their small town.

Classic “role reversal” or unconventional class/char combos (Gnome Paladin? Half-Orc Wizard? Noble Lady Barbarian? City Guard Rogue?) It’s kind of the norm now days after the whole “Drizz’t the Ranger Dark Elf” became so popular in the 90′s.

Star Wars: Heir to the Empire (Trilogy)

The first official trilogy of the Star Wars Expanded Universe, now known as the Legacy series.

It is always interesting to read through some of the EU to see what the Cinematic Universe is “borrowing” from.

Grand Admiral Thawn was such a popular character that he survived being rebooted.

2001: A Space Odyssey

If you have no idea what was going on in the movie. The book will help.

H. P. Lovecraft’s Collection of Horror

There are lots of copy cats, but only one original H. P. Lovecraft.

Mild in terms of today’s standards, but still thought provoking.

Good you are still wanting something creepy/spooky with out it being full of gore, swearing, or other ‘adult’ content, or looking for nothing exceedingly long

A “next step up” after reading Dracula, Frankenstein, and other fiction of that era (penny dreadful, or horror romances).

Heinlein’s Lazarus Long Universe (basically, most of his books)

It is decent until the last 5 books when things really get duct-taped together, then you’ll want to pull your hair out

Time Enough For Love, Number of the Beast, Cat that Walks through Walls, and To Set Sail Beyond the Sunset are some of the worst offenders.

An Incest warning is needed.

The ideas of these stories are timeless, the writing not so much. Characters are antiquated and firmly in the “men’s club” of old-school science fiction. (Even the “strong female protag” in some of the stories still find time to be a wife and mother above all else. Many of the relationships are “open relationships,” so frequent wife/girlfriend swapping)

Starship Troopers

If you ignore the rest of Heinlein’s work, make an exception to at least read this one

Warns of the dangers of being in a global totalitarian society.

POC main character. Juan “Johnny” Rico. Something that was unheard of at the time of publishing.

The Silo Series (Wool/Rust)

Post-Apocalypse science fiction.

Not as dark as say something like bleak The Road or the bloody Red Rising, a PG-13 book.

Set firmly in the middle-ground of fiction despite the setting, the characters aren’t one-note, a solid little series of books and short stories

With some editing it could have been an other dystopia YA series.

The Great Book of Amber (The Amber and Chaos Chronicles)

High fantasy written with a modern voice. A Shakespeare and Arthurian setting. Avalon, Oberon, The “fairy realm,” Civil War. Court intrigue, back stabbing, fratricide. Unicorns.

Written in the 70′s and 80′s. Likely inspiration for other series like ASOIAF, Dresden, and The Witcher. Suggest reading this one before either of them.

The two main POV characters are enjoyable with a snarky sense of humor. The side characters have personality as well.

Multi-dimensional universe, one of the better ones.

Has a Table Top Game.

Welcome to Nigh Vale: A Novel.

Quarkie, Mysterious, and odd.

Heavily inspired by H. P. Lovecraft, X-files, and other conspiracy theory genera, but treated in a mundane manner which makes it unnerving in itself.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (AKA: Blade Runner)

The book that inspired Blade Runner. To the point that many further publications of the book often call itself Blade Runner instead of its actual name (including the audio version).

The book and moves are only alike in theme, and some plot points

The book is bleaker, more Fallout than Ghost In the Shell.

Dune, Dune Messiah, Children of Dune, God Emperor of Dune

The “Lord of the Rings” of Science Fiction.

What started out as a “deconstruction” of campy science fiction like John Carter and Flash Gorden, and a “take that” to Issac Asimov and Heinlein’s style of writing shaped all science fiction written afterwards.

GRRM (A Song of Ice and Fire) is often compared to Herbert... for good and bad reasons.

Neuromancer.

The book that brought us the first REAL Cyberpunk in the 80′s.

It is interesting to see the ways they thought computers would be part of 21st century society back in the Cold War Era.

Mort(e)

Animals take over the world killing most of mankind along with it.

A mysterious “virus” sweeps through the animal population, and the Ants in charge began culling the animals to remove it.

The Hunger Games Trilogy.

There is a lot less HAM in the books than in the movies.

Upper Young Adult. Class Warfare. Post Apocalyptic Dystopia. Children killing children.

You can get into Katness’s head a lot easier, understand her reasons for being emotionally distant with people.

Jurassic Park, The Lost World

Dinosaurs and Assholes. Perfect Michael Crichton books.

The second one should be read just for the fact that the movie is nothing like it. The first movie had a passable resemblance, with some character tweaks... the second movie barely resembles the book at all.

The second attempt of Crichton writing a series about “high-tech theme parks gone wrong” (the first being Westworld)

Android’s Dream (John Scalzi)

When you find out why the book is called “Android’s Dream”... feel free to be grossed out.

Let’s just say the book isn’t about androids...

The Illuminatus Trilogy

Written in the 70′s. Plenty of Sex, Drugs, and Rock-and-Roll.

Some of the conspiracy theories will throw you for a loop, then suddenly you’ll remember that this is a comedy/parody book and gods are real.

fnord.

Cryptonomicon

A long fictional account about the invention of computers. Told against the backdrop of WWII and the Early 2000′s internet boon.

I feel this one is on par with the Illumanatus Trilogy when it comes to tone and feel, but with no magic-chaos-cults involved.

Parodies of Historical figures, large a corporation with their fingers in many-o-pot, main characters that would be considered counter-cultured for their time period finding themselves in over-the-top situations.

Neil Gaiman’s American Gods

Personally I found the book to be slow and meandering, but interesting as a whole.

Basically defines what people think Gaiman’s style is. Dark imagery, weird shit happening, and lots of contemplating your navel.

The Comoran Strike Detective Novels.

What J. K. Rowling is doing whenever she isn’t milking the corpse of Harry Potter.

Would be a better series in general without the fake love triangle...

The Godfather

The movie is better than the book, but then the movie is like in the top-5 best movies of ALL TIME.

The movie does follow the book for the most part, with some variation for time and content.

The Guns of August (Non-Fiction, WWI novel)

Accounts what caused WWI and the events of the first two months of the war.

It doesn’t demonize the Germans, Russians, or any of the sides in particular. It explains quite clearly as to what all their motivations were getting into this war and how the war ended up becoming a complete slog.

Realm of The Elderlings Series (Robin Hobb)

If you ever want to experience “the feelz” in book form.

The relationship between FitzChivalry and the Fool is one of the most anguished you’ll ever read about.

There is a lot of ship baiting however, as the Fool is genderfluid and Fitz refuses to believe their relationship is anything other than close-brotherly love...

About 60% of the entire series is seen through FitzChivalry “head as thick as a brick” Farseer ‘s POV, be prepared for lots of PTSD.

The Mists of Avalon

The classic tale of King Arthur imagined and told through the eyes of the women of the court.

There are no real villains in the series, even the most morally dark among them have justifiable reasons for what they are doing. Unlike something like Once and Future King. Mordred, Morgause and Morgan are not evil stereotypes, they have human real-world reasons for what they do.

The Red Rising Trilogy

The Adult Fiction version of The Hunger Games.... In SPACE.

Color-coded for your convenience.

All the surrounding characters are more interesting than the main character.

Your favorite character is likely going to die.

Darrow always reminding you about his fridged wife... even after he finds a replacement goldfish.

The Cycle of Arawn, The Cycle of Galand

In a world of black magic and white magic, it isn’t always clear on which side is good or evil.

Plot holes you can drive a truck through, or at least hope will get resolved/remembered in later installments.

Most of the charm of this series is the relationship between Dante and Blaze. The way they both converse with each other and the people around them is very reminiscent of Buffy Speak.

The Dresden Files (Harry Dresden... Wizard)

Dresden has a great mix of humor and cynicism.

Plenty of action, not entirely predictable in plot, and a heaping helping of stopping the forces of evil from destroying all existence.

A modern-era fantasy with plenty of demons, fairies, vampires, and ghost. Never loses the feel that it is set in the modern times.

Stephen King’s Horror-Fiction (The Stand, Under The Dome, IT, The Shining/Doctor Sleep)

The human condition at its worse told in speculative horror fiction.

The Forgotten Warrior Series (Son of the Black Sword)

Future Earth, brought back to an age of magic (or science-like magic) when demons fell from the sky and ravaged the planet. An entire race, the last survivors of the people that turned away the demons and drove them to the sea, are forced to live as slaves, vagabonds, and in perpetual poverty.

The Witcher Novels

Books are published OUT OF ORDER in America. Please read The Last Wish and Sword of Destiny short-story collections before the Saga books.

CDPR Games are a Fan-created sequel to the books, so the games spoil the books (especially the third game).

Netflix is making a (new*) show adaption of the novels with the author’s approval and getting advice from the game makers as well.

*we don’t talk about the old show.....

The First Law Trilogy

It will get worse. When ever you think things can’t get any worse. It always does. And you watch the characters struggle all the way through it and everybody around them dying along the way.

Don’t get too attached to anybody without a POV.

A Song Of Ice and Fire

The modern “Gold Standard” for Dark Fantasy when Game of Thrones brought it to the mainstream.

Just about everything black and grim can, has, and will happen.

Nothing is glorified, everything is awful. When something problematic to our modern society happens within the narrative, it is often treated with the weight that these issues are a problem and part of their corrupt society (things like incest, child murder, rape, abuse....)

Hannibal Lector Series (Red Dragon, Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal)

humanizes the most horrible of mankind.

if you had at least watched any of the movies and/or the show, read the books as well.

Dogsland Trilogy (J. M. McDermott)

Nothing good will come out of this. There is no hope for any of the characters. It starts out black and will end just as black. It is like a slice of life for the dirt poor and shunned. Forever on the run from hunters and discriminated against just because of being born. It ends where it began.

The Road

A story about a father and son at the end of humanity. There is nothing that can be done, a harsh struggle to delay the inevitable death of man kind.

#book recommendations #book rec #myu reads

2 notes · View notes

dannyphantomrpg · 7 years

Text

Visual Aid: 107 Danny Phantom Facts

So I did this again.

(It’s what keeps me occupied when my husband’s asleep and the tablet pen is charging~)

((This one was barely longer than the 10 Years Later, Part 2, but it took all day for some reason...))

Let’s get this thing started~

Hey everybody, Butch Hartman here. I am so excited today because I'm teaming up with Channel Frederator today to talk about my show, Danny Phantom. Can give you the inside scoop.

You guys remember the fandom? Are you kind of curious about the show? Well, relax, we've got something for everybody here as we talk about the 107 facts about Danny Phantom.

For example, did you know that the 2005 Michael Jackson trial was actually features on Vlad's TV on one episode? It's there.

107 Facts: Danny Phantom.

001 Danny Phantom was created by me, Butch Hartman, after I had previously worked on the Fairly Odd Parents with Nickelodeon.

002 When making the show, I drew a lot of inspiration from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Ghostbusters.

003 The title Danny Phantom was inspired by the titles of 1960's cartoons like Jonny Quest. More specifically, I wanted to create a title with a real first name, followed by a last name that was also kind of an action word. Some of these alternative action words were "Danny Thunder" "Danny Lightning" and "Danny Power". "Danny Phantom" was the name I went with cause I thought it sounded the coolest.

004 Some of the alternative first names I had for our hero included "Billy Phantom", "Kenny Phantom", "Jackie Phantom", and "Davey Phantom". I think you'll agree they don't quite have the same ring as "Danny Phantom" does.

005 I came up with the concept for the show Danny Phantom while driving a moving van from Las Vegas to Los Angeles with my mother. Unfortunately, she was more fascinated by the sight of a desert tortoise, than the birth of a new, awesome Nicktoon.

006 Before settling on a superhero show, one of my first concepts for Danny Phantom was a bit more in the main Ghostbusters. It was called Danny Phantom and the Specter Detectors, and it would have focused on a powerless Danny and his friends hunting down ghosts, using an array of ghostbusters-like gadgets.

007 Danny Phantom was pitched to Nickelodeon executives over dinner. Execs treated me after they ordered more episodes of Fairly Odd Parents, and they happened to ask me if I had any more ideas for TV shows. And, yes, being treated to nice dinners is definitely an appreciated perk.

008 There's some early concept art of Danny showing a surprising design. I originally drew him with the Superman-type body, which was basically a lot of unrealistic buff muscles. I reverted to the slimmer design when I decided it's be more interesting to portray Danny as a fourteen-year-old kid.

009 I decided Danny should be fourteen years old because that age is kind of a bridge between childhood and adulthood. It's more of a period of self-discovery which certainly fits the theme of Danny learning to live and control his ghostly abilities.

010 Danny's skinnier, final design, was the collaborative effort of character designers Steven Silver, Shannon Tyndall, and - surprise - me.

011 Unlike many other cartoon characters, Danny has five fingers. Take that Timmy Turner.

012 You may notice that when Danny goes ghost, only his hair turns white and his eyebrows stay black. They're actually meant to be white as well, but we all thought the white brows made Danny look like an old man so we, uh, kept 'em.

013 Sam and Danny were originally meant to share a psychic connection, so one would know where the other one was at all times. But I scrapped this to keep things simple. Only Danny was finally to have the superpowers.

014 Danny was originally gonna have a pet owl named Spooky that would be able to track ghosts. I scrapped the concept as Harry Potter rapidly gained popularity. I didn't want his series to be constantly compared to the boy wizard.

015 I wanted to give Danny a really cool ghost motorcycle to use as his primary means of transportation, but then I realized that giving a motorcycle was pointless because, you know, he can fly really fast.

016 The father-son duo of Jack and Danny Fenton are a reference to Jack and Danny Torrance from The Shining, which explains why Jack Fenton constantly accuses his children of being ghosts.

017 I gave Danny an older sibling because, unlike Timmy Turner, I felt that Jazz Fenton would make Danny feel less in control at home and give him somebody to contend with. I thought this lack of control would make Danny's experience with his superpowers all the more satisfying for him.

018 Jazz Fenton was named after a character in John Byrne's 1990's comic book Next Men. I always thought the name Jazz was cool.

019 Tucker Foley's name is a combination of actor and comedian Chris Tucker and Eddie Murphy's character from Beverly Hills Cop, Axel Foley.

020 Danny's teacher, Mr. Lancer, is named after a family restaurant in Burbank called, you guessed it, Lancer's.

021 Vlad Masters was originally going to be a vampire, but Nickelodeon execs thought making him a Vampire could lead to some pretty violent territory and I thought that too. So he was changed into a ghost.

022 A remnant of this scrapped concept can be found in his villain name "Vlad Plasmius". Plasma is found in blood which, you know, vampires kind of have a thirst for.

023 I refer to Vlad Masters as Danny Phantom's Lex Luthor. Like Luthor, Vlad uses his wealth to exert his power, or at least some of it. He also has a personal connection to Danny that gives him the upper hand in most scenarios.

024 Danny's love interest, Paulina Sanchez, is a parallel to Superman's love interest, Lois Lane. Both characters have no romantic interest in the protagonist because they have a crush on the protagonist's superhero alter ego. Lois loves Superman, but not Clark Kent, and Paulina loves Danny Phantom, but not Danny Fenton. Paulina: But you still have no shot with me Oh, the cruel irony.

025 Danny's ghost sense is identical to Spiderman's spider sense. Both senses alert their respective heroes whenever danger is nearby.

026 The parallels of Spiderman don't end there. Dash Baxter is a parallel to Peter Parker's football playing bully, Flash Thompson. Not only do Flash and Dash bully the protagonists of their universes, but they idolize the protagonist's superhero alter ego without realizing the hero is actually the person they bully. Their names both words that describe their quick movement and rhyme with each other.

027 The ghosts of Danny Phantom's world aren't the spirits of the deceased as ghosts tend to be in pop culture. Instead, they're monsters from another dimension. We call them ghosts because it's easier to say and it's more appealing than saying monsters from another dimension.

028 Danny's hometown, Amity Park, is a tribute to the settings of a few famous horror stories. Amityville, Long Island is the location of the famous haunted house known as the Amityville Horror. But Amity Park is also named after Amity Island, the location of the book and Steven Spielberg film Jaws.

029 Danny's high school, Casper High, is named after Casper the Friendly Ghost. Hey, if we hadn't added all these paranormal references, you may have forgotten the show is about ghosts.

030 Quite a few key members from the Fairly Odd Parents had a hand in making Danny Phantom, including writer Steve Marmel and art director Bob Boyle.

031 One of the major differences working on the Fairly Odd Parents and Danny Phantom was the latter series' more serial format containing everything from character arcs to recurring story lines. Danny Phantom embraces storytelling angle by making the episodes 22 minutes long as opposed to Fairly Odd Parents whose 22 minute run time consisted of 2 eleven minute episodes.

032 One of the most challenging aspects of creating a superhero show like Danny Phantom, was giving all the superhero tropes a unique and interesting twist. We wanted to keep the series fresh an unique.

033 I originally wanted to cast a fourteen year old boy for the role of Danny, but I couldn't find anybody that sounded heroic enough. That heroic voice I searched for was ultimately provided by David Kaufman. Before playing Danny, Kaufman broke into the realm of voice acting when he played Marty McFly in Back tot he Future: The Animated Series.

034 David Kaufman kept his audition for Danny as a CD in his car that he would listen to towards the beginning of the show whenever he drove to the studio to record. He did this to remember what Danny sounded like in order to immerse himself into the character efficiently.

035 I wasn't the only one Kaufman's performance left a deep impression on. His daughter, Grace, calls him Daddy Phantom.

036 Sam Manson is played by actress Grey Griffin. I basically made an effort to include her in every show I created back then. Thus far, she's played Vicky in the Fairly Odd Parents and Kitty Katswell from T.U.F.F. Puppy.

037 Tucker isn't the first loyal friend Ricky D'Shon Collins has played. Before hunting ghosts with Danny, he helped TJ Detweiler keep balance and order on the playground as Vince LaSalle in Disney's Recess.

038 Maddie Fenton's voice actress, Kath Soucie, has essentially crafted a career out of voicing cartoon mothers. She played Dexter's mom in Dexter's Laboratory, Betty DeVille in Rugrats and Miriam Pataki in Hey Arnold.

039 Danny's father, Jack, is played by legendary voice actor Rob Paulson, who's played iconic roles like Yakko Warner, Pinky, Carl Weiser, Experiment 625, Donatello in the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Raphael in the old one, and way too many more to mention here.

040 Although Mr. Lancer is far from hardcore, his voice actor, Ron Perlman, has played quite a few characters throughout his career that redefined the word, He played Hellboy in the Guillermo del Toro films of the same name and he voices Slade Wilson, also known as Deathstroke, on Teen Titans, as well as the Lich in Adventure Time.

041 Valerie Grey was originally played by Grey DeLisle for the episode My Brother's Keeper before renowned voice actress Cree Summer was chosen to take over the role. If her name doesn't sound familiar, you've probably heard her voice as Penny on Inspector Gadget or maybe even as Susie Carmicheal on Rugrats.

042 Valerie isn't the only one that's had a change in her voice. Dani, that's Dani with an I, was voiced with two different actresses through the series. She was played by AnnaSophia Robb in her debut episode Kindred Spirits. The role was then taken over by Krista Swan in the episode D-Stabilized, which was Dani's second and final speaking appearance.

043 Tara Strong plays two of the show's recurring villains: Ember McLain and Penelope Spectra. This is definitely not the first time I've worked with her. You probably know her best as Timmy Turner in the Fairly Odd Parents, which proves she can effectively play both the hero and the villain.

044 Every celebrity guest in the show was cast as a ghost, similar to how celebrity guests would play villains on the 1960's Batman series starring Adam West and Burt Ward. Some of these celebrities include Particia Heaton from Everybody Loves Raymond as the Lunch Lady, and Matthew St. Patrick from Six Feet Under as Skulker, and Will Arnett from Arrested Development as the Ghost Writer, and Martin Mull as Vlad Plasmius.

045 These celebrity voice actors typically played their ghosts for a limited time before different voice actors took their roles. Sometimes as soon as the ghost's second appearance. Series Kath Soucie took over the role of the Lunch Lady and Kevin Michael Richardson became Skulker.

046 Tucker's dad, Maurice Foley, is voiced by Phil Lamarr who voices Hermes Conrad on Futurama and Samruai Jack on Samurai Jack.

047 Mark Hamill plays Undergrowth. He's, of course, best known for playing Luke Skywalker in Star Wars, but also as countless voice acting credits, including the Joker and Fire Lord Ozai.

048 The ghost child Youngblood was played by actor Taylor Lautner when he was just nine years old. Lautner would later be featured in everybody's favorite love story Twilight. Wait, who wrote that? Do I have to say that?

049 Danny's ultimate enemy, Dark Danny, is played by Oscar-nominated acting legend Eric Roberts. His impressive resume includes everything from the Dark Knight to the Cable Guy.

050 The first recording session for Danny Phantom took place on November 21, 2002, about a year and a half before the show premiered. The first episode to be recorded was also the first episode to air: Mystery Meat.

051 In fact, Danny Phantom premiered on April 3, 2004, right after Nickelodeon's annual Kid's Choice Awards.

052 Unlike many other animated shows, the cast of Danny Phantom recorded their dialogue in the same room together. David Kaufman described the experience as something akin to a stage play.

053 It takes the actors around 3 hours to record dialogue for a single episode. David Kaufman knows that shouting "I'm goin' ghost!" so many times made his voice hoarse by the end of the day.

054 In the episode What You Want, I voiced a football announcer that also looks a lot like me except he's, you know, a cartoon. I mean, he looks a lot more like me than Dr. Bender does. I hope.

055 The theme song we hear today wasn't the only one recorded for the show. An alternate version got so far into production that an alternate opening sequence was storyboarded all the way around it. The alternate song sounds very similar to the final product with different lyrics that focus more on explaining Danny's abilities.

056 The theme song was changed because Nickelodeon wanted it to tell Danny's origin story. This way, new views wouldn't feel alienated when watching the show for the first time no matter what episode they started out with.

057 Luckily, changing the lyrics wasn't an overly complicated, make-10-calls, logistical nightmare since I wrote the lyrics of the theme song. Both of them actually.

058 I based the show's theme song after the song The Invisible Man by Queen, one of my favorite bands.

059 One thing I learned from working on the Danny Phantom theme song is that your first idea isn't always your best idea, and to never stop pushing yourself until you've made something truly awesome. You're welcome for that halfway through burst of inspiration.

060 I also co wrote another fan favorite song Remember, performed by Ember in the episode Fanning the Flames, which also happens to be my third favorite episode. Yes, my third favorite. I am very, very specific.

061 Danny Phantom was the first show to be produced by my very own company, Billionfold Inc. which was co-founded with my wife. Billionfold comes from a biblical term, hundredfold.

062 A single episode of Danny Phantom took approximately 10 months to produce, stretching all the way from pre-production to post.

063 While the pre-production phase took place in Burbank, California, Danny Phantom's animation was done by a Korean animation studio called Rough Draft. Rough Draft's resume includes work done on other animated classics like Futurama, The Simpsons, and SpongeBob SquarePants.

064 The individual villains found within Danny Phantom's rogues gallery was based on ideas that I had. Ember McLane stemmed from a pitch regarding an episode about music fads, and the effects they have on teenagers. The Lunch Lady was generated from my very astute knowledge that students tend to hate school prepared lunched.

065 Vlad is a Green Bay Packers fanatic because Danny Phantom's story write, Steve Marmel is a cheesehead himself. We nearly got sued for this, but luckily Marmel was smart enough to make the team colors of the Danny Phantom Packers gold and green instead of green and gold.

066 One scrapped running gag Marmel wanted to incorporate was that Vlad's home would be blown up after every encounter he had with Danny, but this recurring joke was mainly lost in editing.

067 Had the series gone on, Danielle would have been taken in by the Fentons, effectively becoming the younger sister of Danny and Jazz.

068 Technus was intended to have another upgrade, Technus 3.0, in the episode Identity Crisis. The design was scrapped after we decided the upgrade didn't really fit anywhere in the episode's story.

069 The addition of Danny Phantom's logo later in the series was the suggestion of Nickelodeon executives, who thought he needed a symbol akin to heroes like Batman, Superman, and Spiderman. But perhaps more honest reason was because the execs wanted to make the hero more marketable.

070 Danny officially became 99.99% marketable in the season 2 episode, Memory Blank, in which Sam gives him his D logo.

071 The series score was composed by Guy Moon, who is also responsible for the music heard in the Fairly Odd Parents.

072 When Guy Moon and I met to discuss a soundtrack of an episode, I would usually sing over the episode in progress to give Moon an idea of how I wanted the music to sound. Moon would bring a camera to these sessions and record my, admittedly, unskilled singing to remember my instructions.

073 Not everyone can become a half ghost, half human. If Sam or Tucker had gotten caught int the middle of the Fenton's malfunctioning Ghost Portal, it would have likely killed them.

074 Wulf is fluent in Esperanto, a language created in 1887 by Dr. Ludwik Lejzer Zamenhof, perhaps better known by his pseudonym of Doktoro Esperanto. Esperanto was created in the hope of replacing every language in the world as the one universal language. Judging by the fact that this video is in English, you can probably guess how that plan worked out.

075 The episode titled Shades of Grey is obviously a play on Valerie's last name, but the title could have a much deeper meaning. The term "shades of grey" refers to an unclear position on the scale of good to evil, usually somewhere in between. This certainly applies to Valerie, as she doesn't necessarily fight ghosts for good or evil. but for her own personal reasons.

076 During Shades of Grey, Danny names the ghost dog Cujo. Cujo's also the name of a horror novel by Stephen King about a dog bitten by a rabid bat, which turns the dog into a cold-blooded killer.

077 The green glowing, double bladed melee weapon Maddie uses to slay the legion of Vlad's monsters in Maternal Instincts is practically identical to Darth Maul's double bladed lightsaber in Star Wars Episode One, save for the red color.

078 Because I know everyone loves multiple Episode One references, the the title of the second season's 9th episode The Fenton Menace is obviously a play on the title of everybody's favorite Star Wars film, the Phantom Menace. Yes. Everybody's favorite Star Wars film.

079 To continue the Star Wars nods, the Danny Phantom universe has its own line of popular toys called Space Wars featuring characters that resemble Chewbacca and R2D2.

080 Some of the computers in the Danny Phantom world have pears in the back of them which you probably guess was a nod to Apple computers. Timmy's dad in Fairly Odd Parents has the same symbol on his laptop.

081 Save for the creepy pictures of Maddie, the programs and icons on both Danny and Vlad's computers are exactly the same, in the exact same order.

082 Skulker's hunt for Valerie and Danny in Life Lessons closely resembles the plot of Richard Connell's famous short story "The Most Dangerous Game". Much like the story, Skulker kidnaps two very skilled humans on his property for the sole purpose of hunting what he considers to be the most challenging prey out there, or, the most dangerous game.

083 Mr. Lancer spouts the titles of books in place of shouting swear words. Some of these exclamations include The Great Gatsby, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and Moby Dick, which is about as close as we'll be getting to colorful language on a Nicktoon, except for maybe Ren and Stimpy, or Rocko, or SpongeBob. We're slick here at Nickelodeon.

084 In the episode What You Want, Paulina transforms into a popular anime cat names Sayonara Pussycat, who resembles the character Hello Kitty. But Sayonara is actually a rather dramatic and final sounding word for "goodbye" in Japanese.

085 In Teacher of the Year, all 13 levels that Tucker shows Technus are based on the eight worlds from the 1990 NES classic Super Marion Bros. 3. The level 0 glitch is a reference to the infamous Minus world from the original Super Mario Bros.

086 Before sending Danny into the Ghost Zone in the episode Prisoners of Love, Tucker can be seen playing Space Invaders on his PDA.

087 Valerie Grey lives on 461 Elm Street, an obvious reference to the classic horror film A Nightmare on Elm Street. She'd probably stand more of a chance against Freddy Krueger than the other kids in the Street as well.

088 Johnny 13 and Kitty's voice actors, William Baldwin and China Phillips, are a married couple in real life. The knot has been securely tied since 1995. Way before they were cast.

089 In Fanning the Flames, Danny quips "Do you take requests? How about Beat It." in addition to telling Ember to hit the road, Danny's referencing Michael Jackson's classic song Beat It. Good one, Danny. And good one, me.

090 Michael Jackson makes a more obvious cameo in the episode Infinite Realms where he's seen in at his 2005 trial while Vlad is flipping through channels.

091 When we see Tucker's report card in What You Want, we learn that Tucker is not only highly proficient in computers, but sewing as well. If Danny ever needs a suit redesign, he who he can call. Not the Ghostbusters, they'll likely kill him. He should call Tucker.

092 The Groovy Gang and Scaredy Cat from The Million Dollar Ghost are an unsubtle jab at Mystery Inc and Scooby-Doo. An additional fact fact for you guys, I actually worked for Hanna-Barbera, the animation studio that created Scooby-Doo.

093 The secret government organization dedicated to eliminating paranormal entities known as the Guys in White are obviously a parallel to the Men in Black who essentially do the same thing but with evil extraterrestrials.

094 I've gone on record saying the reason Danny is not shirtless when he's at the water park is because he gets sunburned very easily.

095 We can all infer that Sam has good taste in films. For instance, a poster for Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange can be seen in her room.

096 In Memory Blank, Sam wants to see Trinity of Doom, a movie starring Femalien, the female version of Alien that’s a Predator, not a Xenomorph, you uncultured swine!, Terminatra, the female Terminator, and Nightmerica, the female version of Freddy Krueger. I'd still go see that.

097 Danny has a birthmark that's shaped like the state of Florida.

098 Timmy Turner's favorite comic book hero, The Crimson Chin, appears at the Ember concert as one of her many adoring fans in the episode Fanning the Flames. I officially sanction your conspiratorial speculations.

099 In the episode What You Want, Danny and Tucker can be seen playing an arcade machine titles Crash Nebula. Crash Nebula is one of Timmy Turner's favorite heroes of the Fairly Odd Parents. The plot thickens!

100 The cross referencing continued over into the Fairly Odd Parents, too. In Poulter Geeks, a wanted poster for Danny Phantom can be seen in the ghost hunting basement of Timmy's parents.

101 Or you guys could be thinking about this all wrong, and Danny could just be a fictional hero. In the Fairly Odd Parents Crash Nebula special, Danny can be seen on the back cover of a comic book. The truth is out there.

102 If Vlad were real, Steve Marmel would have made him the happiest half man/half ghost on the planet. The writer purchased a brick at Lambeau Field, the home of the Packers, and engraved it with "Someday I will rule - Vlad Plasmius".

103 David Kaufman's favorite episodes tend to be the ones in which Danny spends time with one particular member of his family and the plot strengthens their bond and understanding of each other. He cites the episodes Maternal Instinct and My Brother's Keeper as prime examples.

104 Like every great superhero, Danny Phantom has transcended into the realm of video games. His first outing was a Game Boy Advance adaptation of The Ultimate Enemy, a 2D side-scrolling beat-em-up ordeal.

105 The second was called Danny Phantom: Urban Jungle, which was released for both Game Boy Advance and Nintendo DS and it was a side-scrolling shooter.

106 There was once a Danny Phantom themed ride at the indoor Nickelodeon Universe theme park at the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota. Danny Phantom: Ghost Zone's design was that of an Ali Baba. In other words, it consisted of a stationary horizontal gondola with a 360 degree swinging pendulum. Unfortunately, the rise was taken down in 2015.

107 Danny Phantom ran for three season, from 2004 to 2007. A total of 53 episodes were created for the series. The news of Danny Phantom's cancellation was not well received by the fans at all. The Danny fandom took to the streets of New York City and protested outside of Nickelodeon's building to bring the ghost boy back into production. Unfortunately, to no avail. But thank you. Seriously, thank you.

Ok, guys, thanks so much for watching. Hope you guys enjoyed it, 107 facts about Danny Phantom. Don't forget to like and subscribe to the Frederator Channel.

#yt closed captions kept putting dash's name as - and i thought it was hilarious #and fact 27 is where it all goes downhill #fact 27: it's not a show about ghosts #fact 29: it's a show about ghosts!#if I misspelled any of the names i'm so sorry #there are just so many of them #huh only 106 facts #i wonder what happened to fact 94 #it is a mystery #i was gonna do images too #but they weren't anything special #enjoy your wall of reading voice actor's wiki pages #butch hartman #channel frederator #107 facts #danny phantom #reference

9 notes · View notes

thejinichan · 7 years

Text

Under the Circumstances Ch. 3

It was raining lightly, and the air was hazy with humidity when Yakko finally left work at 11pm. Furiously, he kicked at a crumpled-up tin can on the sidewalk. It barely moved an inch. With 1 more swift thrust of his shoe, it was sent sailing across the road hitting the curb. “Why had I agreed to come in early?” He thought angrily. Feeling bitter, he cursed at himself for thinking that today would be any different than the norm. Any positive thoughts that he had were now far gone from his mind.

The French doors at the entrance of the restaurant had chimed loudly when Yakko arrived early just as his boss instructed. As in typical fashion, Abbey stood stoically by the far side of the bar, checking her watch to make sure he was on time. Putting a hand up to his mouth, the warner did his best to suppress a snicker. “Typical.” He chuckled to himself. If an employee did not show up at least ten minutes early before a shift, Abigail would usually have words to say. She could be such a hard ass sometimes. Yakko always wondered if she was that stiff outside work too. Maybe if she had a drink every now and then with the others at closing she’d loosen up a bit.

Standing on the other side of the bar, and wiping martini glasses, Minerva Mink beckoned Yakko over in a sweet sultry voice, her head cocked down seductively. “Hey Handsome!” Minerva did very well being a bartender, and she used her looks and charm to her advantage. She had been the highest tip earner in the joint for years.

Yakko’s ears twitched from the sound of the mink’s voice. Happy to see a familiar face, he waltzed over to the bar and hopped up on the nearest stool. Leaning over the side of the marble counter, he rested his head on his gloved hands. “How was your day off yesterday gorgeous?”

“I went shopping! Minerva bragged, batting her long eyelashes. “And check out this new necklace I got! Isn’t it pretty?” She pulled down the front of her red shirt, showing an ample amount of cleavage, with a single diamond pendant hanging between her chest.

“Well ain’t that the breast-er, I mean best.” Yakko stammered. Minerva was always flirting with him; she knew how to push his buttons. As attractive as he found her though, she wasn’t his type. Not that it stopped her relentless attempts to seduce him. Minerva enjoyed the game, and just seeing with how far she could take things with him. Yakko didn’t really mind, although he sometimes found it difficult to control himself in the face of such.. ahem, curves. Nevertheless, he had a lot of respect for her. She had been a good friend to both him and his siblings over the years.

The mink tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, smirking playfully. “Glad you like it.” Abruptly, Minerva turned towards the bar to put the glasses she had been cleaning on the shelf. Her golden blonde tail swished up into his face in the process.

It tickled his snout, and a flustered Yakko hastily batted her tail away while rubbing his nose. “You don’t know when to give up do you?”

“I can’t help it.” She cooed. “It ain’t easy being me.”

“So you remind me, almost every other day.” Yakko said sarcastically with a raised brow. “I gotta clock in though, save me a bubbly one for later eh? If there’s anything left after the big bash that is.” Yakko eyed his boss from the side as she gave him a disgruntled look. “Time to boogey.”

“Will do Mr Warner.” Minerva winked, blowing him a kiss as he left the dining area, to the kitchen.

Yakko hadn’t even finished buttoning up his vest when Abigail had snuck up behind him. Didn’t this human know what personal space was? He’d considered planting a giant kiss on her face when she was sneaky to throw her off, but he knew that would not fly with her. Humans could be so reserved sometimes. They needed to learn to let things go once in a while.

“Good to see you came in early.” Abbey said in her monotone voice, in probably the closest attempt she’d ever get to a compliment. “We are expecting a full house tonight.”

“And just how are we going to fit a whole house inside this place?” Yakko replied grinning widely, twisting himself around to face his boss. “Unless your planning on doing some remodeling I’m not aware of?”

Just as the toon expected, his boss sighed. How could she manage a restaurant for toons and not be able to handle a joke or two? It was almost sad.

“I should know better by now.” Abbey remarked, pushing her glasses up. “By full house, I mean half the restaurant is booked for a 30th birthday party. For an Erica.”

“So, by nights end, this Erica will be a drunken mess, blubbering about how old she is now and how her life is over.” Yakko leaned up against the lockers and procured a tiny violin between his thumb and index finger. It played in a high-pitched, off key melody.

Abbey’s face twitched in agitation, and she snatched the violin from Yakko’s fingers, breaking It instantly. “Always the comedian, aren’t you?”

Yakko merely raised a brow. “Don’t worry boss, I won’t be throwing no pity party.”

Not much later, Erica’s family began arriving, rushing about and setting décor out. The far side of the restaurant, adjacent to the stage had been cordoned off for the occasion. Atop the stage, sat a large shiny black grand piano. Yakko’s fingers glided over the keys, as he gave it a quick tune before the festivities began. He felt content, listening to the soft melody that rose. Out of any place to be in the restaurant, this had to be his favorite. In those moments, as he sang and played a song, he’d find himself transported to a time when he was truly happy. It was all too easy for Yakko to get lost in moments like those.

The birthday girl had arrived, in all her glory and splendour at 7 on the dot. If Yakko hadn’t known how old she was, he would have never guessed her for 30. Long dark hair, and a foxy smile, in a slinky white dress that hugged her figure in all the right places. She walked gracefully to the head of the table in a pair of silver strappy heals, as the crowd erupted in applause.

Yakko took her by the hand kissed it. “Hellooooo Nurse!” He chimed “And a Happy Birthday to you!”

Erica blushed deeply, and was left speechless by Yakko’s smile. He gently took her hand and led her to the place of honor, a chair adorned with balloons of many colors. As everyone got situated, The Warner leapt up onto the stage and grabbed the microphone.

“Are you guys ready to party?” He exclaimed, raising a gloved fist into the air. Yakko was met with equal enthusiasm by the crowd, as they clapped loudly. “How about another round of applause for the beautiful Erica at the end of the table here?” An even louder applause and a few screams followed his next statement.

Yakko jumped off the stage and hopped over to the birthday girl almost instantly, the way a cartoon character was able to do. He pulled a massive, brightly colored box out of nowhere, slamming it down on the table in front of her. “Go ahead Sweetheart.” He purred. “Just a little something I had prepared for the occasion.”

“Oh Yakko,” She cooed, flipping her long hair. “You’re the best! ” With that, she untied the yellow box on the top of the package and something large and feathery landed on her lap. Startled, she nearly fell out of her seat laughing.

“Just a little birthday pheasant for you babe.” Yakko smirked, while raising an eyebrow.

Erica snorted and grabbed Yakko’s arm, pulling him down into a side hug. “See! I told you guys he’s the funniest!” She tried to hold him tighter as she continued her burst of giggles. Yakko merely played along and smiled. Just as he was locked inside the tight embrace, Minerva slinked over, hips swaying, to where the party was with a silver rolling tray. It was filled to the brim with glasses of red and white wine. Yakko swiped a glass off the cart and gingerly handed it to Erica, who eagerly accepted.

Within the hour, it had gotten so busy that Skippy, along with a few other toons also stepped up to manage the large party. Minerva was running circles between the bar and the table, and the atmosphere became louder with the introduction of alcohol. By now, the birthday girl was a giggly red mess, her eyes squinted shut and cheeks flush. There was a flurry of activity in the kitchen, as the cooks tried to keep up with the orders. Yakko spied Abigail in the corner with an almost pleased look in her eyes. Everyone was having a good time, which meant sales were sure to be beaten. All Yakko could think of was the fact that his wallet was sure to be a bit thicker by nights end. It was worth coming in early after all.

Soon enough, a massive 3 tired white cake was brought out, adorned with little red and black roses. At the top of it was a single sparkling candle, sizzling in the dimness of the dining area. Happy Birthday was sung, and a wobbling Erica attempted to blow out her candles. She missed the first time, but was successful on the second attempt.

More applause. After everyone had had their fill of cake, Yakko approached Erica and held out a hand to her. She had a very dopey smile on her face. “S-see, this guy here?” She stammered. “I, I love this guy.!”

“Well, I’d love it if you would come up front with me!” Yakko smirked. “I have a little song for you.” He helped her from her chair, and as she stood up her legs wobbled. She braced onto Yakko’s arms for support and he led her to the stage, gesturing for her to sit on top the piano.

“Let’s hear it for Erica again!” Yakko’s voice rang into the microphone. “Now I have a little song here, I only sing to the most beautiful girls.” Yakko’s fingers began to glide across the piano in a slow, sultry melody. “This one is especially for you.” He said suavely into the microphone, looking directly into her eyes.

As the guests began to clap and cheer, Yakko began to sing, led by the rhythm of the piano keys.

“She’s the woman, of the year, independent, a career, there’s not a thing that she couldn’t do! Oh she’s alert, she’s aware. She’s got legs like Astaire, and a 157 IQ.”

Erica had slowly squirmed closer, to Yakko as he continued to sing through the song. She was really into it, and even drunkenly attempted to sing alongside him. Much to his dismay, she then asked for “Nations of the World.” Yakko sighed inwardly, and did his best to look enthusiastic while he hummed out the countries. Watching Erica trying to keep up with him was comical enough, though, which helped for him to retain his smile. Erica eventually hobbled back over to her chair and Yakko continued to sing requests from the crowd. In the end, the birthday girl hadn’t end up sobbing about how old she was after all. It had been a drama free night much to Yakko’s delight. The only difficult moment he had was when he tried to say goodbye. Erica had embraced him so tightly he was half tempted to pull a crowbar out to pry himself out of her arms. After chatting with the crowd for a few more moments, he made his way over to the register to tally up the bills with Skippy. Hundreds of dollars had been spent. Yakko’s pupils almost turned into dollar signs.

So when the time came to collect on the bills, it was in fact quite the opposite. For the dozens of people that had been there, once the tips were split it barely totaled 5 bucks for each toon. 4 dollars and some change? After coming in early? After all the money these people had spent? Yakko was in utter disbelief.

Once the guests had left though, and the restaurant had closed, he made every effort to express his dis-satisfaction. “Can you believe these cheapskates?” He stammered, while mopping the floors. “After we ran our asses off all night too.”

Skippy shrugged and busied himself clearing away the tables. “Yeah, it sucks, but whatever, always next time, right?”

Yakko swished the mop back and forth quickly. “I’m so tired of busting my ass, of giving it my all, and what do we get in return? NOTHING.” He slammed the mop into the bucket with his last word, making the murky water in the pail splash upwards and onto his pants. “Poop.” He mumbled quietly to himself.

“What, what did you say?” Skippy asked in confusion.

Before Yakko could answer, the kitchen doors swung open and Abbigail emerged from the back, appearing quite pleased. “I want to thank all of you for your hard work tonight.” Because of your efforts, we had a record night in sales. Great job team!”

Clenching a fist, with his temperature rising, Yakko was just about to lose it when a firm hand on his shoulder halted him. He spied Skippy standing behind him shaking his head. The squirrel was right. It was in his best interests not to say anything.

And that’s how Yakko found himself leaving work feeling defeated, with nothing to show for the extra work he had put in. How would he break it to his sibs? The last thing he wanted was to let them down. His feet dragged against the pavement, aching from standing on them all evening. Not only that, Yakko had been so preoccupied running tables that he didn’t make it out back to see if that cute waitress would be back. “Always next time right?” With a heavy sigh, he moped over to his vespa that was parked on the side of the curb. Just as he was about to put the key in the ignition, the toon heard a familiar voice.

“Yakko!”

Eyes darting to the side, a smile widened across his face when he saw who it was. Yakko was elated to see It was Kori, and she was now walking briskly over to him, her ponytail swishing back and forth. Maybe the night wouldn’t end so badly after all.

“Eyyyyy.” Yakko said cooly, leaning back into his moped. “You like what you see?”

“Nice bike.” She giggled. “You just get off? Wait, of course you did, why did I even ask you such a stupid question. I mean why else would you be standing out here?”

Yakko chuckled. This girl was incredibly awkward, and her rambling was really adorable. It almost made him forget how shitty his evening had been in the process. “Who knows? Maybe I just make a habit of hanging out on street corners, waiting for cuties like you to come around.”

“Now that would just be creepy.” She said with an eyebrow playfully raised. “How was your shift anyways?”

“Craptastic.” He laughed. “And yours?”

“Let’s just say the customers were cheapskates tonight.” She added, crossing her arms in dis-satifaction.

“Did we have the same customers?”

“You too eh?”

They both nodded in unison. Yakko felt somewhat relaxed, talking to someone who understood his frustrations. “Soo um, you on your way home?” He mumbled casually.

“Yeah..I don’t live too far from here thank god.”

“Did you want a lift?”

“aha, really?” She said wide-eyed. “That would be pretty awesome.”

“It’s no big deal at all.” Yakko replied, swinging a leg over the side of his moped. He patted the worn leather seat. “I promise you’ll wheely, wheely like it.”

“PFFT, you are so lame.” She giggled. “So um, you don’t mind?”

“Would I have offered otherwise? Come on, just hop on the back, and hold onto something, preferably my waist. And an address would be helpful too. Or if you want, you could just stay at my place?”

Kori blushed, and rolled her eyes. “And see your stamp collection?”

Yakko’s ears perked up to her response. “Dude you remember that?”

“Of course!” Kori smiled. “One of your best jokes.”

Yakko smiled warmly. This girl remembered a single joke, and never berated him about his songs, or catch phrases. It was really refreshing.

Kori hesitated a moment before hopping onto the bike. The vespa wobbled for a moment as she shifted herself into a more comfortable position.

Yakko tensed up when he felt her arms snake around his midsection. She squirmed to get in closer. As her body made contact with his backside, a shiver went up his spine.

“So where do you live?” Yakko said nervously, scooting forwards in the seat a bit.

“1311 Beatty Street.”

The toon nodded. She didn’t live very far from where he and his siblings resided. Which was a bonus.

“Hold on ok?” Yakko said, sticking the key into the ignition. “And when we turn on the corners, lean in alongside me.”

He pushed off with his foot from the side of the curb, the engine of his moped sputtering in defiance. After a few seconds, it finally gained enough momentum and sped off onto the street. There was hardly any traffic, so he pushed the throttle to it’s max. The engine wailed loudly, and the bike shook wildly as it picked up speed. Not the most comfortable piece of transportation. But maybe one day he’d be able to afford something nicer.

But at that point, the lameness of his vespa did not even matter. He turned tightly on a corner and she locked her arms around him even tighter, burying her face into the back of his vest. Yakko blushed, but did his best to concentrate on the street before him and the wind blowing in his face, whipping his ears backwards. He mentally told himself to focus on the road and not on the good-looking girl who was currently holding onto him as if her life depended on it. Not the easiest task for a Warner.

“Just a few more houses up.” Kori shouted, over the roaring of the engine. Slwoing down, Yakko pulled over alongside a stretch of older homes that had been remodeled into apartments. They looked old and saggy, making his apartment building looking like a palace.

“Home sweet home.” She chimed, as he drove to the side of the curb and coming to a halt. It was eerily quiet once he took the keys out of the ignition.

Kori slowly hopped off the back of the bike, and nodded in thanks. “Thanks so much for the ride.”

“Anytime sweetheart.” The toon winked with a grin.

“Kori?” She corrected him playfully.

“Uhh, I meant to say that.” Yakko laughed. “So, you always walking home from work this late?”

“Pretty much,” Kori said with a shrug. “Not like I can afford a car or anything.” She had a far off look in her eyes, as if she was thinking about something.

“Well..” Yakko mumbled. “If your off at the same time as I am, I’ll give you a lift anytime.”

“Really?” She piped. “That would be awesome!”

“Sure! And if you don’t feel like going home, the offer still stands to come home with me” Yakko said slyly with a raised brow.

“Now your pushing your luck, warner.” She blushed.

Yakko and Kori shared an awkward laugh over the comment.

“Soo umm” Yakko rambled. “I’ve seen to have lost my number?” To get the point across even more, he pretended to check his pockets.

“You lost your number?”

“Yeah, so, can I have yours?”

Kori paused for a moment, her lips cracking into a huge smile. “Smooth, very smooth.”

“Uhhhh well, that way I can text you and see when you need a lift?” Yakko said, trying to defend his motivations on the matter. From the look on her face, it was evident tell she wasn’t buying it.

She pulled a phone out of her pocket, the screen illuminating the freckles on her face. Enthusiastically, Yakko did the same.

“I thought you lost your number.”

“Well lucky for me I found it just in time.” Yakko grinned.

“Wow, how convenient is that?”

“Very.” The toon smirked.

Feeling content, Yakko drove home with a smile plastered on his face, despite the fact that he had managed to make no extra money that night. Getting her number was a score at least right? Just as he was unlocking the door to his apartment, his phone buzzed in his pocket wildly. He swiped open the phone to read the message, and for once it wasn’t from his boss.

Kori: Hey 😊 How you doing??

Eagerly, Yakko punched back a response immediately.

Yakko: Hellooooooo Kori! Miss me already?”

#animaniacs #yakko warner #wakko warner #dot warner #yakko wakko and dot #animania tag

12 notes · View notes

davidfostercomedyblog · 6 years

Text

The Time I Bombed Trying to Open for Peter Frampton

“What happens if nobody laughs?” people ask.

“Nothing,” I tell them. “Literally, nothing happens.” No one is laughing or doing much of anything. Maybe self-loathing personified decides to occasionally kick the weak when he’s down in the form of a heckle or boo, but other than that nothing happens.

Internally, everything is happening. Thoughts race, feelings emerge, issues of anger and/or insecurity come to the forefront or recede deeper into our subconscious, per our choice of response to each varying degree of disappointment. Our feelings likely run the same gamut as those of all human beings off stage in any realization of failure on display. It’s the worst.

Call it what you will: Sucking, tanking, going down in flames, it all means the same thing. Eating my dick, seems to be the latest contemporary slang for a failed set, which I can only speculate refers to its being an awfully pathetic act of self-abuse that each of us least wants to do. Most universally it is known as bombing, another etymology I can only speculate as suggestive of the unanimous death in the room resembling that of a small village after being hit with a bomb. The crowd is “dead” - not in the good way; but devoid of energy, and their lack of joy has returned the favor to the comedian, his ego and confidence. Everyone is checked out and gone, said void filled either with judgment, sympathy or disgust.

Everyone bombs. Every comic you’ve ever seen, as well as just about every bit you’ve ever busted a gut laughing at, has bombed at some point en route to the marriage of its perfection meeting the crowd primed to appreciate it. The construction of a bit, whether long and ranty or a short one liner, is like the evolution of a barber’s haircut drawn out over weeks, months or years in a barber’s chair set on a city sidewalk for people from all walks of life and mentalities to walk by at all different times throughout its development to voice their opinion, as if it were finished. Of course, we’ve all had our hair cut hundreds of times, and thus all are aware that if we see the man with the clippers still looming over a funny looking “do,” there is still work to be done; whereas comics don’t get such a pass. Every audience assumes and expects, understandably, that they are receiving a finished product. I paid to see a show.Give me “your show.” Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. Wedo not work like that. It’d be nice if we could – trust that we wish as much as you do for our bits to be completed fresh off the notebook. But a bit is not a bit until it’s been worked out many times in experimentation of how it impacts others. Like skateboarders have to try new and increasingly difficult tricks to become great, we must constantly work out new material, often crashing and burning, breaking our pride, dislocating our energies, getting bruised in the process. So while all art forms are attempting to connect and create a dynamic with its recipients, ours is one where immediate connection wholly defines it. We have to see and feel how it is received, and then based on the quantity and quality of the people in that room we can begin to determine how we can improve. It is a long term, polygamous relationship in which you probably only get to fuck us once. Sorry. We’re whores; whores who are required to be always adding to our repertoire if we wish to grow.

For all intents and purposes, each crowd as they exist takes on the mindset of one individual. A blind date, if you will. Some start awkwardly, but turn great once the ice is broken. Others start wonderfully but hit a mutual wall of disappointment that leaves both parties considering removing their online dating profiles as soon as they get home. Some dates are downright awful the whole time, some are so good they lead to the bedroom that night, and/or to the altar eventually.

For a new/young comic, bombs feel pretty similar to what laypeople might imagine them to (this is logical, as the brand new comic is still very much a layperson). It’s humiliating, with every joke being thrown out more desperately from their heels like Apollo Creed going inevitably down in flames against the Russian. Like a rookie baseball player in the first week of the season who is so far 1/10, his sample size is still minute. He boasts an embarrassing .100 average, which over a full year would get anyone sent down to the minors. What’s important to keep in mind is there are still 25 weeks left in the season.

The veteran comic, by contrast, has had between 5-10,000 at bats. Sure, he’s struck out, popped out, and hit into double plays nearly 2,000 times, but he’s batting .800 career, for Christ’s sake. He’s good. He knows he’s good, and everyone in “the league” who’s been around for any respectable amount of time knows he is never in danger of being sent down to the minors. He is mostly unfazed by your silence, comfortable in taking his time to think how best to respond to your heckles. Laughter need not come tonight, as it has already come countless times before, and is sure to come again tomorrow or the next night. So, although bad sets still exist as disappointing missed opportunities to connect and enjoy, they eventually taste, digest, and come out the other side much differently through a vessel of greater information, confidence and awareness. Blame, if it exists at all, turns more outward than inward, and the significance of each set diminishes as it becomes a smaller mathematical part of his lifetime batting average.

We never saw Jerry have a great set on Seinfeld. We heard about great sets and could assume they made up the majority of his track record, as his character was a professional comedian who’d appeared on The Tonight Show. Surely this was no amateur; but he and Larry David both knew that if a live set was to appear in an episode it had to go poorly, because failure is funny.

Watch any sitcom, movie, or any comic on stage. Misfortune and disappointment are the integral themes of every joke, as everyone knows there is no humor in great wealth, good looks, a level-headed peace of mind, or getting the girl, performing immaculately in bed and manifesting the perfect marriage. The only thing funny about that is how apparently unrealistic it is for most. This calls back to the reality that there is nothing at all ironic about comedians’ ultimate embrace of misery or symptoms of depression. Spare us the praise for “finding the humor in bad situations,” as bad situations are the actually the only places to find humor, and there is also a part of us that loves to laugh at the suffering of others.

Unfortunately, my mother and cousin were present for one of the most explosive bombs of my career. I’d gotten booked for a $500 feature spot at a theater in Englewood, Jersey, an unheard of gig for such a young comic. What was the catch?

“The catch,” which was not intentional, was that I was opening for a nationally famous musician who I was apparently a jerk for having never heard of: Peter Frampton, a legend in many circles, one of which would surely fill the theater, a demographic of mostly blue-collared, middle-aged, white biker types from middle and southern New Jersey. Guys whose middle school manifestations hated mine for being an honors class pussy with parents who loved him. Guys whose adult manifestations hated mine for being a hip hop, wanna-be, dumb “wigger.” It was quite possible I was not the right man for this job.

I researched Frampton before the show and became acutely aware that I couldn’t do the same jokes I’d been doing in the Bronx. Still in only my embryonic stage of development, I felt a bit dishonest telling the booker that 20 minutes would be “no problem.” I figured it might be a stretch and/or problem, but my 26-year old brain existed mostly between an admirable confidence and delusional arrogance that I could do anything, at least on one given night. Any given Sunday, as they say,not to mention that no comedian is ever going to turn down a challenge or money, let alone a coincidence of the two. And it wasa Sunday! As Mom and cousin were coming from opposite directions than I from the city, the plan was to meet after my set and go out for dinner to celebrate (mourn).

I waited alone backstage, Frampton nowhere in sight. I wore the only outfit I owned that didn’t obviously scream Hip Hop. A removal of my crooked baseball cap, slightly less baggy jeans, and a sweater instead of a hoody, although it was still Polo, with sleeves longer than my arms, much baggier than anything anyone in the building had ever owned in their life, truly a pathetic attempt. I looked like a white guy trying to look black trying to look white.

A disturbing calm came over me just before preparing to go on stage. While excessive nerves should be tamed with positive thought, breathing or whatever works for you, a complete absence of nerves is never a good sign either. A healthy amount of adrenaline beforehand is more than just normal, but almost necessary to do well. Personally, I’ve never had a good set drunk, as alcohol induces a very organic physiological apathy, which in spite of wanting to care very much, makes it impossible to connect with one’s listeners. On the other hand, the experience of nerves mean you care enough to calculate, think on your toes, and ironically, that you believe you can do it. In hindsight of my Frampton experience, I may have been intuitively precognitive that this was all wrong, and beyond some unforeseeable miracle there was no way it could go well.

The external situation was poorly set to boot. The crowd filling the venue was not made aware of any opening comedian. Stand-up is a relationship, and like any good relationship requires active listening, a different frequency and demand than music, which can be more passive and discontinuous. Inexperienced show producers classically make this mistake. They want to mesh two of their favorite things, comedy and music, in hopes of the result being greater than the sum of its parts. Sadly, this usually works about as well as George Costanza’s attempt to combine sex with watching sports and eating his favorite sandwich. Add to that the fact that the crowd was geared up for one of their very faves of all time, and Unknown Joke-teller is given a steep hill to climb.

As I stood behind the curtains with the stage director dividing his time and manic energy between whoever was giving direction into his headphones and tending to me, coordination seemed disheveled. I knew I’d be going on soon, but figured it would be after some kind of introduction to a dark room of seated people.

The house lights were still on. People were filing into their seats and there was no host or announcement over any speaker, when suddenly the stage director nudged my shoulder: “Go, go, you gotta go!”

“Right now? Just go and… What?”

“Yes!” he panicked. “We gotta get you off by 8:20, go!”

Little did he know this set wouldn’t make it anywhere close to 8:20.

I felt as naked and alone on the stage as laypeople imagine we feel.

“Hey, hey,” I weakly greeted them with the assertiveness of the guy who knows he has no chance with the girl.

“Take your seats, everyone.” I felt compelled to instruct them to where I desperately wished they already were.

God, the room was bright, and I could see them all. As nobody knew as much, and I didn’t know any better creatively, I dutifully informed them: “I am… a comedian – just here to tell you some… jokes, before the great, Peter Frampton comes out.”

A lone cheer in the distance for Frampton… people were still filing in. It’s never a good sign when you feel the need to practically apologize for your presence on stage or explain what you’ll be doing.“

“Take your seats, take your seats,”I continued.

I had nothing. No segue, no idea of where to begin, not an ounce of confidence in my pubescent well of material or the experience to improvise through such unexplored terrain. It was unlike any setting I’d yet been thrust into, and as feared, I was unqualified for the job.

I tried a since retired mediocre joke and got nothing. I tried two or three more of the same and got even less. Most of my stronger bits were geared more to the Bronx and urban crowds, and I hadn’t yet really learned how to write more universal material. As the lights finally went out in the house, the proverbial lights were going out on my set. Three strikes on stage are usually enough to acknowledge that you’re out.

“Alright,” I acknowledged the elephant in the room: “you guys obviously weren’t feeling those jokes…”

It was awful. I was rapidly dying, and like that quick realization of being physically overmatched in a fight, I had no idea how to get out of the stranglehold. I’ve got nothing for these people.

Disdain is as contagious as laughter, and the sentiment in the room became quickly unanimous. I can’t recall whether the first boo or heckle came first, but one surely immediately followed the other. It is rare for most humans to mature much past mob mentality, so once the green light is given for any animalistic behavior, it tends to snowball. It couldn’t have been much past 8:10 when the theater-filled boo’s looked and sounded no different than the notoriously disapproving Apollo Theater. They grew louder and more expansive. Finally someone started the perfectly two-syllabled “Frampton” chant, and although I had not yet been given the official signal to exit, this Monty Python-esq tirade was clearly demanding my time was up.

I thought of the show bookers sitting in the crowd. I thought again of my mom and cousin, and wondered where in the crowd they were sitting. Might they have been seated next to one of the loudest, most vicious hecklers in the room? Might they have beenthe loudest, most vicious hecklers in the room?

“Frampton” chants poured down like rotten tomatoes, and finally I couldn’t help but laugh at the scenario (at least one of us could amuse the other). Although I don’t remember myself ever booing someone off stage, I surely have silently done so in my mind, and been “that guy” in the stadium at sports events and had a blast every time. I knew the show was a bad situation to begin with, and the blame wasn’t entirely mine. I felt okay. However, as soon as I decided to hopelessly join in the “Frampton” chant into the mic, I knew my time was up.

I exited just before 8:15. The stage manager offered me a pat on the shoulder and an apology, handing me the least deserved $500 I’ve ever been given in my life. In fairness, there would be literally thousands more instances I’d earn $20 or even $0 in exchange for performances worth at least $500. Like accidental squibbed base hits in baseball, the good luck balances out with how often we get shafted.

I went backstage and quickly grabbed my things. Frampton wasn’t there, thank God. I’ve never so badly wanted to avoid meeting a celebrity. Is he even here yet? Who cares…

I snuck out the backdoor, praying not to see anyone who’d been in the theater. I wished I could change back into Clark Kent (or backinto Superman). Suddenly, I was 17-years old again, attempting to dart stealthily away from a wall I’d just covered in graffiti. My walk transformed into a scamper to go meet my mommy.

I heard a voice in the quiet suburban distance, a man outside the theater on his cell phone: “No, yeah, he still hasn’t gone on yet. Some comedian...” A pause, then a chuckle: “Poor. Very, very poor.” Of course I believed him, and felt bad about myself.

I called Mom and told her to leave – that I would not meet them in the lobby per the original plan. She understood. We sat down in the restaurant and Mom looked at me: “Those people were horrible! So rude! I’ve never seen anything like that!”Moms are the best.

I never heard from the booking company again. I think they shortly thereafter folded tent on the showbiz pursuit, returning back to the more stable world of high finance, their original trade. Is it possible my brightly lit expiration drained all of their hopes for success or belief in ability to spot talent, and I’d single-handedly shut down an entire company in just 15 minutes of bad jokes?

Although I’d been “wrongly cast” and the situation was poor, it left an awfully sour taste in my mouth. In typical human fashion, I chose to transform my inner sadness around it into outward anger and labeled the experience as (all) white people prejudging me, which caused me to hate them in return. I made the decision that my humor was not for white crowds, as they could not appreciate or understand me, in spite of the fact that this was a very specific kind of white crowd and I’d still only boasted a microscopic sample size. Apparently I learned how easily one can become racist: No more than a pinch of experience and a dash of maturity with a huge helping of rejection, and the broad strokes flow in excess. The fact is I’d just been a newbie in way over my head, still without the tools or experience to handle the curve balls, obstacles, and bullshit that come to comedians on a regular basis. As we finished our Chinese food and drove from the suburbs of Englewood, New Jersey over the bridge into Washington Heights where I lived, I thought it to be symbolic. I was back home, back amongst “my people,” ironically I suppose. I was done with suburban, white shows. I just didn’t want to feel that way anymore.

Sorry, Pete.

#peter frampton #comedy bomb #stand up comedy

0 notes

axolotiels · 8 years

Text

Kick in the Head Ch. 1

Chapter 1 of Kick in the Head is posted! I’ll try to update at least once every two weeks but I’ll shoot for weekly. I hope you like it!

Wheatley hadn't known that he'd had a sleep mode until he was stuck up here. In the facility, he'd always been awake and doing something. Most of the time, the 'something' was being done incorrectly, but the point still stood that he'd never felt unoccupied in his surroundings, even strapped to the management rail. But now that he knew he had it, it was the only good thing about being here.

He missed Aperture. Well, perhaps that wasn't completely true. He missed aspects of Aperture. He missed knowing where everything was, he missed having walls around him instead of this soundless black abyss, he missed talking at other cores that had some semblance of cognitive ability. He even missed having a purpose for those brief few hours when he tried to help that walking human fire-hazard to escape. The fractured little core tried not to think about her anymore; he'd thought about her enough as it was, and he'd thought the same things as least two times each, which was more than plenty, and now he was sick of thinking.

If there was one thing that Wheatley could safely say he was ‘good’ at (Other than messing things to hell and back) it was blocking out things that he didn’t like. He never had the heart to delete anything that displeased him, not on purpose. What if he needed it later? Because as far as Wheatley was concerned, even when staring electronic death straight in the eye and the overwhelming evidence that dictated otherwise, that someday there would indeed be a ‘later’. That was one of the many reasons that he did not keep track of the time. Keeping track of how much time had passed would make him go insane and drive points that he did not want to hear straight into his little core processor.

In the orbit of the Earth, he thought, was not the worst place to be but certainly the most boring, especially when one had no limbs. He wasn’t exactly sure what he would be able to do with limbs, should he have them, but he figured it would be a bit more interesting that twirling slowly in a circle for day upon day. He’d be able to block his damaged optic from the garish rays of the sun if he had arms or hands.

Wheatley, in space, was beginning to hate a lot of things. His optic was already damaged and he couldn’t see as well as he once could, so the sun blinding him, even momentarily, was salt to the metaphorical wound. Needless to say, he hated the sun now as well. Besides the sun, he hated the quiet. At least there were ambient noises back in Aperture, like the odd bird that had somehow found its way underground or the creaking that the walls made after the potato plants got a little out of hand. But even mildly spooky noises were better than no noise at all; the core couldn’t even hear his own processors or cooling fans whirring out here.

There were only so many things that Wheatley was able to do in the day, but since he’d found sleep mode, it was more like quick breaks between long sessions of hibernation. He didn’t like counting things, which got tiresome after a while of counting stars and then losing count after the three-thousand mark, and he didn’t have anybody to talk to. Not anybody he wanted to talk to anyway; he’d muted the Space-core’s transmission signal a long time ago. They were in space after all, so if he was talking, the sound wouldn’t carry. The only reason he ‘heard’ the mad little core’s ramblings was that he’d kept his local communication channel open.

The other thing that he could do was browse through his files; he was surprised at how many programs he had that he never ran, or would never be able to run, now that he was up here. Things like the flashlight application still worked but served no purpose. Once he turned it on and, for whatever reason, was quite startled when the light didn’t reach any surface and just kept careening through space. He now kept the flashlight application in a folder called ‘Delete Later Maybe I Dunno’ along with a myriad of other things that were mostly memories but also sometimes impulsive thoughts and the odd program that he was too afraid to open. For instance, things like ‘Venn Diagram Generator’ was one of the more boring sounding names, but then there were EXE files called things like ‘Tooth-Fairy.exe’, and he did not like the sound of that at all.

But that was beside the point. Wheatley amazed himself, if only a little, at the amount of junk files he had tucked away in the most odd corners of his hard-drive. There were files that served a purpose but were not used, files that once did something but had become corrupted, and files that were empty but still sat there taking up space even when they had nothing in them.

Wheatley had just managed to sweep a couple of these empty junk files out of his communication center; he could actually delete those without a second thought. Cleaning house in my own head. Body? I’m kind of just a head, aren’t I? He thought idly as he turned to the right, the blue, green, and white sphere of the earth at the edge of his blurry vision.

Now that most of the empty trash files were gone, he saw a few things that he was sure he had seen before but neglected to think they were important, and therefore did not keep them in his ‘easy-access’ memory. One of the things was a communication channel manager. The other was a file called ‘How To Use the CC Manager’.

So he opened the program file. Had it been displayed on a screen rather than inside his mechanical mind, it could be seen that there were two tabs: local communication and radio communication. Wheatley shot a sidelong glance in the direction that the Space-core had been last, and found that he’d spun around a couple of times but was apparently still kicking and excited to be above earth’s atmosphere. He did not open the channel to find out.

Something that did catch his interest was under the radio communication tab; it was a handful of dead channels that had error codes spliced into their titles and two open channels. One of them, entitled “Pirate Station Sinatra”, sounded interesting enough on its own merit; it didn’t occur to the core that anything that was publically labeled ‘pirate’, ‘black-market’, or ‘100% organic’ was probably not illegal or 100% pure anything. The other channel provided a more immediate interest to him, however. Michigan Relay Tower 48? If he had said it out loud, it would have sounded skeptical. And cautiously optimistic, but Wheatley was very guarded in his optimism. The channels weren’t flickering, even when he refreshed the application just to make sure. His shutters opened in disbelief, his upper handle raising. This had been here the whole time, the whole god-forsaken time, and he was just stupid enough to have overlooked it on multiple occasions.

Not one to voluntarily or consciously dwell on the past, he began to nervously debate on opening the relay station. Instead of doing that, he stalled himself by opening Pirate Station Sinatra, hoping for maybe some interesting Morse code or maybe a talk show that was midway through. He couldn’t remember up front whether or not he had liked stand-up comedians but he felt that hearing another voice that wasn’t just a recording would do him a little bit of good, and he wouldn’t have objected to stand up even if it was chock full of unfunny jokes and bits that droned on for more than ten minutes, which it often was.

Pirate Station Sinatra proved to be a radio broadcast of what else: songs sung by or including Frank Sinatra. Upon further inspection, even that was a lie, as not every song had Frank Sinatra in it. It was probably more of an era generalization than anything. He was little disappointed but nonetheless glad for a change of pace. He was able to triangulate the signal’s source and found that it was based somewhere in the upper-middle of the US. However nice the song was as compared to the deafening silence of the vacuum of space, the other station was still on the edge of his mind, as well it should have been.

Wheatley jerked his optic toward the Earth, almost as if he thought that it wasn’t there, even if it was sending signals that were powerful enough to reach space. He didn’t want to entertain any questions; little naggy inquiries and statements like ‘what could happen?’ and ‘this could end very badly, but I’m not sure how’ threatened to surface, but he pushed them down, focusing on Michigan Relay Tower 48.

Taking a metaphorical deep breath, the personality core opened the relay channel and waited for the standard connection beeps. He counted them down, One… two… three.

You have been connected to-

Unfortunately enough for Wheatley, he did not pause to listen to wherever the relay was being hosted from. Instead, he immediately began yammering at light-speed into the channel.

“Hello? Hello, is anyone there? I need help! I’m in space, I’m caught in space, I promise I’m not an alien. But-but I am in space! I got sucked out here by some mental patient with a portal device, I’ve been here for… for God knows how long, but please! Something, a-anything!”

There was a silence that was filled with soft static, as if someone was holding the transmission button but not speaking into the microphone. When someone did speak, however, he wished that the static would have continued so that he could put down the relay system forever.

“Oh my god, it’s you.” The amount of concentrated hatred and contempt that rippled through the channel almost melted the paint from his hull. It was almost like he had two garish yellow lights burning him now: one that was very deadly but ultimately harmless, and another that was very deadly and knew she was deadly, but at the same time couldn’t catch him in her vicious claws.

Wheatley sat in space, afraid to reply, afraid to close the channel, afraid to even move. The blue light in his optic had retracted tremendously so that it was barely there. “Of course it would be Her. Why wouldn’t it be Her? Of course, I couldn’t stay resigned to my bloody fate, oh no, but why did it have to be Her?” He thought, but unfortunately, this was a thought that was broadcasted aloud.

“I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.” She sounded almost exasperated.“You’d think you would have gotten a bit less impulsive after such a long meditative experience in space, wouldn’t you, metal ball?”

Wheatley was visibly shaking now, a couple of his plates clattering against each other. “I… I…”

“Oh calm down, you moron, the worst I could do is shut off the channel.” GLaDOS spat, the static behind her rising with her voice. She paused, but the channel never closed. “Actually…”

“Oh, nonononononono,” Wheatley snapped around a bit and stared at the general direction of Michigan, as though seeing her would somehow stop whatever she was planning. He tried to close the communication channel, only to be met with an error message: the other party is now hosting.

When GLaDOS came back into the call, she sounded almost blissful. "I'm not one to hold a grudge- unlike some morons who happen to be floating in space. After all, I'm a bigger person than that. And I'm willing to overlook all of the dumb, idiotic, awful things that you've done to my facility. That is, if you are."

Stunned, suspicious, and wishing he could drop dead, Wheatley said nothing.

“I’ll take your stunned and gracious silence as a ‘yes’. Since you’re so good at finding signals after only… oh, about three years of being able to do nothing but sift through your minuscule little brain, I have a bit of trivia for you.”

“I-I’ll bargain, I’ll never bother you again. I’ll delete the communication channel, delete the execution file. Hell, I’ll even d-delete my memories of you, if you’d like! I would never be able to bother you again!” Wheatley whimpered, attempting to parley in vain. He might as well, it wasn’t like they had anywhere else to go in the conversation.

GLaDOS paid this no mind, her voice cooler than deep space and as smooth as a water-worn rock. “Did you know you don’t actually have to be in the room where the robots scream at you to hear the robots scream at you?”

Her channel closed, another was patched in, and Wheatley was never happier than when he collapsed into sleep mode about two days later.

It was merciful of her to cut off the channel as quickly as she did. As far as GLaDOS was concerned, she could have and should have left the channel open and placed her reception of it on mute. But, along with being distracted by quite a few things, she eventually got tired of keeping the signal going when there were more immediate matters that needed to be taken care of. Besides, ‘spite’ had its place in ‘respite’ after all; she’d get bored if she ran in constantly.

48 hours had passed since she’d patched in Room 939 to the communication relay, which was a much shorter amount of time than the days that had thus far passed without incident. Of course, the moment she looked away things would begin to go haywire. Sometimes she wished the facility wasn’t as big as it was since half of it was still in shambles and being rebuilt; she was enough of an adult to admit that once she’d built the same wall three times before realizing it. But that was neither here nor there, because now she had yet another thing to monitor. It’s not as though it posed any problem to her, but what kind of person would she be if she didn’t at least complain a little bit, even if it was completely fake and barely took half a second to get over?

She didn’t need to oversee it physically, after all; being plugged into the mainframe was like sitting in a chair and inputting code commands into a computer. Only instead of doing one code at a time, 15 were processed every second, some of them redacted, spat out again, then nerfed altogether. She constantly shifted test chambers, collapsed them, completed them and recycled their innards, scraping the metal and tossing out whatever unlucky subjects had managed to spend their final minutes there. Turning at least 20 cameras at a time in at least 20 different directions, making new materials for test chambers, attempting to fill the large gaps beneath Aperture with some form of thick metal rebar… it was all very exhausting. Or, it would be exhausting, provided she had the brain of a field mouse.

Overseeing construction of a facility was the last thing that she wanted near her; never letting anything that she made or did be anywhere near her chamber was standard protocol. Tremors did not pay any attention to her protocol, unfortunately, and when one gave the facility a shake awfully close by, she dropped her little shenanigan and again became suddenly rather annoyed. She didn’t even really have to switch through her cameras, the new ones she had installed outside of the testing tracks and over the catwalks, to know that it was still probably one of the malfunctioning reactor cores. Even over the course of a couple of years the damn things still required a few kicks and some polish in order to work properly.

Usually, she had calculated when it was going to start pitching fits and knew how to at least lessen the impact beforehand through several relay stations that she’d placed nearby. Admittedly, she had been distracted, at least a little bit. And rerouting 939 had, in fact, scrambled a few of her channels. That was her doing and it was for a good cause, so it was no matter now.

At first, when the signal had been relayed, she thought it might have been one of those human nitwits from further up continent that were always taking her towers. She would have been able to pinpoint its source directly if the channel hadn’t opened first and grated her nonexistent ears the moment it had opened.

For a few seconds she’d been shocked and infuriated at the disrespect, at the sheer unmitigated gall that this little idiot had to go and knowingly contact the facility he had scarred and warped and demolished. He’d even left junk files strewn throughout her chassis; ridiculous schematics that were mostly made up of mashing two or more of her already functioning robots together, the most basic of test chambers consisting of only cube and button based testing. She almost wanted to print them out and dump every physical copy into her plethora of incinerators. But she had work to be done, so deleting all of them would do.

She quickly surmised that, while the little idiot did once certainly have the confidence to pull a stunt at least somewhat similar to this, that the panicked screaming indicated that he didn’t know he’d been connected into an Aperture relay tower. It didn’t surprise her, now that she thought about it. On a day such as this, he’d been lucky that there were any radio stations open at all; a storm had passed overhead recently and had knocked quite a few towers. That was the one thing those surface dwelling gremlins were good at: fixing the snapped wires that she couldn’t reach. Michigan Relay Tower 48 was wired directly to Aperture through a sturdy cable that was very well protected anyway, but the other towers that Tower 48 was connected to were standing on their own against the sky, unsheltered. It was fortunate for her that humans needed so much blind white noise.

There was one station that was tolerable for the most part but had a ridiculous name: Pirate Station Sinatra. None of the songs were pirated because nobody who owned the copyright was alive. The music was decent to tolerable, but she didn’t often listen to it. Humans sung about emotions rather than anything practical. She found that she liked the one about uranium alright, but it was still pretty useless seeing as how money was defunct.

The only ones truly interested in the radio were Blue and Orange. She hadn’t meant to let them get ahold of a radio, and supposed that one had been found in one of those scribbled-in wall cubbies. GLaDOS found those everywhere; it seemed that no matter how much of the facility had been reduced to wreckage and how many newer rooms she had rebuilt, new ones would show up. There were no signs of life shown in any of her scans and she didn’t bother to retain any notion of an afterlife for humans. Caroline certainly wasn’t granted one.

But Blue and Orange had indeed found a radio and had since managed to dial it to several radio stations. Most of them were static and connected to Aperture, but when they got high enough up in the facility, they could access Pirate Station Sinatra. Orange really seemed to like it the most of the two while Blue merely entertained her little simulated happiness.

GLaDOS scratched her metaphorical chin as her thoughts drifted partway to her little test gremlins. Perhaps they could monitor the radio channels while she repaired the reactor core. Again. She was more than capable of doing it herself but those tremors were getting too close to her chamber.

She connected to the intercom, not bothering to locate them. “Blue, Orange, return to the nearest disassembler. You’re being called up. I have someone I’d like you to watch for me.”

#portal #portal 2 #GLaDOS #Wheatley #Atlas #P-Body #Kick in the head #jinx writes

23 notes · View notes

blschaos3000-blog · 4 years

Text

It is 1:43 pm hot/summer/torando sirens

Welcome to “8 Questions with…..”

I met our next guest,writer and author Darnell Cureton around two years ago at a blogging party. A blogging party is hosted by a person and you are encouraged to come by and read other blogs and share your own. I popped on Darnell’s blog and and was blown away with his writing talent. I hit the “Follow”button and during the course of the weeks after doing so,I started reading Darnell’s writing and commenting. Soon we started commenting and supporting each other’s work. Its always a joy to see a good friend achieve a hard earned goal and I was some happy to find out that Darnell’s work was being published in a magazine which is no mean feat. I have many very talented writer friends who have yet to achieve that so this should tell you just how good of a writer Darnell really is. His latest short story “Life Changes” is one of the most unnerving mix of sci-fi/horror I have read in a good long time and I highly recommend it. Darnell has a interesting series on his blog called “Diary of a Bad Writer” in which you can get a idea of what a working writer goes through in sharping a new story,character or just sitting down and WRITING. This series has encouraged me when I find myself sitting and unfocused,I find myself re-reading Darnell’s tips and ideas on how to just start WRITING. I really hope you enjoy meeting one of the kindest and most talented artists I know….as I ask my friend Darnell Cureton his 8 Questions……

Please introduce yourself and tell us about your current WIP.

Hello everyone. My name is Darnell Cureton. I’m a blogger and writing coach. My blog features writing encouragement in a post I call the diary of a bad writer. It’s a play on words that I use to get readers to stop by. I provide writing tips and talk about personal experiences with writing in a three to five line format. I also write fiction. My stories are about 1,500 to 3,500 words long. That’s works out to something like a 10-minute to 25-minute story to read in various genres. My latest story is called “LIFE CHANGE.” It’s part science fiction, part fantasy, about a woman on a date. She is so paranoid about someone putting something in her drink that she doesn’t see what the real threat is. I had fun writing it and I encourage all to read it. It has a nice twist at the end.

How have you been handling the pandemic? What have you been doing to stay active?

I am considered essential personnel on two jobs so I’ve been steadily working through the pandemic. It has taken a toll on me as I have to gear up daily with personal protective equipment including gloves, masks, hand sanitizers, and disinfecting surface wipes. Covid-19 has affected my writing as well. I have ideas for short stories but getting them on paper is slow. It’s not writer’s block. It’s more like losing the desire to write because of the depressing current events happening worldwide. I’ve discovered this is happening to other authors in our community so I’m not alone. To continue actively writing, I pen a paragraph or two to take the pressure off creating, then stop to do something else. After a couple of days, I’ll resume with fresh eyes and write a little more. Since I’m out and about, I listen to audiobooks throughout the day and stream movies like everyone else. I keep in touch with family and friends using video and text. It’s the new way.

What was growing up in the Cureton house like? What are three of your favorite moments growing up?

Growing up in the Cureton household was for me… pretty much vanilla. My parents were old school, meaning they handled family matters between themselves. Seldom did they raise their voices at each other or me. When times were hard, I never knew. I always had 3 meals a day and a stable roof over my head. By age 10 I had my own room, a huge tube black and white tv, and a 3 tier electric Ho scale race car track in my room that my dad set up on a table made just for it. I walked a half-mile to school and back home… alone. There was no need for protection in numbers. I could stay out on Saturday all day without checking in. Nobody thought twice about where I was or what I was doing. It was a different world back then. For me, it was all vanilla and no drama. Favorite moments were:

(1) When I got to choose the movie we would go out to see as a family. I, of course, would pick a horror flick with Christopher Lee doing his Dracula thing. Another time I remember asking to see Night Of The Living Dead…and they took me! Scared the hell out of me but they gave me the victory of seeing it.

(2) My dad buying me a red Schwinn 5 speed bicycle. It had a skinny front wheel and a fat rear one that resembled a dragster. I was the only kid on the block with one.

(3) I had asthma as a child so when I asked for a pet the answer was always no. To my surprise, one day I came home from school and there was a pup staring at me when I walked in the door. It was a mixed breed German Shepherd and Great Dane. That dog grew bigger than me and provided me with some of the happiest moments of my life.

When did you get the writing bug? Who encouraged you to start writing and how did they do so?

I got the writing bug by accident. A friend of mine was performing standup comedy at a local club. I wanted to support him so I show up wearing a dress shirt, pants, tie, and polished shoes. I stood out like a sore thumb! All around me were a sea of twenty something’s dressed casual in denim shirts, jeans, and Timberland boots. It didn’t help when a comedian (not my friend) saw me and called me pops! I was 25 years behind the bar scene! The experience was laughable, so I got the idea to post it on Face Book. I later decided I wanted to provide details, so I created an account on WattPad, the writing platform used to create your own stories. Well, I wrote about the experience and posted it there. Only friends I told about it read it. It was bad writing, but I’ve been hooked ever since. I told a childhood friend of mine that I wanted to write, and he’s been supporting me along with the WordPress community since that day.

What do you enjoy most about the writing process? Can you walk us through what your routine is when you write? How many hours a week do you write?

I like dialogue. Giving my characters a conversation that sounds real makes the story come to life. The main thing is to get the idea or the scene down on paper. It’s okay at this point to have typos, too many – he said… then she said… or using the word LIKE 4 times in 1 sentence. Once I get the idea on paper, I can go back and clean up the mistakes and dialogue. How much time I write varies. Covid-19 changed much of my writing habits. In general I write when an idea is fresh in my mind. I pen those thoughts as soon as I can. Sometimes inspiration comes at a time when I should be doing something else. When that happens I get out my phone recorder and I dictate the idea or scene so I don’t forget when I get back to writing. I’ve learned from experience to write down the idea or voice record it because 2 hours later I won’t remember a damn thing about that scene or idea.

Tell us about your blog. When did you start it and how has it helped you in your writing?

I started my blog back in 2014. It was called “Writing Block,” but I didn’t do much with it. In fact, I only had two postings that year and two followers. Sometime in 2018, I decided to add content and post 3 or 4 times a month. I didn’t think “Writing Block” had enough content so I also blogged about favorite movies, books, and TV shows. That stuff was mostly filler. With experience under my belt, I’ve learned how to dedicate the entire blog to writing original fiction and providing writing encouragement. With that dedication, came the blog name “Fictionista.” The website helps me with my writing by keeping me focused on writing. The diary postings are for me as well as other writers. I follow my own advice and project the message – “just keep writing.”

What is it like telling folks you are a published author? How do you handle it when you get a rejection letter from a story you sent in?

Telling people that you are an author is a wonderful feeling. It means that you have written something that a company wants to share with the world. When my first short story was published, I did a happy dance that would make NFL players envious! Rejection letters have the opposite effect. They can make you angry, depressed, and withdrawn. They can make you stop writing altogether. The thing to keep in mind is a rejection means the publisher doesn’t want to use what you wrote. It doesn’t mean that the work is bad. I received my first rejection letter in January. I plan on sharing it and the story I wrote with readers to show them that sometimes a publisher may not “get” what you wrote, but it doesn’t mean the work is bad. The story and rejection letter will be posted for Halloween since the story has an All Hallow’s Eve – LGBTQ theme.

What are the three most critical elements in writing fiction?

There are a few things but I will focus on three.

First is the PLOT. To keep a reader interested and turning the page they should know what they are reading. If it’s a crime story, establish what the crime is and who is trying to solve it in the first chapter so the reader can identify with the protagonist. Who wants to read a story in which you don’t know why someone is risking their life to save someone you don’t know?

The second is CHARACTERS – The people in your story should be believable types that could live next door to you. The neighbor with the bad tattoo, the obnoxious 10-year old that curses and calls the parents by their first names, or the young blond that goes jogging at night in a bad neighborhood with a colt 45 in a granny pack. Id love to read about any of those people.

Third – DIALOGUE – Conversation between characters should sound real. If my protagonist is defending a homeless person against three aggressors, would he say “hey, homeless people matter guys,” or “the first one touching him losses an arm!” Dialogue matters my friend.

Who are your three favorite writers and what makes them special?

That’s hard to answer but I can tell you who I’m thinking about today. Let’s start with Octavia Butler. She was recognized as the first black woman to write compelling science fiction stories. Her novels mix science fiction with historical fiction and African American themes. If you’ve never read her work, I recommend her novel “Kindred.” It involves time travel and human rights. The next favorite is Stephen King. What I like about him is he can write in various genres, and do it quite well. I’ve read his horror, supernatural fiction, suspense, crime, and science fiction. I’m doing the same with flash fiction. My stories have different genres. I think that gives you the experience to make the best story. Three favorite King stories are “The Mist,” “Carrie,” and Geralds Game.” Last, Michael Connelly. I choose Michael because of the fictional character he created called Harry Bosch. Bosch is a well seasoned Los Angeles homicide detective that is hard working. He has made plenty of enemies and has a teenage daughter that he cares much for. The genre is a crime drama, with police procedurals built-in. Michael Connelly has written 21 novels (to date) with the Bosch character. The first novel with Bosch was “The Black Echo.” Connelly has written Bosch so well that it has become a popular series on Amazon Prime Video. The actor Titus Welliver was cast perfectly as the silvered haired detective that people love and hate. I hope to be able one day to write a character that people know very well, like Bosch, or Batman.

Which three bloggers are your favorites and what do you like about their writing?

Well, you support and encourage me to write and that’s worth a mention, but since you are interviewing me, you are disqualified today, but there is always a next time! I’ll start with Chris Hall. She is a published author that supports and encourages other writers by reading and commenting on their work. She dabbles in different genres including adult fiction. My favorite is fantasy flash fiction on her website. I become immersed in the world she creates and the characters. She can be found at Lunasonline.wordpress.com. In between writing, I visit a blog that I find helpful in managing a healthy lifestyle. Caz, who suffers from a chronic illness, reminds us that our struggles may be invisible, but we are not. I’ve found the information on her website to be useful to everyone. A tip about natural ways to find peace and tranquility comes at a time when the world is stressing us out more than ever. Do you know what mask to use during the coronavirus pandemic? Caz covers that in a post describing various mask types and where to buy them. I look forward to her Frugal Fridays for things on the cheap that I may need. Spare a minute and take a look around her site at Invisiblyme.com. When I return to writing, I follow author Sam Kirk’s blog. He is very good at creating stories using writing prompts. A recent story written by Sam used the second point of view. It generated a lot of comments. Sam took the feedback about the story and improved it with minor editing. Authors doing this show writers to embrace helpful criticism. It will make you and your work stronger. In addition to the creative writing, Sam writes a news related opinion piece that is based on current events. It is written in a way to generate comments. He also has thought-provoking topics in the hashtag category. Find Sam at dailyflabbergast.wordpress.com.

What do you like doing for fun when you’re not writing or avoiding the Covid-19?

I love to grill meats outdoors. In our backyard, I start with burgers and hotdogs then work my way into chicken and pork ribs. My dad taught me to grill them with low heat and high smoke. I finish cooking the meat inside using steam for tenderizing, seasoning for flavor. When tender, I add BBQ sauce hot enough to make the devil ask for water. Homemade potato salad goes on the side. I do this in the summer and winter. I’m a true BBQ carnivore!

The cheetah and I are flying over to listen to you read from your latest flash fiction but we are a day early and now you are stuck playing tour guide. What are we doing?

Well, its summer so I’d invite you over for…guess what? BBQ Chicken and Ribs with homemade potato salad. After we eat, I’d take you on tour to the Prudential Center, home of the New Jersey Devils. If there is no game, we’d get a drink. Most likely a Gray Goose Bump, the drink I made up in my story “Life Change.” Not far from there is the Little Theatre, a landmark adult film movie theater that opened in 1928 and closed in 2018. It’s a piece of history along with Newark Symphony Hall, a very old performing arts center that was the pride of Newark. It had status like The Apollo Theater in New York City. A ten-minute ride will bring us to the Newark Museum, the largest in the state. We’d check out a treasure chest of Buddhist exhibits, science rooms, and planetarium. The Buddha stuff might bore the cheetah, so I figured we’d head over to the City With Out Walls on Crawford street. It has cutting edge artwork created by young contemporary artists living in the city.

My feet are tired so I’m calling it a day, but everyone can find me at:

DarnellCureton.com

Twitter.com/DarnellCureton

Instagram.com/DarnellCureton

I like to thank Darnell for taking the time to sit down and doing this interview with me. In this most uncertain time,it is comforting to know that creative souls like Darnell are still making art for us all. I encourage you to follow his blog,Twitter and InstaGram to keep in the know of what Darnell is creating next.

This is part two of a special series of 8 Questions that I’m doing,please click here to meet Stacey Bryan as she is also pretty important to me and my blog.

If you’re new to the 8 Questions with series…….you can catch up by clicking here and reading over 110 different interviews.

8 Questions with…………..writer Darnell Cureton It is 1:43 pm hot/summer/torando sirens Welcome to "8 Questions with....." I met our next guest,writer and author Darnell Cureton around two years ago at a blogging party.

#8 Questions With #author #BBQ master #cooking #Covid-19 #family #Friendship #interviews #Newark New Jersey #publsihed works #Supportive #Writing

0 notes