#and it always end with von being sandwiched in the middle

[artsycooky13]

Mother's day (+ dad)

[butlerofthecount]

Tagged by (Kind of?): @ducktales-wco-oo and @gamblealife

Tagging: @tuesdayscanons​, @ketchupblood​, @airborne-disaster​, @listofevilinventions​, @darkwiing​, @pick-and-shovel-laborer​, and whoever else wants to!

Regular - Dextrius | Bold - Goosewing | Italics - Dexter

Dextrius

Goosewing

Dexter

layer one : the outside

Name -   Count (Dextrious) Duckula, Ludwig Von Goosewing, Count (Dexter) Duckula Eye colour - Crimson, Puke Green-Yellow, Obsidian Hair style / colour -  Black with purple streaks; fashioned with a fire motif in mind (Might as well have himself look hot, right?), Short and messy white, Medium-short raven hair that is nicely parted at the middle, yet some of the strands are uneven compared to other strands. Height -  4′7″, 4′8 1/2″, 4′7″ Clothing style - A stylized formal suit with some jewelry to complete the look. Flames are also visible on his cloak, though they aren’t real, just a part of the design. He prefers a classy bright violet and is proud of it. | Some undergarments like an undershirt and boxers with a heart pattern on them, pants, a vest, scarlet bow tie, spats on loafers, and a deerskin coat and hat to complete his attire. | A simple black suit jacket over a button up shirt with a red bow tie and a lavender cloak that reaches the floor. Best physical feature - Beak, arms, and chest. His small fangs can be seen as attractive, but also misleading for some of his more vampire traits, like how his arms may seem wimpy but have more to them than just their looks. What doesn’t disappoint is his chest however, as he does try to stay fit for his own satisfaction. | Chest and abdomen, as he is probably the most vulnerable there. Tries to stay clean and soft for the ladies. | Eyes, beak, and hands, for how gentle and smooth they feel, especially the last two.

layer two : the inside

Fears - Looking bad in front of a crowd, not being able to fulfill his dream of being a star, losing anything that he has gained at this point, Being alone, dying, and holy men and their items. | Not honoring his family lineage, going against his parent’s wishes, physically unpleasing people (to look at), old age, his insecurities, and being embarrassed. | Meat, Flesh, Blood, anything related to animals and their insides, terrible people, being used or abused by others, giant vegetable monsters, death in general, pain, confrontations with those much larger or heavier than him, and true vampries. Guilty pleasure -  Playing video games, interacting with the villagers in casual chats, much to Igor’s dismay, going out partying and clubbing (He’s been through some things), and exercising. | Having conversations with his imaginary partner, Heinrich, using technology to date and mingle with others, Tries to attend the Vampire Hunter’s convention but usually gets denied, and his drinking problems. | Gambling and playing cards, trying to pretty up his hair and attire, keeping his feathers well plumed, and writing songs. Biggest pet peeve - Being given orders or bossed around | Being seen as a laughingstock or a lolcow. | Not being taken as seriously as he wants to be, despite his appearance. Ambitions for the future - Wants to be the most well recognized person in the world, no, in reality. He seeks the best, as he only deserves the best. | To avenge his parents’ death and rid the world of all vampires, while also continuing his bloodline. | To live his life the way he wants to, not how Igor desires. 

layer three : thoughts

First thoughts upon waking up: - “So what’s the plan for today? Making a ruckus, plastering my luxurious face in several cities? Ah, I’ll think of something, I always do!” | “Eh heh, I hope dat my bed doesn’t need repairing again.” | “Ah! I better turn off the alarm clock before Nanny arrives!” What you think about most: - “What can I do to make myself the best, the most fantastic, the one that never winces from danger?” | “Duckula, you fiend, I will get you, and when I do, your end will be assured!!” | “Hm... I’m not sure what I think about most. Is it broccoli sandwiches? Or looking good? Hrm...” What you think about before bed: - “Ah, another plan foiled yet again. Oh well, better try again tomorrow!” | “I wonder what I might find in my dreams? Hopefully I’ll get an idea from dere...” | “Hopefully no one tries to make a rustle while I’m asleep. Don’t need to lose any more sleep than I already have.”

I wonder if: - “I wonder if anyone... really likes me for who I am?” | “I wonder if what I am doing is going to end the terror?” | “I wonder if there will be a day when Igor gives up his griping?”

What your best quality is: -  Charismatic! | Honor! | Kindness!

layer four : what’s better ?

Single or group dates - Group | Group | Single To be loved or respected - Loved | Respected | Respected Beauty or brains - Beauty (But he’s no slouch on brains) | Brains (But he wants beautiful partners) | Both (As he respects someone for who they are.) Dogs or cats - Dogs (Doesn’t mind Towser at all.) | Dogs (Cats just don’t like him and his way of life.) | Cats (He loves to pet them and they love to rest on his lap.)

layer five : do you…

Lie -  For certain | Only when forced to or to further his plans | Tries not to but has Believe in yourself - Without a doubt! Well, maybe one | Confidence drives his soul | Sometimes. Believe in love - Craves it! | Surely! | Yes. Want someone - They all do, just for their own reasons. Dexter’s the least yearning of one.

layer six : ever been …

Been on stage: - So many times | Once or twice | A couple of times Done drugs: - It’s safe to say yes, he’s done some, but it’s not like they’ve really affected him (Thanks to his supernatural tolerance) | No, besides alcohol and tobacco | He hasn’t really yet, but if he did, he’d have less tolerance compared to Dextrius Changed who you were to fit in: - He’s tried to adapt but for all of his attempts, he just can’t change who he really is. | He’s not willing to really change for others as he likes who he is and doesn’t feel like changing until his goals are complete. | Whether it’s to his life as a marshall or as a space bounty hunter, Dexter changes to try and make something different of himself from the rest of his bloodline. To be better than them.

layer seven : favorites

Favourite color - Red-Violet | Goldenrod | Emerald Green Favourite animal - Werewolves | Dogs | cats Favourite movie - Vines (Meme-craving pity duck) | Hasn’t seen any movies | Top Gun Favourite game - DarkStalkers: The Night Warriors | Doesn’t have any but Castlevania might be an interest | Red Dead Redemption (needs some place to get electricity for it though.)

layer eight : age

Day your next birthday will be -  October 23rd | April 8th | October 23rd How old will you be -, 35 or 879 | 67 | 45 or 889 Age you lost your virginity - For all of the silly stuff he’s done while at parties, he hasn’t lost it yet. He doesn’t know why, but it might have something to do with his fangs and him being a vampire... Or just unsatisfying to have “fun” with. | Oh, for sure nope. He’s been trying to for a good while. | Not yet, but isn’t pushing to get that changed either. Does age matter - Not really for Dextrius (He’s no pedo though) | Somewhat for Ludwig | And most definitely for Dexter

layer nine : in a person

Best personality - Supportive | Tolerant | Funny and Quirky Best eye colour - Really doesn’t matter | Sapphire Blue | Not really on that Best hair colour -  Radical or Unusual Hair Color | Natural Hair | Not really adamant on a specific color or type Best thing to do with a partner -  Have them adore and fawn over him, tend to his desires, snuggle with as he plants some kisses... not the deadly kind | To converse and put up with his shenanigans, perhaps even go out on romantic occasions if he can | Actually uncertain of what he wants

layer ten : finish the sentence

“I love - me and everything about my self... except for the insecurities. Those I can do without.” | “I love dat I know have de chance to bring honor to my family name and dis time, I will do it right!!” | “I love who I am, and the good people that I protect. And Nanny and Igor too. I can never forget them!!” “I feel - ...like I’m doing something wrong sometimes. Like I have to be different, and adapt to make people like me.” | “I feel as if dis device is not doing what I want it to do. Hrm... Stupid contraption!! Heh, why do dese dings always go haywire?” | “I feel like there may be something in my clothes... Is that you, Spurs? Ah, nope. Just a rat.” “I hide - my issues that I don’t want peeps to see. If they did see it, then they wouldn’t like me for sure. I know it.” | “I hide my wampire weapons for any visitors. Wouldn’t want to get another accident on my conscious, heh heh.” | “I hide whenever I get scared. It just seems like the best course of action sometimes, but when no one else will rise up, I’ll just have to. For everyone else.” “I miss - earlier times. Back then I could have done so much different to get what I want.” | “I miss my parents. They were very loving and caring, and seemed like great people.” | “I miss my time for the daily lunch broccoli sandwich. Hmph, looks like I have to make it myself...” “I wish - that I could be famous. Whether it’s by the country, the world, or even the universe. I just wish people would see me, and all that I have to offer.” | “I wish I could find a way to stop all of de wampires. Dat way, I can carry on with finding someone for me.” | “I wish my ammo wouldn’t keep getting clogged or misfiring. I need to shoot when I want to shoot!”

[pinkbubbles-and-bigtroubles]

If You’re Gone (Girls Talk  Boys part 32)

I think I've already lost you I think you're already gone I think I'm finally scared now You think I'm weak, I think you're wrong

If you're gone, maybe it's time to come home There's an awful lot of breathing room But I can hardly move If you're gone, baby you need to come home, come home There's a little bit of something me In everything in you

Ashton got to Cal's about 20 minutes after Cher texted him. He knocked but when he got  no answer he opened the door and let himself in, the place was a wreck. Calum had flipped his coffee table over slinging things across the room and he'd  kicked a hole in the drywall by his front door. Ashton carefully made his way around the mess hearing Calum upstairs. He saw the refrigerator door open and went to close it before heading up noticing the whiskey Calum had just bought was not there.

Ashton jogged up the stairs and peeked into Calum's bedroom. Seeing no sign of man or beast as he made his way down the hall. Calum had a 2 bedroom unit and had turned the second room into a gym/music room. He was sitting at his piano with his back to the door and Duke at his feet half slurring half singing “If You’re Gone” by Matchbox 20. Ashton shook his head, he knew this was gonna be a mess. He put a hand on Calum's shoulder causing him to look up with a tear streaked face and unfocused eyes.

“What happened?” Ashton hadn't ever seen Cal look this dejected.

“I fucked up,” Calum hung his head and sniffled fighting back tears again scooting over so Ashton could sit next to him.

“Did Camille break up with you? Cal I don't understand what's going on,” Ashton was puzzled.

“I acted like a complete asshole towards Camille, and she's probably never going to speak to me again. She's already blocked my number on her phone and all her social media,” Calum slumped against his shoulder and reached for the bottle before Ashton grabbed it.

“Getting sick everywhere won't make you feel better tomorrow” Ashton told him taking a swig himself draping his arm across his friend as Calum alternated between babbling and crying trying to explain the fight with Camille.

Cher pulled into the airport's unloading zone and took a deep breath. Both women had been crying as Camille told Cher everything that went down. Camille was devastated by the argument  and pissed beyond words but Cher knew she had the ability to compartmentalize and decide she wasn't dealing with Calum right now. With him deleted and blocked she had to focus on work and put her personal life on hold until she got back. Cher had always admired Camille's ability to just that, but also knew it was her way of avoiding dealing with her problems. She helped Camille with her bags and gave her a hug.

“You're gonna be great Cam, don't let this shit get to you. Calum knows he fucked up,” Cher cupped Camille's face in her hands sharing the sadness in her friend's eyes.

With a flash the sorrow vanished and Camille was angry and again Cher knew she was more comfortable being mad,  as Camille didn't do sadness well.

“Are you guys done? He thinks you broke up with him,” Cher asked her.

“No I mean, I don't think so. He really fucked up and pulling this right now made it so much worse. I'll deal with it when I get back. Thank you for texting Ashton to go check on him,” Camille shook the thoughts out of her head and put her game face on.

“I'll see you when you get back,” Cher gave her another quick hug before waving to Stephen who was already waiting for Camille in the terminal.

Before Camille made it to the escalator to head up to check in her phone dinged. Cher had sent her a $10 Starbucks gift card knowing Camille needed a pick me up.

Cher checked her messages seeing two missed calls from Calum and a text from Ashton.

Cal's drinking and in a bad way. I'm gonna stay over here at least until he passes out. He tried to call you, Camille has him blocked. Did they really break up?

Cher answered him

Camille won't talk to him until she gets back. He acted like a complete asshole and I don't want to talk to him either. Camille hasn't decided what to do yet I'll explain later.

Ashton set his phone down. “The girls don't want to talk to you right now.”

Calum nodded, he was now sitting on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest. Duke kept nudging at him and Calum would almost smile. Ashton had gotten some of the story out of him but Calum couldn't bring himself to repeat the worst he'd said. After a couple hours of drinking and listening to sad songs Ashton put him to bed and texted Cher.

I'm staying here tonight. I hope Camille is ok, Calum is too upset to talk about it but he knows he's wrong

Cher smiled and messaged back

Thank you for not defending him but still supporting him. I'll see you tomorrow daddy

Ashton chuckled and squeezed his dick through his pants glad this fight between their best friends wasn't coming between them.

Calum had spent two days holed up with his laptop and journal in his music room with Duke. Ashton checked up on him but they didn't talk much as Calum was watching the all the ProFantasySports live streams and scribbling down song ideas. Calum was laid out on the floor with his laptop watching Camille's interview on SportsTalk and Ashton was fiddling around on the piano when they both jumped at the sound of the front door slamming.

Footsteps came thundering up the stairs before Luke burst into the room.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Luke was angry and accusing.

Calum flinched at his words and Ashton stood up “Luke you don't know the whole story,” he said trying to calm him down.

“Actually I do, I was on the phone with her last night because she couldn't sleep,” Luke fumed. “He basically accused her of lying, wanting to cheat on him with her ex, and, this is the best part, accused her of using sex to get ahead in her career.”

Ashton was stunned and Calum couldn't meet their eyes, his face burning with shame.  

“The worst part is the timing of it. Camille feels like you’re trying  to sabotage her job. You need to figure out your insecurities and your jealousy because while she's going to forgive you this time, you will lose her if you keep it up,” Luke sat down and his expression softened. “I know you love her. I want to see you guys make it.”

“What did you come back from your vacation with Summer just to yell at him?” Ashton asked slightly annoyed.

“Did you and Summer have a good time?” Calum asked.

“Yes, thank you. We're really good right now” Luke replied. “I'm not here to fight. I'm here to help you get your girl back.”

“Wait did you say she forgave him?” Ashton asked.

“No she hasn't yet but she wants to. He needs to convince her, and we're going to help.”

The party was going strong but Camille wasn't really having fun. She'd escorted the contest winners around from breakfast, a day in the NFL Zone meeting players and testing their pass, punt, and catching skills before ending the day at a charity dinner. She'd promised Brandon Pearcy she'd drop by his party tonight and Stephen agreed to tag along. Being a sports agent Brandon had gone all out, he had clients on both the Rams and the Patriots so they'd split house down the middle, blue and gold on one side with silver, red and blue on the other. The food was themed accordingly, New England had lobster rolls, crab cakes, fried clams, Greek pizza, fluffer nutter sandwiches and whoopie pies. L.A. served up french dip sandwiches, Pink's chili cheese dogs, Pho, shrimp tacos, chicken and waffles and rice krispie treat chocolate chip cookies.

Brandon was always friendly and introduced her to several big name players. Rob Gronkowski, Tony Gonzalez, Calvin Johnson, Cam Newton and even Odell Beckham Jr who was extremely good looking and very flirty. People were snapping and posting pics and Camille couldn't shake the feeling she was doing something wrong.

“Camille,” a familiar voice was at her side and she looked up to see Quentin standing there.

She jerked back, panicking when he put his hand on her arm.

“Easy now, baby girl I didn't mean to scare you.” Camille relaxed seeing the concern on his face.

“Sorry I was lost in thought. You scared me.” Camille put her hand on her chest.

“You looked miserable,” he told her with a laugh before she noticed his eyes catch something across the room distracting him for a second.

Before she could turn around his attention was back on her “I know this is a work event for you but come hit this blunt,” he spoke quietly leading her out to a side patio where several people were smoking.

Camille took a puff and Quentin leaned down to talk to her.

“You need to leave this party. Brandon is going to make a move on you and he can be very aggressive and very nasty if he doesn't get his way.”

“Q, why are you telling me this? You think I can't handle myself?” Camille kept smiling and her voice low.

“Please trust me this one time, this will get ugly if you stay. His dealer just showed up and Brandon on cocaine It's something you don't want to see. It's only 9:30 my dude was just talking about getting out of here and hitting up this bar he knows that's got some decent food, you should go with the girls. I'll tell Brandon you're fighting with your boyfriend and left.” Quentin stopped when she looked surprised and hurt. “Damn I'm sorry, I was just making shit up. I'll go get your boy Stephen and we'll turn this night around.”

Quentin went back into the party and Camille found herself being surrounded and hustled out of the house by three women she'd just met.

They stopped once they got to the driveway and one of them began laughing “Well that was dramatic.” She stuck her hand out “Hi, I'm Brittany. This is Shay and that's Megan.”

“Nice to meet y'all. I'm still a bit confused as to what just happened,” Camille shook her hand.

Stephen, Quentin and three other guys were right behind them. Camille recognized two of them as  NFL players Patrick and Von. The other one, Jalen, she knew personally from her guest appearances on his ESPN show “Two Minute Warning.”

They ended up at Vortex for burgers before finding a silly karaoke bar. For the first time since she'd arrived in Atlanta she was actually having fun. Camille wasn't even worried about posting pics to Instagram, let Calum be mad. She wasn't doing anything wrong and if he couldn't see that then he had to go. Of course the thought of actually breaking up with him made her feel like someone knocked the wind out of her. She blocked that thought almost as soon as it popped into her head.

Tonight was her night with her new friends. Quentin left before midnight to make the teams curfew the rest of the group stay till closing at 3am. Camille had to be up at 11 AM to appear on Two Minute Warning in a surprise guest appearance. Camille texted Cher the details before getting some much needed sleep.

Cher hadn't ever had a Super Bowl party without Camille which made it really weird. Camille usually went all out with a Tex Mex taco bar but Cher went instead with pizza and chicken wings. It was the first time Cher had seen Calum since he stormed out of her house the night of the fight. She was pleased to see he looked like hell. He deserved it for making her best friend cry. Aside from that everyone seemed to be in a decent mood. They all cheered through Camille's segment where she dissected, correctly as it turned out, just how and why the Patriots would win. Everybody was in a great mood, and then the game started.

“Be serious, that game was a fucking snooze” Camille joked with Stephen as they presented their boarding passes to go home.

“The halftime show was worse than I thought it would be,” Stephen responded. “Both Sicko Mode and Sweet Victory deserved better.”

Camille laughed but then the Dramamine kicked in and she knocked out for the flight. Cher picked her up at the terminal.

“I hope you know Calum went all out for your return,” Cher warned her as they drove home.

“Mmmm we'll see,” Camille tried not to smile.

“Are you still mad?” Cher asked her.

“Yes, but I really missed him,” Camille sighed.

Walking in she immediately saw the place was filed with pink roses. She headed upstairs to her room and saw tulips strewn out on her bed with an envelope in the center.

Opening it she recognized Calum's messy handwriting and sat down on her bed to read.

My Darling Camille,

There is no excuse for how I treated you and I can't tell you how deeply ashamed and sorry I am. You are the best thing that has happened to me and I'm so afraid of losing you. I've already put you through so much I feel like an asshole asking you to forgive me. I should've never acted like you had to choose between me or your job. Your career is your life the same way mine is and that was completely unfair. You love what you do, you're brilliant, funny and I am so proud of everything you've accomplished. I didn't mean to act like you ever have to choose and I'm truly sorry.

The rest of what I said is completely inexcusable. I lost my mind for a second and lashed out at you and while there's no taking back what I said please know that I didn't mean it. I never thought you would cheat on me. My jealousy is all on me and I'm an absolute twat for behaving like that.

I know words are empty unless they're followed by changed behavior. I want us to really talk this out and I want to be more open with you. I've never been good at expressing my feelings but I want this to work. I want us to work. I have more to say but I'd really like to do it in person. Please give me another chance.

Yours Always

   Calum

Luke watched as Calum paced back and forth staring at his phone. It had been almost an hour since they'd seen Cher's car come back from the airport. Calum was sweating and looked nauseous. There was a knock at the door and Luke saw Calum slump in relief when he answered.

“I thought we should talk,” Camille said before she saw Luke “hey peanut, are you guys busy?”

“NO,” both men answered in unison.

“I talk to you guys later,” Luke gave Camille a quick kiss on the cheek and quickly left.

Camille found herself wrapped up tightly in Calum's arms the second the door closed.

“Camille I am so sorry. I'm an idiot and an asshole. Please don't leave me, I want to be better for you.” Calum was trying not to lose it, barely choking out the words.

They stood there like that, both of them crying together, his face buried in her hair and her face pressed to his chest. Until Camille finally had to pull free because she was all stuffy. Returning from the bathroom wiping her eyes she found Calum splashing his face with cold water at the sink. She came up behind him hugging his waist before he turned and picked her up setting her on the counter.

He looked her in her eyes, “so are we ok?”

Camille nodded, “yes but this can't happen again. Mistakes will be made and this won't be our last fight, but I don't want to keep having the same fight. Respect is the minimum I expect from you. My job is going to get hectic next fall and you're going back on the road. We're going to have enough problems without creating new ones for no reason. I need you to talk to me., I need you to trust me. You're so good at hiding your feelings babe, I never thought about you being insecure. I look at you and see Calum Hood: this gorgeous rock star who I'm lucky enough to be with. I can't imagine you'd ever think you weren't enough.” Camille brushed his curls off his face and stroked his jaw.

“I just think you're amazing and you could do better than me,” Calum couldn't meet her eyes now. “Honestly you could do better than most of the guys you're around. None of them are good enough for you either.”

“You saw the pictures?” Camille asked.

Calum nodded looking guilty. “I watched all your live streams and checked your Insta and Twitter constantly.”

“And?” Camille raised her eyebrows.

“And it was the first time I saw you smile since you got to Atlanta. I'm a complete dickhead for ruining your trip. I'm glad you got to have some fun,” Calum met her eyes again. “I have a surprise for you if you'll come upstairs.”

“Calum we are not jumping into bed. I couldn't anyways,” Camille laughed before giving him a light kiss on the lips.

“No come upstairs to the music room,” Calum put her back on the floor and pulled at her sleeve.

She followed him upstairs and he sat her in a chair before getting behind his piano. He cleared his throat and Camille could see he was nervous but once he started to play and sing Camille was left in awe of his talents.

I was just coastin' Never really goin anywhere Caught up in a web I was gettin kinda used to stayin' there And out of the blue I fell for you

Now you're lifting me up, instead of holding me down Stealing my heart instead of stealing my crown Untangled all the strings round my wings that were tied I didn't know her and I didn't know me Cloud nine was always out of reach Now I remember what it feels like to fly You give me butterflies

Kiss full of color makes me wonder where you've always been I was hiding in doubt till you brought me out of my chrysalis And I came out new All because of you

Now you're lifting me up instead of holding me down Stealing my heart instead of stealing my crown Untangled all the strings round my wings that were tied I didn't know her and I didn't know me Cloud nine was always out of reach Now I remember what it feels like to fly You give me butterflies, yeah You give me butterflies

Now you're lifting me up instead of holding me down You're taking my hand instead of taking my crown Untangled all the strings round my wings that were tied I didn't know you and I didn't know me Cloud nine was always out of reach Now I remember what it feels like to fly You give me butterflies You give me butterflies

“Calum, that was beautiful,” Camille was trying not to cry.

Calum motioned for her to come sit in his lap and when she did he kissed her and looked her in the eye. “I'm sorry for everything. I love you and don't want to lose you.”

“Calum do you know what you just said?” Camille was stunned.

“Yes,” he was smiling at her his eyes bright. “I love you my darling Camille, my everything, my queen.”

“I love you too Calum,” Camille had more to say but it was smothered by his kiss.

@biba3434 @toofadedtofight @babygirlcashton @kiiiimberlyriiiicker1995 @slimthicccal @vfdsstuff @unabashedlymyself @5sos-ficssmut

[cosmicteadust]

[LOGH fic] Guys Like Me

Fandom: Legend of the Galactic Heroes

Pairing: Oskar von Reuenthal/Yang Wen-li

Wordcount: 2600+

Summary: The opening scenes of an artist!Reuenthal and history professor!Yang modern AU for @beingevil. It’s incomplete for the time being and I don’t know when I’ll be able to pick it up again, but I wouldn’t consider it abandoned. Title from this song by Aimee Mann. 

i.

The human form is intimately familiar to Oskar von Reuenthal. He’s been studying it for as long as he’s allowed his past to stretch out; beginning in his adolescent days—devouring anatomy books and committing the various muscle groups to memory, back when he thought he might want to become a physician. The time he’d spent meticulously copying diagrams from those books soon gave way to an interest in drawing for drawing’s sake. Eventually, he found himself in an art college, his eye for detail insatiable despite the twice-weekly figure drawing classes he attended.

He’s been making a living as an artist for close to ten years now, still popping in to live drawing sessions whenever he can. He thought he’d mastered the various ways in which it was possible to draw the human body, clothed or unclothed. Thought he’d been confident in his ability to capture any posture, any curve of musculature, any drape of fabric or lock of hair. Until he met the stranger who would change that.

The human form was intimately familiar to Oskar von Reunthal, before he saw the man perched cross-legged on the top step of his front door, taking shelter under the awning.

Reuenthal’s breath catches in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” the stranger murmurs, glancing up before Reuenthal can speak. He has sorrowful eyes, a smile like a peace offering. Hair that looks like he’s threaded his fingers through it countless times before the rain plastered it to his face. Plain dark sweater vest over a cream-coloured shirt.

The man shakes his head, sending beads of water gracelessly flying in an arc around him. Doesn’t help the state of his hair. He twitches from a sharp inhalation before raising his arm to his face, muffling a violent sneeze.

Reuenthal is staring. He’s thinking about the wetness on the stranger’s cheeks and how the late afternoon light catches it. For the first time in a long while, he’s so captivated by detail that he can’t appraise the figure as a whole. The subject is eluding him. Reuenthal clears his throat. “You’re in my way,” he says firmly. To emphasise the point, he marches up the steps and plants a foot within millimetres of the stranger’s knee. If he made to kneel, it’s likely that he would end up straddling him. Reuenthal is tall, but his imposing silhouette is mostly accounted for by his oversized black umbrella. Raindrops slide off the waterproof coating, landing obnoxiously on the stranger’s face.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” the stranger says unhappily, head bowed. He shifts, revealing a crumpled sheaf of paper stuffed under his cardigan. “Just let me get these in order and I’ll go. It took me the better half of the morning to photocopy this lot, not that the fact is of any relevance to you.”

“It could be.” The words slip out before Reuenthal can stop himself. He moves back, then steps under the awning into what little space has been left for him, closing the umbrella as he turns to face the front door. The sheaf of paper is added context. With every new detail he notices, his curiosity about the stranger heightens. His dispassionate facade is starting to crack, and it won’t be long before he loses his resolve to send the stranger on his way.

He can almost hear Mittermeyer’s voice in his head. Every great artist needs a muse, idiot. You can’t keep drawing anonymous people forever. Reuenthal grudgingly admits to himself that Mittermeyer may be right. An intimate knowledge of the human body isn’t intimacy. But Reuenthal always thinks he knows better.

**

Yang hears the sound of a key turning in a lock somewhere above his head. He angles his body to peer up at the owner of the house, waiting for a cue. The door swings open behind him. A slow wall of heater-warmed air nudges invitingly against his back. A gesture from the owner as though to direct him inside—a single, decisive flourish, index finger extended to indicate that this is indeed a command to enter.

Yang levers himself off the step with an arm while attempting to stand on legs that have fallen asleep. The sheets of paper start to slide out from under his cardigan. Turns out, the world doesn’t tilt in slow-motion the way it does in films; it’s an artless backward tumble against a carpet that only marginally cushions the bump to his tailbone. “Ah...” Thousands of years of written history are now sprawled across the floor and his thighs. “Sorry. Thank you. Sorry,” he says. “In that order.” Added after a brief moment of thought. He rearranges himself, starts to shuffle the fallen sheets back into some semblance of a pile.

The owner of the house has moved past him and is already making his way up to the second floor. His overcoat has been hung on the coat stand, the umbrella deposited into a tasteful steel mesh holder beside it. His furniture seems purposeful, like his stride. Every movement he makes. “Wait in the living room. And close the door when you’re done,” he calls to Yang without even turning back to look. Yang feels his cheeks burn, but he’s too exhausted to be humiliated. He gets to his feet, groaning at the prickling sensation of pins and needles in his calves. Shoves the door shut with his free hand, defiantly using more force than necessary. Slowly, he hobbles further inside.

The house is sparsely furnished, the decor a blend of minimalist aesthetics and accents inspired by brutalism? Baroque architecture? Yang isn’t sure. Wooden floorboards, concrete feature walls, a large mirror with an embellished frame. A curious yet coherent mixture of the angular and the ornate. He can identify some of the design elements present thanks to the elective art history module he took as an undergraduate. An incongruous splash of colour by the far window catches his attention. Two generously stuffed cushions resting on a window seat—one red, the other royal blue.

A window seat! He heads toward it eagerly before remembering that his clothes are still damp from the rain. Comes to a stop by the table and rests his precious sheets of paper down on it, lets out a soft, wistful sigh in the general direction of the window.

Still standing, Yang starts on the arduous task of sorting through his notes. They’ve gotten hopelessly jumbled, many pages sporting dog ears and splotches of moisture that threaten to smudge the printed text beyond legibility. He’s made copies of chapters from at least fifteen ‘Reference Only’ books and had left a mess in the library’s photocopying room. Ms. Greenhill hadn’t been pleased, but she’d slipped him a cling-wrapped home-made sandwich which served as his lunch later on in the staff lounge.

**

Reuenthal pauses on the way down, leans casually against the banister to watch the stranger in his home. The other man is too absorbed in his task to notice. He’s a strange sight in his mismatched outfit. The top is alright, but the slacks simply don’t match. On the whole, they produce the effect of a student in an ill-considered public school uniform. He’s of average height and build, has an admittedly plain face. What, then, makes him so compelling?

“Here.”

The stranger nearly jumps when Reuenthal appears beside him and offers him the change of clothes. Reuenthal doesn’t apologise, waits patiently for him to take the clothes off his hands before pointing him round a corner. “There’s a bathroom on the left. Light switch is behind the door.”

“You’re really too kind.”

Reuenthal waits until the man is out of earshot before scoffing.

**

The clothes smell faintly of mothballs. For no reason in particular, Yang buries his face into them and breathes in. They remind him of his childhood. His father was always moving for work. They lived like nomads, on the move so often that his clothes spent more time in boxes than out of them. He didn’t mind. The only thing he cared about was his father’s mouldering collection of old history books.

Yang has been given a plain black shirt with long sleeves and a pair of dark grey sweatpants. He wouldn’t have guessed that his host had these lying around. Not with the way he was dressed: fitted black jeans and a black turtleneck shirt which made his arms and torso seem endless. Though the broad shoulders did not escape Yang’s notice. Their recent interaction was the first time he’d been able to get a good look at his host since the kerfuffle in the doorway. Up close, the shimmer of blue in his left eye seemed almost supernatural.

Genetic quirk or vanity lens? He wonders as he struggles out of his own clothes. Lost in thought, navigating his vague first impressions of the man, it takes him longer than usual to get dressed. He puts the shirt on inside-out on his first attempt, wears it back-to-front on the second. It’s a little too large for him, but comfortable.

When Yang finally leaves the bathroom, damp clothes tucked under his arm, his host is seated at the table, leafing through his notes. “Would you like a comb?” He is asked, in a tone that seems to imply that hair tousled dry with a shirt is not a good look on him.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Unconsciously running his hand through the offending unruly hair, a reflex he found impossible to rid himself of. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay till the rain stops.” Yang slides into a chair, leaving an empty seat between himself and his host.  

“As you like.” His host gives him a lopsided smile, eyes crinkling into an approximation of genuine contentment. “I never did introduce myself. Rude of me.” He leans back to ease a leather cardholder from the pocket of his jeans, offers a name card elegantly poised between index and middle finger, like one would ash a cigarette over an ashtray. It’s printed on high quality card stock; Yang satisfies his tactile nature by enjoying the marvellous texture, stroking his thumb over it appreciatively.

Oskar von Reuenthal. Portrait Artist.

“It’s pronounced Reuenthal,” the man says. His deep voice wraps around the name possessively, as though daring Yang to speak it aloud himself. “You can call me that. I’ve been told I don’t look like an Oskar.”

“Honestly, you look like less like an artist than you do an Oskar.” The comment bubbles to the surface before Yang can stop himself. He’d been expecting something else. Real estate mogul. Surgeon. Lawyer. “That was uncalled for. My apologies.” Hand in hair again, fussing. “Uh... I don’t know much about artists. My father was an art collector who never directly liaised with anyone who made art. He didn’t think it was necessary. Turned out, he’d been purchasing forgeries.”

A piercing stare from Reuenthal. “As an artist, I find it difficult to extend my sympathies.”

Yang laughs in spite of himself. “There’s no need for that. He died before anyone found out what his collection was really worth, or if they even knew he’d been duped. Who knows what he was thinking? He was always so earnest about that particular interest of his. I never understood. Never understood his actual work as a stock trader either. Business. Money.” He shakes his head.

“So, what do you do?” Reuenthal waves a hand over Yang’s notes for emphasis. “You seem unusually preoccupied with events and warfare of ages past. Or is this just a hobby?”

Nervous laughter. “I’m an adjunct professor. Working towards a second Ph.D. in Military History.” He reaches out across the table, fervently hoping that Reuenthal recognises that a handshake is being initiated. He does. “I’m Yang, by the way. Yang Wen Li.” The language of his childhood rarely sees use these days, but it lives on in every self-introduction; he’s careful to enunciate well, employing the tonal lilt of the Mandarin tongue. People in this country tend to iron out the intonation of his full name. While they  aren’t to blame, he resists in his own way.

“Yang.” Reuenthal repeats. And Yang never thought he’d want to hear another person speak his name over and over again, but he does. Reuenthal says it like an incantation that would seek his soul out if it were lost and anchor it to his corporeal form.

They sit in silence, allowing the hum of the radiator to fill the room. Without a word, Reuenthal continues to sort Yang’s notes. Most of them are easily discernible as belonging to disparate sources. His attention to detail comes in useful, picking out minor differences in typeface, line spacing, margin width. Yang puts each smaller pile in order by page number. Sometime during the afternoon, a pot of unsweetened black tea is brewed, the contents duly contemplated and consumed. Reuenthal mentions nothing of his preference for coffee, nor does Yang drop the slightest hint that his choice of beverage contains a warmed shot of brandy.

ii.

Yang returns home just past twilight, moments before Julian would have hit the dial button on his phone to check up on him. “There you are!” The adolescent exclaims. “If you’ll tolerate my saying of something completely disrespectful, I’ve been thinking about getting you a collar with my number on it for easier retrieval.”

“You could have called, if you were worried.” Yang mumbles, his tone tinged with guilt. He tosses his notes onto the couch (neatly organised and filed in the thickest ring binder Reuenthal could spare him). As discreetly as he can manage, he slides his hand behind the cushions in search of his own misplaced phone. There it is, wedged beside the remote. He suspects that the crafty Admiral had noticed it and taken it upon himself to paw it out of sight for Julian’s sake.

“I’ll start on dinner!” Julian calls from the kitchen. “You’re getting the Yang Household Special: Quick and Creatively Re-purposed Leftovers for Adult Students and Child-Like Educators.”

“If it’s edible, it’s good enough for me,” Yang answers. He privately resolves to bribe Walter and Alex with decent whiskey so that they will, in future, refrain from being openly sarcastic around his impressionable young housemate.

Later, over creatively re-purposed ratatouille with a side of pasta:

“I met a man,” Yang confesses.

“Good. So you’re finally ready to settle down?” Julian teases, with shades of Caselnes.

Yang frowns. “Settle down...? Oh, you meant a relationship. Aren’t those the very opposite of settling down? I’m too tired for that sort of thing. Upend my comfortable way of life? Not a chance.” Hastily, he shovels a forkful of pasta into his mouth so as not to segue into an unintended monologue. He’s reminded uncomfortably of the talk he and Ms. Greenhill had about a month ago, after she’d confessed her attraction to him in a quiet corner of the cafe two blocks down from the administrative building exit. In short, it seemed clear to Yang that he did not feel as strongly for her as she did for him, nor could he even promise that he had the capacity to identify and reciprocate expressions of affection. “My heart’s more like a part of my mind,” he’d mumbled into the beret he’d nervously pressed to his mouth, wishing that he could shrink and crawl under it to hibernate. “And my mind is near constantly on my work these days, and will continue to be for the foreseeable future.”

Julian butts into his reverie with a statement that comes out of nowhere. “Things always happen to you,” the youth observes.

“Don’t things happen to people as a general rule of life?”

“No, not like that.” A serious look that makes him appear well beyond his years. “I mean, you don’t steer yourself very much. Or navigate currents. You’re like a leaf drifting along a river.”

Yang is surprised, but not offended. “So you think that I lack direction?”

Julian winces. “Not that either. You’re just... you.”

Yang blinks at him.  

[shirlleycoyle]

Why the Plastic Packaging You Hate So Much Is Still Here

A version of this post originally appeared on Tedium, a twice-weekly newsletter that hunts for the end of the long tail.

Throughout my childhood, I have lots of memories of getting gifts—often of the handheld, gadgety variety—and not being able to use them right away, because I couldn’t open up the package.

It was like a prison of plastic that surrounded the Tiger handheld game I just received—a well-formed blister of flexible, but thick plastic that prevented me from playing Aladdin, or opening up that pack of batteries I needed to get my Game Boy going. Pressed together in a tight, impenetrable clamp of two sheets of thick, clear plastic—literally a sandwich of fossil fuel byproducts—you basically had no choice but to use a blade to open it, with the plastic unable to be reused again.

In many ways, these products are prime candidates for blister packaging. They’re fairly small in size; they’re not cheap, but not expensive, either; at their heart, they are impulse buys.

The reason why this toy is still sealed is because the poor kid couldn’t figure out how to open it up. Image: via eBay

Blister packaging, which relies on molded plastic, was not at its heart an anti-consumer mechanism. In fact, one of its primary use cases was specifically intended to help consumers. In the 1960s, blister packs became a key element of delivering medicine to consumers—with oral contraceptives, which needed to be taken on a timed cycle, one of the first successful products to use foil-backed blister packs.

These pharmaceutical packages are fairly common today, and make it easier to properly measure dosage.

But how did packaging companies shape the plastic in such a way that they could create the blister? In many ways, it comes down to the unique properties of plastic, which vary based on type. 

1872

The year that the German chemist August Wilhelm von Hoffman invented an early form of polyvinyl chloride, or PVC. Despite his early work, the resulting material was unstable, and was perfected by two later inventors—Friedrich Heinrich August Klatte, a fellow German chemist who came up with a PVC production process in 1913 that used sunlight for polymerization, making it easier to produce; and Waldo Lunsbury Semon. In 1926, Semon, an employee of the tire manufacturer B.F. Goodrich, stumbled upon a plasticized version of the polymer that made it flexible but inert. (The product Semon developed is still sold today under the Koroseal brand name.) Together, these innovations allowed for the creation of what is one of the world’s most common materials, a material at the center of the kinds of packaging that make you want to tear your hair out.

Pharmaceutical blister packs are close cousins of the kind that annoy people in retail settings. Image: Efraimstochter/Pixabay

Generally, plastics are susceptible to two types of phenomena, depending on the variant: Thermosetting, in which plastic becomes stronger when it gets hotter; and thermoforming, in which plastic becomes more malleable with heat.

Thermoset plastics were the most popular type around when plastic first went mainstream; bakelite, a common early type of plastic that has become collectible in recent years, is a thermoset, and it has tended to be used in heat-resistant settings.

But thanks to heat, thermoformed plastics (of which PVC is a prominent example) tend to be much more flexible and moldable, which makes them well-suited for packaging. It was these qualities that made them useful for “blister”-style packaging, which refers to the fact that there’s an object inside of the molded plastic lump, just as there’s something inside the blisters you get when you take a 10-mile walk.

Add a little bit of heat in the right spot and you can mold a sheet of plastic any which way—and ensure that plastic perfectly matches the shape of whatever piece of junk you’re trying to sell.

It’s in this spirit that new forms of packaging emerged that took advantage of these properties—first, medical packaging in the 1960s, and then starting in the late 1970s and early 1980s, blister or clamshell packaging.

Clamshell packaging in particular is an interesting case. It’s the kind that people think of when they think of packaging that turns into a strugglefest. Commonly, an inventor named Thomas Jake Lunsford gets the credit for this type of packaging, which involves putting the product and any manuals or promotional materials in the middle of two plastic halves. Previously, most packaging of this nature had a cardboard back half which was easier to remove, but effectively allowed for the destruction of the package just to use it.

This clamshell packaging patent is not as annoying as the one used on the Tiger electronics toy above. Image: Google Patents

I’m not totally convinced he deserves the blame, though, because if you look at his invention, it’s fairly innocuous compared to the clamped-down experiences that most people associate with wrap rage, and most importantly, Lunsford says in his patent application that his design is intended to be reusable—something most clamshell packs assuredly are not.

It may be a case where Lunsford built something with good intentions only to see later inventors develop those goods with bad intentions.

1982

The year in which a number of Tylenol packages at a Chicago-area grocery store were tampered with, leading to seven deaths. The infamous incident led to a serious rethink of packaging by consumer goods companies, which responded to the incident by heavily investing in new methods of securing their containers, in an effort to meet Food and Drug Administration guidelines created after the incident. One such tamper-evident approach involves putting a thicker form of shrink-wrap around the lid of a bottle or can; another involves adding a piece of foil to the lid. The idea, essentially, is to ensure that you know if someone opened the container before you did. Blister-packaged pills were ahead of the game on this by two decades.

The tri-fold clamshell is designed in such a way that it can be stocked somewhat normally on a store shelf. Image: Alibaba

Five variants of blister packaging, and what makes each of them “special”

Face-seal blister packaging. Perhaps the most low-end of the common blister packaging types, this essentially involves a sealed piece of plastic on top of a piece of paperboard. This is used for cheap or light items, mostly, like lip balm.

Trapped blister packaging. In this case, the barriers of the plastic blister sheeting are located between two pieces of paperboard, allowing for more design options on the packaging. You might see this used by memory card manufacturers like Sandisk.

Clamshell packaging. Probably the kind you think of when the concept of blister packaging comes up, this product variant is known for its thick packaging and tough seal, which can be difficult to remove depending on the production process. As mentioned above, old Tiger Electronics games came in this format (among numerous other things) but the company has notably simplified the format for its recent revival.

Tri-fold clamshell. When the product is particularly large or unwieldy—think a computer mouse, webcam, or similar piece of technology equipment with an uneven shape—it might use this format of clamshell, which adds a double-hinge style at the bottom of it so it can stand on its own—which also, by the way, allows it to be set on a shelf without the need for an extra hook.

Skin packaging. Used for foods such as steak or other types of meat, this packaging type uses a vacuum seal on the product so that the plastic totally surrounds it. The plastic is usually thinner than what you’ll find in a blister seal, and unlike the other types, it may not use a paper card at all. While a different process from blister sealing, one might argue it actually looks more like a blister than traditional blister packaging does.

“It was very annoying. When you are buying something that is really expensive, you don’t expect it to be hard to take out of the package.”

— Reena Russell, a consultant for the energy industry, expressing her frustration with plastic blister-style packaging in a 2004 Wall Street Journal article. (As noted by the headline, “The Puncture Wound I Got for Christmas,” the package actually injured her.) Part of Russell’s frustration is that the packaging, designed as an anti-theft mechanism, had gone upmarket, and was now being used for higher end products—in Russell’s case, a handheld Palm computer. Perhaps because of frustrations like this, many modern smartphones and similar computing devices don’t actually come in blister packs anymore. (OK, maybe burner phones do.)

Amazon has pioneered a concept called “frustration-free packaging.” Image: josemiguels/Pixabay

Why opening a package from Amazon sucks a lot less than opening a blister pack

While I can’t guarantee this will be the case every single time, one thing that you might have realized in reading the prior section is that you’ve probably run into hard-to-open blister packaging less in the past few months than you might have previously.

And the reason has everything to do with why blister packaging sucks so much.

See, the reason why blister packaging, or clamshell packaging is so annoying to open is because it’s designed as a theft deterrent device of sorts.

For retailers, shoplifting is a legitimate concern. Last year, the National Retail Federation found that theft, fraud, and other losses caused by retail shrinkage cost the industry more than $50 billion dollars in 2018 alone. 

Obviously, retailers are always looking for ways to prevent shoplifting and other forms of shrinkage, and while putting cameras and RFID sensors everywhere is fairly effective, a more old-school approach that is commonly seen today involves making the packaging really annoying.

Lots of examples of this dynamic exist. For example, part of the reason why the record industry tried making longboxes the primary receptacle for compact discs, despite the size being unnecessary, is that it made the discs harder to steal.

If you go to a Target or Walmart, you will most assuredly run into clamshell or blister packaging, especially for high-value goods. Image: jeepersmedia/Flickr

There are a few ways to prevent things from being stolen from a store, but the most notable include making a package an unwieldy size, making it hard to hold onto, and making it hard to open without a lot of work.

Blister packaging does all of these things. It’s harder to shove in your pocket, you need tools to open the packages up, and if it’s been tampered with, it’s obvious.

The problem is that what makes something hard to steal also makes it a challenge to open for legitimate customers. It turns a normal consumer experience into something hostile. And it creates an opportunity for someone to disrupt the status quo.

This is where Amazon comes in. There are a lot of things that one can criticize Amazon for, but one of those things is not the concept of “frustration-free” packaging. Introduced way back in 2007, the company pioneered the idea that, if you’re getting a packaged shipped to your home in a box anyway, there is no need for the consumer-hostile packaging. In fact, they make it easy to open up the thing you just bought in many cases.

Recently, the company has been doubling down on this idea, pushing the companies that sell products through the service—most of the global economy, essentially—to follow its lead.

“At Amazon, it’s our mission to be the world’s most customer-centric company, and we continue to raise the bar by providing customers with what they want: minimal, protective and functional packaging,” the company stated in a document acquired by Packaging World.

Now, there are concerns about waste and sustainability driving some of Amazon’s work on this issue, but not to be lost is the raison d’être for this effort in the first place: the brick-and-mortar retail industry’s natural reliance on frustrating packaging design. Amazon turned a longstanding frustration that consumers had with brick-and-mortar stores into a competitive advantage.

Granted, they have their own issues with theft—porch pirates have been enough of an issue that Amazon has invested heavily in a home security camera business in part to help track such theft.

Amazon is a controversial company that uses controversial tactics and controversial means to get ahead. But at least they make it easier to open up the things we bought … right?

Blister packaging is annoying, it potentially creates threats of injuries, and thanks to Amazon, it might actually encourage people to use online shopping over brick-and-mortar retail.

But these things may not even be the worst elements of blister packaging. In truth, it might be the fact that it’s very tough to recycle.

There are a few reasons for this. For one, many blister packs don’t have their plastic resin identifier code labeled on the packaging, which makes it difficult for recyclers to figure out what it is. For another, the type of plastic used has a bad chemical composition for recycling, which makes it a bad idea to put in the bin.

“You absolutely want to make sure that you never ever put PVC into your recycling bin,” said Steve Alexander of the Association of Plastics Recyclers, in comments to The New York Times last year.

An example of PulpWorks’ plastic-free taken on blister packaging. Note: No blisters! Image: Handout photo

The problems with recycling have helped encourage the creation of alternatives. One of those alternatives is called PulpWorks. Rather than covering the object in hard-to-bust-open plastic, the design of the packaging purposely leaves a portion of the object visible, while surrounding the object with biodegradable materials of the kind used in many egg cartons. It solves the theft-risk problem through design, not simply by covering the whole thing with a non-reusable plastic shell.

Paul Tasner, the co-inventor of the product, noted to The Wall Street Journal in 2014 that the design was inspired in part by irony.

“My wife and I were always complaining about opening those things and then one day she brought home the tool to seemingly end all of that difficulty,” Tasner told the paper. “It was a special set of shears designed specifically for safely cutting open blister packs and clam shells. However, in a completely absurd twist, the shears were actually packaged in a blister pack.”

Plastics have played a key role in the modern world we have today, in ways big and small. But really to solve the intertwined problems of packaging and theft, we need more clever thinkers—so that the next time a poor kid gets a Tiger Electronics game, they can actually open up the box.

Why the Plastic Packaging You Hate So Much Is Still Here syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

[dragonkeeper19600]

Something to Say

My answer to @eene-fangirl‘s Weekend Fan Fiction Challenge. I sort of cheated on this one, since nobody actually says the sentence, “I have something to say, and you better not interrupt,” but, eh, I feel the story fits the prompt regardless.

Maybe I’ll write more parts to this if people are interested I dunno.

Warning: OCs

Nazz hadn’t meant to see. It was a complete accident.

It was her lunch break, and Nazz had stopped at that coffee shop she liked, the one on the corner downstairs. Every around noon, Nazz tripped down the concrete steps from the second floor of shops where the martial arts studio gleamed with its glass walls, to the cafes and bakeries that lay just below the carpeted floor. Though Nazz had to resist the temptation to grab a raspberry frappuccino - cramping up in the middle of a lesson was certainly something she did not need - grabbing a sandwich and a bottle of water was quick enough, and she often found herself delayed by her own students. Master Von Bartonschmeer, can you show me that move again? How was my form today? When is the next sparring meet? Can I have a Band-Aid? Though Nazz was only the assistant instructor, people tended to be far less intimidated by her than her boss, so they often came to her instead.

Not that she minded. Nazz enjoyed the reputation she’d gained as the “nice one,” though she knew her boss was secretly bothered by how many kids were scared of him. 

Her hour had been cut down to forty minutes, but Nazz was still smiling as she sat down with her water, sandwich, and a slice of poundcake because what the hell? Life was short. She hadn’t even finished unwrapping the sandwich, however, before she heard snickering at the table near her.

“Hey, get a load of that guy.”

Nazz wasn’t really interested, but she found her head turning automatically at the sound of the voice. Seated between her and the window was a table covered in laptops, steaming cups wrapped in cardboard, and the arms of two grinning men who were watching a couple seated outside the window.

Nazz couldn’t hear anything through the whir of the blender and the soft spa music drifting down from the ceiling, but there was no mistaking that body language. A woman with long purple hair sat at one end, her hand jabbing the air, her shoulders leaned over the table’s edge, her face screwed up in irritation. Yelling had a look as well as a sound, and Nazz saw it. It wasn’t so much the size of the mouth as the speed in which it moved. Occasionally, the woman would roll her eyes as though fed up, with what Nazz couldn’t tell.

By contrast, the man seated across from her was hardly saying a word. Nazz felt a twist somewhere behind her sternum when she saw him. He was hunched over, looking up at the woman across him sheepishly from under his brow. Nazz could see his hands twisting under the table, hidden from his table mate but visible to everyone in the coffee shop as though the pair, their limbs, and the table were laid out on a diagram. Underneath the epidermal layer runs the veins. Occasionally, he’d open his mouth to say one word but then the woman’s hand  would make a cut through the air, and he would wince and the lips would be pressed together again. It was a display that made the witness incredibly aware of their own body, how your own teeth clamped together, how dry your own lips were, how cold was the chill running up your arms and between your shoulder blades. Such pitiful sights find emotional release in the sensation of wrongness created in the flesh.

Or maybe Nazz’s fixation on the scene was because she realized the man was Eddy.

One man seated by the window whistled.

“Whew! I’ve been there!” he chuckled.

“That guy’s totally whipped!” said his companion. 

“Ain’t love grand?” They began to laugh in earnest. 

Nazz stood up so fast she heard the feet of her chair scrape against the floor. Everyone in the coffee shop was staring, including the pair by the window, but Nazz felt only the heat in her cheeks as she pushed the glass door and heard the chime blow in with the summer breeze.

The table was in her sights as she moved around the corner, becoming slowly unobstructed as though she were sliding away the top cover of an aquarium. Her voice became more distinct as the cover opened.

“-always making me do everything! Why do I always have to drive over to your place when my house is so much nicer?”

“Well, it’s just that... Margot-”

“Then hire a babysitter, for God’s sake! It’s just a little extra money! Are you really so cheap that you can’t afford to spend a little more time with me? Do you want to date me or not?”

“No, I do, but-!”

“Shut up! You know I hate it when people talk over me. God, you’re so thick!”

“Hey, what’s going on?”

Both faces snapped toward Nazz as though they had been yanked on the same string. Eddy’s startled expression melted into what looked like pure despair as he took in the sight of Nazz, hand on the glass corner of the store, her brows furrowed. The woman across from him, however, only looked offended.

“Excuse me? This is a private conversation,” she said.

Nazz looked rapidly from the woman to Eddy, who was slinking down in his steel chair. 

“Were you yelling at him?” she asked.

The woman made a noise of disbelief at the back of her throat and sat back in her chair, arms folded. “I don’t know what you think gives you the right to just barge into other people’s business,” she said coldly. “Why don’t you move along to someplace where you’re actually needed?”

Nazz turned away from her. “Eddy, was she yelling at you?”

Eddy had practically slithered out of his chair onto the ground. The woman’s expression changed. “Eddy, do you know this woman?” she asked, frowning.

Eddy swallowed and shakily pulled himself up until his back was touching the back of his chair again. “Uh, yeah,” he said smiling painfully. He stretched out a hand and halfheartedly gestured from one woman to the other. “Uh, Nazz, this is Holli. Holli, Nazz.”

Holli raised an eyebrow and folded her legs in her chair. Nazz had the sense she was being sized up and thought it was pretty bold move to attempt to stare down someone they had to look up to see. 

“Nice to meet you,” Holli said flatly. “Though I don’t think you can make the best first impression by eavesdropping.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” said Nazz coldly. “I could see you through the window.”

Holli put a hand to her mouth in what Nazz supposed was meant to be an embarrassed smile. The smile was there, but the embarrassment hadn’t quite made it. “Could you really?” she said, her eyes wide. 

“Yeah, everyone could see you,” said Nazz. “It’s a window. That’s what they’re for.”

“Nazz, come on,” said Eddy. His smile showed all his teeth yet still failed to reach his eyes. “It’s okay. We were just talking.”

Nazz’s expression softened. “It didn’t look like you were saying much,” she said.

“You heard him,” said Holli. “We were talking. Satisfied? Now please leave.”

Nazz felt her cheeks burn as she glared over at Holli. “You told him to shut up,” she said.

Holli scoffed. “Alright, so I was annoyed. Am I not allowed to get angry? You heard him say we were talking, didn’t you?” A nasty smile flashed across her face as her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you believe what he says?”

Nazz couldn’t speak. There was too much smoke in her throat from the fire in her lungs. Eddy was staring up at her with pleading eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Eddy?” Nazz asked. She suddenly felt very tired.

“I’m sure!” said Eddy desperately. “I’m fine, Nazz! Really! Go on. You only get an hour, right?”

Nazz kept looking at him. That placating look, the look of someone who felt they’d been caught though they were innocent... She had seen that look before. 

“Yeah,” she said, “I’ll see you later.”

She walked slowly back to the door. The wind whipped around the corner and into her back, carrying Holli’s voice with it. “God, that was embarrassing.”

The complete lack of self-awareness is what made the whole thing ironic.

The men with the laptops were tittering as Nazz lowered herself back in front of her food. 

“Ooh, I was hoping they’d start pulling hair!”

“Hey, babe, get back out there! Come on, go for blood!”

Nazz chewed her sandwich. It had lost its taste and was no longer filling. It was like her mouth was filled with wood shavings, soft with rain. She threw her poundcake into the trash, untouched.

***

By the time she trudged upstairs to the studio, Margot was already there, doing sit-ups while another girl pressed down on her toes. The ends of her green belt flapped against the carpet.

“How’s it going, Margot?” said Nazz, smiling. “You’re here early.”

“Uh huh,” was all Margot said. There was a quiet kid in every group, and Margot was that one. 

The lesson passed without incident. After the kids had been dismissed and finished their desperate rush to the water fountains, Nazz searched the shifting throng of parents and children in white and found Margot sitting alone in the corner. A thread from her sleeve and come loose and Margot gazed distantly at the white string as she rolled it back and forth between her fingers. Occasionally, she glanced up as the legs of some adult crossed before her, but she just as quickly looked back down.

Nazz politely stepped away from the dad trying to get her attention and walked over to her. Margot felt a shadow fall over her and looked up in time to see Nazz drop to one knee in front of her. 

“Hey again, Margot,” said Nazz. “You worked hard today.”

Margot’s eyes slid back down. “Thanks,” she said.

“Is your uncle coming to pick you up?”

Margot nodded, not even bothering to look up this time.

“Well, since he’s not here yet, would you mind having a talk with me in private?”

Now, Nazz had Margot’s full attention. She stared up at Nazz, her eyes the size of softballs. 

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble,” said Nazz gently. “I just want to ask you something really quick.  Can’t we have a little chat? Girl to girl?”

Margot looked as though nothing in the universe would terrify her more. 

“Come on. I promise I don’t bite. Could you humor me for a little bit?”

Margot hesitated. She looked around the room as though searching for someone to rescue her.

“Please?”

Margot stared back down at her piece of thread, which was now twisted into a tiny helix. “Okay,” she said.

“Thanks, Margot,” said Nazz. “It’ll be real quick, I promise.”

Nazz led Margot to the closet in the back, which the adults students sometimes used to change. The adult class wasn;t until night, so there was no one there, now. Nazz switched pulled the dangling cord from the lightbulb in the ceiling and pulled the door closed behind Margot, who had her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

“It’s pretty weird, isn’t it?” said Nazz brightly. “Going into the closet to talk?” 

Margot nodded, pulling on her sleeves with her fingers.

“Sorry, Margot.” Nazz’s smile became apologetic. “I know you don’t like this. I normally wouldn’t make you talk to me like this, but I have something pretty serious to ask you, and I don’t want anybody to hear something that they don’t have a right to know.”

“Okay,” said Margot, so quietly Nazz had to strain to hear.

Nazz dropped to one knee in front of the girl, just as she had before. “Margot, please be honest with me if you can. You know your uncle is dating someone, right?”

Was she imagining it, or had a crease appeared between Margot’s eyes? “Yeah,” said the girl.

“Have you met her?” asked Nazz.

“Yeah,” said Margot. 

Margot’s pupils seemed to shiver. Nazz suspected she was following the patterns of shadow and light in the threads of the carpet. “Margot...” Nazz began slowly, “do you like her?”

Margot looked up at Nazz with an expression that she couldn’t describe. It was a strange medley of hope, dismay, and perhaps some confusion, as though she were struggling to comprehend the words. Her head turned to the side as she stared at the wall, conflicted.

“Margot, this is important,” said Nazz. “Your uncle spends a lot of time alone with Holli.”

Margot’s expression became pained.

“If there’s anything at all you want to say about her,” Nazz continued, “I promise I won’t interrupt.”

Margot head remained turned toward the wall. Nazz had nothing to look at but her cheek, the sparkle in her eye, the profile of her blonde ponytail. The silence dragged.

Then: “No.”

“No?” Nazz repeated.

“No.” The word was louder this time. Margot turned and focused her gaze resolutely on Nazz’s chin. “I don’t like her.”

Okay. Okay. “Why not, Margot?” asked Nazz.

Margot’s arms had dropped slightly so that now her fingers were wrapped around her elbows. “She’s mean,” she said.

“Mean how?” said Nazz. “Mean like your dad?”

Too late, Nazz realized her mistake. The expression that flicked onto Margot’s face like the beam from a lightbulb was of the sort Nazz imagined would appear if she’d received an electric shock: the surprise caused by a burst of pain. 

“I’m sorry,” said Nazz quickly. “I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” said Margot, cutting her off. She was shaking her head. “Not like Daddy. Daddy never yelled.”

“She yells at you?” 

“Yeah.”

“Does your uncle know about this?”

Margot shook her head again. “No. She only does it when he’s not there.”

Nazz found she was having difficulty keeping her breathing even. “What does she say? Can you tell me?”

Margot was looking down at the floor again, but her face had lost that distressed look. “She called me a downer. And she said I was rude and that Uncle Eddy lets me get away with it.”

Margot? Rude? It was hard to imagine. “Is there anything else?”

Margot nodded. “She said it’s my fault Uncle Eddy doesn’t have any money. She told me Uncle Eddy is too young to raise me by himself, and it’s because of me he doesn’t have any time to spend with her.”

Even in the midst of the haze she suddenly found clouding her vision, Nazz could take a moment to notice Margot’s tone when she’d said this. There was no trace of anger or tears. For all the world, it was though she were reciting the times table. 

“Okay, Margot.” Nazz struggled to keep her voice steady. “That’s all I needed to hear. Thank you for being honest with me. That was a very brave thing, what you just did.”

Margot blinked, and Nazz saw the tears at last. Nazz held out her arms, not sure what the response would be, and was surprised when Margot stretched out her own, her glimmering eyes still directed at the floor.

Nazz leaned forward and swept Margot into a hug. She could feel the warm tears bleeding through the cotton on her shoulder, but Margot was remarkably quiet. Nazz patted her shoulder as though flattening down a bed of soil. “There, there, it’ll be okay. I promise it’ll be okay.”

Margot sniffed. “Are you going to make her go away?” she whispered.

Nazz smiled. “I’ll try,” she said. 

Once Margot was done crying, Nazz let her out into the studio, where her uncle was already waiting for her. 

[itsworn]

Eighteen years of effort pays off with a beautiful 1956 Chevy!

Those that come into the car hobby are either born into it, or something at some point along the line triggers an interest. For those that grew up in a household that embraced the gift of grease, it usually meant the elders developed a loyalty to a specific brand or model that was passed on. For some, it was external factors, from any number of sources, that could have that triggered the passion. For Marylander John Kraus, his flame was stoked when he went to the Western Maryland Street Rod Roundup in 1997. “We went for the weekend and camped with some friends, and there were a bunch of street rods there,” he recalls. “I fell in love with a ’34 Ford Pro Street car, so I got the itch to have one.”

While that Ford got the adrenaline flowing, his interests soon solidified for late-’60’s Chevrolet muscle cars. He points out, “I wanted a Chevelle, or some other GM muscle car. As a kid growing up working with my father as a homebuilder, I wasn’t able to drive at that point, but everybody that worked for him either had a Nova, Chevelle, or Corvette.” While his heart was set on getting a muscle car, when there is cash to be laid down the decision isn’t always a one-sided conversation, as is often the case. In John’s case, marital bliss was at play. His wife, Paula, laid the hammer down and told him, “No muscle car, I dated too many idiots with muscle cars.” Faced with that dilemma, it came down to rethinking his plan, which led him to this ’56 Chevy.

In 1999, the opportunity to buy this ’56 came about when he stumbled across a consignment place in Northern New Jersey that was selling it online. On the computer screen it looked pretty good and its description pushed all the right buttons, so he decided to drive to the Garden State and have a look at it. It was the perfect fit for what he wanted—big cubes under the hood and not a muscle car, to keep his wife happy. Tucked between the fenders was a 427 big-block, which gave him that muscle car grunt without the muscle car looks. As advertised, the engine looked the part with a moderately aggressive cam, aluminum intake, headers, and a four-barrel Holley carburetor; all backed by a stock Turbo 400 and an equally stock 10-bolt rear. The body was decked out in a white and silver paint combo that was in decent condition, while the black roll and pleat interior was clean, but very dated. A close inspection did show that the car had some problems that needed to be fixed. The two biggest visible issues were that the 427 was a leaker and the shifter barely performed its duties. However, it was priced to roll out the door, and that is exactly what John did.

As soon as he got the Chevy back to Maryland, he went fishing for those leaks and plugged them up and installed a different shifter, one that actually worked. He was like a kid in a candy store with his new toy. He hit the open road with the ’56 and started logging some miles on it and mixing it up at the local shows. It didn’t take long for the “upgrade” urge to set in. There was one problem with that desire, he was enjoying driving the car so much that the thought of parking it for a prolonged amount of time was gut-wrenching, so he decided to do the Northeast Hot Rod ritual. You park your car in early fall, wrench on it for a few months, and then roll it back out in the spring.

Over the next 16 years that would be the routine he followed. Every change was planned around the winter months. He recalls, “Upgrades became wintertime projects. Friends would come over and we would work on it.” The leaky 427 was the first to see an overhaul. It was down on power so John sent it off to R&R Performance in Hickory, Maryland, for its first complete rebuild. That restored it to a respectable power level; however, everything mated to it was still bone stock, so another round of changes took place.

That 10-bolt rear was a weak link so he had Tom Brush Chassis in Forest Hill, Maryland, install a four-link suspension and a set of mini-tubs to handle the added power and a larger wheel and tire combo. Also added was a Ford 9-inch rear stuffed with 4.88 gears. Sandwiched in the middle was the stock Turbo 400, which also saw a rebuild. Affordable Transmission Service in White Marsh, Maryland, was tasked with that part of the puzzle. They added a TCI Automotive Super Street Fighter 3,800-stall converter and a forward manual valvebody. That was all enhanced with a Gear Vendors overdrive unit giving John a few extra forward gears.

Over the years he leaned on the 427 quite a few times and a second rebuild was needed, which was handled by Page Motorsports in Rosedale, Maryland.

Not everything was farmed out to specialty shops. John wasn’t shy about getting his hands dirty as well when it came to doing some of the upgrades. There were a number of winter weekends spent in his garage wrenching with his buddies. The front end was a home brew that involved a set of Heidt’s tubular A-arms, 2-inch drop spindles, CPP sway bar, Concept One power steering box, 11-inch rotors with four-piston calipers, and QA1 adjustable shocks. With each step he took, improvements were made to bring the car up to modern standards.

While the bulk of the upgrades were mechanical, with the passage of time, and the regular use during the summer months, the body started to show signs that it, too, was in need of a refresh. John notes, “With 16 years down the road, I started noticing minor issues with the car. There was some rust on the edges of the doors and the body mounts were shot. The frame was also showing its age and the steering didn’t feel right.” The plan was to separate the body from the frame and have it mounted on a rotisserie. When that milestone crossed his path, the hunt for a reliable shop that could tackle the job was on.

That eventually led him to Automotive Advanced Concepts in Nottingham, Maryland. Once the crew at the shop started mediablasting the body, it slowly shed light on the extent of the existing damage and also some clues about the Chevy’s life before John acquired it. As they blasted the body, holes in the sheetmetal started to appear, and they discovered that at one point in its life the ’56 had a manual gearbox and it had also been tapped at the rear. This was more damage than what John was expecting, but the commitment was made, so shop owner Bob Nobile started cutting away the carnage. In the end he replaced the floor, inner and outer quarter-panels, and front inner fenders; added patch panels on the headlight buckets; hung a new door and hood; and smoothed out the firewall. That was a four-month project that then moved to Daniel’s Hot Rods & Body Shop in Jarrettsville, Maryland, for the bodywork and paint.

Since this shop’s bread and butter is collision work, the ’56 came in as a side project that spanned another 14 months until it was painted. When it came to a color choice, John struggled with putting the same combination back on the car or giving something new a try. “The color choice was the most difficult,” he notes. “The main compliment on the car was usually the color combination. It identified me as John with the silver and white ’56.” The argument against keeping it the same was that when finished, no one would realize that the car had undergone a complete makeover. His choice was to go with something different, but getting to that point was tough. In the end, he opted for Deep Cranberry Pearl, a 2015 Dodge Ram color, and from the GM side, Silver Ice Metallic, also a 2015 shade. This choice was driven by a desire to change things up and also make it easy with factory colors if a touch-up was needed.

While body was being sorted, the frame and many of the suspension components were also being massaged with some powdercoating. Since most of the hardware had already been replaced over the years, it all came down to detailing and reassembly. After those pieces were completed, the frame was set up in his garage at home in preparation to receive them. The 427 was also treated to another top-to-bottom refresh that was performed by J B’s Auto Machine in Baltimore. It was bored 0.060 over, balanced, blueprinted, and stroked to 440 cubic inches. At the bottom end they installed a forged and nitrate-treated crankshaft, Manley rods, and SRP 10.75:1 forged pistons. Above the forged crank went a Lunati hydraulic roller camshaft. The top end received a set of PBM aluminum heads with Comp Cams Pro Magnum rockers and an Edelbrock RPM Air-Gap intake manifold. A Holley 4150 850 double-pumper feeds the big-block air and fuel, while an MSD Pro-Billet distributor mated to an MSD 6AL ignition controller sends out the spark. Finally, a set of custom-built headers by Automotive Advanced Concepts channels the exhaust gases rearward and out through 3-inch ceramic coated steel pipes and a pair of DynoMax Race Bullet mufflers. The Turbo 400 also underwent another refresh to make sure all the bases were covered.

Since this was a major overhaul, the interior also saw some upgrades. John had Bay County Interiors in Annapolis, Maryland, and ESH Upholstering in Forest Hill, Maryland, lined up to sort it all out. High up on his priority list was tossing out the bench seat and replacing it with a pair of buckets. This was accomplished with the installation of a set of Recaro seats, upholstered in Allante Faux leather. New door and side panels were given the same treatment. The new black carpet was straight out of the East Coast Chevy catalog, as were the gauges from AutoMeter. While all this was visible, when the interior was gutted, John discovered that the wiring had, at some point, been butchered up so he enlisted the help of Brian von Poppel at Maryland Performance Specialties in Middle River, Maryland, to fix the mess. Brian spent many hours in John’s garage rewiring the ’56 back to electrical health. Other improvements included the installation of all new glass and new bumpers and a grille, also from the fine folks at East Coast Chevy.

The last element that he addressed—the choice of rolling stock—was actually dealt with many years prior to all this work. When the four-link and mini-tubs were installed, he invested in a set of American Racing Torq-Thrust II wheels that are still on the car to this day. The fronts measure 15×6 and are wrapped in 26×7.50R-15 Hoosier Pro Street radials, and at the rear they measure 15×10 and sport 31×12.50R-15 Hoosier Pro Street radials.

All told, the totality of the work spanned just about three years. Making the job easier was that having much of the fabrication work spread out over the years actually sped up the process, and also softened the financial hit of doing it all at once. With the Chevy back to good health, John has again started hitting the local shows and is logging more miles on the car, and most importantly, his wife is happy as well.

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