#and telling me to pour gasoline on a van and go inside it

[jonny-b-meowborn]

when I say I'm into Jarod Road 96, I don't mean I wanna kiss him or whatever. I mean I want him to hold a gun to my head and make me dig my own grave

[bepractical]

Kin: Season 1, Episode 5, Part 1

It's episode 5 of the first season of Kin and you know what that means? Heist time! I love the family melodrama but sometimes you need a heist. In this part of the recap I will spend an inordinate amount of time waxing poetic about my love for Michael Kinsella. But first, a warning. These recaps will spoil you for the entire first season of Kin. THIS ONE IN PARTICULAR. 

See the masterlist here.

This recap's looking like a three parter, so buckle up!

The episode starts with a dude in what looks like a security uniform sitting at a table, innocently eating something out of a bowl in front of his tv. The doorbell rings and two masked men rush into his house with guns. It’s Eric and Jimmy. The dude is Con Doyle’s son. 

In Eric’s former car, Amanda pulls up his GPS route and prints out the results, so you know that's gonna bite Frank and Eric in the butt in the near future.

Meanwhile, Con Doyle’s hanging out at a boxing gym when he receives a text message with a pic of his son on his knees being threatened, followed by a pinned location. He zooms out of there with a quickness. 

Cut to Michael waiting for Con, an old van behind him.

Con arrives reasonably worked up.  His car skids to a stop and he comes out holding a piece of pipe. Michael is completely unimpressed. He holds out his phone and tells Con to take a look. It’s a video of Jimmy pouring gasoline on his son. Wow, does that sound so much worse when you type it out. I am here to drool over Michael Kinsella, not question his morality. Still, we’ll get to it. 

Con’s pissed; his son has nothing to do with this. “Neither did Jamie,” Michael says. Ohhhhh. Con repeats the company line, that Jamie’s death was an accident. That crap doesn’t hold any water with the Kinsellas, not anymore. Unlike Jamie, Con’s son is still alive and he’ll stay that way as long as Con helps them. I love that this plan hinges on Con loving his son enough to steal from Eamon. Con tries to make Michael the bad guy, but he’s helped kill five of their allies over the past however many days and who knows how many people he’s killed in the past. Michael’s over it.

Michael: How many people have you killed, Con? I’ve lost count. Spare me the sermon. What happens now is up to you.

This is why I give the Kinsellas somewhat of a pass here. Eamon and his flunkies have been terrorizing them for the flimsiest of reasons since they killed Caolan Moore. Con, like his boss, can dish it out but not take it. 

Michael gets it down to brass tax, they want Eamon’s gear (drugs). He gives Con one minute to decide while he waits in the passenger seat of the van. Michael, at the very least, isn’t bluffing. After about thirty seconds he lifts his cell phone to make the call, prompting Con to drop the pipe and storm over to the van while Michael calmly puts on his seat belt. He’s such a shit.

In the most awkward car ride ever, Michael questions Con about where they’re headed. We find out it's some kind of guarded facility and the guard works for Eamon. Michael is unphased. Michael is always unphased.

He hides in the back of the van while Con talks his way into the facility, a building full of giant storage crates. Once safely inside, Michael climbs out and Con prepares to bring one of the crates down.

Meanwhile, Frank is waiting in his car for the next phase of the plan. It’s an important plan and he needs to be focused so of course he immediately SNORTS SOME COKE.

What is it with the men in this family getting high while Michael is in dangerous situations? Get it together, man! Now is not the time!

Back at the facility, Con brings down an enormous crate full of drugs. Together, Con and Michael empty it out into the back of the van.

I like how the minute Con made the decision to go along with the plan to save his son, he just followed through. You can almost pretend they're partners. Then Con threatens Michael, tells him he’s a dead man and that Eamon will make an example out of him. Michael is…yep, still unimpressed, and starting to ride the high of what he’s managed to pull off. 

Now THIS is the most awkward car ride ever. Michael has Con take him to a restaurant and get out of his van full of the entire country of Ireland’s drug supply and wait for a call from his son telling him where to find him. Con angrily gets out. He can’t help but spit out one more toothless threat. “I’ll see you buried, Michael.” No, honey, you won’t.

 As Con walks into the restaurant, Frank slides into the driver’s seat next to Michael and the two take off. 

Frank asks how much they got. It’s a lot. So much Frank momentarily confuses the 60K of coke and 80K of heroin for grams. But it’s kilos not grams, and it’s worth about 50 million Euro. Michael laughs, ACTUALLY LAUGHS, and they take a minute to enjoy the score, the enormity of what they’ve done hovering just out of sight. 

Ok, let’s take a minute to talk about Michael. I have some very biased, unvetted thoughts to share. This episode may as well be titled ‘100 Reasons I Love Michael Kinsella.’ I’ll spare you and only cover a few.

This opening starts to paint a picture of Michael’s general mien as a criminal. When Con comes at him with his pipe, Michael doesn’t move. He keeps one hand in his pocket while the other holds his phone out a few inches. He doesn’t even extend his arm, forcing Con to get closer to see the video.

When Michael rides in the back of the van alone, it seems like his biggest concern is getting jostled around when there could have been anything waiting for him.

He shrugs off Con’s threats like they’re nothing. This kind of fearlessness and/or recklessness is like catnip to me, but what really puts it over the top is his expressions. He can’t hide those big old puppy eyes, but he can make the rest of his face as calm as possible. As a result he doesn’t look overly cocky or aggressive, and there’s little playfulness or provocation. His swagger is his lack of swagger. He’s confident he has the upper hand and, instead of capitalizing on that (picture Eric in this same situation), he keeps it lowkey. He did the same when Eamon approached him at the funeral, and when Frank gave Jimmy the money from Caolan Moore. He’ll do it again at the end of the season, when he kills Eamon. The most we get out of him during this entire heist is a pinch of excitement once all the drugs are loaded.

I wonder if he was always this way, or if his younger self had more of that traditional swagger. Maybe jail changed him, maybe his dead nephew/son and terrible relationship with his daughter made him reckless and numb. Regardless, it’s the perfect temperament to ensure things don’t escalate in the middle of a volatile situation while pissing people off afterwards AND adding to his reputation. He just calmly walked into Eamon’s storehouse and stole 50 million dollars worth of drugs like he was going to the grocery. You can also see what kind of team he and Jimmy must have made, Jimmy all explosive violence while Michael stands by like he’s waiting in line for the DMV, bored and a little annoyed, knowing if someone needs to die he’ll be the one to do it, like anyone else takes out the garbage. 

On that note, we're barely ten minutes in but that’s it for this post. Check out part 2 here!

[salty-star-child]

Never Really Over - A Malex Story

[So apparently I have no chill, at all, so uh here’s a canon-divergent fic with the conversation I wish Michael and Maria had had about Michael’s history with Alex and the hope about Museum Guy that Maria had felt in Alex when he was at the Pony]

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“It’s over! It’s been over!”

“Does Alex know that?!”

The shout ricochets off the old wood walls and slams into the both of them as the dust settles. Maria had seen Michael reel from particularly painful punches before; she couldn’t help but notice that it looked a lot like the way he was looking at her right now. His eyes were glassy and heartbroken, emotion pouring off him in violent waves that even her psychic abilities couldn’t quite keep up with.

“Why—how could you ask—of course he does!” his voice cracked as he stumbled through his words. “He’s the one who fucking ended—keeps ending—things!”

Her heart cracked as her resolve hardened. She knows what she needs to do, even if it wasn’t what she wanted to do. She wanted to believe Guerin—god, did she want to believe him—just so she could keep him to herself. Didn’t she deserve a little good in her life too? With everything that was falling down around her—her mom, her friends being MIA despite both having returned to Roswell, the bar barely staying afloat—didn’t she deserve something nice? And Michael Guerin is good, is nice, is…head over heels in love with one of her best friends and desperately trying to forget it.

“That’s not the impression he gave me last time he sat at my bar,” she whispered, words tight and heavy. They hung between them in the silence that followed, taunting them both.

Yeah, Maria deserves good, deserves nice, but she also deserves someone who wants to be there for her and her alone. She isn’t anyone’s second-goddamn-choice. It hurts her heart a little now to let go of Guerin and their could-have-been romance, but she also knows that, in the end, she’s saving herself from a lot more hurt.

Maria DeLuca is her own savior, every damn time.

So instead of taking what she wants, she stares down Michael Guerin—beautiful, fucked up, surprisingly soft Michael Guerin—and watches a thousand and one emotions clash across his face like he couldn’t believe the words she just said. She grabbed a glass from beneath the counter, opened a bottle of whiskey with a practiced fluidity, and poured.

“Sit down, Guerin,” she sighed. Her order was punctuated by the firm and unarguable sound of the half-filled glass hitting the bar in front of one of the barstools.

His eyes are glassy, his hands tug at his own curls in clear frustration, and he’s started breathing deep and shaky before eventually—finally—giving up the fight. He collapses onto the stool, eyes closing and hands sliding down from his hair to his face. His breathing is still shaky and she’s no longer sure what to do. This isn’t a side of Guerin that she’s experienced with. She’s seen him drunk, angry, violent, and flirty; she’s never once seen him look so sad and broken.

“What do you want from me, Maria? Whatever it is you want me to say, to do, I’ll do it,” he said. He sounded as tired as she felt. “Just, tell me. Tell me what you want.”

She pursed her lips and bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying something stupid, something she wouldn’t be able to take back, something as simple as you because she wouldn’t have the strength to stop anything that might come after.

“The truth, ideally,” she told him. Michael opened his eyes then, looking at her with a shattered expression. His hands pulled away from his face and spread out as he shrugged slightly in invitation. “Was it just a high school fling?”

“No,” he answered hoarsely.

Maria watched as the muscles in his face tensed, lips drawn in a tight line and brows furrowed.

“Do you still love him?”

He hesitates.

“Guerin, please just tell me. Do you love him?”

Still, he hesitates. Maria feels her irritation build, the day’s stress acting like gasoline on a campfire to fuel her annoyance.

“Do you love him, Michael?!” She demands, voice raised, tight, cracking, and angry.

“Yes! Okay?” his voice raises to match hers, sounding just as angry, voice just as taut and wobbly. “Is that what you want to hear, DeLuca?! That I’ve been gone for Alex Manes since senior-fucking-year? That I’ve stuck to hookups and one-night stands because I couldn’t bring myself to be anyone but Alex Manes’ boyfriend? That he’s the only person who has ever made me feel like it didn’t matter whether I know where I come from or not because I always felt like I belonged so long as I was with him? Is that what you wanna hear?!”

He’s breathing heavy and tears have slipped over cheeks.

Maria sucks in a deep breath as she reels from the explosion of words. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised by the angry confession after poking the bear, but just a small glance at Guerin is enough for her to feel the overwhelming and all-encompassing love he holds for Alex. It’s a masterpiece of brilliant colors swirled together in such a way that it was reminiscent of Van Goh’s Starry Night. But the surface has been tainted. There’s a pulsing dark bitterness and pain—sharp and sour in a way that leaves her mouth itchy and skin dry—that’s crept over the edges to eat away at the light like a parasite.

If she focuses on any one point, she thinks she can see images: flashes of memory. Of flushed cheeks and shy smiles, guitars and the bed Michael’s truck, Alex at different stages of his military career but always coming back to the Airstream and dropping a duffel by the step, and too many tearful goodbyes. A decade’s worth of love and connection assault her senses and suddenly Guerin isn’t the only one crying in the empty bar.

Warm hands hesitantly cup her cheeks, thumbs sweeping away the tears, and she can’t tell whether she wants to lean into the touch or flinch away from it.

Her fingers wrap shakily around his wrists to pull his hands away before she grabs the drink she’d poured for Guerin and downs it in one go. She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes and wipes against the last of her tears.

“Remind me never to give you a psychic reading ever again; you’re completely overwhelming,” she says through a hollow laugh. The crease between his eyebrows deepens as his concern turns to confusion. “If you love Alex even half as much as I just felt off of you, what the hell are you doing here, Guerin?”

It takes him a minute to gather himself from his confusion and the uneasy way Maria is trying to fall back to what it’d been like before Texas had changed things.

“He said he wants to be friends,” he tells her. “But I don’t wanna just be friends.”

Maria raises one eyebrow at him and frowns.

“Who said anything about being just friends? Sounds to me like he was tellin’ you he wants more than just really good sex,” she says plainly, pinning him with a look that tells him it isn’t worth trying to disagree.

“Listen,” she sighs, quiet voice doing nothing to hide just how exhausted she’s feeling. “Alex is one of my best friends, so don’t…don’t go fucking this up, you hear me? You’re going to leave this bar and go find him, and then the two of you are going to sit down and have a conversation where you say exactly what it is that you want, and you’re going to be good to each other. Because I haven’t seen Alex hopeful in a decade, and because I’ve never felt something as strongly as I felt your love for him.”

“And…what about you?” he asks. His face has returned to its usual guarded expression, red-rimmed eyes the only indicator that something was up.

“Me? I’m gonna be just fine. I’ll hurt for a bit, be sad about the whole situation, even sometimes wish it could’ve been anyone other than Alex that you were in love with. But then I’ll start to get over it and I’ll be able to see you and him without feeling a little upset about it. We build a new normal.”

Michael scoffed at the word ‘normal’ but there was a slight uptick at one corner of his lips that had Maria thinking that maybe he wouldn’t mind a little bit of normal. He clears his throat and stands up from the stool.

“I’m—I wish things hadn’t been so—I’m just…I’m real sorry about all,” he waves a hand vaguely through the air, “this. And I hope it didn’t screw anything up with you ‘n Alex. I’ll see you around?”

“Give it a couple weeks first, then we’ll see,” she smiles and, even though it’s small and bittersweet, it is, above all, genuine. “Now, scoot before I decide that drink earlier wasn’t on the house after all.”

“I didn’t even—you’re the one who drank it!”

“Lotta talk for someone who’s supposed to be out the door already.”

Michael laughs, short and loud like he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Yeah, alright, I’m going,” he says as he opens the door. He stops and looks over his shoulder at her to give her a smile just as bittersweet and genuine as her own. “And, DeLuca? Thanks. For everything.”

[shan282-ao3]

The Devil Has Come Ch6

Originally posted on Archive of Our Own [x]

Chapters: 12/? Fandom: Far Cry 5 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/Jacob Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/Joseph Seed Characters: Original Female Character(s), John Seed, Jacob Seed, Joseph Seed, Faith Seed, Staci Pratt, Nick Rye, Sharky Boshaw, Female Deputy | Judge (Far Cry), Original Male Character(s), Kim Rye, Boomer (Far Cry), Joey Hudson, Earl Whitehorse Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Torture, Fluff, Minor Character Death, Recreational Drug Use, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Character Death, Slow Burn Series: Part 1 of Bottom of The River

Summary: They should never have been there. Whitehorse and Pratt were right when they spoke against going to Eden’s Gate. They should have left The Project alone. They’d started something and there was no going back now. The lamb had broken the first seal and the deputy had been helpless to stop her.

Read below:

Hope County had been hit with a heat wave, the last two days had been passed in agony with the air-conditioning inside whatever car they traveled in. The only sound inside the pickup was choir music drifting softly through the radio. Sarah sat in the passenger’s seat counting ammo and reloading her weapons as well as Rook.

She’d told Rook about John when she’d gotten to the Rye's. Thankfully she’d still been there so Sarah had been able to pull her aside and tell her everything. Well not everything, she’d left out the weird baptism and the softer details from her two encounters with him. She’d had been rightfully pissed off that Sarah hadn’t told her sooner, but aside from that, she didn’t seem too worried. She had, however, decided that they stick together from now on if they went out to do something for the resistance they went together.

So they now found themselves sitting in the car on the side of the road waiting for a fuel truck to drive by. Falls End was running low and Mary May had tasked them with bringing some tankers back. Of course, that was easier said than done.

“You ready?” Rook asked and pointed down the road to a fuel tanker driving slowly towards them. Sarah nodded and loaded the clip into her sniper.

She grabbed the outside of the car and pulled herself out of the car so she was sitting on the open window, her shoes leaving boot prints on the seat. She twisted and raised the scope to line up her shot. She took a breath as she centered the crosshairs on the driver’s chest. Normally she would go for a headshot but if she did that they risked the tanker careening off the road and crashing into something.

She held her breath and fired, watching through her scope as the bullet impaled the man. The brakes squealed and it veered towards a ditch on the side of the road but came to a halt before going over. Sarah finally let herself breathe.

She dropped back into the car as Rook drove towards the tanker. They stopped next to it and Rook climbed out. Sarah waited in the passenger seat with her AR-C trained on the road in front of them in case some cultists decided to crash the party.

Something caught Sarah’s eye near the truck, Rook was dragging the dead Peggie away. Sarah jumped out of her seat to get closer, unsure of what it was she’d seen. When she got close to the tank she gagged, the smell of gasoline was sickening. Her eyes widened when she realized what it was she had seen. A stream of flame was shooting out from behind the driver’s seat, her bullet must have gone through the guy and into the tank. She hadn’t switched out of the armor-piercing bullets.

“Run!” Sarah shouted at Rook, turning on heel and sprinting back to the car and leaped into the drivers. She flipped it into reverse and skidded backward, stopping long enough for Rook to get in.

“What the fuck is going on?” Rook’s voice was frantic and demanding.

“I shot the tanker. When I shot the Peggie I hit the tank and ignited the gas.” Sarah craned her neck to look behind them as she reversed away.

“What?” Rook shouted, panic and anger coming across clear. “How the fuck?”

Sarah didn’t answer, a Resistance car drove past them towards the tanker. They both watched helplessly as the car got closer just as the tanker blew. The women screamed as the force of the explosion caused their bones to rattle.

Sarah couldn’t hear anything and there was a massive spot in the center of her vision. She fumbled around until she grasped the door handle and pulled it. She tumbled out of the car to the hot asphalt below. She swore and rubbed her head as she sat on the ground.

Rook stumbled around to the driver’s side and grabbed Sarah’s arm, yanking her up and pointing in the direction of the Resistance members, she was saying something that Sarah couldn’t hear. The van hadn’t exploded in the blast but a thick black smoke was pouring out of the engine.

Sarah followed behind Rook, trying to keep her bearings as they got closer. The vehicle’s occupants were passed out, Sarah followed her partner’s lead and opened one of the doors to drag someone out. The engine caught fire and Sarah tugged harder on the woman in her arms, there were still two people left inside, one in the passenger’s seat and one more in the backseat. She pulled the woman to safety and took a few steps towards the van again.

The explosion that followed sent her flying back onto her ass. Her hearing had been starting to return, extremely muffled but it had been coming back. Now the only thing she could hear was a high pitched ringing. Her head screamed at her to stay down as she shoved herself into a sitting position. The bright spot in her vision was worse now, she could see it every time she blinked.

Somewhere deep down she knew she should check the van, see if anyone survived. She should look for Rook, should check on the woman she’d pulled out. Yet once she’d pushed herself to her feet she found herself stumbling away from the explosion down the road. All other thoughts gone from her mind, she dragged herself past the car chasing safety, home.

It wasn’t long before cars rolled up. Sarah wasn’t surprised, she barely blinked an eye at the white trucks with the Eden’s Gate symbols painted on their doors. Someone tugged on her arm, hazy, confused, shocked, Sarah turned painfully slowly and made eye contact with Rook. She was saying something, Sarah just shook her head and pulled away to resume her walking.

A Peggie jumped from their car and walked towards Sarah, she stopped and looked down at her gun, safely tucked in its holster. She could draw it, she had time. She didn’t, just stopped moving and watched the man as he got closer. He grabbed her and slammed her against a nearby truck, she was numbly aware that it hurt. The barrel of a gun pressed against her neck and she took a sharp inhale if this was how it ended then so be it. She pushed against the gun and felt hesitation in the man.

Pain enveloped her chest and she looked up, past the man with the gun at her throat, to see another had shot her. Rook lay on the ground not too far away. Star and sparkles swam around her vision and the ringing in her ears got softer. Bliss bullets. Sarah closed her eyes and breathed as the bliss took over and she collapsed to the ground.

“Why the hell is she here?” Someone shouted and the sound of something breaking drifted through the doorway.

“She was with the deputy, I thought—“ Another voice, it sounded scared.

“You thought? You thought?!” Sarah groaned, the voices assaulting her ears made her headache worse. “I ordered everyone to leave her alone. You were just supposed to take the rookie not her.” Someone cried out in pain, Sarah tried to care but she couldn’t find the effort in her.

She opened her eyes hesitantly, grateful for the shitty lighting in the room she was in. It was dark aside from the few dim yellow lights hanging above, it was supposed to be menacing she was sure, but to her just felt comforting in a way. There was no one else around, she was finally alone. Except she wasn’t.

Someone cried out to her left, frantic and muffled. Sarah looked to the source, her eye’s fixing on Hudson who was tied to a chair in the corner of the room. She opened her mouth to say something but found she couldn’t, her mouth was taped shut. A touch of panic set in, Sarah looked wildly around to get her bearings, the binds on her wrist cut in every time she moved. Groaning from her right alerted her to Rook’s presence in the room.

The sound of metal squealing caught Sarah’s attention and she watched the door closest to Rook swing open. John stepped through, violence and rage painted on his face and obvious in the way he stalked into the room. Hudson was screaming, Sarah wanted to tell her to shut the fuck up, it was hurting her head.

John paused by Rook who was only now starting to stir but continued on until he stopped in front of Sarah. He grabbed her chin with a grip much harder than she was comfortable with and forced her head up to look him in the eye, turned her this way and that as his too blue eyes looked for something. His body language threatened cat violence, cruelty, all the pain to come, but the eyes that looked with her for a moment betrayed a certain softness, maybe even a bit of regret. It was gone as soon as she saw it though and he let her go, shoving her back a bit.

He bent down and picked up a toolbox of some sort before talking towards the workbench across from her. He dropped something onto the table beside Rook, who was now awake and obviously a little in shock at their situation.

John walked like he had an audience, his movements emphasized and drawn out. It worked to his advantage, all three of his captives watched intently. He stood still for a few seconds, Sarah wasn’t sure why. Hudson had stopped watching him and instead looked down submissively at the floor. He finally pivoted towards Rook and started to speak.

“My parents were the first ones to teach me about the Power of Yes.” He drew the last word out, there was a ghost of a smirk on his lips. “One night, they took me into the kitchen, and they threw me on the ground,” He wasn’t looked at Rook anymore, he had his back to her and was stapling something that looked like skin to his bench, “And I experienced pain after pain after paid—“

His stapler slammed onto the bench, everyone in the room jumped. For the first time, Sarah felt genuine fear when she looked at him. Before it had only been momentary panic or a sense of unease, but now, rage and cruelty lacing his voice and actions, she could barely breathe. She felt like a cornered rabbit staring down a hungry cougar, her instincts screaming at her to run but her body trapped against her chair.

“And when I didn’t think I could take anymore, I did.” His eyes darted to Sarah for a second as he walked towards Rook. “Something broke free inside. I wasn’t scared. I was… clear.” Sarah watched his every moment, partly out of fear and partly out of some sick fascination. He sounded so at peace, and somewhat cocky, as he continued. “I looked up at them and I started to laugh. All I could say was… Yes.” Again he drew the word out and Sarah finally understood what Nick had meant when he said John Seed probably had a ‘yes’ kink.

Sarah kicked against her bounds and John looked at her sharply before continuing his little speech. Sarah had stopped listening, she tried to block him out and looked around the room, searching for some way out.

“Giving takes courage. The courage…” He stepped away from Rook and walked back towards his bench. He held eye contact with Sarah as he continued. “To own your sin. To etch it on to your flesh and carry its burden,” He turned his palms up in some guise of holiness and directed his attention back to Rook. “And when you have endured— when you have truly begun to atone— to cut it out like a cancer and display it for all to see. My god that’s courage.” The image brought bile to her throat. He grabbed a screwdriver and stalked towards Sarah. There was a purr in his voice as he stalked towards her. “I’m going to teach you courage. Teach you how to say ‘yes’ so you can confront your weaknesses.” There was a manic excitement in him and he turned back around, his focus darting all over the place as he continued his rant and he voice got louder and louder. “Confront your sin. You will swim across an ocean of pain and emerge… free. For only then can you truly begin to atone.”

He stopped in front of his bench and leaned back against it, screwdriver held like a weapon. His arm tattoos were on display, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. “So. Who wants to go first? Hm?”

Rook and Sarah looked eyes, Hudson refused to look at anyone but the wall behind Sarah. No one said anything and John’s anger bubbled. “Which one? Hm?” Nothing. “This is lesson number one.” Hudson whimpered and struggled against her bonds, Sarah didn’t break eye contact with Rook. “Someone’s got to choose.” His voice was strangled, drawing Sarah’s attention. He looked at her with a mix of violence and what might even be fear. She said nothing, just watched him.

John’s patience broke and he turned around faster than Sarah had expected and threw the bench backward. “For fuck's sake we’ll start with you!” He practically screamed and walked menacingly towards Rook. He sounded so happy and at peace before he grabbed Hudson. He pushed her towards the door behind rook, she let out terrified shrieks as he told Rook about what he was going to do to her.

All Sarah could do was watch helplessly, her blood cold with terror. Someone came into the room and took Hudson’s chair out the room while she kicked at her bindings and screamed. “We can’t forget about our other deputy.” John pivoted and grabbed her chair, pushing her in front of him towards the door out. “I’ll be right back.” He told the Rook as he passed, he was practically squatting as he pushed her chair.

John didn’t say anything for a few minutes and Sarah didn’t bother struggling. Hudson’s faint cries could be heard carrying down the hallway until the eventually stopped and the only sound left was air hissing through vents above.

Sarah let her eyes wander, taking in the halls that John pushed her down, as she tried to sort out her thoughts. She was terrified, that was a given, but a small part of her deep, deep down knew that she’d be fine, she’d make it out of this relatively fine. Above the pain, she felt anger, anger at the cult and John. Not sure because he was planning to torture her, but also because he’d kidnapped her. Barely three days ago he’d promise he wouldn’t force her into confession and yet here she was. She shouldn’t have trusted him, she was an idiot.

“I’m… they weren’t supposed to take you.” John finally broke the silence when he’d pushed her into a room and closed the door behind them. He pulled the tape from her mouth and Sarah squeezed her eyes shut as is pulled at her skin. “I meant what I said last time.”

“Fuck off,” Sarah swore, struggling uselessly at her restraints for a few seconds. Her hair was in front of one eye and he moved his hand to brush it away. She flinched back like she’d been attacked. “Don’t fucking touch me.” She practically spat, struggling again and her chair moved back away from him, she felt a small bit of triumph.

John looked a little hurt and pretty offended, but his anger quickly came up to mask it. He clenched his fist and kicked her chair away, it spun and banged against the wall. She had to physically spin herself back around to face him. “I’m trying,” He was practically seething, “to help you.”

“Help me?! You said this was my decision! You said I didn’t have to atone until I was ready!” Her voice rose with every word and she glared daggers at the man who she’d only days ago shared pleasant conversation.

“I know what I said.” He snapped and pulled the sunglasses off his head to run a hand through his hair, it left it looking disheveled. “There’s nothing I can do about it now.”

“Nothing you can do? You can let me go you asshole.” She wished she wasn’t tied up right now so she could punch his stupid, beautiful face.

John looked at her with almost sad eyes and pulled her chair close again. He crouched in front of her and rubbed her wrist with his thumb. “I can’t, word has already spread that I both deputies. If I let you go, Joseph would know and he…” He trailed off and Sarah felt the fight in her die.

John looked absolutely terrified at the mention of Joseph. She remembered a conversation she’d had with Rook about the first time John had grabbed her. She’d mentioned that when Joseph had shown up John had looked about ready to piss himself. Sarah’s heart broke for him, his life had been shit enough without Joseph adding to that.

“John?” Her voice was soft, almost maternal, and she wished she wasn’t bound so she could comfort him in some way. He looked up at her with what seemed like disbelief, why would she suddenly be nice to him? Sarah wasn’t sure why, but she leaned forward as far as she could and bumped his forehead with hers. “John?” He didn’t say anything, just pressed against her and just breathed for a few minutes.

Sirens shattered the silence and John shot away from her like he’d been burned. He looked wildly between her and the door before bolting out, radio in hand.

“The deputy escaped.” A voice crackled through the window and carried through the partially open door into Sarah’s room.

“Which one?” John’s voice was frantic and furious.

“Not Hudson.”

“Dammit! Find her!” John’s stomping footsteps carried down the hall and Sarah looked around for something to help her get out. She resorted to pushing herself slowly towards the door, it was a tiring process but soon she was at the gap. Except it wasn’t open far enough for her to get through and she couldn’t shove it open like that, the thing was fucking heavy.

Familiar panting hit her ears and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. “Rookie? Tessa?” She called out the gap and soon her savior stood in front of her and shoved the door open. “Took you long enough.” Sarah quipped half-heartedly as Rook cut her restraints.

“Sorry, I fell down some stairs.”

“Why?”

Rook gave her a deadpan look. “It seemed like something fun to do before leaving the torture bunker.” Sarah hummed in mock understanding and rubbed her wrists. “Did you see where Hudson went?”

“Nope.” Sarah shook her head and Rook swore. She handed Sarah her knife and the two went out into the corridor, running towards hopefully an exit.

[bthenoise]

Celebrate 10 Years of ‘Constellations’ With August Burns Red’s 10 Favorite Moments From The Writing, Recording & Touring Process

When it comes to most album anniversary tours, some fans tend to think those 10, 15 or even 20-year treks are just for the longtime listeners and nostalgia chasers. Instead, many seem to forget about the bands actually playing those beloved records on a nightly basis. 

Take metalcore juggernauts August Burns Red, for example. Gearing up for their 10-year anniversary tour for 2009′s groundbreaking LP Constellations, the seasoned outfit has thoroughly enjoyed tour prep as they’ve run through songs like “The Escape Artist” and reminisced about some of their fondest decade-old memories.    

Be it playing tour games on the road, surviving terrifying snowstorms or the impact of playing “Indonesia” live for the first time in the Southeast Asian country, looking back on 10 years since Constellations was released, JB Brubaker, Brent Rambler, Matt Greiner, Dustin Davidson and Jake Luhrs have all accrued memories that will last a lifetime. 

Speaking with The Noise about some of those life-changing Constellations moments, Brubaker, Rambler, Greiner and Davidson compiled 10 of their all-time favorite memories from the writing, recording and touring process dating all the way back to 2007. To check out the list to get you even more pumped for August Burns Red’s upcoming tour, be sure to see below. Afterward, to grab tickets, head here.      

Lastly, if you’d like a chance to win free tickets – yes, FREE! – head here.

Brent Rambler

The Constellations recording process and touring cycle houses many fond memories for all of us. Here are three of my personal favorites that stick out. Let’s get cracking in chronological order!

“White Washed”

The lyrics for “White Washed” were some of the first more aggressive and “angry” lyrics that I had ever tried to write at the time. However, the words flowed like water because they were very in the moment. I started working on them immediately after a youth pastor surrounded me with a group of teenagers directly outside of our tour van. He proceeded to condemn [me] and the other members of the band simply for having a case of beer on our [tour] rider. He wanted to try and make an example of me in front of all the kids he brought with him. The whole thing was super inappropriate and out of line, BUT the lyrics for one of our most popular songs came out of it so it was worth it!

First Home

The recording process for Constellations was extra exciting for me because literally a week before we left I had an offer accepted for my first house. I remember being very proud because it was a big moment in proving to everyone that I could earn a living off of making music. For weeks while we recorded, I was heading to notaries and post offices to work on the closing process of the home, and since we were in Florida while making the album, I had to sign over power of attorney and do the sale over the phone. We returned home super late from Florida, but instead of crashing at my parents where all of my things were, I grabbed the keys and just sat in my new house.

Chicago House Of Blues

Constellations came out while we were on tour in the summer of 2009. The tour had some cool highlights, but I think the biggest one was selling out the Chicago House of Blues for the first time. At that moment it was our biggest headline show ever and packing such a notable venue felt amazing. Afterwards, we had a big celebration with the other bands backstage and it capped off a great night!

JB Brubaker

“Put Him Up!”

In December of 2009, we were on the road with Underoath and Emery. We became really good friends with the guys in Emery and would hang out with them every night after the shows. They had purchased their own passenger bus and gutted it and turned it into a tour bus. It was DIY but so cool. We’d hang out, drink beers, have dance parties and tell stories. Emery taught us one “game” that we still play on our tour bus today. Occasionally, when someone new would walk on the bus, Toby (Emery’s bassist/vocalist) would slowly start chanting “Put him up! Put him up!” The chant would catch on with other people on the bus until everyone was shouting it, at which point the newcomer would be picked up and crowd surfed to the ceiling of the bus. It was basically a “welcome to the party” greeting and always got a good laugh. We are happy to continue to carry the tradition on a decade later.

Touring Australia 

It was August of 2009. Constellations had recently come out and we were invited by Parkway Drive to support them on a tour across Australia. It was our first time in Australia and an honor to be supporting them. They were the hottest metal band on the continent and drawing huge crowds. After the monster travel day to Australia, we arrived to find a bunch of luggage didn’t make it. Qantas Airlines outfitted us with small care packages to keep us afloat until our baggage was recovered. Inside were heather gray sweat shorts and matching t-shirts. The first show was in Brisbane at an outdoor hillside [venue] called Riverstage. They were expecting 7,000 people which was more people than we had ever played for at that time. When we were setting up our equipment on stage before the show, I failed to take into account the voltage difference between Australia and the US. I plugged in my pedal board and heard a pop followed by the smell of burning electronics. I had fried my pedal board’s power supply, rendering my pedals useless. I had to borrow a pedal board from Architects, who were also playing on the tour. (I think we need to do this same tour lineup again!). When we took the stage that night I was a ball of nerves. I unfortunately played sloppy for the large Australian crowd, but I don’t know if anyone actually noticed or cared. We debuted our song “Meddler” for the first time that night. (I played that song particularly poorly.) The tour was overall a great experience. I have very fond memories of hanging out with the guys in Architects and playing massive shows in every city.

Touring South America

In August of 2010, we were doing a tour of South America. It was our first time traveling there. Our buddies in Blessthefall were coming with us and it was going to be awesome. The first show was in Sao Paulo, Brazil and over 1,000 people showed up. We were treated like celebrities and it was a completely surreal start to the tour. The final show of the tour was scheduled for August 28th in Caracas, Venezuela. About a week before the show, we learned of political unrest in Venezuela. The president there was known for being a hot head and pulling stunts like closing down the airports. It was determined to be unsafe for us to travel to Caracas because of the possibility of getting stuck there should the president lock down flights out of the country.  Instead, we booked a last minute show in Quito, Ecuador. With a week to get the word out, we weren’t expecting much. The show was held in a small youth center. There couldn’t have been more than 150 people there but it was such a special show for us. The appreciation and enthusiasm the crowd showed us was unmatched. We felt honored to have been received with such open arms and on such short notice. What felt like a disaster waiting to happen turned out to be one of the biggest highlights of our South American tour.

Dustin Davidson

The Day The Van Died

Thankfully I found a journal entry from Thursday, April 16th, 2009 so that I can write accurately with every detail about the day that our van died. We were pretty early into a tour with All That Remains and Born of Osiris when as you may have guessed -- our 16 passenger Chevrolet van (unnamed to my knowledge) took its last breath of air and sipped its last ounce of gasoline (which in those days contained 0% ethanol for you engine nerds). According to my journal, we woke up at a decent hour, grabbed continental breakfast from the hotel and headed out on the road for the next show. I was first up to drive on that day and while on the road about 60 miles away from our departure our sound engineer Jade asked me, “So how long do you think this van is going to last? Do you think it’ll make it through the rest of the tour?”

“Yeah, I think it’ll last for the rest of the tour - at least I hope so,” I replied. Just as I finished that thought our speed began to decrease rapidly while ascending a hill on the highway. I let off the gas and the engine shut off. As I was pulling over to the shoulder the temperature gauge shot up, the breaks were extremely hard to press because the brake booster went out and smoke poured out from under the hood when I was finally able to bring the vehicle to a stop. “Well, I think we need a new van,” I said.

I don’t remember how many miles that van had but it was surely over 200k so something like that was bound to happen at any time. Born of Osiris was able to pick us up so that we could make the next show which was in Syracuse, NY and after the gig our friend Ricky picked us up and drove us back to Lancaster so that we could van shop the next day and get back out on the road to meet up with the tour again.

The Storm That Left Us Stranded

In the winter of 2009, we did a short tour with Underoath and Emery. It was a very fun tour filled with hangs and packed shows. However, the drive home was something that I hope to never be a part of again. After the tour ended in New Orleans, JB and Brent flew home while the rest of us (Matt, Jake, TM Josh, merch guy Mychael and myself) opted to save some bones and drive the van/trailer home. We knew there was a huge rain storm coming but we had plenty of time to beat it home by getting on the road directly after that last show - or so we thought.

Sometime in the early hours of December 18th during our drive home, we blew a wheel bearing on the trailer and had to pull over to take a look at it. This was an ongoing problem for us back in the day. You see, this was a time before the Axe-Fx / Kemper. A dark time when we carried many guitar/bass cabinets. Our trailer was always filled to the brim. We were simply carrying too much weight and would blow out wheel bearings left and right no matter how we packed the trailer.

This blow out was one of the worst ones we ever had. Since it was still dark outside, whoever was driving the van couldn’t see the smoke so they ended up driving for a while after the bearing gave out which led to the bearing fusing to the spindle which meant that we couldn’t fix the problem ourselves. We had to wait for a small repair shop to open up so that we could have the bearing fixed and while waiting to have everything repaired the storm passed us. It was only rain at the time but we knew it would turn into a mild blizzard. We finally got on the road in the early afternoon but it was too late - the damage was done.

I don’t recall which highway we were on, but it indeed was shut down and we ended up spending the night in the van on the highway until we could get moving again early the next morning. Around 6am when traffic started moving again, we opted to drive to the next closest exit and get a hotel since the roads were still covered in snow. Our drive home was supposed to be about 18 hours without stops and it ended up taking us 3 days. It’s fun to reflect on it now and talk to those that I share that memory with, but it’s safe to say from that day on, I never drove the van home from the end of a tour again.

Matt Greiner

Constellations Artwork

It was December 2007. I was getting inspiration for album artwork from the most unassuming source, a black and white movie from the 1940s. It's A Wonderful Life is a movie about a supernatural intervention in the life of a frustrated businessman. In the movie, an angel is sent from heaven to show George Bailey what life would have been like had he never existed. At their high-school graduation party, George is reintroduced to Mary who has had a crush on him since they were kids. Under the moonlight, they're walking outside when George suddenly turns Mary towards the sky and asks, "You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down."

As I watched the scene unfold, I played out the idea of a rope tied to a star in the sky. I put pen to paper and ran with the concept, pulling inspiration from Matthew 6 where the idea of Heaven coming to earth is introduced. The stars represented steadfast anchors by which we find direction throughout our lives. The kites represent our own fleeting emotions that will alter direction just as the wind changes. I remember getting on the phone with Ryan Clark, the creative mind behind the company Invisible Creature, and explaining the artistic concepts that would eventually come to fruition in the pages of Constellations.  

“Indonesia” 

In 2007, I awoke to find that a relative had died in a plane crash. David Clapper had always been passionate about flying. It wasn't uncommon to see his single-engine Cessna flying over our family farm in Lancaster County, PA. He devoted his time assisting those in need in Southeast Asia by flying the sick and dying from the bush to the nearest hospital, which often times was a several hour flight. On one of his return flights to the bush, he encountered a storm that blew his plane into the side of a mountain. I remember going for a drive after finding out the terrible news. I was so upset that someone doing such a good thing had died in such a terrible way. Here was a man who gave his time and energy to helping others and, in the end, sacrificed his life doing so. I remember wondering what his last words might have been as the plane spun out of control, crashing into the side of the mountain where it still resides today. I learned an important lesson that day. That is, not every question in life has an answer, at least not one that will satisfy. "This is the time to turn down our heads and turn up our hearts."  

I remember traveling to Indonesia on the Constellations Tour. We played an outdoor venue for a large group of excited fans who were seeing us perform for the first time. When it came time to play "Indonesia," a feeling came over me that I'll never forget, an overwhelming sense of humility. The band I helped start in my parent's basement in Lancaster County, PA was playing in Southeast Asia performing a song written about my relative who had passed away on that very continent just the year before. The fans in the crowd seemed to sing about him like he was their relative, not some stranger who's name they merely read in the liner notes of a CD. Near the end of the song Jake screams the words, "David, rest in peace." I'll never forget hearing the crowd sing those very words so loud they could be heard over the amplification of our own instruments. A story goes a long way, sometimes even to the edges of the other side of the planet.  

[diarrheaworldstarhiphop]

The gunman who attacked members of Congress on Wednesday morning, wounding a GOP leader, had a long history of domestic violence that included the use of a gun and hated Republicans.

James T. Hodgkinson, 66, of Belleville, Illinois, opened fire on a congressional baseball practice outside of Washington, D.C., a senior law-enforcement official told The Daily Beast. Hodgkinson was killed by police.

House Majority Whip Steve Scalise, two Capitol Police officers, and congressional staffers were wounded. They are all expected to survive, according to police. 

Hodgkinson may have practiced before the attack, a neighbor told The Daily Beast.

On March 24, neighbor William Schaumleffel called the St. Clair County Sheriff’s Office to complain that Hodgkinson had fired approximately 15 shots outside. A responding officer found Hodgkinson shooting into nearby trees and advised him to stop, according to a sheriff’s report, which added that Hodgkinson had a valid firearm license.

“I thought, my God, what is that guy shooting?” Schaumleffel recalled.

He told The Daily Beast that he was out in his backyard with his grandchildren when the shooting started. He heard one shot, then another, and then three in rapid succession.

Hodgkinson held the gun to his shoulder and fired across Schaumleffel’s field, he said. Schaumleffel said he yelled to him to say that there were houses in that direction and that he should stop, but wasn’t sure if he heard him.

The shooting started again, in what Schaumleffel now calls “target practice.”

“I told my wife, ‘hey, I’m gonna call the sheriff. He’s liable to turn the gun on us,’” Schaumleffel said.

Schaumleffel said he had never met Hodgkinson, and said that almost everyone in the neighborhood owned a gun. But no one starts shooting randomly, into the distance, like Hodgkinson did.

“He was being very reckless that day,” Schaumleffel said.

Shortly after the incident, Hodgkinson reportedly left Illinois and was living in Virginia.

A brutal foster father

Hodgkinson had a history of violence that did not rise to the level to prohibit him from legally owning a firearm.

He was the foster father of at least two girls. The first, Wanda Ashley Stock, 17, committed suicide in 1996 by pouring gasoline on herself and setting herself on fire after a few months of living with the Hodgkinsons, the Belleville News-Democrat reports. The Hodgkinsons gave an interview to the paper after her suicide, calling her a “very practical, level-headed girl.”

Privacy laws do not allow the Illinois Department of Children and Family Services to release foster records.

In 2002, Hodgkinson became the foster father of another girl whom he allegedly abused, according to police records.

In 2006, he was arrested for domestic battery and discharge of a firearm after he stormed into a neighbor’s home where his teenage foster daughter was visiting with a friend. In a skirmish, he punched his foster daughter’s then 19-year-old friend Aimee Moreland “in the face with a closed fist,” according to a police report reviewed by The Daily Beast. When Moreland’s boyfriend walked outside of the residence where Moreland and Hodgkinson’s foster daughter were, he allegedly aimed a shotgun at the boyfriend and later fired one round. The Hodgkinsons later lost custody of that foster daughter.

“[Hodgkinson] fired a couple of warning shots and then hit my boyfriend with the butt of the gun,” Moreland told The Daily Beast on Wednesday.

Hodgkinson was also “observed throwing” his daughter “around the bedroom,” the police report said. After the girl broke free, Hodgkinson followed and “started hitting her arms, pulling her hair, and started grabbing her off the bed.”

Moreland said Hodgkinson’s daughter “told me a lot of stories that he was really awful to her.”

“According to his foster daughter, he was always angry,” Moreland said. “She was really unhappy there. She had come over to get away from them.”

When Moreland tried escaping with Hodgkinson’s daughter in a vehicle, Hodgkinson reached inside and “turned off the ignition,” the report said.

“We were panicked and when I tried to reverse, I hit neutral instead and he opened my car door and hit me, and then came to her car door and pulled out a knife and cut her seatbelt and dragged her out,” Moreland said. “She was only 15 or 16, I think. She was so tiny.”

“Do I think he’s capable of [the shooting]?” Moreland said. “Definitely.

“It sounds really awful, but I’m not surprised,” she said. “Every interaction I’ve had I’ve thought, ‘that guy’s crazy.’”

At court, Hodgkinson was no less angry. Moreland said that at an initial court appearance, Hodgkinson had to be removed from the courtroom after a series of eruptions.

“Every time the judge would talk to me, he would have an outburst and start screaming,” Moreland said.

The charges were dismissed, Moreland said, after she got her dates “mixed up” and failed to appear on time for a second court date.

“I tried to tell the court that this guy’s crazy, that this is a big deal, but they didn’t listen to me,” she said.

A Daily Beast reporter tracked down Judge Brian Babka, who presided over the April 2006 charges, at his home in a quiet middle-class subdivision of Belleville. The reporter heard him tell his wife to say that he was not available. The judge would not come to the door to answer questions about why the case was dismissed.

Angry at home, irate online

In June 2006, police were dispatched to Hodgkinson’s home in response to a domestic dispute that began when Hodgkinson allegedly hit a woman’s dog while it slept in her driveway, according to a sheriff’s report.

Hodgkinson also repeatedly called the police to report people on his lawn. In February 2005, he called police to claim juveniles had driven drunk on his property; although there was no damage, he requested extra patrols in the area. In August 2006, he called police to report a vehicle doing a donut in his yard overnight. In January 2007, he called the police after his neighbors’ trash company allegedly turned around on his driveway. In February 2007, he called police to report a car driving on his lawn.

Politically, Hodgkinson was also angry at Republicans, as expressed in letters to the Belleville News-Democrat newspaper.

“I don’t ever again want to hear how great a president [Ronald Reagan] was,” he wrote in March 2010. “All he did was give tax breaks to the rich and put the rest of the country (or at least 13.1 percent) out of work.

“To think the Republican Party can call this man their idol is un-American,” he added. “It’s all about the money.”

The year before, he suggested in a letter to the editor that legalizing or decriminalizing marijuana would be a way to “stimulate the economy.”

“Also to fund the government deficit I hope the Obama administration raises the income tax rate for the rich to 70 percent or more,” he wrote.

On social media, Hodgkinson presented himself as a Sanders supporter and a longtime critic of Republicans, particularly Trump. (Sanders said in a statement that Hodgkinson had volunteered on his campaign.)

Hodgkinson’s Facebook profile was linked to his listed telephone number.

“Trump is a Traitor,” Hodgkinson wrote in a May 22 Facebook post above a Change.org petition to remove Trump and Vice President Mike Pence for treason. “Trump Has Destroyed Our Democracy. It’s Time to Destroy Trump & Co.”

On Facebook, he was a member of groups including “Terminate the Republican Party,” “The Road To Hell Is Paved With Republicans,” “Donald Trump is not my President,” and “Memic Overlords.” He recently became particularly vocal, posting anti-Trump messages multiple times a day over two Facebook accounts. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution reports he attacked Republican congressional candidate Karen Handle, writing on Facebook: “Republican Bitch Wants People to Work for Slave Wages, when a Livable Wage is the Only Way to Go!”

Hodgkinson’s brother told The New York Times he was distraught by Trump’s victory. “I know he wasn’t happy with the way things were going, the election results and stuff,” Michael Hodgkinson said.

Hodgkinson’s Facebook account is vocal in support of Sanders, who lost the Democratic presidential nomination last year. On Twitter, Hodgkinson has tweeted at Sanders as early as 2014. Many of his friends are also Sanders supporters, according to social media.

On a mission?

Neighbor Aaron Meurer told The Daily Beast he lived next to Hodgkinson and his wife for about six years.

“I knew he wasn’t very happy when Trump got elected,” he said, adding that Hodgkinson had a Sanders sign in his yard during the election.

But he hadn’t seen Hodgkinson lately, estimating it had been a few weeks to a couple of months, Meurer said.

“I thought maybe he retired and went on a trip,” he said. “I know he bought a new van. He always drove a truck and then he all the sudden had a van one day.”

And while Meurer never saw Hodgkinson with a gun, he said he wouldn’t be surprised if he had owned one.

“I assume he had guns,” he said. “We live out in a rural area—everybody has guns out here.”

Hodgkinson reportedly left Illinois several weeks ago and was living in Alexandria prior to the attack. Former Alexandria mayor Bill Euille told The Washington Post that he had spoken with Hodgkinson every morning for the past month and a half at a local YMCA. Euille said he frequently observed Hodgkinson showering or working on his laptop at the gym.

Hodgkinson was unemployed and appeared to be living out of his gym bag. “What I did notice about this gentleman is he’d open up his gym bag and in it, he had everything he owned,” Euille told the Post. “He was living out of the gym bag.”

—with additional reporting by P. Richelle White in Belleville, Illinois, and Patricia Murphy in Atlanta, Georgia

[rebeccahpedersen]

Too Close To Home

TorontoRealtyBlog

Most real estate buyers are out there today looking for the biggest house they can find, with features like parking, or a basement apartment, or a backyard.  They’re prioritizing access to transit, school districts, parks, and proximity to a thriving retail strip.

But what about the thing that used to be number-one on everybody’s list?

Safety.

Let me tell you what happened outside my condo earlier this week, and how I feel about it, because how I feel is almost as shocking as what actually happened…

I live in a very safe area of the city of Toronto.

We all do.

And I mean that – we all do.  Most of us, anyways.

Truth be told, the idea of “safety,” and subject of “crime,” in my humble opinion, are things that get blown out of proportion by media who thrive on the negative news stories, and by politicians who can use it for fear-mongering.

Most actual “crime” takes place in the same handful of areas.

Of course, that’s a problem unto itself.

Nobody wants to see pockets of the city where ALL the crime takes place, and where all the residents live in danger.

Well, actually, everybody outside those pockets want to see it.  They just wont admit that outloud, or even to themselves.

If you asked yourself, or the person next to you, “Hey, do you feel bad about all the crime that takes place in XXX-area?  Would you be willing to wave a magic wand, and take 15% of the crime away, and put it in your neighbourhood to lessen the burden on those who live in the crime-ridden area?” is there anybody out there that would say, “yes?”

I moved down to King & Sherbourne over ten years ago, and there was nothing “dangerous” about the area.  There still isn’t.

I used to walk up to Richmond Street to the Tim Horton’s to get my coffee, and the worst you’d see is a homeless guy begging for change.

Go further north, and you’re into Moss Park.

I used to shop at the Dollorama up there regularly, and I’d walk the “gauntlet” of people hovering on the sidewalk on the east side of Sherbourne Street, north of Queen.  They were dirty, and most of them homeless, and/or drug addicts, but I never really felt “unsafe.”

Truth be told, they wanted as little to do with me, as I wanted to do with them.

They wanted to talk to others like them, smoke cigarettes, and wait around until the shelters opened up again.

The last thing they wanted was to interact with an “outsider.”

In the summers, the lawn at Moss Park arena is littered with bums laying out in the sun, no shirt, shouting at the person across the street, looking for half-smoked cigarettes on the street, and generally causing a ruckus.  But just steps away, in the parking lot next to the arena, what do you see?  Audi, Lexus, Mercedes, BMW – cars parking so guys can get out and play summer league hockey.

Nobody says, “I’m not playing summer league at Moss Park because it’s dirty and dangerous.”

I tell people – my friends, family, clients, and especially the parents of clients, “King East and the ‘St. Lawrence Market area’ are super safe, and there’s a sort-of ‘invisible fence’ up at Richmond Street, that the rif-raff won’t pass.  You don’t really want to venture north of Richmond Street, but the rest of our neighbourhood is just fantastic all around.”

I said that then, and I say that now.

Toronto, for the most part is “safe.”

And when something unimaginable happens, literally at your doorstep, it has the ability to change how you feel in an instant.

I was sitting in my office on Monday afternoon, when my phone range – it was my wife.

Now that I have a 10-week old baby, every time my phone rings and it’s my wife, I get anxious.  I assume there’s something wrong.

Does that ever go away?

I picked up the phone, and she calmly said, “Somebody just got shot, dead, right outside our condo.”

And she added, “I want to move.  Now.”

That’s a reasonable request, given the circumstances.

And given the timeframe, ie. it happened literally minutes ago, I think it’s how many people would react.

But as I started my slow, grovelling, submission into our new housing search, my wife interrupted me and said, “I’m just kidding.  But seriously, this is pretty fucked up.”

News started to slowly roll out online, and all the media outlets said, “George & Adelaide.”

My condo, for those of you that don’t know, is at 112 George Street.  It comprises almost the entire city block bordered by George, Adelaide, Jarvis, and Richmond.

So when I heard “George & Adelaide,” I figured it was pretty close to us, but I didn’t get know exactly how close until much later.

A lot of the media outlets were saying “George Brown College,” as in “near” or “close to.”

So I simply assumed that this shooting took place, perhaps, on the south side of Adelaide, just east of George, across from the old Toronto Post House.

But as I would learn later, the media reports were simply saying “George Brown College” to try to give a geographic reference for readers.

My phone started buzzing as friends, colleagues, and even blog readers (crazy how everybody knows where I live, but my life is an open book), started to message me to see if I knew.

One friend even said, “Do you want me to go over to your place and check up on your wife?”

Then minutes later he wrote back, “That sounded really, really weird.  I had good intentions.”

My wife was fine, and soon our building sent out an email saying that the whole block was shut down as police were on site.

Having a father who was a criminal lawyer for 40 years, I know a thing or two about crime.

I knew right away, well, I knew and hoped, that this was a “hit;” that this was a targeted crime, and it left the rest of us out of it.

This wasn’t some mother-of three, or choir-boy, or pleasant senior citizen walking along, minding his or her own business, when suddenly some random, evil-doer decided to end it all for that law-abiding citizen.

Of that, I was certain.  And that’s how I rationalized it, despite how irrational a situation like this truly was.

I went about the rest of my day – I had no choice.

But it wasn’t until I came home around 8:30pm that what had happened, really sunk in.

I drove south on George Street, through Richmond, and past two police cars that were blocking the intersection, but letting residents of Vu and Post House pass through.

I drove under police tape, and past crime scene vehicles, forensic vans, and cop cars.

And that’s when I saw the reality of the situation; I saw an orange tarp.

And under that orange tarp was what used to be a person.

The “evidence markers” were everywhere.  Those little plastic stands with numbers on them that Gil Grissom and the team on C.S.I. place all over the scene – the street was littered with them.

And even though it was dark out, I could see a massive pool of blood on the street.  Two, in fact.

There was a giant overhead light shining down, as thirty police officers combed the grounds, looking for evidence.

Until now, I had no clue how close to home this really was.

This wasn’t “near” Adelaide & George.

This wasn’t even at Adelaide & George, ie. at the corner.

That orange tarp – the one with the body underneath, was literally on the sidewalk adjacent to the driveway of my building.

I’ve walked my dog past there.

I’ve walked my daughter past there.

I’ve sat on that very curb with my golf clubs, waiting for a buddy to pick me up on a nice summer day.

And once I learned that there were twelve gunshots aimed at this person, I realized that the mother-of three, or choir-boy, or pleasant senior citizen could have easily been hit by a bullet as the two perpetrators fired at will.

This was really, really close to home.

I went inside and found my wife feeding our daughter.  “Some day, huh?” I said as I kissed her hello.  “Crazy,” she said.  And that was pretty much the extent of our conversation.

The next day, I had a morning appointment, and decided to head back to the condo to park my car before showing a condo down the street.

As I drove north on George, I could see the orange, sawdust-type material that they poured on the pools of blood the night before to soak it up.  I’m not sure what it’s called, or even what it is – but think about what you pour on a chemical spill, or to cover gasoline at a gas station – there’s something they use for blood, I suppose.

It had snowed a bit that morning, and the orange/sawdust area had some snow on it.

I was waiting to pull into my driveway when I watched as a pedestrian crossed the street, and did that sort of “courtesy hop” that we do to show a car passing by that we’re not slagging – we’re going to give it one hop and skip to show we’re trying to speed up crossing the street.

And that courtesy hop, up onto the curb, was directly over the orange sawdust on the street.

That pedestrian just hopped over the site of a dead person, who had basically bled out on the street less than twenty-four hours earlier, and he had absolutely no idea.

I watched that person continue on.  He put ear-buds in his ears, and took some gloves out of his jacket pocket to put them on.  He fidgeted with his backpack as he continued on through the courtyard, and eventually he went out of frame.

That person had no idea.

In fact, many people that day, walked that same spot, and had no idea.

On Wednesday, I drove by again in the early evening, and the rain had washed away every piece of that orange sawdust, and there were no longer streaks of crimson lining the street.

There was absolutely no trace of what had happened on Monday.  It was merely a news story – one that was fading, and losing interest, with each passing day.

The world simply kept going, as it always does.

Seeing this spot on Wednesday, after seeing it one day previous on Tuesday, simply reaffirmed what I already felt: absolutely nothing.

Nothing.

I felt nothing.

Is that bad?

Is that normal?

Somebody was murdered in my driveway, and two days later, it was simply a footnote in my month?

January, 2017: -went to a wedding -sold a few properties -saw my baby’s first smile -somebody was murdered in my driveway -put snow tires on my car

As I said at the onset, how I felt about this brutal act, to me, is even more shocking than the incident itself.

But perhaps that’s just the world we live in today.

Maybe things like this aren’t shocking anymore.

Maybe because society has become so involved with everybody, everywhere, we can always find something far worse, and thus whatever we are looking at, seems trivial on a relative and comparative basis.

Or maybe because, as we later learned, this was a targeted crime, and the parties involved were gang-members, we’re able to downplay it into almost nothing.

And thus perhaps the knowledge that “lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place” makes us simply overlook this incident entirely.

I started this blog writing about “safety” in Toronto, and in the areas in which we live, so let me finish along those lines.

Despite the fact that somebody was murdered in my driveway four days ago, I don’t feel any differently about the area in which I live.

I feel just as safe, and just as happy.

You might have heard the euphemism, “Something bad has to happen somewhere, at some point, to somebody.”

And as blasé as that might sound, I have to think this perfectly describes how a lot of residents of the area, and those in our building, are looking at this week’s events as we simply “move on”…

The post Too Close To Home appeared first on Toronto Real Estate Property Sales & Investments | Toronto Realty Blog by David Fleming.

Originated from http://ift.tt/2k33wbK

[rebeccahpedersen]

Too Close To Home

TorontoRealtyBlog

Most real estate buyers are out there today looking for the biggest house they can find, with features like parking, or a basement apartment, or a backyard.  They’re prioritizing access to transit, school districts, parks, and proximity to a thriving retail strip.

But what about the thing that used to be number-one on everybody’s list?

Safety.

Let me tell you what happened outside my condo earlier this week, and how I feel about it, because how I feel is almost as shocking as what actually happened…

I live in a very safe area of the city of Toronto.

We all do.

And I mean that – we all do.  Most of us, anyways.

Truth be told, the idea of “safety,” and subject of “crime,” in my humble opinion, are things that get blown out of proportion by media who thrive on the negative news stories, and by politicians who can use it for fear-mongering.

Most actual “crime” takes place in the same handful of areas.

Of course, that’s a problem unto itself.

Nobody wants to see pockets of the city where ALL the crime takes place, and where all the residents live in danger.

Well, actually, everybody outside those pockets want to see it.  They just wont admit that outloud, or even to themselves.

If you asked yourself, or the person next to you, “Hey, do you feel bad about all the crime that takes place in XXX-area?  Would you be willing to wave a magic wand, and take 15% of the crime away, and put it in your neighbourhood to lessen the burden on those who live in the crime-ridden area?” is there anybody out there that would say, “yes?”

I moved down to King & Sherbourne over ten years ago, and there was nothing “dangerous” about the area.  There still isn’t.

I used to walk up to Richmond Street to the Tim Horton’s to get my coffee, and the worst you’d see is a homeless guy begging for change.

Go further north, and you’re into Moss Park.

I used to shop at the Dollorama up there regularly, and I’d walk the “gauntlet” of people hovering on the sidewalk on the east side of Sherbourne Street, north of Queen.  They were dirty, and most of them homeless, and/or drug addicts, but I never really felt “unsafe.”

Truth be told, they wanted as little to do with me, as I wanted to do with them.

They wanted to talk to others like them, smoke cigarettes, and wait around until the shelters opened up again.

The last thing they wanted was to interact with an “outsider.”

In the summers, the lawn at Moss Park arena is littered with bums laying out in the sun, no shirt, shouting at the person across the street, looking for half-smoked cigarettes on the street, and generally causing a ruckus.  But just steps away, in the parking lot next to the arena, what do you see?  Audi, Lexus, Mercedes, BMW – cars parking so guys can get out and play summer league hockey.

Nobody says, “I’m not playing summer league at Moss Park because it’s dirty and dangerous.”

I tell people – my friends, family, clients, and especially the parents of clients, “King East and the ‘St. Lawrence Market area’ are super safe, and there’s a sort-of ‘invisible fence’ up at Richmond Street, that the rif-raff won’t pass.  You don’t really want to venture north of Richmond Street, but the rest of our neighbourhood is just fantastic all around.”

I said that then, and I say that now.

Toronto, for the most part is “safe.”

And when something unimaginable happens, literally at your doorstep, it has the ability to change how you feel in an instant.

I was sitting in my office on Monday afternoon, when my phone range – it was my wife.

Now that I have a 10-week old baby, every time my phone rings and it’s my wife, I get anxious.  I assume there’s something wrong.

Does that ever go away?

I picked up the phone, and she calmly said, “Somebody just got shot, dead, right outside our condo.”

And she added, “I want to move.  Now.”

That’s a reasonable request, given the circumstances.

And given the timeframe, ie. it happened literally minutes ago, I think it’s how many people would react.

But as I started my slow, grovelling, submission into our new housing search, my wife interrupted me and said, “I’m just kidding.  But seriously, this is pretty fucked up.”

News started to slowly roll out online, and all the media outlets said, “George & Adelaide.”

My condo, for those of you that don’t know, is at 112 George Street.  It comprises almost the entire city block bordered by George, Adelaide, Jarvis, and Richmond.

So when I heard “George & Adelaide,” I figured it was pretty close to us, but I didn’t get know exactly how close until much later.

A lot of the media outlets were saying “George Brown College,” as in “near” or “close to.”

So I simply assumed that this shooting took place, perhaps, on the south side of Adelaide, just east of George, across from the old Toronto Post House.

But as I would learn later, the media reports were simply saying “George Brown College” to try to give a geographic reference for readers.

My phone started buzzing as friends, colleagues, and even blog readers (crazy how everybody knows where I live, but my life is an open book), started to message me to see if I knew.

One friend even said, “Do you want me to go over to your place and check up on your wife?”

Then minutes later he wrote back, “That sounded really, really weird.  I had good intentions.”

My wife was fine, and soon our building sent out an email saying that the whole block was shut down as police were on site.

Having a father who was a criminal lawyer for 40 years, I know a thing or two about crime.

I knew right away, well, I knew and hoped, that this was a “hit;” that this was a targeted crime, and it left the rest of us out of it.

This wasn’t some mother-of three, or choir-boy, or pleasant senior citizen walking along, minding his or her own business, when suddenly some random, evil-doer decided to end it all for that law-abiding citizen.

Of that, I was certain.  And that’s how I rationalized it, despite how irrational a situation like this truly was.

I went about the rest of my day – I had no choice.

But it wasn’t until I came home around 8:30pm that what had happened, really sunk in.

I drove south on George Street, through Richmond, and past two police cars that were blocking the intersection, but letting residents of Vu and Post House pass through.

I drove under police tape, and past crime scene vehicles, forensic vans, and cop cars.

And that’s when I saw the reality of the situation; I saw an orange tarp.

And under that orange tarp was what used to be a person.

The “evidence markers” were everywhere.  Those little plastic stands with numbers on them that Gil Grissom and the team on C.S.I. place all over the scene – the street was littered with them.

And even though it was dark out, I could see a massive pool of blood on the street.  Two, in fact.

There was a giant overhead light shining down, as thirty police officers combed the grounds, looking for evidence.

Until now, I had no clue how close to home this really was.

This wasn’t “near” Adelaide & George.

This wasn’t even at Adelaide & George, ie. at the corner.

That orange tarp – the one with the body underneath, was literally on the sidewalk adjacent to the driveway of my building.

I’ve walked my dog past there.

I’ve walked my daughter past there.

I’ve sat on that very curb with my golf clubs, waiting for a buddy to pick me up on a nice summer day.

And once I learned that there were twelve gunshots aimed at this person, I realized that the mother-of three, or choir-boy, or pleasant senior citizen could have easily been hit by a bullet as the two perpetrators fired at will.

This was really, really close to home.

I went inside and found my wife feeding our daughter.  “Some day, huh?” I said as I kissed her hello.  “Crazy,” she said.  And that was pretty much the extent of our conversation.

The next day, I had a morning appointment, and decided to head back to the condo to park my car before showing a condo down the street.

As I drove north on George, I could see the orange, sawdust-type material that they poured on the pools of blood the night before to soak it up.  I’m not sure what it’s called, or even what it is – but think about what you pour on a chemical spill, or to cover gasoline at a gas station – there’s something they use for blood, I suppose.

It had snowed a bit that morning, and the orange/sawdust area had some snow on it.

I was waiting to pull into my driveway when I watched as a pedestrian crossed the street, and did that sort of “courtesy hop” that we do to show a car passing by that we’re not slagging – we’re going to give it one hop and skip to show we’re trying to speed up crossing the street.

And that courtesy hop, up onto the curb, was directly over the orange sawdust on the street.

That pedestrian just hopped over the site of a dead person, who had basically bled out on the street less than twenty-four hours earlier, and he had absolutely no idea.

I watched that person continue on.  He put ear-buds in his ears, and took some gloves out of his jacket pocket to put them on.  He fidgeted with his backpack as he continued on through the courtyard, and eventually he went out of frame.

That person had no idea.

In fact, many people that day, walked that same spot, and had no idea.

On Wednesday, I drove by again in the early evening, and the rain had washed away every piece of that orange sawdust, and there were no longer streaks of crimson lining the street.

There was absolutely no trace of what had happened on Monday.  It was merely a news story – one that was fading, and losing interest, with each passing day.

The world simply kept going, as it always does.

Seeing this spot on Wednesday, after seeing it one day previous on Tuesday, simply reaffirmed what I already felt: absolutely nothing.

Nothing.

I felt nothing.

Is that bad?

Is that normal?

Somebody was murdered in my driveway, and two days later, it was simply a footnote in my month?

January, 2017: -went to a wedding -sold a few properties -saw my baby’s first smile -somebody was murdered in my driveway -put snow tires on my car

As I said at the onset, how I felt about this brutal act, to me, is even more shocking than the incident itself.

But perhaps that’s just the world we live in today.

Maybe things like this aren’t shocking anymore.

Maybe because society has become so involved with everybody, everywhere, we can always find something far worse, and thus whatever we are looking at, seems trivial on a relative and comparative basis.

Or maybe because, as we later learned, this was a targeted crime, and the parties involved were gang-members, we’re able to downplay it into almost nothing.

And thus perhaps the knowledge that “lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place” makes us simply overlook this incident entirely.

I started this blog writing about “safety” in Toronto, and in the areas in which we live, so let me finish along those lines.

Despite the fact that somebody was murdered in my driveway four days ago, I don’t feel any differently about the area in which I live.

I feel just as safe, and just as happy.

You might have heard the euphemism, “Something bad has to happen somewhere, at some point, to somebody.”

And as blasé as that might sound, I have to think this perfectly describes how a lot of residents of the area, and those in our building, are looking at this week’s events as we simply “move on”…

The post Too Close To Home appeared first on Toronto Real Estate Property Sales & Investments | Toronto Realty Blog by David Fleming.

Originated from http://ift.tt/2k33wbK