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rachelbethhines · 4 years

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Tangled Salt Marathon - Rapunzel’s Return Part 1

We’ve finally made to season three and the entire reason why I made this review series. This season features some of the worst writing I have ever witnessed in a television program. And this season kicks off with the third worst episode of the whole series. Rapunzel’s Return is the iceberg that sinks this show and manages to assassinate everyone’s character.

Everyone’s.

Summary: Inside the House of Yesterday's Tomorrow (as seen off screen in "Rapunzeltopia"), Cassandra is greeted by the Enchanted Girl, a spirit who reveals that Cassandra is the biological daughter of the late Mother Gothel, who abandoned her on the night she kidnapped infant Rapunzel. Enraged that Rapunzel has been (unknowingly) overshadowing her for the entirety of her life, and that she will always be unfairly overlooked, Cassandra snatches the Moonstone Opal, absorbs it, and declared Rapunzel's destiny as her own. She manages to escape from the group and cuts all ties with them, with Rapunzel unable to wrap her head around the entire situation. The group returns to Corona and find that it has been taken over by Varian, who has aligned himself with Andrew and the Separatists of Saporia to erase the King and Queen's memories and enslave Corona's citizens.

Plot Hole Number One: Why Would Cassandra Just Blindly Follow A Ghost While Trapped Inside a Haunted House?

Outside of that one snarky remark, Cassandra never stops to question the literal ghost who is bossing her around. The ghost she met in a creepy haunted house. A haunted house that she was already suspicious of before ever going in and that has tried to kill her and her friends many times now.

Cassandra, the most distrusting and cautious of of individuals in the show thus far, just suddenly decides to leave her brain behind from this point forward for no given reason whatsoever.

If you have to dumb down your main character and have them behave OOC in order to get your plot rolling along, then you haven’t a good plot.

Plot Hole Number Two: Cassandra Sees for Herself How Awful Gothel Was to Her Here, So Why Would She Obsess Over the Woman?

Forgetting for a moment that Cass very well knows that Gothel treated her best friend like shit and tried to murder her other friend, Eugene, as evidenced by Quest for Varian; Cassandra can see for herself right here that Gothel is a crap person who never treated her right.

I mean there’s denial, and then there’s flat out stupidity. Cass being hurt by the this reveal is one thing. Cass believing that Gothel really loved her and blaming everyone else for her death is totally another and not based in any kind of sensible logic.

Plot Hole Number Three: Why Would Gothel Even Have a Child to Begin With?

Look, I’ll accept that the flower can deage Gothel enough for her to get laid and bare a kid, but that only brings up the question of why she would keep said kid?

She kept Rapunzel cause she needed her powers in order to stay alive, but Cass? What reason would she want to have Cassandra around? A baby can’t do chores for you and it's a hell of a lot of work to raise one. Plus the show repeatedly tells us over and over again that Gothel doesn’t really love her or even likes having her daugther around so... yeah, what is the point of this? Why didn’t she just drop Cass off at an orphanage to begin with?

You can’t make this type of reveal and have it go against the what we fundamentally know about the characters without explaining why they would partake in such actions.

This is Manipulative Writing

But of course the real reason why this flashback and “twist” exists is just to manipulate the audience into feeling sorry for Cass. It’s not here to actually enhance the story, further the characters, nor answer any mysteries in any real way. That’s why it’s such a poor plot point.

It’s setting up the viewers to have a bias so that they’ll more readily forgive Cassandra for her irreprehensible actions later. In short, it’s the same bullshit that the writers pulled for Frederic back in season one. Only it makes even less narrative sense here because this ‘tragic backstory’ is so divorced from later events in the story.

It’s also flat out lazy because all it’s doing it slapping Rapunzel’s backstory onto Cass instead of letting Cassandra be her own character with her own battles and character development to have.

And before you say, “well that’s the point”, then let me tell you it’s a stupid point. One that makes zero sense for the character and is insulting to the audience’s intelligence.

Plot Hole Number Four: Why Didn’t Gothel Just Stay Hidden Till the Soldiers Left?

Hell, why did Gothel even come back here? We already established that she doesn’t really care about Cass and it’s a plot point that’ll only be further reiterated as the season goes on, so why? Why would Gothel behave like this? How does this help her in her goal? Gothel’s suppose to be smart remember?

Plot Hole Number Five: How Does Any of This Logically Help Zhan Tiri?

So Zhan Tiri is the blue ghost girl and while the series tries to keep it a secret reveal for later, it’s pretty obvious from the get go, so I’ll just be calling the character by her name.

Anyways, Zhan Tiri’s plan is to show Cassandra her past, in order to make Cass angry enough to steal the moonstone and fight Rapunzel, so that the two powers fighting each other will then release her from her interdimensional prison.

Now ignoring how literally none of that was set up nor previously established, and ignoring that Zhan Tiri’s disciples were trying previously to stop the sundrop and her friends from getting to the moonstone, thereby undermining their master’s plan; just how exactly is any of this suppose to work?

Why would showing Cassandra how her mother was a shitty person somehow make Cass angry at Rapunzel, angry enough to try and kill her even, and somehow keep her angry for months on end, in order to fulfill this clearly illogical action that holds no personal benefit to herself?

I don’t mind Cassandra becoming a villain; I just want it to make sense.

This does not make sense.

Not only does it require incredible leaps of logic and Cassandra acting out of character to work, it also depends far to much upon conquincidence and things playing out just in exactly the right way to benefit Zhan Tiri and her poorly laid out plan.

Would it not have made more sense for this “evil master manipulating worlock” to just, you know, lie?

Like shouldn’t she be trying to make Gothel look good? Shouldn’t she be trying to make it all seem like Frederic’s fault (which it mostly is anyways)? If you want Cass to attack Corona and turn against Rapunzel, then why not lie about their involvement or tell some half truth?

Or better yet why not make Gothel and actual complex figure for real?

Ugh... I got to move on from this point, but believe me, we will be back to this dumbfuckery in later episodes.

Plot Hole Number Six: You Can’t Just Ignore that Cap Exists and Is the One Who Raised Cassandra for Most of Her Life

Like I’m sure finding out that you mom was a piece of crap who abandon you hurts, but that doesn’t automatically erase the fact that Cass’s dad was there for her, raised her, and loved her for the majority of her life. I’m not saying that Cap is perfect, but he at least tried to do right by her (and is consequently the best parent in the show) and Cassandra is old enough to recognize that fact. Pretending otherwise is a disservice to everyone. It’s a disservice to the Captain, to Cassandra, to Rapunzel, to Gothel, and to the viewers watching along with this BS.

Trauma Doesn’t Make You Suddenly Stupid

Look, I’m not downplaying Cass’s trauma here. She is allowed to feel upset and yes trauma is painful and effects us all in different ways. Also yes, past trauma can carry on through into adulthood and still harm you.

However that’s not an excuse for hurting others. Cass’s trauma isn’t any less traumatic than any of the other characters’, but neither is it somehow more important than any of theirs. She doesn’t get a free past to step on people just because she was sad once.

Cassandra is, once again, old enough to know this and more importantly smart enough to realize that what happened in the past, if even true, has nothing to do with what she is currently dealing with right now.

Like why is she believing any of this? Why is she still listening to the suspicious ghost that she met in a magical house that’s tricked her and her friends numerous times before? Why would finding out her mom was shit make her turn that anger against her best friend? What does any of this have to do with her current struggles with trying to build up her career or staying friends with Raps?

Remembering past trauma does not make your brain shut off. Even having a mental breakdown or panic attack still does not render you completely senseless and anything done under extreme pressure like that is temporary. You don’t wind up acting bananas constantly for over a year.

As a woman who suffers from complex-PTSD and is an abuse survivor myself, Cassandra’s story is deeply offensive to me. Not the least of which because it actively dumps her down.

This Is the Point Where Cassandra’s Character Gets Assassinated

Like I said in the opening, everyone’s character gets assassinated in this story. Cassandra just happens to be the first to die and it’s right here with this line.

Not only is this line incredibly cringy and poorly worded, and I have to just feel sorry for the VA here cause there’s no way to make this much stupid sound good, but it’s also completely divorced from what’s going on.

Cassandra is suppose to be explaining to her friends why she’s stealing the moonstone and her answer is “I’m this dead bitch’s daughter”? Like oookaaay, and that has what to do with it exactly?

Did Gothel have any connection to the moonstone? Does stealing the moonstone somehow bring her back or fulfil her revenge? What does grabbing the moonstone actually gain Cass and what does that have to do with her dead abusive mom?

The reason why Cass doesn’t work as a villain because she has no goal nor reason for doing what she does. She just lurches from plot point to plot point with no idea of what she is doing nor why she is doing it.

But watch as the show keeps digging in its heels and keeps insisting that Cassandra’s connection to Gothel is totally a sympathetic motive even as it makes less and less sense every damn time it's brought up.

What Does Destiny Even Fucking Mean Any More???

What Destiny?!

There is no damn destiny. There is no prophecy to fulfil, no world to save, no consequence for just having everyone sitting on their asses for two whole seasons. And even if there was a destiny to even steal; why would Cass even want it? What does actually she gain from any of this? And how does any of it connect back to Gothel?

This Should Have Been the Point of Resolution Not the Inciting Incident for Their Break Up

Look no idea is without merit. You can make the stupidest sounding idea engaging if you present it right.

This was not presented right.

If Cassandra being Gothel’s daughter was to hold any meaning to the story, then it needed to be what brought her and Raps back together again, not what broke them apart.

Rapunzel says it right here. Logically this should be common ground for the two of them. There’s no real reason for Cass to direct her anger at Rapunzel over this.

But this show doesn’t care about logic, reason, or treating it’s audience with intelligence. It’s just flashy bullshit “drama” that pretends to be deep but is really a shallow puddle once you stop to think about it for two seconds.

Let’s Talk About “Sisters”

Cass’s face just says it all doesn’t it?

The creator, Chris, wanted to make a story about two “sisters”, because he has two daughters and he thought that would be inspiring and speak to little girls everywhere.

It’s a nice sentiment. Shame he’s so utterly incompetent at it.

There was no build up to them being sisters. Instead all we got was a bunch of meaningless parallels and a very toxic friendship. Even with the Gothel reveal the connection to them being siblings is tenuous at best because there’s no biological relation and more importantly, they weren’t raised together.

Chris is basically trying to rip off the likes of Frozen or Guardians of the Galaxy here with Raps and Cass’s relationship but it doesn’t work when the two siblings in question didn’t actually grow up together. There’s no reason for Cassandra to project her anger at their abusive parent on to Raps because that parent wasn’t the one to actually raise her. And on top of that, said abuser is dead, and both her and Raps have separate guardians in their lives, so the jealousy angle doesn’t work either.

And to make it all the more confusing, Chris failed to inform his crew of this brilliant plot twist, so we now have two seasons of gay baiting put in by the storyboard artists hitting that Cass is in love with her “sister”, And because the hardcore Cazzpunzel stans are the only fanbase that hasn’t given Chris the boot, there’s still even more gay baiting to come.

Why are We Victim Blaming a Baby?

Seriously, Cass? You are twenty four and have a brain. Why are you blaming someone for being kidnapped as a baby? What kind of sense does this make?

Worse, there’s plenty of real shit Cass could get angry at Rapunzel over and this is what you go with show?

If anything Rapunzel should be the one who is pissed here. Cass got to escape and lead a normal life with a loving father all because she got kidnapped as baby. And now said bitch is trying to gaslight her while stealing the very thing she’s been risking her life to grab for a year now.

No You Haven’t Cass

Once again, you got to live a normal life with a loving Dad. You had plenty of chances to build relationships and further your career for 18 years while Rapunzel was trapped in a dang tower, and Rapunzel returning from said tower didn’t cut you off from anything. In fact Rapunzel being rescued from the tower actually presented more opportunities for you and you spent all of season one climbing up the ranks.

There’s Nothing In the Show to Back Up This Statement

Nothing is at stake. There’s no threat here other than Cassandra herself. Cassandra is dranger to the world here not the moonstone. If you wanted it to be the other way around then you should have kept the rocks active during season two.

So Why Didn’t We Go With the Original Set Up From Season Two?

As said before, there are real reasons that were set up during season two that could have motivated Cass.

Rapunzel is irresponsible and can’t be trusted to save the world

Rapunzel is a shit friend and Cass is better off going her own way and leaving everyone high and dry.

Cass’s hand was injured by Raps and the moonstone might be able to heal it

Cass sees the injustice in the class system and wants to fight back against the royals in order to help everyone, not just herself.

Cass might believe she’s stopping Zhan Tiri and not realize she’s being manipulated by her instead

Or is playing along with Zhan Tiri under the idea that she can stall for time figure out how to stop her.

Cass wants to play her and use the power of the rocks to save people only for it to go wrong later.

Possession (which was the original idea in the concept stage)

Like I said, there were plenty of ways to make this work. In fact some are so dang obvious that you’ll hear Cass fans try to claim that a few of those are what her real motivation was despite the the show clearly going against them later. The “fighting against the class system” is a real popular one despite the fact that Cass herself attacks a bunch of poor people repeatedly and doesn’t seem concerned about anyone but herself.

But I digress.

The real reason why we have this bullshit is cause Chris doesn’t want to hold his favs accountable. Rapunzel’s flaws can’t be called out in any meaningful way and Cass gets a convenient scapegoat in Zhan Tiri.

In short both Cassandra and Rapunzel have their agency stolen away from them by the narrative, while still trying to pretend that they’re “strong independent women”. Even though those two things aren’t compatible at all.

What Exactly Have You Been Denied Cass?

Remember Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs?

Lance, Eugene, and Lady Caine were all denied physiological and safety needs while growing up in an orphanage and then later on the streets as a thieves.

Rapunzel was denied psychological needs while being raised by her abuser.

Varian was denied everything on that dang list.

Cassandra tho?

Trauma or no trauma, Cass was still raised in a safe and loving environment for the majority of her life. She, at best, has been denied “self-fulfillment” needs and even then that’s a stretch cause throughout season one we see her time and time again gaining what it was she wanted.

Cassandra isn’t anything special. She’s not suffered any more than anybody else in the show and in fact has lived a pretty cushy life when all is said and done, especially when compared to other characters in the show.

The worst that she has to complain about is working a crappy job for a little while and having a shit mom that she can barely remember. Boo Fucking Hoo.

Note How Easy It Is For Cass to Control the Rocks Here

The show can’t even keep Cassandra’s powers consistent. Like everything else about the character, Cass’s powers come and go as is convenient for the narrative with little explanation as to why.

This Song Doesn’t Work Because It was Cut In Half Due to Time

I’ve talked about the problems with this song before in my songs from TTS ranking list. It’s choppy and consistent. Yet it only feels that way because it was cut down. It’s missing a full other verse, second chorus, and a bridge.

Which is inexcusable because there’s so much dang filler in this show!

We could have had time for the full song if they had just cut one of the non-essential episodes and made all of this a full episode on it’s own. Just save the Corona and Varian stuff for later if need be.

The management of this show is just atrocious.

Why Wasn’t This the Cliffhanger for Season Two?

Speaking of making all of the Cassandra stuff it’s own episode... Everything we just seen should have been in season two.

It’s more connected to what happened last season, it flows better, it would have had more time to breathe, and it would have given us more time in the Dark Kingdom. Given as that this is what season two was building up too, it would have been more satisfying there.

And if the writers still wanted a cliffhanger to end the season in order to draw crowds then this right here was it.

So We We Spent A Whole Season Getting Here and We’re Just Going to Leave Now?

The Dark Kingdom is Wasted!!!!

And because the Dark Kingdom is a bust, the entirety of season two now feels even more pointless.

Chris said he cut the Dark Kingdom stuff because it didn’t interest him.

Chris is a fucking fool.

Ignoring that different people will gravitate towards different things and you need to keep that in mind when writing for mass audiences; you don’t spend valuable time setting things up just to drop them later.

If you didn’t like that particular plot thread then you needed to just not bring it up to begin with. Once you’ve put it in there you need to commit to it.

Behold the Only Thing Useful Shorty Does This Whole Season

There is less Shorty overall this season which is ultimately a good thing, but it does highlight what a stupid decision it was to bring him along to begin with.

I mean did we really drag him around for a whole season just for this? Couldn’t some other Pub Thung or townsperson have found them? One that could talk.

Adria Gets Put on a Bus

Adria doesn’t get assassinated like some of the other characters, but she does get unceremoniously shoved off without any real closure. The character will return later in the season, but brainwashed and without any lines. Which is doubly insulting to the VA who voices her.

And Here Is Where Lance Gets Assassinated

Lance is drastically dumbed down in season three. Even more so than in past seasons. You could call it flanderization specifically, more so than assassination, but the effect is the same. Lance’s character is effectively dead from this point onwards.

Also this should have ended the Lance & Adria ship in the show for good. She flat out rejects him here, but nope.

Eugene is the Only Person Acting Like a Real Human Being This Episode Thus Far

Edmund spent his whole life protecting the moonstone. He lost everything to it. He was convinced that letting Rapunzel take it would be best only for her to lose it right afterwards. And what does he do? Immediately become the “comedicly bad dad” in show oversaturated with both comedic foils and poor father figures.

Meanwhile Eugene is the only one properly responding to what is going on. Don't expect that to last.

I Thought You Left Cass?

Remember that foreshadowing with Quirin way back in the pilot?

This is just that, but dumber.

There’s no reason for Cass to hang around out of sight only to stare menacingly at Rapunzel and company as they leave. It’s just a lazy hook to get viewers to believe that there might be more going on with Cass then what we’ve been told. There’s not.

So This Map Proves That the Dark Kingdom Is North East of Corona

Continuity and worldbuilding in this show is utterly garbage, so I’ll latch on to any little scrape of info that we get.

According to the map shown here, the balloon is heading Southwest back to Corona. That means the Dark Kingdom is Northeast.

So if Corona is somewhere in Northern mainland Europe that means the Dark Kingdom is either in a Nordic country (Norway,Sweden,Finland, ect) or Russia.

Meta Jokes About Being a Bad Writer Doesn’t Excuse Bad Writing

Get use to this. Season three is full of meansprited meta jokes that try to defend against the quite frankly valid criticism that the show has received. Or more specifically the criticism Chris had received.

Most of season three was written during the hiatus of season two back when Chris was seeing backlash from the fans due to his PR fiasco and that’s not even taking into account the crew walkout after season one.

Not only is that too late to be writing your final season, but it’s also reflective of how Chris can’t handle critique with grace nor listen to other ideas as jokes like this are in poor taste.

Everyone Acts Shocked Here but Honestly this Fits King Frederic’s MMO

This is the same guy who prosecuted poor people for eighteen years with his crack down on crime, and thrented the life an orphaned teen. Is anybody really surprised by this?

I Thought Your Real Name was Hubert?

I guess he just prefers the name Andrew. I don’t know. But what do know is that “the devil is in the details” is a thing my animation teacher in college use to say repeatedly, and no one working on this show seems capable of remembering or keeping up with details.

Why Are There Only Five Saporains?

Saporia was set up as an entire race of people who’d been displaced from their homeland for generations. They’ve been living as nomads for centuries according to season two. Why are there only five of them in this episode?

How did they overthrow a kingdom with only five people? How do they maintain hold of it with only five? How do they expect to further their bloodline and culture with only only five of them?

Why did we waste money on a bunch of one off villians that we sent packing in season two and not built more Saporian models instead?

Like you could have had the core five here, as like leaders, and then imply that there are more of them with background citizens and guards ect.

NO!!!

WE DO NOT IMPLY THAT A 15 YEAR OLD BOY WAS LOCKED IN A JAIL CELL WITH A GROWN MAN FOR NEARLY A YEAR!!!!!

I.... What?!

Who the fuck thought this was a good idea to put in a children’s show?

Did no one behind the scenes stop to think, “Hun, maybe we shouldn’t suggest that a teenager was trapped inside a small enclosed space with no way out twenty for hours a day with an adult who attempted to murder his girlfriend when lying to her stopped working. Perhaps someone might get the wrong impression.”?

Like I hate censors as much as the next person, but editors work in the business for a reason, and that reason is to pull the artists aside sometimes and go “Hey, that shit don't fly with normal folk.”

What’s worse is I don’t think the writers were even trying to be shocking and edgy here. I just think they were careless. They needed a quick exposition dumb to explain how Varian and Andrew know each other, and didn’t think through the implications of that line nor considered how Varian’s age changes the context of his situation.

Which is beyond inexcusable because it’s so damn lazy!

You wouldn’t need rushed exposition had you actually took the time to set up this plot point back in season two. Heck, you wouldn’t have needed to even set this plot point up had you not cut Varian’s original story out at the last minute. Finally, you should care enough about your characters to at least take their age into consideration when writing their development.

There’s also the fact that it makes most of the ‘heroes’ look like assholes.

We’ve seen these dungeons several times throughout the show. We know of their poor conditions. There’s little light, the food is slop, there’s no way to stay clean or use the restroom, prisons are never let out for exercise, ect. Like these are medieval style dungeons that are considered inhumane my modern audiences.

Just because the show tries to play off the horribleness of it for laughs doesn’t mean the audience is going to find it funny that they traumatized a fifthteen year old with it.... again!

Moreover Frederic had promised last time we saw him that he would give Varian help. He idea of ‘helping” Varian is supposedly to throw him into a nasty jail cell with a violent criminal? WTF? And there’s no indication that he tried anything to save Quirin either.

Not to mention that none of the mains act surprised by this revelation, nor comment about how awful Varian’s treatment is. As usual for them.

It’s just sicking and most of the atempts to explain away this line by the fans have been super pathetic.

“Frederic was giving him therapy while in jail” - there’s nothing to indicate therapy exists in this world and even if this were true it would be undermined by stupidly throwing him in a cell with Andrew.

“It’s not literal, Varian was in a separate cell” - once again there’s nothing to back this up and even if that were the case it’s not that much better because it’s still a dungeon cell with zero privacy and Varian would still be close enough to Andrew to talk to him thus invading his personal space to some degree or other.

“Well he tried to help but Varian wasn’t cooperative” - still not an excuse and there’s nothing on screen to back up this headcanon.

“It’s someone else’s fault.” - Who’s? Frederic is in charge of everything. The buck stops with him. If a guard did this without his knowledge then that means Frederic neglected his duties and his promise anyways.

“Well maybe it’s true, but Varian did a bad thing and teens who do really bad things get sent to prison in the real world too” - Not an argument. Teens aren’t typically jailed with adults and the conditions for modern jails are at least somewhat better than those in Corona. Plus kids being sent to jail in any form is major topic of controversy in today's time. I’ve already covered why trying teens as adults is a vile abuse of power in the real world; I shouldn’t have to mention that the current government throwing children in cages is a bad thing as well!

“Well that’s just part of the time period” - Doesn’t make it right, and sadly it’s not something in the distant past either. It’s currently happening right now in the US. It was happening when this episode and season was being written. The writers unthinkingly threw in a very real thing that affects hundreds of thousands of children and didn’t bother to follow up on it or comment about how wrong it is.

There’s just no excuse for the way Frederic and Rapunzel treat Varian in this show. There’s just not, and some of y’all really need to stop trying to do so cause it means you’re inadvertently condoning real life abuses of power.

You can like a character and except that they’ve done wrong. That’s a thing that you can do, you know.

Let’s Talk about Character Design

For the most part the art direction in the show is top notch. It really is the best looking animated show on tv today, and the character design is usually of this same quality. But they really dropped the ball with Varian’s design here.

The structural bones of it isn’t bad. Taken on it’s own it would be fine, but good character design is supposed to give context and enhance the story and this doesn’t do that.

We’ve haven’t seen Varian in a year, but instead of visually showcasing the passage of time by having him physically age we just get season one’s design but in bargain bin hot topic clothes and a drawn on barcode.

Even the color palette is wrong.

Varian’s is suppose to feature blues and earthy browns to go with his eyes and hair but instead we get bright reds, neon chimballs, and sharp contrasts with blacks and whites that just clashes with his base colors.

And what does any of this tell the audience? How does it add to the story? What can we glean from his new design about what transpired in the last year?

Nothing.

At best it just reinforces that villian Varian is a try hard edge lord, but we already knew that. We would have known it even without the villain arc cause he’s a teenager. Not that he looks it. The boy is supposed to be either 16 or soon to be 16 and he still looks fucking 12.

What’s more they spent money on this. They made not one, but two new models with two new outfits, but they couldn’t be arsed just to make him a little taller? And no, he’s not actually any taller in season three. He was always Rapunzel’s height regardless of animation errors and squash and stretch techniques.

It’s a waste. Just like nearly everything in season three.

This Is Such a Cop-out

Speaking of things being a waste. Wiping Frederic’s and Arianna’s memories is taking the cowards way out. It’s them escaping any sort of meaningful consequence for their past actions and robs them of the chance to grow and develop as characters. All cause Chris didn’t want to deal with people pointing out the bullshit his self insert caused.

Well guess what, I’m still pointing out Frederic’s BS, only now I’m extra angry cause I was robbed of a genuine character arc, so fuck you!

Was Varian Actually Needed for This Plot?

No really. What does Varian even do here? The wand of oblivium is Saporian magic and they could and apparently did wipe the king’s and queen’s memories without Varian’s mindwipe concoction. That alone apparently gives them the power to run the kingdom.

All Varian does is give them some alchemy based weapons and a bomb he accidentally invents. Both are things that the Saporians could have made themselves given how they know apothecary according to Rapunzel Day One.

I’m currently in the middle of writing an AU fanfiction where Varian winds up in another world before the events of this episode, and let me tell you it is incredibly easy to write him out of the majority of season three without changing the plot much.

Given how Varian is meant to be a main character this season, that’s not a good thing.

So How Come None Of the “Heroes” Give a Shit?

Like I said above, none of the protagonists show the least bit of concern for what Varian is going through. Even though ignoring his needs is precisely what lead to this mess in the first place. It not only makes them look heartless, but it also makes them look plain stupid as well.

Why is it so hard to just even pretend to care about the fact he’s been orphaned? Half of them are orphans themselves for fucks sake!

Varian’s Not the One in Charge Here Rapunzel

I know Varian is the bigger threat and has more of a personal connection to Raps, but it’s pretty clear that Andrew is the mastermind behind this coup. What good does shouting at Varian do? What makes Rapunzel think that any of the Saporians would listen to him even if he did change his mind? What makes her think ordering Varian around after she helped ruin his life would get him to change his mind. Like, my gosh is Rapunzel dumb!

Why Are We Victim Blaming a Child Soldier?

That’s what he is at this point. He’s a weapons specialist for a rival kingdom fighting for control of the government. A government that has abused its own people leading to such an uprising.

A teenager may not be as blameless as a baby but it's still beyond callous and cruel to blame kids and young teens who join extremist groups in war torn lands out of desperation.

Is This Suppose to Be the Inciting Incident for Varian’s Redemption, Cause If So, That Makes No Sense

This look of regret is the only indication that Varian is questioning where he stands before his redemption in part two. Except there he points out that he’s been thinking about it for while now, even before Raps showed up. Only there’s nothing to suggest why Varian would suddenly change his view point and motives. So the audience is still in the dark about his thought process even with this “hint” and I use that word loosely.

Conclusion

So that’s the end of part one. I hope to have part two up before the week is out.

#tangled #anti-rapunzel #anti-cassandra #anti-tangled #varian #tangled the series #rapunzles tangled adventure

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mst3kproject · 4 years

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Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow

This movie has no dogs, which is a shame because the title definitely sounds like a lost episode of Scooby-Doo. What it does have is Elaine Dupont from I Was a Teenage Werewolf (and the Beach Girls and the Monster) and Russ Bender from It Conquered the World (he also wrote Voodoo Woman, which makes him indirectly responsible for Curse of the Swamp Creature), in a genre crossover that reminds one of Catalina Caper and is even less successful. It’s also even less funny.

Our heroes are a bunch of super-cool hot-rodding thirty-year-old fifties teens who speak in painfully embarrassing slang. They’ve been evicted from their headquarters and need some new digs, but all their efforts to find a place have come to naught… until an elderly lady offers them her house at Dragstrip Hollow. It sounds like it’ll have everything they need, as long as they don’t mind that it’s haunted. The gang is a little unnerved by strange events their first evening at the house, but ultimately decide that if nothing else, it’s the perfect place for a Hallowe’en party. What they haven’t realized is that with everybody in costumes, the monster in the basement will be able to walk among them un-noticed!

This is yet another movie that sounds like a good time but is actually almost unwatchably boring. A party in a haunted house with a monster who just wants to have a good time? I’m up for that! But Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow is only an hour long, and spends most of that time dithering around doing absolutely nothing.

There are two potential main characters. One is Lois, a young woman who’s far more interested in cars and racing than in boys and makeup, much to her parents’ chagrin. Her mother believes this is a phase she’ll grow out of, but her father keeps trying to encourage her to be more feminine and never gets very far. This sublot drops out of the movie halfway through, without ever coming to any kind of conclusion. Lois is also at odds with Nita, a member of a rival racing gang. Lois spends most of the movie refusing to be goaded into a racing rematch with Nita, but eventually gives in, and their climactic race takes place off-screen while we watch the band at the Hallowe’en party try to play their instruments while dressed as bedsheet ghosts! Nothing comes of it.

The only thing Nita’s gang does through the whole movie is show up at parties they haven’t been invited to, exchange insults with Lois’ friends, and then leave.

The other potential hero is the reporter who’s doing a series of articles on rebellious teenagers. He quickly makes friends with the kids, becoming an honourary member of their club, and apparently helps them search for a new headquarters. In spite of this, he doesn’t actually have an arc. He sympathizes with these young people from the beginning, and based on the questions he asks it’s pretty clear he wants to show that their cars and racing are a harmless hobby rather than a gateway drug to crime. This opinion doesn’t change over the course of the movie. Neither does his insistence that the house is not actually haunted, even as unseen hands light his cigarette for him and untie his bow tie.

Most of the movie is totally useless – like the slumber party at Lois’ house, which serves no purpose except to make a joke about women taking too long in the bathroom. I’m sure that was already tired and unfunny in the 50’s. Or the old lady’s opinionated pet parrot, who provides annoying commentary that makes already not-funny scenes even less funny. I was sure the parrot was going to be a plot point, because one of his demonstrated talents is imitating a police siren and the hot rodders are worried about getting in trouble with the cops. Surely during a climactic race the parrot will trick Nita into pulling over, allowing Lois to take the lead! But no, that can’t happen because that would be useful. Nothing in this fucking movie is allowed to be useful.

All of this bullshit, with the slumber party and the stupid parrot and the old lady being bad at playing the flute… and the rival gang showing up and then leaving… and the musical numbers, one of which has no lyrics except a guy saying Geronimo! and then firing blanks at the ceiling, and this is played twice… and Lois’ parents and the reporter hanging around and the short guy with the tall girlfriend… all of this drags on and on and on and takes up three quarters of the movie and has literally nothing to do with the plot! The fact that the club needs a new place to hang out is introduced pretty early but then gets shoved aside until almost the end. You’d think we ought to see them trying to find a place until eventually being forced to settle for the creepy old house in the middle of nowhere, but no, we sit through forty minutes of nonsense and then suddenly arrive at characters talking about it.

The haunted house must be the actual plot because it’s the title, but it isn’t worth waiting for. When the club arrives to take a look around, there is indeed a monster creeping around causing mischief. And it’s definitely a monster, not a ghost – although there is also a ghost. In fact, when we get a good look at the beast shortly thereafter… it’s the fucking She-Creature.

I’m not even kidding. It is literally the She-Creature without the dumbass blonde wig and with the chitinous tits toned down into chitinous pecs. This thing creeps around and growls at people, then turns up at the party to dance with a couple of girls before getting its mask ripped off (I told you this was an episode of Scooby-Doo!) to reveal, and I promise you I did not make this up, I could not make this up, a bitter stuntman with a high squeaky voice. He looks a little like Lois’ father and I thought for a moment we were doing a Beach Girls and the Monster thing here… but no, he’s a totally different character. Why is he dressed up as a monster haunting this old house with a collection of special effects equipment he keeps behind the fireplace? Because nobody appreciated his performance as the She-Creature.

He actually says that. Fuck this movie! The monster suit isn’t even bad enough to be funny. In fact, it looks better here than it did in The She-Creature or Voodoo Woman, possibly because the lighting allows us to actually see it!

Oh, and as I mentioned, there’s also a ghost, but he left because he didn’t like the rock and roll music.

In order to find the creature’s secret lair, they ask ‘Amelia’, the nerdy guy’s superintelligent, talking, self-driving hot rod. This machine speaks in a deep, somewhat ghostly voice, and isn’t mentioned or even hinted at until the movie’s almost over. People accidentally blundering into secret rooms behind the fireplace is a time-honoured tradition in movies, but apparently that wasn’t good enough for Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow. No, they had to have a deus-ex-machina supercomputer fire-breathing car figure it out without even saying what the clues were. Fuck!

I’ve watched several films for this blog that left me with the impression that the people making them knew what parts go into a movie but not how to put them together. I don’t think the makers of Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow even knew what movies are made of – or if they did, they were actively contemptuous of that ingredients list. Their film seems to have been cobbled together from bits of several stories, without including enough of any single one to really get a plot. Remember Face of the Screaming Werewolf, which really was made of random bits of two other movies? Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow is about as coherent as that. It feels like there’s at least another hour of material missing somewhere, which would deal with things like Lois’ relationship with her parents or the rivalry between the two racing clubs. It feels like anything that would help unify this story, or bring proper closure to any of the plotlines, was deliberately left on the cutting room floor, just to piss me off!

I only laughed once in the entire movie, at a bit where the parrot complains about his mistress’ bad driving (he wails and me so young!). The rest of the time I couldn’t even find it ironically funny. When I wasn’t rolling my eyes at the attempted jokes I was staring at the screen in bafflement because I couldn’t figure out what the movie was trying to do. What ought to be plot points are quickly forgotten, or else resolved with nonsensical trifles and then thrown away. The result is confusing and ultimately deeply frustrating. I mentioned Scooby-Doo, but that’s not even a fair comparison, because the unmasking of the villain in Scooby-Doo always includes the reveal of a master plan. The monster in Ghost of Dragstrip Hollow is just fucking around.

I hate this movie. It’s not even a movie. It’s just a bunch of unrelated things that happen to the same set of characters, without even any laughs to make it worth watching. They could have filmed an hour of their asses pressed up against a windowpane, and it would have annoyed me less.

#mst3k #reviews #episodes that never were #fuck this movie #it's beginning to look a lot like fishmen #50s

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laufire · 4 years

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Supernatural s1

my dash: decries Supernatural every five posts.

me: time to watch it seriously for the first time in my life.

-First thing first: it’s an amazingly well-crafted season of tv. I’m a character-focused watcher, not a plot-focused one; I never connected emotionally to the Winchesters (still haven’t and likely never will, as interesting I might find them as character constructs), so I feared I’d be bored and would want to skip scenes. Nuh huh. I was many things, but none of them were bored xDD. Each episode was a lesson in good pacing and the entire season another in proper build-up. There are one or two or a few dozen tv-writers I would like to show it to, ngl.

-Another thing it excelled at was in its portrayal in abusive family dynamics. The way Dean went mellow and so unlike himself when John gave an order (and what a SHOCK it is in the later episodes when he finally stands up to him!!). How Sam said HE would apologize to his father when they saw each other again, or how he made apologies for his father because “it could have been worse” (at least John didn’t beat them up, like it happened to that poor kid!). John showing Sam more “““respect””” (as far as he’s able at least) simply because Sam already proved he’s capable of leaving him; the way John controls the information he gives them and when and how and how much and how small they feel when they reunite with him. Dean knowing his father had been possessed by a demon because it wasn’t reprimanding him and belittling him. Dean’s psychic shapeshifter (?) expressing his resentment towards Sam for getting to escape. Dean’s quickness to resort to violence when Sam says something that makes him angry, or how he tries to severe ties between Sam and his college friends, or how he guilt trips him when Sam says he plans on returning to his studies, or how he minimizes Sam’s experiences with John or how Sam criticizes Dean’s compliance... (I don’t think Dean’s being consciously manipulative. I think it’s intuitive. Which is far, far scarier. He’s the Elena Gilbert of Supernatural and a walking red flag for controlling behavior). How it’s paired with ~honeymoon periods. The way they use the families around them to highlight their issues. It’s... chilling and terrifying and I can’t look away. I won’t get into the shit John pulls in 2x01 because that’s for the s2 POV, but oh my god I’m so happy he’s dead.

I wasn’t all that sure of how self-aware the creators were about this trend (especially because of how centralized and validated Dean’s POV is in his conflicts with Sam IMO. OTOH... characters like Dean and actors like Ackles are the type to take over a show by charisma alone tbf. The way he swoops in in the pilot and starts disrupting everything, including Sam’s relationship, reminding me of both Angel in BTVS and Chuck in Gossip Girl, Doylist-wise. This comparison is going to make sense to like three people I talk with regularly xDD). At least on early seasons, since certain spoilers about the later ones make me think it grew over time. I’m still unsure but I think they are a little self-aware because of this quote:

Eric Kripke said of Buffy: “I loved ‘Hush’ and ‘Once More, With Feeling,’ but overall, Buffy really taught me about effectively using metaphor in genre. For Buffy, it was ‘high school is hell (literally),’ and Joss Whedon did such a masterful job of grounding his horror and fantasy concepts in this notion, and ultimately telling allegories about high school, which turned what could’ve been B-Movie material into an all-time classic. I used that same philosophy on my run of Supernatural, with the mantra ‘family is hell (literally),’ and always grounded my horror episodes around the notion of families, to the show’s benefit. So thanks, Joss Whedon. I owe you a beer. (Credit: The WB)

everyone wants to be Buffy lol.

-My absolute favourite thing was how competent the Winchesters are (I’m even reluctantly including John here. That bastard). They’re sneaky with local authorities, crafty about fake IDs, credit scams, research abilities, DIY supernatural detectors xDD... I loved the lack of an audience proxy, the fact that the story throws you into the deep end with people that already know their shit. And that the other side is competent too, like when Meg & YED’s plan to trap John relied on the Winchester being competent; on Sam immediately going into the defensive because, what are the chances of finding that cute weird girl a second time, miles away?; on John suspecting it was a trap and only revealing himself after Meg appears to be dead... Another scene that I loved in that sense, from 2x01 (I watched until 2x03, I wanted to see Sterling K. Brown’s first appearance lol) was how upon discovering Reapers are shapeshifters, Dean immediately knew that cute ghost he’d befriended was the one after him. I get the feeling this aspect will get lost in future season and it’s a pity, tbh.

-Related to that, some of my favourite moments: Sam straight up bribing a guy to get into the morgue when Dean’s arguments are failing (with Dean’s money!); Dean’s plan of “well, if this guy is haunting the house and there’s no other way to kill him, we burn the house. No house no haunting”; Dean telling that kid to fake appendicitis to get his parents out of the house; John blessing the tank of water knowing he’s walking into a trap with demons... I dig this stuff.

-I get whiplash sometimes, with the show making a point of (very briefly) telling you racism, homophobia or pro-life attitudes are Bad(TM) and the brothers are Against them (the Racist Truck episode, the one where a woman used a Reaper to exchange “virtuous” lives for those of sinners...), when the rest of the show is err... what it is lol. Dean is toxic masculinity’s poster boy (I was so disgusted by how he acted with Jess omfg), in s2 we don’t get the monsters’ perspective on hunters until we’ve conveniently met our first black one (I love the episode AND the character but it’s fucking true)...

-I need to make a note of paying attention to the writers credits/Bts stuff because I find this show’s progression fascinating on a metatextual level. The only problem is that audience reaction seems to have played a big role (which is a problem on one or two different levels imo xD), and tracking that down is sliiiiightly more difficult lol. Oh well (I don’t even think I want to see too much of this fandom, even to satisfy my curiosity. Some of the glimpses I’ve caught of it are disturbing to the extreme).

-The detail about dead people’s blood being toxic to vampires is SO COOL OMG. I’m tempted to steal it xD

Some random stuff:

-The monsters of the week were some legit creepy stuff.

-I love that Meg has her own hellhounds. Is that still a thing when she returns?

-Dean: you and dad are reckless and I’m going to have to be the one that buries you. / Me, with the power of foresight: 👀

-Also Dean: sometimes it scares me how good I am at killing. / Me: it scares the shit out of me how good you are at killing, too, fam.

-I get the impression Sam loses his demonic-in-origin powers later on, right? What a waste, I love those.

-I’m pretty sure at one point it’s implied John used Dean to honeytrap monsters (when he sends him as a trap for the lady vampire that stole the Colt) and I really don’t know what to do with this information.

-Cassie was GORGEOUS and even make Dean likeable for me while they lasted xDD. But given this show’s track record I’m considering the lack of more appearances a blessing.

-So many guest stars. Everyone’s been on SPN. Especially if they were on the Buffyverse first (I totally get the impulse of casting Buffy actor after Buffy actor lmfao).

-Funny how Luther Hargreeves is exactly who a lot of fans think Dean was (Dean is far, far colder imo), and yet one is constantly called pathetic and evil and the other woobified. Very Funny Indeed *coughs* (funnier still that the character I often see Dean compared to is Wynonna Earp when the parallels are kids-pool deep at best and offensive at worst. Dean is not a Wynonna. Again, Dean is an Elena Gilbert xDD).

-The two paranormal investigators were dumb as rocks, but their motto was “What Would Buffy Do” so I like them (if they ever change that to What Would the Winchesters Do or something like that I’m going to be furious lmao).

-When I want to ~chill I dress about exactly like Dean (minus the flannel I’ve seen in later seasons, you can’t pay me to wear flannel). Like, I think I have a couple of shirts that look exactly like ones of his. I don’t know how I feel about this xDD

-IDK how I’ll feel about Bobby later on (I get the impression every long-term character on this show has their hateful phases xD), but in his introduction he said the last time he saw John he threatened to shoot him (“he causes that reaction in people”), so he’s so far the most relatable character around lol.

#talking to the void #my thoughts #spn thoughts #the writing tm #sam winchester #dean winchester #john winchester #and others #abuse mention cw #here be negativity warning lol #spn s1 #the winchesters get to have a tag I GUESS

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asktheghosthost · 4 years

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I've been curious about this for a while, but what would be the reaction of Beau and Dorian finding out Eulalie has killed Dearmons and Reginald to avenge them. Like they straight up found out everything somehow. If i butchered spelling, please forgive me.

OoC: No worries! This took a while. And it’s long, so it’s under a read more. Also, warning for very brief mentions of abuse and violence.

"Father, you're... you're back," Dorian stammered. Forcing a smile, he tapped his fingertips together. "We haven't seen you since... well, since you died. What, uh, what brings you here?" He finally had to clasp his hands together to keep from his nervous fidgets.

Reginald surveyed the foyer with a disapproving scowl. "Dust and cobwebs everywhere," he muttered. "I see the help hasn't been keeping up with their work."

Beau, standing with his arms crossed, rolled his eyes. "No one cares, Reginald." He strode forward. "There is no 'the help,' there is no one you lord over anymore..." His voice grew louder, not coming just from him, but from all around the room. "And there is no one who will tolerate you berating them any longer." They were face to face now. "If you want to haunt here, you will be civil." His lips stretched into a grin. "Just like everyone else."

Reginald's face turned red. His mouth failed to form words for a moment, only sputtering in total indignation. Finally, he spat out, "How dare you! How dare you speak to me in such a manner in my own home." Over a century closed off in some alternate plane hadn't affected his movements too much, for he was still quick enough to get in one good backhanded slap across Beau's cheek.

"Father! Father, no!"

Every light dimmed. Any curtains pulled back went slack to blot out incoming moonlight. The little green fire in the hearth all but died.

There was a rumble all around them. It came from inside the walls and pipes and beams. It was an angry, guttural warning. The Mansion already didn't like Reginald Gracey. Unlike his forefathers, he took very little care of her and her inhabitants. She'd been content to have him gone. Harming the Ghost Host put him on even thinner ice with her.

Beau stared him down, floating from a few feet above the ground. His eyes were glowing with a supernatural force that was not entirely his own. He drew his arm back, and as he did so, his hatchet appeared in his grip.

"Try that again."

"Uncle!" Dorian pleaded. "Please don't! Please!" He was shaking, once more feeling like a terrified child witnessing something he couldn't stop. His chest hurt. His breath came in short gasps. Hair and skin was falling off in clumps, revealing a shivering skeleton underneath.

From upstairs, came the sound of a door opening and creaking closed. Then slow, deliberate steps, made heavier with heels. The men went silent. So quiet were they, that they could hear the soft shush of fabric as a hand lifted to take hold of the banister as its owner descended.

"You boys could never get along," Eulalie chastised. She seemed nonplussed at the sudden appearance of her husband, or at least she hid it well. "Reginald, I see you've found your way back to the estate. I trust the cremation was a fitting preview of what was to come."

He turned his furious gaze onto his former wife. "Oh, you would have liked to see me tortured, wouldn't you? You would have happily done it yourself, take everything one step further than you already did."

Dorian's timid voice broke through the glare between his parents. "What-- What does he mean by that?"

Beau moved to put comforting hands on his shoulders. "Don't worry about it, lad. Why don't you step away for a bit and calm yourself?"

Reginald turned to glance at his son. For a split second, he blanched, but was quickly back to his bluster. "Blazes boy, is this what your little fits look like now?"

"Yes," Eulalie poked Reginald's chest. "And it's your fault. You stressed him out to the point where he was afraid to confide in us about anything. He had to hide entire parts of his life because of your temper."

"My temper!? My temper never led me to murder anyone!"

Another nervous twitter from Dorian: "Father, what...?"

Beau was practically pushing his nephew out of the room now. "Let's get you some mint tea..."

Reginald scoffed. "Oh, so you never told him? It figures you'd try to paint yourself as a saint, you cold witch." Pointing at Eulalie, he shouted, "She murdered me! Planned the whole thing out with her knitting needles and marbles. She's the reason you no longer had a father!"

Eulalie took in a breath, eyes wide and glistening as she watched her son.

Rubbing his bony arms, the skeleton looked away from the group. Finally, he said, "I didn't really have much of one, anyway."

Once more red- faced, Reginald balled his hands into fists and bellowed, "What do you mean, never had much of one? Without me, you wouldn't have this house. You wouldn't have had your horses or your toys. You wouldn't have had that expensive college education. Or, need I remind you, the job at the law firm?"

"That I never wanted..."

"I could have thrown you out, especially after that mess you got yourself into at the university!"

Dorian was standing up straighter now. Righteous anger had put some needed calcium into his vertebrae. "That mess was me being assaulted! That was not my fault! And how dare you insinuate it was!" The clothes were becoming like new. Skin was regrowing on his now glowing form. "I needed you to care about me, and all you ever did was judge.” He wiped tears from his eyes before continuing.

"I don't care what mother did. I don't. And I know that's awful to say, but... we were happier with you gone. I think I knew deep down what had happened, but I never questioned it. I was fine with the illusion, even if I could see through it.”

Reginald’s mustache twitched over his curled lip. “I’ve had it with you, you ungrateful brat! Out of my house now! Out! OUT!” he screamed, pointing at the door.

“No, father.” Dorian took a shaky breath. A cold, fierce wind tore through the room, looping around them before forcing the door open. “I am Dorian Yale Gracey, lord and master of this manor, and I command you Reginald Gracey, to leave this property.”

The wind scooped Reginald up, impervious to his thrashing.

“Take your bullying, and your condescension, and your hate with you! Maybe if you can learn how to be a decent person, we’ll let you back in after another hundred and twenty years. Until then...” He waved. “Arrivederci!”

The wind whisked Reginald away, and his screams were soon muted by the slammed door.

“Wow.” Dorian looked around. “The house really does like me.”

Beau shoved his hands into his pockets, saying nothing.

“I think this deserves a good round of drinks,” Dorian said, spinning on his heel towards the direction of the liquor cabinet.

Eulalie, however, shook her head. Her lips were pressed into a stern line of worry, an occurrence so rare Beau found himself staring at her in an attempt to decipher her thoughts. She steepled her index fingers together against her chin, tapping it a couple of times before shaking her head again and setting off down the main hall.

Beau quickly caught up to her. “Where are you going? Are you all right?”

She stopped, her expression something that wasn’t quite a frown or a smile, but not insincere in its vagueness. “I’m going to talk to Leota.”

“A splendid idea. We’ll find out how he got in--”

She put a hand on his chest to stop him. “No... Eventually yes, but... I just need to talk to her. As a friend, not a mystic.” She patted him. “I’m sorry, baby brother, but you are once again locked out of the girls’ sleepover.”

That was a Eulalie he was more familiar with. Nonetheless, he watched, perplexed, as she disappeared down the dark corridor.

***

It was while working at his desk in the Ghost Relations Department, shortly after midnight, that he saw her again.

She knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer, and slipped in.

“Hey, Sissy,” he said, not looking up from the current Death Certificate in front of him. Only after he’d placed it in the OUT box did he lift his head. “How did it go with Madame Leota?”

Finding herself unable to speak yet, her focus was downwards, at a desk placard that read HEAD DUMMKOPF in serious, golden letters. She’d gotten it for him as a gift.

“Sissy?” When she didn’t answer him, he reached over to clasp her hand.

Sissy... What a silly nickname, she thought. He’d called her that ever since he first learned to speak. Nowadays, though, he never did so in mixed company, only when they were alone, so as not to embarrass her. What a sweet little brother he always was.

She finally pulled her gaze upwards. “It went well.” There was a pause as she waited for more questions. When there weren’t any, she plunged forward with her own. “Beau, you’ve always known about Reginald, haven’t you? That I killed him.”

He sat back with a shrug. “I was there when it happened.” Crossing one leg, he folded his arms behind his head, and tilted his sights ceiling-ward in reminiscence. “Granted, my memory was post-mortem mush at the time, but I knew I didn’t care for him.” Shifting once more, he leaned forward, arms on his desk, and a glint in his eye as if he were giddy to share a conspiracy. “Did you know I did little things to torment him when I first started haunting? Pushing off his paperweights... Cigars in water glasses...” He grinned. “Oddly enough, I never forgot you.”

“Why is that?”

Another shrug. “I suppose you had that much of an impact on me.”

So much of an impact, that he forgave her for her part in his mortal misery. So much of an impact that he never told her son what she had done. Although, whether that was for her or Dorian’s sake, she wasn’t sure.

Then... maybe...

“Beau...” she started slowly. “Did you know Reginald wasn’t the only one?”

“Only one what?” He wrinkled his brow. “Wasn’t the only one to come back?”

She shook her head. “No. He wasn’t the only one I killed.”

When his reply was only more confusion, she clarified, “I murdered Dearnons.”

The name sent him into such a terrified shock that he unconsciously kicked his legs, sending his chair back half a foot. “You... You killed Dr. Dearnons?” Trembling, he gripped the arm rests to keep him steady.

“Yes.” Her voice once more had its confident, sharp edge. “He came inquiring about you after your suicide, as if he had any right to do so. All it took was some poison in his tea, and then I drug him out into the backyard and buried him... alive, I should add. He was definitely still breathing.”

The world was swaying, and now Beau had to take hold of the desk’s edge, fearing he would plummet and never find his way back up. “I never would have asked you to...”

“I know, which is why I did it on your behalf.” Her expression softened. “Beauregard, you were never the same after you came back. That man was a monster.”

“But he was my monster! My monster to deal with!”

Once more, she shook her head. “What he did to you, he did to countless other children, and would have continued to do so. The way I see it, I did the world a favor. Some people simply need to be removed from the earthly equation.”

“Get out.” He could hardly hear himself over the pounding in his ears. “Get out!”

The door slammed open. Eulalie calmly stood from her seat, but a tremble in her lip betrayed her true feelings. Green skirts in her fingertips, she turned and left.

After the door closed, he stared at it, mouth agape. He didn’t know how to handle the typhoon of emotions swirling inside him right now.

“Sissy...”

#drabble #short story #fic #fan fic #rebornghostgirl #ask #Beau #Reginald #Dorian #Eulalie

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solo-net · 4 years

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QUESTIONS FOR OC CREATORS

( Saw these floating around on Tumblr and decided give it a shot. Art of V was done by the wonderful @commandermorgan because she’s a talented artist who needs all the acknowledgment for her gorgeous works. )

A) Why are you excited about this character?

Because Vera is a Black Bisexual woman ( like me! ) who is a Nomad in the Cyberpunk 2077 universe. Hardened by her life in the Badlands and ready to prove something to the people of Night City, Vera isn't a kind person and she’s not here to be your caretaker or hold your hand. She’s got her own agenda and while she’s always looking out for number one ( herself ), it’s not because she’s irredeemably self-serving, but because she’s a nomad who has been taught to survive from the moment she learned how to walk.

Vera has the appearance of a sweet-faced, angelic beauty with an otherworldly innocence about her...except she’s the total opposite of her appearance and is someone who is incredibly dangerous and a product of the harsh environment she grew up in. I wanted to write a character who people would underestimate at first glance only to regret it later on. I also wanted to write a Black female character because as a Black woman, I’m more comfortable writing characters of my race, gender, and sexuality. Also, I see very few Black V’s in the Cyberpunk fandom and just wanted to get a headstart on that.

B) What inspired you to create them?

It was complex female characters like Selina Kyle, Yennefer, and Ada Wong that inspired me to create Vera. Vera is a young woman in her early twenties who has lived a very hard life and desires to become something more in Night City.

She’s fiercely independent and pragmatic to a fault, but she has managed to keep her integrity as a nomad intact and has her own “code” that she lives by. Vera grew up in the Badlands and survived by herself when her nomad family fell apart, going by less than favorable means, such as scavenging for supplies or even killing if necessary to protect her interests. At times she appears aloof and self-serving, hardened because of her deeply troubled life, but that doesn’t mean she won’t work alongside someone to get the job done.

Vera is extremely guarded but has shown a degree of loyalty and compassion that she seldom reveals because of her chosen stoic exterior. Despite her “difficult” personality, she does have some semblance of a conscience and genuinely cares for anyone she considers “family.”

C) Did you have trouble figuring out where they fit in their own story?

To be honest...yes. Cyberpunk 2077 was slowly coming out of the woodworks and I was being spoon-fed small doses of information. So small that I didn’t know where to begin with Vera’s story. I plotted what I could with the teeny bits of information I was given. I mean, the game’s not even out yet and after watching all the NCW episodes, I’ve come to the conclusion that once the game comes out, I’m going to be making some big changes to her story.

D) Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look?

You know what? There’s some old artwork of Vera where she had green hair and her name was Vanya the artwork was done by @taiga-saejima who is just wonderful and incredible ( please show the mun some support ).

“Vanya” was originally a brash, impulsive young woman with a prosthetic arm that could drill holes through a wall and had dreams of grandeur, but over time...she slowly began to evolve. She changed from this loud-mouthed moron to a silent survivalist suffering from an extreme amount of PTSD and has unresolved grief from a childhood trauma that haunts her.

Like Max from Fury Road, she wandered from place to place in hopes of outrunning the “ghosts�� that shadow her steps. Vera tells herself that she only came to Night City to make it big and provide opportunities for other nomads looking to earn a living for their families and that’s partially true, but deep down, she needed a distraction. Also, her hair is no longer green but a dark purple and her prosthetic forearm cannot drill holes into walls.

E) Are they someone you would get along with? Would they get along with you?

I think we’d get along okay, but we wouldn’t be super close.

I’m a huge wuss, and I would never be able to keep up with her because of my anxiety, my fear of loud noises, my crippling fear of getting physically hurt, and my unholy addiction to tea. Yes, Vera and I share some similarities, but I’ve been coddled my whole life, and she’s been on the road surviving. Vera and I would be better off as friendly neighbors eating lunch together and watching trashy reality shows.

F) What do you feel when you think of your OC (pride, excitement, frustration, etc)?

I feel nothing but love and pride for my baby girl. She’s been with me since 2019 and I’m surprised at how much she’s evolved as a character. Yes, I put her through a lot of shit but I never go overboard because heaping a bunch of pain on an oc can get boring and downright depressing. Vera’s story is about endurance, healing, determination, family, and freedom.

G) What trait of theirs bothers you the most?

Although intelligent, Vera is highly paranoid which, combined with her temper can also affect the headway of her plans or position. She doesn’t trust easily and has a tiny circle of friends that she knows will never betray her. I can’t exactly blame her for being this way but this paranoia can be a hindrance because she’s slow to warm up to people and believes that someone is always out to get her.

H) What trait do you admire most?

Her ability to manage money.

Vera excels at money management, and that is due to her analytical, obsessive nature. She’ll dot her i's and cross her t's — that means no stone goes unturned, and when it comes to financing, it's the same.

She’ll make notes, take notes, and figure things out in a realistic way. Reality is key with Vera, and that means she doesn’t fantasize about her bank account; she knows exactly what's going on and how to make her money grow.

Does she love spending money? Yes! She loves shopping, but she loves managing her money more...and discounts.

I also love how she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty.

Nothing is more important to Vera than achieving her own goals. She’s not out to hurt anyone, not really, but she will do whatever it takes to succeed and make it big in Night City. If someone gets in her way, that’s too bad — Vera won’t hesitate to tip the scales in her favor and remove the obstacle. The concept of “fair” loses all meaning to her if she feels like her ambitions are being threatened.

J) Did you have to manipulate or exclude canon factors to allow them to create their character?

Yes? No? I already know that a Nomad!V had to leave their family but there’s no information as to what happened to them...so I made up my own headcanon about what happened to Vera’s family. Her parents were murdered by Wraiths and the rest of her nomad family scattered during a particularly gruesome raid led by Raffen Shiv.

I haven’t played the game yet...soooo I’m not sure which part of her story is canon.

I) Do you prefer to keep them in their canon universe?

Yes and no.

I have so many aus for her it’s ridiculous. I have a Dead By Daylight au where she’s a goth girl just trying to survive and I have a Fallout 4 au where she traveled from the Mojave to the Commonwealth after her family was killed by the Legion.

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ahs-theories · 5 years

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Episode reaction: 9x06 Episode 100

@echoesout | @its-a-goode-day

Well! That episode was...interesting. I know a lot of people were disappointed that there wasn’t anything really special done for the 100th episode, but they do have a plot to stick to. That aside though, it was also definitely less action and more set-up.

I was kind of hoping for something “special” but I also knew it was a long shot, especially since the season will only have 9 episodes. It was their mistake, though, they shouldn’t have announced it as the 100th episode, making a big deal out of it.

We totally called the time jump! And I had a feeling Donna was going to be the one to get Brooke out, though the way she did it was a lot more badass than my theory. Looks like she’s gotten over the weepy “what have I done?!” phase and is ready to go after Margaret and try to atone. I, for one, can’t wait.

Same. It definitely seems it’s going to be Brooke and Donna against Margaret. It’ll be interesting to see where the ghosts fall in the battle. They could very well go after Margaret, but they have their own grudges like Montana with Brooke.

Richter getting married and having a kid was a surprise, and dare I say a good one? Maybe not the most exciting, but I liked it, and it was really sad to see that get ripped away, even if it freed him up to go after Margaret. I’m just glad his son didn’t die. And I keep trying to think of whether he grows up to be anyone else we know from the show.

The biggest twist to me was Margaret and Trevor. One, didn’t expect him to be alive. Two, didn’t expect Margaret to go into haunted real estate? Three, that beehive hairdo. They make a fun and totally weird couple, though. Can’t wait to see how that plays out. Also, Montana and Xavier are a very random pairing.

I’m calling it now. Someone will kill Margaret, very publicly, and no one will raise a finger to help her because they will think it’s all part of the show in the camp Halloween celebration thing.

And next week is the episode we’ve kind of all been waiting for (mostly for Lily), The Lady in White! For a reminder, here’s the episode summary:

A hidden chapter of Camp Redwood is revealed. The survivors help a stranded hitchhiker.

So, let’s dive in!

The Hitchhiker

At first, I thought the hitchhiker and the lady in white could be one in the same, like in Supernatural, or another ghost from the camp. But from the episode trailer, it now seems like Dylan McDermott’s character is the hitchhiker. We see him in the car with Donna and Brooke, then Brooke asking him “where [these] psychos keep coming from?” and Donna tied up in the road, apparently about to be run over.

We did some digging and couldn’t find any active serial killers at the time who posed at hitchhikers, so exactly who this guy is remains a mystery, as well as what he might have to do with the larger plot. Our main theory right now is that he could be a wannabe killer, maybe someone inspired by famous murders like Camp Redwood. With the main plot ramping up, I don’t know why they would throw a random new guy in for an episode, so I’m thinking maybe he targeted Donna and Brooke specifically, knowing who they are and maybe wanting to go to Margaret’s festival. Or perhaps he has a personal connection to the camp--a relative of someone who died wanting revenge.

The Lady in White

The lady in white is a fairly common figure in urban legends as a ghost searching for a lost loved one, usually her husband or child. It’s also another title taken from an 80s slasher film, again about dead children. Since this is also the episode Lily Rabe is supposed to appear in, the leading theory right now is that she’ll play this figure. The “hidden chapter” part of the summary could suggest something sinister about the grounds before Camp Redwood’s time. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time a place with evil energy led someone already disturbed to go into full-on bloodlust. Murder House, anyone? Going with this, there’s a rumor that the ghost is Lavinia Fisher, a serial killer from the 1800s, but this hasn’t been substantiated and seems like a very unlikely choice considering Lavinia lived, committed her murders, and died in South Carolina.

The other option is that the “hidden chapter” just refers to Margaret’s real role finally coming to light. Running with this and the urban legend part, the lady in white could possibly the mother or relative of someone Margaret murdered. She might not even be a ghost at all but a woman who hears about the plans for the camp and wants to stop it. But if it is a ghost, the fact that the episode takes place on Halloween will be important. More on that later.

However, even if it is someone connected to the camp, I’m wondering about the purpose of introducing another ghost for just one episode in the middle of everything going on. There are already so many bigger players after Margaret. My alternate theory is that the lady in white refers to Margaret, who committed the original murders in her white nightgown. This would go with the theory of her actions finally being revealed to everyone. And, if the lady in white is not Lily, I’ve been thinking about who she could be playing. Maybe one of the musicians advertised for the festival? Belinda Carlisle would be the right age range.

I believe we never got an official confirmation of Lily being in the episode, did we? I’m still very suspicious that she was not featured in the preview, while Dylan was. So I’m not holding my breath just yet. I think she’ll either not be in it in the end or she’ll have a very minor role. I said this once, and cause I liked the idea I’ll say it again: petition for Satan to resurrect Sister Mary Eunice 😅

The Deadly Trio

Honestly, with all the set up that’s happening, whoever this mysterious “deadly trio” will be is still unclear. “Unleashing a new era” at the camp could mean a lot of things, though the most obvious one is another massacre. Margaret doesn’t seem to have any standing plans for one, but she didn’t last time either. She just took the opportunity that presented itself. We’ve also got Ramirez, and Montana and Xavier are certainly a trigger-happy duo. But, back to the Halloween thing, the ghosts will be able to roam free if the rules of the Murphyverse stand, which means Montana might be more interested in going after Brooke. Plus, though the two of them definitely have the bloodlust, they’d also have to think about how crowded their little camp would get if they went on a spree.

On the other side of this fight, we’ll presumably have Brooke, Donna, Ray, and possibly Chet and Trevor and some of the counselors from the original massacre trying to stop the killings, and Richter just trying to get Margaret.

The Final Girl

We finally have the title and summary for episode 9, which may or may not be the last episode of the season: “The camp tries to draw in a lost soul looking for closure.” It definitely sounds like Brooke, maybe Donna, but Margaret and Montana don’t really fit the profile.

It seems they’re going to go down the traditional route with this. But how cool it would be if Margaret ended up being the final girl. We haven’t had a real twist this season, they could very well add it at the very end.

#ahs 1984 #american horror story #ahs #ahs spoilers #ahs theories #ep. reaction #1984 spoilers #xavier plympton #montana duke #brooke thompson #margaret booth #s9 reaction

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kelnius · 5 years

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A Viewer’s Review of...

One of the biggest complaints that people have against Superman is that he's overpowered. I'm no comicbook expert but based on what I've heard from comicbook analysts, the fact that he is overpowered can be an issue with bad writers; however, the best stories turn that "flaw" into a feature, by focusing on the conflict others face by having to confront the a perfect, powerful hero. So, with such an all-powerful good guy, it practically begs the question... What if Superman was evil? For legal reasons, this Sony movie can't just outright admit that their main character is based on Superman™ (since the movie rights still belong to Warner Brothers despite how much they've been abusing it), so instead of “Clark Kent”, Brandon Breyer is a child with an alliterative name who is completely invulnerable to harm, possesses astonishing strength, develops the ability to fly as fast as a speeding bullet and can fire lasers from his eyes. This guy is Superman in all but name and, of course, personality, since he turns out to not exactly be a "good guy". And, rather than being from Smallville, this kid's alien pod crash-landed in Brightburn, Kansas - hence the title. See, this isn't just an evil superman, but an evil Superman origin story...

And to be honest, and that's the first mistake. Don't get me wrong, piecemeal revelations regarding this kid's powers are cool, but this movie doesn't really dwell on that. Instead, we're given one or two creepy scenes where the kid learns about his powers (and his origins not long after). But, he basically learns his abilities through the course of a single day, and can use them with great skill and accuracy from then on out. The only reason I can think of as to why they fast-forward through these is because the writer didn’t know how to make an immortal, unstoppable child scary unless he had all of superman’s powers, so they wrote him to have his full loadout from the offset.

Sure, the way those scenes are shot are very effective, and the music swells appropriately - but you probably already knew that since they were all in the trailer. In fact, everything original in this movie shows up in the trailer - the first few "kills", the creepy outfit, his interaction with fellow kids and even some of the scenes from the third act (although, in the movie the gore isn't censored). To be frank, this whole movie feels like it was shot for the trailer. Each scene feels like it was designed to be cut up and edited into a cool scene for the trailer, to advertise the "evil superman" gimmick. So, despite the fact that this has good cinematography and editing, it feels like it was wasted.

Part of the reason why it feels that way is because there aren't really any characters in this movie, they don’t act like normal people, but rather they need to act in a contrived way to take us from one horror set-piece to another. So, there's not so much character growth and development, as instead there are a series of character actions, to keep the plot going. The kid dresses up in a creepy cape and hood for no explained reason - and at one point he actually flies away in the middle of a scene just so that he can make a costume change and return wearing the creepy hood. The mother keeps secrets, for no explained reason, only to reveal them at the most dramatic moment. The kid goes from an all-powerful tyrannical psycho back to pretending to be a regular boy as easily as the flick of a lightswitch, whenever the plot requires it. The local police somehow intuits that the most likely killer in the town is an eleven year old child, simply because of a tag at the crime scene which looks like his initials, despite the fact that they have no reason to believe that this kid is capable of the such superhuman acts. The kid himself also decides to draw detailed sketches of all of his crimes, for no explicable reason other than so that someone can find it later in the movie. And worst of all, there are some really effective scenes in this movie which I thought were interesting, but each time those subplots were quickly dropped.

One subplot was based around Caitlyn, a local schoolgirl played wonderfully by Emmie Hunter that the superpowered kid seems to find cute, but when he discovers his powers he starts to stalk, abuse and harass her. In each scene she acts the hell out of it, making you feel terrified for her, since she looks so scared and vulnerable, but there’s a total of two, maybe two-and-a-half scenes where this happens, only to then move on to more horror set-pieces. There are also a few scenes where Mr Breyer, the father played with convincing fear and anger by David Denman starts to suspect that his “son” is even more alien than he first thought, but this whole subplot seems to occupy a little over five minutes of screentime. I also want to praise the work of Duncan A. Dunn, who portrays Brandon Breyer the main “evil superhero” character, because although he sometimes seems kinda dull, I know that this isn't bad kid acting. In the earliest scenes we get to see him emote, and when he resorts to intimidation in one scene, he is scary even without the mask on, so I know for a fact that this this kid can act very well, which means it has to be the direction making him to act so unnaturally.

See, the absolute worst part of this movie is that this kid isn't a real character. Sure, he is an “evil superman”, but the thing is, the kid never chooses to be evil, there’s not actually a character-driven reason behind it. What makes him evil is that a creepy voice from his birth-pod tells him to be evil. In fact, by the way that he’s forced to repeat the alien words, and even slowly understands what they mean, it seems to be implying that it’s compelling him to be evil. Sure, there is a scene or two where he acts uncaring, and he outright says that he's superior to other people, but there's no reason to believe that he chose to believe that, or was raised to have these evil feelings. Instead, he might as well have got an "evil" software update when he synced with his birth-pod...

You might be thinking that I'm being a spoilsport - that it's not about the story but the horror and death scenes. Well maybe, but they're not done very well either. Okay, that's not fair, they are done as well as any other horror these days... there is pretty convincing blood and gore, and they take advantage of that R-rating. The kid’s victims experience very explicit trauma and it’s not discreet - it’s often framed centre-screen for us to see in explicit detail. Although one or two scenes made me question the director’s understanding of biology, it wasn’t blatant enough to detract from the effect they were going for, so if you’re squeamish, this is not the film for you. This is your standard gory R-rated Horror. And that’s my problem here - they don’t really seem to do anything interesting with the evil superman concept. Sure, he wears a spooky mask, but other than that, there’s nothing that gives this monster any personality. For instance, Brandon (for reasons that aren't really explained) seems to makes electronics malfunction and lights flicker when he's angry; but the only reason for this is so that they can play into the spooky flickering lights trope. He also has the ability to move at superhuman speed which he uses effectively - in one scene (which, again, we saw in the trailer); but the main reason for this power is either so that they can justify the offscreen teleportation trope, or simply to make him pop up in a few dozen jump-scares, like every other teleporting ghost or demon in horror films since the early 2000s. The kid also has laser vision, which he does use for just one interesting scene; but, the main reason he has it seems to be so that they can make his eyes glow red against his dark silhouette when he's chasing people in the scary scenes.

The part that annoys me the most is that he keeps playing hide-and-seek with his victims (often using superspeed) during the scary scenes, and will even slip away before he's caught, which doesn't make any sense. To me the scariest part about an evil superman would be that he's invincible - he’s literally an unstoppable monster - but even if you don't agree, you can't deny that this kid has no reason to run away, since literally nothing can hurt him. Rather than playing peekaboo, he could simply stalk them like Terminator, or maybe even like the succubus from It Follows, and just tear through anything that tries to stop them. This might make sense if he was doing these things in secret, but the story seems to go out of its way to debunk that theory, since it is both heavily implied and explicitly stated that he sees human beings as inferior and worthless, so why does he keep lying to appease “inferior” human beings? It’s not even like there appears to be some conflict within him about whether he should be evil or not because as I mentioned there’s no character growth, he’s just suddenly evil because alien technology told him to be.

Now, if they did some of this stuff to pay homage to the horror tropes that inspired this, but also did something new and original as well to really take advantage of the fact that they have an evil superman on their hands, then I would be rejoicing instead of ranting, but they don't do that. You could easily rewrite this so that the kid is possessed by a demon, or being haunted by a killer ghost, and the movie could be identical. I think you'd only have to rewrite the end, and that's just because they saved one of their iconic "evil superman" moments for the end, but it’s not enough to give this film a personality of its own - this kid may be superman in all but name, but this film is just a generic, modern horror movie in all but marketing.

So, at the end of the day (and the film) the best part of this movie appears to have been the pitch: What if Superman was evil? Yeah, it's a great question, but so far we haven't gotten a very good answer. The best that this movie can come up with is "well, if he was evil, then he'd probably kill a bunch of people" ... yeah that's true, but whilst they're not wrong, I don't think that's the same thing as being right.

Death, Bloodlust and the Hollywood Way... 6.0 ⁄₁₀

#A Viewer's Review #Brightburn #superhero #horror #evil superman #elizabeth banks #david denman #duncan a dunn #emmie hunter #R rated #gore #death #off-brand superhero #sony #definitely not DC #kelnius

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kcwcommentary · 6 years

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VLD1x11 – “Crystal Venom”

1x11 – “Crystal Venom”

The title of this episode is one of my least favorite episode titles from the entirety of the show. It feels so clunky to me.

We open with Allura talking to the hologram of the copy of her father’s mind. Clearly, she’s missing him and feels lonely in this 10,000 year later world she woke in. Through his dialog, the show continues connecting Allura to the theme of sacrifice. The show makes her character arc so bleak and dire all the time. Coran comes along to tell Allura she needs to rest; looks to me like she was resting. She was using the holographic system to give herself a pleasant environment to sit in, she was having some tea. Sitting in bed isn’t always the most restful action to take, Coran.

The team seeks to extract Sendak’s memories under the premise of getting intelligence about Galra troop locations. Of course, a person’s memory would be less reliant and less detailed than actual data, so I still can’t help but think it’d be more useful to try it get it from some Galra computer system. Pidge: “How exactly does this work?” Coran proceeds to skip over how it works and just says the information is stored on a data storage device once extracted, so question not answered. I like the time-lapse sequence of them waiting. Keith gets restless and goes to train. Pidge goes back to her lab. Hunk is hungry. Coran has a lot of other work to do. I love the one moment in the sequence where Lance is all up in Shiro’s face staring at him, and how through the whole sequence, Shiro stands in exactly the same spot. At the end, Lance wants to go off and get some chill. The scene does a fair job of tailoring each character’s exit to be character-specific.

Hunk gets attacked by the food goo dispenser, and Pidge comes to his aid. I guess it’s mildly humorous? Coran has assigned Lance to help him with ship maintenance. They’re cleaning the healing pods, and Lance gets trapped in one. I would totally freak out too, Lance! Keith is swordfighting, but the training robot won’t shut off. Obviously, the ominous lingering shot on the Galra’s purple crystal in Pidge’s lab means things are malfunctioning because of it. The episode does a nice job of building atmosphere for the episode, creating an almost ghost-story vibe to everything (even without Lance making it obvious by saying the ship’s haunted). Shiro’s talking to the unconscious Sendak definitely adds to the creepiness.

“The ship might seem like a fantastical, magical creature to you, but it’s really just a big embodiment of advanced, supernatural technology that cannot be explained by science alone,” Coran says. I really, really don’t like the bigger-than-science-can-explain fake-poignancy lines this show gives. The ship is the product of engineering; if you can’t explain it, then you wouldn’t be able to build it.

Hologram-Alfor wakes Allura up in her room. Seeing her room, yeah, it’s a big room, big bed, but it feels stuffy, so I don’t blame her for wanting to sit in a field of flowers, even if it was a holographic field.

Lance’s freaking out over the various things happening to him on the ship is so on point. I’m not sure if it’s bravery or foolishness on his part to go charging into the air lock because he hears obviously-not-really Coran’s voice saying he’s trapped in an airlock. Given malfunctions, it would make sense to be at least a bit cautious, which Lance isn’t here. But he is rushing in because he thinks someone’s asked for help, so that’s endearing. He ends up the one trapped though, and the airlock is in the process of opening.

Shiro continues his interrogation of the unconscious Sendak. He starts hearing Sendak’s voice, and it really freaks him out. There feels like there’s something more, something unexplored about Sendak’s taunt about how Shiro should join Zarkon. Aside from Shiro’s time as a gladiator, we don’t really know much of what happened to him for the year he was captured by the Galra. It feels like this taunt from Sendak is supposed to be referencing something about that time not yet revealed to the audience.

Hunk is hanging out with Pidge. Given that Pidge is a technology person and Hunk’s an engineer, it makes sense that their intellectual focuses would result in them spending time together, and thus potentially becoming friends. As much as I get Pidge would want to study the Galra crystal, that the Castle has a lot of needed repairs, as Coran’s said, I would think having two people skilled with technology like Pidge and Hunk helping him would make sense, but they’re not. I guess since the source of the problem is the Galra crystal, the episode does need them messing around with it. It turns off the artificial gravity in this room. Pidge asks Hunk if he “accidentally hit the anti-gravity switch.” Anti-gravity would be the opposite of artificial gravity. This is a space ship in space; there would be no need for an anti-gravity system since just being in space puts you in a low- or zero-G situation. This really is simple science that the show should get right. Also, the tables and equipment wouldn’t suddenly start floating upward just because artificial gravity was turned off. Unless something acted against the tables and the equipment to overcome the objects’ inertia, they’d stay where they were (and it can’t be the ship since the objects were moving with the ship already, so they have the same inertial reference frame).

Keith is still fighting the robot, but thankfully comes upon Lance as he’s being “sucked” out into space (you’re actually blown out, not sucked out). Keith saves Lance and disposes of the robot in the same action. They jointly freak out over their experience.

Allura’s sitting in the flower field talking to Hologram-Alfor, who tells her that he can take her home to Altea, and she wants to go. Cut to a different angle and perspective on the scene, and we see the mice watching her from her bed. If we’re to assume that the holographic system is limited to that one room she was in at the beginning of the episode, then she’s hallucinating here rather than looking at holograms. Or are their holographic projectors all over the ship sophisticated enough to make it look like one’s in a flower field outside of that one room? If the issue is that the Galra crystal is corrupting the Castle Ship’s systems, then it would suggest it would have to be the latter, but I don’t think we’ve seen anything to suggest there’s a ship-wide holographic system. If she’s hallucinating, is it supposed to be from her having performed the ceremony on the Balmera? Being drained of quintessence causes one to hallucinate? I don’t feel the episode is clear enough on this.

Pidge has Hunk kick her across the room trying to get to a control panel, but the gravity comes back on when the door opens, and Lance, Keith, and Coran come in. I like that Hunk and Pidge fail in their effort; it’s more realistic to not always succeed. They discuss the problem being the Galra crystal corrupting the system. Maybe Sendak just didn’t anticipate whatever compatibility issue that’s happening now, but the Galra did intend the crystal to power the ship, so it is a bit odd that it’s causing the ship to not work correctly when the point of the Galra using it was to power the ship. The nature of this crystal doesn’t really make sense to me. The Galra had taken over the Balmera in order to harvest crystals from there to use as power sources, so what makes this purple crystal Sendak had installed on the ship different?

Back to Shiro. “We’re connected, you and me,” Sendak’s ghostly, disembodied voice says. “Both part of the Galra Empire. You’ve been broken and reformed. Just look at your hand. It’s the strongest part of you. Embrace it. The others don’t know what you know, they haven’t seen what you’ve seen. Face it, you’ll never beat Zarkon. He’s already defeated you.” Shiro freaks out. He’s still got deep trauma from what happened to him during his year in captivity. I guess there are two possibilities here. One, Shiro is hallucinating Sendak’s voice because of his trauma. If so, then the things Sendak’s voice says are Shiro’s fears being expressed. Two, Shiro is not hallucinating but the ship’s corrupted systems is somehow creating Sendak’s voice and having it say things, potentially influenced by the memories being extracted by Coran’s process. In that case, it would suggest Sendak is actively taunting Shiro. Either way, this scene is a big part of why the writing not letting Shiro defeat Sendak in season 7 is disrespectful of Shiro as a character.

“Do you really think a monster like you could be a Voltron Paladin?” Sendak’s voice says. These verbal attacks on Shiro are so specific. I think this might be one of the show’s deepest scenes. This line is interesting knowing that in later seasons Shiro’s clone will wrestle with similar thoughts about being broken, being used by the Galra, wanting to be a Paladin but having people say he isn’t, having people call him a monster. I don’t know what to make of Sendak calling him a monster here though. I don’t see how it could be connected to the clone program. I guess maybe it’s just getting at Shiro feeling bad about what all he had to do to survive over the course of the year. He had been an eager space explorer and pilot, but he had to become a fierce, physical fighter to survive. Maybe he thinks that the brutality he experienced as a gladiator makes him a monster.

He punches Sendak’s tube, and it looks like Sendak wakes (but that could just have been Shiro hallucinating it), and he hits one button and it ejects Sendak into space. What is this ship’s system!!? Are all stasis pods on this ship set up to eject the people in them into space? Why would the two systems be connected like that? It’s a nice height of tension having Shiro eject Sendak, but I don’t see why the ship would be designed to work that way.

The ship continues to trick Allura, now having her piloting the ship right into a star. Pidge says the star’s about to explode, but I don’t know how she can determine that just by looking at it. Allura thinks the star is Altea, but through her hallucination, she can hear Coran’s voice. He gets through to her by asking why there’s no fragrance to the flower she thinks she’s holding. This makes it seem like the flower isn’t a hallucination but a hologram. We don’t see anyone else seeing the flower field though, so maybe Coran’s only going off of hearing her talk about the flower? Allura’s mind clears. Hologram-Altor tells her that he’s trying to kill them all because he doesn’t think Zarkon can be defeated. Hologram-Alfor briefly speaks with his normal voice to tell Allura to disconnect his power source. I would have liked it better if Allura doing so was solely her doing and not just her doing what her father tells her to do.

Coran says that if they disconnect the power source they’ll lose Alfor forever. Allura still decides it must be done. It is an emotional decision. I don’t see how it’s technologically realistic though; how would being not connected to a power source cause the data of the holographic program to cease to exist? It’s still really sad though.

“You don’t have to make this sacrifice,” Hologram-Alfor says. It’s a direct callback to the beginning of the episode when he told her that her being a leader would necessitate her making sacrifices. (Why the glass shattered just because the power was disconnected from the system, I have no idea.)

They escape just as the star explodes. Eh, it’s a cliché last-second escape, but it is beautifully animated.

I like hearing Allura afterward make clear that the hologram was not her father. It sort of marks her acceptance of her loss in a way that she had not been able to do before.

While I have a few small complaints about the realism of a few elements of this episode, and I don’t like the title, I do like the episode a lot. (I think because I like the episode as much as I do is why I wish it had a better title.) While the other characters do have their respective parts in the episode, the most emotional, impactful scenes are those involving Shiro and those involving Allura. While I’ve enjoyed a lot of the show up to this point, this is the first episode to make me really feel hit in my emotions.

#voltron legendary defender #voltron #vld #voltron criticism #vld criticism #voltron critical #vld critical #vld season 1 #vld 1x11 #commentary

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sixth-light · 6 years

Text

uncommonsockeater

replied to your post

“Coming to the realization that the Nightingale I’m writing for the...”

Prompts? .... Abigail, ghost tour heckler? All quail before her withering contempt?

roisindubh211 replied to your post “Coming to the realization that the Nightingale I’m writing for the...”

Abigail asks Peter questions because he's her big cousin who's into weird stuff and probably won't rat her out to her folks

Accountability check: I wrote 1200 words of the arranged marriage AU today while waiting for someone to get back to me so I could submit a revised paper I’M NOT GETTING DISTRACTED FROM MY FANFIC GOALS

(I am but. manageably.)

“...Sir Henry died over a hundred and twenty years ago,” said the tour guide, “but –“

“Hang on,” Abigail said, pitching her voice to the tone that had brought looks ranging from resignation to terror to the eyes of her schoolteachers. “This place wasn’t even built until after the First World War. What’s this Victorian bloke doing haunting it?”

The guide, who was a white guy called Simon probably not too much older than Abigail was herself, had smiled politely when she’d opened her mouth. By the time she was done, the smile had gone a bit thin.

“I think you must have got it mixed up,” he said, with a chuckle. “Look around at this Gothic Revival -”

“They didn’t just all down tools one day in nineteen-oh-one and start on Art Deco buildings the next,” Abigail said. “My cousin’s an architect, he goes on about this stuff.”

That wasn’t exactly true but Peter had done his degree, right, it was just that jobs were hard to get. His tours were way better than this one, too.

Simon’s eyes narrowed, although he managed to keep up the smile. Some of the other people on the tour – all tourists as far as Abigail could tell, mostly white and a few East Asians – were starting to look uncomfortable.

“Look, do you want to hear about the ghost of Sir Henry or not?”

“I just think if you’re going to tell ghost stories they should be real ones,” Abigail told him. She meant it, too.

“As I was saying,” he said, loudly and firmly and making eye contact with everybody to draw them back in, “this building was occupied by an advertising firm before the Second World War, and the copywriters used to report -”

Abigail stopped listening and edged towards the back of the group, trying to look appropriately abashed. Nobody looked at her; they wanted to pretend she hadn’t said anything. Which also meant, she was betting, that when someone eventually noticed she was gone, ten or fifteen minutes from now, Simon the tour guide wouldn’t be interested in finding out where she’d gone to. He’d think it was good riddance.

She sidled down a hallway, tried two doors before finding one that was unlocked, and settled in to wait in the office inside. Nobody even walked past the door – they hadn’t noticed she was gone. Perfect.

She gave it half an hour before she went back down to the main foyer. Peter had done a ghost tour for a couple of years – he’d given it up for strict history because he said it got too many people who took it seriously – and Abigail had asked him about this place. One of the things he’d told her, or more like let slip because she was pretty sure he didn’t know what she’d been planning, was that there were security cameras but they weren’t infra-red or anything. And ghosts didn’t show up on camera, not the real kind, so as long as she didn’t turn any lights on she’d be fine. Now it was just a case of waiting until her ghost – the real one, not whatever that story had been – showed up. She sat down in one of the less-comfortable-than-they-looked chairs to wait.

Twenty minutes later, she thought she heard something – a door creaking – but when she strained to listen, there was nothing else. Then she thought she heard people talking quietly, but that went away, too.

That was the worst bit about ghost-hunting; you got worked up looking for things and started to hear things that weren’t there. Real ghosts, Abigail had found, were not subtle at all, and didn’t require any special equipment or concentration or anything like that to see them. They were just...there.

She shifted a bit, because her left leg was starting to go numb, and then sprang to her feet when the door across the foyer from her opened – not the main one – and a torch flashed right into her eyes. Her left leg gave out, prickly with pins and needles, and she stumbled, putting up a hand against the light. “Aaaaaahhh!”

“Well, that’s not a ghost,” said a sardonic female voice. “I’m disappointed.” Abigail couldn’t make out anything else after half an hour in the dark; she could barely see figures behind the torch, let alone details.

“Excuse me,” said a second voice – man, very posh, in a way that made Abigail hopeful neither of them was the building’s night manager, but not very hopeful that they’d accept her back-up excuse of having got lost from the ghost tour. It sounded more like a voice that was going to tell her to wait for the police to be called. It was, all things considered, probably a good time to make a bolt for it.

“Hold on,” said a third voice, and the torch dropped; Abigail blinked, trying to focus at the same time as she tensed to turn and run. “Abigail, is that you?”

“Peter?” She turned back. “What – you don’t do the ghost tour anymore!”

“No, I don’t,” said her cousin Peter, sounding baffled. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s for a story,” Abigail said, shrugging like it was totally normal to be found in an office building in central London at quarter to midnight by her cousin who did walking tours and – who were those other two people, anyway? “What are you doing here, then?”

With the torch directed at the floor, now, she could see that the woman – whose expression was about as sardonic as her voice had been – was tall for a girl and wearing a black hijab and a very cool leather jacket. Posh Voice was a white man in a three-piece suit carrying an actual cane, which would have made him a good candidate for the ghost she was trying to interview if he hadn’t obviously been not a ghost, and instead a real person studying her with a frown of mild confusion.

“I take it you know this young lady?” he asked Peter.

“Yeah, this is my cousin Abigail, she’s studying journalism,” said Peter, like a complete traitor. “For a story, Abigail, really? What the hell?”

“I am!” Abigail insisted. She could live with Peter thinking she was breaking and entering; she wasn’t going to tell him she was here to interview a ghost. He’d never let her live it down. He probably still remembered when she’d tried to tell him about the ghost on the train tracks, five years ago. “Come on, why are you here? You don’t do the ghost tour anymore.”

“Favour for a friend,” Peter said. “The night manager still remembers me, and there’s two law firms in this building so they’re not thrilled about warrants...does he know you’re here?”

“I –“ Abigail was already figuring out how to answer that when she processed the rest of that sentence. “Wait, warrants?” She took a step to the side, so the chair wasn’t blocking her path to the side door. It was probably futile with Peter right here and telling all and sundry she was his cousin, but still. She turned her attention to Posh Voice and the hijabi woman. “Are you the filth?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Posh Voice. “May I ask what sort of story you’re following up?”

“It’s for a class,” Abigail said quickly. “I’m a student.” She had a flash of inspiration. “I was supposed to meet someone, but I guess they haven’t shown up.”

“Mind telling us who that someone is?” asked the woman in the hijab. She looked familiar but Abigail couldn’t remember where from.

“I wouldn’t want to reveal a source. And you haven’t told me who you are.”

The woman made a hmph noise and looked away, like she was trying not to laugh. Which was just insulting, really.

“Quite right,” said Posh Voice, and showed her his warrant card, which said he was Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale. Abigail made a show of inspecting it like she’d seen Peter do once when she’d come with him on a research trip and someone had made a fuss about them being there, but she didn’t know what she was looking for, really. It was just a way to gain a second, and see how Peter was taking this. He looked exasperated, and slightly suspicious, but not really worried. So maybe it would come out alright, if she could just persuade them to go away, somehow.

“Okay, Detective Inspector Nightingale,” she said. “And you are?” she asked the woman.

“Detective Sergeant Sahra Guleed,” said the woman. “Hey, that’s where I’ve seen you – you live on the same estate as Peter’s parents, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” said Abigail.

“Yeah, all her life,” said Peter. “You’ve probably seen her round. Sahra lives near me,” he explained to Abigail. “So she’s fine, and Inspector Nightingale’s a friend of mine, so – look, you shouldn’t be here, it’s nearly midnight. How about I walk you out?”

“I can find my own way out,” Abigail said, trying to look dejected. “It’s fine.”

“Ms - Abigail,” said Inspector Nightingale. “As Sergeant Guleed said – would you very much mind telling us who you were intending to meet? In general terms. I won’t ask for a name.”

“A guy,” Abigail said, figuring she could work with this. “Who had some things to say about…a cold case.”

“It wasn’t, by any chance,” he said, “John Geraldson?”

Abigail tried really hard not to react to that but she wasn’t sure she succeeded. “Uh…who’s that?”

Peter narrowed his eyes. He’d known her way too long. “Abigail. You know a few years ago when you told me about that thing, near school, on the train tracks…is it like that?”

“You didn’t believe me then,” Abigail said, and knew she sounded bitter and was annoyed at herself that she did. “Why are you asking about it now?”

“You changed your mind and said you were joking,” said Peter. “I thought I’d give you the benefit of the doubt.” He paused. “Also, fine, I didn’t believe you then, but I’ve had reason to change my mind since. So. Anything like that?”

“Are you telling me,” Abigail said, incredulous, “that these are the ghost police?”

“Wow,” said Sergeant Guleed. “That’s actually worse than anything I’ve heard down at Belgravia.”

“In that case,” said Inspector Nightingale, “perhaps -”

That was when the ghost threw the chair Abigail had been sitting in across the room, so things got a bit complicated after that.

Because it was after midnight they retired to an all-night caf and Peter bought Abigail a Coke, which was frankly the least he owed her.

“It’s that annoying time when I really want a drink but it’s too late to start,” he said, looking around. Inspector Nightingale made a noise of agreement.

“You’ll live,” said Sergeant Guleed, not very sympathetically. “Besides, you can’t tell me Abigail’s old enough to drink.”

“I am so,” said Abigail, which made her sound like she wasn’t but was one of those things you had to push back on. “What, you want to see my ID?”

“Sure,” said Sergeant Guleed.

“She is, not that it matters right now,” said Peter. “Was that an exorcism, then?”

“Not really,” said Inspector Nightingale. “More like a red card. Although hopefully it lasts for longer than eighty minutes.”

“Now I’m going to have to go to a library and do research,” Abigail said, still feeling aggrieved. “You could have let me talk to him.”

“He didn’t seem to be in the mood,” said Sergeant Guleed. “In my extensive experience of ghosts.”

“Three months is rather more extensive than anybody else on the force at present,” said her boss. “So I’d say you’re qualified to make that judgement.”

“Oh, fantastic,” she said, and eyed Peter dubiously. “Have I thanked you again lately for getting me into this?”

“Every time you see me,” said Peter. “Abigail, look - I’ll put you in touch with someone at the British Library, I bet she’d love to help. She’s friends with Mum. And she knows all about ghosts and – all about ghosts, so you can just tell her the whole story.” He paused to take a bite of his kebab. “Isn’t this all a bit excessive for a first-year assignment, though?”

“It’s not just for the assignment,” Abigail explained. “I mean, it is, but sometimes I can publish things online, and sometimes I even get money for them, and that’s gonna look way better for my portfolio than just assignments.” Especially when there were people who had parents who worked for newspapers and things and got their stuff in them. She had to try harder, that was all there was to it.

“What sort of website was going to publish a story with a ghost as an interviewee?” Inspector Nightingale asked, like he was just curious, but his eyes were sharp.

“I wasn’t going to put that in the story,” Abigail said. “Then all you get is, like, really terrible tabloids. I was going to figure out where I was supposed to have found things out after I found them out.”

“That doesn’t sound like great journalism,” said Peter.

“I wasn’t going to write anything that wasn’t true.”

“Ghosts,” said the Inspector, “are not always reliable witnesses, anymore than humans are – in fact they’re often worse.”

“Yes, but they’ll talk to you, and sometimes people won’t,” said Abigail. “Talk to me. And I know nobody else is out there interviewing ghosts, so it’s something I’ve got they don’t. Totally worth it.” She paused to sip her Coke. “But Peter just said ghosts and, so tell me, Inspector Nightingale. What’s ‘and’?”

“How about,” he said, “we won’t discuss and, and we also won’t discuss breaking and entering.”

Peter made a noise of protest at this – at least he was good for something.

“I didn’t break and enter anything,” Abigail said, not breaking eye contact with Inspector Nightingale. “I paid to go on a perfectly legit walking tour which had permission to be in the building, and I got lost on the way out.”

“Oh, Jesus,” said Peter. “Was that Simon’s tour? Were you heckling him?”

“Only at that last stop,” Abigail said. “So he wouldn’t be sorry I was gone.” She sniffed. “He was totally making everything up, anyway, it was embarrassing just listening to it.”

“It’s embarrassing knowing he’s in business, is what,” said Peter, “but I’m really disappointed in you, Abigail.” He paused for emphasis. “You should have heckled him at every stop.”

“Then he would have asked me to leave early,” Abigail said, but she grinned at Peter, and he grinned back, so at least they were all right and he wasn’t going to tell on her to her dad, which would be the worst, or to his mum, which would be the same thing except he could claim he hadn’t. Even Sergeant Guleed made an amused noise.

“I’ll accept there’s an argument about the legalities,” said Inspector Nightingale, and he was smiling a little bit too.

“So,” Abigail said. “And what?”

“She’s very persistent,” said Peter. “Fair warning.”

“A family trait, I see,” said Inspector Nightingale.

“She also did see you do sort of an exorcism,” said Sergeant Guleed. “I think it might be faster if we came clean.”

Inspector Nightingale sighed. “Ghosts, and – I’m a wizard.”

He said it very matter-of-factly, as if he were saying I’m a policeman or lovely weather today. Abigail took a moment to consider it.

“Why are you hanging out with a wizard policeman?” she asked Peter. She glanced at Sergeant Guleed. “Two wizard police officers.”

“They have a very interesting library,” said Peter. “And he’s right, we are a very persistent family.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Abigail said, and sat up a bit straighter, and decided that, even though it was nearly one in the morning and she had class tomorrow – today, this might be something worth being persistent about.

#uncommonsockeater #roisindubh211 #rivers of london #historical tour guide peter #abigail kamara #peter grant #tumblr fic #my fanfic #also nightingale and guleed but like #not enough that I feel I should tag them #writing this actually HELPED me with a plot hole for the arranged marriage au #so really it's winning all around

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paulhudd · 5 years

Text

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt. Four: Ha! Ha! Said the Clown

Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow; Sunday, May 2nd 1991

Malky gave the big chauffeur a sideways look, crossed his arms, casually leant on the door post and refused to shake the extended hand.

Gorringe wasn’t offended, just mildly surprised. He looked at his unshaken hand and frowned. He ummed & ahhed, looked left and right and spoke hesitantly, rubbing his neck as if about to ask a contention question, “Erm... see, the boss sent me ‘ere wiv a proposition... ‘E instructed me to... that is...” he paused, stepped up so that they were face-to-face and pleaded for relief with beseeching eyes, “Lissen mate, can I use your lavvy? I’ve been on the road fer ovah-an-hour ‘n that last cuppa I ‘ad before I left the ‘ahse is abaht to bust me bladdah!”

It was an old salesman’s ploy and Malky knew it, and the chauffeur knew he knew it, nevertheless he cringed and gritted his teeth, “No messin’ guv - I’m this close to pissin’ me strides!” He seemed genuinely stricken, so after a second or two’s deliberation, Malky decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and stood aside, issuing a caution as he dashed by, “Straight in-and-out, mind. And don’t use the urinals – they’re not plumbed-in yet – use one of the stalls! OK?”

Gorringe already halfway there, “I don’t care if it’s a bucket -- I gotta go!”

Just as the door to the gents closed, Zindy walked through from the kitchen, “Who is it? Sales rep? Reporter?” she asked, wiping her oil-blackened hands with a rag, her elfin face smeared with black smuts. Malky was still at the door, looking out at the darkened windows of the Rolls, “... no, he’s somebody’s chauffeur. You should see the car he’s driving.”

Zindy lifted the waiter hatch and struggled through, “Ooow, I’ve been bent over too long, I’m all stiffened-up!” she groaned, clutching the small of her back with both hands so that her swollen tummy popped out of her denim shirt revealing an oily palm-print on the ivory-white skin of her bump. Malky closed the door, “There’s quite a draught – you can look out through the window.”

“For God’s sake a bit of sea air will do me good!”

Malky tapped her butt, “Aye, because you’re doin’ bloody auto-repairs on the kitchen table and the place stinks to high-heaven of gloss, varnish, engine oil and Swarfega! That child o’ mine must be gettin’ high on the fumes!”

Zindy made yakety-yak signs with her hand and said “I’m trying to save us some money, it’d cost us a bomb to take that van to a mechanic.”

“... because you’ve fallen out with all the local mechanics, haven’t you?” he chided ironically, “There isn’t a garage within a 30-mile-radius who’ll touch it, is there? Anyway, it’s a false economy. It’ll breakdown in the middle of nowhere and you’ll have to ring one of the garages for a tow-truck and the whole shebang will cost us three times as much as it would if we’d gone to a garage in the first place -– that’s not factoring-in the chance of an accident - or you gettin’ stranded high and dry – then whoosh – your waters break!”

“Jeezus Christ! You’re startin’ to scare me!” she cried.

“It’s a possibility -- like what if you breakdown and you fall getting out of the van -- or somebody comes round the corner too fast and hits you or something leaks in the engine and it goes up in a ball of flames...?”

“Why dontcha just swaddle me in bubble-wrap, pack me in polystyrene, stick me in an air-conditioned coffin and feed me through a tube til September! Oh I say, tally-ho, chaps,” she’d seen the stranger’s car, “a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, no less,” she said, appreciatively, looking out of the window, “who comes to a place like this in a car like that?”

Meanwhile, Brooster was listening at the parlour door, “What’s goin’ on?” a voice whispered behind him, making him jump and almost fall over. It was Sammy, the silver-bearded, blood-spattered ghost of the inn’s elderly barman, crouching behind him with his hands on his knees. Brooster looked him in the eye and asked him with a thought: Why are you creeping about and whispering when only I can see and hear you?

Sammy stood up, stroked his beard and mused aloud, “Aye, I s’pose that’s true... Well then – I’ll just do this!” He walked through the wall, into the occupied cubicle, looked the urinator up-and-down and shouted to the old dog, “It’s a chauffeur. Big bloke. Ex-army – British army – he has a regimental pin. Big dick, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

Broo wasn't at all impressed by the resident phantom’s crude behaviour – one of these days the stupid old fool will walk in on a Sensitive and scare the life out of them (actually, that eventuality would be fortuitous – because escape from This Life and Ascent into The Next requires a death within the parameters of the haunting and in the three years since Sammy had been shot and killed by Barry McKee, the only candidate so far had been an elderly deep-sea fisherman suffering with angina and a bad case of hay-fever who died two days later after a particularly violent sneeze –- at home in his own bed. Sammy whined as he opined: “Why couldn't the auld eejit have snuffed-it here?! Some people have no manners at all! At this rate, I’ll have to wait for Malky to croak - and he’s got another ten years in him at least!”).

The chauffeur exited the gents and convened with Zindy and Malky. Zindy was friendly and bright and offered him a cup of tea; Malky was cagey and glum. But that’s Malky. Sammy, reclining on the couch to watch the movie, actually made an insightful comment, “He’s an Englishman and Zindy misses the company of Englishmen. She’ll bend his ear for an hour and then he’ll be off back to whoever he drives for: probably some auld oul’ banker or one of those rich pop stars who've been buying houses over here lately.” He pointed at the remote, “C’mon, turn the sound on. I love the old black and white fillums!”

The old dog was paying him no heed. He was enjoying familiar feelings of excitement and trepidation, that tingle in his pelt that told him the visitor was significant and he should prepare himself for important news. And sure enough, the chauffeur didn’t thank his hosts for the use of the amenities and return to his vehicle, he was taken to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a chat!

Sammy was still harping on, “Dog?! D’ya hear me? Hit the button that turns the sound back on!”

Oblivious, Brooster snuck down the hall, took-up position at the kitchen door and listened.

Sammy shouted from the parlour, “Ach, c’mon, you know I can’t press the buttons...?” Broo ignored him and harkened to the conversation around the kitchen table.

Once Gorringe had completed his ablutions and emerged from the gents refreshed, Zindy introduced herself and took him into the kitchen for a cuppa. They hadn't had much company lately and this was the first Englishman she’d met in ages so she was chatty and vivacious. Malky was characteristically sniffy and suspicious. He wouldn't sit down and slowly paced the floor by the backdoor and let Zindy do all the talking. She began by apologising for the engine parts on the kitchen table, told him to park his arse and have a Mikado. He took a biscuit, but kept well back from the table lest oil, paint or any other petroleum-based-product come into contact with his immaculate whistle, “Is that a Lancashire accent I ‘ear?” he asked, with a wry smile.

Zindy grinned, “Aye - Salford! ‘Ow can you tell?” she said, ironically.

“Heh-heh, two of me best mates is from Salford! Salts of the erf, they is, diamonds to a man. We ‘ad a couple of tours in Cyprus in the late fifties and then they was sent to... umm,” he suddenly stopped talking. He realised he was in the Republic of Ireland talking to a pair of total strangers about old friends serving in an occupying force and quickly changed the subject. He beheld her swollen belly and asked, sheepishly, “Ahem, ‘ow many mumphs ‘ave you got before the big day then, sweet’eart?”

“I’m due in late July or early August,” she replied, she replied, “Just wait til I’m at full-term, I’ll look like a two-legged Space Hopper in a pink-wig!”

Malky lost patience, coughed theatrically, walked forward and put an end to the sparkling repartee, “So, Mr Gorringe, what can we do for you?”

The chauffeur put up a hand and waived the formalities, “Oh, call me ‘Erbie, please, Mr Calvert. Nobody calls me Gorringe ‘cept the boss when ‘e’s in a bad mood. Everybody else calls me ‘Erbie.”

Malky sighed, “Then, what can we do for your boss, H-erbie?”

“Malky! - don’t be so rude!” Zindy snapped.

Herbie shook his head, “Nah, ‘e’s got every right to be wary, sweet’eart. I’m beatin’ arahnd the bush, as it were, I really should explain meself,” his face took on a pained expression of someone who knew that what he was going to say next would either elicit gales of laughter or get him forcibly ejected from the premises forthwith; he carefully set down his teacup, laced his fingers on his lap and spoke without looking at his hosts, “Well, y’see, my boss, see... ‘e’s not a superstitious man by nay-cha but, ‘e’s got it into ‘is ‘ead...” he sighed heavily, looked up at Malky and bit the bullet, “Look – ‘e thinks the ahse ‘as been invaded by ‘a poltergeist’ and ‘e wants a consultation. Y’know, whether you can confirm or deny, that sort of thing.”

Malky’s heart sank. He threw up his hands and whined, “Fer cryin’ out loud! Another crank! A rich crank, but a crank nonetheless!”

[In the aftermath of the Barry McKee case, there had been numerous requests for newspaper interviews, TV documentaries and even a book deal with movie-options that would have set them up for the rest of their lives, but Malky had rejected them all out-of-hand. Zindy was slightly exasperated but mostly impressed by his innate integrity and refusal to exploit his adventures - then sometimes she wished he had his price, just enough to afford a decent refit. But he doggedly kept to his Code and slowly-but-surely, the phone stopped ringing, people stopped arriving at the door and they settled into what was, in Malky’s case, blissful isolation in a place he loved as a child; for Zindy, it represented normality and domesticity, something she needed after years of living in the fast lane.]

She was too taken with their visitor to dismiss the offer out of hand, “Wait til you ‘ear what Herbie ‘as to say before you go on a rant, Mr Sour-Balls!”

Malky leaned against the fridge and crossed his arms, “He can say what he likes but it won’t make a ha’penny’s worth o’ difference. We live by a Code remember?”

“’Code?’” Herbie looked from one to the other.

Zindy harrumphed and rhymed-off Malky’s charter to their bemused visitor, “Malky’s Code: he won’t have anything to do with the supernatural stuff... he won’t have anything to do with the media... he won’t write a book even though he’s been offered a lotta money...”

Malky: “-- and with good reason! Once you make contact -– you let them in! They’ll be writing begging letters, making pilgrimages to our door!”

Herbie, slightly embarrassed that he’d caused trouble in paradise, assured them, “You come very ‘ighly recommended, y’know – by the Gardai commissioner ‘isself, no less...”

Malky’s jaw dropped, “What?!” he gasped.

“Oh gawd, I knew this would be a nightmare...” Herbie muttered under his breath, grimacing like a man tiptoeing through a minefield wearing a blindfold; he elaborated in an apologetic tone, “... a couple o’ weeks ago, the boss was at one of them grand-banquet dos they ‘ave in Dublin City where the top-nobs can ‘obnob -- y’know the sort o’ fing, VIPs, the politicians an’-all-that-lot. Well, the commissioner was seated next to the boss and they got talkin’ about strange cases and your name came up, an’ when ‘e mentioned that Barry McKee business a few years ago, the boss wuz all ears 'n ‘e got the commissioner to get your address...?”

Malky was furious, “The Barry McKee case was as weird as they come, but it wasn't anythin’ to do with the supernatural -- it was to do with the fact that he’s a schizo who liked to kill little girls.”

Herbie raised his eyebrows, “So all that tawk abaht ‘im bein’ possessed is just bollocks?”

��Well, he thought he was possessed, he heard voices...” Zindy was about to elaborate when Malky shot her a what-the-hell-look. She took umbrage, “So what did happen, Malcolm? Why don’t you explain it?”

“You should know -- you were there -– we nearly died!” Malky snapped back.

“Yeah -- but who ‘elped us?! ‘Ow did the dog find them bodies in the woods? Who told 'im where to go?!”

Sensing trouble in paradise, Herbie reached into his inside-pocket and took out a large brown leather wallet, “Look, I tell you wot, if it makes it any easier,” he pulled out a folded slip of paper and set it on the table so that it stood like a little greetings-card, “the boss gimme this blank cheque ‘n awforised me to offer ya 7 grand to come up to the ‘ahse and ‘ave-a-butcher’s. If you can get rid of the spook, he’ll give you anovver free grand. That’s 10 grand! More, if ‘e’s really pleased! ‘Is pockets are deep, believe me.”

“Something strange in your neighbourhood? Who you gonna call...?” Malky sang.

“I don’t think even the Ghostbusters would get 10 grand for one night’s work?!” gasped Zindy, £-signs in her eyes.

Heartened that the hostess seemed keen, Herbie went for the hard-sell, “7 grand just to ‘ave a shufti, 10 grand if you get rid of it. What would money like that mean to you two?” he said, looking at Zindy’s bump.

Malky saw his better-half look around the kitchen, read her mind and reminded her with a wagging finger, “Don’t start...!”

Zindy wagged straight back, “The Code of Silence made sense in the beginnin’ when we wuz inundated with whackos, weirdoes ‘n’ wankers of every stripe – before we ‘ad money trouble and baby on t’way!”

Malky pointed and laughed sardonically, “Did you just say that? Who the hell are you?!”

The chauffeur turned to Malky and spoke softly, “Lissen Mr C -- I fink the old man’s barkin’ up the wrong tree too, but ‘e’s at his wit’s end – ‘e finks there’s an ‘evil spirit’ out to get ‘im! Now, I ain't seen anythin’ myself, just the aftermaff - but ‘e says fings fly across the room, y’know, ornaments ‘itting the wall, books falling from shelves, that sort of fing. E’s afraid to go rahnd the ‘ouse on ‘is own. If it goes on for much longer, ‘e’s likely to ‘ave a stroke or ‘eart attack, the poor old git.”

“Who is 'e?” Zindy and Malky asked, in perfect harmony.

Herbie paused for a second then said: “Oliver Laphen.”

“Ollie Laphen?! ‘The Quare Geg’?!” cried Malky; amazed and delighted, he duly eschewed his standoffishness, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“The old movie star? The hellraiser?” asked Zindy, only slightly impressed.

“Yip, that Ollie Laphen,” said Herbie, sheepishly, as if confessing a cardinal sin.

“My God. Ollie Laphen! That takes me back a-ways...” Malky enthused, whimsically, looking up, as if viewing the memory in a thought balloon hovering just above his head, “...in Belfast in the late 50s when me ‘n me younger brother Dessie were kids, we used to see his films at the Roy Rogers’ Movie Club at the Curzon on Saturday mornings and we loved the ‘Laffin Boy’ shorts he made in the early 30s when he was still called ‘Ollie Laffin’. Jeez, we must’ve seen them all at least 10 times each...!”

Zindy left Malky to wander down Memory Lane and got down to business, “And ‘’e’s willing to pay Malky 7 grand just to look round ‘is ‘aunted ‘ouse?!”

Herbie smiled and nodded.

Although mightily tempted, Malky still wasn't moved, “Nah – it smacks of exploitation. I’m not goin’ to take advantage of an old man who’s probably in the primary stages of senility... Oh, sorry, Herbie...”

The chauffeur shrugged and nodded, “You’re singin’ to the choir guv. That’s what us lot reckoned, too - but in every ovver respect he’s fine. ‘E’s cantankerous and narky like ‘e always is, but ‘is memory’s fine - e’s workin’ on a one-man-show and ‘e don’t even ‘ave to look at the book. ‘E reads all ‘is contracts – even the small print - ‘e writes ‘is memoirs... If it is senility, then this poltergeist fing is the only symptom.” He winked, “Tell-you-wot -- why dontcha meet ‘im ‘n’ see for y’self.”

Malky had to smile. It was like being coerced by an aging Artful Dodger. He now knew how the big chauffeur had kept a job for so many years: Herbert Gorringe has made a career out of getting the boss exactly what he wants, by hook or by crook.

“Lissen, if you fink it’s all a loada ol’ cobblahs, you can tell ‘im so - take the money - and I’ll drive you ‘ome. No ‘assle. No one will ever know. Mr Laphen certainly won’t be tellin’. You know ‘ow much ‘e ‘ates the press.”

Zindy looked at Malky and batted her eyelids, “No one will ever know and you’ll have a great story to tell our kids.”

“Oh – you’re not coming?” said Malky, with a raised eyebrow.

Zindy indicated the engine parts on the table, “No time, lover –- we need the van back on the road by mornin’ cos I ‘ave to go to Arklow and pick-up the grocery order and fetch more paint from the DIY store. Incidentally, I’ll be ‘using’ t’credit card - you know the one I mean -– the one we owe £3,400 on?”

“My God woman, have you no shame?!” said Malky, semi-seriously, shaking his head with exasperation.

Herbie held up the cheque and flicked it with a finger, “A lotta lolly for a few hours’ work, my friends.”

“C’mon, Malk. Like ‘Erbie says, the ol' boy’s loaded and it’s only one night...?”

Malky stared at his paint-spattered hands and had a rethink: you’ll to get away from the smell of varnish and gloss, meet the great Ollie Laphen and have a look round his house... “Well... I suppose one night wouldn't be so bad... ?”

Deal sealed, Herbie sighed with relief, got to his feet and shook Malky’s hand. Malky looked at Zindy and shook his head, “You know you’ll never hear the end of this, dontcha?”

Zindy grinned, “Careful Ollie Laphen’s poltergeist don’t drop summat ‘eavy on yer ‘ead, chook!”

Malky held his sides and pretended to cry tears of laughter.

“Oh yeah - one other fing,” said Herbie, looking around, “The commissioner-bloke told us that you usually work wiv a free-legged German shepherd...?”

Right on cue, the beast in question nosed the door open and sauntered into the room, someone call?

[Broo and Malky had a semi-telepathic link; they couldn't communicate directly, but over the years following the Barry McKee saga, they’d developed an intuitive sense of what the other was thinking.]

Malky glared, you heard all that didn’t you?

The old dog grunted, I can hear the rats building a nest three-doors-down, you twit - of course I heard. And I must say, it’s about time we had a case...

“It’ll be a bit of a lark, won’t it?” chirped Zindy, putting Malky’s toothbrush and shaving kit into his overnight bag. She gave the once over and shook her head, “you’re a walkin’ disaster. Things wrinkled as soon as you put them on.” She lifted the comb and tried to do something with his hair.

Her other-half still hadn't warmed to the idea, “Lark? It’ll be no laughing matter for me, wandering around some creaky, chilly stately-home all night with that grumpy hound at me heel.”

Broo growled back.

She stooped slightly and pointed the comb at the old dog, “Now listen – Broo – you be patient w’ ‘im and remember that ‘e ‘ates all this kinda spooky stuff,” she turned back to her man, “and Mal, you remember that Broo is old and crotchety and prone to snarkiness.”

How dare you madam! I’ll have you know my intellectual capacity is at its peak! The father of your child is the one with questionable mental faculties, not me!

Standing on tiptoe, Zindy cupped Malky’s cheeks and gave him one of her pep-talks, “Listen, chook... take a look round, if you don’t find anythin’ or it looks like a set up, or it don’t feel right -- whatever -- I’ll understand if you don’t take the money, OK?”

Malky was confused, “Then why....?”

She put a finger on his lips, “I’d appreciate a little time on me own, OK? Nothing sinister, just some time to meself. We've been in each other’s pockets day-and-night for 2 year now, so tonight -- for one night only -- I’m gonna finish workin’ on the soddin’ van, ‘ave a bath, write a coupla letters and get an early night. Meanwhile, you get to spend the night in a luxurious mansion in the company of yer boyhood hero.”

She wants a break from you, and who can blame her.

Malky shot the dog a reproachful glance, then smiled when he turned back to his better-half, “You don’t need to explain, Zin. You've got what’s commonly known as Calvert Fatigue.”

She pushed him out onto the landing, “Now fook off. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Broo surveyed the stray cats lined long the parapet of the old burned-out cinema. They had gathered to watch the Rolls roll by, just like they had at the time of the McKee affair: further confirmation, to him at least, that this journey was significant. He resolved to pay attention to every detail and use all his powers... to get to the bottom... of (yawn)... whatever....zzzzzzz He was asleep within 10 minutes. Malky looked over his shoulder and scowled. Lazy sod.

Herbie took the scenic route and drove slowly. The hedgerows bustled-by lackadaisically, the dry-stone-walls refused to become a grey-white blur as £400,000 worth of Rolls Royce shook ‘n’ shimmied along bumpy country lanes and pot-holey side-roads at a leisurely 32mph. He was enjoying the view of the misty Wicklow mountains, and despite the nip in the breeze and the baleful skies, he wound down his window and leaned out to take the air -- which reeked of compost and slurry, but which was entirely to his taste -- “Aaaaah! Smell that?! Laaave this cahntryside, I do! Y’know, at least once a day, I stop what I’m doin’ ‘n give fanks that we landed back ‘ere and not blahdy Swizzer-land. Swizzer-land,” he sneered. “I ‘ate blahdy Swizzer-land. The boss wuz a tax-exile for a while y’see...” He went on to list the many shortcomings of the Swiss in his bouncy cockney twang. Malky repressed the overwhelming urge to shout for Christ’s sake shut-up and step on it! and tuned him out. There he was, on his way to do something he didn’t want to do for people he didn’t want to know in a place he didn’t want to be, and the longer it took to get there the more the prospect bothered him. Bloody cheek, that Gardai Commissioner handing my name & number out to all-and-sundry – I should sue! ... Bloody hocus-pocus and hoodoo-voodoo... but as usual, money talks and principles go out the window... money, money, money... she’ll be setting up a Supernatural Detective Agency next... She’ll be advertising it in the paper...

Seemingly oblivious to the ennui emanating from the fidgety heap of grumpiness beside him, Herbie continued to natter away about getting acclimatised to the snail’s-pace of pastoral Irish life after so many years spent in the fraught, hustle-&-bustle of Hollywood: “They’re as nice-as-ninepence to ya just so long as yer putting bums on seats and bags of lolly in the bank – if not - they’ll drop ya like ‘ot potatah! Fankfully, the boss is always bankable – you put ‘is name on a marquee and you’s guaranteed a profit! ‘E still ‘as a core fanbase of millions who’ll come to everyfink ‘e’s in!”

Malky grunted a hollow, listless “Oh really?”

Unfazed, Herbie whispered in Malky’s ear: “Lissen, mate, if you wanna take the edge-off - ‘ave a drop of Irish. The boss keeps a flask in the glove-compartment for emergencies.”

Malky was caught off-guard and answered in an embarrassed stutter, “Er, no thanks, I don’t drink...”

“‘Recovering alcoholic’, are ya?” Herbie asked.

Although wholly nonplussed by the man’s audacity, Malky replied without raising his voice, “Let’s just say I had a problem at one time and leave it at that, shall we?”

But Herbie continued to pry, “Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but you have the look of a man who’s no stranger to --”

“Oi! Enough!” Malky barked (Brooster woke up with a start), “Keep yer eyes on the road, Jeeves! Just cuz yer boss is willin’ to pay 7 grand for my services doesn’t give ye the right to dig into me personal life!”

Herbie was visibly taken aback by this unexpected tirade; he pulled down the peak of his cap so that it covered his eyes, straightened up in his seat, took the car up to a steady 40, and after a brief pause, spoke in a more professional tone, “I wuz only makin’ conversation, sir. If I’ve offended you in any way, I ‘umbly apologise and beg yer pardon, sir.”

“Forget it.” Malky turned away and looked out of the window.

A minute or two passed, and as the little surge of adrenalin dissipated, so the embarrassment sank in and he decided to restart the conversation, “Did I hear you tell Zindy you were in the army?”

Still somewhat narked, the chauffeur kept his eyes on the road and gave his name rank and number with the clipped diction of a well-drilled soldier, “Queen’s Royal Irish Fusiliers, 17 years: Corporal Herbert Valentino Gorringe 2063 reporting for duty, sah.”

Malky smiled, “Valentino?”

Herbie made a face, “It was that or Rudolph. My ol’ mum was a big fan. She was in-con-sole-able when ‘e died, grieved fer days, apparently.”

Where was another protracted pause, until Malky said, “I used to meet a lot of Tommies in Belfast in the early days of the Troubles. Seen a good few murdered, too. Bad times.”

The chauffeur turned slightly so that he could look Malky in the eye, “You wasn't chucking the ol’ Molotovs, was ya? You ain’t an ex-IRA man or anyfink like that, ‘is ya?!” Au contraire. Malky told him he was an ex-RUC policeman. Herbie was very interested, visibly relieved and wholly amazed, “Really? If you don’t mind me saying so - you don’t strike me as the type...?”

“My ambition was to be a detective, but I never made it out of uniform. I quit after my partner was gunned down right beside me and I went off the rails a bit and... Well, y’know...” Malky’s voice trailed off.

Herbie shook his head, “Gunned down right beside you? That’s rough that is.”

“But surely you’ve had near-death experiences yourself, Herbie, especially after 17 years in the army...?”

“Well, I wuz too young to serve in the war. I turned 17 the day after VE day. I didn’t join-up til the September of 46. And I never did no tour of duty in Norvern Ireland neevah, I was mostly overseas in Cyprus and the Middle East. We was part of a UN peace-keeping force tryin’ to keep the tribes apart: Jews, Muslims, Christians – not to mention the Greeks and the Turks! Bit like Belfast, but wiv loadsa sun, sand and bearded blokes in pyjamas wiv machine guns. Mind you, I saw the aftermaff of a lotta bombs, I saw fousands killed in genocides... terrible, ‘orrible it was... But I never really saw battle, just ‘minor skirmishes’. Luck, I suppose. It was during a tour of Norf Africa in 64 when I first met the boss!”

“Really,” asked Malky, suddenly interested, “you met oul’ Ollie while you were still in the army? You've been with him that long?”

Herbie was back on his favourite subject and relishing the opportunity to impart his favourite anecdote to a captive audience: “Oh yeah, it was me firtiefth birthday and I was on a day’s leave, so me and a couple of the lads went to Casablanca to paint the tahn several shades of crimson... and after a bit of a pub crawl rahnd the Kasbahs, I got separated from me mates, and while I was lookin’ fer ‘em, I strolls into this dark little tavern and sittin’ there in a corner was Oliver Laphen! Would you Adam ‘n’ Eve it?! ‘E was supposed to shootin’ an adventure movie wiv David Niven about archaeologists in World War Two called Diamonds in the Dust –- but he was skivin’-off cuz he’d ‘ad a row with the director and ‘e was layin’-low -- he didn’t wanna ‘ang round the ‘otel, so ‘e’s ‘iding-out in this dark little Kasbah, trying to be inconspicuous – wearin’ a black wig, big black shades, a kaftan and a fez - but I knew ‘im the minute I set eyes on ‘im! See, our CO was a big fan. He ‘ad all the reels of the comic shawts from the late 30s and some of the feature films the boss made for Paramahnt in the 40s – he used to get ‘em sent ovah and screen ‘em for the lads on a Satur’ay night! Anyway - there ‘e is, in the flesh, so-to-speak! Oliver Laphen! Jolly Ollie! So I go over an’ I say, ‘Can I ‘ave your autograwph Mr Laphen, sah?’ and at first ‘e‘s fumin’ – ‘e goes-off-on-one! Then ‘e calms dahn and says to me – ‘’ow the eff did you know it was me?!’ and I say ‘It’s the way you’re ‘olding your drink!’ Cuz ‘e’s always had this way of curling back ‘is little finger as if ‘e’s drinkin’ from the finest choy-nah. E ‘as these delicate li’l ‘ands, see...”

As he watched the chauffeur get more-and-more animated, Malky came to understand how a sensible, seemingly-well-balanced ex-squaddie like Herbert Valentino Gorringe could forsake marriage, family and blissful conformity just to spend his life at the beck-and-call of -- if popular opinion had it right -- a detestable, despotic, volatile, cranky little egomaniac like Oliver Laphen. Well, now he knew. Herbie wasn't just a fan – he was in love with the man. The pair’s long-term relationship had outlasted all of ‘The Quare Geg’s’ marriages put together. No wonder the story was related with such gusto and attention to detail, it was, after all, an epic romance.

“.... any’ow, at 400 hours, I ‘ad to get back to base, but before I go ‘e takes me to one side an’ ‘e says – ‘’Erbie, if you quit the army ‘n become my chauffeur and personal bodyguard, I’ll guarantee you a 50 knicker a week for starters, bed-‘n’-board - all the skirt you can ‘andle – plus -- you’ll get to see the world without ‘avin’ to worry abaht gettin’ yer ‘ead blown orf!’ So I laugh ‘n’ say I’ll fink about it. I fanked him for the best night of my life and we say ta-ra. I go back to camp finking it wuz all the blustah and idle boasts of a booze-‘ahnd and forgot abaht it. But it didn’t stop ‘im. When ‘e asked for the fird and final time, I quit and I’ve been at ‘is beck-‘n’-call ever since.”

“Was it worth it, Herbie?” Malky asked.

The chauffeur thought long and hard about the question before answering. When he did, his voice was more mature and thoughtful, “E can be an ‘andful sometimes, but artistic people is prone to temperament, it’s ‘ow they’s able to do the fings they do. But I’ve learned ‘ow to balance it aht. I’ve been all over the world, visited all the major cities ‘n’ ‘istorical places... I’ve met a lotta Very Important People – besides movie stars an’ showbiz folk, there’s been world leaders, presidents, kings and queens, writers, top sportsmen – so whenever people awsk ‘’ow do you put up wiv ‘im?’ I say ‘take a look at me passport, me photos and me bank accahnt, moosh - there’s ‘ow!’” He turned to Malky and told him earnestly, “See, I’ve gotta lotta great memories. I’ve seen ‘istory bein’ made. I’ve supped Earl Grey wiv Picasso and knocked back bourbon wiv Dean ‘n’ Frank. I’ve made an omelette fer Einstein an’ cocktails for Noel Coward. I’ve played cards wiv Kate Hepburn for two straight days - and lost. No matter what the ol’ boy gets up to, I wouldn't trade those memories for the world.... Umm...” Something crossed his mind. When he spoke again, it was in a more tentative tone, “Look, before we get to the ‘ahse, I’d better mention the incident on Friday night wot started ‘im off.”

“Why? What happened on Friday night?” asked Malky, a little disconcerted.

“I was away visitin’ a lady-friend in Dublin, an’ apparently all the lights went aht and the ‘uge grandfavver clock in the lobby fell over and smashed on the floor -– the boss was frightened outta his wits -- fought it was burglars – so ‘e pressed one of the panic buttons and Charlie, our ‘ead of security, drove up to the ’ahse right away. But the power-cut musta shorted-aht the alarm system cuz ‘is swipe-card wouldn't work and the master key wouldn't turn in the lock! So, finkin’ ‘e’s under siege, the ol’ man pressed the button that calls the Old Bill, but by the time they got there, Charlie ‘ad managed to get in ‘n’ calm the old man down. Then the lights come on again – not just the lights that wuz on when the power went aht – but every single light in the ‘ole ahse including the bedrooms, bathrooms, the ballroom -- everywhere. By this stage, the boss is goin’ mental. Really, really scared.

“When I got back I got a right bollockin’ as if it was all my fault – like I ‘ad the temerity to ‘ave a night off! Any'ow, me ‘n’ Charlie searched that ahse from top to bottom; the cops ‘n’ the security lads looked round the grounds, but we come up empty... there wuz nothin’ up iv the fuse-box, no sign of tamperin’ or anyfink dodgy.”

“Would the grandfather clock be easy to topple?” said Malky.

“Well, it’s set into the wall ‘n’ it’s solid, antique Bavarian pine, 9 foot tall wiv a ruddy great bell in it; it’s got a solid gold pendulum and it weighs around a two-and-an-‘alf ton, I couldn’t pull it dahn on me own.” Gorringe coughed then said, “And that’s the ovver fing... the boss’ been back on the bottle ever since, and if you know anyfink about the boss, you’ll know that ‘e’s a bit... volatile when ‘e’s on the sawse. So, ignore any strange behaviour, if y’know what I mean.”

Malky was a trifle miffed at being apprised of these tidings so late in the day; he was about to ask if there was anything else he should know when Herbie suddenly brightened and declared, “And ‘ere we are, my beauties! My little ‘ome-from-‘ome!”

Herbie slowed the limo to a funereal crawl as they entered a particularly picturesque little village, “Ahhh, ‘ave you ever been a little place like this before?” he asked, with a little smirk that hinted at a rhetorical question.

Malky honestly confessed, “No. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”

“You wouldn’t ‘ave. This ‘ere is a protected community, see. Only a few people know about it.”

It was beautiful, rows of whitewashed thatched cottages with black gloss doors, all flowers beds and hanging baskets with a little square with a little roundabout in the centre, bedecked with a floral clock depicting the flag of St George (?); aside from the copious vegetation, there was very little sign of life and almost no sign of the 20th century. “What’s it called?”

“Bogmire. Pretty lousy name for such a laavly little ‘amlet, innit?”

If it wasn't for the faded & peeling Coca Cola sign stuck to the inside of the window of the post office-cum-newsagent and an old bicycle leaning against the bench outside a ramshackle little country pub (the Black Water Rat), they could be back in Tudor England. Malky made appreciative noises.

“It’s like a little oasis from bygone days, innit? You feel as if you’ve slipped frew a time-warp – eh?! But the funny thing is – it ain't Irish! See, most of the people ‘oo live ‘ere are descended from English peasant stock! Most of ‘em is originally from the wilds o’ Cornwall! The Duke of Roxborough brought ‘em ovah to build Pagham ‘Ahse ‘n ‘e built these ‘ere cottages for ‘em – and believe it or not, they lasted through the rebellion cos of a pact between the Irish rebels and the Roxborough family ‘n they’ve been ‘ere ever since. When ‘e bought the ahse the only proviso wuz that we keep the staff and let the Supplicants – that’s their religion, that is – live ‘n’ work on the estate.” Herbie went on to tell of the locals’ strange customs and bizarre lifestyle in a disbelieving tone, “... and they've been doin’ it fer 200 years straight!”

Malky looked around, “And this is all part of the estate?”

“Yep, it came with the ahse!”

This didn’t surprise Malky one bit. For an Irish ex-pat, the old man wasn't renowned for his patriotism; in fact, he was a close friend of Princess Margaret and during the height of the Troubles in the 70s he was renowned for making disparaging noises about the Republican movement in Ireland from the safety of his Bel Air mansion (when Lord Mountbatten was murdered by the IRA he told a NBC TV news reporter that the terrorists in question were ‘like a bunch of weasels attacking a lion’ and that Britain should ‘string ‘em up’), he was frequent visitor to the Whitehouse when the Republicans were in office, and was often mooted to be an anonymous sponsor of various right-of-centre US politicos -- he backed Nixon over Kennedy, was close to Ronnie Reagan since his days as chairman of Screen Actors Guild, and was a frequent house guest of George Bush senior -- all of which made him a potential target for disgruntled boyos on both sides of the pond. It made sense that he’d want to live out his twilight years in a little slice of England transplanted into the heart of the Irish countryside, it suited his style: contrary to the end.

Herbie pulled-up outside a dainty little general store called The Peppermint Poke. The window was full of candy jars and pastries neatly arranged on little lacy paper doilies, “Dora oo runs the Poke is an Outsider, meanin’ she’s married to one of the Supplicants so she’s allowed to run a shop. None of ‘em is allowed to ‘ave a shop or make profit from their work, so the outsiders tend to do them fings, like business transactions and that. The local garda sergeant is an outsider, too -- he lives in that li’l cottage ovah there.” he pointed to one of the gleaming residences across the square...” Herbie opened the door, “I’m just gonna go in and get the Sunday papers ‘n’ a tube of Polos... I’ll only be a sec.”

Malky wound down his window to inhale the compliment of delicious odours to accompany the view: flowers, mown lawns and more flowers, “very restful. Then he heard a rumble outside the car -- a motorcycle had pulled up alongside and its rider, wearing a helmet with a dark visor, was looking through the driver’s-side-window. What’s this? Malky shrank back in his seat....The rider casually unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside – for a second Malky flinched -- but instead of a weapon, he produced a video camera. Malky knew a maverick paparazzo when he saw one and immediately flew into a rage – he lunged out of the open widow, shook his fist and yelled, “Piss-off ya bastard! Get that f**kin’ thing outta my face or I’ll put my foot in yer arse!”

The shouting roused Broo from his slumbers. He saw the motorcyclist, heard Malky screaming and instinctively barked loudly and forcefully -- until he sensed that the stranger posed no threat and Malky appeared to be overreacting. He stopped barking, gave himself a shake and tried to get his bearings. The cameraman was quite small, dressed in biker’s leathers like Zindy’s biker chums, but these were more expensive and unsullied by general wear-&-tear. Then, as the bleariness subsided and his eyes refocused, Broo saw something that both startled and alarmed him. At first he thought it was the motorcycle’s exhaust fumes, then he realised the figure was shrouded in what he could only describe as a purplish-halo -- whatever it was, it was unlike any aura he’d ever seen before.

Malky was fit to be tied, “I’m not gonna tell you again, friend! If you don’t fuck aff immediately I’m gonna come out there and stick that camera where the sun don’t shine!!”

“That’s a take!” The biker cried, packing away his camera, “Thank you sir! Have a nice day!” he said and roared off, leaving a cloud of blue smoke in his wake. “Bloody paps – see – this is what happens when you do somebody a favour,” grumbled Malky.

Broo was still drinking in the atmosphere and looking for anomalies. Having been in places like this all over Ireland, the old dog had noted that each dainty village and township they visited had its own peculiar little ripples of the past shining through the present. On his travels he’d heard the echoes of ancient battles in the silence of the first light of dawn; he’d seen the children of ancient tribes playing on a busy motorway at noon; he’d seen 16th century Spanish galleons off the coast at Cork -– but Bogmire was a spiritual desert: there was absolutely nothing to sense or feel beyond the here and now. It was clearly old, spotless and brightly painted, but utterly devoid of soul. And that smell... beneath the floral scents and peat smoke, lay an ever-present stench that marred the otherwise wholesomeness of the place. Even for a dog that usually salivated at the stink of putrid flesh, it was hard to stomach. Most unusual...

Just then they heard the little tinkle of a bell and Herbie emerged from the shop with a bundle of newspapers under his arm and a Polo mint in his cheek; he got back in and offered one to Malky, “Did I ‘ear a mo’orbike?” he asked, “I was chattin' to Dora and I could've swawn I ‘eard a rumblin’ sahnd...?”

“Just a guy askin’ for directions,” said Malky, “so I told him where to go...”

At that very moment, 3000 miles away, in the kitchen of a townhouse in North York, Toronto, Canada, the man of the house appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot in his pyjama bottoms, unshaven, hands deep in the pockets of his bedraggled dressing gown.

“Emil! What the f**k?! Go get dressed – we’re late as it is!” shouted Fran, ever the fiery redhead, dressed to the nines in her Sunday-best, rifling through her purse in search of her car keys, “I told you to get ready an hour ago!” They were supposed to be going to her niece’s christening and they were running 10 minutes late. She looked under the cushions in the lounge; she looked in and under the couch; she checked every pocket in the coat rack. “Where the f**k are they?!!”

Emil watched her, his arms hanging by his sides, and said, “I’m not going. I have the shits.”

Did I just say that? What the f**k?!

Fran, currently poking through the trash in the pedal-bin with the salad-tongs, threw her head back and mocked him in an ironic voice, “Hah! I knew it! Mom warned me – ‘he won’t go – he doesn’t even own a suit’! Well, it suits me – I don’t have to watch you get drunk and throw up in the swimming pool or make a pass at a waitress... Owww-ouch!” she’d cut her knuckle on the edge of a jagged tuna can, “F**k this!” she kicked the bin and ran to the sink to rinse it, screaming, “F**K! F**K! WHERE THE F**K ARE MY F**KING KEYS!!”

He knew exactly where they were. They were in his pocket. He was holding them in the palm of his hand; but for some strange reason he didn’t hand them over. It wasn't that he didn’t want to, it was because he couldn't. And no matter how hard he tried to communicate, his body wouldn't respond; he let her go on searching and said nothing.

She went to the knick-knack drawer in the welsh-dresser, rummaged around in the back and eventually emerged triumphant, “Ah - hah! The spare! I knew I’d put it somewhere!!” She had one last look in the mirror to check her mascara and top-up her lip gloss, “... If you go out make sure you turn on the alarm.... and if you go back to bed - don’t f**king smoke! That’s a new quilt and I don’t want it looking like somebody’s used it for target practice!” She strode down the hall to the front door; a few seconds later she came stomping back, madder than ever “You f**king asshole! You've done it again!! You've boxed me in! I can’t get my car out!”

Emil remained silent.

“Emil!” She approached him and looked up into his dull, blue eyes, “EMIL! You have to move your car! Are you listening to me?!

He stood and stared.

“Emil!”

“See you later, legislator,” he said, without smiling. It was a catchphrase he used when they said goodbye on the doorstep in those early days when they first moved in together; but here & now it just sounded weird. She gave him a sideways look, “Are you stoned?”

“Take my car.” He dangled his keys on his pinkie.

She grimaced at the smell of his breath, glowered and said, “Listen... I don’t know what the hell you’re on or what you are trying to pull, but my mother will be frothing at the mouth -– I was supposed to pick her 15 minutes ago -– this is a crisis!”

He dangled his keys.

She drew herself up and bawled in his face, “GET OUT THERE AND MOVE YOUR F**KING CAR!”

He jangled his keys.

She slammed her key down on the table and snatched his in one frighteningly limber move, “RIGHT! – I’m calling your bluff, asshole – I’m taking your beloved Porsche! You can take my Volvo -- I wonder what all those cutesy little students of yours will think when they see the delectable Dr Labatt driving through campus in a busted-up soccer-mom-mobile?!”

Emil stared back, unblinking and blank, and said, “I’ll miss you, Fran. You’re alright.”

“F**k you, asshole!” She thrust the finger in his face and stormed out.

The slamming door was the last thing Emil heard before the darkness descended...

A few miles from Bogmire, along a road that was little more than a narrow lane, they arrived at a long, narrow lane lined on one side by yew trees concealing a tall, ivy-covered, red-brick wall that contained the entrance to Pagham House (or Paggum Ahse, as Herbie called it, making it sound like a particularly nasty proctological affliction), the stately-home of Oliver Laphen. Herbie reached into the inside pocket of his tunic and produced a small remote-control which he used to open a pair of inconspicuous but heavily fortified, solid iron gates, “As you can imagine, the boss is fanatical about security,” he pointed to the CCTV cameras perched atop the pillars either side of the gate, “this place ‘as got more cameras than Fort Knox.”

Inside of course, it was different story entirely: acres of well-tended lawns as smooth as billiard-table-baizes; vast flower beds moistened by a huge sprinkler system; topiary styled to resemble the figures in the Ascent of Man leading to the entrance of an extensive privet-maze; an enormous, ornate white-marble fountain with alabaster cherubs pissing into the air. It was all very tastefully ostentatious.

Like most of the world, his knowledge of Oliver Laphen was based on sensational gossip-columns he’d read in tatty magazines in various waiting-rooms over the years and the odd interview on Parkinson. Because Laphen was such an intensely private man, there were no official biographies and he used the services of an extremely litigious LA law firm to stymie any scandalous tomes that might shed light on the mystery he’d carefully nurtured over the years – a tantalising question: where did this fiery, working class, comic genius come from? The more reclusive he became, the more public interest increased, the more speculative the press became about his private life, the more outrageous the rumours -– the more tickets he sold. His career was indestructible. Not that everything was rosy on the home front. Enigmas, especially rich, volatile enigmas, are pap magnets; a good picture will fetch upwards of $10,000 so he was tabloid fodder from the day he stepped into the limelight. Editors from LA to Tokyo dispatched an army of dedicated investigative journalists to Dublin where they pored over thousands of files in public records offices in an attempt to trace the Laphen family line, but they always drew a blank: Jolly Ollie’s pedigree remained a tantalising mystery. He was certainly an Irishman by birth but refused to say anything about his childhood other than he was ‘educated by sadistic nuns’; he never talked about any parents or siblings and nobody knew where in Ireland he was from -- his accent was hard to pinpoint and changed as often as his anecdotes, the most famous of which was the story of his emigration to America when he allegedly stowed-away on a liner bound for New York at the age of 13 in 1929. After evading processing at Ellis Island he hitched his way across the States east to west and landed in Hollywood, where, according to (his) legend, he slept on the beach and did whatever work he could find during the day. At night he’d ‘hone his art’ performing slapstick in vaudeville, readying himself for stardom; two years later, at the age of 16, he was discovered by the celebrated ‘King Of Comedy’ Max Sennett. The talkies were the new big thing, and at a time when most silent stars were finding it impossible to ‘sound funny’, Ollie’s cartoonish Irish accent was a godsend and Sennett gave him his own series of 15 minute shorts. As Laphen retold this story over the subsequent decades, the narrative was wont to evolve until the embellishments rendered it wholly unreliable.

In the mid-30s when he traded under the moniker Ollie Laffin, he was happy to mug and gurn for the downmarket rags and Pathé News presentations; then, when he got ‘serious’ in the late-40s/early-50s, he stopped playing the fool and became a semi-reclusive thesp. The post-war world was a different place: screwball comedy and slapstick was old hat and Ollie was too canny to go down with the ship. When he returned to movies in ‘46 he went under the name of Oliver Laphen, stopped doing interviews and avoided all ‘that red carpet bollox’, preferring to leave the PR to his co-stars and directors who’d either guardedly sing his praises or proffer equivocal comments that were actually thinly-veiled digs, such as: ‘[working with] Mr Laphen was an experience I’ll never forget... but I’m trying.’ (Lauren Bacall) ‘He brings a piece of himself to every role and playing the villain comes so naturally [to him]...’ (David Niven), but one vox-pop in particular had stuck in in Malky’s mind: "He kept us mere mortals waiting for 4 hours before gracing us with His Presence, we went $4 million over-budget, 4 producers suffered a collective nervous breakdown and 2 of the crew died from heatstroke, but when you hire [Oliver Laphen], you get the best and some studios are prepared to set aside a few million to ‘feed the beast’.” Regardless of what his fellow-travellers thought of him, and how big a pain in the arse he was, Ollie Laphen = Box Office Gold.

“There she is!” cried Herbie, like an enthusiastic tour guide. The Rolls had rounded a bend in the driveway and Malky got his first glimpse of Pagham House.

“Jeez –- house is too small a word, Herbie! This makes Windsor Castle look like a B&B!” said Malky, when confronted by the huge, sandstone edifice of palatial proportions, with rows of latticed gothic windows, draped with thick beards of ivy.

The chauffeur chuckled, “Impressive, eh? It used to belong to the 10th Duke of Roxborough til ‘e fell on ‘ard-times ‘n the boss made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. We rent it aht when we’re ahtta town. It’s very popular wiv the Arabs ‘n the Chinese. It’s got 30 rooms, swimming pool, gym, ballroom, sauna -- it even has its own church -- the works!” They pulled into a gravel forecourt and parked at the foot of a huge white marble staircase leading up to a tastefully-weathered, balustrade-lined terrace. But Malky’s attention was drawn to another vehicle parked to the right of the steps: namely, the same Harley-Davison touring bike he’d seen in the village, and sitting on the steps was the mysterious rider/cameraman filming them as they drew up!

Malky was furious all over again, “What’s he doing here?”

“More to the point, ‘ow the ‘ell did ‘e get in?!” said Herbie, slowly unclipping his seat belt and opening his door, “I’ll ‘andle this...” Herbie got out, straightened his cap and walked toward the diminutive figure, “Can I ‘elp you, mate...?” Malky heard him ask, and then he and Broo watched as the biker promptly stopped filming, jumped down and met the burly chauffeur head-on -- he took off his helmet, grinned, opened his arms and the two embraced like they were very pleased to see each other.

“Uncle Herb – you look great!” trilled a cherub-cheeked, heavily-freckled, copper-headed American kid in his mid-20s, brimming with childlike-enthusiasm, speaking quickly and excitedly, “Listen - we’re gonna be shooting in July! I’m here to scout for locations and do the final negotiations...!” The lad stopped short when he noticed Malky trudging across the gravel.

“Sorry, Mr Calvert sir, I got a bit distracted then,” said Herbie, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “This ‘ere’s Kristof Katz, Mr Laphen’s grandson. Kris – this-‘ere is Mr Malcolm Calvert ‘oo’s come to... erm... sort out a little... plumbing problem...”

The young Master Katz took off a leather gauntlet, shook Malky’s hand, chattering incessantly, “Very pleased to meet you sir, I’m very sorry for the candid camera incident, but when I saw the car I thought my grandfather was inside and I wanted to catch him unawares but I caught you unawares and once you started to rant I couldn’t resist capturing that intense anger! I guess it’s the habit of lifetime -- Herb here will tell ya -- I’ve hadda movie-camera in my mitt since I was old enough to lift one – isn’t that right Uncle Herb? I’m a total geek!”

Malky gaped at him as if he’d arrived from another planet.

“Yer caffeinated up-to the-eyeballs again!” said Herbie, playfully clipping him round the ear and scolding him like a naughty schoolboy, “jet-lagged, ridin’ rahnd windin’ cahntry roads on a bleedin’ two-wheeled deff-trap?! Are y’ off your trolley, boy?! You coulda been killed -- there’s farm vehicles on these-‘ere roads, you coulda turned an ‘airpin bend an’ wahnd-up in the blades of a combine ‘arvester or summink!!”

Kris apologised for his over-enthusiasm and slowed down, “... anyhow, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Calvert,” he turned and pointed behind him, “welcome to Ollie Towers, The Laphen House -- Xanadu -- whatever you wanna call it.”

Now that he was up close, Malky saw the family resemblance; the lad was short, around 5’ 5”, the same steely-blue peepers and winsome dimples that had graced millions-upon-millions of magazine covers since 1930. Malky felt compelled to comment, “I must say, you are the spitting image of your granddad.”

Herbie was gushing again, “Not only that -- but he’s in’erited his talent too! Kris is a movie director!” he tweaked the lad’s cheek and pretended to punch his jaw.

Kris went all aw-shucks and kicked at the gravel with the toe of a leather boot, “Well, I’m about to direct my first full-length feature. I’m very excited. It’s been in development hell for 3 or 4 years and now it’s finally in pre-production.”

“’E’s like a son to me!” Herbie put an arm around Kris’ shoulders, tweaked his cheek again and beamed, “when he was a nipper ‘is mum used to leave ‘im wif me on those days when she was... erm... uvverwise occupied...”

Kris, utterly unfazed, merrily took up the slack and filled in the blanks, “What Herb won’t tell you is my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen - had a lotta ‘substance abuse issues’ at the time, Mr Calvert. She used to unload me onto Herbie for weeks on end when she went on a jag [Now that the lad had mentioned it, Malky recalled reading something about one of Laphen’s daughters getting arrested for possession in the late 60s. In fact, from what he could remember, all 8 of the Quare Geg’s children had ‘issues’ of one kind or another]. Thankfully she’s been clean and sober for the past 6 years and now she’s counselling other women with similar issues...” he squeezed the hand dangling on his shoulder, “So I have this man to thank for givin’ me a relatively normal childhood! We used to play on the film sets in the studios when gramps was making a movie - that’s where I got my training!”

Herbie blushed, “Ach, it wasn't ideal, but where else was I gonna take ya? You know your granddad always ‘as to ‘ave me arahnd to fetch and carry for ‘im. And watchin’ a film get made is like watchin’ paint dry, if you awsk me - it’s a wonder it didn’t put you off movies for life!”

They were distracted by the sound of paws hitting gravel. The old dog had finally exited the Rolls but didn’t join them; he kept close to the car and watched from a distance. “Whassup wiv the pooch, ‘e’s gawn a bit shy, ‘in ‘e?” asked Herbie.

Malky called out to him: “What’s the matter with you, Hopalong? What has you all cagey, huh? Come over here and say hello!”

“Aww, look, he’s only got three legs,” crooned Kris, in a childishly sympathetic voice. Broo whimpered as he watched the glowing boy walk toward him, stooped and spoke softly as if addressing a bashful toddler, “You don’t have to be afraid of me, boy, I wouldn't hurt a fly! No I wouldn't...” he reached out

Broo recoiled and whimpered: Get off me, you idiot... you’re killing me!

But Kris carried on, unaware of the old dog’s distress, “Easy, boy, I won’t hurt you...”

AARGH!!

Kris cuddled him, stroked his back and made silly noises, “Eh? Who’s a handsome fella, then? You must quite the VIP, huh? A German Shepherd who’s so important he gets to ride around in the back of a limousine...?”

Mercifully, he was rudely interrupted by a loud voice from above, “Where the f**k have you been, Gorringe?!”

The boy stopped petting and turned away – Broo (unseen) wobbled for a second then keeled over.

There was an elderly man in a gaping, black silk kimono, electric-blue satin boxer-shorts, and bright green unlaced baseball boots standing at the top of steps; he pointed at Kris with an accusing finger, “and what-the-f**k’s that wee ginger gobshite doing on my property?!”

Malky looked up and regarded their prospective client. His collar length grey hair was thinning and unruly as if he’d just got out of bed, his heavily lined face clenched in distaste; but underneath the grizzled exterior and the bizarre attire, was none other the Quare Geg Himself: the fun-loving Ollie Laphen, former Crown Prince of Comedy! Looking at him now, though, it seemed there was little to laugh about, but you wouldn't know it to hear his grandson.

“Gramps! How-the-hell are you?! It’s me, Kris!” The boy put the helmet on the seat of the Harley and joyfully bounded-up the steps two-at-a-time, “so goo-ood to see you, dude...” he embraced the frail, bristly figure - who immediately pushed him away. “Gitcher filthy hands affa me, ye wee shite!! I’m not senile yet -- I know damn-well who you are!” Laphen put his fists on his hips and sneered in a high-pitched whine, “Whaddya want from me this time? Money, is it? Well, you can feck-off back to La-La Land - this bank is closed! Go and ask that crooked auld kike of a father o’ yours – oh yeah, I forgot – he’s back in the bankruptcy courts -- yet-again -- after yet-another one of his half-assed business-deals went tits-up in the water – still - why break the habit of a lifetime, huh? Once a loser, always a loser!” he stuck his little pug nose in the air, stuck out his chin and tied the belt of his silk kimono, like a superannuated prize-fighter squaring-up at a weigh-in.

Doing his best to suppress a fit of giggles, Kris reassured him in a sober tone, “S’OK gramps, don’t have a cow, man. I don’t need any of your filthy lucre, after all -- we've got a backer! And for the record –- I’ve never asked you for anything in my life, you old goat -- and you know it!”

Laphen stepped closer, “Why are you here then?”

“To see you you...” said Kris, smirking.

Laphen went nose-to-nose with his grandson and growled, “So, you don’t need me?! Well! You've seen me! Now piss off!”

Kris put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and smiled, warmly, “C'mon, we’d better get you inside, it’s quite chilly out here and we wouldn't want you catching cold, now, would we?”

The old man swatted the hand away like a particularly stubborn piece of lint, “Stop treatin’ me like a feckin’ invalid! I’m perfectly capable of walkin’ unaided – I’m not in a feckin’ wheelchair yet!” in the same breath, he broke away, looked down at Herbie, pointed at Malky and barked, “Is this the guy?”

“Yessah!” Herbie replied, standing to attention, as if addressed by a superior officer, “this is Mr Malcolm Calvert, the, erm... consultant from Brodir.”

“Well – don’t just stand there like a spare cock at a hen-night! Bring him in!”

With that, Laphen stomped back to the house with Kris walking alongside him, chatting incessantly despite the cold shoulder.

As Herbie fetched his overnight bag from the trunk of the Rolls, Malky watched them walk off and commented, “Chirpy little git, isn't he?”

Herbie slammed the lid shut and explained in a low voice, “Don’t let the ol’ Scrooge act give ya the wrong impression, Mr C. Kris is the apple of the old man’s eye - ‘e dotes on that boy. This is the way they speak to each uvvah. There’s no real malice intended so it’s best if you just let ‘em get on wiv it. Neevah wants to admit that it’s all a big contest to see who’ll crack first –- it usually ends in ‘uge laughs all-round. Only fing is the old man’s been ‘ittin’ the bottle again. I’m afraid ‘e’ll end-up sayin’ somefink really ‘urtful to the boy and ‘e might never come back. Kris is the only grandchild ‘oo ever comes to visit, see -- so for all of our sakes -- I ‘ope they chill-aht 'n have a civilised conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” Malky grunted, distractedly. The more he heard, the stronger the temptation to hand back the cheque and book a taxi back to Brodir, but he was so hungry now he had no choice but to reserve judgement until after dinner.

As they climbed the steps he suddenly realised they’d forgotten someone; he looked back and saw that his trusty companion was finding it hard to drag himself up, “Och, c’mon Broo, they’re not as steep as the stairs at the inn -- and you manage to climb those when you fancy a drink from the bog!” said Malky, turning away.

Broo could barely stand, let alone climb a flight of steps. When the young leatherman approached to indulge in a spot of light-petting and the strange, purplish halo enveloped him, Broo was instantly numbed -- he felt a sensation akin to sinking into a vat of virulent, viscous quicksand; a toxic vapour overwhelmed his senses -– and when the boy eventually let go, the dread feeling went with him. Alas, the men were too busy to notice him collapse in a heap, having been distracted by the sudden appearance of an angry old man who smelled of cigarettes, alcohol and bathsalts. Then something strange happened: when the younger man climbed the steps -- the aura around him grew more transparent –- by the time he embraced the old man - it had evaporated completely! One second it was there, the next – nothing. This was most perplexing. And if his senses were to be believed, aside from a few passing crows, there were none of the usual creatures one would find on an estate as big as this. Just like the village, there was no livestock or wildlife in the vicinity at all. Not only that, but as his head cleared, he realised that something else was missing: there’s no sign of anything Other in the ether either, and that bothered him most of all. The sky was darkening for dusk, the shadows were lengthening and the sun was low, so why are there no apparitions in the Golden Hour? Where was the shimmering residual energy of past events that can only be glimpsed through the rays of twilight? In a land such as this, historically ravaged by epidemics, tribal violence, famine and murderous invaders, there should be at least a few ghostly children playing in the fields... And yet, there’s nothing. If the Barry McKee case had taught him anything at all, it was to Beware Spiritual Vacuums. Bad things happen in Spiritual Vacuums.

... at that very moment (12:56 US Eastern Time), approximately 3600 miles away, at a checkpoint at the Canadian/United States’ border, on the Peace Bridge at Fort Erie, between Ontario and Buffalo, New York State...

“Sir? Sir... hello...

“Sir?!

“Wind down the window, sir!”

Somewhere... off in the distance Emil heard a man’s voice and a clicking sound. Metal on glass...

It wasn't like waking up, more like someone switching on a light. He was sitting in Fran’s Volvo, at what appeared to be the US/Canadian border!

“Sir, would you please wind down your window?” the muffled voice barked “SIR?!”

In his peripheral vision, Emil discerned a uniformed figure peering through the window. A US border patrol guard?! Holy shit?! What the f**k is going on?!

But the inner-turmoil, dislocation and downright terror didn’t register on his face: on the outside, he was deadpan, ice-cool and composed. The inner-Emil watched his own hand reach out and push the button that wound down the window; he felt the crisp breeze buffet his face and arms as the glass descended. If this is a dream, it’s very vivid. The guard stooped, leaned-in and sniffed the inside of the car. The outer-Emil remained unfazed, but when he caught a glimpse of himself in the wing-mirror, he soon realised why the guard was so suspicious.

He appeared to be wearing an unbelted towelling bathrobe, pyjama pants and his XXL Jimi Hendrix tee-shirt -- the ensemble he wore when he was slouching around the apartment... Shit -- you gotta be kidding me -- no briefs?! He desperately wanted to grab the hem of the gown and tuck the tails between his legs, but his arms refused to budge!

The certainties: it was daylight; he was at the border. I’m driving my wife’s 1979 Volvo estate dressed like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest! This has to be a dream! I’m gonna wake up at any minute...

Meanwhile, somewhat surprised that he couldn't smell any liquor, the guard returned to the business in hand, “May I see your passport, sir?!” he asked, acidly, in a thick New England accent. He was leaning on the roof now, the midday-sun gleaming off the chrome-plated badge on his cap; despite the dazzling flashes, Emil’s eyes refused to blink. The Inner-Emil wanted to grab his tie and shout: Stop me! I’m out of my mind! but his lips remained firmly zipped; his body remained still. For all-intents-and-purposes, he was a puppet with no mind of his own.

So who’s pulling the strings?

The guard was getting impatient; he pointed at the passenger seat, and snapped, “Your passport, sir!!

Emil’s outer voice said “Passport?”

The guard pointed, “It’s there. Right beside you, sir.”

His head turned to the right and he found himself looking down at the passenger seat; sure-enough, sitting atop an array of various official papers, was his passport. He saw his hand reach out, pick it up and hand it over. Maintaining eye-contact, the guard took the little booklet, ceremoniously shook it open and read it with a disdainful look. Emil had taken many acid trips and tried every psychedelic he could get his mitts on, but this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his voyages through the Doors of Perception. So what does that leave? Sleepwalking? He tried to make the fingers of his left hand pinch his thigh... but nothing.

“What brings you to the US, Mr Labatt?”

Emil heard himself say, “Doctor Labatt. I’m on my way to visit an elderly relative, if you must know. She’s very ill. Dying. It’s an emergency.”

What?!

“... Are you planning to drive all the way, Dr Labatt?” the guard asked, doubtfully.

The inner-Emil wanted to cry out: I don’t wanna drive anywhere! I don’t know why I’m here or what I’m doing! Please call my wife, Frances – she’ll come and get me!! In fact – arrest me! Take me into custody right now!!

Instead he heard his outer voice reply, dryly, “Yes, officer. Driving all the way.”

The guard handed back the passport, sighed heavily and asked pointedly, “Dr Labatt, have you been imbibing today? Narcotics, alcohol, have you taken any prescription drugs that might affect your ability to drive?”

This could work to his advantage: if I’m cheeky enough they might arrest me on suspicion of DUI! Alas, the invisible ventriloquist kept the voice calm and answered succinctly, “I most certainly have not been imbibing, officer. I’m a well-respected forensic scientist and a senior lecturer at the University of Toronto. I’m on my way to Baltimore to see an elderly relative with a terminal illness. It’s matter of some urgency. I need to get on.”

Baltimore?!

The guard handed back the passport and enquired, brusquely, “Carrying any foodstuffs, livestock including pets, liquor or sundries that may be considered contraband by the United States of America?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, would you mind popping the trunk, sir?”

Emil didn’t stir.

“Sir... pop the trunk?”

“This is my wife’s car and I don’t know where the trunk popper is.”

‘Trunk popper’?! Listen to me! Arrest me, you fool! I’m frickin’ nuts!!

Shaking his head, the guard reached in and groped under the wheel; “There she is,” and tugged the lever.

While the guard searched the trunk, the Inner-Emil tried to think logically: Could I have been inadvertently poisoned at the lab? Unlikely, he was very careful about sterilisation and wore a mask at all times... Have I ingested something in the course of my work... a fungus...? A spoor that causes one to act out in some way...? But he was ignoring the obvious: there was a taste in his mouth -- a taste that was as familiar as it was bitter and earthy that usually preceded the bouts of sickness. In fact, it had been happening ever since he’d got back from the dig in Kildare 2 years ago when they discovered the bog mummies (he’d abandoned the annual expeditions after his little fling with Niamh). Lately, he’d been prone to intermittent lapses in consciousness and bouts of short-term memory-loss. He’d find himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for hours on end. Fran thought he was smoking too much weed, but not even strongest strain of mary jane could induce blackouts like this, and nothing would leave a taste in his mouth this bad.

The trunk slammed shut. The guard returned, “Everything seems to be in order, Dr Labatt...” he leaned on the roof and spoke close, “Listen doc, if I was you I’d stop at the first motel I came to and I’d get myself a couple of hours sleep. Then I’d have a shower and a change of clothes and I’d drive the rest of the way feeling wide awake ‘n refreshed. I wouldn't want to fall asleep at the wheel and maybe kill myself or some innocent folk who were unlucky enough to be travellin’ the same road. Whaddya say to that, doc?”

An uneasy silence followed. The inner-Emil waited for his body to respond but nothing came: his eyes remained unblinking, his mouth stayed shut. He prayed that this was a turning point -- that he’d do something so outrageous they’d have to take him in -- but it never came. Finally, the guard sighed and patted the roof with the flat of his hand, “Welcome to the United States, doctor.”

Before the lights went out, Emil heard his voice reply with a curt, “Thank you. Have a nice day.” He felt his right hand release the handbrake; he felt his foot gently depress the accelerator. He watched as the Volvo taxied through the checkpoint; he paid the toll and ventured onto the open road... that was the last thing he remembered before the darkness descended again...

Malahide, Dublin: The Somerville family were going to Mass.

“Put on yer seat-belt, Cate, luv. You don’t have to sit in the baby-seat but you still have to strap yerself in,” said Somerville, getting into the driver’s seat.

In the back, Cate turned to her younger sister, “See, Cathy – he called it a ‘baby’ seat!’”

“Mommeeeeeeee!” Cathy wailed.

Pat got into the passenger seat and took control: “Ssshhhh, Cathy.... Cate don’t tease Cathy! You’ll start her off -- then baby Clare will start!” She playfully slapped her husband’s shoulder, “That’s your fault, daddy! It’s a CAR seat not a BABY seat, silly -– it even says so on the little label ‘Car Seat’ –- so-there, Miss smarty-pants-Caitlin -- you were wrong!”

“Daddy said it not me.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Pat.”

“He didn’t mean to say it, Cathy. I’ll never hear the feckin end of this... will you be more careful what you say!”

“I’m not a baby I’m 4 and 4 months! I have to sit in it cuz I’m too wee for the seat belt!”

“That’s right! You tell ‘em Cathy! It’s a seat for small people, not babies! Cathy’s very sensitive and unassertive and I’m trying to build her confidence!”

“Daddy, what’s ‘police brutality’?” asked Cate, apropos of nothing.

“Where did you hear about ‘police brutality’?” said Somerville, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

“One of the older girls shouted it when Sister Marie dragged her into the bogs to wash her face.”

“Toilets, Ladies, loo or lavatory, please, Cate, dear. What are bogs?” said Pat, sternly.

“Sorry mommy: ‘Bogs are Irish swamps...’” Cate sang, rolling her eyes.

Herbie led the way through the huge front door into a huge, cavernous sandstone vestibule lit by a quartet of gothic, arched windows, not unlike the narthex of a Christian church, but cluttered with precisely the sort of tone-lowering kitschy bric-a-brac that one would expect a working-class-boy-made-good to put on display -- as much a screw you to visiting nobs & snobs as it was a totem to his wealth and wilful nature, to wit: a suit of armour wearing an American Indian headdress, a deep-sea diving-suit with a stuffed monkey’s head in the helmet; a pair of large Persian vases filled with strange umbrellas. One item in particular gave Malky cause for pause: standing to the left of the adjoining Gothic archway, stood a life-sized waxwork of the Master of Mirth himself, fashioned and dressed to represent his ‘hey-day’ in the 30s; this waxen Laphen was the youthful, joyful Jolly Ollie Laffin, grinning that trademark squidgy-grin, complete with pinchable dimples, the rash of freckles across the bridge of his little pug-nose, the glassy sky-blue eyes gleaming like sapphires – you couldn't help but smile. Malky couldn't help but remark, “Whatever happened to that sweet li’l guy, eh?”

The burly chauffeur didn’t take the bait and doggedly maintained his chummy, sunny disposition, providing information with the patter of a well-informed tour-guide, “That used to reside in the foy-yer at Madame Toussauds in Lahndahn! They replaced it wiv a more recent model in the 70s an’ the boss brought the originals back ‘ere when he bought the ahse. This one was done in ’38, just after his first full-length feature: Ollie and Molly Strike Oil!” Herbie moved to the right of the connecting archway and unconsciously adopted an almost identical pose to the grinning effigy on the left, “This way, Mr Calvert. I’ll take you to yer room and you can freshen up ‘n that ‘n we can tawk about the ‘situation’ over dinnah.”

As they walked through a slate-floored lobby lit by muted spotlights, it was more of the same: a veritable Ollie Laphen museum exhibit; an autobiography laid out chronologically -- from glass-cases containing newspaper columns, magazine covers and PR stills from the slapstick days of the 1930s -- to the chin-stroking thesp (a framed headline in The Irish News: ‘Laphen’s Lear is a masterclass!’). The dark, wood-panelled walls were lined with framed photographs of Ollie pressing flesh and embracing some of the greatest movie-makers, movers-and-shakers of the past 60 years: FDR, Bogart, Monroe, Gable, Jackie O, Bing, Hope, Groucho, Einstein, Fidel, Vidal, Hitchcock, Wayne, JFK, Johnson, Nixon, Kissinger, Elvis, the Dalai Lama, the Beatles, the Queen of England and various royals – as far as the 20th century is concerned, Ollie is the OED definition of ubiquitous. As they passed through the connecting archway, Malky got quite a jolt - enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Dead being the appropriate word, for in the shadows of the dimly lit reception hall stood a menagerie of dead things ready to attack -- lions, bears, tigers, panthers -- feral, snarling, glassy-eyed, posed in a stance of attack; ugly birds-of-prey hung on wires from the rafters, talons bared, poised to swoop; and to be certain that arachnophobes didn’t feel excluded, there were a few tarantulas strategically attached to various pillars and posts.

Malky gaped and gasped, “Wow! Did Ollie kill all these himself?!”

This time Herbie did seem a wee bit uncomfortable, “Nah, ‘e commissioned ‘em from a taxi-dermist’s in Sarf Africa where they can get you anything...” He sniffed and shook his head, “I ‘ate it too, to tell the troof – I never come frew ‘ere if I can avoid it. It’s the old man’s sense off ooma, see – he likes to lull visi’ors into a false sense of security then - aargh! They get the shock of their lives,” he reached behind a curtain and threw a switch -- the animals’ eyes shone bright red and and roared in their respective voices. “The boss ‘ates animals, see –- he got rid of all the livestock ‘cept for stables when ‘e bought the ahse. ‘E ‘ates ‘orses most of all. ‘E got thrown by a donkey when ‘e was doin’ a cameo in Around the World in Eighty Days in ’55 or ’56 –- ‘e walked orf the set and refused to ‘ave anyfink to do with animals evah again! Animals and kids. If he could get ridda the crows he’d be ‘appy.”

Broo found the menagerie obscene and growled accordingly.

Their attention was briefly diverted by shouting in a room somewhere further in: “... Will you quit naggin’ me – ye’re worse than a feckin wife!”

“NO! I won’t stop til you see sense! If I don’t say it – who will!?! You’re cracking up!! You’re a delusional... egomaniacal narcissist! You’re like Stalin without the people-skills...!”

Herbie quickly ushered his guests into the lobby and closed a connecting door turning the voices into incoherent murmurs, but Malky had heard enough. Herbie’s stoic exterior slipped, he got jittery and muttered something about an ‘Inquisition’ under his breath. Malky was about to ask what he meant when he quickened his step and led the way through another archway that led to a lobby at the foot of a huge white marble staircase cleft with a dark scarlet runner. On the bottom step stood the other waxwork of Ollie dressed as a tramp holding the Oscar statuette for his role as a shady boxing promoter in the movie Knuckledusters. In an alcove in the rear wall to the left of the staircase stood an imposing, but badly-damaged grandfather clock; the glass insets covering the face and pendulum case were smashed, the hour-hand hung limp on the wheel and part of the ornate, intricately hand-carved casing was cracked down one side.

Herbie stood next to his guest, looked up at it and said, “Big f**ker, innit?”

Malky was inclined to agree that it was highly unlikely that such a huge piece of solid timber could be toppled so easily by a man as old and small as Ollie.

The bickering voices were making Herbie very uncomfortable, there was a pained expression on his big, weather-beaten face. As they climbed the staircase, he said, “Look, Mr Calvert... I don’t know ’ow to say this... what I mean to say is.... you might ‘ear certain fings whilst you is ‘ere... and I don’t like ‘avin’ to ask... but we’d be grateful if you would sign, for the want of a better phrase, a gag order.”

Malky shook his head, “Like I said, Herbie, I hate the press as much as ‘oul Ollie, but I don’t feel comfortable signing that sort of thing. Cuz if there is anythin’ iffy goin’ on – I’m not sayin’ there is – but should we detect signs of chicanery or skulduggery in the course of our ‘investigation’ -- like, say, we uncover a plot to get the ol’ bugger certified and bleed him dry or rewrite his will -- a gagging order could severely hinder an official investigation, and, when all’s said and done, I’m on the side of law and order.” He held up his right hand, “But if it makes you feel any better – as far as petty gossip and scandal-mongering is concerned -- my lips are sealed,” he turned, looked down at Broo and added, glumly, “... can’t speak for the dog, though...”

Broo grunted, still too stupefied to take anything in.

In light of such an earnest assurance, Herbie relaxed a little and explained, “Um well, the ‘Inquisition’ I mentioned refers to some recent sackin’s in the last week or two. ‘E’s fired a coupla security guards, the assistant gardener and the young gal who ‘elps out wiv the ‘ahsework on Tuesdays ‘n Fursdays!”

“Why did he sack them?”

“Cos somebody leaked some gossip to an American tabloid ‘n it could only ‘ave come from the staff, so ‘e hadda clear-aht.” Herbie took a deep breath and spoke in a half-whisper, “So you can see how bad it is ‘ere. It’s got to the point where the only people ‘e trusts is me and the ‘ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes - and ‘e only trusts ‘er cuz she’s from the village and they believes all this ’aunted ‘ouse bollox.”

Again they were distracted; this time it was the jingle of unbuckled buckles and the stomp of motorcycle-boot-heels on the chequered tiles below, “Uncle Herb! Is it true? He’s sacked Scanlon?!” Kris shouted from the hall, clearly incensed. The three turned and looked down; Herbie maintained eye contact but didn’t answer; his uneasy silence said it all. “He has?! Shit! Where did he go?”

Herbie lowered his head, looked at his shoes and said, “Nobody knows. He packed up ‘n walked aht wivvaht a word ‘n we’ve ‘eard nuffink since.”

The lad stamped his foot and punched his thighs with his fists in a sudden fit of anger and disbelief, pacing back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, as the implications hit him one by one, “This is such bullshit, Uncle Herb -- I was working with Scanlon -- he was helping me with the movie -- what did he do?!”

Herbie’s head dropped, “Look Kris, yer grandpaw’s been ‘avin’ a bit of bovver lately and...”

“And where’s the cat? Don’t tell me he’s fired him too?!”

“He ran away.”

“Huh?! Fey Ray ran away? I not friggin’ surprised! The entire estate is a no go area for anything with more than two legs!” yelled Kris, without realising how odd it sounded, and stomped off in a huff; a few seconds later they heard him shouting at the old man in another room.

“Do ever stop and think: ‘hey, maybe I’m the problem?’ – cuz unless you straighten-out you’re gonna die a very lonely old man...” “Ach, blow it out yer arse, ye ginger shite-hawk...!”

A door slammed and the squabbling voices became muffled and unintelligible again. Herbie put a hand to his brow and groaned to himself, “Kris, son, you couldn't-a picked a worse time to pay us a surprise visit...”

“Who was Scanlon? The butler?” asked Malky.

“No, groundskeeper, but he might as well’ve been,” Herbie replied, unhappily, “’E did all the odd-jobs arahnd the ahse. Lifetime’s service – gone - jus-like-that - phfft! Kris an’ ‘im wuz thick as thieves too. ‘E knew all the stories about this place. Kris used to sit up for hours on end listenin’ to ‘im but Scanlon and the boss never really got along – Scanlon came wiv the ahse, see, just like all the servants – but ‘e wuz a bit of a law onto ‘isself. When we checked, we found ‘irregularities’ in our finances. The boss confronted him, he couldn’t answer, ‘n that was that.”

They reached the second landing and the old retainer ushered them along a long corridor with row-upon-row of sky-blue doors with ornate brass name plates, the panelling in-between bedecked with gold and silver discs, “Were all these recorded by Ollie?” asked Malky, genuinely impressed.

Herbie, pleased to have a diversion, nodded and cheerfully slipped back into tour-guide mode, “Oh, people forget ‘e was a great crooner. In the 50s he recorded loadsa LPs and they wuz big ‘its all ovah the world - not-so-much in the US or Britain - but ‘ere in Ireland ‘n France ‘n’ Germany. Can’t walk dahn the street in Japan. We go over to Tokyo every now-‘n’-then and ‘e records all these TV commercials for ‘em. Liquor, potato chips, candy bars, mostly. ‘Big bucks for a load of ol’ bollox!’ ‘e says.”

“I know how that feels,” muttered Malky, thumbing the cheque in his pocket.

Herbie opened a door with an engraved plate bearing the legend The Wonderland Suite and put the case on an ottoman by the door. The room was weirdly magnificent, in an oversized, child’s playbox type-way. The floor was a chessboard, there were huge cushions in the shape of chess pieces scattered around the floor; the walls were decorated with blow ups of Tenniel’s drawings of Alice in Wonderland characters; an emperor-sized four-poster swathed in white satin sheets patterned with black diamonds; and a large, white tallboy with outsized, bright red knobs and drawers that were shaped to look warped and uneven, like a prop from a kids’ cartoon. “’Ere’s the TV,” he said, opening the doors of a huge white sideboard to reveal a 38” screen, “If you wanna take a walk round before dinnah -– go ‘ead, nowhere’s off limits -– oh, part of the east-wing’s locked-up, but I can get the keys from the safe and take you down later. There’s some PJs ‘n wot-not in the dresser drawer and fresh towels in the en suite. There’s the phone,” he pointed at an ornate, art deco phone, “just dial 9 for an outside line.”

Astonished by his surroundings, Malky could only gaze and nod his head.

Herbie clicked his heels and stood to attention, “There’s plenty of ‘ot-wa’ah if you wanna ‘ave a showah and a shave or wot-evah. Dinnah will be served at 8pm sharp (it was presently 5:50pm), I’ll bang the gong. In the meantime, make yerself at ‘ome 'n I’ll see you at 8,” said Herbie, brightly, closing the door behind him.

Malky sat down on the edge of the bed and examined a brass plated console next to the headboard; he pressed the first button: the curtains closed; he pressed the second: the curtains opened; he pressed a third and the lights either side of the bed came on; he pressed the fourth and the drape across the canopy over the bed rolled back to reveal a full-size, horizontal mirror. “Bit sordid for a room that looks like a nursery,” Malky opined, flopping down and looking up at his reflection, “God, I’m getting old. Remind me to close that curtain before I go to bed – if I wake up and see meself in the morning I’m likely to scare meself to death.” He kicked off his shoes and writhed in the welcoming sea of satiny-softness, like a Labrador pup in an unfurled toilet roll, “Oh, I just wanna sleeeeep... wake me up in September when the baby’s born...”

Broo growled quietly, that’s right, you have a nice relaxing catnap while your tiny, put-upon wife labours over a hot engine just so that she can get that wretched old banger of a van back on the road in order to buy provisions and decorating materials to build a nest for you and your unborn progeny.

Malky sat up, “Hmm. maybe I should ring her. This is our first night apart since we moved in together. I’d better give her a progress report.” He rolled over, picked up the art-deco phone and called the inn.

“Well, what’s Ollie’s house like?! Is it dead grand or what? I wanna know everything!”

He gave her a detailed description of the house so far, right up to and including the mirror in the canopy over the bed, “... the stories are true, though -- Jolly Ollie is one grouchy oul’ shite. I don’t think I’ve ever met such an obnoxious old git in all me life.” he said, shaking his head. “Zindy, what the hell am I doing here? This isn't me.”

Zindy had obviously been thinking about it too, “Listen luvver, this ain’t a justification or an excuse, but both of us know that there’s certain things we can’t explain away with logic. I mean, look what ‘appened with Barry McKee? Just put yer Sherlock hat on and look at it from a detective’s perspective; treat it as a sorta murder-mystery weekend. What about Broo? He should be able to let you know if there’s anything spooky about the place?”

“I dunno, he seems a bit drowsy, like he’s half-asleep,” said Malky, giving the old dog a cursory glance.

Of course I’m sluggish, you oaf -- this place is sucking the life out of me! Can’t you tell?!

But the semi-telepathic link remained infuriatingly out of order, “It was a long drive. He’s probably knackered.” Then, much to Broo’s chagrin, they forgot about him and exchanged love yous, miss yous and take cares before hanging up.

“Have you noticed somethin’?” said Malky, rhetorically, going to the en-suite and turning on the light; he looked around, “Hmmm,” he opened the bathroom cabinet: the mirror was on the inside of the door. “Whilst me ‘n Zindy were talking, it suddenly occurred to me -– there isn't a mirror to be seen around the house -- even the one above this bed is covered by a curtain.” Malky nodded, “It’s ironic, isn't it: the big Alice in Wonderland freak who doesn’t have Looking Glass –- an egotist who treats you to a personalised autobiographical stroll through his glory days but doesn’t like to look at his own reflection? I find that somewhat strange...”

5 minutes ago: Zindy put the receiver back in its cradle, sat back and winced, “Settle down, kiddo,” she said, patting the elongated face of Jimi Hendrix stretched across her bump, “I still have a gearbox to sort out before we ‘ave a nice bath ‘n go to bed.” She sat at the kitchen table, radio tuned to a classic rock station (Malky listened to nothing but BBC Radio 4) and sang along to Deep Purple’s Child in Time, wailing like a banshee as she screwed and unscrewed oily nuts and rusty bolts: très cathartic. She felt a little guilty, but surely she was entitled to a night on her own. She looked down at the bump: I mean the two of us. I’ll never be alone again

Zara ‘Zindy’ Lindsay, you see, was an accident; everybody told her so.

Ever since she could understand rudimentary English, her aunts and her mother would mention it regularly - usually after something burned down or yet another little boy’s mother had arrived at the door complaining that she was demanding dinner-money with menaces. When she was old enough to understand the mechanics of human reproduction (hard not to when you live on a farm), they’d tell her she was the result of a drunken one-night-stand with a Spanish scout master (visiting Burnley on an exchange-visit) that no one had seen or heard from since. Fortunately for Dory, the Lindsays were/are a well-to-do family with links to the cotton trade that go as far back as the 17th century, so they had the wealth and power to cover it up. After a secret birth, mother Dory and baby Zara were spirited away to a remote farmhouse in the heart of the Lancashire countryside under the care of a pair of huge, lumbering maiden-aunts. Unlike the petite and genteel Dory, Maggie and Lottie were tall, mannish land-girls with no time for molly-coddles and sentimentality -- what’s more they didn’t care what their niece got up to so long as she didn’t burn the place down or leave a gate open (she could drive a tractor by the age of 6). When she was 7, Dory married and moved out, but Zindy didn’t like her new stepdad and he didn’t like her (a snooty, middle-aged bank manager who read the FT and went to Mass twice a week). She preferred Dory’s long-term boyfriend Tam Horsham who drove the Mother’s Pride bread van; but he was too common, apparently, “He eats his dinner off a tray and smokes in the bath!” said Dory, tartly, when asked if Zindy should start calling him dad. So, after numerous tantrums, she was allowed to stay at the farm and enjoy the relative freedom of life with the ‘Looney Lindsay Sisters’ (as the locals called them). Then puberty hit, so did a lifelong passion: motorbikes. She found a broken down old ‘39 Triumph Tiger in the barn and with some help from Lottie (“It belonged to an old boyfriend who left it here in ’42 when he went to war... but he never came back for it so I assumed the worst.”) she cleaned it up and replaced the missing parts. It took 8 months of scouring scrapyards and hard labour, but she managed to restore it to its former glory. She was in the Gazette! ‘Tearaway Tomboy Triumphs!!’ Consequently, she met dozens of motorcycle enthusiasts and a lot of them just happened to be Hell’s Angels. That’s when she first got that weakness in her knees. Big, fat, hairy men. Her pals were aghast. It could've been a father-daddy complex or just a weird perversion, but she could get enough of grizzled, over-weight geezers most girls would cross the road to avoid.

In spite of her aggressive side, she was quite the artist and spent hours quietly painting and sketching the scenery behind her great-aunts’ farm. According to her second year teacher in her annual report (Zindy refused to go to boarding school and went to the local comprehensive): ‘She has shown a flair for art and is very intelligent – when she wants to work, which isn't often ... for the most part she is headstrong, opinionated, brusque and quick to temper; a girl who sees life as a big adventure ... it may be a symptom of her diminutive stature that she feels she has to be brash and contrary, but if she continues in this fashion she may face expulsion....’

Zindy just couldn't be tamed. She was up before the magistrate on a regular basis, mostly for driving without a licence or brawling with boys twice her size. On her 18th she stood on a table in the Flat Iron pub in front of her closest friends and allies and vowed never to settle down to a life of domesticity, to forsake motherhood and be a free spirit for the rest of her life. Three weeks later, she moved in with a recently divorced woodwork teacher 17 years her senior. He proposed (‘wanna shack-up?’) and she couldn't say no. So began her lifelong ‘thing’ for older men – the daddy syndrome, probably.

The cohabitation with the woodwork teacher was as passionate as it was incendiary – he turned out to be a secret drinker – there were vodka bottles hidden all over the flat; she tried to keep up for a while, but all they did was fight. Things came to a head with the couple spending a night in the cells of Bottle Street nick. The desk sergeant told her he was a lost cause – “He’s dried-out 3 times -– and he’s still the same mess he was when I first started in here 15 years ago! My advice lady – run as fast as them wee legs can take ya – find a fit young man with a good job!” She took this advice to heart, and a in a few months she met a recently widowed sculptor at a Henry Moore exhibition –- this time 40 years her senior; tall, with long grey hair who dressed like Tom Wolfe -– and got swept up in a whirlwind romance. ‘Whirlwind’ in the sense that the trail of destruction they left behind: various foodstuffs were hurled, crockery was smashed, household utensils took flight and embedded themselves in walls. Zindy loved it. She loved him. Alas, his kids, two of which were older than her, did not approve and weren’t shy about letting her know. It was grist for Zindy’s mill; it only strengthened her resolve. She thrived in adversity; she lived to Fight the Good Fight and persevered with the relationship without a thought for the toll it was taking on the poor man’s heart. Of course, like most Spring/Winter love affairs it ended with a lonely vigil in a draughty hospital corridor listening to the impassive beep of medical machinery whilst his own flesh & blood hold his hand as he drifts over. Previously estranged siblings now united in their grief against a common enemy: “The stupid bitch is still sitting out in t’corridor.” “She’s only after ‘is money.” “She looks about 9, makes you wonder...?” She heard every word, approached and told them in no uncertain terms she didn’t want or need his money – all she wanted was to organise the funeral in accordance with his last wishes. They told her his last wishes were enshrined in his last will & testament, not word of mouth, and while they were on the subject, he hadn't left her anything. They told her he was never done talking trash about her behind her back, telling them how he didn’t trust her; that she was a little gold-digger. Meanwhile he was telling Zindy how ungrateful and spiteful his children were and how they’d never done a day’s work in their lives! She had to stand there and listen as they sneered and talked about the stranger with whom she’d spent the last 2 years. It turned out he was a compulsive liar. His wives were all basket-cases by the time he’d finished messing with their minds. All told, the heart condition came as a result of the stress of numerous love affairs and having to remember what lie he told to whom.

Zindy swore to herself that she’d never have anything to do with men ever again! She cut her hair short, dyed it blue and foreswore make-up, skirts and blouses, bought a motorbike and toured Europe with a chapter of Hell’s Angels who treated her like one of the boys. The vow was broken 5 years later when she accompanied her new pals to the Isle of Man for the TT and met a biker from Wicklow. Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning was a built like a brick-shithouse with a long plaited (usually purple, sometimes blue) beard and intense stare (hence the moniker; Raspo: short for Rasputin). He was a nightmare in a studded leather jacket but Zindy was besotted with him. Despite his hulking size, expanding waistline and intimidating manner, he was smarter than the average bear. He read science fiction and knew a lot about astronomy. They used to ride up to Donegal, sit on the cliffs and he would teach her the consolations. She was hooked.

While she was there, one of her great-aunts died and Raspo took her back to Salford for the funeral. She inherited £30,000. Then Barry McKee, one of the gang of bikers from Brodir, happened to mention that his father was selling a seaside pub and she was very interested. She could run a business - she used to do the sculptor’s book-keeping and worked behind a bar in Germany for a few weeks; plus, Brodir might’ve been a rundown town, but it was a Mecca for bikers from all over Europe -- trade would be brisk –- she couldn't see what could possibly go wrong!

But you don’t know anybody until you live with them for a while.

At first, Raspo enjoyed playing host and worked behind the bar, but he had other business interests and that was OK – she preferred running things on her own – it was her name on the licence, her responsibility. She never asked about his business, she didn’t want to know, but she assumed he was a small time dealer: grass and tabs. Then one day he said, “Oh Zin, I’m off to Dublin to do bouncer for a boxin’ match at the National Stadium!” he kissed her goodbye, got on his trusty Triumph and off he went to bounce in Dublin. She found out later that he was off to collect a sizeable debt owed to him for a delivery of coke. When the debtor wasn't forthcoming, Raspo lost his temper and took it out of his hide with a crowbar. This information came courtesy of DS Phil Somerville, who also informed her that her beloved Raspo wasn't just peddling grass, he was dealing in all the a-listed narcotics, not to mention a little sideline in video piracy. She had to sit and listen while Somerville listed her lover’s shady dealings with various Dublin-based organised crime syndicates and proscribed terrorist militias when he tried to coerce her into turning tout and aid in the apprehension Raspo’s subordinates/associates/friends etc. She flatly refused. Raspo was sent down for 7 years, but 8 months later, to shave a few years off his sentence, he did what she refused to do: he shopped most of his former associates including some regulars, and - boom – the bulk of her clientele has declared her persona non grata and boycotted the inn. Somerville told her it was her own fault; she knew what Raspo was and chose to ignore it. He was right. A psychologist would say that it was indicative of a subconscious desire not to commit to a long-term relationship... Whatever, she was alone again, naturally.

Then along came Malky and his spooky three-legged German shepherd and their notorious pursuit of the evil Barry McKee. It was a thrill-a-minute-life-or-death roller coaster ride but it nearly killed them. She took a bullet to the shoulder; Malky had a heart attack and almost bled to death (the irony: Somerville saved Malky’s life after destroying hers). And here she was, back in another hospital corridor listening to bleeping machines. Just when she thought history was repeating itself, his old broken heart kept beating, “and it’s been beating for you ever since,” he said, in an uncharacteristic show of mawkish affection.

Good ol’ Malky. He made her laugh. He was a good man and he made her feel good. They had conversations that lasted all night. OK, so he has a psychic three-legged dog who complains about the noise when I play me records, but that only makes it more fun. To put it simply, life was good. She was painting again; he’d made her a studio in the attic. (He never told what he was doing up there and she didn’t ask; he just hammered and sawed and cursed whilst she went about her business. In the end he’d put a ribbon across the door for the grand unveiling. He’d widened the skylight to let in more light and built a little podium for her still-life subjects. She accepted the keys like a gushing thesp before bursting into real tears. And although , he was hard work at times - he was sometimes taciturn and prone to moodiness – he was a good, kind man.

Then, wonder-of-wonders, she gets pregnant and her instinct, much to her surprise, is to keep it. Malky acted as if he wasn't overly keen, but she knew that deep-down he was delighted; he just felt unworthy and old.

And here we are. 2 years later and things couldn't be better. We’re broke but we ain't bust. We’re just about keepin’ our heads above water...

She went to the bar and looked out of the big window at the dirty, litter laden, windswept promenade. The council were meeting on Thursday; word on the wind had it that property developers were looking at the town with a view to redevelopment, so things were looking up. That’s good, ain't it? Lots of meetings with property developers and councilmen: all very ‘establishment’.

So 22 years later, what would she say to the silly girl standing on the table telling the world she’ll be a wild-child forever? Is she where she wants to be, where she has to be, or where she needs to be...?

Sammy couldn't read her mind but felt her doubts as if they were his own. It must be something to do with Malky. He hoped that it wasn't anything serious. Malky had grown on him. The old dog was a godsend, somebody to talk to who can see you, hear you... not that he ever feckin’ listens! But what if the auld dog died? Sammy shuddered at the thought: There would be no watching TV until 4 in the morning for a start. It was tough being a ghost. And although he knew Zindy couldn't see him, he still felt a little self-conscious about his appearance; as the old dog says: “the bloody-bullet-hole-ridden-apron makes you look like a psychopath (ghosts are stuck with what they wore when they died -- the last image The Light captures before their Soul passes), so he was discreet. He sat on the bin in the dark corner by the stove and watched from what he considered to be a reasonable distance. He’d been a bachelor all his life, he’d never met a woman he could live with, but Zindy was closest thing he’d ever had to a daughter – this, despite the fact that she was a headstrong, blue-haired English girl who dressed like a boy and swore like a docker. When she bought the inn, he thought she’d only last a few weeks, and yet, thank God, here we are.

There were very few advantages in existing between Worlds, besides the walking through walls and not having to eat or sleep or all that malarkey, his senses were heightened and attuned to the Oneness of All Living Things (well, that’s how the dog put it) –- which meant he was able to see the little glow in Zindy’s belly. It was nothing more than an amber glimmer throbbing with the minute pulsebeat of a budding Soul, but it radiated an energy that brought a ripple of warmth to his Essence. Sometimes, when she was sleeping he’d stand close – not too close – and look into her womb. Oh, but it was a joyous sight to behold, “Look at the miracle begin again,” he whispered, to no one in particular.

Zindy climbed up onto the draining board to close the window above the sink -– Sammy was jumping up and down, pulling at his silver beard, “Are ye mad woman?! Get down o’ that w’ ye!” Thankfully she performed the exercise without incident, but he still hadn't settled; as she went about preparing her evening meal, he paced the floor behind her, fussing, wagging his finger, “Look at that floor! There’s engine oil down there! Ye’ll slip ‘n’ go on yer hoop! You’d better buck-up yer ideas, lady – that’s a chile in there – not a bag o’ chips!”

“Oh, I’d love a bag o’ chips,” she said, apropos of nothing.

Sammy stood by the cooker as she toiled over the sizzling pan and talked to her unborn baby, “Your silly daddy doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hates all this spooky stuff... He hates anything that brings the world to his door -- God knows what he’ll be like when the inn’s open for business...” Whether she was consoling a restless foetus or trying to convince herself, she didn’t know. She stopped stirring and stared as she contemplated her certain future.

The old ghost saw the doubt in her eyes and fought Malky’s case from his corner, “He’s a decent sort who won’t let you down –- you have to grow up sometime, missy! Stop moonin’ about and think like a mammy!”

No, let’s make no bones about, she was getting bored. It isn't good when life gets too predictable, when routine becomes rut. She needn't worry; things were about to get very strange indeed...

St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI): Rossington watched the sundown from his office window, a very large brandy in one hand, a cigarette in the other. It had been a bad day. The news from the board had been direct with no room for interpretation. His time had run out. The victims’ families’ petitions and writing campaigns had fulfilled their purpose, the pressure to do something had forced their hand. He had to give up Barry McKee to the authorities so an independent assessment of his condition could be made. He’d explored every legal avenue to keep him at SCICI, but there was nothing more he could do. The mob has spoken.

He was angry and frustrated, but mostly angry. He finished his brandy, carelessly stubbed out the cigarette, left his office and made for the sick bay in the high security wing. He walked quickly and purposely, collected the swipe cards from the nurses’ station and marched on, swiping through the sophisticated system of doors, along the corridors and across the walkway that led to the security ward and the room of SCICI’s most infamous inmate. Then, just as he swiped the lock, he had a moment of inspiration. He turned and walked to the staff toilet at the end of the corridor, to the mirror above the wash-hand basin; using his penknife to unscrew the frame, he carefully prised the hexagonal glass from the wall, put it under his arm and took it to McKee’s room.

“Hello, Barry,” he said, quietly closing the door behind him and turning on the lights. The sudden blaze of brightness didn’t faze McKee. Hooked up to the machines that kept him alive, long haired and bearded, he continued to stare unblinkingly at the ceiling, like a stricken biblical prophet transfixed by a vision of hell.

“I must apologise, it’s been quite a while since I visited. I’ve been busy with other patients and projects, not to mention running this establishment, you know how it is. I’ve kept abreast of your progress, though... what there is of it.” Rossington slowly crossed the floor, talking in a casual manner as he approached the bed, “Anyway, I’ll get straight to the point: I’ve received some bad news regarding your case and I thought you should to be the first to hear it.” He sat in the chair by the bed and put the mirror on his lap, “They've decided to take you off my hands, Barry. They say I’ve had enough time to prove you’re worth keeping alive. They say it would be mercy: ‘it’s cruelty not to let nature take its course’. No doubt they’re under pressure from the families of the victims, not to mention that bastard Somerville. Whatever, you’re doomed, and there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

As always, McKee remained silent and seemingly insensible.

“You've shown no significant progress since that business with Niamh and Oona 2 years ago.” He tore off the latest print-out from the EEG and indicated the flat lines across the graph, “See, nothing like the flurry of activity we recorded during those instances in 1989. Why’s that, eh?” He scrunched the page into a ball and threw it into the corner. “It all stopped when I took away the mirrors and had you moved you to this room, didn’t it? Niamh and Oona lost their connection and have exhibited no psychic abilities since. It’s no coincidence, is it, Barry?”

He stood up and held the mirror over McKee’s face, “I know you use mirrors to reach out other telepaths and psychics,” he said, looking deep into McKee’s unseeing eyes, “so I’m having them re-installed, and you can do whatever is you do. Good or evil, I don’t care anymore. I just need results, Barry. I need something to show for my work. If not, I’ll hand you over to the authorities and they’ll perform what will be, for all intents and purposes, a public execution...”

To Be Continued Next Month...

#Spindlefreck #fantasy #witchcraft #witches #psychics #irish fiction #demon #ghosts #mysticism #mystics #fantasy fiction

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briflatclarinet · 6 years

Text

25 Days of Wolfmas: Prompt Two

U.S.S. HEPHAESTUS STATION, WOLF 359 MISSION

PROJECT WOLFMAS: TRANSCRIPTION AND NOTES

Log Date: 12021859-WDE

BEGIN TRANSMISSION

EIFFEL

Are you serious? I already did this yesterday, Commander! You heard me recording the transmission!

MINKOWSKI

While it was amazing to hear you actually doing your job for once, Eiffel, I’m afraid you’re going to have to do it again. Command sent specific instructions for one question to be read out everyday until Christmas.

EIFFEL

But sir! That’s twenty-three days from now! Do you really expect me to read these things twenty-three times?!

HERA

Actually you have to read them twenty-four more times, Officer Eiffel. You haven’t recorded today’s question yet.

EIFFEL

Hera! Ix-nay on the echnicalities-tay.

MINKOWSKI

I don’t get what you’re complaining about, Eiffel. It’s just reading one cue card a day and the questions aren’t even that long!

EIFFEL

I get what you mean, Commander, and trust me I’d be totally fine with easy work. It’s just… I don’t get why I have to do it. I mean, what’s the point? I’m not even answering the question!

MINKOWSKI

(Sigh) I don’t know why Command wants you to read these, Eiffel, but you were given an order to read them and so help me, I’m going to make sure you actually complete this assignment. I don’t want you half-assing something as simple as this, so you’re going to go in there, record the stupid message, and you’re going to do it right. I don’t want any funny business, capiche?

(Silence)

MINKOWSKI

Eiffel!

EIFFEL

Alright, Commander! You don’t have to shout!

MINKOWSKI

Are you going to go read the card?

EIFFEL

(Silence) (A long sigh) Fine. (Grumbles) I’ll read the stupid card.

MINKOWSKI

Good. Then get to it!

EIFFEL

(Sigh) Yes, sir.

MINKOWSKI

Here’s today’s question. Don’t you even think about leaving the Comms Room until you get this recorded and sent to Command, got it?

EIFFEL

(Groan) Yes, Commander! Will you get off my back and let me get this over with already?

MINKOWSKI

Alright, then. Get to it, Eiffel. (Note: Footsteps are heard and then a door slamming shut)

EIFFEL

(Growl) She can be so annoying sometimes! (Note: Officer Eiffel changes his tone of voice to mock Commander Minkowski) Eiffel! Here’s this useless and menial job sent by Command. I want you to do it no matter how stupid it is because I’m such a kiss-up who always does what Command says. I don’t care if it’s a waste of your precious time, get to work!

HERA

I’d make sure Commander Minkowski couldn’t hear me before I began mocking her, Officer Eiffel.

EIFFEL

Oh, crap! Did I turn the Comms on again, Hera?

HERA

(Note: Unit 214, designation: Hera, sounds amused) No. I just wanted to see your face.

EIFFEL

(Note: Officer Eiffel does not sound amused) Oh ha ha, very funny. You almost gave me a heart attack, Hera. The Commander would chew me out if she heard me say those things.

HERA

Because that would mean you weren’t recording your question and answer card?

EIFFEL

Exactly. I don’t get why she’s so into me reading these. And for twenty-three days? Is she serious?

HERA

That is what Command ordered you to do.

EIFFEL

I couldn’t care less what Command wants. This is so stupid! Command could order me to dress in drag and do the hula and I wouldn’t find it nearly as pointless as this.

HERA

(Laugh) While that would certainly be an interesting sight, Officer Eiffel, all Command has asked is you read one little cue card. Just one! That’s it! You can manage to read one card.

EIFFEL

I could, but it’s the principle of the matter, Hera! I wasn’t sent up here to do busy work! Command put me in the sky to make first contact with aliens and all this time I waste with this stupid cue card is a missed moment where I could be talking shop with E.T.!

HERA

Does all the time you’re wasting by complaining instead of reading the card count as a missed moment too?

(Silence)

EIFFEL

Shut up, Hera.

HERA

(Chuckle) Just get on with it, Officer Eiffel. Then you can go back to searching for your extraterrestrials.

EIFFEL

(Sigh) Alright, fine. You don’t have to twist my arm. (Another sigh as some blips and beeps are heard. Note: noises are presumably from the Comms Room control panel)

(Sounds of Officer Eiffel clearing his throat) Howdy, folks! It’s your favorite radio personnel, Communications Officer Doug Eiffel, back at it again with another stup- wonderful question and answer set from Command! (Laugh) Aren’t they simply the best? And to make things even better, I just found out Command wants me to do this each and everyday until Christmas! Can you believe it? I get to read a question and answer everyday until December 25th. How great is that?

(Silence)

EIFFEL

Yeah, that’s what I though to. So (Throat clearing) Let’s get this over with. Today’s wonderfully amazing question seems to be a simple one: What’s your favorite episode? Now, I’m not sure what they mean by episode but if it were me, I’d probably choose something from a classic series like Star Trek or good old Doctor Who; but as we learned yesterday, I’m not the one answering so let’s see what our mystery writer has to say.

(Note: shuffling can be heard) Okay, let’s see here. Woah, today’s response is a bit wordier than yesterday’s, Dear Listeners, I guess our mystery write has quite a bit to say on the subject. Good ol’ MW says: I can’t just pick one episode, so I’m going to answer this question by picking a favorite from each season.

(Small laugh) Sounds like MW here’s a bit of an over-achiever, they’d probably get along with Minkowski. Anyways.

From season one, my favorite episode is either Am I Alone? or The Empty Man Cometh.

Wait a minute… The Empty Man Cometh? Could they be talking about when Command sent us that psych eval? How could anyone like that?

HERA

Officer Eiffel, maybe your questions would be answered if you just finished reading what’s written down?

EIFFEL

Alright, no need to get smart with me, Hera. (Note: Officer Eiffel is amused by Unit 214’s statement.)

HERA

(Chuckles) It was just a suggestion, Officer Eiffel.

EIFFEL

I read ya loud and clear, Hera, I’ll finish the letter.

I loved the introspection we got with each character’s monologues in Am I Alone? (And the discussions of what can be considered ‘alone’ were very interesting!) and I really enjoyed The Empty Man Cometh because it was super creepy! I remember first listening to this episode very early one morning and I was so spooked because I was the only one awake in the house, but this episode really put me on edge until the big reveal at the end of the episode.

Hmph, well if you thought listening to all that mumbo jumbo was creepy, just imagine how I felt living it.

HERA

Officer Eiffel, I don’t think Command needed you to comment on the question’s answer.

EIFFEL

And I don’t think I needed advice from the peanut gallery, Hera, but here we are. (Note: the transcriber believes Officer Eiffel and Unit 214 are merely teasing each other and mean no malice. More notes shall be taken on this subject as the project continues.)

HERA

Just get back to reading the answer, Eiffel.

EIFFEL

Okay, okay. Now where were we? Oh, right.

My favorite episode from season two is definitely The Paranoia Game. It’s just a really funny episode to me and I love how everyone had a concrete theory on who stole the screwdriver, but they were all wrong (I totally called the real culprit beforehand btw and was really happy to hear from the plant monster once again). Season three was filled with so many great episodes, but I’d have to say my favorite was Mayday. It was so interesting to see how Eiffel worked out what he needed to do to survive and I loved how each part of Eiffel’s internal monologue was portrayed by a different person depending on what Eiffel needed to hear at that moment. I honestly loved how that’s a recurring thing in the show as each character is haunted by the ghosts of what they’ve done. Plus Zach Valenti’s acting was amazing and it was super cool to see Eiffel work out such an innovative and clever way to survive so long on a broken down escape pod.

(Note: Officer Eiffel chuckles and speaks with a smug tone) Well, thank you, mystery write. (A smug sigh) It’s always nice to be appreciated for my genius.

HERA

I wonder who Zach Valenti is?

EIFFEL

Some nobody actor by the sounds of it. Probably just thrown in there as an afterthought, I doubt it’s someone important. But, hey. We’re almost done with today’s letter. Looks like there’s only one paragraph left, thank god. Let’s wrap this up quick.

The most obvious answer to which episode I liked the most in season four would be the finale but while I did love it (no matter how heart wrenching some parts were) I think my favorite episode of season four had to be Dirty Work because it was nice to see Jacobi and Minkowski both struggle with their grief ad guilt. Constructive Criticism was a fun episode too, but I mostly enjoyed listening to how much everyone annoyed each other with Kepler’s games. I’ve even been tempted to try one out myself the next time my friends and I are super bored.

EIFFEL (CONT.)

There. I read the stupid question. Happy?

HERA

Commander Minkowski should be pleased to know you’ve finished her request… But wasn’t that last part super weird?

EIFFEL

Yeah… I don’t know who Kepler or Jacobi are and I don’t know what grief it was talking about. But I thought these were coming from someone who had been listening to our logs?

HERA

So did I, but I don’t know what most of that was about.

(Long silence)

EIFFEL

(Note: Officer Eiffel begins to blow air through his lips, making a sputtering noise.) You know what, Hera? This is probably some sort of joke. Command is probably yanking our chain again.

HERA

Maybe you’re right, Officer Eiffel. Either way, nothing like what was mentioned in that last part has happened yet, so there’s no point in worrying about it.

EIFFEL

Exactly what I was thinking! Now, how’s about I finish this recording and we go annoy Minkowski for a bit?

HERA

Don’t you mean you go annoy Minkowski and then leave me to mediate?

EIFFEL

(Note: Officer Eiffel clicks his tongue, most likely paired with finger guns.) I like your style, kid. That plans sounds even better than mine.

HERA

(Sighs) Just finish the recording, Officer Eiffel.

EIFFEL

Alright, alright. (Throat clearing) So there you have it, ladies and gents! Another day, another confusing question and answer! Will tomorrow be just as annoying? Will the question be just as weird? Will Minkowski actually force me to do this for twenty-three more days?

HERA

That last one is definitely a yes.

EIFFEL

Find out this and more on our next episode of Stupid Space Adventures: Wolf 359 edition! Goodnight, everybody!

#wolfmas2018

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the-headbop-wraith · 4 years

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2 _ 34 The Memory

The spirit didn’t know she had already passed and that usually meant complications in the future work, especially if the ghost stubbornly refused to believe that their living existence had ended. Some spirits were fully receptive to counselling once they accepted the truth, while others were flat out impossible to deal with.

Normally the newer homes didn’t carry a prehistory, and what city bothered to keep track of an empty slab of land? Even if at one time a terrible event had taken place in this particular area, the town wouldn’t have been keen on documenting it out respect and for sensitivity reasons. The spirit that Arthur had witnessed, Jezebel, had been preoccupied with a different layout of one of the homes rooms. For now, it was safe to conclude she must’ve died in the house and hadn’t been aware of her passing. That negative history was scarce from the online sources regarding the new neighborhood, though there was no doubt a courthouse would hold those records.

Vivi didn’t want to plan another sneak tactic into an Archive’s again. If Lewis had the idea on his own, she’d hide his skull or something until they came up with a better plan. They had other methods for learning about the poltergeist, though it would take that much longer to draw her out. It was a hard choice to make.

Two in the morning rolled around and neither Vivi, nor Arthur or Mystery had come across any new paranormal evidence to indicate the ghost’s presence. Arthur and Mystery had patrolled together on the third floor, where the family experienced the majority of their activity; Vivi further investigated the second floor, where Arthur had encountered Jezebel. Through some walkie-talkie abuse they kept track of where and what activity was going on, but even with Mystery darting back and forth in the hall above, the house was virtually silent. None of the Hirstein’s had stirred from their rooms once they turned in for the evening.

The couch that furnished the bottom floors room was more than enough furnishing, for a guest room shared by three people. Two of the provision bags and one personal bag occupied the one side of the sofa, while Vivi leaned on the furthest arm of the chair as she finished rescanning the dud photos taken throughout the course of the evening. If the image captured had the potential to hide secrets she usually held onto it, until she could take a turn with the computer. She doubted any of the photos would reveal anything, but she kept the majority of them just in case.

As she often did, she cycled too far through and found one of the ‘earliest’ pictures she’d taken with the camera. It was one of her usual pictures, and she couldn’t remember where they were exactly. The camera was turned down onto a set of gray stone stairs coated in leaves, beyond the elevated steps was a broken timber weave that blocked the open space beneath a house, what resembled three glittering eyes were caught mid flash. She tried to judge what time of year the images setting was but couldn’t, so she resumed through the photography slot. There was an incalculable amount of dark or shattered windows; numerous spooky trails snapped mid twilight; shadows lingering on bridges; among them the most she saw of the team was a flash of spiked hair or an elbow, as Arthur raced off scene from some unknown pursuer. Had she ever once taken pictures of them all together?

Vivi shut the camera off, and leaned over Mystery on the cushion next to her in order to tuck the device into one of her provision bag within reach. She raised her hands to her temples and massaged her scalp just beneath her bangs, with a sigh she leaned back onto the soft cushion of the couch. It smelled used, probably bought off an estate sale or something. The sofa was nostalgic and reminded Vivi of Arthur’s work room, where the mechanic tinkered away the bulk of his downtime either busying himself with a project, or in the rare state of total crash. Rare indeed.

“You gonna check out the audio files before you turn in?” Vivi quipped. Curled up on the seat beside her lay Mystery, pretending to sleep she supposed. Vivi set a hand on his head and smoothed back his pliant dog ears. “There’s a couple hours to go through.”

Arthur had the laptop with him on the freshly made up bed, and he had the little USB cord connected between one audio recorder and the computer set before his knees. “I might go through a few minutes worth, just for curiosity sake.” He pulled one of the blankets from the van, his canary yellow, around his shoulders a little more. The lump in the blankets side revealed that he hadn’t removed his arm yet, but he did have a habit of first taking copies from the external equipment in case of ‘accidents’ while they were asleep (Arthur wouldn’t call what he did sleeping). “I can note some background interference.”

The bed was situated beneath one of the steel vents of the room and the air that spilled from the yawning tunnel was pleasantly warm, however, Arthur was still plagued by the chills. He had organized the bed for Vivi while she went around the house replacing some of the audio recorders, since he was certain Vivi wouldn’t get around to doing it on her own. Vivi’s strategy for bed making was creative to say the least, and usually involved a Vivirrito. Arthur’s personal technique involved getting ever little line out of the corners and surface of the mattress, until someone caught him in the act.

“I’m asking because we might need to write up recommendations with our report,” Vivi continued. “The small scale activity doesn’t sit well with me.” And Arthur crashing onto the third floor screaming about the ghost hadn’t helped, but it probably wouldn’t have mattered in the end. The Hirstein’s were a people that didn’t like to argue about whether they were right or wrong, especially when they knew they were right. She gnawed on her lower lip and debated on their limited options.

The audio file completed its download, and Arthur ejected the device before removing the cord. “Something on your mind?” he asked, as he tugged his backpack over. He opened the bag and began poking through its interior; bundles of sage accounted for, and he could consider burning; newly rolled rice paper. The Dayquil was still near top of his supplies, but its only benefit was it would not make him drowsy.

“I wanna get my thoughts in order first,” Vivi answered. Mystery’s toes twitch on his back leg. He was probably asleep now. “I need to go through the notebooks, try and have some kind of idea of how to handle the haunting. One of the books could have a chapter I haven’t studied yet.”

Arthur had plucked up another audio device when Vivi mentioned books, which were usually kept in the van. “Vi,” he began, and he attempted to clear some of the scratchiness in his throat. “I know what you’re planning. Well.” He glanced aside, then to his arm hidden by the blanket. “You didn’t think I would notice.”

“What’re you….”

“It’s too cold for you to be outside,” Arthur mutters. “This room is about the weirdly nicest thing the Hershey’s have done, since we’re doin’ the whole ghost documentary thing. We might as well try and enjoy it? Huh?” A small cluster of coughs dug at his throat, but the medicine earlier had alleviated the worst of his symptoms.

Vivi shakes her head. “I don’t mind the cold,” she assured. Mystery tilted his head onto its side and opened one eye at her. “A few minutes at most, that’s all. But, I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep for long worrying about him.”

“Lew can take care of himself.” Arthur was on the edge of the bed ready to stand, but instead lowers his gaze back to his arm. Briefly, Mystery takes an interest in the exchange, and raises his head from the warm cushion to focus on Arthur. “Yeah. It might be best to give him some space, let him do his thing. Yeah.” Vivi didn’t know, she hadn’t been there. Arthur needed more time to think, rationalize it out and understand what should be said. That familiar chill twisted into his spine. He was still keeping secrets from her, but he wasn’t the only guilty party.

“Vi,” Arthur said. He winced at the gentle touch that set itself on his shoulder, and Vivi mirrored his brief spasm of shock.

“If you’re still worried about the spirit,” Vivi said, as she drew her hand away, “I can stay here.”

Arthur lowered his gaze and focused on the hazy windows in the corner of the room. “I’m not worried about the ghost,” he muttered. Half lie, of course he was fretful, but he could manage to fight the small flutter of dread snuggled behind his chest. It ached but it would always ache that way, and he was becoming accustomed to it. “I’m worried about you.” He lowered his face into the side of his blanket, and worked to clear his throat. Under the covers edge his thumb ran across the Dayquil package. “So does Lew, and… if he finds out I let you keep him company in an icy tin can….” Vivi sat down next to him.

“I can take care of myself. Don’t worry about Lewis,” Vivi groused. “Besides, I’m the one responsible for the both of you.” As the statement left her lips her eyes rose to the windows, probably the one that faced the front yard, though from their angle neither could see the stretch of road where the street curb was.

Responsible for them. It made her wonder.

“Did we ever investigate some farmland, rumored to be haunted by a spooky astronaut?” Vivi described, one eye squinting as she struggled to pool together vague details that sounded ‘right’. “And the ghost left residual glowy hand and footprints? That seems really familiar.”

Arthur glanced over to Mystery’s way, where the dog lay on the couch with his head turned to face Arthur. Mystery shrugged, and lay his head back down. “No,” Arthur drawled out, exaggerating the O. “That sounds kind of cartoony.”

“Really? Wait, you’re not lying are you?” Vivi offered a playful smirk. She didn’t doubt Arthur, nor could she blame him.

“No, not about that,” Arthur insisted, while tugging the blanket around his shoulders. He hated the inability to collect warmth, and half expected to start seeing his breath at any moment. “You were trying to think up an old case we did?”

Vivi nodded. “I wanted to try and get him to open up a bit.” She laughed a bit but it lacked humor, the sound of it was hollow and listless. “I wanted to ‘know’ him better, find out some of what I missed.”

This topic, Arthur realized. If Lewis had stayed vanished after their initial… ‘reunion,’ Arthur might’ve been forthcoming to Vivi about what she needed to know. He had promised her, but that was back when it was Arthur’s initial goal to survive the mansion and get Vivi far away from there. That’s not how it went though, and it was still too soon for her to approach him with these questions. Arthur could relay what he knew, but it wouldn’t resolve his faults.

“We were close,” Vivi murmurs. “You said that.”

Arthur pulled his legs back up onto the bed, but winding his knees up beneath the blanket was difficult with Vivi seated on the covers edge. He gave up. “That’s what I… I said that,” Arthur mumbled. “Something like that.” They were totally into each other, and anyone with eyes could see it. That was around the time of the shift, Arthur couldn’t recall where it had begun but as they went on with their cases and mystery work,he would come to realize the effects. He wasn’t upset, how could anyone be upset when their two best friends were so happy? No, that wasn’t it, he would’ve known, really. Yet… Arthur couldn’t delude himself. Sometimes it was hard to keep up, but they hadn’t noticed. They worked off each other like the compatible ingredients of a recipe, and things just seemed to work between them without a hitch. Where did this place Arthur?

“You… shouldn’t ask me anymore about that,” Arthur says. He tightens his fingers on the medicine box and bends it. “I wasn’t really… shit.” He pressed his face into the fold of the blanket, away from Vivi and coughed. “I shouldn’t have started that.”

“Wait?” Vivi stammered. “Why? I’m not asking you to give out history. I can understand, but I wouldn’t pry like that.”

Arthur dithers, and focuses on poking inward one of the thin sides of the medicine box. “I haven’t… done right telling you stuff,” he burbles. Mystery was eyeing him and Vivi back and forth, but Arthur couldn’t keep track of the dog’s line of sight. Arthur nullified some of the convulsive hacks, and curled up a little more under his blanket tent. “Don’t push it, Viv-vi. I don’t know how he’d feel about it.”

“Arth—”

“I won’t!” Arthur gets cagey and refuses to look into Vivi’s face. If she had been there she wouldn’t have settled on digging at him for personal inquiries. Arthur was only thankful that this time, it hadn’t been him. “That’s his business. He’ll share with you when he’s ready.” Arthur moaned a little in his throat and bundled his head up in the blanket edges at his fists. “I can’t do that.”

One time. ONE time, and he’d never forget. It was terrifying getting lost in those woods, and somehow beyond rhyme or reason he’d managed to find Lewis; broken, ashy Lewis. Briefly Arthur had reviewed the countless times the group had worked on a crunch – he, Vivi, Mystery, and Lewis – scribbling on the floor or some wall, incense burning; sometimes Vivi chanting gibberish he couldn’t decipher. They’d get bumped and bruised, cut sometimes, but the situation for the most part was under control. Eventually, the negative energies would subside and the hostile would slip away, evicted from the living plain of existence. That’s how Vivi explained it, she knew about that stuff and Arthur trusted her.

But never had he seen Lewis so aggressive, so… ravenous. That display of uncontested rage, it was unlike anything Arthur could recall witnessing in all their paranormal exploration – and the ear splitting screech that accompanied the crackle of splint charcoal, a wrecked shelter of dense timber and its occupant wailing. That onslaught had somehow saved them but Arthur could recall one other time he had glimpsed a slither of that same fury, and that was when it had been directed at his backside.

“You can figure why I’m asking you like this?” Vivi added. Arthur had yet to raise his gaze to her or comment, or acknowledge that Vivi had spoken at all. She wanted to let it go, but her irritation and stubbornness was winning over. The entire possession had been hard on Arthur, and his inability to recover from the incident had not been lost to her. “You can tell me if he told you not to.”

Arthur scoffed. “O-of course not! But….” There remained other reasons, he only need be straight with Vivi. It wouldn’t be a lie if he misdirected her attention. Arthur grinned, and this time lowered the covers edges from his face. “There might be some embarrassing things he doesn’t want you to know about. You still haven’t let that other thing go, and he hasn’t let me know the end of it.” Vivi matched his smirk, and giggled too. That was better. “You can’t really blame the big imposing spook. He’s got a reputation to keep, after all.”

Vivi reached around Arthur’s backside and patted his good shoulder shrouded by the blanket. “One of these days I’ll let him off the hook, but not too soon. He has a lot to make up for.” She stood and crossed over to the sofa, where one of her provision bags had been left. Unmoving, Mystery watched her with his eyes, his tail giving a slight wag. Arthur was on the verge of asking, when Vivi turned to him. “I still want to look through some books,” she explained. “We need to have something to present to the Hershey’s in the morning.”

Arthur let out a wheezy breath, and managed to evade another coughing fit. “I’ll be up for a while too, anyway. I swear Mystery and I will hunt you down if you don’t turn up.” On the sofa beside Vivi, Mystery made a lethargic ‘oof’ of agreement. “When you want back in, just knock on the window.” Arthur glanced at the frosty glass panes in the far corner of the room, and with a raspy whimper, adds, “Juz… try not to freak me out.”

“I’ll send you smoke signal.” Vivi slips one of the backpacks on over her shoulders, then paused and pointed to Arthur’s bag, beside him on the bed. “Or you can try turning your walkie-talkie on, for once.” Arthur fumbled around to pull the communicator out. “Don’t do anything I would.”

“You know I don’t,” Arthur called at her back. He found his communicator and flipped the switch, then set it on the bed sheets beside his blanket. He waited and watched as Vivi stepped out of the room, before he raised the edge of his cover to rub at his eyes.

The homes ground floor was as silent as it had been all evening, not even the gently thrumming vents placed in the ceiling generated much more of a sound on the empty air. Each floor between the two main stories had its own heating unit and separate thermostat, the first floor being set to the lowest of the three floors. Vivi wouldn’t mind sitting outside with a light and just casually reading some books, but she couldn’t rebuff Arthur’s worry (he hated the cold for good reasons). Plus, she had to certify that he made the effort for sleep, even if he was going to spend the duration of the night staring at a wall.

Instead of exiting the front doors Vivi turned and passed the stairway on her way, trekking back through the homes ground hall towards the faint illumination of lights. Through the stillness she could pick up on the faint groan of the hardwood floor beneath the carpet, something that wouldn’t normally be heard during the active hours of the day. At some point the home was remodeled, possibly right before the Hirstein’s moved in. A faint creak to her side gave her pause, near the base of the double doors that opened up into the dining room. The house settling, nothing of interest.

A few of the accent lights placed on small shelves and desks were left on, the furniture’s placement was along the walls. The Mystery Skulls preferred to work in the dark, since lightbulbs and electrical cords interfered with the readings on the equipment. These lights were off when last she came through and checked, but she really couldn’t document the occurrence as paranormal activity, more like a lapse of memory. She began switching the lights off and replenished the halls of their gloomy shadows.

She flipped off the last lamp in the circular dining room, beside the row of tall windows. Outside the window lay a frosty landscape of blue fogged backyard, the light from the unimpeded moon fell through the tall windows and coated the interior table, chairs, and polished wood floor with a white sheen that all but matched the freshly fallen carpet of snow outside. The winter and snow could have a suppressant effect on spirits, but she’d have to check information like that online probably. It would be an interesting theory.

The glass was cold, the entire room was frigid but Vivi took no notice. She removed her hand from the backpack strap on her shoulder, and reached out to set her palm on the window pane. That night it had been snowing, thick clumps of flakes falling into her eyes. She’d never felt it so cold before, the breeze cutting right through her coat. Wherever he touched her it burned, but was it the cold or was he so hot it felt cold? It was all a blur, but she could remember how fuzzy everything had seemed. Sometimes she wondered if it had somehow been a dream, but even that was farfetched. She didn’t recall much of the following morning, only that Arthur had been panicked about finding her, though she assured him that everything was fine. Nothing had happened.

The dull headlamps of a car slid through the thickening snowfall, its occupant cautiously navigating their vessel across thick layers of flurries. Once the car has passed and the eerie silence of the gentle snowfall resumed its ambient roll, Vivi crept away from the thick cover of shadows. She paused at the parking lots edge and checked for unseen traffic, but the white clumps were falling so thickly she could scarcely see the distant street bulbs gleaming in the mist above the road.

“No one will see anything,” she murmurs, to the figure standing over her. Her breath swirled in a wispy cloud around her face. “If they do, I’ll kick their ass.” A scratch of static emits from the figure holding her shoulders, prompting her to clutch the little bundle of bright cloth in her hand tighter to her chest.

“Geez,” Lewis managed. “Aggressive?” The voice broke off into a dimming rattle. He tries to keep the sheet from the motel room wrapped around his form, but there isn’t much form to brace the folds up around. He raises a hand to Vivi’s cheek when she begins to turn her head. “Vi… please.”

“I know,” she hums. “Habit. Let’s… the vans not far.” Vivi raises her free hand up over her shoulder to touch Lewis’ arm. She can grip the could space of cloth that must be his sleeve but it doesn’t feel solid, its feels about as substantial as her own breath. Her fingers tighten through the pseudo fibers, and she takes careful slow steps onto the slick asphalt. “Steady. Steady,” she says. She can’t hear Lewis follow but his could presence hovers around her. “I’m sure it’s this way.”

“M’not worried,” Lewis rattled, the short sentences peppered by sputters and hitches. “Eyes ahead.”

“Not like I’ve never seen a ghost before,” Vivi retorts.

“This is—” Lewis countered.

Vivi sighs, and blinks at the fog in her eyes. “This is different,” she echoed. “Yeah. Yeah, I… haven’t. It’s not like I’m forgetting.” She had to stop, not because Lewis was holding her back but she could feel him dragging. His hands linger on her shoulders, and though Lewis doesn’t grip her through the coat, Vivi had lost sensation in the skin under his hands. So cold it burns, but she would never betray a hint of this minor discomfort.

“I’m sorry,” Lewis gargled, his voice an old memory of its once projection. “Ground me. That’s all. I’m still… not there.”

“I don’t care what you say,” Vivi choked. She glanced the road over, either way she looked was a wall of swirling white haze, like static. Snow. It was very late and visibility was so low. “This is too much for you. If you can’t possess Arthur,” A gentle finger set to her cheek reminds her to keep her attention straight. “You can possess me. I’m stronger, and I won’t fight you. That’s always an option.”

“No… no, my blueberry,” Lewis rumbled. “I can’t… risk. The call. A… intercessor. I can’t do that.” A few yards ahead, he can make out the outline of the van shimmering gray against the hazy backdrop of flurries. “For me? I can’t— won’t bear you hurting. Please. Trust me.”

Vivi pulled her hand from the foggy handprint on the window. “Lewis. Why? Why would you—” She spun about, surprised by warm laughter coming from the open doors of the dining room. The light of the large chandelier above the table blazed with an orange gleam and a few plates had been set atop the table, which was now relocated near the dark windows.

Across the room a swinging door opens, and a woman with curly orange hair enters from the kitchen. She marches away from the curved wall carrying a large plate, and the sultry smell of cooked food fills the room. “Kids, kids,” she calls. “Settle down, or you’ll wait for your breakfast.”

Vivi caught herself before she could take a breath. She held perfectly still, and only followed the movement of the taller woman with her eyes. Two figures charge in from the dining room door, one clad in a robe while the other was dressed in pajamas.

“Dad says we’re going fishing when he gets back!” The boy, in his teens, maybe preteens, dashes over to a chair and pulls it out from under the table. He makes a face at the taller girl, who Vivi presumes to be Jezebel.

“Mom. Tell him to stop lying!” The girl scrapes her chair back and sits on her knees on the seat.

The mother sets the large plate down on the table’s center, upon its platter is piled bacon and a mass of steaming scrambled eggs. “If you want my contribution,” the mother says, as she leans on a firm hand set to the table. “You might want to learn some manners.”

“Please mom,” the girl enunciates, and rolls her eyes.

“Robbi, go get the glasses,” the mother ordered. She began laying out silverware to the side of the plates. Robbi dropped the knife he had picked up, and pressed his fists to the table. He barely got a word out before his mother snapped her finger towards the kitchen door. “No buts. Go get those glasses.” When Robbi was through the swinging door and out of the room, the mother turned to her daughter and shifted her leaning posture. “Last time you got dad first. It’s his turn this time.”

“But he’s mean to me,” she protests. Charlie squirms in her seat, causing her chair to rock and scrap on the floor. “He keeps taking my stuff and lying about it. I’m always finding my things in his room.”

The mother shakes her head. “You’re not supposed to go into other peoples room, Charlie.”

Oops. Vivi returned her attention back to the swinging door as Robbi stomped back in.

The mother left the kids at the table, and walked towards the wide doors that exited the dining room. “And she wants a computer for her room,” she mumbled.

“Um, hello!” Vivi called. The whole room went silent all at once. The son and daughter were in the middle of pulling bacon and eggs onto their plates, jarred and frozen when their eyes found Vivi where she had remained unmoving by the furthest windows; or as Vivi presumed, spontaneously appeared. No one moved, none of them knew how to react to the sudden appearance of a strange and mysterious individual. It was kind of exciting to say the least. A ravel of bacon slipped off Robbi’s fork and hit the tables polished surface. “Yeah,” Vivi breathed. “How’s it going?”

The mother moved from the door, her steps quickening as she rushed over to Vivi. “What do you think you’re doing in my house?” she snapped. “Who are you?” Vivi expected the spirit to rush her, but the woman stopped short of her. The son and daughter scrambled from their chairs and hurried away from the table to stand in the large doorway. They didn’t leave. “I demand an answer! Don’t just gawk at me.”

“What year is it?” Vivi prompted. She backed up into the wall and waited. The window suddenly felt warm, though it was still dark outside. Vivi took note she couldn’t see the yard or the snow, but she had no way of documenting this experience unless she risked breaking eye contact. She had some equipment, but she was not prepared.

“What kind of a question is that? It’s nineteen ninety-nine,” the mother growled, defensive. Then, a puzzled expression hit her face, and her brows knitted together. She looked human, but this did not surprise Vivi. “I don’t need to answer your questions. Tell me, what it is you’re doing in my house. Are you someone from the church?”

“Not exactly,” Vivi began. She shifted the backpack at her back, and the woman took notice of it. “I’m not here to cause you any trouble. I wanna try and talk with you about some things, you and your family… maybe you should all be together for this.” The mother’s expression had not changed, and the kids were probably on the verge of running, if not more. “You don’t seem to understand what… how do I put this? Things have changed— Not in a bad way, but I guess it depends how you look at it.” Vivi raised her hands to her face and rubbed at her lower eyelids with her fingertips. “I’m not making any sense, am I?”

“Not in the slightest,” the mother hissed. “Kids, go ‘round to the kitchen and call the police.”

“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” Vivi put her hands up and showed her palms. “Lemme have a chance to explain, no more than a minute. If….” She stops speaking when Mystery pushes the swinging door to the kitchen open and pads in. He carries a thin item in his mouth. “You…?”

The mother tracks the dogs progress as he crossed the floor to Vivi. “That your dog?”

“Sometimes,” Vivi admitted. Mystery hops up onto his rear legs and Vivi can see what it is he brought to her. “Have you ever seen one of these before?” Mystery balanced his paws on Vivi’s coat front, until she removed the thin smartphone from his jaws. The dog drops sideways to the floor and taps away.

“Of course I have,” the mother retorts. She steps aside as Mystery passes by, and keeps an eye on the white mutt as he moved to the dining room entrance where her kids were still waiting. “It’s just one of the new phones everyone’s been buying. I picked mine up weeks ago.”

“Can you show me how it works?” Vivi offered. She takes one slow step forward, and another, the phone held out in her hand. The mother takes the phone from her with a huff, and begins working the touch screen.

“I don’t understand what you want me to do. Do you have music on this?” the mother mutters. “Or do you want me to dial a random number?”

While their mother was distracted, Charlie and Robbi take to Mystery like any youngsters would. Charlie dropped onto her knees and Mystery pranced right up to her and let the girl embrace him. Robbi stood by, protective brother, and gave Mystery a cautious pat on the head.

“Okay,” Vivi went on, returning her eyes to the mother. “When exactly did you buy yours?”

The mother paused and looked back to Vivi. “I don’t know the exact date, my husband… he bought it.” She hands the phone back over to Vivi. “This game isn’t funny, and I’m about ready to lock you in a closet. You tell me right now what you’re trying to get at.”

“Be a little patient,” Vivi pleads. None of them had notice, but all the plates, the platter, and the food were now missing. “Don’t take this the wrong way but, has your husband been gone long? When—”

“I know what you’re implying,” the mother snarled. She caught Vivi by the wrist and hauled her forward. “And you won’t start this discussion in front of my kids.”

“You’re not paying attention!” Vivi rebukes. “It’s been years, but none of you have changed have you? The phones have, but you’re pretending not to notice.” She holds her ground and the mother is unable to budge her, or drag her shoes over the slick floor. “You’ve seen a calendar, but a lot of time has passed you by. Hasn’t it? And you haven’t thought about the last time your kids didn’t need to ask who would get to spend time with their father first when he came home. Have you?”

The grip on her wrist was gone in an instant, and when Vivi blinked the room was once more detailed by dark shades and ribbons of bright moonlight. In her hand the phone was clutched tightly, and the one time occupants of the home had vacated the room completely. The atmosphere resumed its suppressing silence, the dining room set and surrounding furniture had resumed its shape as the Hirstein’s property. But the air still lingered with fresh bacon and eggs, and a warmth that machines could not replicate.

But Vivi was aware of a presence, waiting. From the edge of her shady peripheral came slight movement, and she knew it couldn’t be Mystery. Once she acknowledged that it was known the shadow inched out from the side of the room, closer to the light where its outline absorbs definition. Quickly, Vivi twists to face the figure and struggles to identify it. Another ghost lingering in the home?

“It’s just me,” the voice hums, its bright eyes dimmed in the swarming black hue. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, you looked like you had everything under control.”

Vivi frowned a bit and wondered if it was the light, or if she was still under the effects of the illusion winding out of her. “Who’s ‘me’?”

A beat passed, and there was a palpable hitch of emotion from the dark figure. “Mi,” he sputtered. “You didn’t forget me or something. ¿Oh Dios lo hizo realmente estropear? No podía manejar dos veces.”

Vivi blinked, and the shadows cleared a bit but it didn’t help with what she was seeing. “Lewis?” The figure recoiled minutely, and the reflex helped her identify the mannerism though… he didn’t look like the Lewis she knew. His long sleeves gleam under the moonlight, but the shadows were soaked into the bright colors of his over shirt. The cloth on his neck, that thing she recognized immediately. “You look different?”

A small smirk crept across his face, as he brought his hands – they did look like actual flesh hands – up and clasped them in front of him. “I could turn on a light,” Lewis murmurs, his voice rising out of a scratchy twinge. “It took a while.” He stopped and waited, but Vivi said nothing. She tries to find words, Vivi’s mind raced, her thoughts impossible to align.

“Well, yes. We—” As she said this Vivi took a few steps towards Lewis, but halts. Alarm overtook her, everything ground to a halt in her head. “I mean. No! This is a bad time, you can’t be here.”

Lewis dithers. “What? I mean, how come?”

“Because we couldn’t introduce you with us when we first arrived,” Vivi explained. She closed the distance between her and Lewis and stared up at his glimmering, coal eyes. “But more importantly, the school specified two investigators and a dog. If they get wind you’re with us, they’ll get suspicious! They have our credentials, and they’ll dig around.” She paused briefly. Lewis hadn’t moved or made a sound, and made no move to depart for the time. “I don’t think they would but… I don’t wanna risk—”

“Are you ashamed to have me around?” Lewis fumed. “‘Cause honestly, that’s what it’s sounding like.” Vivi grabs his arm and tugs him away to the doorway across the room.

“No, that’s not it, Scouts honor,” Vivi sputtered. She circles around her chest, she’s not sure what it means or what she’s doing. Lewis takes a few steps under her persuasive hauling. She was no lightweight. “But the school might start to ask questions, might take away our funding. Since—”

“But it kinda does,” Lewis argued back. He grounded himself, and Vivi couldn’t haul him an inch more. “Is there something else going on that I should know about?”

“You’re being ridiculous!” She marched behind him and tried shoving Lewis, but those results were no better than flat out pulling him.

Lewis tries not to chuckle. “Vi, c’mon.” He was shaky on the amount of time that passed, and where they were exactly. Had something occurred that he wasn’t aware of? “Vivi, you should just tell me right now, if there’s anything I need to know—”

“For gods sake, Lew! Stop being so paranoid. I promise you, there’s nothing!” Vivi nearly raised the roof, and Lewis goes quiet. “And we’re already having problems with this case. I’m worried about this family we found hanging around here— you saw them.” She shuffles around to Lewis side and steps back, Vivi raised the phone to her forehead and pressed it to her skin. “And we don’t have a lot of time to spare for getting it straightened out.” She paused, waiting for Lewis to say something, but he had resumed his silent deliberation. When she glanced up she half expected the room to be empty, but the ghost was still there. “Please, wait in the van for a bit. I need some time to… think, and figure this out.”

A moment endures before Lewis begins to fade, the soft sputter of embers accompany the faint glimmer of his shape dimming. The subtle outline of the skull brightens through his living façade, and it dissolves from the thick gloom. The room becomes cooler by degrees, indicating that Lewis had been present as he said. She shouldn’t have been upset, but she couldn’t dissuade the heavy apprehension. It wasn’t fair on Lewis.

“He just woke up,” Vivi murmured. She moved away from the circular table and stepped out of the dining rooms French doors. He just woke up, came out to check on her, and in a panic she sent him away. “I’m glad Lew. I didn’t say that, did I? But I am. I wasn’t expecting you to show up. I was, I didn’t mean to forget about you.”

The lights in the hall had stayed off this time. Vivi checked the backdoors of the porch, and then followed the contours of the hall dusted by the pale illumination filtering through glass doors. “Mystery!”

The dog sat to the side of the wall near the arm chairs, ears high and his crimson eyes gleaming. He made a low whining, it sounded haunting bouncing off the opens walls of the hall.

“You… you heard all that?” Vivi whimpered. She had forgotten Mystery had been looking after her, hadn’t left. Her brave protector, could save none of them from their errors.

Mystery didn’t answer he only stood from the chair, and walked around to Vivi. He nudged the side of Vivi’s leg with his brow, and Vivi stepped forward as he pushed her along. The dog encouraged toward one of the comfy armchairs Vivi had sat in earlier that day.

“Why did I yell at him?” Vivi whispered, as she sat down. She took the backpack off and slipped the phone through the open zipper in its side. Mystery took the bag from Vivi’s hands and set it gently on the floor beside the chair. “We’re two floors down, it’s late. He wouldn’t be seen, he didn’t deserve that.”

Mystery grumbled and bumped Vivi’s leg with his shoulder. He raised his head and set his chin on her lap, then stared up at her with his bright white face. He blinked as Vivi rubbed his head.

“I don’t feel much like talking now,” she mumbled. Mystery took a breath and let out a noisy sigh. “When was the last time we checked the van? I didn’t know he woke up.” She set her elbow on the armrest and placed her chin on her palm. It felt good to rest her head, and the chair was so compelling with its large cushioned headrests that curved out above her shoulders. She leaned her shoulder on one and shut her eyes. “I need to go talk to him. I don’t want him to disappear, or at least warn me… about it.” Mystery whined. “I expect too much. It’s too soon. There’s too much I don’t understand. I wish they would tell me.”

Vivi’s meditative gesture on Mystery’s ear lessened little by little, and then ceased finally and was replaced by her steady breathing. Mystery kept one ear raised and let his eyes slip shut. It was too late for this. They could wait for the morning, the sunlight. They needed rest, but there was none for the weary soul.

The locket sat placid in his palm as he traced over its surface with his thumb. One time he had wanted to believe it had kept him stable, that it as a gift was powerful enough to keep him bound to a physical existence. That’s how it should have been. He could make it work, but the dangers involved. It was too risky, too soon. Time had passed, his grasp of time was skewered, but something did happen in his absence while he was unable to get involved. Vivi was distressed and he ignored the evident cues. She wasn‘t angry, just… surprised. It was nothing to get alarmed over. Give her space. Sometimes people needed space.

Lewis pressed his thumb to the locket, and the door clicked open. Was it the locket that kept him shackled, or its contents? Don’t value the vessel, value its contents. He curled his fingers over the edges of the bent frame and pulled the open locket to his face. The precious bequest was him, it was a part of him and it was a piece of what he thought was the most cherished thing in his life short life. The residue of a memory. How ironic. Somewhere in a long ago time, he swore it was for her. But how do you explain away the injustice of your death? He had arisen before his blood had cooled across the… the.

Those distorted reflections plagued a memory, a piece of his soul that comprised his reality. The locket was still open, he should focus on it, lose himself in fond memories, the shadows of a vague and distant history. Rumination was vital for maintaining his physicality. This soon after rising he had no concern for maintaining a strong projection, but the time passing did loosely tangle over his ethereal core, trying to reclaim him as its reluctant passenger. It was disorientating and in a way he was glad no one had been in the van earlier. The coffin… he never intended for Vivi to see it. But he seemed unable to escape that facet of his new existence, just as the locket was his cherished reminder of a lost past, his shelter lingered as the grim aide-mémoire to the endnote of that life.

It wouldn’t benefit his habituation to jump at conclusions, but it wouldn’t be beyond Arthur’s capacity to allude something. Though, he was certain Arthur wouldn’t risk it. The whole situation left Lewis unsettled, and Arthur badly misunderstood his intentions; if that‘s what they could be described as. Too much was shared between them, more than Lewis was comfortable to admit. Fading. Identity crumbling away. That sensation hung on him. For the frailest instant, Lewis had wholly ceased to be. The lapse of time, jumping possession and dormancy, none of it had been a good sequence to undertake. A part of Lewis was astounded Arthur hadn’t….

Mistakes. That’s all it was, but in his susceptibility he didn‘t realize what was happening until it was over and done with. He could never tell Arthur. Their relationship was strained and it shouldn‘t be that way.

A thin slice of light worked its way over the fold of blanket that lay crumpled on the vans floor. Lewis watched it for a short while as it crept and flowed with the dipping curves of the rumpled cover, and eventually he did realize the windshield was filled with bright simmering light of the new dawn. He stopped paying attention to the progress of light and focused on the colors, distilling from bright orange to golds and yellows. Would it be different someday if he shared a dawn with someone? He imagined it would be.

The sudden banging to the side of the van snapped Lewis from his musings. He jarred and immediately glanced down at his hands. Where were they parked? The police? His hands held their dark shade and bleached knuckles for a brief moment, but he somehow managed to drag the illusion back. He wasn’t ready to shed it yet, it had been… he looked normal.

“Lewis?” the muffled voice called through frigid wall. Vivi! “Are you in there? Can we open up the van?”

We? His hands clutched the locket; tarnished, lost, a reflection. “Uh, I’m up,” Lewis replied. “Just a sec. I’ll let you know when!” He shut the locket and slipped it through the front of his vest. He held the artifact stationary for a moment, until it had stabilized. “Okay. You can open up now.” Lewis was smoothing out the front of his ‘shirt’ when the driver side door slung open, and leaning through the sun filled doorway was Vivi. “Hey! Whoa… did you sleep?”

Vivi climbed up onto the seat, and adjusted her glasses slightly as she nodded. The poof of hair on one side of her head was frizzy while her coat was etched with deep wrinkles. She looked adorable. Dangerous and annoyed, but adorable. “Mm hm. Art, he‘s kind of—” She kept herself anchored by the steering wheel and leaned out, calling for Arthur. “You said you were with me!” The crunch of ice churned near the outer wall of the van, fading for a short while before returning somewhere outside. Lewis waited, uncertain over this new situation, while Vivi exchanged her grip on the vans doorframe and leaned out. As she began to shift back, shuffling her knees over the bench seat, she brought with her another hand. She gave the grip a reassuring squeeze as Arthur inched through the open door, his shock of blond hair timidly crept into view followed by a wide eye. In the refracted snow light streaming through the windshield it was difficult to discern clearly, but Lewis did conclude that Arthur was trembling. “You’re doing good.” Briefly, Vivi’s eyes snapped Lewis’ way, but she kept her unwavering focus set upon Arthur.

“Art?” Lewis prodded.

Arthur did move, without further prompting. He sort of sank forward onto the driver seat, held up mostly by Vivi and her iron grip on his only hand; why he was ‘unarmed‘ was for now a mystery to Lewis. The terror struck expression Arthur had frozen on his face never left Lewis, and Arthur didn’t speak – Lewis couldn’t be sure if he was even breathing at all.

“Say something,” Vivi whispered. “Anything. Art. Are you okay? Is this too much?” Vivi had to hold her fist up to keep Arthur from falling face first into the seat. Arthur’s hands were white enough to put Lewis’ bones to shame, his inability to speak was both unsettling and irritating. “C’mon Art. If I’d known… you should have said something. Shit.” Vivi balanced herself on her knees and hunched forward, she pressed her free hand to Arthur’s cheek. Arthur blinks, but his eyes lack recognition and had that glossy hue. Sleep was lost on him. “You could have waited. I told you—”

“I’m here,” Arthur burbled. “Here. Heh. I need a— I need a moment, Viv-vi. I’m still here, though I gotta….” He cleared his throat, or wheezed out some kind of obscure reply. Arthur pried his fingers loose of Vivi‘s hand, though Vivi dithered to release her own grip. “Gimmie some space?” Vivi let her hand slip from Arthur’s, this allowed him to place his lone hand to the bench seat and brace himself as he leaned forward. That far away stare held his rapt attention, his mind lost in that bog of irresolution where his nightmares festered. Green, cold, decay. Lewis could only ponder what Arthur withheld from him.

“Too deep,” Lewis murmured, voice edging out of a somber rumble. “Focus… on my voice. Come back.” He edged forward, and raised his hand towards Arthur’s head. Arthur blinked, and some of the depth in his eyes returned. “You’ve gone too—”

“Don’t,” Arthur mumbled. “Don’t… touch me.” Arthur stared at Lewis’ hand but didn’t move, he just stared, eyes alone roving from the face, to the shoulders. Nothing spoken, only a mild examination. Arthur blinked a few times, and a small smile twitched at the corner of his lip. “Sharp as always, Lew.”

Hesitantly, Lewis looked down at his false attire. He hadn’t lowered his hand from reaching for Arthur, but he did so now and gave the other a quizzical frown. It would’ve helped if he had some sunglasses to cut the brightness of the sky, but no poor quality of light could conceal the dishevel stamped into Arthur’s clothes. “And you look like you settled for what wasn’t dirty,” Lewis retorts. He hadn’t meant to snap back, but it felt natural enough.

“Lew!” Vivi hissed. She returned her sight to Arthur when he began snickering. Not only that, but Arthur began to spiral into deepening laughter that was marred only by his ill throat. Uneasy by the sound of it, Lewis shuffled back and placed his hands on the floorboard and braced himself. Neither Vivi nor Arthur had noticed. Vivi was caught by Arthur’s gasping voice and Arthur, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Art? Are you… you gonna be okay? Geez, Art!”

“I’m fine,” Arthur managed between rough sniggers. He keeps trying to say that, even when tears are pouring from his eyes and he has his face buried in the seats back. “Honest, don’t worry,” he gurgles, voice twisted and rising, living and dying all in the same breath. Arthur raised the remains of his shoulder to the seats back, drapes his right arm over the bench, and buries his face in the protective folds of his sleeves. “This is fine. Everything’s fine,” he choked, voice distorted and muffled. “Trust me. Really, I mean it.”

Vivi raised her gaze to Lewis and he shares her concerned expression, but he won’t move. How could he define to Vivi what this cackling meant to him?

Lewis pressed his hand onto the side of the vans frosted metal once he was near, and bided the time before he removed his other hand from Vivi’s shoulder. The van worked, the van was familiar to his residual signature. “This… this is good,” he hummed. “I can go…. Vi, it’s cold. Go.” He tried to stabilize his voice, to press some softness into his vocalizations. Focus was difficult, Lewis fought to keep the sheet from slipping right through what solidity he dragged into his body. “Back to the room.”

Vivi didn’t raise her eyes to him, but she kept one hand looped over the crook of his arm. The steady unwavering thud of the locket trembled through the cloth she held, muffled. “Let me first see that you make it inside,” she said. “You can’t keep the sheet anyway.”

The sheet was one from the motel rooms bed. It worked for Lewis but it was too thin to do Vivi any kindness, which was what Lewis figured she’d take it for if he couldn’t convince her to return on her own. “You’re gonna make me,” his voice dimmed off. If he kept going with the sentence, his vocals would have fallen into faint crackling or something as worthless, he just knew it. “You want me to worry. S’that it?”

“We’re even there,” Vivi chattered. A dull screeching emitted from the vans metal hull, and Vivi could make out Lewis’ hand at the edge of her vision, on the icy metal as his palm slipped down. She unwrapped the ratty cloth from around the gilded locket, and turned her face into her shoulder as she pressed the locket to Lewis’ chest. “I’ll go back to the room. Priorities first.”

“I’m a priority?” Lewis tried to say. The noise he managed was a low, undesirable pop-buzz. He tried not to let it show how it affected him. Snow fell, collecting along the edge of Vivi’s scarf and glasses, though her face was turned away. Lewis slipped the locket from her fingers and stuffed it under the coat fold of his suit; it didn’t need another crack.

“Are you…” Vivi hesitated, and shivered. She closed her eyes as Lewis moved a hand to her face and began brushing the delicate flakes off her glasses. “Are you in pain? Can I ask?” she murmured. “Do you hurt in some way? I need to know.” Without meaning to she raised her face toward Lewis, but missed the awkward shrug that was done to slip the thin sheet off his broad shoulders. The white, nearly transparent folds fell over her face, leaving only the dull haze of a street lamp stubbornly glowing above. Vivi could make out Lewis’ silhouette under the frail backdrop.

“I can’t hurt, I—” He didn’t care that his voice failed. Lewis wouldn’t relate that the only sensations he perceived came through recycled suggestion, and his emotions and shortcomings were what reached a vivacious cognizance. A spirit lacked weight and substance, how could a… thing that lacked nerves know to fear pain? “Dislocation,” he hummed. “Fracture.” Lewis pulled the sides of the sheet tighter around Vivi’s quivering shoulders, and tilted his skull when she leaned on him. He wanted to warm her, protect her from the open air, and from the chill that seeps from his form, but he can’t. “I can… sense you, more’n anything. It’s cold, Vi,” he rattled, voice a frail sizzle. “Don’t….”

It was important to remind Vivi how frigid the air was around her, how even her impervious winter aura was vulnerable to the ruthless elements. Lewis tried to rouse her, wake her from the falling before she could collapsed in his arms. But he couldn’t. He grasped the frail wisps of what feral heat remained in his core to stave off hypothermia, until the dawn would proceed the long hours of the night. When Vivi awoke she would find the dark box waiting – Lewis loathed that she would see it, but it couldn’t be helped. It was what it was, and nothing said could change that fact.

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