#but like if i were still in retail or food service or we had kids……like idk how people can bear it all lmao

[pussymasterdooku]

Thank you for still wearing a mask, and an N95 at that! Stay well 🩷

🫡

[custardcrazy]

i have a Ted logan request! it’s kinda inspired by the tutor piece you wrote but instead of being Ted’s tutor she’s Deacons tutor (or babysitter) instead and she comes over to the Logan household and Ted sees her there and is immediately head over heels for her and is constantly trying to find an excuse to go to whatever room she’s in and stay there much to the annoyance of Deacon and their father on occasion

sorry if i got to specific but you’re my fav Ted Logan writer and I’m happy his requests are open!!!

young as we are

summary: you're deacon logan's new babysitter. it doesn't seem like it'll be anything too special -- until you meet his cute older brother, that is. (gn!reader)

wordcount: 3.8k

A/N: okay so I might've changed around the prompt a teensy bit, but hopefully it still fits what you wanted. i'm no good at writing slow stuff so i got kinda impatient lmao (also. i'm?? your favorite?? you have no idea how genuinely happy that makes me. i'm smiling like an idiot. thank you so much.)

You checked the note you'd written the address down on to make sure you hadn't gotten the wrong house -- okay, all good -- before ringing the doorbell. 

The house itself was pretty nice, just looking at the exterior. One of the perks of babysitting in a somewhat well-off area like this one was that you usually got paid decently for your troubles; and it wasn't nearly as bad as working retail, if the stories you'd heard from your friends were anything to go off of. And kids could be sweet, unlike food service customers. 

It was only half a minute before the door was answered by a balding middle-aged man with a stern expression. Mr. Logan, you presumed; it was probably his voice you'd heard on the phone. 

"You must be the babysitter," he stated directly, not giving you time to answer, "come in, then. I have some things I have to inform you of." He didn't wait, disappearing into the house and leaving the door ajar behind him. Feeling slightly awkward, you followed. 

Once you entered the foyer, he began speaking again. "Deacon's probably in his room right now. He has to be in bed by nine P.M., and he knows that, but I don't doubt that without me being present he'll try to stay up." Indicating some bills on the counter, he continued, "there's some money for a pizza. The number to call is on the refrigerator. Dinner should be at six." 

"Oh, and my … eldest son, Ted." If it was even possible, his tone became more snide. "He should be back in an hour or two. Don't let him bother you at all -- if he gets too annoying, just let me know when I get back later in the evening, and I'll deal with him." 

You barely got out an "uh, okay, thanks" before Mr. Logan was yelling for Deacon. 

He was maybe around twelve, you guessed. It was obvious that he was reluctant to come downstairs, but did so after a look from his father. You smiled at him, but he didn't return it; you didn't really mind. He was at that awkward age, after all. And if your instincts were correct, an overbearing father could inflict a number on any kid. 

It wasn't that you weren't familiar with strict parents -- but it was near-impossible to get entirely used to them. Being in charge of their children meant that you had to be extra careful. You couldn't trust a young kid to not tell on you if you were a little lenient when it came to bedtimes, and you couldn't trust an older kid to not try and put the fact that you were more easy-going than their parents to the test. 

Still, once Mr. Logan had left, you immediately relaxed. 

And so did Deacon, by the looks of it, because suddenly his tense demeanor all but disappeared. 

It was almost frightening how abruptly he turned his attention from his father's car pulling down the driveway to you. 

"You ever watched RoboCop?" 

He asked, with a certain bluntness only preteen boys were capable of. 

"No, I haven't." Encouragingly, you smiled again. "What's that?" 

"I have the tape," and already he was turning away, "gimmie a sec." 

You had the sneaking suspicion that his father didn't have the same enthusiasm for science fiction movies.

And you were right; even during the movie he spoke up now and then to tell you stuff about the characters or the plot. About how "RoboCop could probably take down an entire army by himself". You thought it was kind of spooky how the titular protagonist was a reanimated guy forced to follow cyborg programming to uphold "justice" in an already-corrupt city, disregarding any humanity he once had. 

… Or something like that. Deacon just found the guy "badass". 

By the time that you'd nearly reached the ending of the movie, you were invested. 

But not too invested to not look up when the front door opened, and thus you made eye contact with probably the prettiest guy you'd seen in a while. 

He froze midway through his path to the stairs. 

For a moment, both of you just looked at each other. He looked familiar. 

Oh, yeah, you'd seen him at school a couple times. Passed by him in the hallways or in the cafeteria, maybe. You hadn't really noticed him before, but maybe that was because you hadn't gotten a good look at him. Like now. 

And then Deacon took notice, coughing in an awfully non-subtle way into his fist, and you realized that maybe you shouldn't stare like a creep. 

"Uh, you must be Ted, right?" You laughed semi-awkwardly. "Hi. I'm just gonna be babysitting Deacon until your dad gets home." 

Hopefully you remembered his name correctly. From the way his father had said it, you had expected him to be some flavor of delinquent -- piercings, leather jacket, all that stuff that an uptight man like Mr. Logan would disprove of. A high school dropout who was bumming around in his dad's basement without a source of stable income. 

That couldn't be further from the truth; the Ted you were seeing now was a slightly gangly, floppy-haired boy your age who was looking at you like he'd seen an angel. 

It took him a moment, but he nodded vigorously in response to your question. 

"Yes. Yeah. I'm -- that's me." Ted glanced away, finally breaking away your gaze. "Um. What's your name? I - … I don't think we've been introduced before, dude." Even from your position on the couch, you could pick out spots of rose pink on his cheeks. Even as he focused determinedly on the ground. 

You couldn't help but be hopelessly endeared, so you gave him your name. 

He gently repeated it once, as if trying out how it felt on his tongue. "Oh. Radical." 

There was another brief moment, in which the movie still playing on the boxy television faded into the background. Then, his eyes were back on yours; they were a warm brown, you noticed. 

Apparently, Deacon had enough of his older brother interrupting his sacred movie, because he spoke up again, breaking the silence. "Ted, don't you have stuff to do?" 

You wanted to reprimand Deacon for his less-than-polite tone, but didn't have the chance, because Ted responded first.

"Oh." Seemingly snapping back to reality, he glanced away. "Yeah. Sorry 'bout that." 

Before you could tell him that you were going to order food later, he'd bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. You heard the far-off shutting of a door; and then a little later, muffled music that had a lot of distorted electric guitar and drums. 

Deacon scoffed to himself, but settled further into the couch cushions. 

You didn't see Ted again that night. He didn't even come downstairs to snatch a slice of pepperoni pizza, and just remained in his room. Maybe he didn't want to bother his little brother anymore, you thought, trying your hardest not to feel disappointed; even if you'd barely had any sort of conversation with him, there was something … Something very magnetic. 

Mr. Logan was back at around eleven, and by that time you were seated by the television once more. Alone, because you'd miraculously managed to get Deacon to go to bed. 

"I'm guessing everything went fine," remarked Mr. Logan, taking off his cap. You were beginning to get used to his clipped tone, and shut off the terrible sitcom you'd been killing time with. 

"Yeah, I left the change for the food on the counter." 

He pulled out his wallet, counting out crisp bills. 

"Did Ted give you any trouble?" 

Taking the money, you made sure it was the correct amount -- why'd you even bother, a man like Mr. Logan must've been specific about everything. "No, not at all. He barely said anything to me, actually." 

He only gave you a noncommittal hum in response to that, not even looking in your direction as he headed for the counter; probably to make sure you weren't stealing any of the change. "Well, good night." 

It wasn't a thank you -- not even close, but you'd take it. You'd been paid, after all.  "Good night." 

Ted's face upon seeing you still was fresh in your mind as you made your way home. And during the next several days that passed. It wasn't surprising, really. Nobody had ever looked at you like that; nobody had ever looked in awe of you on sight. At least, not anybody that had really caught your attention. 

Eventually, Mr. Logan called again. Apparently he had another work thing to do -- not that you were listening closely when he mentioned it. Your heart jumped at another opportunity to see Ted; it was a little embarrassing, really. You weren't some boy-crazed lunatic, pining after a guy you barely knew. 

Well, pining was a strong word. But you did pay extra attention when walking around at school, trying to catch a glimpse of him on your way to your classes. 

(You didn't.) 

This time, your pulse picked up when you walked up to the house. You even hesitated before you rang the doorbell again. But when you did, you heard some general commotion from within the house before Deacon answered the door, looking a little annoyed. 

"Hi," he said, "Dad's getting ready or whatever." 

He stepped aside to let you in. "I thought Ted was gonna answer the door. But he ran off as soon as he heard the doorbell." Sighing, he flopped down on the couch. "Lazy ass." 

As if on cue, Mr. Logan entered the living room, fixing his hat. You idly wondered if he wore it to hide the fact that he basically lacked all of his hair except for on the sides and back. 

"Deacon, watch your language." 

"Sorry." Even though his voice was muffled into the cushions, he didn't sound apologetic in the slightest. 

Mr. Logan turned his attention to you. "You don't need a refresher on anything, right." It sounded more like an order than a question, but you chose to look past it. At least he had offered to jog your memory if needed. The bare minimum was nice sometimes. 

"Yeah, I'll be fine." 

He gave you a curt nod. It wasn't until you heard the garage door shutting behind his car that Deacon sat bolt upright, suddenly energized. 

You looked at him expectantly. 

"Let's watch Ghostbusters," he declared. "Dad thinks it's stupid." 

And so, with little fanfare, you were basically doing the same thing as last time. But instead of dystopia, the setting was mildly less disturbing this time. And the main protagonists were human and likable. No offense to cyborg cops, but he didn't offer much in the way of personality -- so nobody could blame you. 

You were sure you'd seen this movie before, but the memory was vague enough that most of the events were new to you. However, even though you were focused on watching the film, there was something else on the back of your mind. An underlying antsiness; and you had a good idea why. 

Said antsiness was confirmed when, about half an hour into the movie, you heard footsteps coming down the stairs. It took all of your willpower not to look, but you knew who it was. 

It was only until he breached your peripheral vision that you allowed yourself to smile. 

"Hey, Ted." 

Today, he was wearing all loose clothes -- a baggy tee shirt with BLACK SABBATH printed on it in slightly distorted purple font, and what looked like sleep shorts. All in all, it made him look very soft. Like he was planning to do nothing but lay in bed for the entire day. Even his hair was kind of mussed up, a curl or two (or three) sticking out from the rest. 

He returned your smile tenfold with a near-blinding grin. "Hey." 

Deacon, unlike you, didn't have to hide anything. 

"Are you just gonna stand there and stare at the babysitter?" 

Delightfully, Ted flushed, hand flying up to fiddle with his hair. "Uh. No. I was just wondering if I could -- " he hesitated, before continuing, "if I could watch the movie too, y'know. I think Ghostbusters is a totally exceptional example of cinema." You didn't catch the way Deacon narrowed his eyes at his older brother. 

"Okay. Just don't interrupt too much." 

" 'Course." 

You were mildly startled when Ted sat down in the middle of you and Deacon -- you'd expected him to sit on the other side, but apparently that wasn't the case. The younger Logan let out an audible sigh and scooted further away. 

True to his word, Ted didn't speak up for the majority of the movie. But you were aware of his presence in a way that was almost comparable; since you were mere inches apart. He didn't sit still, and adjusted his position every so often, but you had the feeling that was the norm since Deacon didn't mention it. 

However, it seemed by the near-ending Ted reached his limit on not making at least one comment. 

"Dude. I forgot how impressive the special effects are," he mused in his best attempt at a hushed tone. "Must've taken them ages to do this stuff." 

"Yeah," you agreed, glancing over, "it's pretty cool. Slimer really gives me the creeps." 

Ted opened his mouth to respond, but shut up when a loud "shhh!" came from Deacon's general direction. 

For a moment, you and him just looked at each other. Then, not able to stifle it in time, you snorted; he lapsed into a fit of giggles, and as a result of that so did you. It wasn't really your fault -- his laugh was very contagious, even muffled like this. 

Somehow, you managed to get through the rest of the movie without much more incident. Even if your heart lurched every time Ted's arm or leg accidentally brushed up against yours with the way he was fidgeting. 

By the time it was over, it was around six, and so you called to order a pizza. Ted didn't retreat back upstairs, much to Deacon's disappointment, and pretty much hovered around you as you all waited for dinner to arrive. Not in a weird way, not at all -- he just resembled a puppy trying to get attention, really. 

"What'd you think of the movie?" He asked, just after you'd gotten off the phone with the pizza place. 

"It was pretty good," you hummed, putting down the receiver. "A couple moments were slow, but overall I enjoyed it. What's not to like about some guys capturing ghosts and defeating otherworldly entities?" 

"An excellent way to phrase it," grinned Ted, "and I agree most wholeheartedly. The ghost-buster dudes are impossible not to root for." 

You chatted a little more about it with him; his way of talking was a bit unique, but somehow you found it just as attractive as everything else. Sadly, your conversation was cut short by the doorbell. As soon as you'd taken a single step in the direction of the door -- 

" -- I'll get that!" declared Ted, with an enthusiasm that was a little frightening, already moving to grab the pizza. 

"Hey, wait, there's money on the counter!" 

"... Oh." 

Backtracking, he grabbed the cash and resumed his course to the door, covering the distance with long strides. 

It wasn't long before the food was gone; and you unceremoniously stuffed the ripped-apart cardboard box into the recycling bin like last time, hoping Mr. Logan wouldn't take issue with how you'd basically just jammed it in. After Deacon had wolfed down maybe three slices, he'd disappeared somewhere. Probably to his room -- you  reminded him to be in bed in time, lest Mr. Logan stop letting you babysit, and he'd only replied with a dull "okay". 

You were practically alone with Ted now. 

"So, uh." He broke the silence as soon as you returned to the living room. "... Wanna go upstairs? There's not much to do down here 'sides watching more movies." 

"I don't see why not," you said without thinking. 

For a second, he looked caught off-guard just as much as you were, (seriously, what) but recovered quickly. "Cool. C'mon, dude." 

Beaming, he motioned to you, and you were helpless to do anything but follow. 

His room was a bit messy, but you would've found it strange if it wasn't. Posters were all over the walls, Metallica and Van Halen and other assorted bands and movies. In the corner was a shelf filled to the brim with various memorabilia; action figures, guitar picks, markers and books that looked kind of dusty. His laundry bin was overflowing a little, but at least it was confined to another corner. Everything was just so Ted and that was probably the best way to describe it. 

He made his way over to the window, opening it just a crack. "Let's just keep the window open so we can hear Dad pulling in the driveway. His car is super loud -- I think he'd go ballistic if you were hanging out with me." 

You knew he was right, but it still struck a minor chord on your heartstrings -- which you attempted to move past as fast as possible. "Oh, yeah. Good thinking." 

At your compliment, he was all smiles again. 

You felt yourself melt a little, and sat on the bed before your knees gave out or something. 

Before long, you were both sprawled out on the carpet playing a serious game of Uno. For a guy who you were learning wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box, he was pretty good at making you question your own abilities; either that or he was just extremely, ridiculously lucky. He did have an awful poker face, after all. 

He snickered every time he drew a plus four or plus two card, and blanched whenever he didn't have a playable card. Which was cute, but also pretty advantageous for you. 

After a frustratingly long time of going back and forth; of him denying you every single time you dared call Uno, you finally won. 

"Dude!" Ted exclaimed, throwing down his hand as if deeply and truly offended, but you could see that he was grinning again. "That was totally 'cause I let my guard down." 

"I don't know," you teased, "or maybe it was because of my great and unbeatable card-game skills." 

He hung his head in mock-shame. "You're right. I suck." 

You were conflicted between bullying him a little more or comforting him to lessen the blow of your victory, but before you could decide, you both heard the tell-tale sound of tires crunching on the pavement and the whir of the garage door opening. Ted scrambled over to the window, peeking through the small opening he'd left earlier. 

"He's back," he announced, turning back to face you. 

"Okay," you said, getting to your feet and making sure you hadn't dropped anything. "See you later, Ted." 

" 'Bye!" He called after you.

Thankfully, you managed to make it down to the living room, jump onto the couch, and fumble for the remote just in time to turn on the television a good minute before Mr. Logan entered. During that brief time, you felt strangely like you were a spy, a double-agent -- that if you were caught fraternizing with the enemy, you'd be given grave consequences. 

It was hilarious, you had to admit. 

Mr. Logan didn't ask you about Ted this time, just cutting right to the chase and taking out his wallet.

"Is the change on the counter again?" 

"Yeah," you answered, giving him a "thanks" as he handed you a couple bills. You marveled again at how clean they were -- it almost felt criminal to stuff them in your pocket, but what else could you do? 

Once more, Mr. Logan turned away, going for the counter. "Good night." If he was as disinterested as he sounded, it was no wonder why he didn't try to make small talk with you at all. And you were grateful for it; you were sure that it'd just be awkward and nothing else. You rushed a little to leave. 

But just as your hand turned the doorknob, you were stopped in your tracks by a shout. 

"Wait!" 

Apparently, you and Mr. Logan were both equally shocked, because he also whipped around mid-action. 

In Ted's hasty descent down the stairs, he nearly tripped over himself, but regained what little composure he'd been holding onto, and jogged over to you. Either he didn't notice his father standing there, looking utterly baffled; or he just didn't care. In his hands he was holding a cassette tape. 

He held it out to you, still catching his breath. The color in his cheeks could be attributed to his rush downstairs, but you had a sneaking suspicion that wasn't entirely the case. "Here. Sorry. I was gonna give it to you earlier," bashfulness showed clearly in his expression, "but I forgot." 

It was only a second before you realized that you'd have to exit the situation to avoid any questions from his father -- whose eyes were darting between the two of you in an extremely worrying manner. So you took it from him, even whilst having absolutely no idea what it was. 

"Thanks." 

And with that, you were out the door. 

--

The second you got home, you got a good look at the tape. 

On the outside, written in an untidy scrawl in black Sharpie, was your answer. It was a mixtape. How much time had he spent making this for you? Your mind conjured up an image of him sitting by the record player you'd seen in his room, painstakingly selecting his favorite songs to record. 

Flipping it over, you realized there was a scrap of paper taped to it -- a note. 

You hardly had to think about the question hastily written on it with a bright pink marker, with little stars doodled around the edges. 

It was the only thing that was running through your mind for the rest of the night. They were agonizing, the few days that passed before you finally received a call from Mr. Logan again. It was probably the only time ever that you were glad to hear his voice. 

Deacon was a little disappointed when you told him to wait a minute to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark.

"Don't start loudly making out or anything," he said, sulking as you quickly ascended the stairs. You wanted to scold him for the sake of preserving your own dignity, but you had more pressing matters to focus on at the moment.

"So," Ted began sheepishly, after you entered his room. "You got my note, right?" 

"I listened to the tape, too," you answered near-breathlessly. "Yes. I'd love to spend more time with you, Ted." You smiled broadly. "You're really sweet, you know that?" 

He went bright red in response. 

And then ducked behind his bangs. 

It took him a little while to speak, but you were patient. 

" … thanks, dude. I'm really glad," he finally murmured. "I spent ages making that tape, but it wasn't until I was gonna give it to you that I realized that. Like. Just hanging out like this wasn't gonna be enough. At all."

Right now, the main emotion your brain was registering was giddiness. 

"I'm really glad, too."

[max--phillips]

Okay, I feel like you'll understand so. Apologies for this rant.

It genuinely surprises me how much people don't read fucking signs. Signs that are right on the front door they had to walk through, in plain sight. A giant ass WE ARE CLOSED UNTIL (THIS DATE) sign on top of our regular closed sign means nothing? Like what???

Or do they just ignore them because they can see 2 people are inside the place of business, like that automatically makes us open?

Even on regular days we get people coming in before we're open, again with a closed sign front and center, while we are cleaning. Like, I'm mopping floors here, can you wait until we actually open please?

I was literally just talking to my coworker about this earlier today. That’s the one huge thing I learned working retail and food service and general customer service (which I guess I’m technically still in but to less of an extent) is that you can make a sign as big and hard to miss as you possibly can, and people will still either miss it or just refuse to read it.

When I worked in a hotel kitchen in early 2017 we had a big ol plaque on the wall that told people what our breakfast buffet hours were and I would still get people coming up to me as I was tearing down the buffet asking me what time we closed. And that was 10 minutes ago, bud. If you read the signs or listened to the front desk staff you would know this. Same with the hours thing. The number of times I had people knocking on the doors when I worked at FedEx while I was up and doing opening tasks was incredible. We open! At 8!!!!!! I will unlock the doors at 8!!!! Fuck outta here!

Thankfully I don’t have to deal with that now although if people would read the legally binding contracts they were signing with us that would be amazing. “Why do I have to pay for this over the summer? My kid isn’t in school and isn’t using the instrument.” Well you see, the contract you signed is for 36 continuous months, not just while school is in session. It’s not my fault you didn’t read the damn thing before signing the agreement.

On a similar note I once had a lady get mad we didn’t get in contact with her sooner when she was past due and we finally sent her the final notices that we were ending the agreement and requesting the property back, and I explained to her we had sent letters, emails, and left voicemails and she goes, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I don’t listen to voicemails.” And I said, “well, that’s the primary way we communicate, followed by physical letters and then email.” I was like ???????? Hello?

[lillcarrionbird]

you're right that I didn't consider outside the US but that doesn't mean you're not a freak for having a "vendetta" against servers. if you hate them so much don't eat out. are they asking you personally for money? I don't think they're entitled for doing their job as expected. you're continuing to talk as if they're below you. you think they're a burden when they're serving your food and daring to talk to you like humans talk to each other? I can tell you personally I've only ever worked front-facing jobs where I have to talk to customers, and whether it's a job where I get tipped or not, I often genuinely enjoy talking to people. it's hard to believe you've worked a shit retail job if you genuinely hate others working shit minimum wage jobs.

"iF yOu hATe sErVers DOnT eAt oUT"

Do you fucking hear yourself? I cannot express just how much I'm rolling my eyes.

I have seen servers throw a fit because people didn't tip them and I had a server come back to the table to to ask why we tipped less than 18% (we had tipped 12%, which is still fucking generous considering we were 3 minimum wage retail workers with very little disposable income! And this person has the gall to shame us for not giving them a bigger tip???!). So yeah, I do find this behavior extremely entitled.

I don't think servers themselves are a burden, but I DO think tipping is an extreme burden on poor people. Especially in a place where servers make the SAME minimum wage as everyone else. And now, more and more places are adding tip options. The barista puts a muffin in a bag and the machine pops up asking for a tip? Say it with me kids, creating a culture where you shame poor people into subsidizing wages of other poor people is a problem.

Literally in the original comment (that apparently you only read half of before getting enraged enough to direct message me?), I even said I tip and I am polite to servers. But apparently not being enthused about chit-chatting with strangers, and disagreeing with the fact that I, a poor person, am pressured into giving them extra money for doing the basic requirements of any service job, is somehow thinking they are below me?

And until I see servers starting a campaign to extend tipping to every single minimum wage service industry I'm going to continue on with my "vendetta" 🙄

[scentedchildnacho]

He asked me what I did today so I told him I had coffee and I was going to go to church but it was a church is kind of always sparsely populated and they were a church through covid that was one of the most phobic and shut down so i decided to go away before staying my welcome too quickly

Then I came down to watch the modeling....which I hate being called a pervert I'm not gay and I'm never going to want to be masculine but I came down to watch the modeling thinking if I can think of positive statements and want to meet people professionally something will finally stop making me go to counter cultures I don't want to go to

Uhm the modeling for me was too fair of a statement for me to join....im suppose to want to be servile help and I don't enjoy that taste too much in food

That and none of it makes sense to me as public statements if you ask me it all wanted to go to baby showers or start having a baby

Baby baby baby baby hips baby birth butt baby strong legs baby baby baby baby baby baby

People like me do have a dry foresty pallete so that still wasn't indigenous difference like meal other then oat......tree meal...

That's me about the slander my mental condition receives....its if you would finally your hormones would regulate so I'm like if you would finally privatize and make me pay six dollars to think about her portrait

You don't put her on a pedestal and then you blame me when I'm like it's creepy to want unpaid strippers

They could stop retailing stuff and let them make money in inside clubs and it's always a huge problem

I have a credit history I do put her on a pedestal it's you you you did that beach stunt to her I consciencely object

He asked me why I don't have a job so I said I was a poor waitress and student and found out it's only certain family systems that may transition out of poor labor into status ideas.....and I personally required to do that till 62 have to be driven crazy and I don't like crazy.....and that's me about people my age that still work that way I think they join police and kill people to keep their job and I won't live that way

War gives those things and if you won't military then those things are given to who will

If you ask me a lot of jobs will be fine they read the jail manual for criminal research and they do a job and that's all they do but if people asked me to do unreformed service I take a birth control pill before let a government tell me they will murder the kid if I don't support it in whatever way I can

Then physical assault my mother endured so we could have some old house no thank you not ever

If you ask me the type of diet and health care required to support cardiac stability with reproductive consciousness to me current woman is so deprivated it has to be a constant discipline to achieve eco outcomes and so it's fine to just not want to have a pregnancy

The world is over populated....I mean it takes an international production team so I'm just like passive okay all this Asian stuff just wasn't brought here.. .

The truth is many women do have my problems and they just wanted to have the babies they to me are kind because they with a health condition at least have a child to hug and love them after all they went through so

My sister also could finally be kind instead of commanding when finally disciplined to realize she at least was select matched to Ben when you have had to understand harassment to work it out with not select match

Heyroth was not select matched

He said...........they wouldn't approve him for social security so I said Margaret thatcher is now understood as a cruel lady she just wouldn't like the public programs proposed to her so she wouldn't do anything

Marge was known for very unrepaired and decaying systems

Nothing has to be renewed if wealth won't

My life experience definitely sees the relevance of a tax because all class structures are involved in persecuting poverty and what causes poverty police.....so to me a social tax to apologize is very obvious but they don't want to be sorry so

I can't let a lot of the activity be sent home till a tax is imposed that stops allowing business to steal from disability and rule over it

Businesses around are not new structures and I don't see relevance to concept after concept in unrepaired buildings when people could go home

They create new business to replace prior and the prior keeps stalking to be with disabilities and they were told not correct that person is a human being

Im sorry but no one thinks tip concepts are correct for a human beings disability

He said he has never been anywhere his whole life a fast food chain wouldn't let him go to the rest room......so I told him that's not correct if their too much better then the street and should be allowed only private practice then they should forcibly get their business off the street and elevated

They should have to lock an elevator not a public street restroom

People like me had to go to better business reform and learn organizational process so to me it isn't neat and it's very meaningless they put a business on the street that doesn't have anything to do with street experience on a complex level so that's why I don't job that many people told to beach and I have to be a good person

So that's me about wab kinew they do have to endure a genocide they were told street is advanced practice and they act needy and still not talked to

They called them criminals so I do hope the occupation stops

Well I notice a lot of concepts act country club like so to me their country manners should go to actual private areas and stop harassing poor city people

After this much Disney do you actually know anything about what this city as a cultural center was or did a lot of animation try to regularly pornographize and slaughter

Enrique Aleman he was the first person from his family line to achieve paid status otherwise his family was always poor his family did it for generations and forcing systems civilly to stop making kids sit in feces was still called poor....he was the first it's green politically

Yes if my mother would not have afforded the house the government would have killed me of programs as a child instead of an adult and they now though are willing to try to get em young

That and I was called a mental so indigenous people did have to figure out how a community could progress and alleviate suffering so I'm not sure these cellular and microbiological possibilities were available priorly

And that's you think there was a great revolution of science and I don't.....

There isn't necessarily a treaty history that indigenous peoples thought their specialties were for white people essentially they mostly just knew maybe to stay hospitably separate

I have seen people who call themselves homeless do things to restrooms and so they punish everybody because they won't go to clinics about things that are a medical issue like massive cuts and other very inappropriate behaviour sometimes

Things like being allowed to cut oneself to me is a very wealthy arbitrary thing to do so I don't believe their homeless and just do it to give homeless people bad reputations and punished out

Otherwise I said I do see relevance here of Arabic laws to me it's just cash and if a job or street person lifts cash off me for necessities not a big deal.........but if it's credit or any type of information after noticing if I go missing there is an identity to just use for crime I don't trust anyone with any information it will all need to backstab so i don't ever carry information on me

They know they can't go down to the bloc and promise to take clients home honkey tonk and they still do it so I leave their building to realtors

After having to be homeless I don't ever want anyone ever to stalk me for personal information

I kind of think anyone would do it if they were my attackers...I think people steal what my identity could have had for a good cause so

If it was stolen for crime i could have my things in life but I think Phyllis chesler the schizophrenic is daddy and if I have my things poor children could be murdered

I support children and so they could at least send photos and tell me things they enjoy about life

Well it was never my time to be selected to be a birther and people who obtain things from someone others call a friend tend to hide that they live that way

It's okay it's better to me that there are children in the world living much better then this creepy sex trafficking place....that's at least hope the human condition stops being a murderous nothing

[etiennepaddywrites]

The Curse by Etienne Paddy: Chapter Two

Later that week, I accompanied three of my friends to St. Stephen’s village for some shopping the afternoon they arrived back at school. After a long day of retail therapy in the quaint tudor-esque shops, we settled in The Powdered Newt, the local pub, to feast and play catch-up. That being said, I did not have much of an appetite for eating or merriment in the wake of my sudden singledom.

I clocked the group of Kiltrasners across the room, with the addition of two girls. One white blonde, weapons-grade beauty was nestled under Rafael’s arm, purring into his ear, and a pixie-faced redhead was draped over Asp.

As far as I was aware, Rafael had been linked romantically with Anousheh Fatemi for the past six months or so, who was still in Iran for the break. I imagined she wouldn’t be too happy with the scene unfolding before me. I wrinkled my nose and turned away.

“Honestly, I’m gonna boke,” said Irena, delicately as ever in her thick Northern Irish accent. As I looked at her she gestured towards the group with her fork, mimicking a gagging noise. Janie and Henry, our other companions, also followed her motion.

“Isn’t Rafael seeing someone?” Janie asked, brushing her blonde hair out of her round, pink face. “Why’s Delphine Draxton clung to him like a limpet?”

I tried not to roll my eyes at Janie’s innocence in the face of such flagrant infidelity.

“Delphine Draxton’s done quite a lot of clinging to boys this year, so I’ve heard” Irena sniggered. Janie looked scandalised, where Henry scrunched his nose in distaste. “Irena, please.”

Irena often carried herself with the decorum of a streaker pelting through a funeral service.

“Where do you guys think he and Ariadne have been all this time?” Henry asked in a hushed tone, peering at us through his tight brown curls. I braced myself for Irena’s standard inappropriate comment but she remained silent, her pale blue eyes searching each of ours with raised eyebrows, waiting for our suggestions.

“Who knows— they’re Duclairs. For all we know they may have just been on a long, expensive family holiday,” Janie offered, always prepared to cast anyone the benefit of the doubt.

Irena scoffed loudly. “Don’t be a dope, Janes. They’ve obviously joined the Reapers — everyone’s been saying it.”

“You don’t know that” Janie pointed out stubbornly, her cheeks flushing. “The Duclairs basically fund the school, they can take time off whenever they want. That makes far more sense than kids joining the Reapers.”

Irena gave us a look of don’t be so sure, and I ruminated on it for a moment, my finger tracing the rim of my forgotten drink. I was inclined to agree with Janie. Rafael was only sixteen, like us, and Ariadne, his cousin, was a year older. Far too young to join the terrorist group, even if their uncle was — unofficially — at the helm of it all.

Irena shamelessly ogled the group across the room before raising an eyebrow at us. “Well if one of us could get his kit off, we’d know for sure.”

Even after years of Irena’s lewdness, we still awkwardly avoided each others’ eyes.

“You know they say they all have those marks on their chests—” she expanded with a giggle, tracing a circle over her left breast. “I, for one, would happily volunteer.”

We all sighed in weary unison and the conversation then moved on to all the boys Irena thought were ‘rides’ this year. After ten more minutes of pushing my food around my plate and listening to the various positions Irena would like to practice with a burly Longfield boy in our year, I decided to excuse myself. I wasn’t in the mood to hear about Irena’s romantic endeavours, imagined or otherwise.

“Aw Fleur, it’ll get easier,” Janie said kindly.

“Edward didn’t deserve you. He was an absolute snooze,” Irena chimed in, helping me hoop my scarf around my neck and giving it a little pat when she was done. I crinkled my nose. She’d kept that assessment quiet over the past couple of months.

I said my goodbyes and left, making my way over to a low wall opposite the building, savouring the smell of peat fire smoke as it bloomed out of the pub’s wonky old chimney. I leaned against the jagged stone, taking a minute to myself before I made the journey back up to school.

The creak of hinges drew my attention to the rickety wooden door where Rafael was shrugging on a black cloak just beyond the threshold. He slid a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket with long, thin fingers, throwing a glance over at me. I quickly looked away, embarrassed to have been caught staring.

He was obviously a complete tool, but he’d grown up to be devastatingly good-looking. The last summer holiday had been kind to him, his boyish youth having become sculpted and refined. Here he stood, willowy and toned, with ear-length hair so dark it swallowed the light, falling effortlessly in loose curls over heavy black eyebrows. It was no wonder he had a harem.

I realized then that I was staring at him and quickly moved to redirect my gaze. Not, however, before he’d noticed.

To my utter horror, he sauntered over to me. I didn’t know what to do with my face in case this was one of those situations where you think someone was waving at you, only to wave back and realize you were entirely mistaken. He stopped next to me, leaving a little room. Leaning back against the wall, he took a drag on his freshly-lit cigarette, his golden signet ring glinting in the sunlight.

“Everwood” he greeted me smoothly whilst I gawped at him, mute. “Sorry about Verner earlier. He’s become a bit of a dolt of late, hasn’t he?” His musical voice was so beautifully modulated that all I could think of was how I longed to hear him speak again. “Or a colossal twit, was it?” He chuckled as he brought his cigarette to his lips. “It was a pleasure to see a glimpse of that forked tongue of yours again. More’s the pity it’s so seldom.”

“What’s it to you? We haven’t spoken in years,” I pointed out bitterly, finally finding my voice.

“Now, now, play fair,” he chided me.

“By all means, correct me.”

“It’s been a fractious time.”

“You mean your uncle?”

“No, the weather,” he said, sliding me a contemptuous look.

Being from an elite, ancient family, any whiff that Rafael had anything to do with someone as inferior as a halfling would indeed cause an uproar.

I did understand that, but I couldn’t forgive it.

“And the change in weather means you’ve decided to acknowledge me after so long?” I snipped as I pulled my cloak tighter around me and filled my lungs with the cold, January air.

After burying our friendship in the garden of our youth, I couldn’t believe his shameless impudence in unearthing this familiarity as if things had never changed.

Standing here with him now, I could still feel the lump that’d been lodged in my throat as I’d torn up the aeditrium’s stone staircases three years ago. I’d been struggling to fend off the oncoming tears after a run-in with a group of Kiltrasners when I’d heard a voice out of nowhere.

I stopped and listened, before realising that I hadn’t actually heard anything with my ears.

It was a strange sensation, and even stranger to process the connotations of what was indisputable: Someone’s voice was in my head.

I heard the cry again and stopped, trying to discern where the voice had come from. I deliberated for a moment before closing my eyes and succumbing to the peculiar feeling. I didn’t know how, but my body just knew what to do. After a deep breath, I let my consciousness peter out of my body, rooting around for the source of this voice. I found that its shaking wrath was like breadcrumbs in the air, leading me directly to its master.

It was my first true encounter with him. We’d shared a few classes at this point but had never spoken beyond pass the book, although hisnoble lineage and pleasing face had always made him a person of note to me. Upon pinpointing his mind, I couldn’t restrain my curiosity. Working actively against my better judgement, I decided to probe.

Who’s there? GET OUT OF MY HEAD, Rafael bellowed, as soon as I’d entered, the words reverberating around his mind like a scream in a tunnel.

I recoiled in shock, before collecting myself and shouldering in once more. How did you know I was here? I asked obstinately, determined to work out how he’d identified an intruder. It would be just typical for me to discover this rare new skill only to find I was useless at it. All my other abilities had required such hard work to be considered noteworthy in this world, after all.

Because I’m not stupid.

An unseen force began to scoot me out. Nevertheless, I clung on.

Training? I asked, groping for answers — willingly surrendered, or otherwise. Training would make sense. A powerful family like the Duclairs wouldn’t risk enemies infiltrating their minds or those of their children, no matter how unlikely that would be given that telepaths were a dead breed if the media was anything to go by. Which, I supposed, it wasn’t.

The very mention of the word ‘training’ swung open a door in his mind that confirmed my theory. A hazy vision of a young Rafael next to his older brother Sacha, being instructed by a private tutor in blocking telepathic invasion. A Professor Demonstras. Rafael didn’t like him. Sacha loved to wind him up.

I flinched as the door slammed shut on Sacha’s face.

If you won’t leave, I’ll eject you, he warned, and I didn’t doubt it. I did wonder, however, how I’d managed to gain entry in the first place considering his obvious extensive coaching.

Where are you? I asked, blinking back to my own consciousness before trying a few doors around me.

In here, his voice carried through the ether, and a door materialised at the end of the corridor, embedded in the stone wall that encased the Bell Tower. I gasped, eliminating the distance with a few strides before closing my fingers around the door handle.

The exertion of mind-hopping had my head thumping and a prickle gathering in the corner of my eye. I daubed at it with my forefinger and brought my hand back before me, the tip of my finger now glistening red.

I smeared the blood on my black habit and entered the room. My mouth swung open as I glanced around in awe. The gothic windows looking over the grounds reached up to a vast ceiling adorned with cobwebs. The room itself was enormous, allowing for the bells in the room above, the mouth of each presumably the size of a small boat judging by the width and depth of the space. Not only that, the room itself was filled with forgotten oddities and an eclectic assortment of shabby furniture.

I could see the residue of magic clouding the room in the light from the window, like dust in an attic. There were boxes of trinkets thrumming with mystical properties, mounds of clothes and hundreds upon hundreds of books. It was like a hoarder’s trove.

“It’s you,” Rafael breathed in surprise. I ignored him, instead reaching to touch a little silver box on the table next to me which emitted a squeak and shot off the edge. He sneered. “Pick up your jaw, it’s only a load of old rubbish.”

I was shocked by his lack of amazement. I still harboured a childlike wonder where magic was concerned. Where everyone around me considered these incredible things par for the course, I wanted to rifle through everything, to learn more about this captivating world I was so lucky to be a part of. But a Duclair? I suppose his lack of interest wasn’t actually shocking at all.

“Are you okay?” I asked, turning my attention to him, which he promptly swatted away like a meddlesome fly.

“Why are you here?” he deflected imperiously.

I processed his words, remembering the heated call with my father in the phone room and the vicious glee on Woodrow Kilbrook’s face as he’d eaten up my humiliation and left no crumbs. I bit my lip, the degradation washing over me afresh.

Rafael’s face changed dramatically. He clearly hadn’t meant to incite a breakdown, yet here I was, eyes watering and lip a-quiver.

“I— I—” he stammered, his shoulders tumbling out of their aggressive stance as he floated awkwardly over to me. “I’m sorry.”

“False etiquette doesn’t suit you” I managed, focusing on the floor as I schooled my twitching face back to neutrality.

“I am,” he said with sincerity, stiffly putting a hand on my arm— although I imagine he’d meant to be comforting. At this age, Rafael hadn’t quite developed his intoxicating hold over women and his touch lacked the self-assuredness that would soon inform his every movement. Too soon, arguably.

We stood there for a moment, standoffishly regarding one another, both unsure of how to proceed. I was aware of the things he and his friends said about me behind my back, which made me wonder why he was bothering to feign kindness now.

“You know that’s rare?” he offered. “Your ability?”

“A magical halfling?” I snipped. “Yes, I’m painfully aware, thank you.”

There were only a handful of halflings in the entire world. According to everything known about magic and DNA, it shouldn’t be possible to have magical halflings at all— all other children born to inter-magical parents possessed no abilities whatsoever. You’d think I’d have been revered as a medical marvel, but halflings had always been scorned, even before the birth crisis. Our teeth were less sharp, our movements more sluggish, our senses less refined… We were considered a blight on the race.

Rafael frowned at me. “No, I meant the telepathy — even amongst magiceans, it’s very rare. Does anyone know you can do it?”

“No” I admitted. “I didn’t until just now.”

“That’s quite remarkable for a —”

He caught himself before he uttered the slur dancing on the tip of his tongue.

“Fleur?” Rafael asked as I snapped back to the present, breaking forth out of my reverie and back to The Powdered Newt. The wafts of cigarette smoke and the crisp chill of the day settled once more upon my senses. I nodded, inviting him to continue.

“We’re not children any more” he reiterated, giving me an icy look.

“Sorry?”

“You’re a halfling, your father a race traitor, no less—”

“We were friends,” I said, and he flinched backwards slightly, as if I’d sworn at him. The corners of my mouth began to twitch, threatening to tug downwards. “Why does any of that matter? No one ever knew!”

“We could never be friends” he asserted with a scowl, twisting that final word over his tongue like it had a bad taste.

“Oh, well thank the gods you sought me out to make that clear.”

“I just thought I’d check on you. Don’t read into it” he said brusquely, casting away his cigarette butt.

I suddenly felt a burning desire to strike him. “I don’t know why you scorned me all of a sudden. I’m just as bright as you” I snapped. “All this talk about halflings being less magical is rubbish and you knowit.”

“Even so,” he said, refusing to meet my eyes, “but facing a birth dearth? Half-br—halflings shouldn’t be allowed in magical circles— race treachery cannot be condoned. It sets a bad precedent and it won’t help the crisis.” He took a step towards me, lowering his voice. “You might be able to navigate your obvious physical drawbacks,” he said, pulling his wand out of his pocket and spinning it around his fingers with impossible speed to embellish his point, before snapping it to a stop, “but no amount of practice will ever have a magical child quicken your womb. And now, that’s what really matters.”

Anger flared in my chest. “You didn’t seem to mind me being here when we were helping each other with our homework.” I hissed. “Last I checked, my womb didn’t even come into it.”

The look of utter insult that flashed across his face was interrupted by the Kiltrasner rabble bursting out of the pub. Asp stopped to assess our proximity. “Raf, is that mule bothering you?” he called over. Rafael recoiled from me.

All I did was frown and curl my mouth, but it was enough. “What was that, Never-Would?” Asp fired at me. “Nothing smart to say today?” The lanky boy stalked over to us as Rafael slowly backed away from me towards his friends.

Hot tears began to pool in my eyes as I put my hands up to bat Asp away, but he was too quick. “Just you wait you little half-breed”hespat, grabbing my upper arm as I shrank away from him, afraid. “Once the New Order is underway we’ll be a supreme race once more. Our lands will be reclaimed and you’ll be cast out of this world where you belong,back to that Unspirited dung heap you hail from. I, for one, hope they slit your throat at some altar, like they used to. Either way, enjoy your days here, for they’re numbered.”

He shoved my arm back and I massaged where his fingers had gripped me. Each sore spot was like a button pressed, and fury began to swell within me. I wished I could slap him. I wished I could muster the courage to punch him right between the eyes. “Any success you’ve had has been 99% perspiration and don’t you forget it.” He held a finger up to my face. “True magiceans do not sweat.”

“Don’t play with your food, Vern,” Rafael lectured in a bored tone. “It’s so bloody common.”

Asp scowled, but quickly directed his vexation at me. “You should know better than to approach him. Do you need a reminder of your place here?” He spat at my feet.

“And yet you’ll have me linger” Rafael stated impatiently, turning on his heel. “Get a fucking move on.”

“Mark my words mule” Asp warned as he began to back away. “You can’t hear it now,” he raised his hand to his ear and twitched his fingers menacingly, imitating raindrops falling from the sky, “but the thunder is coming.”

I clenched my teeth, trying to govern my swimming eyes. I waited until the boys were over the hill and out of sight before I let the tears escape.

[vernalseason]

Here's why I'm so goddamn feral about The Bear.

I ran an ice cream store for about five years. No, it wasn’t fine dining, it wasn’t even a restaurant, but it was still food service. We were in a vacation town, and our place was the only ice cream store in the area, and the ice cream was GOOD. Customers used to ask me all the time if I got sick of eating it and I’d say no, and I meant it. It was reasonably fancy as ice cream goes, with some pretty out-there flavors, but mostly it was just GOOD. Super flavorful, dense but not chewy the way that some ice creams get where it feels like it’s stretching unnaturally when you pull your spoon away…

Point is, it was an ice cream shop in a tourist town, and in the summer we got killed during service every single night. Nonstop lines from 7 til 12 or 1 in the morning, no breaks. We got after-dinner crowds, after-show crowds, hordes of camp kids a busload at a time, and it might not have been fine dining but we worked HARD. We had 8, 9, 10 people on peak days all scooping, cleaning, making milkshakes (which is The Worst, in case you were curious), restocking by running down rickety definitely-not-to-code stairs to our tiny walk-in and hauling ice cream up 4 boxes at a time—because goddamn it, time was valuable and running up and down the stairs sucked and no one was going to go down multiple times when you could just grab 4 at a time and grit your teeth and shove them onto the counter upstairs feeling like you’d just benched your own body weight.

At the start of the summer, Memorial Day weekend, we were at our absolute peak. Following a truly herculean hiring effort aided by the promise of unlimited free ice cream, we had a crew of 20-odd overcaffeinated teenagers and twentysomethings who were working a truly awe-inspiring pace to kill the line. My favorite moments were, variously:

Being so busy I had to run two registers simultaneously, waiting for Square to process a transaction on one (chip card readers were murderously slow in the early days) while taking cash on the other;

Absolutely shattering every store record on a Saturday night with a skeleton crew and getting approval to order 12AM pizza on the company card, and taking a long, long hour to eat before we finally had to get around to scrubbing the calcified ice cream off the floors;

Gearing up to call for a restock on spoons, napkins, and other such necessities only to find that my assistant manager was behind me with a milk crate of those very things;

And so on.

There was about a month and a half of beautiful, well-staffed, smooth-running time before things frayed at the edges. Suddenly the factory couldn't get enough ingredients, since the company was chronically broke (turns out wholesale ice cream is a bad idea, folks; retail is where it's at), or the store walk-in broke down and we had to resort to chest freezers for storage for a month, or, most commonly, we started losing staff. I was always after the owner of the company to hire more year-round full-time staff, but there was always something more urgent for him to spend money on, like rent. So inevitably our staff would start leaving for college, and we'd be left with about half to a third of the staff we really needed to run. Which is when things started getting bad.

There are only so many doubles you can work before you start losing your grip on reality. I recall one day in August when I was somehow, improbably, the only person available to fill an entire day of shifts, and worked from 9AM pre-open to 11PM at night. The only thing that I remember is that the tips were phenomenal. But by Labor Day weekend we were down to our last seasonal staff and the entire core crew had worked at least two doubles that week and we limped into the off season with about two remaining brain cells between us.

Anyway. This post was supposed to be about The Bear.

I've never seen a show—or at least, never seen a FICTIONAL show—that so deeply understands what it means to be in food service. I watched the first episode in absolute awe of how they captured the intensity—just GOING until you get a moment to yourself in the bathroom, in the walk-in, in the office. And when you slow down, you think about how tired you are. How burnt out. How much all you really want is just to sit, maybe eat a slice of pizza, and stare into space for an hour. But then you go back out, and you get back to work.

I've also never seen a show that so accurately captures what it looks like and feels like to be a manager. Carmy losing his temper, giving in to that righteous anger in 'Review'—how DARE you not cover your station, how DARE you leave me with this mess that you created—I've been there. I'm not proud of it. I didn't punch a ticket printer, or scream in anyone's face, but I lost my cool, and that sticks with me. You don't get to take it back. You apologize (even if you were right), you patch things up, but no one ever really forgets.

But the show also does justice to one of the great joys of the service industry: getting to see people improve. One of my favorite subplots is Tina going from sabotaging Sydney to respecting her, trusting her, defending her. But mostly, it's my favorite because we see her get BETTER. She goes from just holding down her station to being a pro, from throwing things together to being careful, and thoughtful, and focused. And that moment when Tina says 'thank you, chef', and means it, really MEANS it, that's the kind of thing that gets me all teary. Because it's so much more than just 'thank you', but you'd have spend a hell of a lot longer to get it all out.

I guess if I was going to trace my rabid and, so far undiminished love of the show to a single thing, it would be the fact that it makes me feel seen. I haven't done that much reading on the people who made the show, but enough of them clearly lived this life or got close enough to it that they understand what it does to people, and what it requires of them. I loved working in food service, and sometimes I even miss it. I loved getting to make people's days, to give kids their first-ever ice cream, to feel like people were leaving in a better mood than they came in. And I met my partners through this life, all three of them, which is as exactly as wild and improbable as it sounds. But every time I look back on it fondly, I make myself remember that it was miserable too. The late nights, the early mornings, the days off cut short by delivering emergency stock or jumping in to cover a shift or just ending back up at the shop out of habit. The crushed toes and ragged wrist tendons and hoarse throats, the constant phone calls or checking sales to try and anticipate if we needed more staff. The sensation that after service, the rest of the world was dim in comparison.

I sank so much time and energy into that life, and I think the last thing I love about The Bear, the other thing that makes me tear up a little bit, is that for them it turns out alright in the end. They work through the problems, they make things run smooth, and they get the chance to build the place they dreamed about. That was always what I wanted, what I was working toward—the chance to make things better. And even in fiction, it makes me happy to see that come true.

[void-galaxy-shenanigans]

The best thing happened at work today. I wanna share, both to encourage people they can do it & to appreciate the person who did it.

So....for context we put our pronouns on our work nametag (he/they). Most people ignore it & misgender us anyway (ma’am, miss, she 😣).

This older, grey haired man (best guess is he was 40s to late 50s) noticed our pronouns. Normally people ignore it, but he didn’t.

So we had this conversation:

~

Older Gentleman: *pauses to stare at our nametag & pronouns*

Us, internally: Oh no. Please don’t say something bigoted or painfully ignorant.

Older Gentleman: “So I have teenage kids and I’m new to learning this pronoun stuff...so, ¿how does that work?” *points at our nametag* “¿What does the ‘they’ do?” (/polite, curious)

Both of us: *awkward pause*

Older Gentleman: “Sorry. You don’t have to explain and I absolutely don’t want to be disrespectful.” (/insistently genuine, gentle)

Us: *blank stare, shy smile* “It’s okay. I’d rather you ask and make the effort to be respectful.” (/srs)

Us: “Use them interchangeably. Use both, back and forth.” (/srs)

Older Gentleman: “Okay.”

Both of us: *quiet pause*

Older Gentleman: “So ¿did you use he/him before? ¿What were your original pronouns?” (/gentle & curious, fidgety like a curious little kid)

Us, after an uncomfortable pause (deciding to be honest but not say it explicitly): “I don’t use my original pronouns.” *shrug*

Older Gentleman, understanding that implies it was she/her & not asking further: “Okay.” *appreciative, apologetic smile*

Both of us: *awkward pause again*

Me, deciding I feel comfortable to explain: “I’m nonbinary - not entirely man or woman.” (/srs, tentative & hopeful)

Older Gentleman: *nods* “Okay. While I’m learning [and might forget to use they], ¿which binary pronoun is more comfortable?” (/genuine, srs, curious)

Us: *blink of surprise* “He/him.”

Older Gentleman: “¡Okay! I’ll use he.” (/genuine, srs)

~

He went on to order food very politely & patiently, & when he gestured the two people with him to order (“he’s ready, it’s your turn”; “tell him what you want”) he correctly gendered us. He didn’t demand why we changed our pronouns & didn’t say anything bigoted.

??? 🥺💚

That's the most respectful & polite way to handle something like that. And it completely made our day (/srs, genuine). We’d been at work since 6am, up since 5am, & it was 2pm (we had a 9.5hr shift), & we were exhausted & in pain (& dysphoric from getting misgendered all day). But that respectful interaction that took him maybe 5 minutes had us smiling, more energetic, & with a little bounce in our step for the rest of our shift.

Honestly I’d rather be asked by everyone how to use our pronouns correctly & how to best respect us than deal with another person who sees our pronouns, decides not to ask, & uses she/her anyway. He even asked some borderline uncomfortable questions, & I still felt safer around him overall than most of our customers.

So please, if you feel confident enough for a second, ask. Your server, the customer service employee you talk to, the retail worker, that intimidating goth person who wears spikes, we are all people worthy of respect. If you’re unsure how to use a pronoun, ask. But don’t shame someone for not using pronouns you expect &/or are already familiar with.

On that note I’m gonna keep smiling like a little kid who found a dollar (/lighthearted, poking a little fun at myself). I adore that man & hope he becomes a regular or semi regular customer. 🥰

~Nico (he/they; co-host, protector)

[sockeye-run]

Content Warning ⚠️ : drug mention, PTSD, stress and complaining

We officially sold the big car yesterday. There's a demand for used and new cars right now; dealerships have been shrinking in inventory since last summer. So a local dealership was quick to offer us our asking price, which is a godsend, honestly. But I didn't feel any relief or happiness about it yesterday. I know it's going to take a huge chunk out of our bill debt, and I'm incredibly grateful we had the resource to use as needed... But I feel bad. I feel guilty about selling a very generous gift that we only had for a year. I feel stressed that we had to downsize because we can't even afford something as simple as the gas for the big car, let alone should anything happen to it. I'm stressed that we lost a valuable vehicle, as our family is ever growing and genuinely could use the extra space and power (towing, storage, etc). And I'm anxious as fuck about the financial situation still. I've been applying for jobs regularly, and without bias; I had an interview at the most depressing Aldi store I've ever seen in my life the other day. I'm willing to work in service or retail hell to keep us balanced. But I'm honestly not content with the situation. And though selling the car brings in a significant amount of monetary relief, it feels like I've just borrowed a couple more days of uneasy peace, and that nothing has actually improved.

Last night I was feeling so upset, so I took a kpin before bed. I was tired and needed the sleep, but the anxiety and stress were making my body and mind so tense that it felt like I wasn't even lying there, but instead floating out of pure tension just over the sheets lol. I did knock out eventually, but now I'm groggy and just kind of bummed out today. I have a run that I'm planning to get to soon, and that's a nice thing to look forward to. But then it's back to the job grind, taking care of the house/husband/pups, and just trying to keep moving on. I'm out of a lot of core recipe ingredients. I'm out of my DOC (coffee lol); I have black tea, so at least my caffeine addiction is placated. My husband is just as picky as his kids and prefers foods that I don't have or don't have the ingredients to make right now... And my PTSD gives me extreme anxiety when someone close to me even comes off as upset, whoops.

My goal is to just tighten all the belts and just make it through this summer. I don't want the kids to worry or feel pressured about our financial issues. It's not their responsibility or burden to carry. Unexplainably luckily, my sister and mom have offered to help with groceries while the kids are here, so that's one fewer stressor on my mind for the next two months. Granted, they're preteen and teenaged, so they eat like rabid ship rats lol, so I'm not certain how long things will last. But they do enjoy some very cheap and easy meals like pancakes and chicken and dumplings, so that's stuff I can whip up with relatively cheap ingredients. But I'll have to keep looking for work while trying to keep everyone afloat.

It's not very helpful, also, that it seems all my husband wants to talk about or watch/listen to is bad news. I realize everything is awful right now and good news is few and far between, but every day, all day, he just wants to reiterate all the awful things happening around and to us. It's just his modus operandi for processing, I think, but it really wears me down. I KNOW how fucking terrible everything is. I KNOW how corrupt the government and the powerful corporations they shield are, despite the dire needs of the very people and economy that fund their existence. I KNOW the earth is dying and supply chains are breaking down and people are being violent all the time. Even when I try my damndest to ignore anything but good news/content, the realities seep through. And having my only constant human contact and partner constantly reiterating the awful echoes of our current realities just makes me feel so pressurized. There's no true relief to be had anywhere.

Blegh. Sorry if you read all that and are bummed out now lol. I just don't have anywhere else to put this weight. Which reminds me, I'm also supposed to be looking for a therapist right now... ugh. I hope everyone is hanging in there and doing okay right now. 💙

[paullicino]

Ten Years

Taken from my Patreon.

Ten years is a long time. It’s long enough for many things to change, but also long enough for everything to remain the same.

I remember ten years ago as if it were yesterday, as if it passed by in the blink of an eye, with light and shadow, textures and taste all as familiar as ever.

A morning after. Shocked faces. A phone call. Events barely believable, yet all too real.

Ten years ago, my then partner and I were living in a top floor flat off Tottenham High Road. It was sweltering in the summer and the downstairs neighbours played dance music at four in the morning. But the views out the back bedroom window were of valleys of rooftops, sprouting television aerials and summited in the winter by the briefest dustings of snow.

The sun was for the front of the flat. The moon shone into our bedroom.

I remember that sunlight in the afternoon, sparkling through the shifting foliage of the tall trees outside. And I remember summer most of all. August.

We had a tap. A faucet. A great, overwrought thing that our landlady was obsessed with. It was the best tap ever, she said. It was large, curved and heavy, the pharaonic headdress worn atop a newly-fitted kitchen of which she was so proud. Wasn’t it exciting that we had such a good tap?

We just wanted our bed repaired. Our home wasn’t finished when we moved in and we slept on the sofa for weeks. When the mighty tap was finally installed, it was too heavy for its fitting. It teetered. Along with poorly-mounted cupboard doors with handles that prevented other cupboards from opening, its practicality was an afterthought.

The walk up Tottenham High Road took me to the only two locations I ever really visited, the supermarket and the job centre. The supermarket provided us with affordable food (though I’d watched the price of many staples almost double over five years) and the job centre provided me, an unemployed person, the money with which to buy that food.

The job centre, which was now extra special and had been rebranded Job Centre Plus, did not provide anyone the means with which they could get a job. It spent almost all of its time providing people with unemployment benefits. Most of the thousands of Tottenham residents who poured through its doors would’ve taken a job if they could’ve found one, but the listings at the centre itself were usually out of date, irrelevant or in some other way misfiled. Most employers don’t want to list their vacancies at the Job Centre Plus because they don’t want to employ the kind of people who go there.

Out of the Job Centre Plus and the supermarket, which one do you think burned that August?

I have written before about my strongest memory of the Job Centre Plus, but here it is again. It was of an old foreign woman and her daughter trying to speak to a clerk. The old woman didn’t speak English, so her daughter was attempting to explain that the woman was looking for work and thus registering as unemployed to gain unemployment benefit. The clerk was trying to explain that the woman was too old to work and should also be on disability benefit. The daughter was trying to explain that they had tried to navigate those systems and that they were obtuse and broken. Her mother just needed money. To live.

(Ten years before, in the summer of 2001, I’d first looked at the cost of moving out. I looked at rents around my Hampshire town, at the cost of housing and at the wages I needed to earn. England was expensive, I decided. It sure cost a lot just to live.)

Everyone was trying to explain everything. The job centre mostly wanted to give people their money and get rid of them, because there were many more lined up behind.

My strongest memory of the supermarket was of the man outside with no legs. He sat there panhandling in his wheelchair almost every day of the year. Britain had just launched its latest Astute-class nuclear submarine, each of which costs over one and a half billion pounds, but it was still a country where a man with no legs had to beg outside a shop.

I thought about that man long after I left Tottenham. I think about him here, now, ten years on.

My partner went abroad to see family and I spent some of the summer restarting my career as a freelance writer. I was fortunate with the connections and opportunities that I had, none of which would ever be found at a job centre, and I spent a lot of my time writing either to find work or simply for practice. I was writing on the night my street burned.

It began before dusk and I came home to find enormous police vehicles parked outside, the sort that are mobile command headquarters. Chains of armoured riot vans surged north. I heard there’d been a protest outside the police station and that a car or two had been burned. I checked the news occasionally. It didn’t have much to add.

Police vans kept coming, though all other traffic had stopped. The roads were closed, blocked by the police, and the latest news told me that petrol bombs had been thrown and a bus set alight. The reports were sparse.

The police in England are really good at responding to riots. They turn up in great swathes, on horses, in vans, or on foot and armed with batons and shields. They have all kinds of exciting equipment to help them. A year before, they’d kettled schoolchildren protesting the huge increase in university tuition fees, surrounding and slowly crushing hundreds of them in Trafalgar Square and on Westminster Bridge. Footage emerged of them beating the shit out of kids or dragging people out of wheelchairs. Here they were now in Tottenham, ready for more.

I kept trying to find news. The police had cordoned off most of the High Road, which meant the journalists that were arriving had no ability to find what was happening inside the riot. Distant footage of fires was the best most of them could provide. As I remember it now, the BBC had one van inside of the police cordon and couldn’t broadcast out because its dish had been damaged. I also have memories of a single journalist, almost in the thick of a mob, asking rioters to give them a moment to explain why they were protesting, or wondering why on earth they might want to block a BBC camera crew who were trying to film them.

What an inane question.

I found the news I wanted. I found it via Twitter and social media. And it was terrifying.

Broadcast news had described a riot not unlike any other. But the still relatively new sphere of social media was overflowing with witness statements, photographs and the kind of low-quality video that phones captured back then. People across Tottenham were panicking as they described growing crowds on the High Road burning not only vehicles, but also shops and businesses. They were breaking into commercial properties. They were looting. They were starting more fires. This had begun half a mile away from my home and it was spreading outward. The post office burned. Landmark businesses burned. Local shops burned and, with them, the flats and homes located above.

The updates kept coming and it’s almost impossible for me now to try to describe to you not only the sheer volume of panic and distress that waterfalled down my feed, but also the sense of utter hopelessness that came with it. People beyond the High Road described not just the violence spilling into their streets, the fights and the hundreds of looters, the fires and the damage, but also how there was no one who could stop this. No emergency services responded. Their phones went unanswered or the lines were jammed.

I read update after update that echoed the same, basic fact, something which I still struggle to comprehend even now, something I’d describe as barely believable: No help was coming.

But the social media updates kept coming. Looters were turning up with empty vans and loading them up with everything they could take. Buildings were being destroyed. A whole estate was being evacuated.

The news provided by the BBC and its peers remained limp and languid, so I spent all night reading these updates, discovering more nearby shops were being gutted, or how the retail park near me was looted to the point of emptiness, and I watched as even my own view out the window became broiling crowds of countless restless and angry people. I remember one man walking off into the darkness with brand new flatscreen televisions under each arm, the police vans now long gone. The night was regularly punctuated by shouts, screams, thumps and sometimes what might have been explosions. The sirens were always distant. The helicopters came and went.

I don’t know where the police cordon had gone. It felt almost as if they had given up and let Tottenham run rampant.

The sun came up and from that back bedroom window I saw smoke rising. I hadn’t slept. The news was full of irrelevant speculation and so, at five-thirty, I put on my shoes and walked the High Road. What I saw was barely believable. Sometimes I met the stunned gazes of other people doing the same, sometimes I avoided any eye contact. I have kept a diary for a long time now and this is what I recorded (slightly edited):

“This morning at about 5:30, as the sun rose, I tried to wander through Tottenham to take some pictures. It became one of the scariest walks I've ever taken.

The atmosphere was tense and unpleasant. Columns of smoke snaked upwards and the High Road and several other streets were blocked off or packed with police vehicles, many more of which were endlessly arriving, some from as far away as Kent.

The nearby retail park was littered with debris and many of its shopfronts were smashed. Groups of people, perhaps gangs, loitered everywhere. While some areas were busy with police officers, others were neglected and patrolled by hostile looking young men.

I didn't end up taking many pictures. I kept moving. Depending upon where you walk, Tottenham looks like a cross between a blitz bomb site and the mess after a chaotic festival.

Something still feels very different. Tottenham has hardly been rosy at the best of times, but today the sunshine can't seem to dispel a strange chill in the air. I myself can't stop thinking of all the homes that burned last night. It might not be immediately obvious to many people, but above a great deal of those shops set ablaze were flats, often family homes for very poor people. Many of those who had little now have less.”

A day after those first riots hit Tottenham, they went nationwide. London wasn’t done and, for a week, many major cities in England played host to their own riots. Tottenham was totally locked down, but it was far too late. The disorder had moved elsewhere.

I remember telling a colleague I worked with that I wouldn’t be finishing something that weekend. He laughed at the news and imagined it would all blow over. He was from a much wealthier background.

Then, everyone started trying to explain everything.

The BBC caught up with events the way a great-grandparent catches up with technology, fumbling and frowning. Goodness me, they said, in their middle class, broadcast-trained voices, and they joined in with the three broad lines of discussion that emerged. One asked how this could happen, one asked why this had happened, and one was about how this would never happen again, because the law would be firmer than ever, the punishments and prosecutions authoritative and absolute. The police were ready for more. They were going to get water cannons. I imagine those work particularly well on kids and wheelchairs.

There was a lot of talk about punishment, including from the Prime Minister, who decided to stop being on holiday in Tuscany only after England’s third night of rioting. I wonder if he had imagined it would all blow over.

Sometimes there was talk involving the people of Tottenham themselves, but it was more likely to be talk about them. A lot of people in Tottenham are Black and have families that trace back to the very first Windrush immigrants of the late 1940s. One Black Labour MP said it was important to talk about their experiences in London, their economic situation and their history of treatment by the police. After all, the spark that had set these riots alight was a protest outside the police headquarters, subsequent to the suspicious shooting of Mark Duggan, a Black man, something that called to mind a similarly suspicious death of a Black woman that also precipitated Tottenham’s 1985 riots.

For some people, the discussion became about how Black people had started the riots and been the chief participants. This wasn’t reflected in anything I saw either on social media or with my own eyes, in person, on the night. But nobody was stopping to ask me what I thought or what I saw.

Not long after that first riot, my partner called me to check I was okay and to ask if those barely believable things she’d seen on the news were really as bad as they seemed. They were. I rode the bus up the High Road on my way to Wood Green, then later to Walthamstow, both of which offered me temporary job centres that took the overspill from ours, thoroughly gutted by fire and then looted of all of its copper piping. The bus crept past burned-out shops and homes. I don’t know where those people have gone.

Later that year, my partner and I discovered that our income was low enough that we were eligible for housing benefit. It took us so long to try to apply for it that we moved home before any progress was made. When I found enough work to support myself, I visited the job centre to sign off, as we called it, to close my file. I asked a woman at reception what I needed to do. “Nothing,” she said, as the line behind me wound down several stories of stairs and out into the grey autumn street. “Just stop coming. Stop coming.”

Winter came and things rustled in the walls. There was a long, tall hedge along the High Road and I would look out the window to see men using it as a urinal. I only had to live in Tottenham for around a year and a half and I have good memories from that flat, but I also remember a stifling and sad place to live, from which I was lucky to move on. Tottenham was never my home and I never had to stay there, but I certainly feel that I came to get a sense of the place.

After moving out, our ex-landlady complained that we hadn’t left the oven as clean as she would’ve liked. She hiked the rent 9% while we were staying there. She never fixed anything that broke and provided excuses instead of solutions.

I found more work. I taught games and narrative for a semester at a small institution in East London. One of the things I asked my students to consider was the stories and the experiences of people who weren’t like them. I asked them to share how often they had been stopped and randomly searched by airport security. “Not just at the airport,” one student reminded me. “On the tube. On the street.”

My life continued to improve in many ways, but I still remembered the man in the wheelchair. The BBC and many other media outlets continued to talk about poverty and race, but not always to poor people or to people who weren’t white. In 2014 I wrote On Poverty and one of the most surprising responses I repeatedly received from people was “I had no idea that it was like this.” A friend of mine tried to apply for support for chronic health problems and documented her many struggles, including being required to explain exactly how many times a week she suffered from migraines (“You said it was two or three times a week. Well, is it two, or is it three?”). The news regularly reported growing homelessness, rising use of food banks and the inevitable deaths of people who weren’t just failed by broken systems, apathy and a lack of understanding, but also simply too poor to be alive.

I feel like some of the people I knew didn’t like how I kept returning to these topics. I feel, even more, that they didn’t at all understand. I remember some of these people waiving off the Brexit referendum as it approached, certain the country wouldn’t vote to amputate itself from the European Union. I don’t think they understood and I don’t think they’d seen the unhappy England that I had, both as a child and as an adult. I think they’d only seen, and been, very comfortable people.

I think these people would call themselves open-minded, progressive and keen to make the world better. I’m sure they could explain those views. At length.

If I think of those people now, I’m quite sure they are all still very comfortable, ten years on. I also think there is still a good chance that man is sat in that wheelchair outside of that supermarket, though he could also be dead by now, again simply too poor to be alive. No longer able to watch the sun sparkle through tall trees, see roofs dusted with snow or catch the moon peeping through his bedroom window.

Such things aren’t for poor people. We still get frustrated when we give them benefits or find out they own mobile phones.

---

Ten years on, Tottenham is almost a dream, a memory where the details have faded and the edges have softened. I have moved countries, had the privilege of travelling through work, enjoyed many different creative opportunities and benefited from free healthcare that has addressed difficult, long-term health issues. I have rationed my life according to a tight budget, but I’ve never had to face the overwhelming, unending hardships of others that I’ve shared neighbourhoods and postcodes with. I cannot ignore these people because they have so often been one street away, visiting the same shop or riding the same train. They are not an abstraction, they are right there, ready to tell us all about their lives.

Ten years on, Tottenham has one of the UK’s fastest-growing rates of unemployment, the latest statistic in the region’s long history of joblessness and poverty. Many of its residents, like poor people across the country, live paycheck to paycheck, at risk of financial ruin should they experience a single upheaval. Ten years on, the most reliable predictor of success and financial stability in the UK (as in many developed countries) is now considered to be the circumstances of your birth. The idea of social mobility is more irrelevant than ever, with much of your destiny decided before you are even born. Ten years on, almost a quarter of the population of the UK lives in poverty.

Ten years on, continued austerity, government apathy and cuts to social services has meant that, yes, ten years really is enough time for everything to stay the same. Without change, the problems people face become generational, systemic. Some people tell me that the 1980s were like this for certain families, regions, populations. I didn’t know. We were doing okay. Perhaps I didn’t get it, didn’t notice it, didn’t want to think about it.

Ten years on, Mark Duggan’s family filed a civil claim against the Metropolitan Police and were awarded an undisclosed sum, after his death was officially ruled a lawful killing in 2014. Lawyers for the Duggan claim commissioned this in-depth report on the shooting, which illustrated many problems with the official police version of events.

Ten years on, the UK government is trying to curtain the right to protest. It commissioned a review that concluded that the country has no systemic racism. It wants to limit the powers of the Electoral Commission and has considered conflating the concepts of whistleblowing and leaking with spying, meaning those who leak information could be treated as criminals. It is increasingly intent on punishing those who might express dissatisfaction.

And ten years on, as we all know, wages have not risen to match the rising costs of rent, food, utilities or transport. It sure costs a lot just to live.

Finally, in 2018, the UN Special Rapporteur on Poverty and Human Rights visited the United Kingdom and did speak with many of its poor. The resulting exhaustive and damning report concluded that “statistics alone cannot capture the full picture of poverty in the United Kingdom” and that “much of the glue that has held British society together since the Second World War has been deliberately removed and replaced with a harsh and uncaring ethos.” It described harsh, ill-conceived and out-of-touch support systems devised and doubled down on by a government that not only failed to understand poverty, but that couldn’t even measure it accurately. It also predicted that these things would only get worse, and without any consideration of the effect of extraordinary events, such as a global pandemic.

The government described the report as “barely believable.”

I don’t think any help is coming.

---

There’s a question that sometimes bounces around social media and it asks people this: “What radicalised you?” As if there was some moment that changed a person’s political beliefs and rearranged their perspective on the world.

Here’s the thing. I feel like my perspective is from the floor, skewed and sore after I fell between two stools, always unable to find an identity amongst wider British culture. I grew up too comfortable, too spoiled and too well-spoken to call myself working class, but I was easily alienated by schoolfriends with multiple bathrooms and university-educated parents. My interests and my sentiments aren’t supposed to be working class, but many of my life experiences and even philosophies are. I know what it’s like to memorise Shakespeare and to explain themes in Romantic-era art, as much as I know what it’s like to fight government systems that are ostensibly supposed to help, to be unable to afford your own home, to walk into a supermarket and look at staple foods you still can’t afford. You think about Descartes and then you think about which dinner provides the cheapest way to keep your body alive.

When I was a kid I remember going to friend’s houses where they were too poor to clean the carpet, or seeing them lose a parent to lung cancer, or the time someone showed me a gun hidden in their brother’s car. As an adult I wrote to my politicians to ask them what they were doing about poverty, about education, about the cost of living. I went to protests and signed petitions and supported charities both practically and financially. I suppose I was trying to articulate some of the skills I’d learned from in some situations to articulate the experiences I’d had in others. Surely you have to do something.

I both resent and appreciate aspects of both classes and I imagine I’ll never work out who I am or what I’m supposed to call myself. But I do know there are vastly different worlds and vastly different experiences within British culture and that many continue to be overlooked even when in plain sight. And it’s what I find most frustrating.

If there was one thing I learned, if not one thing that radicalised me, it wasn’t simply that poverty never goes away, it’s that it always needs to be explained. There are always, always people who don’t get it, who don’t notice it, who don’t want to think about it or who will puzzle over it from a distance as if it were some transient mirage they can never hope to touch. Those in power will continue to make decisions about poverty that they do not experience, in spite of the fact that making financially comfortable people the authority on money is like making able-bodied people the authority on wheelchair access, like making men the authority on women’s bodies, like making white people the authority on racism.

And so, ten years on, here I am again, writing about Tottenham, about class, about poverty and about ignorance, and only from a slightly different angle. I will write about these things more, not least because I’ve already started another work on these themes, but mostly because I will always need to. I don’t imagine that, during my lifetime, the explaining will ever stop. I don’t imagine that our societies will give up on punishing people for being poor in a world where it is so often simply too expensive to be alive. And I don’t imagine I will have any more patience for people who imagine it will all blow over.

I refuse to let you middle-class your way out of this.

I don’t have any solutions to these enormous and complex problems. I don’t have exhaustive lists of who exactly to blame or where precisely everything has gone wrong. But here’s what I believe: If we don’t talk about poverty, and if we don’t listen to those caught inside of it, it will never go away, and there will be infinitely more Tottenhams.

[softwarmboy]

1. Selfie

2. What would you name your future kids?

I really like the name Damon! And Grace

3. Do you miss anyone?

Always

4. What are you looking forward to?

My name and gender marker documents going through!!! (Hopefully) my trip to London in the fall!!! My second dose of the vaccine! Seeing my little sister again! New tattoos!!

5. Is there anyone who can always make you smile?

Absolutely, I have a few close friends who can always get me smiling again

6. Is it hard for you to get over someone?

Unfortunately for me, yes, very ;-; Im a very emotional person and feel things very strongly

7. What was your life like last year?

Living on the coast, working construction, and that was about it

8. Have you ever cried because you were so annoyed

Yes 😂😂😂 mostly over math

9. Who did you last see in person

My friend Shannon!!!

10. Are you good at hiding your feelings

Yes and no, if I’m upset/irritated/sad it’ll show on my face whether I want it to or not, BUT I’m pretty good as passing it off as something else if I want. Not a whole lot of people can tell when im doing that, if anyone at all

11. Are you listening to music right now?

Of course!! Im listening to When The Darkness Comes by Colbie Caillat

12. What is something you want right now?

Food 😂😂😂

13. How do you feel right now?

Sore and tired

14. When was the last time someone of the opposite sex hugged you

Yesterday!! My friend was having a rough day and was kinda snarky with me and gave me a hug and an apology after she calmed down

15. Personality description

Full of dad jokes, puns, sass, caffeine and smart ass replies at all times 😂 very direct/straightforward, and have little to no patience for beating around the bush, in any context

16. Have you ever wanted to tell someone something but you didn’t

Oh god yeah, growing up I never told anyone anything, ever

17. Opinion on insecurities

We all have them, if you’re the kinda person who zeroes in on someone else’s, for any reason, I feel sorry for you but also have absolutely no patience or respect for you

18. Do you miss how things were a year ago?

Nooooooooo, I wasn’t very happy. I wasn’t unhappy necessarily but 🤷🏻‍♂️ still no, hard pass

19. Have you ever been to New York

Nope! It’s on my travel list tho

20. What is your favourite song at the moment

At the moment??? The Colbie Caillat song i mentioned above!

21. Age and birthday?

23, and December 16th!

22. Description of crush

No thanks 😂

23. Fear(s)

Oh man, spiders, wasps, escalators (I have no idea why, don’t ask 😂😂) and aggressive men

24. Height

5’9!

25. Role model

As cliche as it is, I mean it when I say my momma

26. Idol(s)

I don’t really??? Have any????

27. Things I hate

Mushrooms and olives 😂 but in all seriousness, people who are rude to retail/customer service employees or servers, people who don’t use turn signals or say please, thank you and excuse me, the sound of styrofoam (it’s a sensory thing for me)

28. I’ll love you if-

You’ll play video games with me or will try them or any books/music I suggest, notice the little things about me

29. Favourite film(s)

The Mortal Instruments!!!!

30. Favourite tv show(s)

Gilmore Girls, The Vampire Diaries, Supernatural, Lucifer, Stranger Things, The Witcher, Firefly

31. 3 random facts

Your feet are the same length as your forearm! A whale dick is called a dork (if I remember correctly) and I can’t think of a third

32. Are your friends mainly guys or girls?

Girls mostly! I don’t have much in common with many guys 🤷🏻‍♂️ that and I just feel more comfortable around girls

33. Something you want to learn?

Sword fighting!!!! That’d be so cool

34. Most embarrassing moment

I have so many 😂😂😂 I’m a clumsy bastard, but I’ll go with my most recent for now- I saw a cute dog hanging his head out a car window and said hi without realizing there was someone in the passenger seat with their window down 😂😂

35. Favourite subject

Anything compute related!!

36. 3 dreams you want to fulfill

Go to Italy, get married, see the northern lights!!!

37. Favourite actor/actress

Melissa McCarthy 😂😂

38. Favourite comedian(s)

John Mulaney, Taylor Tomlinson, Gabriel Iglesias, and Iliza Shlesinger!!

39. Favourite sport(s)

Hockey I guess 🤷🏻‍♂️

40. Favourite memory

Just one??? Hmmmmm….singing Party In The USA with my friends after we’d been inhaling helium 😂

41. Relationship status

Single 😂😂😭

42. Favourite book(s)

The Mortal Instruments by Cassandra Clare, The Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini, The Selection by Kiera Cass, and the Nightshade trilogy by Andrea Cremer

43. Favourite song ever

Ever???? Oh man that’s a tough one, maybe Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day???

44. Age you get mistaken for

17/18 😂😂😂so many of the teenagers at work don’t believe me when I say I’m in my 20’s. One of the kids in produce absolutely refused to believe I’m older than him

45. How you found out about your idol

N/A

46. What my last text message says

“I know you are”

47. Turn ons

Light nail scratches, is really all I can think of lately 🤷🏻‍♂️ I haven’t had that conversation with someone in quite some time

48. Turn offs

Being non consensually bossy, treating me like an object, daddy/mommy kinks

49. Where I want to be right now

London maybe! I’m really excited to go

50. Favourite picture of your idol

N/A

51. Starsign

Sagittarius!

52. Something I’m talented at

Teaching myself instruments! I’ve taught myself 3 so far! It’s always been something I’ve been able to pick up really quickly

53. 5 things that make me happy

Music, love in any form, snuggles, drives with my favourite people, my favourite comfort foods

54. Something that’s worrying me at the moment

My name and gender marker documents

55. Tumblr friends

God I don’t remember anyone’s URL’s anymore 😂😂 but I have a fair amount! I talk to 99% of them on other platforms now so 🤷🏻‍♂️

56. Favourite food(s)

Nachos, mashed potatoes, any sort of cheesy/creamy pasta! Grilled cheese, grilled salmon roll, and really any form of potatoes actually

57. Favourite animal(s)

Wolves are my absolute favourite

58. Description of my best friend

Curly brown (it looks brown to me 😂 I know you’ll come at me for this when you see it) hair, blue eyes, the gayest fashion sense, practical, will always tell me when I need to pull my head outta my ass 😂💚

59. Why I joined Tumblr

I wanted a safe space to explore things like mental health, transitioning and a few other things!

60. Ask me anything you want

Self explanatory, have at ‘er

[freebooter4ever]

Ref anon: I hope you can get help for that pain. Maybe a nerve is pinched? I'm really not sure about my future. I have a lot of hobbies but just work a shit customer service job. Getting motivation to do drawing at all is difficult let alone animate. Which is a great mental state to be in when my only plan for my whole life since childhood was animation. 🤷‍♀️

its tendonitis and im pretty sure the only way to get rid of it is to take a break from working which is obviously not possible so just gonna ignore it till i die i guess \o/

so yeah you struck a cord with me, this got long...

i cant help with motivation, i have too much of it. i lived with my grandparents for a year while grandpa was sick, and it was the first time they'd ever really seen me /work/ and even they were shocked. it really is constant - if i have twenty minutes and im not using it to draw its wasted time, you know? my first roommate here in LA was concerned too - she kept trying to get me to stop working and go out and back then my excuse was i didnt have a job and no money for going out, but really im just like that all the time. i try to balance it with seeing friends and social media and everyday shit like eating food, but its hard, my favorite people are the ones who will just sit and work with me lol! (or going out and working in places im not alone and quiet). i guess what im saying is...if its really your passion, is it not there all the time? i only ask because it took me a long time to realize that although i loved to analyze animation and watch it - the way i process art doesnt quite have what it takes to do that. we all love the end product, but just because the animation part is the most front facing part...doesn't mean that's necessarily where your actual passion might lie...if that makes sense? there's SO MUCH to do in the animation industry, its crazy. for me, i finally realized that all my obsessive energy revolved around character and especially faces, and i just started focusing on that. i would much rather be concepting a wide variety of characters than spending a whole year animating about one minute of a two hour movie.

that said there's also the sad reality that some people have had doors open more easily than others. i feel you about being stuck in a retail job you feel wasted in :( im sorry you are in that position. i hope you are able to make a change, but i understand just how fucking /trapped/ that can be. watching life slip by into nothingness while the tiny snatches of meaning only happen during off hours and scraped together seconds of free time. one of the biggest ironies though is that this is how a lot of original animators felt about dsn*y. i mentioned that on my road trip i stayed with the son of an animator who worked on snow wh*te - he wasnt one of the 9 old men but he was their contemporary and friend, and the animator took the job just to make money off his art. animation just wasnt his full passion and he eventually quit, moved up north, and started experimenting with helicopters and boe*ng lol. 

and in reverse of that, as i grew up with a father and a grandfather who worked for boe*ng and the US space program, ALL my open doors were flight and space related - my cousin currently works for N A S A and my other cousin for boe*ng - they took the doors but i didnt want anything to do with it. it took years for my grandpa to finally come to terms with the fact that my passion for art was as strong as his passion for airplanes. he grew up a farm boy daydreaming about flying, and had to take a circuitous route to finally get there - army, college, mechanical engineering, finally rockets. he gave my dad and me all the chances grandpa would have wanted as a kid - my dad took them - i didnt want any of it. i would much rather have had those chances that the animator got.

and then of course there are the institutionalized gates - barriers against entry for women, minorities, LGBQT, people without money...its a LOT to fight against. which is of course why we celebrate the exceptional people who DO break through those barriers and succeed despite it all. but it can be demoralizing to be on the other side of those barriers. demoralizing is too soft a word. i dont think there is a word for how much it can hurt.

some wisdom that might help: randy pa*usch's last lecture - he is a white male who definitely does not understand the race/sex 'walls', but he makes good points, and also he came at the animation industry sideways for very similar reasons - through education and research rather than the traditional job promotion route. and then someone closer to my own age/time: justin scar*ed - i dont mean his road trip videos, i mean the old vlogs from 3-6 years ago when he was 31 divorced and depressed and realizing he had to release himself from his own pressure of his music career. his quest for positivity is an interesting concept, and i sympathized with that feeling of your life taking a direction you didnt chase after but somehow ends up being the thing you were actually looking for the entire time. if you want a success story there’s always my favorite: steve aok*. he went against everything that was set up for him in life and still made it work ^_^ (of course of these three, guess who also grew up the rich kid lol). or norman re*dus who quite literally accidentally became a model and successful actor. im paraphrasing this horribly, but my impression was that as a teenager he was selling shitty cat paintings on the streets of paris - which sounds romantic but miserable at the same time - and then followed a girl to california, got a crappy job in a motorcycle shop, went to a party and yelled at some people from a balcony, landed his first stage role...and eventually created the character of daryl and finally got the chance to have his genius really shine. (sometimes i wonder though, if it was frustrating to end up being famous for acting rather than art which was arguably his true passion?)

i hope any of this helps, i am pretty exhausted lately so apologies if my sentences are incomprehensible in some parts. and you know, my DMs on here are open if you want to talk more specifically off anon <3 

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Sixty Three

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

October 17th, 2000

Remy shook his head as he trudged around campus. He hated this. He hated this whole thing. The only thing that made college bearable was the idea that he might get a paying job from it, but he didn’t even have that job security for certain, so really, why was he here?

A familiar voice called his name from across the quad and Remy turned, rolling his eyes as Emile ran up to him excitedly. Yeah, college was annoying, and Emile could be a bit of a nuisance, but he was at least a familiar nuisance. And if Emile wanted to hang out with Remy, well, Remy wasn’t going to stop him, even if he didn’t see what Emile saw in him.

  May 20th, 2002

Remy kept the frustrated tears at bay for as long as it took for him to clock out at Starbucks and walk down the side, to the back parking lot. Once there, he punched the dumpster that was backed up against the building and a few tears slipped out from pain and from anger. He was beyond pissed, and he didn’t know why. He had seen this coming. He knew they weren’t going to pick him to become the new manager. And yet, when he heard the news, it still felt like his hopes shattered into a million pieces.

“It went that badly, huh?” Emile asked from behind him.

Remy turned swiping at the tears on his cheeks to find Emile standing there, hands in his pockets. “Yeah,” he settled on saying.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Emile said, closing the distance between them and hugging Remy close. “You don’t deserve to be overlooked just because you don’t want a degree.”

“They didn’t even pick from the store,” Remy said. “They brought in someone else who doesn’t know the system, just because they have that stupid Bachelor’s.”

Emile winced and Remy sighed. “I mean, I saw it coming that I wouldn’t get the job, but seriously? Outside? Not even from another store, just someone who’s never worked there before. We’re gonna have to teach him everything in the span of maybe two weeks!” He shook his head. “Emile, I’m really sick of this.”

“I know you are,” Emile said.

“One day, I can quit this crappy job and be my own person,” Remy said. “One day.”

Emile nodded as he lead Remy to the car. “And that day will be amazing,” Emile agreed. “Until then, we should probably ice your hand and make sure nothing’s broken.”

Remy sighed. Punching the dumpster was a dumb move, but at the very least, it beat punching brick wall. “Yeah,” he said flatly.

Emile drove them home and Remy leaned back into the chair, trying to stop crying. All he was getting for his troubles was a headache and more tears. “My head hurts,” Remy griped.

“Not surprised,” Emile said. “Do you need to take some ibuprofen when we get back?”

“I don’t think so,” Remy said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just need to get over myself.”

“Hey, hey,” Emile said, pulling into the parking lot. “You have every right to be upset, Rem, that’s an upsetting thing. You don’t have to ‘get over yourself.’”

Remy grumbled, “Then why am I getting so worked up over something I knew would happen?”

Emile shrugged. “I’m not inside your head, Rem, I can’t speak for you. If I had to hazard a guess, it’s because hiring someone from outside the company just adds insult to injury.”

Remy laughed hollowly. “Understatement,” he groused, getting out of the car and inspecting his hand. It was swelling a little, but didn’t immediately come across as “broken,” which was a promising sign. “You ever break a bone, Emile?” he asked.

“Uh...not that I remember. There were a couple close calls, but nothing ever broke. I did once dislocate my knee,” Emile said.

Remy winced. “Ouch. How?”

“One of my friends took martial arts classes, and taught me and some of our friends some of the moves, but we didn’t do much stretching before we tried it...and I wound up with a lot of pain the next day in gym class, to where I could barely walk.”

“Ooh!” Remy exclaimed, hissing. “That’s pretty bad.”

“Yep, six weeks of physical therapy, a knee brace, the whole deal,” Emile said. “You break a bone?”

“I fractured my wrist at like...age six.” Remy laughed. “I was running down the sidewalk, and I assume I tripped, because the next thing I know, my wrist feels like it’s on fire and I’m sprawled on the ground. Went to school the next day, couldn’t use scissors without pain, went to the nurse, and she pretty much knew it was broken within five minutes of seeing it. Called my mom, they took me to the doctor’s, got X-rays, and I got a sick-looking cast.”

“Your mom sent you to school with a broken wrist?” Emile asked incredulously.

Remy shrugged. “She didn’t know how to identify a broken bone, she just assumed I cried for half an hour because, y’know, I’ve always been a crybaby. You got sent to school with a dislocated knee!”

“Because it didn’t really start hurting until gym class,” Emile said. “If a six year old cries for half an hour over tripping on a sidewalk, something’s up.”

Remy waved off Emile’s concern. “Eh, she apologized about it later. It wasn’t the end of the world, and because it happened during the school year, I still had two months where I could swim in the pool after the cast came off.”

Emile squinted at Remy and Remy rolled his eyes. “What?”

“You’re excusing your mother’s actions again.”

“She didn’t know, Emile,” Remy said. As they got inside the apartment and Emile gave Remy an ice pack, Remy continued, “You don’t have to know everything about injuries to become a parent.”

“No, but I still think crying for half an hour over a trip should be investigated. And if a school nurse can identify the injury that quickly, shouldn’t the parent be a tad bit suspicious before the kid leaves for school? Because obviously there would be swelling.”

Remy shrugged. “Listen, this wasn’t too bad. She was just forgetful in this case,” he defended. “She’s done worse, you’ve seen her do worse.”

Emile pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did she dismiss other health concerns?”

“I didn’t tell her about other health concerns, like in high school when everyone was turning against me except Toby. She couldn’t dismiss what she wasn’t told about.”

“But you didn’t tell her because she would dismiss it?” Emile questioned. “That seems to be what you’re implying.”

“Okay, she brushed off some things in middle school, things that I don’t even remember because I blocked them out. They couldn’t be too severe if I’m still standing here, though,” Remy brushed off.

Emile sighed and Remy inwardly grimaced. He knew that sigh. It was the sigh Emile got whenever he thought Remy was dismissing key parts of his mental health. “Remy...”

“Can we just agree to drop this subject and let me return to bitching about not getting the manager position?” Remy requested. “I know my mom wasn’t on top of it. I know she was bad. And we just disagree about how severe this infraction was. I agree that she should have done something, at least asked me why I was crying so much, but she didn’t. It’s over. Done with. Has been for years. I just want to gripe.”

Emile sighed. “Okay, fine. Let’s just talk about what’s going on in the here and now.”

Remy nodded his thanks. “I don’t think my hand is broken,” he said idly. “It would be swelling more if that was the case. Even with ice, it would look different.”

“Agreed,” Emile said. “You still shouldn’t have punched the dumpster.”

“It was that or the brick wall,” Remy said drily.

Emile shook his head. “Rem, you worry me, to this day.”

“Yeah, well. I’m getting better at controlling my anger, it just...needs an outlet, and I couldn’t hold it back further without risking lashing out, so I took it out on the closest inanimate object to me,” Remy said.

Emile rolled his eyes and took the ice pack off Remy’s hand to kiss the knuckles. “You may be an impulsive man, but you’re my impulsive man. And I’m proud that you’re working to control the more angry impulses.”

Remy offered Emile a smirk. “I thought you liked it when things got heated.”

“Not in this context,” Emile laughed.

Remy grinned, before looking at his hand and sighing. “Man, I wish I could be running my own shop right about now.”

“Hey, one day,” Emile said, squeezing Remy’s shoulder.

“Yeah, but that’s going to take so long,” Remy sighed. “Too long. I’ll still have to deal with this new manager, and what happens if I can’t hide my resentment well enough?”

“Remy, I know this probably doesn’t help, but I’m fairly sure you can hide your disdain behind your customer service smile. You’re consistently way better at that than I am. He might know it’s fake, he might not. Regardless, he can’t hold you accountable so long as you don’t say how you really feel about him and you keep smiling.”

“I don’t want to keep smiling,” Remy sighed. “I want to be able to be mad, and to cry, and I want people to know that I’m human.”

“Unfortunately, the downside of working in food service or retail hell is that a lot of people won’t see you as human,” Emile said knowingly. “But you’re always free to be human around me, and our friends, and anyone else we run into when you’re not working.”

“I know,” Remy grumbled. Didn’t change the fact that he didn’t want to put up with this.

“Rem, time will pass without you realizing it, and one day, you’re going to wake up, and realize you have the money and power to start your own coffee shop, and you’re going to absolutely crush it,” Emile said with conviction. “Trust me. It might be hard to see right now, but you’re destined for greatness.”

That, at least, got Remy to laugh. He both loved and hated when Emile got all storybook cliché on him. “I would disagree about the destiny thing,” Remy said. “I carve my own destiny.”

“Exactly why it’s true,” Emile replied smoothly. “You don’t wait around looking for your purpose, you go out and make a purpose that fits you.”

“I would argue that I wouldn’t make the purpose. Plenty of people have dropped out of college before. Many people have become entrepreneurs. It’s not exactly a unique path,” Remy brushed off.

“Yeah, but it still goes against the norms of what people expect of you. Instead of just going with the flow, you’re standing tall. And nothing can push you around if you don’t let it. Honestly it’s...pretty inspiring,” Emile said.

Remy laughed. “Please, Emile. I don’t have this heart-stopping origin story that you’re making this out to be.”

“I don’t know,” Emile said with a shrug. “I just think that you’re pretty impressive. If I were in your position, I wouldn’t have ever gotten this far.”

“I mean, I think you could have gotten out of my family situation before I ever did, and made a name for yourself however you wanted,” Remy said with a shrug in return.

Emile offered a slightly bitter smile, which surprised Remy. “Rem, believe me when I say that the only reason you believe that is because my parents taught me how to stand up for myself. You learned how to stand up on your own. No one taught you. If I had been in your position, I probably wouldn’t have lasted through high school. You’re impossibly strong.”

Remy shrugged. “I mean, I guess I’m strong. I’m taking you at your word on that, but I didn’t learn how to stand up on my own. You’re the one who taught me that.”

Emile shook his head. “No, Rem, I may have shown you where to stand tall and demand respect, but even before I met you, you were trying to make your own way in the world. Studying business over accounting, remember? That was all you. You’ve got what it takes to make your own place in the world. And if I were a betting man, I’d put all my money on you.”

Remy stood there, shocked into silence for a good minute. He didn’t know what Emile saw in him to cause that sort of conviction, but he knew that Emile was serious in this. And he wasn’t about to disappoint Emile. He smiled. He would get through this. He’d get through it and go his own way, sooner or later. “I love you too, Emile.”

[thefantasygirl3]

Negaverse stories: Megavolt's backstory

Genre/warnings: Comedy, Slice of life, Action, Drama.

Word count: 3 725

Summary: After the events of Darkwing Duck coming to the Negaverse and helping the now called “Darkwing Ducks” save st. Canard, the four heroes decided to adopt the adorable little Gosalyn, buy a house and start a life together. But the little duckling is curious over how all her dads became heroes to start with, so she asks them to tell her that story.

Notes: This is the first of four chapters, for each of the Negaverse’s Friendly four, starting off with Megavolt’s backstory. Link to other parts of the story: 2 - Quackerjack. 3 - Bushroot. 4 - Liquidator.

A hero's backstory is really something else. It is the reason for who they become. For being a crime fighting symbol of justice. And that backstory can be exciting and inspiring, it can be tragic and heart-wrenching or it could just be downright underwhelming. But whatever the tone of the story, it is the most interesting thing a hero got to tell about themselves

In the city of st. Carnard, in the negaverse, night was approaching and covering the city in the pale moonlight. It was about time for all the kids to get themselves ready for bedtime and for the parents to tuck their kids into bed so they can drift off into dreamland. This was the same for the Darkwing ducks' household. After the help of The original Darkwing Duck, the group formerly known as The Friendly Four were able to restore peace to the city, adopt Negaduck's kid and get themselves a house to live in, like any regular family of four dads and a daughter. It was in this house that the very tired looking rat was trying to be like every other parent and settle his duck daughter into bed so she can finally doze off.

Gosalyn was bouncing around in her bed, struggling against Megavolt's attempts to get her into her proper place in bed. Head against pillow, body under the blanket, still and calm. But boy was she making that really difficult. "I don't want to sleep! Not if you're gonna make me go to camp tomorrow!" she whined and clutched tightly onto the bed's bottom railing as her dad was trying to pull her back into place on the bed. "But hun! It is obligatory! You. Have. To. G-go!" he groaned as he tried his best to pry her off of the foot of her bed, but lost his grip and flew back into the wall. While she was free, the duck girl quickly got off of the bed and hid herself underneath the bed, trying to do whatever she could to not have to go to bed. 

As the electrified rodent regained his composure, he spotted his daughter hiding in the shadows of the underside of her bed. He sighed and crouched down beside her hiding spot, looking at her exhaustedly as he was too worn out from her struggling to try and get her back into bed again "Come on, Gosalyn. You can't skip out on the field trip by staying up all night" he tried to reason with her as he sat himself down beside her, showing he was no longer going to wrangle with her. The pair of eyes peering back at him responded with a grumpy "You're just saying that so I'll go to sleep and then you can force me into the forest with all the bugs and bears and snakes and moose!" and then huffed sharply. The rat sighed at her resistance, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he tried to think up something to say. 

"Please, hun. You're only punishing yourself by doing this. Whether you sleep or not, you're going on the field trip" he groaned and sank down further onto the floor. "Papa said I didn't need to go!" Gosalyn pointed out as she crawled out from under the bed to pout at her dad on the floor. "You know very well that Bushroot can't say no to you when you make that face at him! His decision is invalid!" he scowled at her as he sat back up and moved to sit cross-legged in front of her. All she did was puff up her cheeks at him and cross her arms with a mad grunt. Letting out a sigh, Megavolt tilted his head back and stared up at the roof, until an idea suddenly hit him and he lit up like a light bulb. 

"... How about we make a deal then?" he asked and looked over at his daughter, a small grin growing on his face. She just gave him a suspicious look, not sure if she would like this "deal". The adult stood up from the floor, saying "If you promise you will go to bed and go on the field tomorrow, I will give you the best gift I can". Crawling out from under the bed, the little duck looks up at him curiously. "A doll?" she asked. "Much better" he responded to her. "A doll house?!" she then inquired while scuttling up onto the bed. "Even better!" he then told her and sat down beside her on the bed. "A HORSE?!?" she then shouted in excitement, throwing her hands up in the air. "O-Ok. Not THAT good! We're not made of money" he chuckled as he then put a hand on her shoulder to calm her down. 

"I'm going to tell you the story of how I became a hero, if you promise me right now that you'll go to bed and go on the field trip tomorrow" Megavolt suggested to her while trying to hide his smug, delighted grin from her. Gosalyn's face lit up and she jumped up on him, gripping onto his arm like a koala. "Really?! You'll tell me your backstory?!" she asked as she stared at him with big, sparkling eyes, full of hope. "Maybe… if i hear those two magic words" her dad said as he looked down at her expectantly. Immediately, faster than a lightning bolt, she let go of him and shot over towards her spot in bed, getting comfy under her blankets. "I promise, dad!" she said and looked at him with her cute, innocent eyes. He chuckled at her and reached out his hand, patting her head before clearing his throat, getting ready to start his story.

So it all started pretty much in high school. I was a very talented and smart teen, my grades very high, just like my ego. I thought so highly of myself, as if no one could be smarter or more successful than me. I was practically the biggest bully in the entire school. Or at the very least… the second biggest bully in the school… no one beat Drake when it came to malice.

"What?! You were a bully?! No way!" Little Gosalyn said in surprise as she was listening to him starting to tell the story. "Yes. I know. I am very ashamed of how I used to act. But let's continue the story, alright?" the rat told her before trying to recall the next part of the story.

I was the smartest kid I knew, with straight A's across the board. I used to hold my intellect above everyone else, especially the sport kids and the kids with average grades. I used to bully them relentlessly, taunt them about being losers, doomed to working in retail and fast food service jobs for the rest of their lives. I'd even make the more timid kids partake in some of my experiments, constantly telling them that that was all they would be good for.

Particularly this one kid. Hamilton Ham String.

He was… the typical stars-in-his-eyes sports fanatic that dreamed of becoming a football player some day. He would partake in every sport the school could offer and would constantly talk about the sports on TV. Now I was never that… involved with him, though it may sound like I knew him well. It's only that after that fateful day… he's been a big influence to me. 

It was the day before prom. I had been working on this machine and I had finally managed to finalize a prototype. All that I needed was for someone to test it out. And obviously that wouldn't be me. So I headed out of the school workshop and took a look around for who would be my… lab rat. And there, down the hallway, I saw him. My favorite victim, Hamilton. He was throwing the pigskin around with a friend of his yelling stuff like "Radical catch right there, Daddy-o!" and "My shots are the most tubular around!"

"DAAAAAD!" Gosalyn whined as she pushed her dad, getting him to stop the story for the moment. "What?" he asked, completely clueless. "No one says stuff like that anymore!" she muttered annoyed and looked at him with an unsatisfied pout. "Really? It was the hottest lingo around when I was just a teen. Everyone said stuff like "Cool beans" and "Funky" at that time!" he said with a confused look on his face while scratching his head. "DAAAD!!" the little girl groaned as she physically cringed at his outdated slang. "Ok ok! Fine. I'll change it to be more modern, for you" he then chuckled at her, continuing on with his story short after.

Hamilton was laughing about his throwing skills, winking at a girl that was walking past. I saw her blush at him as he did, giggling and covering her face with her bag. I remember rolling my eyes so hard at them, finding their flirting so stupid and meaningless. Then again, I thought love was a ridiculous concept anyways.

But as he was giving his girlfriend those flirty glances, I just marched up to him and grabbed him by the back of his shirt. He seemed rather surprised by it and he looked at me, only able to say "Huh?!" as I pulled him down towards me. I could see his face turn into that usual nervousness as he realized just who it was that grabbed his attention, literally. "O-oh! Hey there, Mr. Sputterspark! E-everything alright today?" he asked me with this awkward grin on his face, as if trying to get on my good side. I didn't care, I just dragged him along towards the workshop while ignoring his protests and excuses. I could see his girlfriend across the way, I remember it very clearly, she looked terrified.

As we got inside the room, he kept telling me he didn't do anything and that he's sorry about whatever he did. I completely ignored him and pushed him forward onto the floor. "Shut up, pig" I growled at him as I observed him shuffle back to his feet, now quiet at my request. "I don't care about your low IQ attempts to excuse yourself! Just do as I say!" I growled and walked on over towards my machine. It was a simple treadmill, with a carpet fastened to the running belt and restraints added on to the handles. He just stared at it, confused and worried. Understandable. I didn't have the most promising track record. 

"Um… wh-what is that, Elmo?" Hamilton asked me while trying to sneak over toward the door. I stopped him by grabbing his ear, saying "This, as simply explained as possible, is a machine meant to power this here light bulb. Through the power of static electricity, the friction against the carpet will generate powers high enough to give power to at least this entire room! Just imagine how much electricity could be generated with a full warehouse of these soft, metallic beauties!". I then turned around to him and started pulling him in close, so close our noses were squishing together. "And I just so happen to need someone to test it out for me" I told him very bluntly before forcing him over towards the machine.

Just as I started doing so, the boy began to struggle against my grip and begged for me to stop. "H-Hey! Let me go! Stop!" he pleaded with me, which I of course ignored, as if it was just hot wind blowing by my ears. But something very unexpected happened. I heard him let out a growl and yell "N-NO! I'M NOT GOING TO BE A GUINEA PIG AGAIN! STEP OFF!!!" before he ripped his arm loose and raised it up out of my reach. I was stunned into silence as all I could do was stare at him. I couldn't believe he told me off! It actually caused me to step back and feel a slight tad of fear stir up in my chest. Only a few seconds thereafter his hand came flying towards me and smacked me back. I was flung back towards my machine, landing on the carpeted belt and grunting in pain. As I tried to pull myself up from the belt, I grabbed onto the handles and the restraints I had built in immediately snapped shut over my arms. "Wh-What the-!" Was all I could manage to say before the treadmill started up and the belt began slowly building up speed. I did my best to pry my arms loose but I had done a little too well when building this thing.

It got faster and faster as my legs were forced to start running. I felt how, for the first time since starting High school, fear was taking over and I was panicking like crazy. I looked up at Hamilton and begged for him "Please! Help me! Hamilton, please save me!". But he just stared at me with this abject horror over his face. I'll never forget the look he had as he then turned away from me and ran out the door, leaving me to try and save myself and my poor poor legs.

"WHAT?!? He just LEFT you to run your legs off?! What a meanie!" Gosalyn said angrily as she stood up in bed, throwing her hands up in frustration. Megavolt lifted her up, laying her back down in bed before tucking her in once more. "You got to understand, sweetie, I was about to force him into the same situation I got myself into. He was probably scared over what I'd do after he just pushed me into my own torture machine" he sighed as he reached out and rubbed her head, smiling sadly as he was thinking about those times. "I kinda think I deserved worse than that. But either way, I'm thankful it happened…" he said softly, transitioning back into the story.

I remember running on that treadmill for almost an hour, my legs being at the brink of death. They felt like if I were to stop, the movement of the belt would pull them right along with it. I was sweating like a melting ice cube and panting so hard I could move a sailboat on my own. I think I even blacked out at a few points, only to be brought back to reality by my knees burning from the friction on them.

But after that painfully long hour, the lamp that was connected to the machine had begun to flicker violently from an overflow of electricity. After it had been unstably wavering for a long while, it finally broke. So did the rest of the lights in the room. I could even tell later that the hallway lights had lost power. Luckily, that power outage put a complete stop to the treadmill and released my arms at the same time, causing me to be flung forward and crash into the wall, covered in loose papers that were stuck to me, thanks to the overabundance of static electricity.

When I came to, I was laying on the floor, homeworks and instructions stuck to my face and making it harder to see. I removed them and saw even less than before, being surrounded by complete darkness. "... Hamilton? Hey… anyone there?" I called out weakly as I pushed myself up and wandered over towards the door. As I grabbed the handle, a sudden shock of energy shot through my body and I was paralyzed as it coursed through my limbs, until I was flung back into the wall once more. I stared at the door in shock as I was trying to come up with an explanation to myself. 

After a few moments of dumbfounded silence, my eyes drifted down to my hands and I noticed slight sparks traveling between my fingertips. I started to panic and shook my hand around, yelling "GET IF OFF! GET IT OFF!" as I stumbled around the room. As I did so, a bolt of energy shot out of my fingers and hit my machine, causing it to fry for a moment, then explode. I just stopped right in my tracks and stared at it, surprisingly calm at that point. All I could think of was what in the world just happened to me. But then feelings of exhaustion suddenly hit me and all I could think to do was go home and crash in bed.

And so I did. I went home and went to bed, ignoring the weird things that happened until the next morning. I did some tests with my newfound electricity powers, after having blown up my toaster accidentally. I discovered that I had the power to store electricity in my body and discharge it at choice. It was an amazing discovery. A breakthrough in science! I had given myself superpowers! It was a revolutionary event! I had to tell someone! I had to go tell Hamilton! He was the one who had caused me to make such a discovery after all. I had been so busy testing my powers that I realized I was going to be late for prom. And prom would have been the perfect place to make this announcement. So I got dressed in the fanciest clothes I got and headed out towards school. 

As I reached the big double doors leading into the gym, I didn't hesitate a second. I busted right through them and yelled "Can I please have everyone's attention!". The band on stage stopped the music and everyone in the room turned their heads to look over at me in shock and fear. They probably thought I was finally going to blow up the school or something. I reached up towards the singer on scene and snatched the microphone from him. "I have a very important announcement to make, everyone! I was involved in a scientific accident yesterday!" I began explaining as I scanned the room. I found Hamilton as I did so and could see the expression of absolute horror on his face, as if he was writing his will in his head already. "But listen! After this failed experiment caused a blackout in school, I discovered that I have gained superpowers! I can produce electricity from my body!" I then continued as I started approaching him and his girlfriend, smiling in excitement about the amazing news. 

Everyone was quiet, just glaring at me as if I had gone mad. Then I heard Drake start to laugh like a hyena, falling over onto the floor from how funny he apparently found it. Quite a few other people joined in too in laughing at me. I started to panic and I could see Hamilton and his girlfriend start to back away from me, like I was a mad man. "N-no wait! It's true! I have superpowers! Look!" I told everyone as I then fired off a bolt of lightning, which bounced off of the punch bowl and fried Drake's back feathers. He looked extremely mad about it. Hamilton shivered while gripping his girlfriend, telling me in a shaking voice "A-alright! I believe you! P-please don't hurt me! I didn't mean to push you into that thing!". "H-huh?! No! Dude! I'm not going to hurt you! I wanted to thank you, actually! If you hadn't defended yourself against me, we might have never made this breakthrough! Do you realize how big this is?! How these powers could be used to help further technology?!" I rambled at him as I was getting myself worked up about all of the possibilities that had opened up to me. 

"Yeah! Just think about all the security systems you could disable. All the cops you could electrocuted! All the electronic stores you could take over!" Drake suddenly spoke up as he stomped over to me and gripped me by my shirt. "W-what?!" was all I could respond with before he continued talking. "Your powers would be very useful. If I had those abilities, I'd be able to rob all the banks in st. Carnard! No…  I could take over st. Carnard!" he started laughing in this diabolical voice, still having a tight grip on my shirt. 

I gasped at his proposition and pulled his hand loose, yelling at him "No! I would never do something like that!". "Bah! What a waste of superpowers. Going to a nerd like you! Maybe it should have gone to the pig!" Drake growled as he poked at my chest, clearly trying to provoke me. But I just slapped his hand away, backing away towards the door. "You… I'll show all of you that my powers will be put to good use! I will use my powers for GOOD! I'll put an end to villains like you!" I yelled and pointed at him. Drake just walked right up to me and grabbed me by my throat, tossing me out the big double doors. "Sure thing, nerd. I'll show you that I'll take over st. Carnard, even if some super freaks try to stop me" he told me as the doors slowly closed behind me.

It was after that day that I decided to change my ways, to drop my bad attitude. I needed to become more like Hamilton. Someone who hoped for a better future, then would do what they could to make that dream a reality. I would become a hero.

"Wow… dad. That was amazing. You were so mean before, but now you're so sweet to my other dads!" Gosalyn muttered tiredly as she gave away a big yawn. Megavolt sighed with a big smile on his face as he tucked in his daughter, who snuggled up in bed. "Yes. I am proud of myself for making that change. And I bet Quackerjack is very thankful for it" he chuckled softly and pat the duckling's head. "Wait. What do you mean by that?" she asked confused as she looked up at him curiously. "Heh heh… guess you'll have to ask for his backstory to figure that out" Megavolt said with a smug voice as he stood up and headed over towards the door. "Now go to sleep. Remember, you promised" he chuckled softly and turned off the lights, closing the door behind him.

[artificialqueens]

A Road to Somewhere, Chapter 3 (Adore Delaska) - Puppy

Chapter Summary: Adore meets up with the infamous Grand Witch and finally gets that job! But at what costs?

A/N: Happy belated Halloween and Samhain to all who celebrate. It’s Halloween when I’m submitting this my time, but it’ll be November when it gets posted. I figured the sentiment was still nice. Anyway, I figured a good thing to ring in the holiday was yet another story of spirits and witches.

This chapter is surprisingly longer than I thought it was going to be, but it was still nice to write. Thanks again to @chaoticnachokitten and @thackeryisatop for beta-ing.

I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 3

TW: emotional abuse.

Adore found herself in a smaller storage room; it was probably a loading dock in the past. She passed by a small sink with a towel on a hanger. It was probably Raja’s whenever they decided to leave their post. Wrapped boxes and jars still had tags on them, and there were a few planks of wood and coils of rope neatly placed nearby. She didn’t have much time to take everything in though; there was somewhere she needed to be sooner than later.

Rio knew what she was doing; she looked like she went through this route for years. “The Grand Witch lives way up at the top, in the back of the house.” She said, beckoning the human to follow her down this path.

Following suit, she was led to an entrance marked by large moving gears. Adore looked up, admiring the mechanisms for a short second. There was a myriad of pulley systems, presumably enchanted as well, that made her severely underestimate how tall and large the bathhouse really was. It seemed endless, but perhaps that was the point. Not everyone could visit a witch who claimed to have such high esteem. Two elevators moved along the wires: two metal cabinets labelled on the outside. She didn’t have too much time to wonder about that, though.

“Get over here! We don’t have all night.”

“Coming!” Adore shook herself out of her state of awe and ran into another elevator where her guide was. It was a smaller wooden lift that didn’t have a door or proper walls, but it was made up for it being surrounded mainly by stone. There wasn’t any risk of her falling out any time soon. The redhead clung to the back wall (more like the back piece of plywood, if she could be more accurate), staring as it went farther up the bathhouse.

“You wanna lose your nose, kid?” She was pulled back by Rio’s forceful grip, and she thus threw her arms around the older spirit. “Hey, what are you doing?!“ Rio questioned.

"Aaaah! Sorry,” Adore answered, backing away from the older woman.

The elevator passed through many floors, and the human couldn’t keep track of what was going on on each one. They all reeked of opulence; this witch practically owned everything. The railings and beams supporting the house were made of cherry red wood with ornate gold carvings. The hardwood floors were barely even noticeable from the amount of workers who were there. She could never really tell how many of them were on said floor since they all blurred together. Some were carrying trays of food, or were they herbal soaks? Maybe some were pushing a dolly of some substance. The world was passing right before her eyes; plus her view was partly obscured by Rio’s body, hiding her from any suspicion.

The lift eventually stopped, letting Rio and Adore off on a higher floor. They faced a hallway of painted floral walls. Empty woven containers rested on yet another wall; they almost looked like birdhouses, but could easily be taken apart to build a nest of sorts. Above the walls, were small golden plates, also painted with flower arrangements. This witch must really like her flowers, Adore pondered as she started skipping on the hardwood. She didn’t have time to take in every little detail; hopefully her new motions would make her go faster. The loudest sounds the two could hear were their own footsteps. “So…” she attempted to start some conversation, “how long have you been here?”

“Hell if I know.” Rio continued, wanting to bash her head into one of those walls. Being part of an escort mission was the last thing she wanted to do today. “And watch your volume. The point of this is not to get discovered, remember?”

The human covered her mouth for a bit as they passed by chefs in dark, cone shaped hats and face masks preparing a kind of banquet. Some ladled soup into small red bowls while others placed cherry tomatoes in black bowls. There were off-handed comments and complaints about how it wasn’t spicy enough or how it was going to get cold before they could serve it. Adore nearly wanted to dive into the buffet for whatever she liked, but she found herself turning the corner and into yet another elevator. Thankfully, they were able to make it in before it closed, and before the woman who exited noticed their presence.

“We’re about halfway there. Just… stay close, y’hear?” The woman with the raccoon-like eyes pulled down a lever and up they went.

“Uh… party.” She smiled awkwardly and retreated to the back of the lift. This elevator was a little different as one part of the back wall wasn’t solid stone. It acted as a window to another part of the house. It looked like a series of tubs with guests destressing in its waters, but she couldn’t make out many details. Her vision was shrouded with a blanket of steam. Before she could take in anything more, the elevator stopped on another floor. The two of them were not as lucky this time.

A rather large patron was standing in front of them. From further inspection, he seemed furry with two large tusk-like appendages dangling from his face.The only articles of clothing that it wore were a large red bowl for a hat and an equally red loincloth on his torso. He looked at the worker and the invasive human pensively. Rio’s face grimaced at the sight of another spirit who desired to use the lift.

“Welcome…” Rio gasped and forced a toothy smile on her face as Adore slinked behind her. “What can I do for you?” The radish spirit didn’t really respond; he grumbled as he slowly pointed a finger upwards. “I’m sorry, sir. This elevator is out of service. Can’t go any higher. Have to take another one.” She maintained that smile as she walked out of the elevator. As soon she couldn’t see the spirit, her smile dropped. “Glad that’s taken care of,” she whispered when she was out of earshot. As they continued on, Adore swore she heard footsteps, but didn’t want to say anything just yet.

The two made their way onto an arched bridge, and it was then the redhead was starstruck by the interior of the bathhouse. The floral patterning was not confined to that one hallway, as it seemed to decorate many other parts of that floor.  She looked down, getting a better glimpse of what she saw on the elevator ride. There definitely was a series of tubs, and she could make out some of the figures on that bottom floor.

The ducks from earlier fit in one of the larger tubs, but there were more than she had seen before. Did they multiply like gremlins? Never mind that; there were more interesting sights than large ducks overflowing a pool. A worker in a blue kimono gave an antlered spirit a massage, while two others were filing some oblong entity’s nails. They massaged and pampered these creatures to their heart’s content.

As soon as the two stepped off the bridge, the two women turned a corner. Adore looked back, the radish spirit leering back at them from where they just left. “Rio, I think he’s following us…” She whispered, pulling at Rio’s free arm.

“Quit gawking. It’s rude.”

The human quickly whipped her head back forward and sooner than later they found themselves in front of an elevator. Rio pressed the button as Adore squished herself between the corner and the spirit in front of her. The radish spirit finally caught up to them, staring at the door in earnest; his undulating chest directly in Rio’s line of sight. Anyone around him could hear his breathing. She closed her eyes and turned her head the other way. Unfortunately, she didn’t have much time to rest. The elevator doors opened, but it wasn’t full, much to her surprise.

Three monsters in fluffy white bathrobes stepped out of the elevator with a frog-like worker following behind them, escorting them to their rooms. He wore a white and blue version of what Rio was wearing and was about as tall as her too.  The frogman stopped his conversation, sniffing his nose as he turned around looking his coworker dead in the eyes. “Rio!” He barked.

Surprised, and annoyed at being discovered, she pushed Adore into the elevator and plastered that retail smile back on her face. “What is it?” she asked through gritted teeth. The radish spirit followed the young girl into the elevator, clearly not aware of her existence. Or perhaps he was and he refused to say anything about the intruder’s presence.

“What’s that smell?” The frogman sniffed his nose again and widened his eyes, “Aha! A human! You reek of human!” Adore turned her head and sniffed herself; was her odor that strong? Yes, she hadn’t showered since the morning, but not everyone needed to point it out.

“Never would have guessed.” Rio retorted.

“You’re hiding something, aren’t you? Come on! Spill!”

The woman reached into her pocket and pulled out the newt Raja had given her. “Is this what you’re looking for?” She dangled it in front of his face.

The frog’s mouth watered at the sight of it, moaning out of hunger. “Give me that!”

His attempt was thwarted by Rio pulling it out of his grasp. “Well, I was gonna share this with the other girls. But since you asked so nicely…”

“Please? At least a leg! Just a leg will do!”

She kept pulling the newt farther and farther away, sometimes shifting her position to get it out of the man’s grasp. “If you wanna go up,” Rio instructed, “just pull the lever on the right.” Adore gave a thumbs up from her currently cramped state and managed to pull the lever from the ends of her fingertips. The last thing she saw before the doors finally closed was her guide popping the roasted lizard into her mouth, as one final act of spite.

The elevator ride was a little uncomfortable; one could easily cut the awkward tension with a butterknife. Adore took it upon herself to study more of her companion’s appearance. He had curly green hair… or was it leaves. He was called the “radish spirit”, so was he one? Or did he just look like one. Hell, this isn’t the strangest shit I’ve seen today… She pondered as she stopped herself from paying attention to the radish spirit’s dad bod.

The first floor the lift stopped at wasn’t the floor she needed to be. It was mostly empty hallways with pairs of sandals neatly decorating the hardwood. There were many shadows behind a series of patterned changing screens. Was this some sort of sleeping arrangements? Before Adore could think about exploring the place, the radish spirit realized this wasn’t the floor he was looking for, pulling the lever yet again. The human huffed a complaint. On the other hand, there wasn’t any time to explore; she had somewhere important to be.

After the awkward detour, the elevator finally stopped at the first floor. They both stepped out and scanned the area. If the scenery of the bathhouse didn’t stun her enough, then this top floor definitely did. This floor screamed wealth and was even more opulent than the floors she traversed earlier. Instead of the hardwood, the two were standing on some sort of marble with other colored tiles neatly placed in pretty patterns. Surrounding the middle sat large expensive vases accentuated by architecture embossed with more floral patterns. Adore let out a breath she never realized she held as her widened eyes soaked in all of the intricacies. The radish spirit stepped back into the elevator, bowing to her before the doors closed.

She quickly bowed back and was alone yet again. She wearily walked down the hall, her breath loud and her shoulders practically to her ears. The girl nearly flinched as she heard the echoes of her own footsteps. I should have asked Lask before this shit happened… she thought, playing with her sleeves. This needed to be over with soon. How hard could getting a job be? She stopped at a small staircase and looked up.

Two bright red doors stood before her underneath a bird-like crest embossed with the symbol she saw earlier that day. There was something off about the right door, though. As she approached that door, she took careful watch of the knocker. It was engraved with the face of a woman, but not just any woman. She seemed to be the bird woman who patrolled when she first met Lask. Come to think of it, the crest looked vaguely familiar too, but that had to be a coincidence. Adore grabbed the handle and started to pull, but she was quickly stopped by an unseen voice.

“Well, aren’t you going to knock?”

She flinched back as if she had just touched a hot iron.

“Gods, you’re honestly the most pathetic thing I’ve seen all day!” The voice continued. She sounded mature for her age. Was that the Grand Witch she had been looking for? After insulting the human, whoever was speaking must have made a decision to pity her. The door opened by itself, revealing more doors that opened in sync. The hallway that stood before Adore was fascinating. There was a small chandelier in every little intersection, like every hallway in front of her had been Xeroxed multiple times. “Don’t be shy, you can come in.”

No matter how inviting the woman sounded, the human was still starstruck. She shook and clung to her shirt, but not out of fear. Or at least that was what Adore wanted to believe. She was thirteen; she shouldn’t be afraid of things anymore, or at least things as silly as a jumpscare.

“I said, come IN.” Adore felt something slowly tugging at the front of her shirt. She pulled back, but she stopped for a bit. The tugging quickly came back, grabbing at the collar and yanking her down the hallway at an impeccable speed, about the same speed when she tripped on the stairs. Doors seemed to close as soon as she entered them, and as soon as there weren’t any more doors, the force sharply turned its subject around the corner. She barely had any time to take in any more intricate patterns. For all she knew, she was floating across a sea of garnet and gold. The invisible grip let her go as soon as she went through a last set of doors, throwing her down and letting her fall face first into the patterned red carpet.

Sitting herself back up, the human caught her breath, tempted to hop on one of the two plush red armchairs that surrounded her. The fireplace crackled, causing Adore to jump a little bit. She looked around the room a little more until she caught the gaze of a woman working at her desk.  If she was the Grand Witch Visage, she wasn’t like anything the girl was expecting. The woman was a lot younger than she first expected, but not too young. She seemed practically old enough to be her mother… or at least a mother. She had well-defined cheekbones and a sharp chin. Her dark hair was up in a tight bun, while the top of her chest practically spilled out of her dress as she was working on some sort of paperwork. Her bony fingers picked up the pen and continued her writing. “Oh good, you didn’t break anything,” she barely noticed the human in front of her. Then again, the room always had a thin layer of smoke surrounding everything. “That’s more than I expected from you.”

The human brushed off her shorts and cautiously approached the woman. “Hey…umm… Please give me a job.” The witch simply stared at her for a split second, then returned to her work. With every movement of the pen, she felt something strange. Adore attempted to speak again, but as soon as she took a breath, her mouth was slowly closing, like some invisible seamstress sewed her lips together. Upon that realization, she quickly panicked, trying to force her mouth back open with as much force her fingers could allow, but it was merely in vain. Brute strength was nothing against a witch’s spell.

“There… much better,” Michelle smirked, continuing her work and avoiding eye contact with the shaken human. “You open your mouth for one second and you’ve already said too much. Especially with that request of yours. Get you a job… This isn’t the place for a human. This is a bathhouse, where eight million spirits can rest their bones.” She placed a small bag of gold in a coin box with her free hand as she continued her rant. The witch stopped for a moment and set her pen down, picking up a long cigarette in its holder instead. She twiddled it around, clinking with the many rings adorning her fingers. She then stopped and stared directly at Adore. “Your mother had some nerve, didn’t she?”

Adore’s brow furrowed; anger started coming to her in a slow boil. If circumstances were normal, she would be throwing a punch towards the woman’s direction, or she’d pull out a knife. However, all she could do was just stand there and take this beatdown.

“Now my customers are hungry and it’s all her fault. It’s a good thing in time that she’ll be next on the menu.” Michelle continued, her voice dripping with venomous honey. “Wait a second,” she lit the cigarette with her fingers and took a drag , blowing some smoke in the human’s general direction. “It’s not entirely her fault… It was yours!” Her jaw would have been on the floor by now. “You could’ve stopped her. You could have even avoided entering this realm… but you didn’t. And now you can’t go home! Now what do you have to say about that?”

As expected, there was only muffled nonsense coming from the human’s mouth. Adore was practically shaking at this point: mostly out of fear and panic. Neither of them could have known that this land was sacred. Logically, it couldn’t be her fault, but why was she believing it? Was that… monster just that persuasive?

“Just as I thought…” She tapped at the holder, a few ashes piled onto the table. “You’d make a good piglet. It fits with that body of yours… or maybe a lump of coal. That way you’ll be useful for once…” The Grand Witch laughed seeing the human’s now frazzled state, blowing another cloud of smoke. “You’re trembling… Actually, I’m impressed you made it this far,” she spoke with a twinge of sincerity, “but I know you couldn’t have done it alone. Someone had to have helped you.” She slowed down her speech slightly as if she was talking down to a child. Then again, for all she knew Adore could have been a young child; Michelle stopped caring about age a long time ago.“All… you have.. to do… is tell me… who… it… was….”

Adore let out a heavy breath when the witch finally broke the enchantment on her lips. She balled her fists. “I just want a job here.”

“Again with this, aren’t you done with th-”

“PLEASE! I JUST WANT A FUCKIN’ JOB, GODDAMMIT!”

“SHUT UP!” This angered the witch further as the pile of paperwork began to flutter around her as she tensed up. Shortly afterwards, she shot herself into the air and knocked her things off the desk. Michelle Visage landed directly in front of Adore, intimidating the teen. She forced her to make eye contact, towering her body over her. “Why should I hire you?! Anybody with half a brain can see that you’re a whiny, foul-mouthed, lazy, spoiled crybaby. And stupid to boot.” Her long nails dug into the girl’s chest with every insult. “There’s nothing here for you. This is a HIGH CLASS business, and I have all the lazy bums I need.” She then moved behind the frightened woman. “Or maybe… you’d like the nastiest job I’ve got, and work

you until you breathe your very last breath. How does that sound?” The witch asked, walking her fingers along Adore’s arm until they reached her neck. As she was about to apply more pressure, the room began to violently shake.

The contents of her desk, plus a candelabra atop the fireplace, crashed onto the carpet. Michelle stopped and stood back as she heard the cries of a child from within the room. Momentarily forgetting about the human nuisance, she rushed to the other side where she was met by splinters from the door nearing her face. “Stop that,” her voice showed genuine concern and passion as she poked her head in through the door hole. “What’s the matter, baby?” She was met with a large foot kicking her face. Chunks of green painted wood ended up in her bun. “It’s okay… Mama’s here…” After attending to her child’s needs, she turned back to the human, her demeanor turning 180 degrees. “What are you still doing? Can’t you tell this is a private moment?”

   “YES, BUT I WANT A JOB. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR?” Adore yelled over the various other sounds in the room.

   “Be quiet! You’re scaring the baby!” She turned back towards her child, continuing her baby voice. “Hi, sweetie. She’ll be gone soon enough. Don’t be mad.

   “I’ll leave your office if you give me a job.” She smirked, not moving an inch..

   Michelle sighed, comforting the baby one last time. “It’s okay.. Mommy will be with you in a bit.” As she entered, the contents that had been knocked over slowly floated back to their respective places. Adore waited for the business to be over with, tapping her foot impatiently. She knew she won in this situation. Her mom was gonna be saved soon enough. How bad could this be?

   The witch returned, pulling planks out of her hair as a pen and empty piece of parchment found Adore’s hands. “That’s your contract,” Michelle explained as she returned to her desk, “just sign your name, and I’ll put you to work. And if I hear one little complaint out of you, you’ll be joining your family in the pigpen.”

   She nodded in response and stared at the contract, squinting her eyes to see if there was anything funny about it. If there were any added things about turning her anyway, she was going to be more than disappointed. This girl didn’t care if she was a middle-aged woman, she’d punch the living daylights out of her. “So… I just sign?”

   “Yes,” Michelle responded.

   “Right there?”

   “Yes! Quit wasting time. It’s almost like you don’t want this job with how you’re dilly-dallying…” Upon that remark, Adore kneeled down to find a flat surface to sign. “I can’t believe I took that oath. ‘Give a job to anyone who asks’…” Michelle mocked as she fixed a crooked lampshade and turned on that light. “She should be lucky I’m so nice… Are you done there?” As soon as Adore lifted the pen from the parchment, it flew into Michelle’s hands. “Perfect. So, you’re Adore Delano, yes?”

   She nodded her head.

   “Lovely name for someone like you.” The witch placed a hand over the paper. The human could only gasp as she saw what happened next. Most of the letters from her signature floated from the paper and into Visage’s open fist. She grasped the letters as a smirk stretched across her name. “From now on, your name is Red… You understand that? That’s easy enough to remember, right? You’re Red now. Answer me, Red!”

   The sudden change in tone made Ado- Red jump in her place. “Y-yes ma’am…” For the first time that day, she hesitated. She straightened her posture and held her arms closer together, holding back things she shouldn’t be feeling until a familiar voice made her happier.

   “You called for me?” Lask had entered the witch’s quarters seemingly unnoticed. Red wondered how much of the interaction she had seen.

   “Yes,” the Grand Witch responded, “this child is starting work as of now. Set her up with a job.”

   The other spirit nodded her head, turning to the human with a solemn look on her face. “What’s your name?”

   Red quietly gasped. You know me… why are you acting like a narc, lady? She wanted to say that, but she had her life and humanity on the line. “It’s Ad-” She stopped herself mid-sentence. “Red. It’s Red.”

   A moment of silence broke between the two old friends… or were they ever friends. “Follow me then.” Lask commanded for the newest hire to follow. They kept the silence as they walked down the halls again.

As they entered the elevator, the silence still continued. The human’s puppy dog eyes brightened. They were alone now! Things could get back to how they were. She then broke the eyes “Lask! I am so fuckin’ happy to se-”

“Don’t talk to me unless it’s something important.” Those words lashed at Red. “And address me as Madame Lask.”

Red refused to say anything more as she slumped along one of the lift’s walls. This ride somehow felt longer than all of the other ones.

[nofacenocaseblog]

𝗗𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 #3:  NARCOPISOS Inc. /Barcelona narcopisos, a necessary evil

The 3rd episode of Dope Stories is the most in-depth investigation of the series, so much that it took me nearly 3 years to gain the trust and respect of my contacts and more importantly, to get relevant insights about the local drug market and its players to show, under a different angle than mainstream media, what’s happening behind the closed doors of the Ciutat Veilla’s narrow streets.

Playground 1 - Raval, Barcelona / 2018 / iPhone 

“Drugs are ruining our neighborhood! “,  “Narcopisos are disrupting the real estate market!” ,  “ We don’t feel safe!”… 

Those are the slogans or headlines you see in the media or written on banners hanging from people’s balconies.  

“Narcopisos are filthy and dangerous!”

But are they though?

FOREWORD

Before getting started, I wanted to write a few words about Barcelona. After living more than a decade in New York, my wife and I moved to Catalan capital for about 4 years.  After reading this article you might think that I m not particularly fond of the town and its inhabitants.  I won’t lie, we didn’t receive the warmest welcome, especially from Catalans. This said, the town and its vibe are unique and galvanizing.  Very much like Marseille (my hometown), Barcelona is an harbor city with the port/marina right in the center, meaning: lots of traffics, smuggling, immigration, corruption, drugs etc… There is always “something going on”, if you catch my drift.  Shady, nasty, funny, ugly, beautiful, vulgar,  the cast of “pirate-like” characters gravitating around the city center is fascinating.

Occupied - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / Nikon 3200

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always been drawn toward the forbidden,  the danger, the illicit, the hidden, the bad...  To my eyes, “ugly” has always been more interesting than “beautiful”.  Barcelona is not a dangerous city but you need to keep your guard up: pick pockets roaming the subway,  gypsies asking for money on La Rambla (the city’s most touristic avenue) while releasing your back pocket from your wallet, junkies selling stolen goods or begging for change for their next fix #nextfixandchill , black people selling fake airmax on the Barcelonetta marina, drunken street fights in the early hours of the morning... Tragicomic scenes are unravelling before your eyes in an surreal backdrop: Gaudi’s most beautiful “psychedelic” buildings (Sagrafa Familia, casa pedrera, Palau Guell...) in a jungle of gothic buildings ending on a fisherman village overseeing a beautiful beachfront promenade ending with the native “star’chitect” Bofill’s famous W... 

Poolside - Barcelonetta, Barcelona / 2018 / iPhone

Ok, enough with the touristic tour, time to get real!

Stairway to Hell - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Embark on a descend to the heroin inferno that became Raval.  From the fields of Afghanistan to the bloodstreams of Spain...

La Ruta [Spanish for “the route”]

19,414 Pakistanis live in Barcelona, 6,600 of them are established in the neighborhood: El Raval (1) meaning more than 30% of the total community.  El Raval has always been my favorite barrio in town.  With 47% of immigrants (2) , the mosaic of faces, cultures and shops you encounter is dazzling .  Going back to the Pakistani population, I used the word “established” for a specific reason: they actually own many of the businesses in Raval: barbershop, cheap bars and restaurants, wholesale shops, import/export businesses, money transfer services (Western Union, Moneygram), food and grocery shops... I’m not accusing here the Pakistani business owners of backing the drug traffic but they basically created a web of small businesses in a tight net community with their own language, making it hard for the authorities to see through this social fabric potentially sheltering illegal activities. 

Why the Pakistani population is subject to speculation and doubt from the local authorities?  The answer is simple: Afghanistan.  Afghanistan  is by far the biggest producer of opium in the world. According to the US military, 90% of the world's heroin is made from opium grown in Afghanistan. It makes up 95% of the market in Europe (3).  The country has been the leader in opium poppy production since 2001.  Based on the 2014 report from the UNODC (United Nation Office on Drugs and Crime), Afghanistan not only grow opium but also process heroin in several laboratory as well as morphine (easier to produce from raw opium by adding calcium oxide and ammonium chloride).  From Afghanistan, several routes are used to smuggle their prime commodities: the Balkan route has been the primary route but things are changing and the Southern route has become more and more used.  Afghanistan share 2,400km of border with Pakistan and over 50% of illicit afghan opiates are trafficked through Pakistan which enjoys a a strategic location making it a perfect dispatch zone with readily accessible by land, sea (Gwadar and Karachi seaport) and air ways .  

The same UNODC report also indicates that the majority (37%) of the heroin seized in Pakistan was en-route for Europe..

*** Read and/or download the full report here ***

By the way, let’s not forget that Barcelona is also one of the Camorra’s stronghold.  And with Russians and Albanian mafias also present on the territory, Spain -where no powerful local crime syndicate operates and laws on prostitution and gambling are “blurred” to say the least-  has become one of organize crime’s favorite playgrounds for money laundering, drug smuggling, human trafficking, gambling and prostitution... Nothing really happens here without their “green light”, but that’s another story (5)

Back to our Southern route, once the product reaches Barcelona, it becomes very hard to pin point. Narcotics coming through the Balkan route also ends up in Barcelona but in different “retailers”’ hands:  Romanian family-based clans, based mostly in Besos (a run-down project in the heart of Poblenou) and  occupying one single narcopisos in Raval (they have moved 3 times over the 4-year period of my “investigation”) but known to have the purest and most processed Caballo sold in town. 

El Caballo [Spanish for “the horse”, street name of heroin ]

[WARNING]  Most of the photographs of this post are uncensored, quite graphic and… of poor quality…. my bad, I took them.  But I had circumstances: hidden cellphone, no flash, illegal activities going on, indoor, with very little to no light…  Shots are not the best (no pun intended) but you’ll step right into the infamous narcopisos you’ve heard of or read about. And not once they’ve been searched and trashed by the police like you’ve seen in the press but while they are in full operation. Raw, those images might be quite shocking to some of the readers, but take the emotion out of he equation and you’ll come to realized that, for lack a better choice, narcopisos are a necessary evil.   My intention here is not to start a polemic nor come out as a provocateur but to shed light on a real issue, still happening, involving real people, slowly dying, failed by a syste unable -or unwilling- to help them.

Gears - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

El Raval

1989,  US superstar Keith Harring is in Barcelona for his exhibition on La Rambla.  After speaking with an old friend of him from New York living here for awhile, he decided to paint a mural, his way to to show his love for and connection with the town. The next day, Harring chose the wall in Plaça de Salvador Segui in Raval.  He was warned that the area was one of the most dangerous areas in town. Back then, in the 80’s the Spanish government had the genius idea to decriminalize the use, but not the supply, of hard drugs and did not implement any proper treatments to sustain this measure...  Spaniards have ignored the issue and it sparked a heroin addiction epidemic that saw HIV rates soar (2a).The artist was attracted to the neighborhood and decided it would offer the perfect canvas for his message about the dangers of drugs and AIDS. At first it was supposed to be a temporary mural but in the end, up to this day, you can still enjoy Harring’s mural behind the MACBA museum. Below is a photograph I took of what became now hot-spot for skateboarder and cool bars

Tricks - Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / Nikon 3200

Beside its bad reputation, Raval has always been a magnet for artists and “cool kids”, misfits and outcasts but more recently the new kid on the block is named gentrification… in other word: Fun is over.   Well… not quite yet.  In Barcelona, everything moves slowly, gentrification included. The result is a mix of fancy hotels, art galleries, designer boutiques... mixed with prostitutes and their lovely clientele, dealers, junkies, businessmen, families of tourists wandering the streets… a fascinating mix of characters with theatrical scenes playing before your eyes: hustlers trying to rip off tourists, white collars finding themselves buying bad cocaine from a kid in a narrow, sketchy alley… the show is in the street, but not only. 

The Narrows - Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / Nikon 3200

What businesses, in Barcelona, are open 24/7, have no vacancy, a steady stream of customers and a product that sells itself? The answer: Narcopisos Inc.

The phenomenon of the Narcopisos emerged in 2016 (a year after I moved to Barcelona) following Spain’s property crash.  Foreclosed or unsold apartments, owned by banks and investment funds were left emptied, abandoned, in a country in full housing crisis...  It wasn’t long before the vacant spaces started being squatted: some by respectable families, in need of a place to live, some by drug dealers using them as selling point and shooting gallery.  A place where you can get a cheap fix in a relatively clean room.

Ritual - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Helped - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Thanks to my various contacts, I had access to different types of narcopisos, but from crack to dope houses, most of them were operating the same way: - a cctv video surveillance in place at the street level or someone looking out for the cops. - a room with junkies to confuse police upon arrival and make it look like they are actually squatting the place - 1 to 3 dealers serving customers one a the time. - An exit back door (if available) in case the police knocks on the front door. - One or two rooms for users. - Hourly cleaning of the premises to make the place look “decent” and “squatted” in case of a bust - Little quantity of drugs at the time, no more than 10 grams of each. - Open 24/7 - Re-up every hour or so - Single use paraphernalia available to the users - In some cases, Narcan at hand (medicine used to reverse the effect of an OD).

Cleaning Session - Career d’en Road 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / iPhone

My connections in the Pakistani community took time to build but  strengthen throughout the years to reached a level of trust where we came to split the bread at several occasions… no seriously, we actually got invited in their Halal “canteen” in Raval where only Pakistanis could enjoy their local cuisine, a unique experience… They also gave me access to two of their stash houses: located in legit apartments, in proper buildings, on the outskirt of Raval, close to Sant-Antoni, less prone to police check.  No users there, only wholesalers, dispatching heroin to “representatives” of each narcopisos at below retail-price: between 20 and 40 euros the gram depending on the quantity purchased. 

Going back to the narcopisos, some were run by junkies (where the product was often cut from the bash they were getting from the stash houses), some by pakistani or afghan immigrants, with decent quality product, some by Catalan families, living there for decades under stabilized rent and with their own connection and product of fluctuant quality.  Last but not least, one narcopiso was occupied by the Romanian clan mentioned earlier.  Below are some photos of one of their spot at 22 Carrer d’en Roig, later busted and walled by the Mossos d’esquadra (Catalan police)

Romanian at work - Career d’en Road 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / iPhone

Boss - Career d’en Road 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / iPhone

If narcopisos was selling both crack and heroin, two rooms were at the disposal of users, one for smoking their bottles or pipes and the other room to shoot up or smoke heroin on tiny pieces of foil.

Sterile hospital-like garbage disposal were available for discarding the used paraphernalia.

Bloodstream Hunt - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

#NextFixandChill - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Everything is provided to avoid the spread of disease and the use of the drug in plain sight in the street therefore reduce public disorder.

Not that dealers became humanitarian all of a sudden, but kicking customers with their (illegal) purchase out in the street expose them to being ratted on or worst, having an overdose in plain sight attracting the police and paramedics... either way, it’s not good for business so narcopisos’ “managers” rather keep their clientele indoor until they’re done using and good to do.

Now, there is another type of business in Barcelona dealing with drug users and addiction: it’s called Centre de Dispensació de Metadona - Centre d'Atenció Primària Casc Antic (the methadone clinic in short....). 

* They’re not open 24/7 but rather in the morning only * It can take up to 2 weeks to see a doctor in order to enroll in a Methadone Maintenance Treatment -MMT (true story...when a single day can be the last one for a heroin addict living in the street) * Last but not least, since the doctors and nurses’ work schedule is way more important tthan their patients’ care, some centers give up 3 to 4 days worth of supply of methadone at once to heroin users so the health workers can have their days and weekends off. The result of this amazing system: the methadone is sold in the street by users so they can buy their heroin and/or in certain case, the methadone is saved up (for rainy days) and the patient keeps using heroin instead.  Yes, the patient: let’s not forget that those “filthy junkies” actually are patients (even if they’re hardly seen as such in those centers),  suffering from a disease called addiction, or substance abuse disorder if you prefer the american way of calling it, and in need of medical care but what can I say... old habits die hard (both way...). 

Patients taking methadone to treat opioid dependance must receive the medication under the supervision of a practitioner. After a period of stability (based on progress and proven, consistent compliance with the medication dosage) and only then, patients may be allowed to take methadone at home between program visits... but not in Barcelona.

Methadone substitution as a treatment of opioid addiction does not function as much to curb addiction as to redirect it and maintain dependency on legal channels. Methadone has been designed that way, as a lifetime treatment whereas alternative palliatives such as Buprenorphine are not even considered by doctors when those therapies would be more efficient in certain cases: with users who do not shoot the drug for example, or with users wishing to quiet and get sober... but let's be honest here, sobriety has never been the objective of those methadone programs.  The real goal of this public service is not to cure addiction, but to make sure junkies don’t use, steal, rob and/or commit act of violence in the streets to feed their habits

The patient here is not the users but the society.   Those centers aren’t trying to help the user quit his habit, but to make sure the society doesn’t suffer from it.  Good or bad, Narcopisos are curbing down the spread of diseases, cleaning up the streets from users as they offering temporary shelter to their customers and operate around the clock..  It seems to me that their function is almost... complementary if not necessary.

So before eradicating narcopisos from the face of Raval, let’s pause and look at the alternative: junkies buying and using drugs in the streets of the city center, in the worst sanitary condition possible with no regard for the residents around.

Mañana

So what’s next? Keeping those illegal activities going on? Certainly not.

But before jumping the gun and closing it all at once, better get ready for the alternative because drug addiction will not disappear with the narcopisos. In my last article, I speak about users stigmatization and how society still struggles to see addiction as a disease and not a will power issue, turning the blind eye to a sheer amount of studies and discoveries explaining how heroin addiction, over time, modify the pathway of your brain frontal lobe and affect your decisional power, making it hard -to not say impossible- to say “no”. 

Don’t take me wrong.  It would be naïve to think all users roaming the streets are here trying to quit and become their better self. Most of them have no intention to do so. I’m not here to judge nor take side.  But in order to find a solution to the narcopiso situation, I would like to introduce Barcelona to his neighbor: Portugal.

Portugal had one of the worst heroin epidemic in Europe back in the 90′s and after the failed many “US war on drug”-type of approaches. They finally shift approach and started treated drug addicts as patients who needed help, not as criminals” says Goulao, the architect of Portugal drug policy.  After the decriminalization and treatments, they planned to open “supervised drug consumption facilities” Naina Bajekal says in her 2018 article in the Time “where drug users can consume drugs in safer conditions with the assistance of trained staff. Such facilities have been running in Europe since 1986, when the first was opened in Berne, Switzerland.”(5)

The result? Evidence (6) shows these these type of sites save lives, reduce public disorder, and curb the spread of diseases.

Does that sound familiar? Yes, that's right, the first of the two businesses we spoke about: Narcopisos Inc.

Purgatory - Carrer d’en Roig 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

For No Face No Case: Dope Stories chapter 4, we’re going to Italy.  Don’t worry, it won’t be another mafia-related article explaining how the N’Drangheta and Camorra became the most powerful crime syndicates in the world, you can watch that on TV.  Called “Il Racconto dei Racconti”  (Tales of Tales in english), the article will keep it real, street style: short stories from North to South: Torino, Milano, Genoa, Roma, Napoli... Stay tuned for some dope stories on how drugs are sold, used and abused in the Renaissance country 

References (1) https://www.barcelona-metropolitan.com/featuresx/report-barcelona-pakistani-community/ (2) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_Raval (3) https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-47861444 (4)https://english.elpais.com/elpais/2018/12/07/inenglish/1544171107_204329.html (5) https://time.com/longform/portugal-drug-use-decriminalization/ (6) https://www.cbc.ca/news2/interactives/portugal-heroin-decriminalization/