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warped-historian · 3 years

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Warped Tour, 2006

Dates:

June 15: Columbia, MD

June 16: Columbus, OH

June 17: Milwaukee, WI

June 18: Minneapolis, MN

June 19: Bonner Springs, KS

June 21: Nashville, TN

June 22: Jacksonville, FL

June 23: St. Petersburg, FL

June 24: Miami, FL

June 25: Orlando, FL

June 26: Ladson, SC

June 27: Raleigh, NC

June 28: Atlanta, GA

June 30: Houston, TX

July 1: Dallas, TX

July 2: Selma, TX

July 3: Las Cruces, NM

July 4: Phoenix, AZ

July 6: Chula Vista, CA

July 7: Pomona, CA

July 8: San Francisco, CA

July 9: Fresno, CA

July 11: Ventura, CA

July 12: L.A, CA

July 13: Marysville, CA

July 14: Nampa, ID

July 15: George, WA

July 16: St. Helens, OR

July 18: Vancouver, BC

July 20: Calgary, AB

July 22: Salt Lake City, UT

July 23: Denver, CO

July 25: Maryland Heights, MO

July 26: Cincinnati, OH

July 27: Pittsburg, PA

July 28: Noblesville, IN

July 29: Detroit, MI

July 30: Tinley Park, IL

August 1: Darien, NY

August 2: Fitchburg, MA

August 3: Camden, NJ

August 4: Scranton, PA

August 5: Uniondale, NY

August 6: Englishtown, NJ

August 8: Charlotte, NC

August 9: Virginia Beach, VA

August 10:Bristow, VA

August 11: Cleveland, OH

August 12: Barrie, ON

August 13: Montreal, QC

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Lineup:

The Academy Is... (Played 6/15, 6/18, 6/23, 6/30 and 7/2)

Against Me!

Aiden (Played 7/2, 7/12, 7/15 and 7/22)

Armor for Sleep (Played 6/30, 7/2 and 8/3)

The Bouncing Souls

Bullet for My Valentine (Played 8/5)

Buzzcocks (Played 6/15-6/28)

The Casualties (Played 6/15-8/5)

The Early November (Played 7/20)

Emery (Played 6/25 and 7/13)

Every Time I Die (Played 7/1, 7/22 and 8/12)

Greeley Estates (Played 6/19)

Gym Class Heroes (Played 6/30)

Hellogoodbye (Played 6/16, 6/28 and 7/3)

Helmet

Joan Jett and the Blackhearts (Played 6/15-6/28, 7/6-7/18 and 7/22-8/13)

Less Than Jake

The Living End (Played 7/3-7/30)

NOFX

Paramore (Played 7/6)

Pistolita (Played 8/6)

Plain White T's (Played 7/1)

Silverstein (Played 6/24, 7/1 and 7/3)

The Sounds (Played 7/18-8/13)

30 Seconds to Mars (Played 8/1-8/2 and 8/8-8/12)

The Academy Is... (Played 7/15 and 8/5)

AFI (Played 6/27, 6/30, 7/2-7/3, 7/14, 7/16-7/20, 7/26-7/28 and 8/1)

After It's Over (Played 6/25)

Aiden (Played 7/25)

Amber Pacific (Played 7/15)

Anti-Flag

Armor for Sleep (Played 6/15, 6/23-6/24 and 7/8)

Billy Talent (Played 7/22-7/24, 7/26-8/2, 8/4-8/5 and 8/7-8/13)

The Bled (Played 7/13)

Bullet for My Valentine (Played 8/3)

The Dan Band (Played 7/12)

Danny Diablo (Played 6/19)

Evaline (Played 8/6)

Every Time I Die (Played 6/16, 6/18, 6/24, 6/28, 7/25 and 8/6)

From First To Last (Played 6/16, 6/18 and 6/23)

The Germs (Played 7/6)

Gogol Bordello (Played 8/6)

Greeley Estates (Played 7/1 and 8/5)

Hellogoodbye (Played 6/19, 6/30 and 7/8)

Jack's Mannequin (Played 7/6)

Motion City Soundtrack

Paramore (Played 6/25)

The Pink Spiders (Played 7/12)

Pistolita (Played 8/3)

Plain White T's (Played 7/6)

Rise Against

Saosin (Played 7/1)

Saves the Day

Senses Fail

Silverstein (Played 6/15, 6/28, 7/13, 7/18-7/20 and 8/12)

State Radio (Played 7/2)

Talib Kweli (Played 8/11)

Thursday

Underoath (Played 6/15-7/27)

Valient Thorr (Played 7/3)

The Academy Is... (Played 6/16-6/17, 6/19-6/22, 6/24-6/28, 7/1, 7/3-7/14, 7/16-8/4 and 8/6-8/13)

Aiden (Played 6/15-6/24, 6/26-6/28, 7/1, 7/3-7/11, 7/13-7/14, and 7/16-8/13)

Armor for Sleep (Played 6/16-6/22, 6/24-6/28, 7/1, 7/3-7/7, 7/9-8/2 and 8/4-8/13)

Between the Trees (Played 6/25)

Billy Talent (Played 7/25, 8/3 and 8/6)

Bullet for My Valentine (Played 8/1-8/2 and 8/4-8/13)

Danny Diablo (Played 6/15-6/18 and 6/21)

Dropping Daylight (Played 6/28-6/30)

The Early November (Played 7/15-7/18, 7/22-8/2 and 8/4-8/13)

Eighteen Visions (Played 7/26-8/13)

Emery (Played 7/2)

Evaline (Played 8/3-8/5 and 8/7-8/13)

Every Time I Die (Played 6/15-6/17, 6/19-6/27, 6/30, 7/2-8/5 and 8/7-8/13)

From First To Last (Played 6/19 and 6/24)

Greeley Estates (Played 6/15-6/18, 6/21-6/30, 7/2-8/4 and 8/6-8/13)

Gym Class Heroes (Played 7/1-7/24 and 7/26-8/3)

Hellogoodbye (Played 6/15, 6/17-6/18, 6/21-6/27, 7/1-7/2, 7/4-7/7 and 7/9-8/13)

The Lordz (Played 8/5)

Paramore (Played 6/15-6/24, 6/26-6/28, 7/1-7/5 and 7/7-7/11)

Patent Pending (Played 7/1 and 7/8)

Plain White T's (Played 6/15-6/30, 7/2-7/5 and 7/7-7/20)

The Pink Spiders (Played 6/30-7/11 and 7/13-8/13)

Saosin (Played 6/30 and 7/2-7/16)

Silverstein (Played 6/18-6/19 and 7/25)

Spitalfield (Played 6/17-6/24 and 6/30)

State Radio (Played 6/15-7/1)

The Stiletto Formal (Played 8/12-8/13)

Total Chaos (Played 7/20)

Zox (Played 6/15-6/26)

Aiden (Played 6/25 and 6/30)

Amber Pacific (Played 6/15-7/14 and 7/16-7/20)

ASG (Played 6/21-6/28 and 7/27-8/10)

Chiodos (Played 8/12)

Dropping Daylight (Played 6/15-6/18, 6/21, 6/27 and 6/30-7/16)

Eighteen Visions (Played 7/25 and 8/12)

Emery (Played 6/18-6/19, 6/23 and 6/28-7/3)

Evaline (Played 6/15-6/19, 6/28 and 7/3)

Family Force 5 (Played 6/28

Flashlight Brown (Played 7/18-8/6)

From First to Last (Played 6/15, 6/17 and 6/20-6/22)

Gym Class Heroes (Played 7/25)

Ill Scarlett (Played 8/12-8/13)

Kandi Coded (Played 7/6-7/18)

The Knives (Played 6/28)

Mute Math (Played 8/8-8/13)

Over It (Played 6/15-7/20)

Paramore (Played 6/18, 6/30 and 7/2-7/3)

Patent Pending (Played 6/30 and 7/2)

Pistolita (Played 7/22-8/2 and 8/4-8/13)

The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus (Played 6/22-6/25 and 7/18-8/13)

Riverboat Gamblers (Played 7/1-7/2)

The Sainte Catherines (Played 8/12-8/13)

Side 67 (Played 7/18-7/20 and 8/11-8/13)

The Spill Canvas (Played 6/15-6/19)

Spitalfield (Played 6/15-6/16, 6/18 and 6/25-6/28 and 7/1)

Stretch Arm Strong (Played 7/22-8/13)

The Summer Obsession (Played 6/25)

Sydney (Played 8/12-8/13)

Ted (Played 6/23 and 6/25)

Valient Thorr (Played 6/15-7/2 and 7/4-8/13)

Vaux (Played 6/15-7/5 and 7/20-7/30)

Voltera (Played 6/30-7/15)

A Static Lullaby (Played 7/7 and 7/12)

All Time Low (Played 8/4-8/6)

And Then I Turn (Played 6/18)

As Cities Burn (Played 6/15-6/28)

The Audition (Played 7/15-7/30)

Big City Dreams (Played 6/22-6/23)

The Bleeding Alarm (Played 7/18-7/20)

Brighten (Played 7/13)

Britt Black (Played 6/16)

Chasing Victory (Played 6/27)

Chiodos (Played 6/30-7/15)

The Classic Crime (Played 7/16-7/30)

The Confession (Played 6/15-6/26)

Dear Jane, I... (Played 8/13)

Dear Whoever (Played 7/16)

Eighteen Visions (Played 6/30-7/15)

Emery (Played 7/16-7/30)

Escape the Fate (Played 7/8-7/15)

From Aphony (Played 7/15)

The Fully Down

Goodbye Tomorrow (Playd 7/4)

Halifax (Played 8/1-8/13)

Hit the Lights (Played 6/30-7/15)

Hometown Anthem (Played 6/15)

The Honour Recital (Played 7/28-7/29)

Horse the Band (Played 8/1-8/13)

I Am Ghost (Played 6/22-7/8)

I Am The Avalanche (Played 8/1-8/13)

It Dies Today (Played 6/30-7/15)

Ivory (Played 6/17)

June (Played 6/15-6/28)

The Junior Varsity (Played 7/25-7/30)

The Killing Moon (Played 8/1)

Last Winter (Played 6/25)

Liam and Me (Played 8/3)

Lydia (Played 6/30-7/7)

Maylene and the Sons of Disaster (Played 6/15-6/28)

MeWithoutYou (Played 8/1-8/11)

Misery Signals (Played 7/18-7/30)

My American Heart (Played 7/16-7/30)

Normal Like You (Played 7/8)

Quietdrive (Played 6/19-6/21)

The Real You (Played 7/6)

Remembering Never (Played 6/30-7/15)

Rookie of the Year (Played 6/15-6/28)

Royden (Played 6/15-6/21)

Scary Kids Scaring Kids (Played 6/15-7/6, 7/8-7/15 and 8/5-8/13)

Showbread (Played 6/28)

The Sleeping (Played 8/1-8/13)

So They Say (Played 8/1-8/13)

Somerset (Played 6/16)

The Stiletto Formal (Played 6/30-7/15)

The Sunstreak (Played 8/12)

Transition (Played 7/27)

Valencia (Played 8/8-8/13)

YouInSeries (Played 8/1-8/13)

Alexisonfire (Played 7/12-8/3 and 8/6-8/13)

Biology

The Bled (Played 6/15-7/12 and 7/14-8/13)

The Departed (Played 7/8)

DORK (Played 7/3)

Down to Earth Approach

Emanuel (Played 6/17-8/13)

From Autumn to Ashes

Gym Class Heroes (Played 8/12-8/13)

Meg and Dia (Played 7/1)

Moneen

Protest the Hero

Saves the Day (Acoustic) (6/15 and 6/17-8/12)

Senses Fail (Acoustic) (6/16-6/27, 6/30, 7/2, 7/4-7/7, 7/9-7/12, 7/14, 7/16, 7/20-8/2, 8/4 and 8/8-8/11)

Silverstein (Played 6/16)

The Summer Obsession (Played 6/28)

The Sunstreak (Played 7/13)

A Change of Pace (Played 7/3-7/14)

Adair

All Time Low (Played 6/15 and 8/9-8/10)

Britt Black (Played 8/13)

Cartel

Catch 22 (Played 6/22-7/2)

Crowned King (Played 7/15, 7/18-7/20)

Dirty Little Monkey (Played 7/15)

Downtown Brown (Played 7/29 and 8/11)

Eight Fingers Down (Played 8/13)

Family Force 5 (Played 6/16-6/22, 6/25-6/27)

The Felix Culpa (Played 6/15-6/19)

Forgive Durden (Played 7/14-7/23

Glass Intrepid (Played 6/26-7/2)

Gym Class Heroes (Played 6/15-6/27 and 7/8)

Heavy Heavy Low Low (Played 7/13)

Ice Nine Kills (Played 8/2)

Lorene Drive (Played 8/3-8/10)

Love Equals Death (Played 7/8)

Lydia (Played 8/3-8/10)

Meter Maid (Played 7/30)

Monty Are I (Played 6/15-6/23)

Mute Math (Played 7/13-8/2)

My American Heart (Played 7/4-7/13 and 8/1-8/2)

Nural (Played 7/12)

The Panic Division (Played 6/30-7/3)

Phathom (Played 8/13)

Race the Sun (Played 8/8-8/12)

Rediscover (Played 6/23-6/27)

Rock Hard Power Spray (Played 6/22-6/25)

Ronnie Day (Played 7/25-7/27)

The Salads (Played 7/18-7/20 and 8/11-8/13)

The Scotch Greens (Played 6/15-7/2 and 7/8)

Sherwood (Played 7/13-7/23)

The Smashup

So They Say (Played 7/25-7/30)

The Stick Up (Played 8/13)

Sunset West (Played 8/13)

The Sunstreak (Played 6/15-7/12, 7/14 and 7/16-8/11)

Throwdown (Played 7/3-7/13)

Valencia (Played 8/3)

The Vincent Black Shadow (Played 8/13)

We are the Fury

Your Name in Lights (Played 7/3 and 8/3-8/6)

Zebrahead (Played 7/16-7/30)

2nd Day Crush (Played 7/11)

A Chance Without (Played 7/15)

A Heartwell Ending (Played 7/7)

A Kiss for Jersey (Played 6/27)

A Red Carpet Affair (Played 6/18)

Abby Normal (Played 7/22)

Aetrium (Played 7/6)

Affirmative Cameraman (Played 7/13)

Alesana (Played 6/27)

The Alibi (Played 7/20)

Amory (Played 8/6)

Anachondo (Played 6/19)

And the Hero Fails (Played 7/4)

And Then There Was You (Played 6/24)

The Argyle Pimps (Played 7/9)

The Arrival (Played 6/21)

As Blood Runs Black (Played 7/12)

Asian (Played 6/26)

Asking Abby (Played 6/18)

Ava Wait (Played 7/25)

The Avenue Memphis (Played 6/21)

Awake (Played 7/11)

Bank (Played 7/14)

Blane (Played 7/15]]

Bleeding Orange (Played 8/13)

Bless the Broken (Played 7/1)

Blessthefall (Played 7/4)

Blinded Black (Played 7/25)

The Bright Red (Played 7/20)

Brightwood (Played 7/16)

Broken Image (Played 6/23)

The Brotherhood Of Dae Han (Played 7/23)

Capitol Risk (Played 8/4)

Castles in the Sky (Played 7/15)

Celeste (Played 6/28)

Centreline (Played 8/9)

Choad Effect (Played 7/7)

Continent Of Ash (Played 7/23)

Crash Boom Bang (Played 8/9)

Dance Gavin Dance (Played 7/13)

Dash the Assassin (Played 6/16)

Dawn of the Dude (Played 8/8)

Dead Ellington (Played 8/2)

Death in December (Played 7/14)

Deathwish Nine (Played 7/12)

Demas the Thief (Played 8/9)

Dirty Larry (Played 8/3)

The Dog and Everything (Played 7/30)

Don't Die Cindy (Played 6/22)

The Drama Club (Played 8/4)

Dreams of Reality (Played 7/11)

Driven Under (Played 7/14)

Driving East (Played 8/10)

The Drugstore Cowboys (Played 6/15)

Easton (Played 6/24)

Eclectic Approach (Played 7/15)

Ekotren (Played 6/25)

The Elliot Project (Played 7/1)

Ellison (Played 7/26)

Enter (Played 6/17)

Ericson (Played 8/2)

Ever Since Radio (Played 6/15)

Exit This Side (Played 7/18)

Eyes Catch Fire (Played 6/19)

Eyes Set to Kill (Played 7/4)

Fail to Follow (Played 7/22)

Falling For Yesterday (Played 6/21)

Fear From Falling (Played 7/23)

Fermata (Played 7/11)

Fijar (Played 6/23)

The Florence (Played 8/13)

Forever in Effigy (Played 7/28)

Four Stories (Played 8/9)

Fully Loaded (Played 7/18)

Furthest From the Star (Played 7/2)

Gates Called Beautiful (Played 8/11)

Gatsby Gets the Green Light (Played 6/15)

Ghost Town Locals (Played 8/3)

Gloria (Played 6/18)

The Good Cheer (Played 7/11)

The Goodbye Celebration (Played 8/12)

Goodbye Soundscape (Played 8/4)

Goodbye Tiger (Played 7/15)

The Grillers (Played 8/5)

Guns Like Girls (Played 8/6)

Hand Me Down Buick (Played 8/3)

Handgun Sonata (Played 6/26)

The Hanks (Played 7/12)

Headsnap (Played 6/26)

Heisley Amor (Played 8/11)

Hello Tokyo (Played 8/10)

Hit By A Bus (Played 7/3)

Hometown Anthem (Played 8/6)

The Honour Recital (Played 7/30)

Hope All Is Well (Played 7/16)

Hopefield (Played 7/7)

The Hottness (Played 8/8)

Human Flight Committee (Played 8/2)

In Case You're Curious (Played 7/23)

In Reverent Fear (Played 7/6)

In Theory (Played 7/1)

Inner Surge (Played 7/20)

The International Drive (Played 8/8)

It's Like Love (Played 7/4)

Ivoryline (Played 6/30)

Jetpack (Played 7/25)

Juniper (Played 8/5)

Karate High School (Played 7/8)

Kill Your Ex (Played 7/16)

The Killer Apathy (Played 6/17)

Killing Santa Clara (Played 6/16)

Kings Field (Played 7/4)

Kohabit (Played 7/22)

Last Conservative (Played 8/1)

Last November (Played 6/28)

Latefallen (Played 8/12)

Later Days (Played 6/23)

The Letter Red (Played 7/12)

The Lifeline (Played 7/29)

Lights Below (Played 7/16)

Loko Phylum (Played 7/27)

Love Me Destroyer (Played 7/23)

lowerDefinition (Played 7/6)

Ludo (Played 7/25)

Madelyn (Played 6/24)

Madison East (Played 8/11)

Makeshifte (Played 6/30)

Marilyn Avenue (Played 7/26)

Mayday Parade (Played 6/22)

Mercury Bullet (Played 7/9)

Meriwether (Played 6/30)

The Midnight Renewal (Played 8/2)

Missing Six (Played 7/28)

Moments in Tragedy (Played 7/2)

Monarch (Played 8/4)

Morning Abroad (Played 8/3)

Morningside Drive (Played 6/30)

Mouse Fire (Played 6/23)

My Fair Verona (Played 6/24)

My Favorite Highway (Played 8/10)

My Former Self (Played 7/8)

My Getaway (Played 6/25)

My Hero Is Me (Played 6/27)

Natives of the New Dawn (Played 7/29)

Nerve Damage (Played 7/30)

New Repulic (Played 6/16)

The New Sincerity (Played 8/13)

Noon Blue (Played 6/25)

[Nothing Left to Lose]] (Played 6/19)

Nothing Still (Played 7/25)

Of Hearts and Shadows (Played 7/6)

Of the Son (Played 7/28)

On Holiday (Played 7/18)

Once Nothing (Played 7/27)

Once Over (Played 7/13)

The Paper Exit (Played 6/18)

Parlour Boys (Played 7/26)

Patterns in Static (Played 6/17)

Pheen (Played 6/16)

Pictures in Pieces (Played 8/10)

Playing With Matches (Played 6/19)

Prevail Within (Played 7/2)

Quick and the Dead (Played 7/8)

The Radio Fix (Played 6/21)

Radio for Help (Played 7/20)

Reclaim the Fallen (Played 7/16)

Red Handed (Played 6/26)

Red October (Played 8/13)

Redflecks (Played 6/21)

Renour (Played 8/1)

Rounding 3rd (Played 8/11)

Sandbar (Played 6/30)

Search the City (Played 7/29)

Secondhand Serenade (Played 7/8)

Second Shift (Played 6/28)

Shadeland (Played 7/28)

Shadow Agency (Played 6/22)

Shaunteclair (Played 7/7)

Shotgun Rules (Played 8/12)

Signal the Escape (Played 8/6)

Silica (Played 7/14)

Simon Stinger (Played 7/8)

Sincerely (Played 7/3)

The Skunk 11 (Played 7/27)

Skylines End (Played 7/1)

Social Ghost (Played 6/25)

Someday (Played 7/3)

The Sophomore Attempt (Played 6/22)

Sound of Surrender (Played 7/6)

Speakers for the Dead (Played 7/9)

The Spotlight (Played 6/15)

The Starrs (Played 6/17)

Stemm (Played 8/1)

Stereotatic (Played 7/9)

The Story Changes (Played 6/16)

Summerside (Played 8/12)

The Tale Of (Played 7/2)

Ten Falls Forth (Played 7/13)

Ten Missing Days (Played 6/28)

Ten Pound Strike (Played 8/5)

This Solemn Vow (Played 6/25)

Therefore I Am (Played 8/2)

Thoughts Lost (Played 8/1)

Tonight the Riot (Played 8/1)

The Trademark (Played 7/22)

The Translation (Played 7/30)

Treaty of Paris (Played 7/30)

Two Shots of Rye (Played 8/5)

Upside (Played 7/1)

We Were Born As Ghosts (Played 7/3)

The Weakend (Played 7/29)

Wired (Played 8/5)

The Varsity (Played 8/8)

Vaya (Played 6/28)

Very Emergency (Played 7/26)

Victory Lane (Played 7/27)

Voodoo Blue (Played 8/9)

Your Name In Vain (Played 6/27)

A Farewell Sets Fire

A Life in Vain

A Loss For Words

The Ackleys

After Drama

Agynst

Alabaster

The American Black Lung

The Appreciation Post

As Seasons Fall

The Bangkok Five

Bedouin Soundclash

The Black Out Pact

Black Sunday

Blackfire

Building a Better Spaceship

The Burning Room

Calico Drive

The Campaign 1984

Cauterize

Chaplan

The Chop Tops

Cities Apart

Class of Zero

Close to Home

Code 4-15

Corrupted Youth

Crazy Anglos

Crash Romeo

Curt Phillips

Dark Sunrise

DBK

The Distance

Dog Fashion Disco

Dynamite 8

Eight Fingers Down

Entice

Everdae

Every Dreams Another Nightmare

Everybody Else Wins

The Fallen Lie

Faulter

Feature Presentation

Final Round

The First Burning

Fist Full of Knuckles

Flashlight Brown

The Fold

Fuscia

GoodYear

Grounded

Happy Tragedy

Heart of a Failure

High School Football Heroes

Hourcast

The Hush Sound

I Am Ghost

I Voted for Kodos

Inamere

Index Case

It's Pouring on Our Heads

Jay Tea

Jealousy Curve

Jet Lag Gemini

Kennedy

Kincaide

L-10 Project

The Last Car in Alaska

Left Alone

Listed M.I.A.

Los Kung Fu Monkeys

The Loved Ones

The Lovekill

MacKenzie First

Manic Sewing Circle

Maple Street Impressions

Mastema

Milk Carton Mug-Shots

Minutes Too Far

Modern Day 84

Morgan and Me

Morgan Knockers

Mourningstar

Nadafinga

Near Miss

Nightlife

No Trigger

No Way Jose

Nural

OK Stranger

Outernational

Patterns

Post Bliss

Pretty in Stereo

Promise Divine

RAC

The Randies

Rayfield

Roses Are Red

Round Three Fight

Safety

Septic Tank Disasters

Shanti

Single File

Skint

Sorry About Your Couch

Space Pilot

Split Fifty

Starving Goliath

Stigma 13

Strap-On Tools

Stuckbackwards

Super Geek League

SWAK 13

Take The City

Tokyo Rose

Transfusion M

Typecast

Ultimate Power Duo

The University

Vampire Dolphin Repellant

Variety Workshop

Verbana Darvell

Verge of Ruin

Victory Within

Wheels on the Bus

X-Ray Cat

The Years Gone By

8-Bit

A Common Hope

All or Nothing HC

Anti-Hero

Blameshift

Bogart

Britt Black

Bullets on Broadway

Flash Bathory

Johnnie Burton

By Blood and Fire

Calentura

Candy From Strangers

Chumleys Toy

Coinslot

Crazy Pineapple

Damone

The Dollyrots

Fallopian

Five Star Affair

Handcuffs and Heels

The Harletts

The Hatchetwounds

Hit By A Bus

Hydraulic Sandwich

Jungle Junkies

Kara Dupuy

Kenotia

KHZ

Killbourne

Lia Fail

The Lookaways

The Lorrainas

Meghan Storm

Mental Hygiene

Merit

Motorpsychos

Mr. Gnome

Mr. Guy

Mystery Hangup

Naked Aggression

Ottos Daughter

Ouija Radio

Outlett

Overrated

Paper Doll

Pink Stik

Princess Riot

The Pristines

Punk Bunny

Red Knife Lottery

Robots & Butterflies

Rubbing Down Debbie

Same Day Service

Shiragirl

So Unloved

Stacey Clark

Sunset Grey

The Swear

TAT

Tip the Van

Traeh

The Twats

The Two-Bit Terribles

The Vincent Black Shadow

The Voodoo Dollies

The Winks

X Tropos

Youth Decay

Zoeys Picnic

The Expos (Played 8/12-8/13)

Exterio (Played 8/12-8/13)

The Flatliners (Played 8/12-8/13)

General Rudie (Played 8/12-8/13)

The Johnstones (Played 8/12-8/13)

The One Night Band (Played 8/12-8/13)

The Planet Smashers (Played 8/12-8/13)

Subb (Played 8/12-8/13)

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cassh24sg · 3 years

Text

Zero-Interest Loans from County Still Available to Small Businesses Impacted by COVID

Tap another city’s news:

Barnegat / Waretown – 08005 Barnegat – 08005 Waretown – 08758 Basking Ridge – 07920 Liberty Corner – 07938 West Millington – 07946 Bayonne – 07002 Belmar / Lake Como – 07719 Belmar – 07719 Lake Como – 07719 Berkeley Heights – 07922 Bernardsville & Bedminster – 07924 Bedminster – 07924 Bedminster 07921 Bernardsville – 07924 Far Hills – 07931 Peapack-Gladstone – 07924 Bloomfield – 07003 Bordentown – 08505 Fieldsboro – 08505 Bridgewater / Raritan – 08807 Bridgewater – 08807 Raritan – 08869 Camden – 08030 Chatham – 07928 – 0705 586 – 77058 Coral Springs – 33065 Cranford – 07016 Denville – 07834 East Brunswick – 08816 East Hanover / Florham Park – 07936 East Hanover – 07936 Florham Park – 07932 East Orange / Orange – 07017 Edison – 08817 Elizabeth – 07202 Fair Lawn / Glen Rock – 07410 Fair Lawn – 07470 Glen Rock – 07452 Flemington / Raritan – 08822 Flemington – 08822 Raritan Township (Hunterdon County) – 08822 Franklin Township – 08873 Greater Ole an – 14760 Alleg any – 14706 Cuba – 14727 Hinsdale – 14743 Olean – 14760 Portville – 14770 Hackensack – 07601 Hackettstown – 07840 Hamilton / Robbinsville – 08609 Hamilton – 08609 Robbinsville – 08691 Hasbrouck Heights / Wood – Ridge / Teterboro – 07604 Hasbrouck Te Heights – 07604 – 07608 -Ridge – 07075 Hawthorne – 07506 Hazlet & Keyport – 07730 Hazlet – 07734 Keyport – 07735 Hillsborough – 08844 Hillside – 07205 Hoboken – 07030 Holmdel & Colts Neck – 07733 Colts Neck – 07722 Holmdel – 07733 Jersey City / Lewis305 Katon – 10536 Lewisboro – 10590 Kenilworth – 07033 Linden – 07036 Little Egg Harbor & Tuckerton – 08087 Little Egg Harbor – 08087 Tuckerton – 08087 Livingston – 07039 Madison – 07940 Mahopac – 10541 Middletown – 07748 Millburn / Short Hills – 07041 Milltown / Spotswood – 08850 Milltown – 08850 Spotswood – 08884 Montclair – 07042 Montville – 07045 Pine Brook – 07058 Towaco – 07082 Morristown – 07960 Mountainside – 07092 Newark – 07102 New Brunswick – 0890 1 New Providence – 07974 Newton – 07860 Andover Township – 07821 Fredon Township – 07860 Green Township – 07821 Hampton Township – 07860 Stillwater Township – 07875 North Plainfield / Green Brook / Watchung – 07060 Green Brook – 08812 North Plainfield – 07062 Watchung – 07069 North Salem – 10560 Nutley – 07110 Paramus – 07653 Parkland – 33076 Parsippany – 07054 Passaic Valley – 07424 Little Falls – 07424 Totowa – 07512 Woodland Park – 07424 Paterson – 07500 Piscataway – 08854 Plainfield – 07060 Princeton – 08540 Rahway – 07065 Randolph – 07869 Raritan Bay – 08832 Sayreville – 08816 Red Bank – 07701 Ridgewood – 07451 Roselle / Roselle Park – 07204 Roxbury – 07876 Scotch Plains / Fanwood – 07076 SOMA – 07079 Maplewood – 07040 South Orange – 07079 Somers – 10589 Somerville – 08876 South. Brunswick – 08810 Cranbury – 08512 South Brunswick Expired – 08810 South Plainfield – 07080 Sparta – 07871 Andover Borough – 07821 Andover Township – 07821 Byram Township – 07874 Frankl in Borough – 07416 Hardyston – 07419 Springfield – 07081 Stafford / LBI – 08008 Long Beach Island – 08008 08008 Stafford – 08050 Summit – 07901 Sutton Place / Lenox Hill – 10022 Lenox Hill – 10021 Sutton Place – 10022 Union – 07083 Verona / Cedar Grove – 07044 Cedar Grove – 07009 Verona – 07044 Waltham – 02452 Warren – 07059 Wayne – 07470 West Essex – 07006 Caldwell – 07006 Essex Fells – 07021 Fairfield – 07004 North Caldwell – 07006 Roseland – 07068 West Caldwell – 07007 Westfield – 07090 West Orange – 07052 Womelsdorf – 19567 Yorktown – 10598

source https://www.cassh24sg.com/2021/07/02/zero-interest-loans-from-county-still-available-to-small-businesses-impacted-by-covid/

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psycheswritings · 5 years

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Nothing’s Fair in Love and War - Five

Title: Nothing’s Fair in Love and War Fandom: Peaky Blinders Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Daphne Scott (OFC) Warnings: Swearing, drinking, smoking. Word Count: 4071

Author's Note: Hello, again and welcome to the new update. Things start to develop right now and I want to know what you all are thinking of it. Thanks to everybody that commented and liked the fic. Please, let me know what you think. It makes me really happy and helps improve the story. What do you think of the characters, are they too OOC? Something is bothering you? There’s too much scenes of the show in there? What are your thoughts? Share with me. As always, this haven’t been proofread, so feel free to report any mistakes back to me; warnings are expecific for each chapter. Also, your feedback is also highly appreciated. Tags are at the bottom, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter Summary: Alfie and Daphne have a little conversation that opens their eyes for things that they might have been ignoring. The Shelby Brothers Limited start to put into action their expansion and Daphne has a very interesting encounter.

Masterlist

Five

They were both sitting at the table, breakfast served, newspaper on their hands and silence filling the place. Cyril was sprawled out on Daphne’s feet enjoying the little ray of sunshine entering through the window. Things have been surprisingly good in the Solomons’s household.

“The Blinders took the Eden Club.” She said nonchalantly, taking a sip of her coffee, neither of them taking their eyes out of the paper.

“I heard.”

“Are we ignoring it them?”

“For now.” She sighed, resigned, knowing that he wasn’t going to talk anyway.

“Will you need me next Wednesday?” Alfie lowered his newspaper at that, observing the woman who still had the object hiding her face.

“Not that I remember. Do you have something planned?” She folded the paper, putting it aside on the table and looking up at him.

“Polly Gray invited me for tea.” He blinked once, twice, before folding his own journal and throwing it beside hers.

“Isn’t this Thomas’s aunt?” There was a hint of surprise on his voice. He remembered the woman from Daphne’s party, she seemed skeptical of the young woman the whole night, watching her from aside, trying to make Daphne slip on her words. It did not made any sense that the gypsy woman would invite her for tea without ulterior motives. Unless… Unless that she had seen what Alfie had been trying to ignore since the first time that Thomas Shelby had put his feet at the bakery – or more precisely, since the first time he had laid his eyes on Daphne.

“Yes, it is.”

“Are you considering her offer?”

“Maybe.” He scratched his beard, not taking his eyes of hers. Daphne could almost hear the gears working inside his head.

“Well, it could be good to build up trust, you know. She seemed a little guarded around you.”

“She was analyzing me. Both of us, for that matter.” She took a sip of her coffee.

“Yeah, but she seems to have picked more interest in you than in old, creepy me.” Daphne rolled her eyes at that – he wasn’t that much older than she was.

“We are women, Alfie, sometimes we see things that you men don’t.”

“Like the fact that Will still loves you?” His statement surprised her. Alfie was like a brother to her, they talked about almost everything and he was one of the first that had the courage to point out that William had fallen for her in France. “You can’t tell me that I was the only one who noticed the staring contest between him and our darling Thomas.” She stayed silent, looking at his blue eyes to try to discover where he wanted to go with this conversation. “I’m not stupid, Daph, I’ve been fighting your suitors since we came back from France, I know when a man looks at you as something more than the powerful businesswoman that works with the mad Jew. And that is the way Thomas Shelby looks at you.” He propped his elbows onto the table, hands placed together underneath his chin. “And don’t go telling me that he is curious about us because we’re past this point now.” She smiled, a genuine one, and Alfie had to fight the urge to not do the same.

“He is curious.”

“Well, you know what they say, curiosity killed the cat.” She saw the smirk on his face and the joke in his tone.

“Are you planning to?”

“It depends on where his curiosity is leading him.” Daphne really wanted to believe in him but there was something in the way he talked that told her that he was willing to do what it takes to keep Thomas Shelby from getting too close to her. “You go on and met Polly, aye. See if you can discover something useful to us. Either way, it may be good being on her good sides.” It would come in handy having her out of the bakery if he was going to do what he was planning. Alfie knew her for a fair amount of time to recognize the signs – she was falling for the Brummie gangster.

Since they met, Alfie never saw Daphne show any interest in a romantic relationship. She flirted just alright, could lead men on to think that they had a chance of winning her when the truth was far from that. He even suspected that she and William had some kind of fling at some point. But he also knew that the doctor wanted more – he had talked to Alfie about it in a drunken haze one night. He said that he would rather be in her life as only a friend than not being in her life at all. There is no need to say that they never talked about that ever again.

Yet, he had discussed the topic with Daphne a few times – he was protective of her but it didn’t meant that he didn’t wanted her to be happy, which he truly did. He was a bad man, by society standards, that is, he always had been. Taking what he wanted, manipulating people, lying, deceiving, beating, killing… his whole life. She was completely the opposite – gentle, caring and loving, with a fierce personality and courage that would put any man he knew to shame. Daphne deserved the world – but she did not believed in that. Not after the war. Not after losing everything, after being unmade and having to pick up the pieces. So she ignored everything, everything that could make her feel alive – including the hint of attraction that she felt for William and with that any chance that he had of convincing her that they could be good together.

Considering all of that knowledge, Alfie found a little amusing, at first, the sudden interest that Thomas Shelby had shown towards her the first time they met. It was subtle, the Brummie was not a man that used to show his emotions freely, but the Jew caught his gaze and recognized the curiosity there. And she was right, indeed, because in the beginning all that Tommy wanted was to discover what her connection with Alfie was. But that changed quickly when he learned that she had no romantic involvement with the Jew and he was more than surprised when he saw the hint of interest in Daphne’s eyes the day Tommy brought his man to the bakery.

Alfie didn’t liked the path things were starting to run up to, so he decided to play his cards and deal with things his own way. Thomas Shelby was no good men and that wasn't the first time he crossed somebody to his own benefit so he shouldn't feel guilty for behaving like the gangster he was. Then why he felt like he was doing something wrong?

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Thomas was leaning onto the dresser, reading the newspaper and smoking while he waited for his brothers and aunt.

“Are you alright?” Polly asked when she entered through the front door, taking off her gloves and going to sit by the fire to try and warm up. Tommy clears his throat, throwing the paper in one of the chairs and taking the bottle on the table.

“What is it? Just us?” Arthur asks, curious, standing beside his younger brother.

“Just us.” Thomas uncorks the bottle and starts pouring the liquid into the three glasses displayed on the table.

“Are we celebrating?”

“Just taste this.” Tommy hands the glasses to each of them. Arthur and John sit on the lovesit, the eldest Shelby takes the drink in one gulp.

“What do you think, Arthur?”

“Yeah, it's good. Good stuff, really nice. Too good for the Garrison. I suppose we could shift it to the toffs at the Eden Club. Why? What is it?” He asks, curious like the other two. Tommy starts explaining while Arthur takes the bottle and pours himself another glass.

“That is part of an export drive. We now have a secure warehouse in Camden Town and secure passage to the Poplar Docks. So, on Monday morning, we'll be sending out our first export crate. A crate of Riley car spares bound for Halifax, Nova Scotia.”

“Where there's prohibition.” Polly finishes for him. He gives her a half smirk, pointing at her with the hand that holds the cigarette.

“Where there is prohibition. All over Canada and America, people are making their own booze in bathtubs. But rich people in New York, in Toronto and Boston are still paying a lot of money for the real stuff. So, on Monday, the first Shelby company crate will contain a thousand Riley carburetors. But hidden in the packing will be five hundred bottles of the finest quality single malt Scotch whisky.” Polly is examining the bottle that Arthur had put back on the table. “And we, Shelby's, have a license granted by the Minister Of The Empire himself, which means our crates won't be searched.” Thomas sees the hesitation in his aunts demeanor. “And, Polly, all of the whisky will be packed at the docks, so Michael can do the books without being involved. Like I've been telling you all for a year now motor cars are the future.”

“So, how is your life then, Tom?”

“On the up, Johnny, on the up.” Tommy is supervising the shipment of the crate while smoking a cigarette.

“But, Tom, really, come on, how is it?” The gypsy steps closer to Tommy, hands on his waist. “You know I hate to see you not even married yet. I have a fine looking cousin, she'll make your life hell. You deserve her!” He laughs and the gangster smiles a little. “We haven't had a good old wedding in a long time.” The gangster can do little to stop the image that his brain conjures in his head - Daphne, standing at the altar in a white dress veil upon her face. Damn, woman for making him want things he can’t have. He is quick to go back into business.

“Have you had a look inside these boxes, then, Johnny?” The man is carrying boxes to the boat and tries to run away from the gangster’s question.

“What do I want to look at car parts, Tommy, when I haven't even got a car?”

“Faith in family is a fine thing, eh? And I wouldn't even be counting. If twenty five becomes twenty four, then twenty four it is.” Tommy walks closer to him, stopping by his side.

“Oh, you know I'm no good with numbers, Tom.” The gangster puts his arm around Johnny’s shoulders.

“And if 24 ever became 23 then that'd be tax. We don't pay tax.” The man looks at him clearly frightened.

“No, Tom.”

“Good man.” Tommy pats his back and makes his way to the stairs of the warehouse,, where he mets Billy Kimber.

“I put an iron door on, and we've put iron bars on the windows and across the skylights.”

“Good.” The gangster passes by Billy and the man follows him up.

“So what will you be keeping in here, Tommy?”

“Temptation, Billy. Temptation.”

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“Morning, Arthur. I was just passing.” The eldest Shelby is fucking a woman on one of the couches of the club, pointing a gun at the alleged threat entering the room. Tommy just walks by, going directly to the back room take a look at the books.

“I think I'm in fucking love.” Arthur takes a few minutes to go met his brother, appearance disheveled and still breathing a little heavy. “Drink!” He becomes one of the waiters and sits down in front of Tommy, buttoning his shirt. “She don't know where to look.” The waiter comes with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Whisky, Tommy?”

“No, I've got a long drive ahead.” The younger Shelby is deeply concentrated in the number in front of him,

“You off home?” Arthur asks, serving himself a glass of the alcohol.

“Mm-hmmm. Eventually.”

“To Birmingham.” The eldest Shelby raises his glass before taking the shot.

“What's this?” Tommy asks turning a page and tapping his fingers on it. “Olives.”

“Yes, it's miscellaneous. It's, erm, olives. Sticks, you know, with little bits of fucking onion and things. That's what that is.” Arthur gestures while speaking and Tommy just stares at him.

“We've taken six hundred pounds on olives.” The older man seems a little unset

“Yeah, with little bits of onion.” Tommy takes a drag of his cigarette before speaking, very calmly.

“I told you, Arthur, the dealers sell the cocaine, we take a cut. We don't sell direct. The Home Secretary's cracking down and I don't want this to fuck up everything else, you understand?

“I understand.”

“How much of that six hundred came out of your pocket?”

“It's under control.” Arthur says after a while, pouring himself another drink.

“I put you down here because people are scared of you, Arthur. But if you don't straighten up, it'll be John's turn in London.”

“No need. I can handle it.”

“It's under control?”

“It's under control.” Tommy closes the book in front of him, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs while Arthur downs the whisky.

“Fucking tidy profit, though, eh?” They both smile, while Arthur looks around.

“It's happening, Tom.”

“Good. Good.” Thomas gets up, taps the book on the table and leaves but not before shouting to his brother. “Straighten up, soldier.” Arthur kneads his fingers through his hair, finishing to button up his shirt and taking the money from the table.

“Yes, sir, Sergeant Major.”

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After knocking on his sister’s door and waiting for her to open the door for him, Tommy it’s taken a little by surprise when he is received by a young man.

“I'm looking for Ada.”

“Who are you?” Thomas just pushes him away and marches into the house, the man follows him.

“Ada.” He greets her sister.

“I asked you a question.” Tommy turns to face the man that had just passed through the living room door.

“It's all right, James. This is my brother.” The woman doesn’t bother herself by the presence of her older brother.

“Who's he?” Tommy asks and Ada answers nonchalantly.

“He rents a room.”

“You need to rent out rooms?”

“Actually, she doesn't charge rent.” James answers instead.

“He's a writer, which means he's skint.”

“You get up late these days, Ada.”

“Mm. I go to bed late.”

“Yeah? Where's Karl?”

“What do you want, Tommy?” Ada lowers the paper in her hands and notices that Tommy analysing James and is quick to say. “Oh, God, before you start sizing him up for a wedding suit, he's not interested in me. Or in girls of any kind.”

“Ada!” The writer reprehends her.

“What? Tommy won't judge you.” She goes on reading the paper again. “He sure as hell won't go to the police.”

“Look, I'll go and get dressed.” James makes a move to leave but Tommy stops him.

“James I'm Thomas.” The gangster extends a hand to him. “Pleased to meet you.” The young man seems a little unsure, but reaches for Thomas’s hands, shaking it. “Can I have a minute with my sister, please?”

“Yes, of course.” He leaves the room and Thomas takes a seat on the couch, looking around and then at his sister.

“So, does your lodger know your name?”

“Yeah. Thorne. You think I'd tell anybody anything else? Your Brummie boys are all over the papers. Just one last push, eh? Then you'll go legit? Just one more obstacle to get round then it'll all be straight?”

“Actually, yes.” Tommy seems unamused by her commentaries. Ada scoffs before talking again.

“Personally, I find it quite amusing. Men like you are becoming very fashionable down here. No society party in London is complete without a gangster for the girls to go giddy for. Anyway, what is it that you want?”

“I don't have any children, Ada.” That takes her attention. “So I have set up a trust fund. The beneficiaries will be John's kids and Karl. In order for Karl to benefit, I need your signature.” He takes a paper from the inner pocket of his coat, unfolding it and putting it onto the table for her to take. “I've set up an account. Money will be transferred in the event of my death. It'll set them up for a new life.” Ada folds the newspaper, putting it aside to take the thing he has left on the table.

“Are you sick?”

“I'm just doing what any ordinary man would, putting my affairs in order.” She paused for a minute or two, reading the terms of the trust fund.

“And putting your affairs in order includes admitting that you feel something for Daphne?” Since he had came to her asking about the woman, Ada had been dying to ask him about it. After her conversation with Daphne and seeing the way they both looked at each other at her birthday party, the Shelby sister was more than convinced that there was something in the water. Tommy rolls his eyes, scoffing at his sister but she doesn’t give him a chance to talk. “Wherever it is that you are doing that made you think about putting up a trust fund for your nephews certainly is trouble enough to make you stop moping around because of that damn barmaid and move on to someone that’s worth.”

“And Daphne is.” Ada sighs, irritated by his cold façade.

“You know what, Tommy. Go on and keep on pretending that you don’t care about anybody anymore. Keep on lying to yourself about what you really feel. Maybe that way she can have a chance with somebody that bloody deserves her!”

“I don’t know if that man really exists.”

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Daphne was sitting at the cafe, book in hand and a cup of tea in front of her, appreciating the piece and quiet when she noticed the man coming towards her. She knew that it was just a matter of time, she had already noticed that Finn had been following her all day, it was obvious that it had something to do with his older brother’s doings.

“Mr. Shelby.” She lifted her gaze to met his and saw the little hint of surprise in there.

“Miss Scott, a surprise to find you here.”

“Really. You mean that the fact that Finn is out there in the cold taking guard to see what time I arrived is totally coincidence.” He gave her a sideway smirk at her cleverness. He wasn’t expecting to get caught so easily. “Call the poor boy inside.” Thomas beckoned the younger blinder inside and in a minute he was by her side, looking at his brother a little concerned that he would get reprimanded.

“Hello, Daph.”

“Hello, Finn. Why don’t you go to the counter and ask Mary for a sweet? On my behalf.” He looked at his older brother for permission before thanking her and walking towards the counter. Tommy pointed at the chair in front of her.

“May I?” She closed her book, putting it aside.

“Be my guest.” The waiter came to the table immediately and she asked for more tea and something for them to eat before Tommy had a chance to talk. When the waiter left he was looking at her, smirking. “So what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit outside of the bakery?”

“I was just passing by, thought that would be good to see you.” The warmth that spread through her was something that Daphne wasn’t expecting.They weren’t friends, they were just business partners and all that considered he was still a stranger for her - what little information she had of him, besides one or two things confided to her by Ada, was mostly business related. However, for some reason that she couldn’t quite understand, the simple fact of this man sitting in front of her and saying that he thought that would be good to see her in such a casual manner, like it was something that he had been thinking about for a while, made her heart flutter.

“Everything alright with the first crate of Shelby Brothers Limited?” He smiled as he noticed the faint blush on her cheeks and the fact that she was redirecting the topic. It seemed that Daphne Scott would never cease to find a way to amaze him in some way.

“All going according to the plan.” There was silence again as the waiter came back with the food but they never averting their gaze from each other more than what was strictly necessary. Daphne thanked the waiter and took a sip of her tea. “How’s the preparations for your friend's wedding?” If she thought that his inquiry was strange she didn’t showed it.

“Rushed but going well despite William’s complaints.” At the mention of the doctor’s name Daphne saw Thomas’s flinch but he quickly regained his composure.

“You seem pretty close.” He took a sip of his own tea trying to put the image of the doctor hugging Daphne to the back of his mind.

“Yeah, we know each other for a long time. William is a good friend.” He made a little pout murmuring a “hmm” and then there was silence. Being under his stare was never unsettling, not like it was with other people sometimes, she felt surprisingly comfortable with the silence in a similar way than what she felt around Alfie. But the Jew was right - like Ada and Harriet - there was something in the way he looked at her, something that wasn’t just curiosity. He looked at her like he knew something about her that she hadn’t figured it out yet and she had to admit that she felt compelled to discover what it was.

“Friend.” The word was said as if it contained venon. “I see.”

“He’s a good man.” She said casually and he scoffed at that.

“Yeah, I bet he is every mother’s dream for her daughter. Any particular reason to way he’s not married yet?” She arched and eyebrow at him.

“Any reason to why you are not married yet?”

“I am not a good man.” Thomas leaned back into the chair, analysing her piercing gaze.

“I doubt that this is a hindrance, lost count of how many women I saw daydreaming about marrying Alfie.” She smiled, biting a scone and taking her time chewing it. “There are people that are drawn to danger.”

“Are you?” There was the glint in his eyes again and Daphne paused for a moment before answering him.

“If I feared danger I wouldn’t live with a gangster.” It was a bold affirmation and he noticed that she did nothing to conceal it. He looked around, people seemed too absorbed into their own conversation to eavesdrop, even then, he was surprised by her bluntness. Thomas let the statement sink in with a prickle of satisfaction, a smirk creeping into his features. “You didn’t touched your food.”

“Not hungry.”

“Would you disregard me like that?” He knew what she was doing, trying to guilt trip him, so he decided to entertain her and began to eat. She seemed rather satisfied with herself as she took another bite of her scone, smiling.

“Are you going?” Tommy gave her a confused look, like he had been distracted. “To the wedding.”

“Do you want me too go?” The question caught Daphne by surprise even when she knew that the leader of the Peaky Blinders’s boldness. Yet, there was no surprise to her in figuring out that yes, she did want him there.

“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Shelby, but you don’t seem like a man that cares about anyone else’s opinion.” He rested his elbows on the table, leaning in closer.

“And if I care about yours?” She felt lost in his gaze, lost into this strange feeling that she had around him. But the moment had come and go just as fast when Josiah approached her, informing that she was needed at the bakery. So she had to excuse herself, getting up to leave. Daphne extended her hand for him to shake, like usual, and was taken by surprise when his rough fingers turned hers around, guiding them to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, a barely there touch, but his azure eyes stared at her conceding everything that he did not say. “See you then.”

Tags: @stressedandbandobessed7771

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gagosiangallery · 5 years

Text

Richard Prince at Gagosian Beverly Hills

January 15, 2020

RICHARD PRINCE New Portraits Opening reception: Thursday, February 6, 6–8pm February 6–March 21, 2020 456 North Camden Drive, Beverly Hills __________ In 1984 I took some portraits. The way I did it was different. The way had nothing to do with the tradition of portraiture. If you wanted me to do your portrait, you would give me at least five photographs that had already been taken of yourself, that were in your possession (you owned them, they were yours), and more importantly . . . that you were already happy with. You would give me the five you liked and I would pick the one I liked. I would rephotograph the one I liked and that would be your portrait. Simple. Direct. To the point . . . Foolproof. I started off doing friends. Peter Nadin. Anne Kennedy. Jeff Koons. Cookie Mueller. Gary Indiana. Colin de Land.

They didn’t have to sit for their portraits. They didn’t have to make an appointment and come over and sit in front of some cyclone or in front of a neutral background or on an artist’s stool. They didn’t have to show up at all. And they wouldn’t be disappointed with the result. How could they? It wasn’t like they were giving me photos of themselves that were embarrassing.

Social Science Fiction.

Another advantage was the “time line.” If you were in your sixties and you gave me a photograph that had been taken thirty years earlier, and that’s the one I chose, your portrait ended up in a kind of time machine. I couldn’t go forward, but I could go backward. Vanity. Most of the people I did liked the younger version of themselves. So the future didn’t really matter. Half of H. G. Wells was better than no half at all.

Who knew?

After friends, I did people I didn’t know.

I had access to Warner Bros. Records and their publicity files. The files were filled with 8 × 10 glossies of recording stars that they had under contract. How I had access is beside the point. It was a long time ago. Let’s just say an A&R guy gave me access, “permission.”

I spent time in their LA headquarters, in Burbank, and went thru the metal cabinets and took the “publicities” I wanted, took them home, put them in front of my camera, and made a new photograph. The first one I did was Dee Dee Ramone.

I did Tina Weymouth, Tom Verlaine, Jonathan Richman, Laurie Anderson. I did the two girls from the B-52s.

Not knowing these people, having never met them, or talked to them, but still being able to do their portraits, excited me. Satisfaction. I spent weeks in the basement of Warner Bros. I thought I had an advantage. My method, if you could call it that, was far more flexible than the regular way portraits were taken. I didn’t need a studio. A darkroom. A receptionist. A calendar. Makeup. Stylists. I didn’t have to deal with agents or the “personality,” good or bad, of the sitter. My overhead was minimal and I could do the portrait all by myself.

By myself. That was the best.

Why I Go To The Movies Alone.

At first I thought this could be a business.

Up till then none of the art that I was making sold . . . or sold enough to make a living. I had just quit my job at Time Life the year before and was trying to make a go of it living near Venice Beach in LA . . . sharing a house with three roommates and living off the occasional sales that Hudson, my friend from Chicago, would make selling my “cartoon” drawings.

This idea of a “portrait business” made sense to me. Who wouldn’t want their portrait done this way?

I continued to do friends. Paula Greif. Dike Blair. Meyer Vaisman. I did everybody’s portraits for Wild History, a book that I put together for Tanam Press of downtown writing. The author’s portrait accompanied their contribution. Wharton Tiers. Spalding Gray. Tina L’Hotsky.

By the end of ’84 it was over.

I’m not sure if it was the lack of interest in me, or in others. (My energy evaporated.) Maybe it was the inability to convince people to commit to a commission. It was a good idea, but after doing about forty of them, I put them in a drawer and moved on. Bored? Restless? I don’t know. Let’s just say it didn’t take off.

Leave it at that.

My cartoon drawings turned into jokes and the jokes started taking up everything. In the end, I think most people would rather have their portrait done by Robert Mapplethorpe.

Thirty years. Time passes.

The social network.

I looked over my daughter’s shoulder and saw that she was scrolling thru pictures on her phone. I asked her what she was looking at. “It’s my Tumblr.” “What’s a tumbler?” I asked.

That was . . . four years ago?

About three years ago I bought an iPhone. Someone had shown me the photographs you could take with the phone. I had given up taking pictures after they got rid of color slide film. I tried digital, but couldn’t make the adjustment. I never liked carrying a camera and was pretty much inkjetting and painting anyway . . . so the idea of using a big boxy camera with all its new whistles and bows wasn’t for me.

Enter the sandman.

The iPhone was just what I needed. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to point and shoot. You didn’t have to focus. You didn’t have to load film. You didn’t have to ASA. You didn’t have to set a speed. The clarity . . .

I could see for miles.

The photos you took were stored in the phone. And when you wanted to see them, they appeared on a grid. The best part: you could send a photo immediately to a friend, to an e-mail, to a printer . . . or, you could organize your photos, like my daughter had, and post them publicly or privately.

When worlds collide.

I asked my daughter more about Tumblr. Are those your photos? Where did you get that one? Did you need permission? How did you get that kind of crop? You can delete them? Really? What about these “followers?” Who are they? Are they people you know? What if you don’t want to share? How many of your friends have Tumblrs?

What’s yours is mine.

My daughter’s “grid” on Tumblr reminded me of my Gangs I did back in ’85 . . . where I organized a set of nine images on a single piece of photo paper and blew the paper up to 86 × 48. The gangs were a way to deal with marginal or subsets of lifestyles that I needed to see on a wall but not a whole wall. Each gang was its own exhibition. Girlfriends, Heavy Metal Bands, Giant Waves, Bigfoot Trucks, Sex, War, Cartoons, Lyrics . . . were all rephotographed with slide film, and when the slides returned, they were “deejayed” and moved around on a custom-made light box until the best nine made the cut. The “cut” was then taped together (the edges of the slide mounts were pushed up against each other and Scotch-taped), the nine taped slides were sent to a lab where an 8 × 10 internegative was made, and from the internegative the final photo was blown up. I’ve probably lost you. Technical stuff . . . application and technique. Sometimes it’s better to leave the “background” out of it. Better to “take it for granted.” Why should I care how a photograph is made?

Only sometimes.

How was it called back then? Sampling?

Primitive now, but back then . . . 50-inch photo drums were few and far between. The paper was 50 inches wide and came in a huge roll. If you wanted to, you could take a roll and roll it down the street, roll it down the sidewalk, roll it all the way down the West Side Highway.

Shakespeare’s in the alley?

No. Philip Roth is in the alley.

Joan Didion is in the alley.

Don DeLillo is in the alley.

What’s up, pussycat?

There’s a lot of cats on Instagram. Food too.

And there’s tons of photos of people who take photographs of themselves. (Yes, I know the word.)

On the gram. I was just asked why I like Instagram. I said, “Because there’s rules. And if you break the rules, you get kicked off.”

I got to Instagram thru Twitter.

Twitter first.

I’m not sure when I first started tweeting, but I liked trying to fit a whole story into 140 characters.

I call it Birdtalk.

I used to bird in the early ’90s for Purple magazine and birded in my first catalogue for Barbara Gladstone in ’87.

Short sentences that were funny, sweet, dumb, profound, absurd, stupid, jokey, Finnegans Wake meets MAD magazine meets ad copy for Calvin Klein. Think Dylan’s Tarantula. Then think some more and think Kathy Acker’s Tarantula.

Or, don’t think at all. I know I don’t.

Sometimes.

Sometimes I write down the first sentence that starts off my favorite novel.

Relative. I’m not much of a theory guy. But sometimes I think there was a reason why Einstein was a technical assistant in the Swiss patent office.

Let me fill your cup.

Twitter accepts photos, but is mainly text-based. I like to combine the two and tweet both photo and text.

I called the photo/text tweets I was posting . . . “The Family.”

I posted photos of my extended family . . . mother, brother, sister, nieces, cousins, uncles, aunts, in-laws, stepchildren, boy- and girlfriends. I would caption the photos with a short description of who, what, why . . . measuring my words so that they fit into the guidelines of the platform.

After posting the photo/text, I sent the information to my printer and inkjetted an 11 × 14 print of the marriage. I made thirty-eight “Family” tweets.

Distribution.

I placed each “Family” tweet in a plastic sleeve and pushpinned the sleeve to the wall. The wall was at Karma. I put all thirty-eight up. Salon style. It was Saturday. The doors opened at 12 pm. By 12:15 pm all thirty-seven were gone. One to a customer. I kept the one that had my father, mother, and sister in it. (My father and mother were naked, and my sister was sitting in between. My family wasn’t like yours. Hobnob doesn’t begin to describe them.) I sold the “Family Tweets” for $12 each. First come, first served.

Well, well, well . . .

In ma ma ma my wheeeeeeeel house.

I used to stutter. By the ninth grade, the sparkle was in my eye. It got so bad, the impediment turned me into a clam. I slept all day, every day. I wouldn’t get up until Sunday. I waited for Bonanza to come on the TV. I loved the cowboy father and his three sons.

Two summers ago, my niece was working for me out on Long Island and she showed me how to screen save. I didn’t know about the option. What other options don’t I know about?

Screen Save.

This might be one of the best applications in an apparatus that I’ve ever encountered. All-time. Hall of fame. First place. Just what I need. MORE photographs.

Hey kids . . . what time is it?

Now I have a theory.

I was beside myself.

Congratulations.

This past spring, and half the summer, the iPhone became my studio. I signed up for Instagram. I pushed things aside. I made room. It was easy. I ignored Tumblr, and Facebook had never interested me. But Instagram . . .

I started off being RichardPrince4.

I quickly recognized the device was a way to get the lead out. If Twitter was editorial . . . then Instagram was advertising.

A gazillion people.

Besides cats, dogs, and food, people put out photos of themselves and their friends all the time, every day, and, yes, some people put themselves out twice on Mondays. I started “following” people I knew, people I didn’t know, and people who knew each other. It was innocent. I was on the phone talking to Jessica Hart and had just looked at her “gram” feed before picking up the phone. I asked about a picture she posted of herself standing in front of a fireplace wearing what looked to be ski clothes and big fur boots. The post was in black and white, head to toe, full figure, and behind her, above the mantel, there was a portrait of Brigitte Bardot. I told her someone should make a portrait out of this photo. She said, “Why don’t you?”

Come to think of it.

I’m not sure if she knew about my Family Tweets. She might have. I think we even talked about them after she came to my studio for a visit. After I got off the phone, I thought about her suggestion: “Why don’t you?”

I went back to her feed and screen saved her “winter” photo. I sent the save to my computer, pressed “empty subject,” pressed “actual size,” and waited for it to appear in a doc, checked the margins and crop, clicked on the doc, and sent it to my printer. My inkjet printer printed out an 11 × 14-inch photo on paper . . . I took the photo out of the tray and put it on my desk.

Looking at Jessica’s feed reminded me of 1984. Except this time I had more than five photos to choose from. I went back to her feed a second time. I scrolled thru maybe a hundred photos she had posted and looked at all the ones that included her. The one in front of the fireplace was still the best.

Walk on.

Jessica had tons of followers. Thousands. And a lot of them had “commented” on what she posted. I read all the comments that had been posted under her fireplace photo. There was one comment I wish I could have gotten in my original screen save. When you screen save an Instagram image, you can get maybe three, four comments in the save if you include the person’s “profile” icon that appears on the upper left of the page. I decided early on I wanted the person’s icon to be part of the save. But what else could I save?

I went back to my desk and kept staring at the printout of Jessica. What do I do now?

I didn’t want to paint it.

I didn’t want to mark it.

I didn’t want to add a sticker.

Whatever I did, I wanted it to happen INSIDE and before the save. I wanted my contribution to be part of the “gram.” I didn’t want to do anything physical to the photograph after it was printed.

Five cents.

I went back to the comment.

I commented on Jessica’s photo in front of the fireplace, but my comment was one of hundreds and showed up outside, way down at the bottom . . . out of the frame.

If I wanted my comment to show up near her picture . . . how?

I got lucky.

I’m terrible when it comes to the tech side of technology. But somehow I figured out how to hack into Jessica’s feed and swipe away all her comments and add my own so that it would appear under her post. The hack is pretty simple and anyone can do it. You hit the gray comment bar and pick a comment you don’t want and swipe with your finger to the left, and a red exclamation mark appears. You press on the exclamation mark and four things come onto the bottom of your screen.

1. Why are you reporting this comment?

2. Spam or Scam

3. Abusive Content

4. Cancel

To get rid of the comment, you click on Spam or Scam. It’s gone. Just like that I could control other people’s comments and Jessica’s own comments. And the comment that I added could now be near enough to Jessica’s photo that when I screen saved it, my comment would “show up.” Make sense? It’s about as good as I can do. What can I say? Einstein and cuckoo . . .

So now . . .

So now I was in.

Waiting to follow.

Richardprince4 would appear at the bottom of Jessica’s final portrait. My comment, whatever it would be, would always be the last comment. The last say so. Say so. That’s good. That could work. My “in” was what I ended up saying. And what I would say would be everything I ever knew . . . what I knew now and what I would know in the future.

Tell Me Everything.

Finnegans Wake meets MAD magazine.

Zoot Horn Rollo. You seem to be where I belong (emoji).

The first three portraits I did were of women I knew. Or almost knew. Jessica, I knew. Pam Anderson, I knew. Sky Ferreira? I didn’t know, but was following her and had been reading about her new album and seeing posters of her album broadsided on sheets of ply on the Bowery and on Lafayette near Bond. I wasn’t sure what I was doing or why I chose these three. I just had lunch with Pam and had seen Jessica in LA. Sky, I was following because she seemed interesting. There was nothing more. No attraction. No fan. No desire. No date. No wanting anything from her. And the pictures she posted were candid, boozy, and seemed to be letting the viewer in on some kind of backstage diary. She also had thousands of people following her, and I could tap into her followers and follow them. I can do that? I didn’t even know I could follow the followers. Like I said, the hardware was all new . . . and I was just getting started.

The shoreline is never the same. (Like it should be.)

When I first started getting rid of comments, I thought the person whose comments I was getting rid of might get pissed. “What happened to all my comments?” I found out quickly that “the getting rid of” only affected my feed. The deleted comments didn’t affect the followers’ feeds. Their comments were still there even though they were gone from mine. All that happened is that MY comment showed up below their photo. Was I allowed? Yes. I guess so. It’s hard to explain. But the process is open, and at the moment, it’s the way it works and anyone and everyone can do it.

The language I started using to make “comments” was based on Birdtalk. Non sequitur. Gobbledygook. Jokes. Oxymorons. “Psychic Jujitsu.”

Some of the language came directly from TV. If I’m selecting a photo of someone and adding a comment to their gram and an advertisement comes on . . . I use the language that I hear in the ad. Inferior language. It works. It sounds like it means something. What’s it mean? I don’t know. Does it have to mean anything at all? I think about James Joyce confessing to Nora Barnacle. I think about opening up to page 323 of Finnegans Wake. Then I think about notes and lyricism. Policy. Whisper. Murmurs. Mantra. Quotation. Advice.

Chamber Music.

Didn’t Duke Ellington say, “If it sounds good, it is good”? He did say that, didn’t he?

Who are these people?

Larry Clark, Diane Arbus, Robert Mapplethorpe take great portraits. I’ve watched Larry take photos and I don’t know how he does it. I wouldn’t know where to begin. I could never go up to a stranger and ask them if I could take their picture. I’ve done it maybe two or three times and didn’t enjoy it. That part of art is in Larry. It isn’t in me. I feel more comfortable in my bedroom looking thru Easyriders and poring over pictures of “girlfriends” that are right there on the page. Page after page. Looking. Wondering. Anticipating. Hoping. What will be on the next page? Will I find a girlfriend that I really like? That’s my relationship with what’s out there. It’s as close as I want to get. That’s what’s in me.

IG is a bedroom magazine.

I can start out with someone I know and then check out who they follow or who’s following them, and the rabbit hole takes on an out-of-body experience where you suddenly look at the clock and it’s three in the morning. I end up on people’s grids that are so far removed from where I began, it feels psychedelic. Further. I’m on the bus. I feel like I’m part of Kesey’s merry tribe. I’m reminded of Timothy Leary’s journals, which I purchased years ago from John McWhinnie, and the concentration that came over me when I discovered his hand-drawn map of his escape from jail. How he literally shimmied on a wire that had been strung up from an outer utility building to the perimeter prison wall . . . and how I would trace with my finger his overland express to Tangier, where he hooked up with Black Panther Eldridge Cleaver and spent the next year seeking asylum in different parts of North Africa, ultimately ending up in Switzerland where his ex-wife ratted him out, and how fighting extradition took up the rest of his life. Wow, now it’s four in the morning.

Tune In, Turn On, Come Out.

“Trolling.”

If you say so.

I never thought about it that way. The word has been used to describe part of the process of making my new portraits. I guess so. It’s not like I’m on the back of a boat throwing out chum.

“We’re going to need a bigger boat.”

Included.

Everyone is fair.

Game.

An even playing field.

“Outside my cabin door. Said the girl from the red river shore.”

Men. Women. Men and women. Men and men. Women and women. Blacks Whites Latinos Asian Arabs Jews Straights Gays Transgender. Tattoos and scars. Hairy.

I don’t really know the score.

The ones I adore.

I just know where I belong.

“Oh, there I go. From a man to a memory.”

How do I tell you who or why I pick? I can’t. It would be like telling you why I pick that joke. WHY THAT ONE? There’s thousands of jokes. I read them all. It takes days to read just one joke book. 101 of the World’s Funniest Jokes. Days. If I get one, find one, like one, out of the 101, it’s a good day.

People on IG lead me to other people. I spend hours surfing, saving, and deleting. Sometimes I look for photos that are straightforward portraits (or at least look straightforward). Other times I look for photos that would only appear, or better still . . . exist on IG. Photos that look the way they do because they’re on the gram. Selfies? Not really. Self-portraits. I’m not interested in abbreviation. I look for portraits that are upside down, sideways, at arm’s length, taken within the space that a body can hold a camera phone. What did de Kooning say? “When I spread my arms out, it’s all the space I need.”

At first I wasn’t sure how to print the portrait. I tried different surfaces, different papers. Presentation? Frame? Matt? Shadowbox? I tried them all. Finally this past spring my lab introduced me to a new canvas, one that was tightly wound, a surface with hardly any tooth. Smooth to the touch. Almost as if the canvas were photo paper. It was also brilliantly white. I don’t think it could be any whiter. And . . . the way the ink jetted into the canvas was a surprise. It fused in a way that made the image slightly out of focus. Just enough. The ink was IN and ON the canvas at the same time. When I first saw the final result, I didn’t really know what I was looking at. A photographic work or a work on canvas? The surprise was perfect. Perfect doesn’t come along very often. The color that had been transferred from the file of the computer to the jet, from jet to canvas, was intense, saturated, rich. If someone I followed had blue hair, their hair looked like it had been dyed directly onto the canvas. Dye job. Rinsed. Beauty salon. It was brilliant, great color. You might call it “vibrant.” The vibe between the image and the process was “sent away for,” seamless, effortless . . . all descriptions I used to use when I tried describing my early “pens, watches, and cowboys.” (Has it really been forty years?) The ingredients, the recipe, “the manufacture,” whatever you want to call it . . . was familiar but had changed into something I had never seen before. I wasn’t sure it even looked like art. And that was the best part. Not looking like art. The new portraits were in that gray area. Undefined. In-between. They had no history, no past, no name. A life of their own. They’ll learn. They’ll find their own way. I have no responsibility. They do. Friendly monsters.

Speak for yourself.

To fit in the world takes time.

For now, all I can say is . . . they’re the only thing I’ve ever done that has made me happy.

http://www.richardprince.com/writings/bird-talk

#Richard Prince #Gagosian

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cincinnatusvirtue · 5 years

Text

Battle of Cowpens, the only use of double envelopment in the American Revolution.

The southern theater of the American Revolution doesn’t get nearly the amount of attention as the more northerly theater namely in New York, New Jersey and New England. However, the war would be crucially decided in the last years of the war in the southern theater, namely in the Carolinas and later in Virginia with the Yorktown Campaign.

The southern theater was considered by the British more likely to be amiable to the Loyalist cause particularly in parts of the Carolinas, the Loyalist and Patriot populations were fairly split in terms of popularity, namely in South Carolina. The shift to a southern strategy by the British was in part due to their defeat in the Saratoga Campaign in upstate New York during autumn of 1777 which only further rallied numbers to the Patriot cause and left the British unsure of how to end the war decisively in their favor.

Throughout the first half of the war, there was revolutionary activity in the south with Patriot militias and the Continental Army working to suppress their Loyalist counterparts, property confiscation took place and this lead to further resentment between both sides. The British implemented the southern strategy with a drive into the major port town of Savannah, Georgia which they captured in 1778. Loyalists were to serve an important role in this theater, eager to support the royal cause, regain their lands confiscated by the Patriots and to gain new lands at the expense of their Patriot neighbors once their lands were taken for treason after British victory was assured.

Over the next couple years the focus shifted to the Carolinas with Charleston, South Carolina being a major source of focus for the British and Americans. Lord Charles Cornwallis was placed in charge of the southern theater and in 1780 at the Battle of Camden he defeated an American army rather handily which caused a setback for the Patriot cause, though the Continental Army and militia remained intact, much of South Carolina was “pacified”. The plan by Cornwallis was now to invade North Carolina and suppress the rebellion there. Going into autumn 1780, things looked dire for the Patriot cause. Meanwhile, Horatio Gates who lost the Battle of Camden was replaced at George Washington’s behest by Nathanael Greene.

Cornwallis hoped to rally Loyalist support to his cause as part of the North Carolina Campaign. On October 7, 1780 the Loyalist militias would clash with Patriot militias in the Battle of Kings Mountain. The Patriot militias were largely made of the Scots-Irish or Ulster-Scots community that made up large portions of the Western Carolinas populace. This community derived its name and identity when in the 16th century it was sent as Scottish and English Protestant settlers to the North of Ireland to suppress the mostly Catholic native Irish population, forming the core of the Plantation of Ulster as they called it. Over the ensuing two centuries this mix of Scots, English and Irish Protestants with smaller numbers of Flemish, French and German Protestant refugees fused into a distinct community which became known to this day as Ulster-Scots in Britain and Ireland due to the predominance of Scottish settlers in the community. Though in time they often identified as just Irish as many grew up exclusively in Ireland maintaining a Protestant dominance which survives to this day in Northern Ireland as part of the United Kingdom. In the late 17th century many of these Ulster Scots who were Presbyterian in their religion were loyal to William III Protestant King of England, Scotland and Ireland and served in his army during the Williamite War of 1688-1691.

Things changed in the early 18th century however with the passing of laws that made the established church in Britain and Ireland, the Anglican Church of England and Ireland as the sole state sponsored religion, this caused a separation among the Protestant classes, as laws against Presbyterians and Catholics somewhat united them in common cause. In time, a number of droughts which affected farming in Ireland, along with religious and political persecution lead to Ulster-Scots, now identifying as Irish emigrating to America. They settled largely in the Appalachia region from Pennsylvania on down to the Carolinas and Georgia where they could practice their religion and farm as they saw fit. They also served as pioneers and Indian fighters against Native American tribes since they were known for their fighting prowess. By the time of the American Revolution, the community almost overwhelmingly supported the Patriot cause, due to their ability to cement their distinct culture in America. It wasn’t until later with the mass arrival in waves of Catholic Irish, that Scots-Irish became a more widely used term to distinguish them from other Irish emigration. The Scots-Irish were so numerous in the the Patriot numbers particularly in the South that it was commented by a British general to the House of Commons “Half the Continental Army is from Ireland.” While a Hessian officer was recorded as saying “Call this war by whatever name you may, only call it not an American rebellion; it is nothing more or less than a Scotch-Irish Presbyterian rebellion."

Kings Mountain was a solid Patriot victory that largely dismantled the Loyalist militia in the Carolinas and solidified the image of the Scots-Irish “Overmountain Men”, a frontiersmen armed with guns and in search of land and freedom and willing to fight anyone for it, epitomizing the early ideal of the rugged individual in America fighting for their place in the world. Symbolism aside, the practical effect was a boost of morale to the American cause, a weakening of the British Loyalist forces and the realization that the war in the South wouldn’t be so easily won.

By January 1781, the British who had delayed their invasion of North Carolina in the wake of King’s Mountain sought to renew the offensive. Called to assist in this matter was one of Cornwallis’s subordinates, Lt. Col Banastre Tarleton, an English soldier born in Liverpool to a family who made their fortune in trade, particularly the slave trade in the West Indies. Tarleton came into military service as a way to give him focus after a life of gambling and womanizing that had drained his fortune. He first purchased a commission in the army as was common practice among the British aristocracy and wealthy at the time despite being officially banned. He however did prove to be an effective horseman and soldier, gradually rising through the ranks on his own merit there after. He partook in many battles in the northern theater of the American Revolution, but it was in the south where his image in the Americas would be solidified. He came to lead the so called British Legion, a provincial regiment of dragoons (mounted infantry) that wore distinct Green Jackets which along with their commander gave them the nicknames, the Green Dragoons or Tarleton’s Raiders. In May of 1780 at the Battle of Waxhaws, the British Legion under Tarleton and supported by other Loyalist militia massacred many surrendering Patriot forces. The exact chain of events that lead to the massacre and Tarleton’s personal role in it is a matter of debate and controversy, but it forever after earned him the reputation in America of a bloodthirsty killer who “violated” the rules of war by offering no quarter to surrendering enemy soldiers. He was nicknamed by the Patriot press as Bloody Ban or the Butcher. These events incensed the Patriot militia whose anger would play out months later at Kings Mountain when Loyalist militia and dead British officers were stripped of their clothes by angry Patriot militias who are said to have urinated on their corpses before burying them.

In opposition to Tarleton on the American side was Brigadier General Daniel Morgan. Morgan was born in New Jersey and lived in Pennsylvania and Virginia. He was the grandson of Welsh emigrants on both sides of his family to Pennsylvania where a large Welsh community in the Colonial era had established roots. Morgan during the French and Indian War had worked as a teamster of draft animals for the British Army, during a dispute he attacked a British officer and received 500 lashes of the whip as punishment which often killed the recipient, he survived with a lingering resentment of the British for their treatment of the provincials in America. When the Revolution broke out Morgan offered his services to the Patriot cause. Over the years he had served as a rifleman and earned a reputation for marksmanship. His use of the rifle during the American Revolution would help change the rules of small arms fire in warfare. The norm in 18th century combat using European rules of warfare was for infantry to fire smooth bore muskets which fired at relatively close range and had to be fired at in massed volleys to be especially effective. Various developments overtime lead to establishment of the rifle, like the musket it was a long gun, with a longer barrel in fact, but unlike the smooth barrel of a musket the rifle had “rifled” grooves etched into its interior which when a bullet was expended would spiral giving it better accuracy and longer range than a musket. While rifle units existed prior to the American Revolution and were used by both sides of the war, Morgan’s Riflemen as they became to be known were especially influential in demonstrating the effectiveness of a rifle over a musket. Morgan was given command of an elite unit of expert riflemen who could hit a 7 inch circular object at 250 feet. Morgan’s Riflemen partook in a number of battles namely Quebec and Saratoga where the riflemen in Morgan’s unit engaged in early examples of sniper tactics, shooting British officers mounted on horses while hidden from view, the killing of these officers without being seen sowed discord, uncertainty and confusion in the British ranks, giving an element of psychological warfare to the British.

Morgan was called to the southern theater in 1780, arriving in the Carolinas in December. Banastre Tarleton and British Legion, supported by British regulars and other Loyalists sought to push westward in South Carolina to open the door to North Carolina as ordered by Cornwallis. Morgan’s forces which no longer included his Riflemen unit which disbanded over a year prior was made of a mix of Continental “regulars” and various militias from across the south. On January 17, 1781 Tarleton and Morgan’s forces would meet in battle near the Broad River close to the North/South Carolina border in a place called Cowpens due to a number the cow pen pastures close by in the low lying countryside. The British had almost 1,200 troops and two grasshopper cannons while the Americans had roughly 2,000 troops made of mostly militia from the Carolinas and Virginia with elements from Georgia, Maryland and Delaware mostly infantry with some cavalry dragoons of their own but no artillery support. Morgan would prove to be a formidable tactician and he knew his troops made of militia which had poor reputation of running at the first sign of trouble would be unreliable in the upcoming fight if things didn’t go their way. He also knew the British expected this and would be able to rout the American forces quite easily if pressed. Morgan decided on a strategy that would confound expectations. First he placed his force between the Broad and Pacolet rivers. With their backs to the rivers, retreat for his troops wouldn’t be a viable option, the rivers would slow his retreat down and provide the British an opportunity to cut them down as they retreated. Secondly, he placed his more reliable Continental regulars on a low lying hill in the center with no flanking support other than the terrain due to a ravine and creek which would force the British to charge straight ahead into their lines. Next, he organized his overall force into three lines. A first line made up of Carolinian sharpshooters, a second of various miltia and the third his Continental regulars forming a solid final core against the British charge. The idea was to fire volleys at the oncoming British who could only charge ahead due to the creek and ravine breaking any flanking potential and knowing they would break the militia, they would lull the British to only charge further and further into a trap. The Americans would feign a retreat after a few volleys and reform behind the next line of troops, this would cause British casualties to mount and sap their physical strength as the British would tire out pursuing the Americans uphill. It also psychologically tired them out when they realized another line of American troops awaited them with repeating results. It would drain the enemy giving them a false sense of early victory by chasing the “trapped” Americans to the river and essentially lead them into a death trap of their own.

As is often the case, victory sometimes comes not only from one commander’s decisions but that of the enemy. Tarleton had marched his troops relentlessly for 48 hours to meet Morgan’s men. They ran out of food by the day of battle and had less than 4 hours of solid sleep in those preceding two days, meaning they went into battle eager but already tired. This would contribute to the disaster that followed along with Tarleton’s overconfidence and impatience. Tarleton fell right into Morgan’s hands as planned. The British emerged from the woods shortly after sunrise and engaged the American first line of sharpshooters who fired their volleys and gave way to the British advance. Tarleton ordered a full infantry charge which ran into the second line of militia. As Morgan had ordered they fired two volleys instead of one. This surprised the British and as was typical of Morgan he had his troops aim for officers to weaken the British morale and cause confusion to their troops without anyone giving orders. The British encountered Morgan’s third line from Delaware, Virginia and Maryland. Meanwhile some American troops, dragoons and other reformed lines of militia men on the rear near the river banks actually did a flanking maneuver behind British lines which were overdrawn and soon to be cutoff. As the British tried a small flank of their own against the main body of Continentals, they appeared to force a retreat of the Virginians but the Americans did an about face and fired a volley into the surprised British and Morgan had a mass bayonet charge against the now physically exhausted and weakened British lines. The British routed, some surrendering on the spot while others were killed in the retreat. The American miltia who made it to the river then rejoined the fight by employing flanking maneuvers on both the British left and right near the original British skirmish line including their grasshopper cannons. The surprise bayonet charge from the American center, combined with a envelopment of their rear and flanks totally upended the British plan, already drained by a forced march on little sleep and food, mounting casualties and asolid hour of fighting. Tarleton gathered a few cavalry men that clashed with American dragoons on horseback in an attempt to recapture their cannons, it failed. Tarleton narrowly escaped with his life. The end result was 25 Americans dead and 124 wounded while the British suffered 110 killed, 229 wounded and 629 taken prisoner out of a force shy of 1,200 men.

The Battle of Cowpens was small in scale but it contributed to the overall drainage of British forces in the Carolinas Campaign. It also solidified Daniel Morgan’s reputation as a tactical commander. He in effect employed the only use of a double envelopment in the whole war, a classic battle tactic since ancient times and perfected by Hannibal and the Carthaginians against the Romans at the Battle of Cannae in 216 BC. The American Revolution and 18th century in general was not largely an era known for overall tactical development since many European style battles more or less followed a repeated pattern of “chess piece” formulas or marching forces like pawns to dislodge the enemy through massed fire followed by bayonet charges until one side relented. Cowpens was entirely different, in confounded expectations by lulling the British into a trap and completely physically and mentally breaking them down. While the British would achieve further tactical victories namely at Guildford Courthouse later that spring, it did so at great cost of life while the Continentals and militia continued to escape and withdraw into the countryside further sapping the strength of the British. All this bought time for the arrival of French regular troops to join with General George Washington in the autumn of 1781 in the North who would march down to Virginia and ultimately trap Cornwallis at Yorktown that October as part of his own attempt to cutoff American supply lines, effectively this ended the war in American victory. Cowpens was a sort of microcosm into the American strategy that developed out of necessity for the whole war, the British might win major pitched battles but their failures over and over to capture the main American armies as a whole and suffering attrition through small scale losses and overextending their forces wore them down in the end.

#American Revolution #daniel morgan #banastre tarleton #military history #USA #great britain #rifle #tactics #double envelopment #cannae #hannibal #18th century #1781 #overmountain men #kings mountain #cowpens #north carolina #south carolina #dragoons

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runewooddk · 5 years

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London the one and only.

The Whisky Show London turned into so much more!

In late September, we finally were on our way to the legendary city of London to attend the monumental World Whisky Show London put on by The Whisky Exchange. This is certainly the place to be if one fancies whisky more than occasionally. We were quite enthralled by the spectacle it was. The finest of the fine whiskies were abound, and the place was flush with pillars of the whisky industry for the last 50 years. Guys like Sukhinder Singh, Richard Paterson, and the one and only Ronnie Cox were at arms length. We even had the pleasure of getting to know Mr. Cox and the whiskies over at The Glenrothes quite a bit, and we were totally blown away. The only way to put it is: There is simply nothing like being there. These guys all have stories that would make a king a little jealous, and it’s just a complete thrill to savor a dram of 39 year old prized whisky and hear a few stories of the adventurous paths they’ve taken to reach the top of their game.

In fact, we were quite new to The Glenrothes and we had the great fortune of getting intimate with the whisky through our own little adventure. After working for years until we are short of breath day in and day out to build our cabinet business, we had the momentous honour of being followed on Instagram by The Glenrothes Distillery. The feeling of such a seemingly small, yet fulfilling validation is enough to energize us for another decade. The problem was, we had never really tried any of their whiskies. We had heard and seen great things about them, but simply hadn’t crossed paths directly with the liquid itself. We had to fix that without question.

Tristan Stephenson is a bit of a pillar himself in the bar and cocktail world for those who may not have heard. We were tipped off to his significance during a previous trip to London by Chris at a cool little Camden Lock distillery called Half Hitch Gin. After looking into this guy Stephenson a bit, we visited a nice subtle speak easy in the Marylebone neighborhood known as Purl London which he founded. The place is a monument to all things revered in such an establishment, the highest attainable quality combined with creativity and utmost class, but in the basement under the streets of Marylebone with jazz to whisk you back to another romantic era.

Shortly after visiting Purl, I noticed Tristan had started a quite talked about whisky establishment called Bar Black Rock. This such place became one of our top destination priorities on a future London round. One simply needs to experience the attention to detail of such a talented and respected man. Upon arrival at Black Rock, I stated to my comrade Nicholas that there’s only one way to go in terms of drink selection: The Glenrothes would have to be the dram of the evening. They happened to have a nice bottle called the Whisky Maker’s Cut, and we were off. I have nothing but great things to say about the bar, the staff, and especially The Glenrothes Whisky Maker’s Cut. This whisky is really our style – bringing lovely orange peel, vanilla, and nutmeg with a lightly toasted wood and slightly chocolate finish. The guys working the bar were completely knowledgeable without taking themselves too seriously at all, the giant tree table laying through the middle of the place with the brass spouts was beautiful to say the least. The whole experience was captivating, and completely hyggeligt. Sláinte to Stephenson and the whole Bar Black Rock with their unpretentious whisky vending machine, and their great humor about them in the finest of environments again – in the basement.

At this point we were fairly determined to make a solid impression on the guys at The Glenrothes Distillery. It seemed like the stars had maybe started to align. We entered The Whisky Show and took the rather long route to their stand to let the crowds die down a bit, to cut away some of the noise before we made ourselves obvious. This meant thankfully we had the pleasure to try a couple of quite nice rums and whiskies around the show on our march. We certainly were very glad to make use of the nerve calming effects. When we finally presented ourselves at The Glenrothes counter, we were anxious but we had a plan. We ended up in front of no other than Ronnie Cox. The guy is to the Scotch whisky industry something like what Christopher Columbus was for Spanish exploration, he has changed the world and made a well respected name for himself in the process. The amazing thing is that Mr. Cox was receptive to our pitch. He thought we had an interesting concept, an elegant design, and appreciated our ambition. He shared a couple stories from the ages, and sent us off with a taste of their iconic 1976 Single Cask UK Exclusive. The company of Ronnie and the rare whisky with it’s notes of fudge and coconut made the moment quite unforgettable and nearly indescribable. Our life will be complete if we can sit down with Ronnie someday in a proper setting for such a dram, with a whisky of similar caliber and truly enjoy such a moment, perhaps even at a Runewood cabinet.

The following day, we made plenty of time for our good friends at Stauning Whisky who have achieved the unimaginable and have themselves become the new generation of icons in the whisky circles. We finally got to sample some of their acclaimed Heather whisky, and we were really blown away. Thank the good whisky gods we managed to pick up a bottle when it first went on sale after hearing back on the first round of tastings. We are really glad to know these guys, and love where they are taking the whisky.

Well what does one do after spending the afternoon tasting whisky at Old Billings Gate of London? The best idea we could drum up was to head over to the Savoy and sip a few cocktails. These guys at the American Bar and at Thames Foyer show class beyond imagination. Cocktails and piano to perfection provide an experience of a lifetime. Just keep in mind, your wallet may leave in poor health.

The final stint the last day, after my parter Nicholas headed back to Denmark, should have been wandering around London with my freshly acquired bottle of SMWS “A Delectable Confection”, which I bought for my father - beings he managed to make 60 years, and taking photos while enjoying a beer or two before flying back to Denmark myself. However, fate would have it another way. The rain drops dotting the pavement in the picture below give a bit of foreshadowing to the final stretch.

British weather being lovely as it is, had completely jammed up Heathrow. Of course, I was put on standby getting home since I arrived at the airport a little tardy. So I sat and waited anxiously, and they finally sent me with fast track through security to get to the plane. The uncertainty in the outcome had made me completely forget I had a most precious bottle of liquid, which of course needed to be checked at the counter. So off I go to security and they try telling me I need to give them my whisky. Well I had no choice but to plead with them like a school kid who just got caught writing on the bathroom wall. I suppose I haven’t completely lost the charm since the fantastic Collin at Heathrow Terminal 5 had one question for me: What’s more important – your flight or your whisky? Everyone reading this knows the answer to that one. So I bailed on going home, called my wife and infuriated her like a sensible husband would, and went about “returning to British soil” to collect my whisky – receiving nothing short of a noble favor from Collin, and wait for the next day’s flight to Denmark (of which at the time there were exactly 1 British Air flight each day to Billund DK at 18:35).

The interesting part of the story is that, as a result I now had the opportunity to attend PAD Art London at Berkeley Square the following day Tuesday October 1st, 2019. I ventured over to say hello to our nice comrades at Egevaerk Denmark who make some breathtaking furnishings, but the gravity upon that day is that it would happen to be the day I shook hands unbeknownst with John Makepeace. I realized about 10 minutes into the conversation who exactly I was speaking with and basically went through the roof. What a down to Earth, likeable, and intelligent man Mr. Makepeace is, truly can’t be overstated. It seemed like we really connected, and the only reason I’m able to believe that is because of my ignorance of not knowing I was speaking to a legend in British furniture and architecture for the first part of the conversation. The guy is an inspiration for genuineness, and the act of moving forward with a well rooted respect and understanding of the past along with the foundations around oneself. These are the virtues to which we hope to adhere.

Needless to say, London didn’t disappoint as it never does.

#runewooddenmark #runewooddk #runewoodnordic #whisky #london

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blessed-but-distressed · 5 years

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#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

***

also on ff.net and ao3

***

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin, @kiwistreetswan and whoever else asks me.

***

A/N: Part 2 of 2. Hope you packed your crash helmets. This is a bumpy ride. Eternal thanks to @fraddit for holding my hand as I put this together. Maybe it’s not ready yet, but it’s spent enough time living rent-free in my head.

***

Killian

August W. Booth. Killian would never admit it, but he knew the name, even before Emma Swan had tumbled into his life. He’d remembered seeing it grace the spine of a book on the shelf of his old flat, back in London. He’d remembered asking Milah about it, and he remembered her non-committal response.

“It’s alright,” she’d said, flopping down onto the bed beside him. “If you’re into Americans who read too much Kafka travelling the world to ‘find themselves’.” She’d even done the air quotes, and he’d smiled at her honesty.

And in the months after she was gone, and he was left with nothing but her meagre possessions, he’d picked it up and read it cover to cover, in an effort to be closer to her.

But it really was just a book.

Killian didn’t want to ‘find himself’ on a Thai beach. Or follow in the footsteps of obscure European authors. Or even consume a questionable amount of hallucinogens. He had just wanted to wake up in a world where Milah still slept soundly beside him.

He’d donated the book to a charity shop on Camden High Street, along with most of Milah’s clothes.

He’d never imagined he’d meet the author. Or that he’d kind of hate him.

How to describe that first moment with August W. Booth? At first, Emma had been beside him, her hand held tight to his sleeve as they waded into the party throng. And then, with something that sounded like a choked sob, she was gone.

It was only when the crowd parted that he saw the spectacle for himself. Emma Swan, laughing. Damn near hysterical laughing, having launched herself at this bearded bloke in cable knit jumper. He’d barely caught her, but he had, even if he’d knocked over his beer in the process.

“Emma Swan, as I live and breathe!” The man, August, had declared, lifting her off her feet. “Have you gained weight?”

She smacked him on the shoulder, but her smile was still beatific, even as he set her back down. Killian had never seen that smile. Not once.

“Lost it, actually. Didn’t you hear? I run now. Like, habitually.”

“Now I come to think of it, Ruby did say something about that. But I assumed she was joking.”

Another smack. Another round of smiles as they talked over each other, trying to make up for lost time.

Killian was not a wallflower by nature, but something about the ready intimacy of their chatter kept him on the periphery, hovering awkwardly by a potted palm he highly suspected to be fake. He was just reaching out his hand to check when he felt a tug on his prosthetic.

She was dressed like Hilary Clinton, her blonde wig drunkenly askew. “Why’s your hand made of plastic?” she asked with all the tact of someone six vodka cranberries deep. “It is real? That’s sooo weird. Did you have some, like, terrible accident?”

Her accent was American, but much more the bubbly Southern Californian version than the one he was used to. He didn’t find it endearing.

“Hilary!” he greeted her with a forced smile, snatching his prosthetic back from her grasp. “Long time no see. How’s Bill? Still a complete cad?”

Her face was a picture of confusion. “My name is Hadley?” She looked down at her pantsuit, and then it seemed to dawn on her. “This is just a costume,” she explained slowly. “You know, for the party?”

“You don’t say! My apologies, Hadley. I mistook you for a woman of substance.”

It was not the most gentlemanly brushoff, but it did the trick.

Hadley squinted up at him for a few long moments, before tipping the rest of her drink down his front. “You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

He was, and he did. And thanks to her dramatics, the rest of the room were fast becoming aware of the fact too, even as her (seventh?) vodka cranberry seeped miserably into his shirt. He looked up just in time to catch Emma’s raised eyebrows as she approached, August following in her wake.

“Uh, do I want to know what you said to Hilary to piss her off?” she asked.

“Nothing she hadn’t already heard on the campaign trail,” Killian muttered, fanning his shirt away from where it was sticking fast to his chest. “I don’t know what it is about this party, Swan, but it doesn’t much approve of our outfits.”

Emma opened her mouth to retort, when a hand suddenly appeared in front of Killian’s face, attached to a weaselly-looking novelist.

“August Booth. You must be the Graham Humbert I’ve heard so much about?”

And he thought having a drink thrown over him would be the most aggrieving event of the evening.

“Killian Jones,” he corrected, delivering a slightly firmer handshake than necessary. “And I’m leaving.”

***

I feel like that could’ve gone better. ES

Are you okay? ES

Jones? ES

I’ve had worse things thrown at me than a girly cocktail, Swan. I dare say I’ll survive. KJ

Probably. But that’s not what I meant. ES

You should probably get back to your surprise visitor. He came a long way to see you. KJ

August is big boy. He can handle himself for a few minutes. Are you at home? ES

No. KJ

So you’re walking around at large with a huge purple stain down your shirt? ES

Apparently so. KJ

That’s not weird at all. ES

How fortuitous then, that I’m not your problem. KJ

Wow. Okay. I guess you’re not. Fuck you very much. ES

***

It was a foolish idea. He had reminders set on his phone that pinged at regular intervals to remind him of exactly how foolish an idea it was. And yet, there he was anyway. Half a bottle of Captain Morgan later, standing outside Tink’s building in Newington, leaning on the buzzer.

The intercom chirruped into life. “If you don’t have a pizza, I don’t know you.”

He grinned, and leaned close to the speaker. “Margherita Cheese, extra olives.”

There was a pregnant pause. And then the front door buzzed open.

It wasn’t terribly late, by their usual standards. Barely past sunset, now they weren’t long past the solstice. And yet when Tink opened the door she was definitely wearing pyjamas. The kind one actually slept in, rather than entertained in.

Not that she seemed to care either way, tearing the pizza box from his hands with barely more than a nod in his direction. He followed her in anyway, and sat in her kitchen as she devoured half of it before coming up for air.

“Hungry?” he teased.

“My flatmate has us all on the Keto diet,” she shrugged by way of explanation. “It’s been hell. You know how many Greggs franchises I have to walk past on my way to work? It was only a matter of time until I cracked. But I’m glad it was you,” she crooned to the last of her pizza. “You were worth the wait.”

“I can’t decide if this is pathetic or adorable,” Killian mused.

“Definitely pathetic,” Tink declared, closing the box at last. “But you’re one to talk. You look rough as guts. And what did you get all over your shirt?”

He knew he should’ve stopped home to change first.

“Vodka cranberry, I believe.”

“Ooh,” she said, folding her hands under her chin. “The plot thickens. A deliberate attack?”

“It... may have been.”

She snorted. “You always know how to charm a lady, Jones. Until you don’t.”

“You never seemed to mind,” he reminded her, with a sly smile in her direction.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, before hooking a thumb in her direction. “Pathetic, remember?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said silky, letting his hand come to rest on hers. “In fact, I seem to recall a rather impressive list of talents…”

Tink slid her hand out from under his, to slap herself in the forehead. “So that’s what you’re doing here! It all makes sense now. You’ve had a shit night, and now you thought you’d show up, and what? I’d take you into my bedroom and help you forget all about it?”

“No, I just-”

“Just thought I was your standby girl. And I get it. I really do. Lord knows, I played the part enough times. But, honestly, Killian, wouldn’t you rather be with someone you’re actually crazy about? Like, oh, I don’t know...” She tapped her chin meaningfully, “...Emma?”

Something inside of him constricted at the sound of her name on Tink’s lips, and he didn’t like it. Didn’t want to think about her, or any of it. To hell with them.

“Who’s Emma?” he replied, leaning in again. “All I see is you.”

He saw the slap coming, but his reactions weren’t what they were.

“Hey, you know we’re friends, right?” she said, her words a direct contradiction to the stinging of his cheek. “I know we made a mess of things, but I thought we could still talk to each other. What’s going on? Because you’re not here because you find me completely irresistible.”

“Don’t I, love?”

It was a last ditch effort, but she wasn’t buying it.

“No, you don’t.” She sounded a little sad when she said it. “So start talking, or your drunken arse is getting an Uber. And you can start with what happened with Emma.”

“Nothing happened with Emma,” Killian muttered, looking around her kitchen for a possible source of alcohol. Any alcohol. So consumed was he by the search he didn’t catch Tink spiriting his phone from his pocket until she was already back in her chair again, scouring through his latest messages.

He really should’ve changed his passcode months ago.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I stand corrected,” she said, sliding it back across the table towards him with a roll of her eyes. “Nothing happened at all.”

Anger flaring, he snatched it back. “That’s really none of your business, love.”

“It is when you’re sitting in my kitchen, smelling like a distillery, and looking to use my body to distract you from your problems.”

God, he really was an arsehole. No wonder everyone he knew despised him. At last his eyes alighted on a stoppered bottle of brown liquid tucked away on top of the fridge. He stood up to retrieve it, and removed the stopper with his teeth.

He ducked down to take a whiff. Brandy. Perfect.

He found a pair of relatively clean glasses in the dish rack, and poured a generous measure into each.

“Peace offering?” he asked, slinging one of them in Tink’s direction.

Her glower didn’t abate any, but she accepted the glass anyway, wincing as her first sip hit her tongue.

“Needs water,” she said, handing it back with a cough.

Killian dutifully filled it up from the tap, and returned to his old place at the table. Just his performing this small act seemed to soften her somewhat, because the anger faded from her eyes.

“Look, maybe I’m wrong, but I’m trying a new thing. It’s called: ‘I only sleep with guys who are actually into me.’ And you know what? It’s going pretty good. I don’t wake up feeling like shit all the time.”

There was a novel concept.

“I’ve been an arsehole,” Killian summed up.

“Sometimes,” Tink agreed, with a comforting pat to his shoulder. “But I knew what your deal was. You get into bed with a guy with a missing hand and another girl’s name tattooed on his arm, you don’t really expect it’ll work out long-term.”

Now it was his turn to snort. “Aye, I suppose I deserved that.”

“You did,” she said, with an unapologetic grin. “But it’s okay. We were both just biding our time. Me until I grew some self-esteem, and you until your heart healed over a little.”

He wondered if it had. The wounds had been there so long, cut so deep, he rarely pressed them anymore. Rarely tested the strength of the scar tissue that had grown in their place.

“Well then,” he said, raising his glass. “To your self-esteem.”

Their glasses clinked, and he took his first sip. The brandy was thick across his tongue, but warming. A little burst of liquid courage to ask the question he’d been turning over and over in his mind since he’d glanced into Emma’s eyes on that settee, and felt things start to shift.

“You ever feel like there’s some things you just can’t get away from, no matter how hard you try?” he asked.

“My parents named me Tinker Bell. What do you think?” she replied, deadpan.

“Fair point,” he conceded, suddenly wishing he’d never opened his fool bloody mouth.

Unfortunately, Tink was not a mind reader and she didn’t let it go. “Are you talking about Milah?”

It had been so long since anyone had said her name aloud, he couldn’t entirely stop himself from flinching.

“Yes. No.” He shook his head. “Not entirely. I just… I’m not sure there’s ever really any overcoming the fundamental truths of our past.”

“Fundamental truths?” she asked, confused. “Like what?”

“Like, for example,” he began, wetting his lips with another syrupy slug of Brandy. “Everything my brother has ever done in his life has been to distance himself from our father. He’s got the upstanding, family man bit down. He’s a card-carrying member of the bourgeoisie. But when push comes to shove, they still made the exact same mistakes.”

She cocked her head to the side, considering this. “I mean, there’s a genetic component to addiction. And idiocy, arguably. But I don’t believe in that ‘sins of the father’ bullshit. You are who you make yourself into. I’m not saying it’s easy to break the pattern, but it’s doable.”

Killian wanted to believe that. But he wasn’t so sure he did.

“I couldn’t,” he pointed out. “When I lost Milah, I-” The rum in his stomach roiled, and he wondered if he was going to throw up. He wondered how long it would take for Tink to throw him out after. But after a moment, the feeling passed, and he realised she was still waiting for him to finish his thought. “I… I was no different,” he finished, feeling foolish.

“So you lost someone who mattered to you, and you handled it badly?” She shook her head. “That doesn’t make you your Dad. It makes you a person with a heartbeat.”

Killian stretched his prosthetic out on the table in front of him, considering the shiny piece of hardware. His most expensive souvenir from the shortest trip he’d ever taken.

“It’s not a liability, you know,” Tink said gently, nudging his prosthesis with her glass. “The hand. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

It was. And it wasn’t. Drunken Hilary’s ill-timed comments had certainly hit their mark, but it wasn’t just the hand. It was what it represented. The very permanent reminder that he was no longer entirely whole.

Most days, he was fine with that. It was much the same as his tattoo. He liked having that proof. However tenuous. However painful. It was a tether to a time he’d been truly happy, and it was a comfort to him, to know he hadn’t imagined it.

Lately, he’d begun to wonder if he’d held on too long.

Tink had said so herself, they’d never stood a chance. That hadn’t bothered him so much before, because he hadn’t really been looking for one. At least, not with Tink.

“I think I fucked up with Emma,” he blurted out.

“Oh, you think?” Tink sneered, downing the last of her glass.

“I… definitely fucked up with Emma,” he agreed, tipping his head back to finish his own drink. It burned, and he let it. He deserved it.

This time it was Tink who reached for the bottle, pouring them another measure each. She didn’t top this one off with water

“To bitchy texts,” she declared, holding her glass aloft. “Ruining everything.”

Killian drank to that.

“So, are we past the denial portion of the evening? You like her, right?” Tink had that twinkle in her eye again. The same one she’d had when she realised the stain on his shirt hadn’t been an accident. Dirt. That was all she wanted.

“I… sometimes.”

Tink rolled her eyes. “Way to commit”

“She’s attractive,” Killian shrugged. “And I find myself... attracted.”

Tink blew a raspberry. “Oh, c’mon. I read your column. You are not subtle. You might as well start drawing ‘KJ 4 ES’ hearts all over your homework.”

“They aren’t that bad,” Killian scoffed.

“Really? Have you read the comment section lately? People ship it!”

“People are little old ladies with too much time to spend on Facebook between soap operas,” Killian responded blithely. “I’m not overly concerned with their opinions.”

“How about mine? I saw you two sing an Elton John medley together, remember? That wasn’t attraction. That was fireworks.”

“It was stage theatrics,” he corrected. “Besides, it doesn’t matter now. She’s not the forgiving type. I’m not getting back in her good graces.”

“So why screw everything up in the first place? Jealousy?”

Yes.

Killian sighed. “A friend of hers is in town.”

“Like a special friend?”

“Like an old friend. Her oldest. She’s different with him. Happier. I’ve never seen her smile so much. I didn’t even know she could.”

“And you wish that was you? Making her happy?”

Yes.

Killian snorted. “She doesn’t want me.”

“How do you know? Did you ask her?”

As if that was something he could casually slip in a conversation somewhere. ‘Here’s your pint.. Oh, by the way, I quite fancy you and I was wondering if you fancy me back?’

“I think you’re forgetting she has already has a suitor.”

“Who? That Grant guy? They’ve been on what? Two dates? Two dates is not a relationship. Even I’ve spent more time with her than that.”

“Her friend certainly seemed to know all about him..” Killian swallowed back the bile in his throat at the thought.

Tink looked skeptical. “I doubt there’s much to know.”

“And I’ll remind you that this is all for naught, since we’ve established that I made a complete tit of myself, and she’s never speaking to me again.”

They both went silent at the thought. Tink refreshed their drinks.

“Well, then,” she said, offering up her glass for another impromptu toast. “Here’s to learning how to grovel.”

***

I’m sorry. I’m a complete arse. KJ

Yep. ES

***

Killian awoke in a strange room, his mouth dry and his virtue intact. It took him a moment of watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of morning light above his head to figure out exactly where he was.

Tink’s flat. It looked different by day. Shabbier. More lived in. He’d ended up on the sofa somehow, alone, twisted up in a crochet blanket into a strange configuration that would give him hell later. He was still wearing all of his clothes. Even the shirt with the cranberry stain down the front.

He could hear a radio somewhere nearby, giving a bleak update on the state of traffic on the City Bypass. Pipes shuddered, and soft feminine whispers punctuated the spaces between. The smell of burnt coffee grounds wafting up from the cafe downstairs, as the city woke to a new day.

He lay his head back down, and scrubbed at his face with his hand.

How many drinks had it been, all told? Eighty? Too many, he admitted to himself, as he surfed an accompanying wave of nausea. It was time to find a new crutch. He wasn’t a student anymore.

“Hey, you’re up.” Tink’s voice was fuel to his headache, but her tone was friendly. He sat up to see her standing in the doorway, holding a giant steaming mug in her hands. The underlying tension of their usual morning after routine was gone. She looked comfortable, in a way he’d rarely seen.

“That for me?” he asked, hopefully.

“It is. Thought it might help with the, ah, sore head.”

It did. From the very first sip, Killian felt the fog in his head clearing, and life returning to his limbs. “Thanks, love.”

She nodded, and stepped back. “I was going to let you sleep, but uh, well… your sister-in-law is here.”

Killian nearly dropped the mug. “Elsa’s here?”

“In the kitchen. She showed up about ten minutes ago. You want me to send her in?”

Elsa. In Tink’s kitchen. Like his life hadn’t been strange enough lately.

“What is she-?”

“She didn’t say. But she-” Tink hesitated. “She looks rough. Kind of upset, you know?”

No, he didn’t know. Elsa was the queen of poise. She rarely let her feelings show, least of all to practical strangers. Was it Liam? The boys? Dammit, where was his phone? Had something happened?

He was already on his feet when Elsa rounded the doorway. And even with the warning, it was still a shock to see her. She did, indeed, look rough. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, her face noticeably puffy. She’d forgone the implacable facade she carried with her into the outside world.

“I’ll just… leave you two alone,” Tink said, backing out of the room.

He took a few steps towards Elsa, and then hesitated. “Is everyone-”

“Everyone’s fine. Alive. Healthy. I promise.” She tried for a reassuring smile, but it did nothing of the sort. “Robin told me you might be here. And I’m really sorry to intrude-”

“Elsa,” he said firmly, grasping her by the shoulders. “You’re never intruding. What’s happened?”

She bit her lip, but a single tear still managed to escape, unbidden, trailing down her fair cheek. “You know, I was beginning to think he was cheating on me?” She rolled her eyes heavenward, like that might stem the tide.

Oh god.

“He’d never.” Coming to Liam’s defence was automatic at this point. A reflex.

“No,” she agreed. “He’ll lie, and he’ll steal, and he’ll gamble, but he won’t cheat.” The sound might’ve been a laugh, if it wasn’t so bitter. So hard. “I know everything. About the money. Weaver. He called me at work, asked after the children. He knew their names. Where they go to school. He even knew the colour of Lachie’s scooter!”

Fear slid into his abdomen like a blade, sharp and cold. “He wouldn’t-”

“He won’t!” Elsa’s eyes flashed defiantly. “I paid him his money. I did everything he asked. Malcolm Weaver has no reason to come near any of us, ever again.”

It was a curious mixture of relief and anxiety, all muddled together, making Killian’s head swim. And somewhere in the mix, guilt. A sense of culpability. “I should’ve told-”

“No,” she said, eyes shining with renewed anger. “My husband should’ve told me. He should’ve trusted me, like I thought I trusted him. And he never should’ve put you in the position of having to lie for him. Or lie to your family. And your eye-”

Her tears were flowing freely now, and Killian’s grip on her arms tightened. “He’s an idiot. And he’s too proud for his own good. But you know he never wanted to hurt you, or disappoint you. You or the boys.”

“I know,” Elsa hiccuped. “But he did. Not because he made a mistake-” She physically swatted the idea away. “We all do that. But because he couldn’t be honest with me. That’s not the marriage I thought I had.”

“Had?” The way she’s said it, it sounded so… final.

Elsa swiped a sleeve across her cheeks, mopping up her tears. “I love him, Killian. You know I love him. But I can’t look at him right now. Anna asked me to stay. I’ll take the boys to New York for the summer. I don’t need them getting caught up in all this.”

“But you are coming back?” The lump in Killian’s throat had nearly doubled. As much as he’d resented being the black sheep in a flock of prize Merinos, he couldn’t quite imagine a life now without them.

Elsa smiled a dim smile. “This is home. And you Jones Boys, you’re home too,” she said, gathering him into a fierce hug. “And you’re always going to be a part of this family, with or without Liam. You know that, don’t you?”

It was an oft-repeated phrase of hers. Always trying to include him. Always trying to set him at ease. But it had never really rung true, before. He’d never been wholly convinced. They were a family, and he was an interloper. A squatter. He’d come to terms with that.

It wasn’t until he found himself crushed under the weight of Elsa’s furious embrace that he finally let himself see it. It wasn’t just Elsa’s bird bones that had a hold on him. It was her affection for him. Her love. The well ran deep, the force more formidable than he would have imagined. A sister’s love.

“Aye,” he said, letting his chin rest atop her shoulder. “I know that.”

They separated a bit, and she smiled her first real smile. “Took you long enough.”

“I’m a Jones,” he shrugged wryly. “We’re not the smartest.”

“No,” Elsa agreed, sweeping his hair from his forehead like he’d watched her do for Lachie and Callum a thousand times. A protective, nurturing gesture. Automatic as breathing. “And what did you do to your shirt?”

***

I am your problem. That is, I wish to be your problem. KJ

I confess: I was an almighty dickhead the other night. And if you don’t forgive me for that, I would understand. KJ

I made you feel as if you weren’t important to me, but that isn’t true. We’re friends. Good friends, I hope. I was angry at so many people that night, but none of them were you. You just got caught in the crossfire, and I can only apologise for that. I would like to do so in person, if you’d permit me. KJ

You give good apology, Killian Jones. But I know how good you are with words. ES

Not good enough, apparently. KJ

You know you made me feel like an idiot, right? For thinking we were friends? ES

We are friends. I’m just a spectacularly bad one, sometimes. I could blame the drink, or the stress of Liam’s secret, or Hilary’s tactless comments about my hand, or August not having a clue who I was, or even how fucking raw I was after sitting on that settee with you. But the truth is, sometimes I’m not quite the man I want to be. KJ

Maybe you don’t want to be friends with someone like that. I wouldn’t blame you. But I also think you understand, perhaps better than anyone, why we push people away without really meaning to. KJ

A little fucked up. A little scared. KJ

I understand. ES

I mean, I’m still kind of pissed. ES

But I get it. ES

Pint? KJ

Busy. I’m babysitting a novelist, remember? They’re very high maintenance. ES

Bring him along. Don’t you think it’s about time he learned of the wonder that is Open Mic Night? They moved it to Friday this week. KJ

Oh no. That can only end in heartbreak. ES

Heartbreak Hotel ;-) KJ.

Maybe next time, Jones. ES

I look forward to it, Swan. KJ

***

Emma and her novelist never made an appearance at Open Mic Night, though Killian spent half the night watching the door anyway. Not the entire night, mind. Robin was being far too entertaining for that.

His bereaved, beloved Robin, who’d taken the stage and was attempting a version of Wild Thing complete with a series of hip gyrations which made Eddie Vedder’s relationship with his microphone stand seem chaste.

A courtship display if Killian had ever seen one. All directed at the brunette in the front row, who looked decidedly more like the university administrator she was than Killian remembered last time he’d seen her. As Wonder Woman. Out of costume, she was better recognised as Regina Mills, University Vice-Chancellor.

Apparently they were dating now. And things were going well.

He could only confess to a little jealousy. Robin, more than anyone he knew, deserved a little happiness. Though when things started to get hot and heavy after Robin’s encore, Killian was only too happy to make his excuses.

***

Returning home to the big empty house in Merchiston brought mixed feelings. Killian still preferred his bed to the medieval torture device which was Tink’s sofa, but there was something unnerving about the place with the boys gone. Without laughter, or chaos, or the 60% chance of treading on a stray Lego brick with your bare feet at any given moment.

He was almost disappointed when he made it down the hallway unscathed in the dark. Right up until the moment he switched on his bedroom light, and found a dark clad figure standing directly before him.

His scream was not particularly masculine. Not as he stumbled backwards, and not as he picked up the nearest object and threw it with all of his might at his would-be attacker.

The boot caught the figure upside the head, hard enough to have him swearing. By the second string of curses, Killian realised his mistake.

“Bloody hell, Liam. Do you have a death wish?” he asked, dropping the second boot and coming to his brother’s side. “I thought I was about to meet my fucking maker.”

“My. Mistake,” Liam ground out through gritted teeth, hands still clutched to his head where Killian had struck his blow. Liam didn’t have to ask who he’d mistaken him for. Even after Elsa’s intervention, the spectre of Weaver’s goons loomed large in their imaginations.

And that’s when he saw it, lying on the rug where it had fallen during their altercation. The Galaxy bar.

Liam’s eyes followed his gaze, crinkling slightly despite his pain. “Happy St Killian’s Day, little brother.”

***

-KJ has sent you a document file-

What’s this? ES

I’m sure even you can recognise a Word document when you see one, Swan. KJ

I mean, why am I getting it? You’ve never sent me a copy of your column before it’s published before. ES

I’m trying something new. It’s called ‘consideration for other people’s feelings’. KJ

Huh. Seems kind of out of character for you. ES

I probably deserved that. KJ

You definitely did. ES

This column touches on some… more sensitive topics. I’d feel more comfortable having your approval before I took it to Liam. Would you please indulge me? KJ

Fiiiine. ES

... ES

Um. Wow. ES

Too personal. Understood. Consider it vanquished. KJ

No! I mean, yeah, it’s personal. But it’s… real. I never really… It’s good, Killian. And if Liam doesn’t have a problem with it, then I don’t have a problem with it. ES

You’re positive? Once I post this, there’s no taking it back. KJ

Positive. ES

As you wish. KJ

#findemmaswanafriend #cs au #cs ff #cs ff au #the long lost return #and a boatload of angst

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iamkatehardy · 6 years

Text

Unlikely Allies (Tommy Shelby x Reader | Alfie Solomons x Reader)

Tags: @kaliforniacoastalteens , @raceylacy, @littlemisscaptainfandom

Warnings:Suggetive at some point, but not smutty (yet), Violence

A/N: Long story short, thought this would be a short chapter, turned out it isn’t (3,5k +), and I had to delay some of my ideas for the next chapter :P

Also, was dying to write the final scene of this chapter,it’s one of the scenes I had in my head since I started working on this fic!

You can check out the previous chapter in my Masterlist :p

Leave your feedback, which is endlessly appreciated❤

Chapter 2

Tommy was a man with a lot of dreams and plans, he had always been. One of his most recent plans was to reopen The Garrison Pub, more lavish and sophisticated than ever; and once he put his mind to it, it didn’t take long to happen. As expected, he made something big. He invited family, friends, you, and a bunch of petty criminals with whom he had strategical alliances. Although some of them could be intimidating, their presence didn’t bother you; not many people got under your skin, and you feared no living being, after all you had been through.

Until you carried the vendetta you had promised to, you had to be the grief-stricken widow, that was one of the many rules in the Families; so, to avoid bigger problems with powerful people, and with the respect you had for your late husband, you wore black; an expensive embroidered dress hugged your figure, with a train trailing behind you.

Your looks were always bold, as bold as you; multiple layers of the finest diamonds worked in harmony, in the necklace that adorned the smooth skin of your neck, and your lips were devil red, at least until they’d meet Tommy’s, which was your ultimate goal for that night. You were looking forward to steal the show, especially in his eyes, and you did.

As soon as Tommy laid his eyes on you, he gave you a signal, and you both made a discreet exit to a quiet room, the one where meetings were supposed to take place.

“I must congratulate you for the excellent work you did here, it’s outstandingly beautiful.” – Your eyes roamed around the room.

He placed two glasses on the table, pouring his favorite Irish whiskey on them, and then placing one of them in front of you.

“Do you know what else is outstandingly beautiful tonight?” – Looking at is glass, Tommy moved his hand in a circular motion, playing with the whiskey inside.

“What?”- After taking a swig of your drink, you smirked, watching him.

“Don’t play games with me, you know the answer. You know I’m talking about you.” – He stared at you in amazement, drinking his whiskey in one gulp.

“Don’t suck up to me with compliments, Thomas Shelby. What do you want?” – Your eyes squinted lightly, as you sat on the table, in front of him.

“I’ve always been told it’s not flattery if it’s true…” – After putting his glass aside, one of his hands rested in your ribcage as he drew you closer, and his other hand traced your cheek slowly.

“Who’s playing games now, huh?” – You looked up at him, with the smirk of a woman who knew exactly what came next. Before he could answer, you grabbed him by the shirt collars, pulling him toward you, and kissing him passionately.

The kiss lasted for some long minutes; your fingers were tangled in his hair, and your tongues fought desperately for dominance. His hands roamed hungrily over your body, because he knew about all your sensitive spots; he could easily make you shiver each time he touched you.

“Tommy…” – You whispered breathlessly in his ear, and it only increased his desire to go on and on.

When he brushed his lips lightly against your neck, you gripped his hair tighter, laying your head back, amid caresses and heavy breaths. His lips moved over your chin, and he started pulling your hips closer to the edge of the table and helping you to wrap your les around his waist. Your body could feel every part of his, and it made you ache for him.

You took a minute to look up at him. His eyes were big, bright, and even more beautiful in that soft light. Tommy brought his head slowly down, never breaking the eye contact, until his warm mouth crashed against your soft lips once again.

The heated moment was abruptly interrupted when the door swung open. You could hear steps and a cane, combined they created a distinctive rhythmic sound. Tommy stepped aside, and you could finally see the man who entered the room; closing your eyes, you took a deep breath, trying to keep control.

“Alfie, I’ll be out in a moment.” – Tommy slid his finger across his lips. He knew they were probably smeared with your lipstick, if not his whole face and neck.

“Not only is he the most unpleasant creature in the fucking world, he has little to none sense of opportunity.” – You hissed

Alfie tried to act indifferent, but the truth is that he wasn’t pleased with what he had just seen. He swung his cane for some seconds, looking at it; after a while he stopped, placing one hand over the other, supported by the cane. He clenched his teeth.

“This is what I wanted to tell you earlier, when we came here. Mr. Solomons is one of my guests of honor tonight. Do you want another drink?”

Great dissatisfaction was noticeable on your face.

“I think I’ll have the whole bottle, thank you.” – Rolling your eyes, you grabbed the bottle and stormed out the room, since Alfie wouldn’t.

Tommy sat down, lighting a cigarette and pouring himself another drink.

“Have a seat, please, Alfie. Let’s discuss business, before I am dead drunk.”

Alfie’s presence made you restless, and not even the luxurious party could make you neglect that feeling. He was up to no good, and you feared for Tommy’s safety, but there was something else: something about him stirred emotions up in you,

The meeting between Tommy and Alfie was long; they discussed details of their agreements, and when would Tommy send his men to the bakery.

In fact, it didn’t take long until Tommy’s men arrived at their destination, and saw Solmons’s wrath; but even the walls had eyes and ears in Camden Town, and Sabini quickly sent a clear message, written in blood: war was coming. Being a Shelby, Tommy would never back off without a fight; it was both admirable and mad. He called an emergency meeting with some of his most trustworthy allies.

“We need to take Sabini down…” – He started, playing with his glass. Taking a deep breath, he made a pause, lighting a cigarette up. – “The Eden Club is ours… And I already bought a filly that is currently being trained by Mrs. May Carleton; that’s our ticket to Epsom, where our final blow will take place.” – He took a long drag of his cigarette.

Your eyes rolled involuntarily at the mention of May Carleton, the way she looked at Tommy made you realize that she was competition.

“(Y/N), I would like you to accompany me to the races, I need your help.”

“You know I made a blood oath, I can’t touch Sabini or any other Italian until they give me motives to.”- You insisted.

“Touching them is my job, you’ll have another role in my plan love, and I wouldn’t put you at risk.” – His eyes moved from his glass, and his gaze finally met yours, trying to put you at ease. – “And about our deal, 5000 bottles of Scotch will be shipped this week, no cost involved. Consider them an offer for your valuable loyalty and help.”

By the end of the meeting, you and Tommy were the only people left in the room.

“You once told me that one day you’d have the world in the palm of your hand, and that’s a dream we share… But it’s getting too dangerous for you out there.” – Your eyes were teary, and glued to the window you were facing. – “Don’t fly too close to the sun, Tommy.”

His footsteps echoed through the emptiness and silence of the room, before he hugged you from behind, resting his hands on your waist, and his chin on your shoulder; you could feel his breath on your skin.

“It’s the last time before…”

“It always is, isn’t it Tommy? At least until you get in even bigger trouble.” – You interrupted him and turned around, laying your head in his chest. – “Forget this, forget revenge, forget this damned life. Let’s go to a place where love is everything, not hate. I promise I’ll give you whatever you’re missing… I’ll reinvent the world just to show you that this love that binds us can set us free. Let’s switch this life for something better, just you and me… Please.” – You whispered against his chest.

Although his heart was beating faster at your words, you knew that making that proposal was nothing but a shot in the dark. You were willing to try anyway. His arms enveloped you, in silence, giving you an inexplicable sense of safety and completeness. That wasn’t a yes, and you knew that; all you could do was seizing what he had to offer you.

You spent the night together; it was just as magical as you remembered it. It was as if even after all those years your body responded only to his touch, his affection; you were sure it could never be that special with anyone else in the world.

While you were in paradise, in Tommy’s arms, Arthur was meant to meet Alfie Solomons, after he had made an invitation. What the Shelbys didn’t know was that Solomons’s loyalty had been bought by Sabini with false promises, and the meeting was a trap. This betrayal was also enhanced by the rage that blinded Alfie, for the fact Tommy and you had any kind of involvement, or emotional commitment; in his sight, Tommy engaged with Italians first by shagging you, besides that, he couldn’t stand seeing you both together even if you were Arabic, for unknown reasons that transcended him.

You were sleeping soundly, with your head in Tommy’s chest, when John stormed into the room, to warn his brother about what happened to the eldest Shelby. What John saw didn’t surprise him, but the revelation he made definitely caught his brother off guard. After he left, Tommy dressed up in a hurry.

“I told you that fucking Jew wasn’t trustworthy. I’ll kill him.” – Covered in his sheets, you sighed nervously.

“Killing him won’t set Arthur free, love. I need to talk to him.”

“Talk? Talk?!”

“You stay here, ok? Don’t get me in trouble.” – He said before leaving, letting a letter slip out of his pocket.

“You do that alone, Tommy.” – You said in annoyance, before getting up and inspecting the letter.

The situation wasn’t great. Arthur had been arrested, the Eden Club taken by Alfie and Sabini’s men, and the war was now against the Shelbys.

Alfie tried to fuck with Tommy, but he didn’t get away with that. All he got was a life threat and 35% of the business, but greedy as he was, he had another trick up his sleeve. After Tommy left, he rethought the subject and decided to his price was higher than just 35%, “all or nothing” was his offer again, he wanted the whole business or he’d let Arthur hang. That was when you decided you’d take the matter in your own hands.

“You have hard feelings towards Alfie, I can’t let you do that, (Y/N).”

“Yes, I fucking have, and they’re more than justified. Tell me, Thomas, where did kissing his ass take you? Right, no-fucking-where. So, we’ll do it my way now.”

“At least let me go with you.”

“Fine, but you won’t interfere in my plans.”

It was time for you to pay a visit for Mr. Solomons. Ollie stood outside the bakery, with a notebook on his hand, when you arrived. You and Tommy had it all planned, you both knew that no one was in the bakery that day, besides Ollie and Alfie, so it was the perfect opportunity to strike.

“Good Afternoon, we’d like to see Mr. Solomons , please.”

“Mr. Solomons doesn’t have any appointments today.Plus, Mr. Shelby is not welcome here anymore.”

“Hmmm, I bet we can get around that… And the appointment is for me only, Mr. Shelby will wait here.” – You tapped your foot impatiently on the floor.

“I’m sorry, you’ll need an appointment, and there won’t be any today, maybe we can schedule….”

Before he could finish the sentence, you headbutted him so violently you knocked him out. Tommy looked at you in disbelief.

“You told me to make smart moves and you knock his pupil unconscious?”

“No, Tommy, I told you to use your fucking head, and that’s exactly what I did, isn’t it?” – Shrugging, you smirked. – “Now, wait here, I won’t take long.”

You walked quickly and confidently through the “bakery”, holding your gun on your right hand. You were somehow anxious, so the corridor seemed to be interminable. When the door of the office flew open, Alfie looked up and saw you coming forward.

“Hasn’t anyone taught you to knock yet, doll?”

“That really shouldn’t be your biggest concern right now…” – Sitting on his desk, with the gun against his head, you opened the drawer, and threw his gun on the floor, after unloading it.

“Easy there, sweetie. If you’re still interested in the rum, we can discuss that. Don’t be precipitate, aye.” – He was blinking quickly, trying to study you.

“How cordial of you. I’d clap, if didn’t have a gun in my hand.”

“I can offer you the rum, a charming lady like you doesn’t even have to pay!” – He clasped his hands.

“I love your good will Alfie, I really do.” – You said sarcastically, grabbing his cheek with your free hand. – “And just because you’re being nice, let’s play a game, yeah?” – You got up, spinning around; after unloading your gun, you took a single bullet in your hand. – “You see, I have a bullet with your name engraved on it, for a long time now. I planned to use it today, but since you’re being so generous, I feel like being generous as well!” – Turning your back to him, you played with your gun, closing the cylinder and spinning it multiple times right after, before turning back to him. – “And if you’re smart or lucky… Or both! You might live to see tomorrow, Alfie.”

Alfie stared at you in silence, looking very grave.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’ll be fun!” – You said, sitting on his desk again.

He didn’t say a word, just looked at his hands, which were cold and sweaty in that moment. Alfie Solomons, Mr.Know It All , was caught off guard by a woman

“You’re always so full of shit, and now you’re so quiet… Has cat got your tongue, love?” – You slid the gun barrel, almost gently, up his cheek, stopping in his temple.- “Pow… Pow…” – You whispered in his ear, your wet lips brushing against his earlobe before pulling the trigger. – “5, or less, attempts left, depending on how lucky you are… This was just the warning.”

He crossed his legs and squeezed his eyes shut, with a groan.

“Ok, Mr. Solomons… I can deal with the silence; your voice annoys me anyway…” – Rolling your eyes, you sat straight again. - “But you will look me in the fucking eyes when I talk to you, are we clear?!” – You shouted, lifting his chin with the end of the gun, making him face you.

“Fuckin’ Hell! What the fuck d’you want?!” – Alfie shouted back, nervously.

You made a cynical shocked face and shook your head in disapproval.

“You know what? I didn’t like that tone…I didn’t like it at all.”– You pulled the trigger again. He shut his eyes again and you could feel his Adam’s apple moving against the gun, as he swallowed hard, in a mix of fear and relief. – “Now, apologize and ask nicely, please.”

“I’m sorry…” – It was almost inaudible at first, then he decided to say louder, before you lost your temper. – “I’m sorry. What do you want from me?”

“First of all, open your eyes, because I’ll pull the trigger if you make me ask it one more time. Second, you’ll withdraw the charges against Arthur, or else… Bang.” – Your smile was cynical again.

“You and the fucking Shelbys….” – He muttered, venomously, as he slid his hand on his sweaty hair.

“A valuable lesson for you: Never make a stupid or cheeky remark when you have a gun in your face. I didn’t like that, love.”- You put the gun against his forehead and pulled the trigget twice in a row.

Alfie was panting heavily; at that point he thought he wouldn’t make it out alive.

“I’ll do it…” - Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, covering his face. He was clearly a mess.

“You’ll do what? “ – Biting your lower lip, you tilted your head.

“I’ll drop the charges against Arthur Shelby, if that’s what you want me to do, a’ight?!” – His hands were shaking.

“That’s right. Good boy, Alfie, good boy. God, you’re sexy when you’re scared.”

“I’m not fucking scared, aye!” – He slammed his hand on the table, raising his voice.

“The tone, love, I had warned you about that already….” – You pulled the trigger again, and he winced, trying to keep his shit together. – “And you do seem pretty scared to me, so why would you spend your last shred of luck trying to keep all manly and proud, instead of assuming you are scared? Well, it doesn’t matter; I’ll go straight to the point Alfie, you kind of are out of options here.” – Getting up, you pierced his soul with your eyes.

“If you kill me, you’ll never set Arthur free, innit?”

“You underestimate me, Mr. Solomons. You might be my plan A, but just so you know, I have plan B, C, D, E, and so on. With or without you, Arthur will be free soon. You see, you ran out of luck, 5 shots and no brains on the floor it’s actually remarkable, but we both know what happens next, the next shot will be fatal. So before I pull the trigger, I’m giving you the chance to make smart decisions, as the smart man you are.”

“I told you already, I’ll drop the charges. What else d’you want, sweetie?”

“I want 100 barrels of rum, and the 35% you stole from Tommy.”

“I thought you didn’…”

“Shhhh, changed my mind!” – You pressed the gun against his forehead again.

“Fine, I’ll do that! Anything you want.” – He stuttered, and his eyes were suddenly shut again.

“Most importantly, I want your word. A man’s word and honor are the most valuable thing he has.”

“I give you my word; you’ll have everything you’re asking for.” – His gaze met yours, and you could see he was being honest, for once.

“Despite your past as a cheating cunt, I’ll take your word.” – After spitting in your hand, you offered it for him to shake, and he reluctantly did, after spitting in his own hand. ”Alright, we’re done here then, love.” – You smirked, tossing the gun aside on his desk, and turned on your heel, walking out.

“Stop right there, aye.” – He took the gun in his hands, aiming at your back, and licking his lips. He didn’t quite know why he hadn’t shot you yet, without even warning, but he couldn’t.

“Or what?” – You turned slowly around, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Or I’ll fucking shoot you.” – He shouted, infuriated.

“Uhhh, badass… You know, that’s not the first time you tell me that, I don’t like that, love.” – You approached his desk again.

Alfie got up, trying to establish dominance; you leaned over his desk, staring at him , your hands resting on his paperwork.

“Shoot me.” – You placed your hand over his, guiding it, until the gun barrel was pressed against your lips. Parting your lips suggestively, you made him slide it inside your mouth, while you moaned playfully.

The sound that escaped your mouth had more effect on him than he’d like to admit. Your lips slid back again, wrapped around the gun, groaning against it, until it was finally out of your mouth.

“Right, you fucking can’t. Man, you really feel yourself with a gun in your hand though, don’t you? Crazy to think you’re the same man who was shitting himself in that chair moments ago.” – Your smile was cocky, and he grabbed your wrist as a warning. - “Get that shit out of my face, and just do what you said you would, aye? Before I run out of patience.”

“Don’t push me, doll, or I shoot.”

You laughed, placing two fingers two fingers in your cleavage, and pulling out a bullet engraved with his name, dangling it in front of his eyes.

“Your unloaded gun? Come on, do you really think I am that stupid? That I would turn around, leaving a loaded gun on your desk, so you could shoot me? No, love, this bullet had been here all along, buried between the twins. That gun was never loaded, really… But you gave me your word, so now there’s no way back.” – You smirked.

Alfie slapped your hand, making the bullet fly across the room.

“Were you making a fool of me the entire time?!” – His eyes were darkened with rage.

You ripped the gun out of his hand violently, tossing it on the floor.

“I was. And your face… priceless.” – You approached him, your faces inches apart.- “ The first time I came here, I was unarmed… Second time, the gun wasn’t loaded… But I swear to God…” – You got even closer, your lips brushing against his full lips as you spoke. – “If you break your word… If I have to come back here again…. You’ll be dead before I even open that door, Alfie. And this isn’t just an empty threat, as the ones you usually do, this is a warning, and I’m dead serious, love. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” – His eyes devoured you.

“Good, Mr. Solomons, good.” – You smirked and planted a soft wet peck on his lips, before heading out to meet Tommy, declaring your mission accomplished.

Alfie angrily slid his hands on the desk, throwing everything to the floor, cursing loudly, and as if it wasn’t enough, he flipped the table as well.

“What are you doing to me woman?” – He whispered breathlessly, with his hands on his head.

#tommy shelby x reader #alfie solomons x reader #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #tommy shelby fanfiction #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons x oc #tommy shelby x oc #peaky blinders #peaky blinders au #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine

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rotzaprachim · 6 years

Text

Zoyalai Peaky Blinders AU Pt. 2

Fun fact I started writing this as a response to an inbox message by @stormwitchprivateer-deactivated but didn’t get to any of the relevant parts .. so have this instead, which I need to stop myself from adding another 2000 words for to match the prompts as i really don’t have time

---

“I’ll leave,” he tells her. “Lock the door on me.” On second thought, he unclasps a revolver from its place under the breadboard and slides it across the table.

“What’s this for, Nikolai? I know you.”

“And what does that mean.”

“I trust your good behaviour. I’m not going to push you out to the storm.”

“Hasn’t stopped many a man. Knowing. Trust. And it may besmirch your good name.”

“I’m a brown, Ruskie, Bengali, trade unionist, suffragette Jew out to lead a socialist revolution and end the British Empire. I could summon demons on my own time and it wouldn’t give me a worse name among the right sort of people.”

Still, she’s in Nikolai Lantsov’s house. Home of the King, from Whitechapel to The Yiddishers’ turf in Camden. It’s disconcertingly intimate, closer than his associates ever get.

Still, even some of her fellow activists hold the women they associate with to a rather different standard than the men, and she knows her reputation means more than she’ll ever admit. So she raps her hand around the gun.

“I’ll not give this back.”

“Keep it. Kill the monsters in the night.”

“You and I both know bullets don’t kill the worst kind.”

(A fact about Nikolai Lantsov that Zoya knows, that none of the flat-capped fists or rum smugglers that make up the dubious ranks of Rivkah’s Sons do: he spent months, years, after The War so gripped by horrors of the night he’d wake up to paralysed by fear to scream.)

(A fact about Zoya Nazyalensky that Nikolai knows, that Genya, Tamar, Alina Stark, none of Zoya’s cloud of world-changers do: her battles took different shapes, picket lines and police and gangsters hired as strikebreakers to dispense the boss’s wrath, but she carries a soldier’s scars of war on her back just the same.)

Her finger flickers with the trigger. She smiles. Guns aren’t the kind of power that matter in this world, she knows that. And Yet. A bullet, it can change that.

He tosses her a shirt as well, which on her is probably longer than some of the dresses the bright young things wear these days. And drawstring sleeping trousers, which seems too forward, but its getting late and the pounding of the storm on the roof has yet to let up. He’ll give her the bed tonight.

She nods thanks and goes into the bathroom. Doesn’t lock the door. He tries not to think about her. Opens his box of records, American Jazz primarily, and tries to find one that doesn’t sound overly dark. Smokey. Sexual. Chooses Ain’t Misbehavin’, Fats Waller, which has a cheery, daytime sort of sound to it. He wants a drink. Needs a drink. Nikolai was a soldier, but in the Navy, not infantry, and a shoot out’s really enough to rattle any man, no matter how tough he thinks he is. He needs a drink. Whiskey, scotch, there’s both in the cupboard, good bottles, but he has a lady in his house, doesn’t want to overstep any more boundaries than the ten thousand he’s already crossed. So he puts the kettle on. There’s an English tea kettle and Russian glasses, but Nikolai puts the sugar straight into the tea, weak and western, but the pack of his throat can’t take being Russian anymore.

It takes her twenty minutes or so to re-emerge from the bathroom. He’s spent the time trying, failing to focus on a ledger from the tracks. It’s all even more of a blur of badly-kept numbers than it already is.

She sees his little tea set up, smiles and then rolls his eyes. Looks like she’s trying to contain, which. He’s mildly offended because of the effort he put int it, even ripping open a pack of chocolate-dipped biscuits and putting them on a little plate.

“The fuck is this, Lantsov?”

“One sugar or two?”

“Jam. I’m not a heathen.”

“It’s in the cabinet.”

She has a towel wrapped around her hair, but he can see tendrils of it snaking out, framing her face.

“And you pulled out the tea to seem like a man who drinks tea?”

“Am I not a man who drinks tea?”

“You’re a man who’s making a fortune in dealing stronger substances. So what do you have in your cupboards?” She leans over, and says, in a crystalline imitation of the mildly condescending tone he uses when he talks to new clients. “Brown bread or white bread?” Brownish swill or whiteish swill, but the Lantsovs sell it cheap and taxless, and everyone, even the goyim, buy. And the “bakery” grows rich and succesfull, and even the Americans want a piece.

Even Kaz Brekker, with a sneer in his stare and a cane and a limp from the war and an extravagantly, ridiculously expensive Italian suit, wants a piece.

“Bread for kings.” Not that he’s a cook or anything, and there isn’t much beyond real bread in his kitchen, the odds and ends that rich people who don’t have to worry much about budgeting have. Fruit and chunks of cheese and unfinished marmalade jars. It occurs to her the isolation, the loneliness of the place, with deported and arrested parents, a dead brother, probably a cleaning lady every now and again and nothing more. “I even have French.”

There’s a bottle of wine in his cabinet with a French label, but this is Whitechapel, not Belgravia, and unless Nikolai’s picked up some new tie to the French mob, Zoya questions it’s provinence. He may have the tacky-edged idea of class, of wanting to be part of some English aristocracy, inherited entirely he’s still a Russian boy from Whitechapel.

She shakes her head. “Stronger.” He sloshes whiskey from a fine label- a real label, she recognises it from the self-conciously masculine mirrored side boards in some of the houses Genya takes measurements in- into glasses. They pick them up and toast. To life, to the lives they’ve created, in the war’s wreck of everything that was.

To life.

#zoyalai peaky blinders au #also zoya's name means life see what i did there #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #zoyalai #my writings

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castillo-adrian · 6 years

Text

Franz Ferdinand | Closed.

Note: Important to the St. Clair VS Rutherford conflict. Featuring @lin-melissa @johnathanparsons @divyakoshal

Dissatisfied by Adrian’s performance at the end of the 6ème grade, Madame Vallereau, his English teacher, gave him Agatha Christie books for a summer reading. The most effective way to brush up his English skills, she thought, and wasn’t wrong.

‘Murder on the Links,’ one of the novels that Adrian read that summer, opened with an anecdote.

“A young writer, determined to make the commencement of his story forcible and original enough to catch and rivet the attention of the most blasé of editors, penned the following sentence: “‘Hell!’ said the Duchess.”

Sitting across the glossy hardwood table in Johnathan Parsons’ office, an entertained smile painted Adrian’s features, as he’d be reminded of that exact line upon witnessing the man slam his fist in an angry fashion.

“Hell!” said the boss, “They made a grave mistake. Attempting to dip their dirty toes in Westminster, of all places? Well, I’m going to cut them off one by one.”

The man’s wrath had been justified. The borough of Westminster was a Rutherford stronghold. The French attempting to buy a property with the intention to build a club and push their drug trade was... bold to say the least. Johnathan had eyes and ears in every nook and cranny of this part of the city (and pretty much the rest of it, too) and he’d been informed of the news long before the French would have enough time to seal the deal.

Johnathan’s solution was simple: chop up the poor fucker who agreed to sell his property and deliver his body parts to the doorstep of Marine Charif, the commandant of Camden, the one behind the scheme.

“I want the bitch to remember to stay in her fucking lane,” Johnathan growled.

“If I may propose an alternative,” Adrian spoke softly and leaned in towards the table.

Melissa gave him a curious look. It was enough for Adrian to continue.

“Let them –”

“What on Earth are you talking about, Castillo?” Johnathan cut him off, “you’re not feeling nostalgic, are you?”

“Johnathan,” Melissa intervened, “let him finish.”

Brushing off the annoying inclinations of Johnathan’s question, Adrian proceeded.

“Let them buy the property, invest their money, build the club, bring in the shipment, you know, the whole deal and then, right before the opening, burn it to the ashes. And we don’t kill the owner, we kill the commandant. Stronger message.”

“Damn, Castillo,” Johnathan sunk back into his leather chair and took a sip of his whiskey, “Not bad, in theory, but the French will be guarding the place like rabid dogs as soon as the sale goes through. You won’t be able to get in without opening a massive fire and we do not want to turn our turf into a battle zone. Especially Westminster.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Adrian’s smile hinted at something Machiavellian, “I’m sure we have people at the City Hall who’d be more than eager to give us the blueprints of the club, once submitted, and call an inspection. The French won’t bother moving drugs, just hide it somewhere inside the club. They’ll just have to clear out the building for a few hours. Enough time to plant the explosives.”

Johnathan and Melissa exchanged glances. After a few minutes of consideration, the boss spoke.

“Adrian’s plan does sound more sustainable in the long run, unless we’re killing every business owner who is considering to sell to the French,” Melissa raised an eyebrow, “I’d rather we drum up the French death toll, than the local.”

“This is a huge risk, however. If your stint doesn’t work, we’re going to have to open fire on our territory, which is not part of my plan. Are you sure you can pull this off?” Johnathan inquired.

“I am, yes,” Adrian nodded firmly.

“Remember, you will be the one to pay the price, if it doesn’t.”

Had he not been confident in his abilities, Adrian would’ve backed out right then and there. After all, what kind of fool with no sense of self-preservation would risk being at the receiving end of Johnathan Parsons’ fury?

II.

Adrian Castillo stood on top of the roof with a majestic content. The events had transpired the way he had planned, and they all led to this particular night. In a few short minutes, Marine Charif, the infamous commandant would join her friends and soldiers in a for French only, pre-celebration get-together, before the actual opening night.

How to shoot your target 500 yards away?

With math and physics. Neither an exceptionally skilled sniper, nor an excellent piece of machinery was enough to pull it off with success, and Adrian was one and held one. Luckily, he had enough basic STEM knowledge, too, the courtesy of his training as a GIGN sniper.

As soon as the bullet leaves the barrel, it’s influenced by two basic forces: gravity and drag. The fraction of a millisecond prior to the bullet exiting, it’s been under one single, fairly significant force: the pressure of the expanding gasses of the powder charge behind the bullet. As soon as that gas can escape the barrel, acceleration stops, and deceleration due to drag takes over, as does gravity once the bullet is no longer supported on all sides by the rifle barrel.

Even if he took gravity and drag into consideration, he had to account for velocity, trigonometry, wind direction, and optics. The rifle, set up hours beforehand, was sitting at the edge of the roof, with Adrian behind it.

“…Roger that. We’re in the position,” spoke Divya through comms, “waiting for your signal.”

The group of people led by Divya was partly made up with the newest recruits of Rutherford organisation, hand-picked solely for this mission. They were to mix with the club staff and lock down all the exits once Adrian had executed his kill. The other part though, the more experienced ones, were on a stand-by, to gun down any escapees with silenced pistols and dump their bodies on the French territory.

They’d planted the bombs two days prior, when the city hall demanded an inspection upon Rutherford orders and their loyalists, dressed up as the crew, hid explosives in ten different spots inside the club.

“Stand by,” responded Adrian to Divya. Introducing them to the basic military lingo was one of the first things Adrian had done during the training. Discipline and precision were key to pulling off the mission and he had no intention to leave any room for error.

Three minutes later, there was a sound of a car pulling up at the parking lot and clicking of boots on the concrete.

When the woman neared Adrian’s shooting range and he saw her face, there was a millisecond of hesitation.

He had studied her photographs whilst planning the attack, but now, seeing her in flash, it all came back to him - the reason why her name had sounded so damn familiar.

Marine Charif was introduced to the French Organisation ten years ago, by Laure. He could remember it all so vividly now: Laure walking into the room, with young Marine in tow, announcing to him, Julien and Évelyne that her cousin from Marseille had joined the St. Clair ranks.

But the millisecond was not enough to intervene with the kill.

Almost as soon as his .223 Remington, 69–80-grain bullets left the rifle and tore through Marine’s temple and into her skull, Adrian gave a command.

“Engage.”

The team had worked like a well-geared machine.

It all happened simultaneously.

Marine’s blood spattering all over the parking lot.

One of Divya’s man dragging her body out.

Rutherford loyalists locking down every possible exit from the building.

Divya pushing her thumb into the detonator.

The club lighting up the London skyline like the parade of fireworks.

The sound was deafening. The flames exploded in a mini-supernova, turning everyone and everything inside the club – the people, the expensive equipment, the furniture, the insane amounts of cocaine, into a gruesome pile of pieces of human flesh, wood, and metal, scattered like a jigsaw puzzle. And above all that, the grey powder of ash started to descend and add a monochromatic layer, like fallen snow on a forgotten city.

III.

The firefighter John Coyle shook his head in disbelief.

“This is clearly not a gas leak.”

“Don’t be a fucking hero, mate, and take the money. God knows you could use it,” his co-worker of seven years patted him on the back, “and so could I. Tara is starting school this year.”

“There are more than thirty people burnt to the crisp, man, thirty.”

“Listen, it’s already been written off as a gas leak, give it a rest. Besides,” he leaned in closer to whisper, “I heard they were some drug dealing French criminals, I say, London is better off.”

“God’s sakes, they were people.”

With those simple words, John Coyle had turned himself into a loose end. Unfortunately for him, Rutherfords didn’t leave those alive. He was no exception, as he’d soon find out, standing behind a gun pointed at him by one of Adrian’s people, and drawing his last breath before the trigger was pulled.

IV.

The reason why Adrian was holding a glass of scotch in his hand was to celebrate a successful job, not the fact that he had just sent more than three dozen people to meet their maker.

Johnathan and Melissa, though, they were glad no St. Clair loyalist would venture to make a move on Westminster for a long time.

“Marine was a commandant. Her assassination will trigger a chain of events,” Adrian pointed out the obvious.

“Exactly the point. And this? This was just an opening act to the big event,” Johnathan smirked and poured another glass. “Wait until you hear who your next target is. Let’s say the hotel launch will be even more memorable for the French than we’d initially planned.”

Adrian had already been wrapping up his preparations for the upcoming attack on Amir Dawar’s new hotel opening night, and the news of an unknown variable thrown into the equation drew all of his attention.

“A special guest from across the pond,” Melissa sat in a chair and crossed her leg.

IV.

The next day Marine Charif’s body would be found nailed to a metal plaque that read “The City of Westminster,” in a trash bin outside her Camden house.

And trash was exactly where dead rats belonged.

#this is huge but no read more because it will be impossible to read #Also the title is the hint ;) for fellow history nerds #Selfpara

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