#dollars to doughnuts he’s trash!

[luvdsc]

mark lee sucks at technology.

tap the heart if you have a big, fat, embarrassing crush on your best friend!

pairing :: lee mark x reader genre :: fluff / best friend + social influencer au word count :: 5,883 words warnings :: none playlist :: dumb stuff (lany) ⋆ feeling (coin) ⋆ so far so good (gabrielle aplin) ⋆ electric love (børns) ⋆ love by mistake (bad suns) author’s note :: i was debating if i should post it on his bday instead, but i decided to drop it earlier, so uh, happy (approx. one week early) bday to mister absolutely fully capable (except when it comes to tech stuff) !!!! thank you for blessing us with your god tier raps ♡ ↳ part of the not clickbait series.

In your required upper division business course aptly titled “Essential Marketing Strategies,” you had learned about a concept called personal brands. A personal brand is explained as the first impression a person wishes to perceive based on their own experiences, qualifications, and achievements. Your professor had told you and your classmates to pick three words to define your own brand. For instance, you chose to label yourself as charismatic, fun, and creative.

Your best friend’s brand would be awkward, endearing, and technologically challenged. 

Okay, so that is definitely more than three words, but who’s counting? You might as well tack on “Y/N’s big fat crush” at this rate because everyone and their mother knows that you carry a torch—or more accurately, a blazing wildfire that can easily be spotted from Pluto—for your best friend.

Well, to be more precise, you should probably say everyone, except Mark, knows. And that’s not for lack of trying either. You completely dropped the art of delicate subtlety months ago already. Maybe you should add “hopelessly oblivious” instead.

The rolling end credits to the sixth Harry Potter film are playing on the screen in front of you, signaling the nearing end of your magical movie marathon. You’re seated on the worn down couch in Mark and Donghyuck’s shared apartment, watching the former make his drink with the fancy, gently used Keurig newly settled on the scratched countertop. Johnny dropped it off a few days ago because he had splurged on a better coffee machine (“It even makes Instagram worthy whipped frappuccinos!”) and didn’t want his old, but still perfectly functioning caffeine provider going to waste.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” Mark slaps the side of the machine, and it starts to emit a low whirring noise. “Oh, that’s good, right? That sound is good, you think?”

His question is immediately answered by the sad squirt of hot water speckled with coffee grinds falling into his mug for a few seconds before the machine shuts off.

“What the hell?” he mutters angrily, carding his hand through his hair in frustration, and you finally decide to take pity on your best friend. Getting up from the comfy spot you know you sadly won’t be able to recreate perfectly again later, you stride over to where your best friend stands and flip open the top of the Keurig.

“Hyuck didn’t take out his used coffee pod,” you say, pulling out the incriminating evidence of your best friend’s roommate and disposing it in the trash can next to the refrigerator. “Where’s the espresso one you’re gonna use? Why didn’t you put that in?”

His jaw slackens, and he sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze and mumbling, “I thought I’d just open it later and pour it into my hot water.”

“Mark,” you start, placing your hands on his shoulders firmly and staring into his eyes with a serious look on your face. “Please know that I’m saying this in the most loving way possible, but you are an absolute idiot.”

You release your grip on his shoulders and grab the espresso pod dangling from his fingertips before slotting it into the Keurig. You remove the mug he placed underneath the spout and wash out the accidental coffee water before placing it back in its original position and pressing the start button on the machine. With a sigh, you lean against the side of the counter, glancing at your friend who looks like a child being scolded for stealing from the cookie jar.

“If you pour the pod into your mug, are you just going to chug all the loose coffee grinds, too?”

“... I didn’t think that far ahead.” His lips start to unintentionally form a tiny pout, and your eyes (and your heart, too) soften.

You’re very relieved that Donghyuck is off filming with your friend because he definitely would be making fun of your heart eyes that frequently make an appearance around a certain Mark Lee. Which you always deny. Because you certainly do not have a gigantic crush on your technologically inept best friend.

You glance over at him again and have to physically fight yourself to resist the urge to kiss his cute pout away. Okay, so maybe you harbor a very respectable, medium sized crush. But it's no big deal. It’s completely under control. Unless you’re counting the fact that your best friend is still unaware, and you’re running out of ideas to try and see if he likes you back before you actually shoot your shot. Then it’s very much not under control because you’re losing sleep over it and you don’t know what to do to be any more obvious without stating the, well, obvious.

“Well, now you know. If you forget, you can FaceTime me and I’ll give you instructions on how it works.” You pat his shoulder reassuringly before pausing. “Wait, you do know how to FaceTime, right?”

“Yes!” he exclaims, sulking even more before confessing in a quieter, defeated tone, “Hyuck showed me last month.”

Mark grabs his finished drink and follows behind you, settling back onto the couch next to you. The streaming service already has Deathly Hallows Part 1 in the queue and ready to go, and your best friend is ready to click play until he notices your attention being focused on the smaller screen in your hands. He wonders if you’re about to post another one of your popular cooking videos on that app that shares a name with the most iconic song of the 2000s (hint: the name of the song’s singer is made up of four letters and a dollar sign).

“Are you uploading one of your videos?” he implores before taking a sip of his drink with a satisfied smile. Somehow, it always tastes better when you make it, and he can’t figure out why for the life of him. When he went to Johnny’s place, his older friend uses the exact same pod and water ratio for his espresso, and yet, it’s never as good as yours.

“Nah, I’m ordering my grocery delivery before I forget. Do you want anything?” You select the option to load your usual grocery items into your cart before debating on whether or not you should splurge on buying several packages of those seasonal Pillsbury sugar cookies that only come in stock during certain holidays. It seems like such an insult to the entire premise of your Tiktok account based on baking and cooking, but you’re an absolute sucker for those soft pastries.

“Yeah, can you get me a Shin Ramyun ten pack? Hyuck ate the last one two days ago and didn’t tell me.”

“You sure you don’t want ten boxes again?” You decide to get those Pillsbury sugary delights, happily adding three boxes to your cart. Everybody has a weakness, and yours just so happens to be a premade one way ticket to diabetes. You’re here for a good, delicious time, not a long time.

“No! That was an accident!” He objects, flailing his hands around, before falling back against the couch cushions in defeat. “But Hyuck does all the online grocery shopping now.”

“Thank god. You guys finally have quality toilet paper again.”

The past month of bathroom occurrences was plagued with scratchy tissue that felt more like goddamn sandpaper from the horrible depths of hell. To be honest, you probably would have rather used actual sandpaper, given the choice. You even made sure not to drink too much water any time you came over, but today, you decided to splurge on a venti passion fruit iced tea with sweetener from that very popular franchise sporting a mermaid logo and fiscally cosmic name. To your pleasant surprise, your trip to the toilet this time was wonderfully padded with Charmin Ultra Soft, not that absolutely awful off brand one with the gross texture of a dried pinecone from inferno.

“Hey, that toilet paper was a good steal! It was a three for one deal,” Mark protests, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“Wow, I wonder why it was priced so low.” You deadpan, and Mark blanches, recalling all those restroom incidents that were rather rough. Literally.

“Anyway, do you think my viewers wanna see me make chocolate crinkle cookies or mochi doughnuts?” You bring up the two recipes you managed to perfect and add your own spin to on your phone, eyes scanning the ingredient lists.

“Both. And tell me when you’re making them, so I can come over and eat them.” He gives you a wide grin, and you let out a snort at that. His smile only grows as he says happily, “I love your job.”

“You only love it because you can freeload off of me,” you jest, but nevertheless begin to start to add all the ingredients for both recipes to your shopping cart. You always film cooking videos on Tuesdays, edit on Wednesdays, keep Thursdays free for last minute touch ups and emergencies, and post one every week on Fridays with other various random videos uploaded whenever in between. With that in mind, you schedule your upcoming grocery delivery for Monday.

“Hey, you need me. I’m the best taste tester.” He puffs up his chest proudly before hastily tacking on a more genuine reason. “And because I’d starve without you. I can’t live off of instant ramen and frozen chicken nuggets forever. Gordon Ramsay already confirmed my shitty cooking skills. I need you to survive.”

“Oh my god, when I uploaded those pics of your scrambled eggs on Twitter, I lost like a hundred followers in less than a minute.” You confirm the delivery and place your phone on the coffee table, picking up the opened bag of Cheeto puffs before settling back in your seat. “My cooking credibility was completely shot. I had to explain to my fans that I didn’t make those.”

“Yeah, but now everyone calls me Eggy Boi online!” he whines, and you laugh. You have to admit, it’s quite a funny play on the whole “edgy boi” terminology. You wonder if Mark will find it amusing if he discovers his roommate is the culprit behind his new online persona (He probably won’t, and you reckon Donghyuck enjoys living in a safe space where he doesn’t have to sleep with one eye open, so you stay quiet about it. You’ll use it as leverage some other time).

“Okay, Eggy Boi, come by on Tuesday because I’ll be baking in the afternoon,” you say casually, grabbing the remote control from your best friend and pressing play. 

You very narrowly avoid a green gummy bear to the face. It lands somewhere behind the couch, lost forever to the dust bunnies and other snacks that missed its target. You know for a fact that it’ll stay there until the boys decide to move to a new apartment. Mark grumbles at the miss, biting off the head of a red cherry flavored gummy bear perhaps a little harder than necessary.

“I hate you. But I’m still coming over next week because I want a doughnut.”

“No cookie?”

“... and a cookie. Maybe two.”

Wednesday comes faster than you expected, and you’re currently holed up in your apartment’s second bedroom—which you had transformed into a snazzy office space—completing the edits to your second video on mochi doughnuts. You already finished polishing the one about the cookies earlier, thank goodness. If you had to stare at your computer screen for another three hours, you would rather eat those pastries Mark tried to make two months ago, but had mistaken salt for sugar. Adding a cup of salt to any baked good is an extremely effective way to make anyone who tasted your best friend’s brownies experience a trip to the beach. Because they essentially just swallowed a mouthful of sand and ocean water. Because it’s salty as heck. Just like Mark was when you told him.

Speaking of your best friend, he’s currently puttering around in your kitchen doing god knows what. He knows better than to try another recipe and possibly blow up your number one moneymaker—your prized oven—in the process. Your heart nearly drops when your ears pick up the faint chopping sounds of a knife against your wooden cutting board. Is he going to try to temper chocolate again? He nearly burned through your entire stock of dark, milk, and white chocolate last time.

After much contemplation and deciding that you deserve a good procrastination break and a fully intact kitchen, you’re about to go out and see what he’s up to when Mark timidly appears in your doorway, clutching onto a white bowl of watermelon cubes with a fork tucked neatly in it. He shuffles in, dropping the snack on your desk before turning to walk out without a word, not wanting to disturb your work mode. 

Your heart warms up at the sight, and you speak up, a small smile slipping into your face. “What’s this for?”

“Knowing you, you probably haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.” He pauses in the doorway and adds on sheepishly, “And I can't cook anything, so this is what you get.”

Your heart swells tenfold, and your smile widens even more as you spear a piece of fruit with the fork and quickly pop it into your mouth. “Thanks, Marky.”

His cheeks flush with a pretty shade of carmine, and he fails to suppress the little giddy smile that appears on his face at your nickname for him. He walks out of your office, reddened cheeks still rising up higher than ever. “Y-Yeah, of course. No problem.”

By the time you finish adding the final few touches to your edited video, the bowl of watermelon has been picked clean. You save your video and transfer both of your completed projects to your phone, making a mental note to schedule their uploads and add them to your account’s posting queue later. Shoving your phone in the pocket of your sweats after ensuring the successful transfer of your videos, you pick up the empty dish and walk out towards the kitchen, the silver fork clinking against the side of the bowl with every step.

As you wash the dish and utensil, Mark wanders over from his spot on the couch, leaning forward and casually placing his chin on your shoulder. Almost instantaneously, you feel the heat rising to your cheeks as you briefly fantasize about your best friend wrapping his arms around your waist and how domestic and sweet the two of you would look, like one of those cheesy couples the two of you always made fun of.

“What’s up?” you ask, making a conscious effort to hold your voice steady and not waver over the fact that Mark is basically draped over you. After you place the dish on the drying rack, you turn around to face your best friend, sorely miscalculating the distance as mere inches separate your face from his now.

“I—” Puberty decides to make an ugly appearance in the form of an ill timed voice crack, and he internally curses as he takes a step back, willing the incoming blush to go away. Letting out a small cough, he tries again, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

“I, um, Jisung sent me some kind of dance video. He said it’s a challenge? I kinda don’t know what to do with it? Like do I make a new dance, record myself, and send it back? Actually, isn't it easier to just do a dance battle face to face?”

“Can I see the video?” You already have a good idea on what the video will be, but you want to confirm it. Mark fumbles with his phone, pulling up the video in his text messages. He angles the phone towards you for you to see, and you grab his hand, bringing the device a little closer to you for a better look and clicking play.

“Oh, it’s a Tiktok challenge! He’s doing the Say So dance!” you exclaim, recognizing the song almost immediately as your eyes follow the fluid dance moves, completely enthralled. “So a challenge isn’t going up against someone, like a battle. It’s just some kind of trend or concept that you try to copy yourself. You’re supposed to learn the same dance and record yourself for this one. I can show you some other challenges and help you practice and record this one tomorrow if you wanna drop by after work!”

“O-Oh, okay, sounds good.” Mark stumbles over his words, attempting to focus on what you’re saying and the dance Jisung is doing, but all he can think about is the way your body is pressed against his side, hand comfortably wrapped around his. He freezes up as the tips of his ears grow redder and redder with every passing second, and his face sports a similar color. He silently prays for the telltale crimson to go away by the time the dance is over.

When the video ends, you once again realize the close proximity between you and your best friend. Your face burns at this revelation, and you awkwardly take a step back. Clearing your throat, you hastily release Mark’s hand (He inaudibly lets out the breath he’s been holding in this entire time, yet he also already misses the way your hand felt grasping his).

“Uh, anyway, I’m gonna make a latte. Do you want a drink, too?” You walk towards the other side of your kitchen with Mark trailing behind you. You take out a floral, peachy colored mug from your cupboards before pausing and looking at your best friend. “Wait, do you remember how to use a Keurig?”

“Yes!” He says, slightly exasperated as he picks out his own cup from your cabinet. He always uses the same one—a cerulean blue mug with squiggles all over it—and all of your friends and guests know not to use it because it’s unofficially officially Mark’s mug (And perhaps, you did indeed buy it from that overpriced kitschy tableware shop down the street two years ago with your best friend in mind).

“Really?” You select the latte option and press start after you had already positioned the mug beneath the spout and inserted a green tea matcha pod. He finally relents, shoulders sagging and a defeated expression on his face.

“... No.”

You chuckle, taking the mug from him and carefully putting it on the counter. You grab the espresso pod you know he likes from the drawer below and place it next to the cup. “It’s okay, I’ll teach you again.”

Mark tries. He really does. He tries very hard to concentrate on memorizing the simple process, but he keeps getting distracted. His eyes are focused on the correct button to push before they start to trail up to your fingertips. And then, they go from your hand to your arm, then up to the elegant curve of your neck, and finally, to the way your lashes frame your pretty eyes and how the tip of your tongue sticks out slightly as you concentrate until all he can focus on is you, you, you.

Suddenly, in what feels like a blink of an eye, you’re done and handing him his finished drink, complete with a perfectly whipped milk foam on top. You ask him if he knows how to make it now, and all he can do is lie and nod with a barely convincing smile.

After all, how can Mark tell his best friend that the reason he never remembers is because you’re the biggest distraction?

Mark should be here in five minutes, according to his most recent text message. And in the text message below that, your friend had sent you a challenge. More specifically, it’s the one she completed with Donghyuck a few weeks ago. When you said you wanted bold suggestions on how to figure out if your best friend feels the same way about you as you do about him, you didn’t want one this bold. 

Yet, the video link to your friend’s “today I kissed my best friend” challenge along with a winky face from her is staring mockingly at you. While you aren’t one to back down from a challenge, the mere thought of kissing your best friend causes vast colonies of butterflies to erupt in your stomach and your ears to feel as if they have caught on fire. You’re already tongue tied with your head in the clouds, and he isn’t even here yet. How utterly fantastic.

However, your mother definitely did not raise a quitter, so you spring into action when you hear the faint jingling of a key being inserted into your apartment’s door (You had given Mark a copy of your key almost immediately after you had moved in). You move the pretty indoor fern given to you by Jaemin as a housewarming gift last year closer to the edge of your towering bookcase, leaning your phone against it. You quickly position the device to capture a good view of the couch area in your living room and press the record button, arranging a few of the leaves to hide as much of your phone as you possibly can without obstructing the lens.

You run full speed to your bedroom, letting out a sigh of relief when you’re safely inside and hear Mark finally unlocking the door successfully and shuffling in. When he calls out to you, you try to even out your breathing, walking out of your room with your tripod and laptop in hand.

“Hey,” you greet him in the most casual tone you can muster. You place the tripod down and sit before opening your laptop and setting it on the coffee table. “I thought we could watch a few challenges for fun before trying the Say So one. Have you watched Jisung’s videos before?”

“Um, well, no, not really,” he confesses sheepishly, taking a seat next to you on the couch, leg pressing against yours. He squints at the YouTube video you pulled up earlier before he had arrived, reading the title before clicking the space button to start it. “Savage Tiktok dance compilation part two?”

“Wait, hold up.” You pause the video and then turn to face him with an incredulous expression on your face. “You’ve never watched any of Jisung’s dance Tiktoks?”

“No… I don’t even have an account.” His cheeks are dusted with the lightest shade of pink as he quietly admits, “I watch all of yours though.”

Your eyes widen at his confession, face heating up as you stammer out, “O-Oh, well, I can help you make an account later to upload your video.”

“Sounds good.” There’s a few seconds of silence as you mull over his previous words before he speaks up again awkwardly, “Should I, uh, play the video?”

“Oh! Yes, right! Of course, hit play,” you laugh nervously, twisting and playing with the hair tie around your wrist. He starts the video again, and the two of you watch the compilation, slowly relaxing once more as you tap your fingers to the rhythm of the song and he bobs his head to the beat.

“Do I have to change outfits like that?” he questions a few minutes later, eyes growing round as he sees the girl on the screen switch between four different outfits throughout the dance. His closet basically consists of the same five black shirts that he stole from Jaehyun. Even if he did do an outfit swap, there would literally be no difference at all.

“You don’t have to,” you assure him, clicking the enter key to play the next video that’s recommended: another Tiktok dance challenge compilation. “All you have to do is copy the dance.”

Mark nods, taking a glance at the laptop screen before his hand shoots out and he pauses the video, leaning forward to take a closer look at the little recommended video title banner at the top. “Wait! What’s that one?”

He clicks on it, the new video now loading up. The two of you wait patiently for it to begin, waiting for the spinning disc to stop. But it doesn’t. In fact, the whole chrome page goes blank and then, the little pixelated Google Chrome dinosaur pops up on your monitor, announcing that you have no internet connection. Furrowing your eyebrows, you try to reload the page before trying to re-establish your laptop connection to your wifi. Unfortunately, you cannot find your appropriately named “drop it like it’s hotspot” wifi anywhere to connect to.

And that’s when it hits you. Your landlord had sent out a notice to the entire apartment complex last week about the electricity being powered down today from 4 to 6 p.m. for a maintenance check, and a quick glance at the digital clock on your laptop shows that it’s a little past four.

You groan, closing your laptop and flopping back against the couch cushions dramatically. Mark cocks his head, slightly confused, before he pokes you in the arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I completely forgot about the scheduled electricity shutdown for the entire building. We won’t have any wifi for the next two hours.” You pout, your bottom lip jutting out in the slightest, and Mark doesn’t think it’s fair that you get to be this cute and have this much of an effect on his racing heart rate.

“That’s okay, we can… play some board games?” he suggests offhandedly, pushing away the embarrassing thought and nudging your leg with his, and you smile before a sudden idea occurs to you. 

“Or we can still do some Tiktok challenges! What was the challenge you clicked on?” You quickly sit upright, turning to face your best friend, eyes sparkling in excitement. “I memorized a few of the dance ones already! Was it Renegade? I can teach you that one. Jisung showed me how to do it.”

“Um,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. His eyes dart everywhere, except you, as he lets out a feigned cough. “It wasn’t a dance one. It was about, uh, going up to your boyfriend… and um, hugging him... when he’s playing video games.”

“Oh.” You answer lamely, not knowing what to say. You unsuccessfully try to push away the image of you attempting that challenge with your best friend. “Those are really cute.”

“Really?” He says doubtfully, wrinkling his eyebrows and fiddling with the frayed sleeve of his sweater. “Wouldn’t the dude get mad?”

You don’t know what suddenly possessed you to do this (you’ll have to ask Renjun and his paranormal loving ass later), but you thank whatever demon did for that split second because you find yourself gently grabbing Mark’s arm and slipping your head underneath it. You swing one leg over his lap and settle down until you’re securely sitting in his lap, bent legs on either side of his hips, hands curled around the soft fabric of his sweater on both sides and resting on top of your thighs. His arms instinctively go around your waist, wrapping around you securely.

You tilt your head to the side slightly, studying the flustered boy in front of you with a teasing, albeit a little anxious, smile on your lips. “Are you feeling mad?”

Splotches of red litter his cheeks and decorate the tips of his ears, but your best friend furiously shakes his head at your question, bashfully ducking his head afterwards and muttering a soft “No.”

You swallow hard, heart pounding erratically in your chest as you timidly ask, “Would you be mad if I do this?”

Mark looks up at that, confusion written all over his face. His arms start to loosen around your figure, hands now resting on your waist. “If you do what?”

You take a deep breath. “This.”

You lean in and gently press your lips against his. Mark freezes in shock, and you quickly retreat soon after, gnawing at the inside of your cheek as you wait anxiously for his reaction. Your heart feels like it’s about to fall out of your chest and be buried six feet under.

A tiny noise of surprise belatedly escapes from him and crimson spreads across his cheeks like wildfire. His doe eyes are wide and sparkling, staring at you in bewilderment. Your best friend lets out a small laugh of disbelief before a full blown smile breaks out across his face. He gazes at you adoringly, breathing out softly, “I’m not mad at that.”

You perk up at that, draping your arms around his neck as you lean forward, beaming. “Really? You’re not?”

“Definitely not.”

This time, Mark meets you halfway, his lips slotting against yours perfectly and making you feel tingles up and down your spine. Your eyes are closed, and you are so hyper aware of the way his hands grip your hips, how he tugs you closer, and how his lips chase after yours. The number of butterflies from earlier multiply in your stomach, and you have ascended past cloud nine by now.

When the two of you break apart, your eyes flutter open, and you nudge your nose against his affectionately. The brightest grin blooms on his face once again, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his little giggles and hiding the awfully vibrant cerise that rapidly blossoms on his face.

“Is this a good time to tell you congrats for completing your first challenge?” you say, resting your cheek against the crown of his head. You pull away when he lifts his head up, surprised.

“I wasn’t playing video games though,” he says slowly, processing your words and thinking back to the challenge that started this all.

“It was a different challenge. It’s the one that Hyuck did a few weeks ago,” you confess, and realization dawns on him, his face lighting up for a split second before a look of horror takes over.

“Oh, no. Is that why you had your phone recording on the bookshelf?” Mark asks, dread beginning to cloud his mind.

“Yes…” you say slowly, a little perplexed. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Oh my god, I ruined your video,” he moans, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder. “I saw your phone when I walked in and thought you were filming earlier and forgot to turn it off, so I turned it off for you.”

When the words finally register in your mind, you can’t stop the laughter from bubbling out of your throat, and he raises his head up to look at you with wide doe eyes at the pretty sound. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

You can’t stop laughing at the situation, and he looks at you worriedly, gnawing on his bottom lip slightly. You force yourself to calm down, a soft chuckle leaving your lips before you beam at him, leaning in and placing the softest kiss on the tip of his nose. “It’s okay, Mark. I’m not mad. That video wasn’t important anyway.”

“But still,” he whines before letting out a groan and slapping his hand against his forehead when the realization sinks in even further. “I’m such an idiot.”

“But you’re my idiot now, right?” you say teasingly, albeit a little shyly as well, as you reach over to tug his hand away from his face and lace your fingers with his.

“I mean, I kinda thought I was always your idiot,” Mark laughs softly and a little embarrassedly, eyes averted and cheeks turning pinker than ever. The largest grin spreads across your face at that, and you turn away slightly to hide it. You didn’t think your best friend can possibly be any more endearing, but he manages to prove you wrong every time.

“Well, then now you can add ‘Y/N’s boyfriend’ to your resume,” you say, and he fails to suppress the pleased smile appearing on his face at your remark, his rosy cheeks rising even taller than skyscrapers.

“So, uh, what sort of job description does that have?” He gazes at your intertwined hands in wonder, still completely giddy at the reality of you being his best friend and something more.

“Sharing hoodies, giving me attention, kissing, holding my hand, going on dates, you know, the basics,” you answer, squeezing his hand tenderly, and his doe eyes instantly light up. Mark feels a little bolder than before, and it shows when he grins widely and says:

“Can we do number three again?”

“Yes, we can, Eggy Boi.”

He wrinkles his nose at the name, disgruntled and unimpressed, as he crosses his arms over his chest, sulking. You let out a laugh before leaning in and crashing your lips against his. He immediately relents at that, enthusiastically responding and hugging you closer to him, and you can’t help but smile into the kiss as you feel his own smile appear as well.

At that moment, you decide that you want to change Mark’s personal brand. Because his should be “absolutely wonderful, positively amazing, a cute kisser, your boyfriend, and your bestest friend.” And yes, that is most definitely more than the allotted three words, but again, who’s really counting?

Certainly not you when you’re too preoccupied with kissing your best friend. Correction: best friend and new boyfriend.

One new notification: donutkillmyvibe uploaded a new video!

moominjun commented:

so you’re saying the reason why we didn’t get the highly anticipated best friend challenge video is because @ marklyrawr turned the camera off?

donutkillmyvibe replied: yes 😔 I’m sorry to disappoint everyone 🤧

nanaislove replied: omg no bby it’s ok 🥺🥺💞💓💓💝💗 you didn’t have to make an apology video for that 🥺💗💓💘💖

goofys.chuckle replied: yeah it’s mark’s fault. he’s the disappointment here 🥴

morklyrawr replied: hahahahaha stfu hyuck

tytrack commented:

mark is going through puberty. I apologize

dobunny replied: @.@

goofys.chuckle commented:

are we getting whip(ped)lash pt 2 by eggy boi?

morklyrawr replied: YOU’RE THE ONE WHO STARTED THAT NAME?????

goofys.chuckle replied: uh gotta blast 🚀

showmethemonet replied: @ goofys.chuckle does this mean you’re staying over again?

goofys.chuckle replied: @ showmethemonet yes if you want your super cute, mega talented, very handsome boyfriend to still be alive 🥺

showmethemonet replied: @ goofys.chuckle oh my god I didn’t know I was dating bts jin???

moominjun replied: LMFAOOOOO

goofys.chuckle replied: heart 💔 been broke 📉 so many times ⏰ i don’t know 🤔 what to believe 💯 mama 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 said 🗣 it’s my fault 😢 it’s my fault 🤦🏻‍♂️i wear my heart ❤️ on my sleeve 💪 i think it’s best 👍🏻 I put my heart ❤️ on ice 🧊

jenojam commented:

why am I not surprised……

itsmebetch replied: just mark thingz 🍉

suhprisemf commented:

mark your head looks flat af

jungjaeprince replied: 😂😂😂

10vely replied: @ jungjaeprince be quiet don’t cry

letswonwon commented:

whoop whoop

junguwu commented:

OMG CONGRATS ON YOUR RELATIONSHIP SWEETIE 😍😍

takoyaki_prince commented:

MARK!!!!! you look handsome !! 😘

jisungpwark commented:

rip to @ donutkillmyvibe ’s future videos that mark will ruin. press f in the chat to pay respects 🙏🏻

bigheadking replied: F ✊🏻😔

peachyangel replied: f 🥺🥺

yoitslucas replied: F 🤪🤪🤪 but glad you’re happy, man ❤️

donutkillmyvibe replied: F 💔

morklyrawr replied: @ donutkillmyvibe wtf babe????

officialgordonramsay commented:

didn’t i tell you to get back on tinder ?

apado_god commented:

nice 😎👍🏻

[peachnewt]

Midnight Snack - Playing House

Fluff to the max. Intimate times between two men insinuated but not graphically described in text.  Deep kissing is present.  Skip between the &&& if you prefer to not read it.  The Getting In Deep series and it’s short stories are my own creation.  Do not steal or alter.  

 Papers, magazine cutouts, and equations sat in piles on Will's desk.  Will, headless of the slippery magazine paper that threatened to kiss the ground, kept taking notes from his screen.  

When Reese arrived, he was surprised to see Will at work before everyone else in Main Tech.  

"Getting a head start on a case?" asked Reese.  

"No."  Will tabbed his screen and frowned.  "I'm helping Louis find a house."  

"Really?" Reese wondered how far Louis and Will had gotten in their relationship.  "Why would he want to move?"  

Reese walked around Will's desk to look at the screen.  

When house hunting, most people imagine realtors, property tax, curb appeal, square footage, and zoning issues.  The average challenges one would find on HGTV shows.  Reese expected to see Zillow listings, or Homefinder.  He hadn't expected Barbie's Malibu Dream Home from Toys-R-Us.  

Reese blinked, wondering if the morning caffeine had yet to kick in.  "A dollhouse?"  

Louis walked into Main Tech with two mugs.  "Yeah, because everything I found is, in Will's words, "dinky plastic trash"."

"They don't even have it proportioned right.  I did the calculations," said Will, scrolling through the preview images of other child- sized dollhouse.  "The bathtub is right next to the door, who does that?"  

"Those things are meant for playing with, not living in," said Louis, nursing his second cup of coffee and handing Will his tea.  They had spent the last half hour descending into a research spiral of toy sites looking at houses and miniatures.  Louis began thinking this was actually worse than real house hunting.  

"I have a civil engineering degree, I'm allowed to be offended," said Will.

"You would be offended at the construction of a gingerbread house."  

"Those are for decoration and eating.  It's not the same thing."  

"One moment.  I feel like I need a little bit of clarification."  Reese struggled to catch up with the train of thought Louis and Will had gotten on, apparently leaving him behind at the station.  "Louis, why are you in the market for a dollhouse?"  

Louis sat and spun his chair to catch the slipping pile of magazine clippings.  "Because some nights I'm sleeping in a shoebox on Rachel's desk."  

There had been nights when Louis was too exhausted to switch back from his tiny sized self and had to sleep in Rachel's office.  His "room" consisted of a shoe box with a tiny flat pillow for a mattress, a linen square for a blanket, a charging stand for his large sized phone, and a rectangle hole for a door.  

"I feel like a kitten awaiting adoption by the side of the road," Louis continued.

"I see.  I wouldn't mind sleeping in a shoebox on Rachel's desk," said Reese, a dreamy look in his eyes.  

Beni, carrying a dozen doughnuts in one hand and a RockStar energy drink in the other, paused as she entered Main Tech.  "I think I need context."  

***

Ten minutes later, Beni had been pulled into the communal craze of looking up tiny dollhouses.  They pulled up everything from antique houses made in the 1950s, to Lego replicas of Hogwarts.  By a stroke of a keyword during Beni's search, she hit the mother load with DIY Dollhouse kits sold on specialty hobby sites.  They ranged from Modern loft apartments, to Chinese homesteads complete with a throne room.  They even had miniature cafe's with tiny pastries.  Each dollhouse listing came with a video on how to construct it.  Of course, with a specialty hobby, it came with a specialty price.  

"It's a friggin' bed," said Louis, gesturing to the miniature furniture on the screen. "How hard is it to make a proper bed for at 1/24th scale that isn't going to cost a fortune?  That's what... eight popsicle sticks?"  

"If you want quality at that size then you are going to pay what its' worth," said Reese. "What is more expensive, a Rolex, or a bedside clock?"  

Will pulled up a video with a house similar to a few of the magazine cutouts.  "Most of these do-it-yourself kits use either hot glue or E6000.  Not keen on having a building kept together with hot glue."  

Louis grunted, mesmerized by large hands setting up a tiny living room.  "Are we spiraling again?"

"Yes, but it's a very satisfying spiral."  

Louis, Will, Reese, and Beni gathered around one screen, tallying the pros and cons of certain designs, and pulling up more DIY dollhouse videos.  

When Cetz arrived at Main Tech, he saw four of his agents picking out dollhouses.  

Cetz felt a headache coming on.  "Know what.  I don't need context.  Meeting in ten."  

**

Eventually Louis picked a DIY kit for a cabin that put him back sixty dollars.  It arrived a week later and Louis set up shop in a spare workroom at the Watch.  He proceeded to burn his hand with a hot glue gun while trying to assemble the walls.  Will approached with ice, tweezers, and a small tube of craft glue.  They finished the small dwelling in an afternoon.  

Half of the tiny furnishings, flower pots, pictures, cute figurines of boats, never made it into the cabin.  They were pasted together for posterity to say it had been finished, and they left in a heap by the dwelling.  None of the furniture went where it was supposed to; Louis didn't trust the stairs to hold if he walked up to the second floor.  The bed ,made of thin wood, looked better than the tiny pillow in his shoebox.  If nothing else, it looked more like a bed.  It looked like a dwelling meant for a human. It even had lighting he could turn off and on with a switch at the bottom of the display platform.  

Louis stood back from the cabin and cracked his back.  His fingers had nearly been glued together while applying wallpaper, and his eyes ached having to look through a magnifying glass.  Will clicked on the light to the house.  They looked proud of their creation, showing it off to Beni, Reese, and Rachel when they came by.  

"It's a good starter home," said Rachel, handing Louis a bag of coffee grounds with a bow taped on it. "Happy housewarming."  

Louis grinned.  The cabin itself was slightly wider than his shoebox but twice as tall, and the platform it stood on was as big as a desk blotter.

"I want one," said Beni, flipping the switch on and off.  

"Make your own," said Louis.  

"I will!" said Beni, a spark of competition in her eyes.  "I'll make one so nice you'll want to sleep there instead!"  

Reese, enticed leaned over. "Care to make a wager?"

The next day, Beni and Reese also ordered DIY dollhouses.  

Louis vowed to never set foot in any of their deathtraps.  

Will vowed to make sure neither of them burned their fingers or used adhesives that could cause respiratory distress.  

While Beni and Reese awaited their kits, Louis ended up exhausted after a long day of testing, and unable to switch back to normal size.  The first night in his new, self-made home.  Rachel left him on her desk, the shoebox on one side, and his cabin on the other.  Louis stumbled wearily to the cabin.  When he laid down on the bed he immediately regretted the thin bit of padding he had mistaken for a mattress.  It had looked fluffy enough when he had glued the stuffing down.  He dragged the cheap pillow out of the shoebox and into the cabin.

Will found him the next morning splayed akimbo on the cushion, wrapped up in the thin "bed spread" like a croissant.  

"Bed not work?"

"I could feel beads of dried glue under the mattress."  Louis snuggled tighter into the pillow until Will coaxed him onto his palm and into the lab to "grow up".  

Louis had been so miserable with the construction of his tiny bed, he actually looked forward to Beni and Reese's dollhouses

The two kits arrived and Will made sure the construction was a surprise to Louis, warding him from the workshop as Beni and Reese unpacked their kits with child-like glee.  

They wondered if the two former thieves ever got something like a dollhouse in their younger years.

Instead of cranking out the houses in an afternoon, Beni and Reese took half hours off between shifts to work on them.  Both seemed to find contentment in their distraction.  After a week, they were finished.  

Reese had constructed a gothic themed Victorian home with a tiny staircase hidden behind a bookshelf full of miniature books.  Several windows were painted to look like stained glass.  And the bed was a four-poster with a canopy.  His pride had been renovating the kitchen area to have a tiny fridge that actually worked and held tiny shots of pudding he had made himself. And on one wall he had put up a tiny grandfather clock, made with a working clock face.  

"Somebody likes their gothic," said Will as he squinted to see inside the hidden staircase. "Good detail."  

"Classic taste is good taste."  

Beni had gone modern with a split level house.  White on silver furnishings with touches of neon purple and one of the accent walls for a workout room consisted of an entire mirror.  The bed was covered in multiple pillows, each a shade of gray or white.  Her pride was adding a slide from the top level to the bottom, the landing cushioned with a layer of cotton balls.  

"Very playful," said Will.  

"Got most of the style stuff from a Home & Garden magazine.  But who wouldn't want a slide in their house?"  

Louis shrunk, bypassed all the fancy additions and special furnishings, shooting like a tired arrow towards the beds.  First the canopy bed, then a gray bed with all the pillows.  

Louis groaned in defeat. "It's still not comfortable enough."  

However, he did try the slide, the hidden stairs, and the pudding in the tiny fridge.  Beni and Reese then made Louis promise to shrink them so they could experience the houses themselves.  

Will eyed the beds and the shoebox a warm glow coming to his eyes.  It had been a while since he had done a construction project.  

***

The magazine clippings came back out; Will organizing different furniture pieces and photos from Architectural Digest.  Over the next month, between date entry and retrieval missions, Will peppered Louis with random questions.  

"Dark stain or light?"  

"Oriental, log cabin, industrial, modern?"  

"How much do you cook verses eating out?"  

"Do you like gardens?"  

"How about koi ponds?"  

"Silk sheets or cotton?"  

"How do you not know the answer to that?" said Louis, setting aside another patent.  "Cotton."  

"I mean if you won the lottery and could afford anything, silk or cotton?" said Will.

"Still cotton."

It wasn't until Will pulled Louis over to look at a blueprint that he caught on to what Will had been doing.  

"Are you designing a custom dollhouse for me?"  

"Kinda.  I'm not an architect, but I thought I could make you something more than a shoebox or a DIY kit."  A light blush bloomed on Will's neck.  "I want your input on it.  You'd be sleeping there after all."  

"All I want is a better bed," said Louis.  "I respect that little pillow, it's gotten me through some rough nights, but I want a real bed."  

From the blueprint it looked similar to some of the custom DIY dollhouses the three of them had constructed.  Everything from the steps to the sofa had equations measuring out its diameters so it would match Louis' stature when he shrunk.  Multiple chambers, the front wall of the house on a hinge so the insides could be exposed or not, a set of stairs, all on a platform with an outside space with a...

"Is that a gazebo?"  

"Yep," said Will. "Do you want a pond or a pool?"  

"It's a place for me to sleep when I have to stay the night, fanboy," insisted Louis.  "You don't have to go all out with this.  I just wanted something better than a shoebox."  

"But I want to."  

Louis smirked. "Feeling a little competitive after Beni and Reese made their own houses?"  

"...little bit."

"I thought so." Louis brushed his lips to the side of Will's mouth, leaving a coffee ghost of a kiss, and grabbed Will's empty mug. They both needed refills.  "Have at it, fanboy.  Surprise me.  Just... no koi pond.  Especially no koi; those suckers can get huge."  

***

A month later Will led a blindfolded Louis to Rachel's office.

"Are we there yet?" asked Louis.  

"One moment." Will let go of Louis' hands with a squeeze.  "Stay here.  No peeking."  

Louis heard the flicking of switches and the opening of a door.  

"Okay, you can see."  

Louis peeled off the blindfold.  Rachel's office was dimmed, the majority of the light coming from another dollhouse. His jaw dropped.  It spanned half of Rachel's desk.  The house was modern, mostly white trimmed in dark blue and splashes of red.  Like most of the DIY dollhouses the insides were exposed for "play", but this one had a full roof and a panel that acted like a door to the whole front half of the house.  However, the house only took up a third of the platform.  

Behind the house stood a stately garden of green moss, flat pebble paths, and a gazebo overlooking the rise of real seedlings from a small herb patch.  In the center of the garden rose a bonsai strung up with tiny lights like a Christmas tree, and a swing.  The bonsai stood small in comparison to a regular sized shrub, but to an almost three inch human, it would look like a grand tree.  

Louis came closer, leaning in to see the tiny details of the dollhouse.  "How in the world did you do something like this?"  

"Civil engineer, remember.  A lot of my college projects were making models of infrastructure.  That and a lot of model kits."  

Louis motioned to the hinged front of the house.  "Can I...?"  

"I made it for you, yes!"  

Louis opened the front of the house to an open floor plan, tiny lighting, bits of shiny tile, and dark stained furniture.  The DIY houses had similar plans, but this one seemed polished, more real than play.

"Cetz and Reese helped assemble most of the house," said Will.  "Beni picked out the bonsai."  

"The furniture." Louis gently picked up the coffee table from the living room.  I weighed heavy in his hand, not balsa wood or cardboard.  "Those aren't popsicle sticks.  How the hell did you...?"  

"I have some crafty friends on the con circuit that were willing to do some detailed commissions. A lot of it was 3D printed, but the finer furniture was done by hand.  Not a hot-glue stick in sight."  

Louis set down the coffee table and took a closer look at the kitchen.  "Those drawers actually pull out?"  

"Yep."  

"The sink... holy shit there is actual water."  

"Yeah, actual plumbing. We'll have to do the dishes by hand, no dishwasher that size.  But there is water in the kitchen area and the bathroom, both connected to a gallon water heater under the desk."  

Louis noted the "we".  One of them washing while the other dried with the tiny towels and the tiny drying rack. A domestic image he never thought he'd get in real life.  Well, really tiny life.  

"Reese installed his patented snack fridge, I see," said Louis.

"Snacks are a must," said Will.  "Fully stocked with bits of cheese, chocolate, pudding, and a slice of pepperoni. Eating like borrowers."

"Every window has curtains."

"And blackout curtains if you need some dark space."

A refuge, Louis realized.  If I need space or time and I'm stuck, I don't have to feel like a lab rat.  

"That's actual leather on that couch," said Louis, dragging his mind back to the house tour.

"I could afford a quarter yard of real leather."  

Louis saw two charging ports for phones set into the wall so the screens could act as a television. He could imagine the movie nights. One giant kernel of popped corn between them.  

"The doors actually shut and lock?" asked Louis.

"Tiny magnets in the door and door frame.  Also..." Will pointed to where the front of the house closed, hiding the view of the inside.  "Push a latch here, and the whole front of the house will lock from the inside so you can have privacy."  

Louis reopened the front of the house.  He followed the line of sight from the living room, up the stairs, to the bedroom. Dark wood furnishings and soft gray upholstery.  The bed looked neat and tidy as a stuffed envelope, lined in silvery blue and deep red pillows.  

"I made the bed."

"Like you folded the sheets or you made the bed and bed frame personally?"  He had to ask because it seemed Will had been willing to spin his own thread for the sheets.

"Both.  Took a couple of live video tutorials for the frame. No craft glue, or double sided tape. Half a drop of wood paste, tiny dove joints, and teeny finishing nails.  I know you said cotton, but I got denier microfiber silk fabric for the sheets so the thickness is comparable what you would have at normal size."

Louis pressed a finger down on the tiny bed, eyeballing the measurements.  "California King?"  

"Yep."  Will skipped over the fact he had carved by hand a bed definitely made for two.  "Cut the mattress out of memory foam."  

Louis examined the rest of the bedroom.  Interesting that Will had included a washbasin and washcloths when there was an en suite bathroom.  No closet or wardrobe, instead an empty trunk lay at the foot of the bed.  Louis wouldn't need changes of clothing since whatever he shrunk with would have to grow back with him.  The lamp on the bedside table gave a golden glow.  When he opened the bedside cabinet he found a few extra amenities that made the back of his neck heat up.  

Will's bashful look said it all.  

"Wow." Louis cleared his throat, trying to draw his mind away from the bedroom.  The gesture of it all struck him deep.  Will and he still lived in separate places.  Will had made a place for them to be together.  A home that belong to them, not one or the other.  

Okay.  No tears.  Suck it up.

Louis sniffed, needing a distraction.  "So, random question, what was the most expensive thing in this whole house?"

"Well, parts of the electrical plan and plumbing nearly cost me my patience."  

Louis snickered, pulling Will in by the back of the head to kiss his temple.  "Your poor brain.  Let me guess, the leather couch?"  

"Nope.  Made from scraps.  Very cheap."  

"The tiny fridge?"

"The way Reese made it, no.  It cost me a dozen maple bacon doughnuts and a cheesecake."  

"The bonsai. Gotta be the bonsai."  

"Actually the bonsai was the second most expensive thing.  But Beni did some good bargaining."  

"Really?"  

"Mh hm."  

"What was the most expensive then?"

Will touched the fine sheet on the bed.  

"The bed?" said Louis.

"The sheets," Will clarified.  

"How are a tiny set of sheets that expensive?!"

"When you include express shipping from Japan."  

"Fanboy!"  

"You said the bed was the most important thing, so I made sure it got the right stuff!"  

Laughter took over when Louis refused tears.  He hugged Will closed, his nose brushing into hair that still smelled of soap.  

"C'mere.  Thank you.  I can't believe you went so far for this."  

"I wanted to," murmured Will into Louis' neck, leaving a soft touch of breath.  

Will had wanted to give him a home.  Louis wanted Will to know he was home.

&&&

It sent a shiver down Louis' back, making his belly flutter.  He leaned back on the desk until he sat on it, his thigh close to pushing off a pencil box.  Then he pulled Will by the hips until he stood between his legs, chest to chest. Louis curled his head under Will's neck. Will's hands draped across Louis shoulders as if a buoy to a drowning man and breathed in deep.  Warmth surrounded them like an atmosphere growing around a new planet.  

Louis looked over at the house and smirked.  He wouldn't mind spending the night, if he had company.  

"Wanna test out the bed?" said Louis, pulling back.  "Make sure it's up to your standards?"  

"You mean you want to see if you can wreck the bed," said Will.  

"I know I can wreck you on the bed; if I can wreck the bed with you, bonus."  

The blush at Will's neck charged over the hinge of his jaw and conquered his cheeks and nose.  Louis knew by experience the blushing army had already conquered collarbones and sternum.  He planted the final flag of victory by drawing Will's head down for a kiss, deeper than the rest.  Will relaxed into his embrace like a puddle needing earth to sink into.  Their chests expanded wider with each breath, trying to catch each other in the air around them to pull into their lungs and keep.

Will pulled back, nipping Louis' jaw.  "I dropped the bed, twice."  Nip.  "Survived both times."  A kiss on the chin.  "I'd like to see you achieve what my clumsiness and gravity could not."  

"That a challenge?"  Louis bent his head down, pressed his lips around Will's Adam's apple, and sucked.  

Will moaned, his voice buzzing against Louis' mouth.  Louis pulled Will in by the shoulders as he leaned back further onto the desk, and then focused on the light.  In a breathless flash, they both sat on the desk, just short of three inches tall. After a moment to orient themselves, and calm down enough to get to their feet, they both ran to the door of the dollhouse.  

 The bed did not break. Though they tried.  

 They collapsed under sheets of light silk, catching their breath as sweat cooled on their aching bodies. Will had been wise to include a wash basin, thought Louis.  He didn't want to go all the way to the bathroom for a washcloth.  

&&&

Will tucked himself into the curve of Louis' body.  "So... home sweet home?"  

"Maybe." Louis leaned down and kissed right below Will's sternum, tasting heated skin.  "I've got a home here too."  

Oh, that blush would not go away for hours now.  

"Yeah, you do," whispered Will.  

A well deserved exhaustion overtook them.  

 Louis woke before Will. Making sure Will kept dreaming, Louis scurried out of the house and over to the side of Rachel's desk that still held the cabin.  To the side lay the pile of extra frills that had come with the DIY house; bits of potted plants, fake books and posters.  He picked up a piece of thick printed cardstock about the size of a large postage stamp, and carried it back to Will's house.  It had been a miscellaneous bit of inspirational word art one could find in any furnishing or poster aisle at a craft shop, but it seemed very appropriate.

"Where there's a will, there's a way".

Louis set it by the front door of the new house and then went back in.  He would see if Reese had put anything in the tiny fridge that could help construct a breakfast in bed.

---------------

 If you enjoyed this short, consider buying me a ko-fi!  

[haywire4]

Say 'Bye to Neon

A classic article about nitrous, tuning, and general rental car tomfoolery.

Mopar Action, April '98, pp 21-23

Story by: Richard Ehrenberg

Ever want to nitrous your ride, but were afraid you'd grenade your mega-dollar motor into smithereens, or trash your daily driver? Well, fear no more. For the measly sum of $19.95, we can absolutely guarantee that you won't blow YOUR motor. How? Heh heh heh. Just rent a car from your local, smiling Thrifty agent (we highly recommend the sunny Phoenix locations.) His motor + your nitrous system = no problem. Experience the thrill of nitrous, totally uninhibited. No longer will you feel the urge to back off because you're afraid of scattering YOUR dollars along the side of the road or at the strip. It's like hot fudge sundaes without the guilt. Mopar Action's staff, the same people who brought you the Rental Car Nats and the famous "push-o-war" (nose-to-nose burnouts), are out on a brief furlough from Nurse Ratchet's psycho ward, and will outdo themselves again by showing you how to knock over 3 seconds off a bone stock Neon. Yeah, you got it! 16.90 @ 81MPH to a zero-traction 13.82 @ 102. Have we got chrome-moly spheres, or what?

We slammed together a supersimple N2O system for our bone stock 3-speed automatic rent-a-Neon (with 13-inch wheels!!) The setup consisted of readily available parts from the NOS nitrous catalog and the local NAPA parts store. Our goal was to make no engine mods and unbolt nothing from the car during installation. In other words, we wanted to be smarter than O.J., and leave no incriminating evidence behind (is America a great country, or what?)

The system consisted of an N20 tank held in the back seat by the lap and shoulder belt, a length of braided hose laying on the carpet, and routed through the unused clutch-cable firewall hole, the cheapest electric fuel pump we could find, nitrous and fuel solenoids and two simple injectors. The injectors consisted of nothing more than two short lengths of 3/16" brake line tubing with the solenoids attached at one end and 2 NOS-modified "AN" fittings that accept NOS nitrous and fuel-metering jets on the other end. A painless incision into the soft plastic air box hose allowed N2O and fuel to be injected directly above the throttle body. The whole deal was held in place by duct tape and cable ties. Replaceable jets allowed precision tuning of the system to any level of insanity desired. Auxiliary fuel (alcohol "drygas") was stored in the windshield washer reservoir and the small electric pump was added to supply fuel (the windshield wiper fluid pump will not supply enough fuel) to a solenoid. This setup was rigged into the horn wiring to open the solenoids when you punch the horn button (we did disconnect the horn button).

So how did it work? Awesome. Simply awesome. We started out with a 50HP nitrous jet with 100% excess fuel. Hitting the horn at 4000RPM in 2nd gear felt like 15 lbs of boost. Were we happy? Nope! Onward to the 75HP jet and only 50% excess fuel. The Neon was amazing. We worked up the guts for 1800 RPM launches in first gear. Oops out of nitrous, before you can say: "Thrifty." Luckily, we had brought a second bottle.

The entire Mopar Action staff flogged the Neon mercilessly, but we couldn't break it (yet). The high (low?) point came when "Crazy" Eddie Yeznaian, intrepid rally racer and wildebeest extraordinaire, actually power-braked the car to the floor, cut the wheel to the left, and hit the nitrous in reverse. Nothin' like nitrous doughnuts after a hard day at the office! (Since this was done in the rain, does that make it Dunkin' Donuts?) If you can imagine what it must be like to be trapped in a spinning top at 200 RPM, you get the idea. Where are the air-sickness bags for this ride? H-E-L-L-L-P!

After the second full 10 pound bottle of nitrous had been greedily half-guzzled by the motor, we decided to go for broke before it was empty. We slipped in the killer 150HP jets. Is this sick, or what? We more than doubled the stock HP output! Jeeez! 13.82 @ 102mph. The motor took first gear launches at 2000RPM with cylinder pressures that should have shot the plugs through the hood, and exhaust gas temps that were slightly hotter than the surface of the sun.

Could the Neon go faster? And, mainly, would the converter stay in the transaxle, or launch like a Saturn rocket and slice our legs off at the knees? (And, do they rent hand-control Neons?) For our last runs of the day, we leaned out the fuel jet for only 5% excess fuel and stuck our guinea pig editor, Cliff "Pleeeeease don't blow the motor, guys!" Gromer behind the wheel. For his first duel, Cliff matched himself up with an automatic Mustang GT at the track. The pony car came out of the shoot even with the Neon, and pulled ahead by the 300-ft mark. The Neon, now in second, gets juiced by Gromer. Result? Like taking candy from a baby. Cliff's little rent-a-PL was so far out on the 'Stang that he was able to back off in third, turning a 14.15 at 96.7.

Later, in an impromptu street run from a 10mph roll-on, Cliff, the sick puppy that he is, hit the horn button in first gear, right on the "3" count, the 2-liter Twinkie motor screamed for mercy, the tires spun all the way through first gear. We were fender to fender with a fast 440-6 Challenger R/T. He ripped his piston-grip to second, but we pulled ahead. Clifford boiled the tires big-time into second gear, allowing the R/T to pull alongside. The Neon mini-motor wound tight-right to the rev limiter. Did Cliff lift? Did he back off? No chance! Ka-boom! A glowing three-foot fireball barked out of each side of the hood, and rolled back over the windshield. Cheeez! This actually caused the R/T driver to lift, but not Cliff! Wow. Say goodbye to Neon.

We pulled over, fully expecting to see rods hanging out of the block. Surprise. Only the airbox is blown apart. With the leaned out fuel system and the motor running so far into the rev limiter that the stock injectors were shut completely off, we musta floated the valves and backfired through the intake system. The motor was running a little rough (a slight understatement) and we're sure we bent at least one valve, or, more likely, blew the head off of a couple. Guess we should have followed Mark's rules (see sidebar). Needless to say it was the best $19.95 we ever spent. We gassed the Neon back up and limped back to the ever-smiling counterperson.

Thanks, Thrifty.

By the way, if you're interested in renting a Neon for $19.95 a day to go mustang hunting, Performance Resource is currently looking into marketing a complete nitrous kit (minus the bottle) that is jetted and flowed, and that you can bolt onto your rental Neon (or your own Neon for that matter) in less than an hour. Just so there's no misunderstanding, the kits are not available at this time, but they can be whipped together if there's sufficient interest out there in Neonland. 

When vacationing becomes safe about a year or two from now, this might be a good reason to add an extra day to the rental.

[believerindaydreams]

noir at high noon: twelve snippets in a life

susan’s POV. a little snippet of post-canon, among other things.

4. I knew Angel Eyes was trouble. That's why I went to find him.

You'd think it'd cost me something: money, self-respect, time at least. Enough to make my search sound difficult, when the truth is it took me two days and no trouble at all to make the connection I needed. Why not?

By then, I'd already lost the only thing that ever made my life worth a damn.

1. "Some day, I'll steal a car so fast it'll make you puke when I drive it."

My brother, aged six and a half. Even back then Charlie was already a handful, running wild in the streets, snatching wallets and peeking up skirts. He never did get any better.

I loved him, but I knew better than to dote. If he'd died on his own terms, bit through by exotic fish and drowning in tidal surf, or crashing over a cliff with a harem of screaming blondes, I could have taken any kind of crazy exit. It was his life to lose.

But my husband cheated him of that bright and burning death, gave him a two-bit piece of nothing in a back alley; and I wasn't going to stand for that.

5. "You're not one of the regulars here," Angel Eyes said to me, puffing smoke from his pipe like Alice's caterpillar. "I'd know you if you were. Which one did you bribe for that apron?"

"Cindy. She thanked me for it, she says she was glad for a day to look after her sick kid."

"She should have told me. I'd have arranged help." His dark eyes bored into mine, more remorselessly than any bullet; that would have brought relief and he wasn't going to promise any. "If it's a job, you take that up with Rose. I don't do house calls."

"I don't want you to kill my husband."

"No?"

"I want you to teach me how to do it." I took the knife out of the pink ruffled pocket. Charlie's knife, still encrusted with his own blood from when they'd given it to me. "So I can do it myself."

"...open the blade, stab, keep stabbing until either you're dead or he is. Easy enough if you don't care about getting caught."

"I want to know how to do it right."

Ask Angel Eyes, why that impressed him.

I'm content enough that it did.

2. "Listen," my sister said. "You need to learn this, if you're going to catch a husband some day."

Charlie and me and Daphne. All caught in each other's webs, all hating each other for the traps we lived by. "I won't be like you. I'll never be."

"You think putting on airs will bring you anything but misery? Shut up and listen."

Every afternoon for years, she drilled me until I could have run that bakery better than she did herself. How you bake pies, doughnuts, cakes, every kind of fat that ever broke a man's heart. Don't ever overcook a flan. Use a light hand with the salt, a little goes a long way.

She'd fought her way to a kind of stalemate with life after mother dropped off the map, flirted hard and married young. Looks like mine, smarts like mine, and she'd settled for a man who wanted nothing more out of life than his slippers and a newspaper.

If my husband had nothing else to recommend him, at least he had a hell of a lot more nerve.

5. "Hmm. So you did show up."

The second time we met at that diner, not the first; Angel Eyes told me to go home and think hard before I saw him again. I think he knew already that I'd never second-guess myself; but the man takes pride in his small courtesies. Frees him up for the grosser breaches, I suppose, he's far from the only one who believes in that. My husband for instance.

"As you can see." Not thank you, not, I'm so grateful. Not until he gave me something worth a pleasantry.

"End of shift, I imagine you're hungry. I ordered enough for two," Angel Eyes said. Pushed over a bowl heaped with piping hot chili, my favourite. He hadn't wasted any time checking up on me, to be sure. "We can eat and talk business."

"Fine." I crumbled in dry crackers, picked up my spoon.

"Stop."

Anyone else, they'd have grabbed my hand, seized my wrist, restrained me. All he did was steal my spoon.

Dipped it in the chili. Out came the expected redness, tomatoes and beans, violated by a blue speck that had no business being in there at all.

"This is what you're going to have to think about constantly, if you take this on. No movement anyone makes towards you will be safe. Ever again."

"Trust me, that's my life already." Not in the shape of pills, but expecting an undercover cop behind every stranger's face, listening to sirens and thinking they were coming for me. My bargain with the devil hadn't brought me enough pleasure for the pain. I wanted some of my own back.  

He put the capsule on his own plate, burst it open with the tip of his knife. Took a bite of mushroom and steak and blue liquid, while I watched.

"Nothing more than food colouring. That's the second thing you're to know-- if I teach you; I'm never going to hurt you unless you expect it. You'll learn to face unexpected violence on your own terms, then you'll understand it." He handed back the spoon.

It wasn't what I was asking for. It was what I needed; and I had the sense to recognise that much.

"...so I'm to trust no one except possibly you?"

"Put in those terms, that's the same contract I was given."

"Agreed." I took my long-awaited bite. "You know, though, I might have spat it out anyway. This chili's not nearly as good as anything I could make."

"Remind me to bore you with my soup recipes sometime," Angel Eyes said, with all of an enthusiast's sincerely idiotic pleasure.

Looking back, he was going off-script right from the start.

7. "I suppose he's training you up, the same way he did me," I said to Manco.

He had a hideous way of biting into oranges, tearing away the rind with his teeth. Not an appealing habit for a man who cared so much how he looked and sounded. I'd never seen such concern for appearance before, paired to indifference such as that.

"Maybe not so much," Manco said, dropping peel into the trash. "I'll tell you honestly, Susan, it's- let's say I stumbled into this ass over tea kettle. I'm not good enough for it. I'll get myself killed if I push my luck any further."

"Why tell me? Angel Eyes is the one who ought to know."

"He's got more going for him than any man I've ever met," Manco said, shoving his face into the orange. Messy as hell. "I might be more afraid of disappointing him than dying, I don't even know."

Which is what I told Angel Eyes, when Manco up and fled on us the first time.

Seemed to help a little.

8. "Why can't you call him Angel Eyes like everybody else?"

"I do sometimes," Tuco said, yanking his feet up on the kitchen stool. Pulled himself close, arms wrapped around his knees, that's a dirty habit. Means more cleanup for me afterwards. "Didn't he say you were from Mexico City?"

"I was partly brought up there, yes." There and a lot of other places, but Mexico had been better than some; scant dollars had stretched a little further that side of the border. "What's that to do with it?"

"Then you should know about nicknames, it happens a lot. Something you do to people you-"

he stopped himself then, with a gulp. "Sorry. Sorry. I know you don't like me."

"You're fickle. I thought you were partnered with Blondie, why didn't you run off with him?"

"Maybe he thought I loved Angel too much to come along. I don't know I like it either, Susan, I'm scared. I miss Blondie. It feels like everything's spinning out of control."

"...look, why are you even in my kitchen?"

"That was a nice chili you made for lunch, only it was way too hot for me to eat and I'm starving, can I please have something else?"

All in a rush, like his hunger was what mattered here; when the thing he'd just completely passed over, taking it for granted, was that he could talk about love for Angel Eyes like it was an assured and settled thing. For an assassin. For the worst man I'd ever met, in terms of pounds of flesh and lives taken.

I knew my reasons for being there. He didn't seem to have a single one for staying in our house of death; and yet he was anyway, sunshine and Spanish and all.

So I fixed him up with a plate of warmed-over lasagna and retired to ponder, what the hell kind of universe spawned innocents like that.

9. "You'll be back, Angel Eyes."

"Not this time, I don't think." He ran the cleaner through his pipe, one last smoke before bed. One last smoke before he left, in short. "If nothing else, it'd be a shame to waste the effort. I haven't prepared my death in so much detail to pop back to life any time soon."

"But a priory? You'll be pacing the walls inside of six weeks."

"I'm doing that regardless, Susan." Pipe clean, he put it back on the stand; frowned at it reluctantly. "Suppose I'd better leave that. Rose will know damned well I faked it, if my favourite pipe goes missing the same time I do."

"I'll keep it as a souvenir. If it's safe enough, I'll see about sending it to you later."

"You're very practical, Susan," he said. Nearly grateful. "All these years, I've talked and you've listened. Listened better than I ever did."

"I won't ever make half the assassin you are."

"Maybe you'll be something better- I don't know, Susan. Alma taught me how to live, but those two have given me something to live for. Sentimental bastards- for the life of me," Angel Eyes said, picking up his hat. "I could not tell you whether I hope you'll find the same one day, or that you'll never get within fifty miles of this kind of hope."

"I had that and decided it wasn't worth it, remember? You'd better be sure about these two."

"Enough to take the risk."

"Good luck. But I'm not selling the house, all the same."

6. This is the last thing my husband said to me. "Honey, what's for dessert?"

I let him have the first spoonful of berry crumble, piping hot and perfect. Then he died.

That's all there is to say about that.

10. The hacienda was very quiet after that.

I shut it up. Stayed in my own place, the small apartment I'd paid for with my first year's wages. The kitchen wasn't so much, and the oven unreliable, but it sufficed; I had more important notions in mind.

My husband taken care of, I turned my attention to the system that'd let him flourish. Rose had kept a tight grip on his empire for years, but with Baker in jail, with his best assassin off the radar, there were signs of slippage. 

He was on the lookout for traitors, of course, informers and whistleblowers. G-Men. Any kind of man who might want to seize what he had, and turn it to account for money or repute or a drive for justice.

What he wasn't looking for was me.

Just wanting to burn it all down. 

11. Next time I saw Angel Eyes, it was another restaurant. Wrong side of the border, the chili still wasn't any good, and I didn't bother to ask who was picking up the check.

One of the boyfriends was slumped against his shoulder, the other was swigging orange juice like vodka. Angel Eyes spread his hands wide.

"I think you should know. I was always far more of a disaster than I let on."

"Uh huh," I said, not batting an eye as I reloaded the gun. "It figures, you hopeful maniac. These two treated you all right?"

"No. Yes. It's a bit past that point, Susan," Angel Eyes said, his face lined with exhaustion and pleasure. "I'm in love. The rest doesn't matter."

Like I said, he went off-script. Anything might have happened to the trio after that night.

(Even if I did know, I'm not telling you.)

3. “You’re pretty.”

“Sure.”

“You cook well?”

“Sure.”

“Ever dream of being a mobster’s moll?”

That’s all my husband had to say, to net me. I’m not sorry.

12. I still don't have anything that makes my life worth a damn. Not like Angel.

That's okay, though.

Before I'm done with Rose, a whole lot of other people are gonna feel just like me...

[thedemonswontwin]

Grace 5

He wrapped himself in his

Stained green sleeping bag

It was hot and humid

But his need for sanctuary

His basic need for space

Made the bag so much more than

A bed

Pink, yellow is the sun

Rising over the DC Warf

Casting light on the perfect clean

Of gentrified life

Except for him

He had snuck in after dark

When even police and security

Didn’t care

Now

Hidden in his home

Joggers move by and he hears

The rhythmic pounding of their feet

Hitting the perfect, expensive

Cobblestone

Many pass

And he reaches out an arm

From the green bag

And places a cup

Most don’t notice

The sounds of trash trucks

Construction crews

Backing up and beeping

Fill the air

The light breeze can’t blow away the day’s work

And then a man, walking his black lab

Holding pastries bought from one of the new shops

Deposits his change and a few dollars

In the cup

Protected in his sanctuary

A smile

A new Day has started

And with it, the jolt of police

Telling him to move while they

Eat a doughnut

He picks up his shrine to himself

To life

To not giving up

To pushing on

And moves to more welcoming

Ground

Not before he buys

A hot sandwich and black coffee

Offered as grace to him and his maker

By a man with a black lab

[stone-man-warrior]

January 8, 2021: 2:24 pm:

Local Update:

==========

2:25 pm:

Terror bastard at Chartrand is still stalking me, still has an alarm system attached to the sound of my front door opening, when I open my door, the sound of dogs barking at Chartrands happens immediately upon opening my front door, more than one-thousand feet away from where the dogs are at, and there is no viability between my front door, and Chartrands at 376. The asshole got into a black nissan and drove to the mailbox to hassle me. He lingered still in his car to block my access to my mailbox momentarily.

============

2:35 pm:

The asshole at Chartrand’s could be the man who hopped the block wall at the terror doctor appointment the other day, and went towards a UPS truck that was parked at the Little Ceasar’s there behind the terror doctor in Medford. That man was wearing what appeared to be the same light colored blue hoodie that I saw a man wearing at the Monroe terror cell a couple of days earlier.

I also suspect that the Chartrand terror cell is occupied by members of UPS Big Brown, and are fooling other agents with use of UPS Uniforms because I happen to be wearing a brown colored sweat shirt this week.

In Oregon, Blue = Bleau = shit = Brown

There was a UPS Delivery Truck sitting at the 520 Jackpine terror cell when I returned from the Walgreen’s the other day. The driver was sitting there in the truck, and only left after he saw that I had a key to my gate, and had opened my driveway gate, then he left.

The UPS Driver is a Royal Canadian Mounted Police, disguised as Oregon State Police, disguised as a UPS Delivery Driver on a Sting investigation, while posing as the subject of the Sting, for a set-up to fool the federal agents who insist on always being fooled, all of time, and then hides himself as a innocent Christian church goer residing at 376, and he says is being threatened by he bully down the street.

All is made possible by federal officers who refuse to do their own research, will not do their job, insist on trusting the local authorities, who are the terrorists that the federal officers need to be apprehending, but won‘t, and are absolutely determined to walk right into the traps that are set for them by the local terror authorities who guide the federal officers into the traps like an air traffic controller advises run way conditions, and directions.

The “Box Canyon” terror scenario:

“Just go right over there to that where that trash can is at, then, take the spur road towards the west, there will be a dog kennel, and a bridge over a creek... that’s his hideout... if he’s not there, he’s banging the gal next door, so you’ll have to double back, head him off where all of the chickens are at... so, the front door there is well lit there, she is working for us, but is scared, can’t get the hard evidence we need, so, go there, to that gal next door, if he’s not over the bridge on the spur road”

The Canadian Mounted Police disguised as Oregon State Police.... etc, and so on... is from California, is a California Highway Patrol (CHP; Chips; Emilio Estevez wanna be. comes with a helicopter on HWY 126 Solidad Canyon as I recall, and a head ache) who is looking for a man who goes by the alias “Octavio Sledge”, a former SAG actor from Simi Valley Ca.

==============

3:40 pm:

Other:

In recent posts here, I talked about the hijacking of Time, the theft, pirating, control that happened 2021 years ago when January and February were tacked onto the bow of the Christian Pirate ship, is a very complicated mess to try to follow, and was the birth of the Russian Whore, that ran off with Marcus, after framing Jesus for crimes he did not do, and is now the Russian Mother of all Hoaxes, mature, complex, sophisticated madam of a Russian Whore (former spouse shows up on Decoder Ring RADAR)

So, I exposed the key that unlocks the secret of why February is truncated (in terror circles only) to “Feb”, then changed to “Fab”, and is the “F-A-B“ spoken as an acknowledgment “10-4″ sort of statement by “Thunderbird’s” 1960′s TV puppet show characters when on a mission, over a radio.

So, additional to that:

There are only very few words in the English dictionary that start with a “Feb” pre-fix.

Therein lies a secret to Thunderbird’s episodes, and the hijack pirating of Time 2021 years ago.

“Feb” changes to “Fab”, and “Fab” is a prefix for many words in the English dictionary. The implications of having a “secret Pre-Fix” reference word, is too great to fully explore here on a social media account where there is no one willing to read or use the information to do any national security work, and certainly are none that are ever going to help me in any way, so, for future sleuths who need more info, I add that the “Feb” to “Fab” transition phase is a privately used subject within heroin addicted terror circles, to say things that have to do with a “Pre-Fix” condition, in some way. When Thunderbird’s puppet characters say “F-A-B” it’s part of a training exercise in the episodes about heroin use, distribution, and is better stated as “heroin rations” for soldiers of The Cross, and, as a recreational activity for the terror SAG leadership.

The characters Kyrano and Tin Tin are “recreational characters”. Many of the characters on the Thunderbird’s episodes seem to morph into other characters, and play other roles in a variety of ways, and that notion can be simplified to “Recreational Character Enhancement” when that occurs on the TV show. One interpretation is: “If Recreational, then, Leadership”. It’s complicated though with components contained in the individual episodes, not many boundaries for that kind of comm hidden in the plots.

That, and if someone tosses a “Fab” into a conversation, then, someone else can toss a “Rick” into the conversation, for making Fabric.... to say that all involved are “Men of the Cloth”.

But the only words in English that start with the prefix “Feb” are “February”, and a handful of archaic words suitable for a game of Scrabble.

If someone tosses a “Feb” into a conversation, then, someone else can toss a “Brew” and do it “airy” into the same conversation, to say that poison gas is the “Pre-Fix” condition. The “airy” part, could be a silently expressed gesture.

“I’ll have an Apple Fritter, two French Crewlers, and a large coffee, black”

... is a Trinity order at the Winchell’s Doughnuts, Egyptian style, featuring the girls from The Bangles, walking the dog. no one believes what I write until it’s too late... then...

“I understand now” is the pre-fix condition, while laying on a medieval torture rack next door, all heroined up so they don’t scream during the Spanish Inquisition that follows the fix on the rack.

“Acme SAG Rack Repair Services” are supplied with the contents of the brazier department at the Walmart. It changes the word “breast” from a noun to a verb: “To Breast”: “How shall I breast thee? Let me count the ways”. Comes in pairs.

Example: Someone by the name of “Deb” is assigned to do some in depth undercover secret agent work, to stop terror, secretly, is a double agent, works for FBI up front, and works for SAG and the Crusades in the back.

Two French Crewlers are added to a conversation at the Sting Convention where different agencies are present, at least one RCMP is hidden among them, and Deb needs to find out who her contact is, while within a group of Global Security personnel. All Deb needs to do, is indicate in some way, that she is an “F”. Any which way will do... be it with a “Double D” to add two to the D of Deb to make Feb, or some other way... Deb will use a variety of subtle clues to find out, who among any crowd, is also a double agent, and only needs to get an F in place of a D to do it within the shell rules of The Text, and can consult the Choir as well, to use standard guitar tuning, for a “Drop D” darkness in the metal that follows. A railroad horn can confirm those kinds of statements, because a train horn standard tuning is in the key of F. Is an F Sharp, unless special conditions exist. The real national security people, have all been brainwashed their entire lives, so, they don‘t know or care the least about what an F sharp sounds like. That is a great advantage to the Vatican Choir terror, because the train horn is a musical instrument, and for that reason, the train operator must be a American Music Federation SAG member with dues paid in full, card in good standing in order to have the job of Train Driver... who is required to sound the musical instrument at all crossings.... usually in F sharp, those are the rules, unless specially noted on the sheet music, that Deb is interested in knowing about to find out who her contact is, and where to make contact.

I’ll wager dollars to doughnuts that when a person is hired at the FBI, or is considered for a Officer position in US Military Academy school, that their interest in music is a consideration that is secretly looked at from Top Leadership way up on the totem pole. The interest, or absence of interest in music is used to determine what rank officers will be hired, or trained for, is my guess, and is where my money is for a bet. The reason is that for a person to learn the difference between a F and a A, when one is sounded, takes many years of exposure and attention given to the quality and characteristics of sounds.

Let’s say a low rank officer is placed into a position where national security is an issue, then, that officer learns that tonality is a big factor for discovering the secrets of the national security issue. Then, that officer is still not going to have the necessary skills to read the communications done by those who are the national security issue, and indeed, are the people who are in charge at the agency that hired the low ranking agent, because that agents is oblivious to musical tonality, is why they hired him. It will take years just to learn the difference between a D and an F, and the terror will continue despite the enlightenment of the low ranking officer about the importance of tonality.

It also comes with a business suit from “The Text”, with a Tone-on-Tone dress shirt, so, those are often worn with a $1,000 suit, it has to be important at that price and with kind of texture.

======

5:05 pm:

The Vatican Choir terror includes many of the rock musicians we love to hear. There are some seriously dark secrets about them. The members of Metalica, Foo Fighters. Audioslave, are three example of hundreds of examples of a condition where the terror soldiers are up front in the limelight and news, everyone knows who they are and what they look like, but, the Vatican Hokus Pokus is so good at what they use it for, that no one has discovered that those guys and others, are all paratroopers, who do aerial raid in neighborhoods. They are able to drop in with parachute to do hit order work on special assignment, or drop-in just because they all heard that there was a hot chick that lives in the neighborhood, or, to hijack a cocaine shipment that their spies learned of. In the event that they are caught red handed, their fame turns the table without necessity of much explanation. They are able to play victim when they are the aggressors. It’s bizarre, no one has figured that out yet. If you are able to immerse your thoughts in a situation where Lars Ulrich and gang has just dropped in by parachute and killed a family, and apply all that could happen into your thoughts, it becomes more clear as to why the fame works if they get caught, and with news agencies working in league, there won’t be news reports, the fame cover only needs to work for a short time. Or, you could ignore what I am saying, and learn the hard-way, when the bastards drop in on your wave, the way I did.

=================

5:25 pm:

Other:

Reminder about technology advancement and a request to put more focus on the specifics about the advance and control of technology for the purpose of gaining advantage for the Crusades, generally speaking, covers a wide swath of subject matter:

Examples of USA being throttled in the introduction into the marketplace for public consumption, and, throttled from introduction into realms of social protection services (LE) include the internet, it’s perceived functionality at given times in recent history, vs it’s true functionality at those times in history.

In 1990 in USA, we had America Online, and use of a camera to send a live or recorded video was not even thought to be on the drawing board by most people, while reality is, that in 1990 in Brazil, they were already doing live video over the internet... USA was limited to what was available with America Online, AOL, a Free Service, with eternal promotional introductory accounts offered through US Postal Service even if you never asked for a disc to be sent to you.

That is example of USA being intentionally throttled with sub-wiz-bang tech when others had the super-wiz-bang tech. but did not say so, it was secret super-wiz-bang high tech in Brazil, no one mentioned any of it to USA.

Another example is the Ford Bronco for 2021, and is only one example of many thousands of similar automotive design throttling from “On-High” Vatican/British command HQ. That Ford Bronco for 2021 was designed and completed, ready for market in 2000, Twenty one years ago. I can‘t prove it, but there are people who could if only they were able to see that the tech is developed, used by the terror army secretly for a long time, then later, is introduced into the markets for consumer use, while next generation super-wiz-bang high tech is being used secretly, the consumers think they have the latest new technology, and so does the law enforcement and public safety agencies, but reality is that the Vatican terror has the next generation tech for private use. Public safety is using sub-wiz-bang tech that was developed twenty years ago, told it’s the latest, most advanced equipment, but the terror army is using hidden, private, super-tech that swallows up that old/new equipment that USA is protected with.

It’s sort of like if you have a nice, useful box to keep things in, but the terror bastards have a Pandora’s Box where they keep their stuff, and that one has “Thing” from Adams Family inside, and can reach up from below the inside of your useful box where you keep your stuff, and take all of it without ever opening your useful box, or Pandora’s Box.

Another view of the same kind of idea is the “Bar Code” printed on grocery items specifically in 1970 in California. At that time, the grocery products all were required to have a bar code printed on them in California, it was 1970, there were no computers anywhere yet, the grocery stores did not even have electronic cash registered yet, it was all manual like old typewriters work, but the bar code was mandatory printed on the grocery products. The actual scanning device did not show up for another ten years or more, depending on geographic locations when trying to figure out exactly when the grocery scanner showed up in your neck of the woods for reading the bar codes that were printed on the packages ten years earlier.

In the event that someone with real authority is paying attention, please consider the Smart Meter, a device on every home and business that has a cell-phone-like wireless connection to places unknown built right in to them. That, and the meter is connected to every outlet in the house with wire, where we plug in a lot of mysterious little black boxes that were provided in the tech the we bought in the 1990′s and around the turn of the twenty-first century. Consider the logic with those mystery boxes, the power that comes to the home is AC power, it reaches a transformer at the place where the power enters your house or business outside at the Power Drop, each building is served by it’s own transformer, so, that’s expensive already to change AC to DC power for us to use at home or office, is not a small thing that all structures are served by their own personal, individual transformer on a pole nearby the electric meter. Then, illogically, those black boxes that are attached to the electronic gadgets we all purchase, are said to be for transforming the power for the device they serve, back to AC power the way it was in the power grid before the AC was changed to DC, and its all done in a world where the tech is intentional throttled for about ten years. So, what do mysterious little black boxes and Smart Meters have in common? What differences do they have? And can a vibration or digital signal from a black box be converted and sent through the smart meter invisibly, backwards to the power Smart Meter, while everyone is busily concerned with Smart Phones, not Smart Meters? The reality is that the Smart Meter is a Smart Phone, disguised as a means to measure consumption of power.

The secret knowledge about consumption of power is that when we use electricity, it’s Amperes that are drawn and consumed, not the Watts we are charged for. The devices draw Amperes (Amps). The Watts are the product of output, not input of consumption. We should be charged for the Amperes that are drawn from the power grid, not charged for the benefit produced by the electrical device, which is the Watt. Our products we use that consume electricity never used one single Watt, they produce Watts. The products consume Ampers, not Watts. The Watt is the measure of the functionality of the work done by the electric devices we use.

The Power Corporations are Government Subsidized Utility providers who are billing us for the functionality we gain from the electrical devices we use, not for the amount of electricity they draw from the power grid.

There is some kind of magic super-wiz-bang high tech inside of the Smart Meters. I suspect that some of it’s functionality is associated with that older tech we bought so much of ten to fifteen years ago with those small black DC to AC transformers on them, something internationally put into those black boxes on the electric gadgets, in anticipation of the Smart Meter later on, where and when that functionality could be harnessed as listening devices, and now, there is next generation of that stuff.

Besides all of that, the Smart Meters on all of the buildings are serving as a base of a miniature cellular telephone service grid where each Smart Meter is capable of receiving a signal from a passing terror soldier, and bouncing that signal to the next Smart Meter, short range signal broadcasting and receiving, daisy chained wirelessly, covertly, to provide the Pope with a well connected army of Crusaders who are also able to listen to what is happening inside of our homes or offices, and, can rebroadcast that, eternally, over the Smart Meter Blu-tooth Communication grid that exists everywhere now, is accessible with iPhone or Android with special hidden software apps. “♫ ♪ He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows when you do laundry, take a shower, have sex, are busy with some kind of emergency, at home or away.... etc. and so on.

That’s a big disadvantage for public safety officers who never learned about the importance of tonality.

now we have LED lightbulbs. The Carpenter has been building this scaffold to stand on to warn against the dangers of the high tech in all of it’s forms, and the people who control it, but the scaffold keeps getting bigger, while there are ever fewer people that can see the carpenter, the scaffold, or that he has an important message.

There must be a good reason why there are no incandescent lightbulbs available at the Walmart, they only have specialty incandescent’s there. You have to go to a hardware store to get incandescent bulbs.

I already learned the hard way about the listening devices built into the early models of spiral fluorescent lightbulbs, those did not require the Smart Meter to broadcast the signal, they had tiny transmitters built in. Latest high terror tech only needs the same tech that is in a guitar pick-up to be broadcast over the Smart Meter Daisy Chain network. There are “EMG” style guitar pick-up tech also, those require a battery, so they say, but when I used mine without the battery, the guitar still worked, as if there was no battery required to operate the EMG style of new fangled tech. The EMG style is bullshit, I was a fool, and got some, when I did, the guitar guru at Guitar Center, stole my magnetic old tech pick-ups, then claimed that they were not there, lied, blamed me, now, I can‘t put the magnetic old style back in the guitar, in the event that the terror army ever allows me to play guitar again.

================

7:02 pm:

Christian terror soldiers are trained at the church to hear tonality, to know about chorus, delay, echo, compression, flange, standard guitar tuning and Drop D tuning and more, even though the vast majority of terror soldiers are forbidden to touch a musical instrument, they are still required to know the basics.

Seriously, the Christian army is trained to call out what note a fart is dealt with.

==============

7:21 pm:

More about the Edge of Seventeen performance at Woodstock in 1998:

At the end of the song, Stevie Nicks explains a lot of truth in coded words. She talks about a helicopter, about San Francisco, about not arriving by car, about a hearing the roar of the crowd, is really the sound of maimed doves in cage, can’t get away, nowhere to go... trapped, crying for help, everyone who might be able to help them only hear what they believe is singing....

She is wearing gold.

It’s a big deal that she’s wearing gold and mentions San Francisco, where the Golden Gate Bridge is at.

Some of what she is saying is about D’Addario instrument strings. It turns out that they make and sell a lot more than strings, I didn‘t know that until just now.

https://www.daddario.com/

An internet search with Bing for this:

“D'Addario bridge back side package art”

... produces a lot of other stuff, including “The Guardian”, but not what I am looking for.

I am looking for the bridge that D’Addario has been putting on the back side of the guitar strings packages they make for longer than I know... and I know about the past twenty-four years about that confounded bridge. I also know that other guitar players like to point at the bridge art on the D’Addario package, but they don‘t want to say why it’s important, or why they point out the D’Addario Bridge.

Mesa Engineering is nearby there. Makers of Mesa Boogie, in Petaluma California, the “Arm Wrestling Championship of the World” is held in Petaluma, annually.... there are more than one kind of arm wrestling to consider with that.

Mesa Engineering was added to the Gibson Family of Brands this past week or so, according to email promotions, it’s said that Gibson acquired Mesa Engineering. My memory is not the same as what I read in the email about the founder of Mesa Engineering. They told of a man who had a different name than the person I recall... there seems to be a name mixup regarding who the founder of Mesa Engineering is, who wired up the fist Mesa Boogie’s back in the day. I  visited Mesa Engineering in the 1970′s along with Carlos Santana and some other musicians, I was held captive, had been kidnapped, and was forced to ride the whole way in my underwear so I wouldn‘t try the run away when we stopped along the way, from San Fernando Valley to Petaluma, or there about. I remember stopping at a grocery store, where Carlos set up a Mesa amp on the way home, and played guitar at the entrance to the grocery store for awhile. I also recall there was a small workshop, white building out in a field on a hill where we went to meet the man who had wired up the first Mesa Boogie amplifiers. I don‘t recall much more.

But I wanted to say that the Bridge on the D’Addario package back is so important that the internet won’t show it. You need to actually have some strings to look at the package that has the bridge, and that only gives some specifics about tension strength, measured in pounds. Stevie makes reference to San Francisco, and other subtle ways to make me think about Mesa Boogie, Petaluma, D’Addario, Pharmers, and Gold.

That, and the giant blender that was used to grind up the concert goers at the Catskill Mountains event called Woodstock 1998.

Stevie Nicks might have went to the same MKUltra School as I did in around 1970. I met her once since then... 1998-2002-ish in Oregon. That was a time when I was I was held in a weird confinement in my home, Eastwood Guitars, Zakk Wild, Dean Zelinsky, others, all were people associated with the Boeing Seattle hijacking at about the same time period,1998 or there about. Dean Zelinsky would have been the reason I met Stevie back then in around 1999 or so. He is a super colossal asshole deluxe, may have been holding Stevie captive somewhere else at the time. Zelinsky is dead, killed at the Walmart in the cookies aisle, in defense about two years ago... it’s all written down here on this tumblr account somewhere.

===========

Old Woodstock... I was there, stayed with family who lived about a few miles away, could hear the music from the house in the Catskill Mountains. The video does not match my memory however.

==============

8:45 pm:

Black & White Tile Floors, and Knighthood:

Terror takeover in California included Knights, and those who were selected to be Knighted, were sometimes anointed at a Social Order Club.

The thing I want to remind about is that there is a ceremony, and a photo of the anointing when done at a Social Order Club. The one featured in the photo is not the Knighted one, the photo is taken of an actor from SAG, who poses for the photo op. The real Knight keeps the photo as a keepsake. The real Knight is not photographed.

There are other anointing ways, that is one way when done in California at a place with black & white tile floors in 1978 or thereabout.

Those who point a photo to say they were anointed, are lying. That is the purpose of the photo.

==================

9:17 pm:

Local Update:

First, it might be important to say something about the Symantec Security product I use. I pay for Norton 360, I actually have Symantec Life Lock. There is no way for me to obtain the Norton 360, if I do, all I get is Symantec Life Lock. I don‘t like the name Life Lock.

When I go to take a walk outside, there is a message on a pop up window when I return from the walk that says: “The Performance Tasks Are Complete”. The message only seems to show up as I am entering the house after having stepped outside. The message: “Norton is performing background tasks while your computer is idle” shows up only when I am having diner, and seems to be operated by the light switch on the wall that operates the light bulb for the stairway, maybe is better to say “second floor lightbulb”. If I turn on that stairwell light, the one that is on the ceiling of the second floor, then, the “background tasks” message shows up on my computer screen.

Outside, over the past few hours, I went out briefly a few times, there was someone wearing a white robe standing by a white van that’s in my yard, then suddenly was no longer there when I went to have a closer look. That is what reminded me about the Knighthood thing, seeing that person there in the darkness wearing a Ku Klux Klan style robe and hood like Janice Freeberg wears.

There is some kind of activity at Strongs and Chapman’s tonight that is different than usual. It includes that there is a red lightbulb in that direction that’s visible as soon as I get onto my front walkway, is about 1,500 feet away, I can see it through the woods to the west, I don‘t like seeing red lights, the terror bastards use them, they install a red light somewhere and it becomes a normal fixture that I get accustomed to seeing always there, then, they turn that red light light off, in favor of a shooter with a red laser in that direction. It’s difficult to know if the laser is the usual red light, or is a red laser replacement w/shooter over there. Tonight the red laser w/shooter was present, and the regular red bulb was not turned on. There was some other activity at Strongs and at Chapmans with vehicles moving around, and that is when I saw the robe in my front yard about fifty feet from my front door. now the red light is back to it’s usual condition, is on, and is waiting for the next shooter w/laser scope to come by for taking a shot at me. I heard some sounds from that direction, none were what I would say is the sound of a gunshot. The people at Centurylink are using the Life Lock Performance message pop-up to make contact with the robed assassin had the assassin been successful. In that case, the assassin would have been here in my home, at my computer to erase this account. That is why the Centurlylink people send the “Performance Tasks” message, to say they are ready and waiting to gain remote access to my computer so that the Centurylink can do the delete remotely, but they need the assassin to push some buttons in my computer settings first, because I have the remote access disabled.

Earlier than the robed assassin, I saw someone wearing a pixel suit at my front window, it’s not easy to see those, but I did see the hand and the arm as the arm reached for something on the ground just out my front window.

Then later, the last time I stepped out about twenty minutes ago, at Monroe’s, I think someone tripped the sword snare at the pole barn near my driveway. I heard all of the tell tail sounds, the sound of cardboard boxes fumbling around is the same kind of sound made when the skeet-shooter that is modified as a killing device with a sword attached where the skeet would otherwise be, goes off. I heard that, and some sounds of the head flying into the creek, and rolling down the hill, about fifty feet away from the sword/skeet snare. So, that happened, everything is per normal. Red lasers and heads flying as the Grimm Freeberg looks on while clutching a sickle.

Once again, there are traps and snares all over the place around here, don‘t just go stumbling around in Oregon, bad idea to do that. In case you have not been paying attention, the whole state has been taken over by a terror army from Canada. They make the state look as though nothing is wrong and everything is perfect, that’s the modern warfare way... just make it look perfect, and wait for the victims to let their guard down.

Oregon is not part of USA anymore, it looks like it is on Google Maps, but, that is just a geographic circumstance associated with where Oregon physically is at. They did not pick it up and carry it away, so, Oregon still looks like it’s part of USA due to geographic complications, is all.

That skeet shooter/spring loaded snare has a sword on it, it swings at neck high. I managed to have a look at it a couple of times enough to come to conclusion that it is a skeet shooter, clay pidgeon thrower, and the sword is attached to the arm that throws the pidgeon. That, seems to be followed with some kind of a bat, or club, such that when the sword cuts at the neck, the bat or club then smacks the victims head out into left field, goes about fifty feet, down into a gully, every time. They get a lot of mileage out of that snare at Monroe’s. There are others too, one that cuts at waist high, I don‘t know how that one works though, and there is another in the front entry door at Monroe’s that I can only hear when some federal fool goes stumbling around without reading this account to know that it’s fucking dangerous around here. I suspect there are other snares at Monroe terror cell. I know of three of them. There is no law enforcement, or public safety to call about that, they are the ones who installed the spring loaded snares at Monroe’s terror cell. There are the same kinds of spring loaded snares set up at the Sheriff’s office on F Street, behind the Walmart, inside of the sheriff’s office, as explained in great detail on this account, I think the most recent time I discussed those sheriff grade garage spring snares was sometime shortly after June 15 2020, but there are many places here where I tell about sheriff grade garage door spring style wire snares installed at and inside of the sheriff’s office, on F St.

More fakery done by the local authorities includes that the terror bastards have bent over a lot of small trees on my property so they can point at small bent over trees to convince federal fools that the bent trees in my yard are snares and traps. I can’t go outside long enough to cut the bent trees away because the local authorities will shoot me if I stay out side for more than a few minutes, I certainly cannot use a chainsaw to cut those away, that will make so much noise that a thousand terror soldiers will show up for knowing that I am within range, and occupied with a distractive project of clearing away the bent trees that look like traps because the sheriff sent Dietrick over to make them look that way for fooling the federal officers, who insist on being fooled, all of the time no matter how many of them are killed by the local authorities.

==================

11:09 pm:

Reminder:

There is no Corona Virus.

There is no COVID 19.

========================

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9T06UfP1S0

[bestfluteninja]

quotes from marching band, 2k17

these are actual things that people in my marching band said during the 2017 season. prepare yourself. (if you want context just shoot me an ask and i’ll try to provide it)

“I like your dad hat”

“Fuck you!” “You would”

“I hate him so much”

“Does anyone have lotion?”

“I need a new oboe reed cause mine is shit”

“I forgot sunscreen”

“Happy June camp!” “How is it happy?” “I’m trying to be positive here”

“Mr. H took his Tide bottle away”

“There’s a big shiny object in the sky. It’s the sun. It does this thing called shining”

“I’m gonna get a rotisserie chicken tattooed on my forehead”

“Dis line tho”

“And remember, I don’t care”

“He was just sitting on the toilet, pants down, phone out, playing Clash of Clans or something”

“Why are you sitting outside?” “Because if I wanted to be around people, I’d be inside”

“Just finished a drug deal”

[after chucking a phone across the parking lot into the grass] “The screen isn’t cracked but the case is!”

“Stop spraying people with sunscreen”

“SPF sun-resistant”

“Your pants are not ripping apart, it’s okay”

“It’s been in my bra and it’s still warm”

“He got a penny stuck in his trumpet”

“Let’s do me”

“Aww yeah, sun cancer”

“Right in the stomach

“I’m the best noodle”

“I use a pencil sharpener”

“Why is my binder always backwards and upside down”

“Someone just died”

“We’re so good at circles”

“Okay, guys, this circle is turning into a triangle”

“I’m turning into a meme”

“She forgot her instrument at first”

“I ran into a Little Cesar’s building”

“Nothing ever happens in marching band, this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened” [there was a small lake in the indoor room where woodwinds were supposed to practice]

“My heart actually started beating, and I thought no”

“I found myself being nice and it just didn’t sit with me”

“I want to eat but my stomach’s rejecting it”

“A tree fell on my house again”

“If you want a good comeback, you have to be creative, you sea dolphin”

“I’ll bottle flip a tree onto your house”

“Being high is better than being asleep”

“I like having my earbuds in and not paying attention while I walk across the street”

“I cried this morning”

“He doesn’t look like a Logan, he looks like a Bob”

“I can’t carry everything and your everything else”

“I’m gonna tondo this foot straight up your ass”

“She’s literally a noodle:

“You can hate me all you want, I don’t care:

“School starts in three weeks–” *various screaming pterodactyl noises* “–and I won’t mention that again”

“People who run across the road are extra” “I don’t care if you think I’m extra, I don’t wanna get run over”

“That is where the drum line is. Never go there.”

“I’m not a white k-pop fan that only listens to BTS. Well, I am, but I listen to other bands too”

“I thought the baritone girl was you”

“I hate this, I hate being here, it makes me hate myself” “Then why are you here?” “To get gym credits”

“Come see how done your boyfriend is”

“There’s a catastrophe over there”

“People swat at sweat bees and then they miss and just hit you”

“You only have one reed?”

“I like diabetes-sweet coffee”

“I like coffee as bitter as I am”

“Don’t ‘yeah’ me, fucking fix it”

“I watched the first episode, and there was a bunch of naked people, and I was like ‘nope’“

“Instrument catches on fire? Keep your feet in time”

“Can I go up for thirds yet?”

“Put your damn chicken nuggets down”

“They were standing on the sideline catcalling me and I missed a step off and once we got off the field I went ‘motherfuckers’“

“I will not have you spreading rumors that I’m selling drugs to the students”

“Don’t forget your necks”

“You suck!” “For a dollar”

“It’s like Cards Against Humanity, but it’s visuals against saxophones”

“Right? Right? Right? Right? Right? Right–” “Left!” “WRONG”

“I have my own shady not-drugs”

“That’s blood”

“Look at this sweat fucking bee” “That’s a regular bee” [pokes it with drumstick]

“Mom! Face forward when you’re on the bus” “Then I can’t see what you’re up to”

“THE STUDENT SECTION CHEERED!”

“It doesn’t give you energy, it just loads you with caffeine”

“When you leaned down, I could see your boobs” “Were they nice boobs?” “Yeah” “Then that’s all that matters”

“Am I embarrassing you?” “Little bit”

“Oh are we playing the school song? Thanks for telling me”

“That is a lot of birds on there, that’s concerning”

“I forgot my flute”

“Look at our school, going over the curb”

“Let’s go smash the liquid banana”

“Can I have a hand hug?”

“Do you have a hair tie around your phone?” “I do. I also have ten dollars I found on the bus”

“Marching band is the only form of slavery still legal in the United States”

“I somehow accumulated three water bottles” “You’re gonna pee clear”

“When do I not want chik-fil-a?”

“I constantly have to pee”

“I have three water bottles” “I’m proud of you”

“How do you think you did?” “Better than first place”

“Which came first, calculus or physics?”

“Y’all stink worse than the guard bus”

“Close your eyes and it’ll seem dark”

“There’s tired, and then there’s band competition tired”

“I just went through puberty, second time around”

“I need to blow my nose and pet my dog”

“Can I braid your leg hair?”

“I generally don’t like to tell my boyfriend I’m cheating on him”

“There’s a Starbucks nearby”

“Why do I relate so much to the small child?” “Which one?” “The one who’s screaming”

“Avon just marches in a block and the judges are like ‘amazing, first place’“

“I don’t care if you die” “I’ve never seen this side of the flutes before” “I promise we’re all friends in the flute section”

“I’m gonna eat my own asshole” “Can I have half?”

“There is nothing productive going on over there”

“Why does God hate me?”

“I’m allergic to the prescribed crap”

“Are you eating a doughnut?” [takes another bite of doughnut] “No”

“I hate this band”

“Did we lose the other bus again?”

“They definitely wouldn’t notice a 220 pound man jumping out a window”

“If you don’t know who Frank Sinatra is, just leave”

“A bee just landed on my nose”

“We set the standard really low”

“I love you, band moms. You feed us so well”

“McDonald’s is where it’s aaaaaat”

“Why is this part of my body sweating?”

“I’m gonna hoard my food”

“See, the show choir moms just don’t care”

“I’m not a fork”

“It’s three o’clock? I thought it was like six”

“Well if you look at my phone it’s seven thirty a.m. yesterday”

“I just hate the flutes”

“I wonder if I could walk through the drive-through”

“Your voice is lower, like you’re trying to be seductive”

“Oh, you mean on Snapchat, I thought you meant like tracking”

“I have one percent oh no mayday mayday”

“You almost just died” “But it would have been spectacular”

“That’s not flying, that’s falling very fast. With style”

“I love birds–no, I hate birds”

“What’s on your bucket list?”

“I don’t pay attention to non-human menstrual cycles”

“Rifle butts are cute”

“Oh my god a bass drum”

“Do you like my snuggie?”

“It looks like Christmas and a highlighter had a baby”

“I will eat anything that’s edible”

“I thought it was ‘fluti’ like ‘cacti’“

“He makes a better Elsa than Elsa”

“It fits everywhere but the boobs”

“I have chik-fil-a in my pocket”

“You want a present? I found it in the ceiling”

“The hell-word”

“Why wouldn’t I want a donut?”

“Afraid of diabetes? Have you seen what I eat?”

“I just really love food today”

“Don’t break physics”

“I would suck someone’s dick for twenty dollars”

“Activate your thighs”

“I have pep in my step, man”

[hobbling dangerously fast on crutches] “I’m a trained medical professional!”

“If you don’t feel like you’re attacking your neighbor, you’re doing it wrong”

“Why are y’all having orgies on the stairs?”

“Why do we have two trash bags?” “One for the people, one for the stuff”

[singing] “We are family, even though you’re whiter than me”

“Make it iCarly. Throw the bagel at the wall”

“Get a room, you two”

“Who wants drugs?”

“He’s like a white Catholic man at a rave”

“Come hither, children, into the house of pee”

“I have just been mcflashed”

“Why?” “Meme”

“What in precipiatation”

“We can all be flat together”

“Wrong plus wrong equals less wrong”

“There may or may not be a hip thrust”

“The moon is an illusion”

“It’s hte one where we sit in the middle of the floor and they announce all our failures”

“Make the voices in your heat be a metronome”

“I forgot how to write the letter 9″

“The size of this mushroom is ungodly”

“The sun has not risen yet we should not be here”

“Nap time corner!”

“Will nut for heat”

“I am scientifically burning up”

“Please never make that noise again. You sounded like a hawk jumping off a bridge”

“There is no dying permitted in my section”

“A bird pooped on my shoulder!”

“It’s not about the size, it’s how you use it”

“Is your mom coming?” “Unfortunately”

“I’m a pretty pink princess”

“Your mom gave me extra candy on Halloween”

“Boy do I love men in tights”

“I’m not giving this boy ten dollars for a Gatorade”

“You got your charger, right? So if I watch Netflix I can use it?”

“I have to turn it up just a little so it doesn’t have a seizure”

“Get Spotify premium so there aren’t ads!” “It’s YouTube, calm down”

“I think I have that exact same bra on right now”

“They have kettle corn!!!”

“One, two, three, NUT”

“I didn’t know hair could have personality until I saw your hair flips”

“Midstates is a pity competition, like, oh, you didn’t make state? Have midstates” “Yeah, but I wanna win the pity competition”

“Do not have sexual intercourse in the next ten minutes, please”

“The golf cart people took her”

“I have what the cool kids call–” [does cartwheel and comes up with finger guns] “–depression”

“I shaved my ankle last night” “Not the rest of your leg?” “No, just my ankle”

“All that makes me feel is emotional distress”

“I never knew hair could have personality until I saw your hair flips”

“Is that orgy kid?”

“Flutes and clarinets, I am sensing a distinct lack of Christmas spirit when we sing jingle bells”

“Why aren’t you wearing a black shirt? This is marching band, we have to look like ninjas”

“Someone’s skipping school, oh no”

“Santa!! Can you follow me on Instagram?” “I want his autograph”

“I play saxophone, I’m not used to reading in the stratosphere”

[tisfan]

Holiday Spending

All I Buy For Christmas - Renting in the New Year - Will you Steal My Valentine - Up for (Mardi) Grabs - Hopping Down the Money Trail - (In) Memorial Day Sale - (Folding) Paper Anniversary - (Financial) Independence Day - Back to School (Fundraiser) - Fruit of our Labors 

A/N: Contains unbelievable amounts of sap. Sorry.

Chapter 12: (Giving) Thanks

“Yaaaaaaasha!” Nat was yelling as she pounded up the stairs and into the little flat. For someone who was a dancer and supposedly graceful, Nat often sounded like a herd of very small brontosauruses. “Yaaaaaaasha!”

She stopped dead two steps into the living room, scowling. “You’re not Yasha.”

Tony laughed, cynical. “How observant of you, dear sister.”

“You’re not my brother-in-law yet,” Nat said, hands on her hips. “Where’s Yasha?”

Tony flipped the channel on the television. Oh, look, something with a gun fight. Flip. Something with a man forcing a woman into a kiss to shut her up. Flip. More gun fighting. Flip. Tony sighed. It’d be nice to watch some television some time without feeling like he was being personally attacked in high definition. Oh, cooking show. That might be okay.

“He went out to get some take-away,” Tony said.  

And Tony was doing his best not to panic about everything. It’d been a bad day for both of them, starting out with a stupid argument about whose turn it was to do the dishes (for the record, it was Bucky’s turn and Tony was feeling both petty and guilty about feeling petty) and then they’d attempted to have some make-up sex that had gone terribly wrong when they discovered someone (Tony that time) had left half a bottle of juice on the bed and it spilled, soaking the comforter and sheets with orange juice. They’d had to put sexy times on hold to wash the linens, and by the time they were done with that, neither of them were in the mood to do more than try to be decent human beings another day.

Logically, Tony knew that Bucky wasn’t going to leave him over stupid fights. Logically, he knew the people on the television weren’t going to shoot him, either. Didn’t help with the stupid brain.

And the more stupid things happened, the snappier and uglier and prone to picking a fight Tony got until Bucky had grabbed his smokes and headed out to get dinner, rather than dealing with Tony and his attitude any longer. Tony wasn’t going to admit that his first reaction to that was “and stay out.”

“Hmph,” Nat said, flouncing into the kitchen. She pulled the vodka bottle out from under the sink. “I hope he brings enough for me. We have a celebration, tonight.”

“Do we?”

“Yes, mister pouty-pout face,” Nat said. She poured two shots and handed him one. “Drink with me.”

(more below the cut, or read the whole thing at A03)

“What are we celebrating?” A little good news might help get Tony and Bucky out of their funk.

“Wait,” Nat said. She knocked back the shot and licked the droplets from the side of her glass. “I will not tell you first. Yasha would be cross with me.”

“We could form a team,” Tony said, a touch bitter. He drank down the vodka she poured for him. “People that your brother is pissed with.”

Nat gave him a sharp look, refilled the shot glasses. “You are arguing?”

Tony shrugged. “It’s not even important, you know. Just…”

“The pain of a dozen blisters,” Nat said.

God, Tony hoped not; he’d seen Nat’s feet after some of her bad rehearsals, nights where the director made them do it again, and again, and again and she would drag herself home, feet bleeding and heels red and raw.

“I’m not that bad,” Tony protested.

“You are not,” Nat agreed. She poured them more shots.

“Just feel… shitty,” Tony admitted. “That I’m pissed at him about stupid shit.”

“Make a gratitude list,” Nat said. “My therapist tells me to do this every day, but that is ridiculous. If I must make a list every night, it becomes work, and I am not grateful for the things I have and love, I resent making the damn list. But sometimes, especially when I am feeling out of sorts, I sit down and make the list.”

“Coffee,” Tony said. That was easy.

“No, no,” Nat said. “We will make a written list.”

“You expect me to write after you dumped four shots of vodka into me?”

Nat’s look was so flat it could have served as a level. “Yes.”

Nat fetched notepads and ridiculously colored gel pens -- Tony’s was brilliant emerald green, hers was eggplant purple -- and an old-fashioned hour glass, the kind that actually had sand in it. Tony hadn’t seen anything like it in… well, maybe even ever, except on television and Nat actually slapped his hand when he tried to inspect it.

“Make your list.”

Nat’s ridiculousness Coffee Waking up before the alarm goes off and being able to go back to sleep Bucky loves me

A small wince there, because Tony hadn’t exactly been loveable recently, but he supposed that was what unconditionally meant. I still love him, even when I’m mad.

loving Bucky Believing both of those things are true The money

Another flinch, because he also felt guilty about the Stark fortune; he hadn’t done anything to earn it except being born to the right parents. And having those same parents die unexpectedly. Because of the fucking money. He resented it even as he was grateful for the comfort it provided, for the fact that he didn’t have to worry. That he could pay Bucky’s hospital bills. All the things that the money could purchase, without consideration for all the things the money was. He made a mental note to get with his accountants and look at the current charity donations. Surely there were things he could do to even the score a little bit.

The ability to make other people’s lives easier

People, yes, he had some people in his life that he was grateful for. Rhodey Pepper Jan Bruce

Tony made a note to call them all and get together for a lunch or dinner or something. He’d been neglecting his friendships. He wasn’t quite sure why, maybe something to do with Jan’s party and not wanting to look at his friends and remember that they’d seen him in the aftermath and fucking resenting that they’d seen him that way. You won’t get past it unless you deal with it.

He was grateful for his mom, much as he missed her.

Mom teaching me to play piano. The times she took me to the ballet.

Maria had loved the ballet; she was thrilled when she found out that Bucky’s sister was a dancer. They’d gone to the Nutcracker every year until Tony went off to college, and even then, she’d asked him every year if he wanted to go. He nursed a small regret that he’d said no last year, too eager to avoid questions about his lack of significant other. On the other hand, that had lead him to grabbing Bucky’s advertisement.

Bucky’s ridiculousness Bucky’s patience Bucky’s terrible bedhead

That had given him a bright spurt, first thing in the morning, on so many days. Bucky’s hair was shoulder length, thick and silky-soft, prone to curling up if it was humid or drizzly, and after sleeping on it, the whole thing had a mind and life of its own. Tony was almost convinced that Bucky’s hair was what lead to tales of the medusa with her crown of snakes.

Bubblewrap

Tony was prone to abusing his Amazon Now account and the last batch of stuff he needed without bothering to get the fuck off the sofa had come wrapped in yards of it. Tony’d put the widget aside without even playing with it, just so he could snap a few dozen air pockets.

Doughnuts. Grapes. Peppermint frappuccinos. Good beer. Bad vodka. Really terrible marshmallow flavored vodka. Cold pizza for breakfast. Bucky’s tomato soup out of a mug when I’m not feeling well.

Cheese.

Cheese whiz.

Stop judging me from across the living room Nat, I can feel the judgement here.

Roller skates.

Bucky’s kisses. Blow jobs. Sleepy morning sex.   

There were a lot of other sex things to be grateful for, but he wasn’t sure if he and Nat were going to be exchanging lists, and Nat had made it perfectly clear that while she didn’t care that her brother was having sex, she really didn’t want to hear about it (or hear it) in any great detail.

Metallica. AC/DC. Black Sabbath.

Baby Metal.

Guilty pleasure that, and he was sure there were hundreds of hard-core metal fans that were going to come for his head-banging card for admitting it, but the Japanese jpop/heavy metal group were weirdly… cute, for lack of a better word. Like shiny, sparkly vampires, he couldn’t help but love it, even if people with sense, taste, and dignity thought they were awful.

Tony thought dignity was over-rated anyway.

Bucky’s eyes. The way he looks at me The way he looks at kitten videos The fact that he shares stupid kitten videos with me Because he knows I won’t look at them on my own

Bucky. Bucky Bucky Bucky Bucky.

November was a good time to take a cool down walk.

First, it was cool -- cold, even. Walking angrily while bundled up in sweatshirts and a hoodie and a coat and a scarf, with gloves and hands shoved in your pockets was oddly satisfying.

Sweat formed and dried against Bucky’s throat, keeping him mostly comfortable. His chest ached as he dragged in cold air and expelled it in a puff of steamy condensation. Like being a dragon.

All he needed was claws and the ability to fly away from his problems for a while.

Which just got him feeling weirdly guilty because there were so many people who would commit murder (not funny, brain) to have the kinds of problems that Bucky had. Smokin’ hot boyfriend who was smart, funny, and rich? What was there to complain about?

The fucking dishes and who left their trash around the house?

Like, what even was that?

Of course, Tony’s desire to throw money at problems was a bit annoying. Bucky’d taken the phone away from him at one point in the middle of calling a plumber for a loose flap in the tank that had taken Bucky all of fifteen minutes to fix.

Except Bucky could kinda see Tony’s point.

The kind of money Tony had, the kind he made just existing, it seemed a little silly to waste his time putting in new toilet guts and saving a hundred dollars on a plumber fee. Bucky wasn’t even sure why they still lived in Bucky’s tiny, overcrowded flat. Tony’d never even brought it up, but after seeing where Tony had grown up, it was strange that Tony didn’t seem stifled in his place.

Didn’t really make Bucky feel better about the situation. It was a little easier, back when he was bodyguarding for Tony, but that had gone over like a lead balloon. Epic fail.

Bucky didn’t like feeling useless. It bent back to the times when his father had yelled at him about dreaming his life away. The military had gone and shattered that dreamy boy, left him with a man who needed work to have worth.

It wasn’t fair to take it out on Tony, though. Bucky’s ego problems were his own damn problems. He shouldn’t need Tony to prop up his self-esteem, or worse, trying to make Tony feel small so that Bucky could feel better.

That wasn’t the man he wanted to be.

Of course, he didn’t know who he was. He hadn’t been Sergeant Barnes since an IED had tried to erase half of him from existence.

He’d been a bouncer, a bodyguard. He defined himself by what he did, and now that he wasn’t doing anything, he didn’t know who he was.

Tony, at least, had school, and eventually he’d have a company to run. He had court dates and therapy visits.

Bucky had four walls and an inferiority complex.

Fuck.

What… what the hell did he do now?

“Hey, man,” someone said, and Bucky jerked to a stop. People didn’t usually talk to him, especially when he was walking with his resting bitchface on. “Spare a dollar?”

Bucky blinked, suddenly aware of how cold it was. Looked down at the man sitting in the lee side of a staircase. Hard to tell how thin he was, bundled up in a bunch of discards. His face was covered in a thin beard, but he smiled when Bucky actually made eye contact. It was a harsh sort of smile, the guy had a face like a brick wall.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. He dug into his back pocket for his wallet. He didn’t have anything smaller than a twenty in there. What the hell. Bucky thumbed out three of them. Twisted into a squat. Handed them over.

The guy had a young man’s face but old-man hands, the knuckles swollen and bent, fingers red and peeling.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome. I’m Bucky, it’s nice to meet you. Cold out here, today, yeah?”

“Oh, man, yeah,” the man said. “Name’s Frank Castle. An’ it’s one of those days, man. Fallish wind is blowin, and it finds the hole in your pants, blows straight up the crack of your ass, don’t it just?”

Bucky couldn’t help a rueful smile at that, pretty damn good description, really. “When was the last time you had a warm bed?”

Frank shrugged a shoulder. “What, man, you writin’ a book?” Bucky couldn’t imagine how bad things had to be to sit on a street and beg for cash, what people probably said and thought and knowing that no way in hell it was ever going to be enough. Little booze to cut the chill, let you forget about that empty feeling in your stomach.

“No,” Bucky said, honestly, “just… come into some money recently and I want to help.”

Frank gave him a sharp glance. “Havin’ a crisis of conscience man, wanna pay back karma by doing a good deed. Fuck off, dude.”

“The room’s no less warm if I’m getting feelgood points out of it,” Bucky pointed out. His father had never held any traction with beggars and homeless before. Bucky’d given a dollar to a wino one day and his dad had yelled at him about it. You feed a homeless guy, give him shelter, and what happens? Well, you just have to feed him again tomorrow. You got extra money, put it someplace where it’ll do some good, kiddo.  

Frank tipped his head. “Yeah, truth.”

“Come on, then,” Bucky said, offering a hand up. “I’ll buy you dinner and get you a room for the night.”

“I ain’t gonna blow you,” Frank said, scowling.

“I’m not asking,” Bucky said. He shuddered inwardly. What a fucking world this was, that even something as simple as giving a hungry guy some food was suspicious.

Frank scorned the offered hand up and scrambled to his feet.

“Christ, you’re a big guy.”

“Don’t you forget it, neither,” Frank said. “Street people go missin’ all the time. I ain’t gonna be one of ‘em.”

Bucky nodded. He pulled out his phone, popped off a brief text to Tony to let him know he’d be a bit later than expected. Checked the map to see what food was nearby.

Chinese take-away acquired and it wasn’t too far for a Day’s Inn. He got a room for two days while Frank lurked under the staircase, aware that any hotel check-in manager wasn’t going to want a streeter in their room. Bucky cringed a bit; he knew what Frank must be thinking, must be worried about. How easy it would be for someone like Bucky to make someone like Frank vanish.

“So, what now?” Frank asked, arms crossed over his chest.

Bucky put his load of food down on the tiny table near the television. “Now nothing. You can eat. Have a shower. Get a few night’s sleep. Here’s my cell number. You can call me if you want.”

“You just doing your good deed, and poof, vanishing?”

“I ain’t gotten that far in my head yet, pal,” Bucky admitted.

“Well, whoever you killed that you need this much redemption, I hope he was an asshole,” Frank said.

“Take care of yourself, Frank,” Bucky said.

Frank was already deep in a paper container of Kung Pao chicken. “Thanksgiving came early, got it.” He gave Bucky a thumbs up and turned his attention back to more important things. Like food.

Tony wasn’t always as good with people as he thought he should be. Genius, right? He should be able to figure things out, except the one thing that he had figured out was that people didn’t make sense. They weren’t like circuits that traveled from A to B to C neatly, and they weren’t like science, where doing the exact same thing got you the exact same results.

“Biology,” one of his teachers had stressed, “is not chemistry.”

A biological system could mutate. Could randomize. Could end up being purple for absolutely no reason whatsoever, and sometimes you could track that reason down, and sometimes you just had to throw up your hands and say “magic.”

People were huge biological systems. Not just the meat and bones parts, either. He’d taken a few classes on human bio, just to round out his education a little, and just the basic studies of pharmaceutical science made his head hurt. Nothing in pharma made sense at all. Theory, where everything worked, except medication, where none of it did what it was supposed to and things that did were nonsense and should not have done that at all.

But even Tony could tell that Bucky was in a vastly improved state of mind by the time he got home. He hugged and kissed his sister and then hugged and kissed Tony with a little more heat. Apologized for the take-away being cold and needing to be microwaved, and Tony might have raised his eyebrows a little when he realized that Bucky had walked all the way to Genghis Connie’s rather than grabbing the slightly less expensive and much, much closer (if not as good, Genghis Connie’s made the best egg rolls!) No1. China.

“Well, this explains where you’ve been,” Tony said, taking his chicken and cashew out of the microwave. He was reminded, stuffing a mouthful of saucy chicken into his mouth, that Bucky paid attention. When he’d stormed out to get dinner, which was code for I need to not throw something at you right now, he hadn’t taken an order, or gotten Tony’s opinion on what to eat. But Bucky knew… he knew Tony’s preferences, had remembered them. Sure, Tony sometimes liked to wander off the beaten path and get something else -- particularly at No1, which did not do very good eggrolls, and he usually got the crab wonton there instead -- but he’d commented aside once that Connie’s did the best chicken cashew.

And after a fight, where they’d yelled at each other and gotten exasperated and had to stomp off to sulk like recalcitrant toddlers for fuck’s sake… Bucky had remembered. Had, as the phrase went, gone the extra mile (quite literally) for one of Tony’s favorites.

Tony was honest enough with himself to know that if he hadn’t been doing gratitude exercises with Nat, he might not have fucking noticed.

Bucky warmed up hot and sour soup for himself, handed his sister a packet of crunchies for her egg drop. “Yeah, I was thinking. Sorry it took me so long.” He gave Tony a long, significant look. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

Which was code for I don’t want to talk in front of my sister. Which was understandable. Having an audience for those kind of conversations was awkward at best. Tony stuffed another mouthful of chicken into his face and sat on his mental hands to keep from dragging Bucky off to their bedroom and demand to talk now.

“So,” Nat said, running her spoon up her chin to catch bits of spillover soup. “If you do not want to talk, I will talk. I have news.”

Oh, right. She’d come home with good news, she’d said. “Spill, Nat,” Tony encouraged. “I’ve waited long enough.”

Nat put her food down, finished chewing, and wiped her lips with her fingers.

“I am going to be Clara,” she said. “Dottie Underwood’s pregnant.”

Nat had been Vivandière at first, one of the doll-toys, and also a snowflake, and a Marzipan dancer, but she’d been understudy to the lead-dancer’s role, the child Clara, to whom the Nutcracker Prince was given. Dottie, who was lead, had been prima donna for a long time. Nat had barely been even looking at the role, because no one expected anything to happen to Dottie.

Bucky practically knocked over his food getting up to hug his sister. “Oh, Tash, that’s… that’s a leading role! That’s great!”

“It is… a great opportunity,” Nat said. “She is pregnant with the producer’s child. There have been rumors that she will not be coming back after the baby. We shall see about that, but in the meanwhile, I have this role. And if I perform with excellence, I may be prima dona for the spring show as well. But I must practice, all the time, now. There will be no second chances.”

“Anything we can do to make it easier,” Bucky promised.

“Yeah, congrats,” Tony said, and he joined them in the group hug, happy for his little family. Happy for his to-be sister.

Just… happy.

Grateful.

[go-redgirl]

The Five 7/30/19 | The Five Fox News July 30, 2019

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INDIVIDUALS/COMMENTS/POSTS:

mantz burhz The person that recorded this and then released it needs quality assurance skills. Just plain sucks!!!!!

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REPLY

Kenneth Fears Don't ask Juan, you're calling out his buddies. By the way, the truth hurts democrats. If you tell the truth... "YOU ARE A RACIST" Stop being racist, stop telling the truth. --------------------------------------------------------------------------

REPLY stgislander Way to deflect Juan.  Keep it up.

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REPLY gina falica Juan just gets more STUPID every dam show.

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REPLY Hobbit Homes When Cummings can stand up as a man, his skin won't matter..but Cummings cant make the leap from "black man" to "man".

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- AmericanHoney Powell Always remember, when the Democrats run out of things to say, & they’re unable to defend the indefensible, they will ALWAYS call you a “racist” or some other word ending in “ist” or “phobe.” They have nothing else, they live in an ideas vacuum. They are an empty shell of a party.

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REPLY Kevin Solon 2 IF YOU CAN'T DO IT WELL, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE ---- DON'T DO IT! I will never watch your channel again.

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REPLY randle guill Battle? I've seen no " battle." Only lying racist Trump trying, and failing once more , to distract the 2020 voter from the fact that Elijah Cummings is his worst nightmare....Well...besides maybe  the New York State attorney general...

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REPLY

George Jones is whiny Juanita a little bit sensitive about name calling. is it all Trump's fault that the world has problems Juanita. someday you may grow a set and switch parties until then wine in the corner and leave real work to policymakers

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REPLY Hobbit Homes Of you fixed Baltimore..no Democrats would be elected

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REPLY Katie Bistiglione CUMMINGS go clean up your TRASH

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REPLY mary casanova At this point Juan is on my last nerve. Smug and deluded. Cut the crap just get over yourself.

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REPLY AmericanHoney Powell

Elijah Cummings has turned a blind eye to the American people living in the disastrous & war-torned district he represents. If America is better than this, why does his district look like a $hithole? #VoteAllDemsOut

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REPLY AmericanHoney Powell Where's the oversight committee?  Will the House Oversight Chair, Elijah Cummings, subpoena himself? Where are the last 10 yrs of Elijah Cummings & his Wife Tax Returns? Is this part of a pay for play kickback?  Sounds like another Democrat #CoverUp to us.

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REPLY Bo Bo Bolinsky POLLS DO NOT MATTER

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REPLY Marilyn King Don't send money. Send troops with garbage trucks to clean it up. Send rat exterminators. and sen demolition crews to abolish buildings that can't be restored.

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REPLY Rickarama Trama I'll bet a dollar to a doughnut that Dana has a new boyfriend or something like it because for the last few days she is super up beat and her hair and make-up are different and she has a real glow on.

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[brajeshupadhyay]

Gambling on College Football Almost Fixed My Dysfunctional Family

My first mistake was feeling sorry for him.

The first season my brother and I bet on college football against each other, I beat him so badly I often bragged I could have lost every single game we gambled on for the rest of the decade and still finished in the money.

Each week, we would agree to disagree on five games across the N.C.A.A. schedule. Each win was worth a dollar. Whoever won the most games of the five we selected cashed an additional five bucks. Best out of five, winner takes all for a maximum potential profit of $10 for the weekend.

He couldn’t have owed me more than $100 — we weren’t kids anymore, making outrageous wagers on games of blackjack at the kitchen table neither of us could have paid off in three lifetimes — but I still didn’t have the heart to make him pay up.

The next year, after torching him a second season in a row, I gave him a book as a joke — “Handicapping College Football for Beginners,” which he told me he relegated to the washroom magazine basket.

I didn’t realize it then, but he was setting me up.

Later he admitted to reading it every chance he got. Studying. Formulas, strategies, all of it. By season three, he cleaned my clock. Our father soon inserted himself into the competition, which, over the past almost 20 years, came to represent our relationship: We went from being a dysfunctional trio of man-children who didn’t have the language to express our feelings to discovering that our mutual love of competition and one-upmanship gave us the language we needed to reconnect.

And then came the coronavirus.

As of June, in response to concerns over the coronavirus, the N.C.A.A. Division I Football Oversight Committee announced their approval of a plan that would allow teams to transition from voluntary workouts to mandatory meetings and preseason camps — just like any other year. But by the end of July, five Division I conferences had canceled their seasons outright. Others, in a last-ditch effort to play something in 2020, are leaning toward playing “conference only” or “plus one” schedules to minimize travel and mitigate risk. The closer we got to August, the more it seemed that Dr. Anthony Fauci, who has been clear in his position from the outset, may have been right after all: “Football may not happen this year.”

My little brother and I remain hopeful that won’t be the case. Five years apart, we were never especially close. Growing up, I’d put him through the wringer.

When I was 8, and he was 3, I nearly took his eye out with a dead tree branch. He still has a scar above his brow. In high school, my friends and I would wrestle him to the ground, strip him down to his Fruit of the Looms, force him onto the front lawn, and make him run around the block in his skivvies before we let him back in the house. He still delights in telling that story to showcase what kind of brother I was, but there are plenty of other examples. I’ve made Baby Bro steal beer from a convenience store ice cooler, thrown him in the trunk of a friend’s car and done doughnuts in a snowy church parking lot, and run him over with a golf cart.

As adults, even when we both became dads, we weren’t doing much better, and I felt guilty. College football seemed like a good way to connect. But I had no idea what I was in for. It was payback time, and every win he tallied was sweet revenge.

“Hey. Who’s winning this week?” he would call any Saturday he was ahead, pretending not to know.

“Really,” I’d say. “You know good and well who’s winning.”

As much as I hated losing, I did my best to be happy for him.

The kid was due.

When he won in Season Four, evening the series at 2-2, I wasn’t bothered (much), and I wasn’t all that surprised either. After all, we’d both been raised in the same ultracompetitive, winner-takes-all environment.

Our dad never let us win at anything when we were kids. Not golf, not Go Fish. I tell myself now, he only wanted his boys to succeed — his desire to win was that great — but to say that my dad was an enthusiastic spectator was putting it mildly.

Looking back, I imagine in my dad’s mind he was only teaching us to be tough, to never quit or back down — it was the 1970s and ’80s when a spanking was considered a valuable life lesson. So, it made sense after watching our competition from the sidelines for a couple of years the old man wanted in.

“You donkeys worried I’ll beat you too badly?” my dad goaded my brother one summer afternoon as he casually flipped through the pages of his Street & Smith’s “College Football Annual.”

I knew this was going to be a problem.

The man loved sports almost as much as he loved being right, which was a lot. Not only did we have to mastermind a way to manage a three-person, round robin format, but also keep our heads as my father continued what he’d done our entire childhood: reveling in every moment he won.

After every victory he took great pains to remind us, it would be a long time before we beat him at anything.

We were all supposed to be grown-ups, but most of the time we acted like 6-year-olds upset over a game of Chutes and Ladders that didn’t go our way.

The Coronavirus Outbreak ›

Frequently Asked Questions

Updated July 27, 2020

Should I refinance my mortgage?

It could be a good idea, because mortgage rates have never been lower. Refinancing requests have pushed mortgage applications to some of the highest levels since 2008, so be prepared to get in line. But defaults are also up, so if you’re thinking about buying a home, be aware that some lenders have tightened their standards.

What is school going to look like in September?

It is unlikely that many schools will return to a normal schedule this fall, requiring the grind of online learning, makeshift child care and stunted workdays to continue. California’s two largest public school districts — Los Angeles and San Diego — said on July 13, that instruction will be remote-only in the fall, citing concerns that surging coronavirus infections in their areas pose too dire a risk for students and teachers. Together, the two districts enroll some 825,000 students. They are the largest in the country so far to abandon plans for even a partial physical return to classrooms when they reopen in August. For other districts, the solution won’t be an all-or-nothing approach. Many systems, including the nation’s largest, New York City, are devising hybrid plans that involve spending some days in classrooms and other days online. There’s no national policy on this yet, so check with your municipal school system regularly to see what is happening in your community.

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Does asymptomatic transmission of Covid-19 happen?

So far, the evidence seems to show it does. A widely cited paper published in April suggests that people are most infectious about two days before the onset of coronavirus symptoms and estimated that 44 percent of new infections were a result of transmission from people who were not yet showing symptoms. Recently, a top expert at the World Health Organization stated that transmission of the coronavirus by people who did not have symptoms was “very rare,” but she later walked back that statement.

We showed we cared by needling each other unmercifully anytime one of us wound up on the wrong end of the point spread.

Like the year my dad gave my brother and me second and third place medals to make sure we didn’t forget who had come out on top that season.

Or when visiting my parents once, my father introduced me to friends of his and my mother’s as “the one who finished in last place” the year before.

I still don’t know half of what I should about my brother, or agree with all the things he believes in. But I’m learning. That ratio skews much higher when it comes to my dad. I’ve realized my brother, dad and I aren’t all that different. We all want to be heard, each of us wants to be seen, and above all, each of us wants to win. After almost 20 years of this, our bonds are stronger than ever.

As disappointing as the prospect may be, whether college football happens this year or not, at least now I have a reason to call.

The bonds we’ve worked so hard to build — even if they’ve come from trash talking each other over our latest win-loss records — are in danger of being lost. If Covid takes that away from us, we’ll just have to find something else to fight, I mean, connect over.

Mike Evans is a writer and television producer living in Los Angeles. He is currently at work on a memoir.

The post Gambling on College Football Almost Fixed My Dysfunctional Family appeared first on Shri Times News.

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[rockpapertoast]

Monolith

Looking at her, even with a pile of watermelons between them, hurt Joe in the brain veins that wound along the sides of his head; the blue bulges that popped back and forth when he talked for too long. Joe had no idea he could feel those veins until this moment, as pain shot from left- top to bottom and echoed all the way through aisle four. All the way through grabbing a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup and chunking it down on top of his corn tortilla chips only to smush them, which he hated. Joe was governed by the head-throbbing sensation that dulled everything else. She had red hair now- thick long bangs that tucked their tips right into her eyelids when she blinked. He recognized her cheekbones and nose, even from afar. Joe wanted to walk right up to her and yank her bangs out of her way since her basket was in one hand as she reached for grapes with the other. Instead, he rubbed the side of his head and walked to the self- checkout, grabbing a Twix bar on his way. 

-

Joe grew up loving animals more than humans. He liked dogs and cats, sure, but he eventually discovered that rare creatures were his true calling. When he learned of animals with several names, that resembled some form of alien, there was an immediate spark in Joe’s chest. These species were more colorful, interesting and complicated than any pet. He would visit Book World and spend hours reading alone in the middle of it all. “Good Morning, Mr. Feldman!” The clerks would remark as Joe stormed in Sunday mornings after his oats and orange juice. He would huff and puff past them with wide eyes and a slack jaw, searching for a spot to spend the rest of his day.The clerks knew Joe by name by the time he was twelve years old, and despite his curious silence, Joe knew every employee’s name, too. They would come and go, but little Joe effortlessly retained them in his head. 

“Jenna works Tuesday evenings; George works Wednesdays; Tyler works Fridays, except when he has his daughter for the weekend; Marion never leaves; Olivia works on Saturdays but she’s always reading Cosmo; Henry works weeknights. And my name’s Joe not Joey and not Mister Feldman that’s my dad’s name,” he announced one night, only to be met by blank stares and whispers.

 The employees often brought Joe hot cocoa when he’d stay for more than a few hours, but he’d never say thank you. He’d stretch out his arm nice and long for the mug as the employee would crouch down beside him. He kept them at a distance, keeping them both at ease. The employees were astonished that he somehow felt their presence as they approached him and like clockwork, his arm would jut out to receive his warm drink. When he was done with his research, he’d carry the empty mug up to the front of the cafe and leave a quarter in the sticky bottom, often paired with a marooned marshmallow that resembled a melted puddle of whipped cream. The employees never once questioned his practice. They appreciated the unique tip, rinsed off the quarter and left it on the counter to dry before clinking it into the tip jar. 

“Where does a boy get so many quarters anyways?” Questioned Olivia while grinding up a new batch of espresso. “I mean, really, what’s the point- just bring in a dollar every week or something.”

“Hun, just drop it. Okay? Helps you do your laundry, doesn’t it?” Marion said as she filled up the bakery case, one chocolate doughnut after the other. 

   By the time he was fourteen, Joe knew the difference between the classic Rhopilema verrilli, also known as Mushroom Jelly, and the Cyanea capillat, or winter jellyfish. He knew there were over 2,000 species of jellyfish in the world. He knew Seadragons lived in Australia’s temperate reefs that are dominated by soft coral, seaweed and rocks. He knew that loggerhead sea turtles would travel over 7,500 miles between their nesting beaches and their feeding grounds. 

Twelve years later, Joe was the New England Aquarium’s finest box office cashier. Joe would get dressed every morning in his black dress shirt and black pants, clip on his red bowtie and walk to the bus stop. He’d wait for the 43 and ride it all the way. 

Once he arrived, he’d spend the next five hours ripping ticket stubs. “Have you ever heard of the Kemp’s Ridley sea turtle? They can live to be fifty years old and and they feed on an array of mollusks,” he asked a dark haired woman with two small children at either side of her stroller. “No, actually, I- uh haven’t. Three tickets for the four o’clock tour, please,” she said, whipping out her credit card and pushing it into Joe’s soft hand. She reached down to pick up one of the children and put the little girl into the stroller, with an array of yelps and screeches coming from the other, who remained standing. “Turdellllls, Mama!” The little boy screamed, jumping to excite the flash from his light- up sneakers. They beamed bright green and blue for the duration of the boy’s continuous stomping in place, one foot after the other. 

Joe handed the woman her tickets with a tight smile and the slur that he had to recite following each sale, “Thank you for choosing NEA! Enjoy the show and don’t forget to stop by the-” The woman cut Joe off with a quick flip of her hair and a “Let’s go, honey” that cued another round of foot stomping and a monstrous roar that ended in an accidental collision with another child. The two body- slammed each other and erupted in screams at the top of their lungs. Faces turned red and mouths dripped with hot, angry, sad saliva. Teeth were sparse but talking wasn’t needed. The two mothers rushed over and picked up their roaring children by their shirts and dragged them away in opposite directions. Joe winced and plugged an ear, kinking his neck to lessen the sound. After working at the aquarium for two years, he’d witnessed his fair share of meltdowns, temper tantrums, accidents with vomit encores, and, despite the foul smell that lingered in the fish lab, he much prefered it. 

After his lunch break, Joe went off to do his rounds, picking up trash that had been left in the North Wing. He liked doing the rounds so he could take time to check in on the animals. He walked along the outside of the tank on a tile ledge that read, “KEEP OFF. ANIMALS ARE SENSITIVE TO HUMAN TOUCH” but he knew the sign was idiotic. It was glass, which inherently prevented one from touching an animal. They just didn’t want kids banging their heads against or licking the glass, which was reasonable. Joe sat down on the ledge where he picked up a half- eaten Twix bar and a blue-stained napkin. He sat and watched the fish swim around with their big blueish eyes and oval mouths that looked as if they all had something to say at the exact same time but none of them could say it. Not a single one. Their spikes were back, tucked down to allow them to plow through the water and whirl among one another, existing as best they could in a tank where they were constantly waved at, tapped at, smushed at by hot, wet childish faces and dirty lips, disregarding the signs. 

“Are you really gonna waste half of a Twix bar?” asked a harsh voice a few feet away. “You’re psychotic.” Joe turned around and saw a brunette wearing a long red coat and black tennis shoes pointing at his lap where the napkin and candy bar lay. “Oh, uh, no, you actually don’t want this, I found it on the floor,”

“Gross,” she muttered as she walked away. “Oh no- I mean, I work here,” Joe said standing up and letting the Twix bar fall onto the concrete floor. 

“Well, that actually doesn’t make it any better. It actually makes it a lot worse, honestly. If you have a job, shouldn’t you have enough money to buy one for yourself? Or, you secretly enjoy eating half- consumed foods which may be more fucked up. I can’t decide which is worse but I’ll leave you to it.” 

Joe froze and felt an icy wave of discomfort flood him. He picked up the candy bar and napkin and delivered them to the nearest trash can. “It was just trash,” he said as he walked back to the girl. 

“I’m Ronnie,” she said sticking out her hand. Her nails were long, painted black and shaped like claws. They look like they’d hurt. How could she even scratch an itch, Joe wondered. He looked her up and down once more and took her hand. “Joe,” he said with one hard shake of her arm- down. She smiled and did a slight curtsy with the length of her coat. Joe held back a smile and fiddled with his access card that was securely fastened onto his belt loop. He looked down at his adidas and noticed that one lace was untied and clenched his leg. He always checked his shoes at the next doorway and she’d beat him to it. He lifted his eyes up quickly so that she wouldn’t notice, but his leg remained clenched. 

“These are Balloonfish,” Joe told Ronnie, pointing at the tank. “They mostly live in the Gulf of Mexico and they’re actually pretty slow swimmers. Don’t confuse them with puffer fish, because puffer fish have different fins and spikes actually, they’re entirely different, really.” Joe ran his finger along the glass of the tank and looked over at Ronnie. 

“I like them. Balloonfish. Never heard of them.” 

Ronnie’s voice was harder than Joe would’ve expected. It echoed in the blue lighting of the wing. She walked with a bounce. Her legs weren’t the same length or something. This made Joe increasingly self- conscious of his tense leg and hazardous shoe lace. Joe could see the little dimples in her cheeks as he looked over at her, and wanted to poke them. He told her about the sea turtles in the South wing and how she needed to go watch them for a while- a few hours at least, he said to her, as she smiled with her eyes. Ronnie inquired whether Joe was free after work, and Joe told her that he’d be off at four if she wanted to wait for him by the entrance to meet up or something. “There’s a big turtle out there, just wait for me by that, if you want.” Ronnie told him that she had nothing else to do for the rest of the day, so she’d see him at four. 

Joe walked back to his counter, tightening his red clip- on tie and shimmying his hands into his pants pockets. They were one size too small but they felt alright on him now. For the next two hours, Joe was untouchable, ignoring the temper tantrums and spilled slushies, squawks and squeals. He ripped the ticket stubs off more carefully than ever before. He appreciated every tear of the stiff paper, feeling more satisfied with each “Thank you for choosing NEA”. Joe thought about the perfectly oval shape of Ronnie’s mouth, and her bright green eyes. She looked kind of like Christmas with that coat, her eyes, and her curly brown hair that flowed on either side of her all too skinny face. Her nose brought her tight cheeks together like a cherry on top. 

Joe hadn’t spent much time with women, and never really cared to, as they usually spoke way too quickly or ignored him entirely. The majority of women that Joe had encountered in his past three years living in Jamaica Plain were either surrounded by children, completely unavailable or visibly uninterested. Once Joe ran into a girl named Elise who he’d met on a pedestrian bridge eating a grapefruit with one hand, just like an apple. They talked for a few minutes and she was in some crisis about her cat dying and frankly Joe didn’t care. She told him that she was trying to move on and couldn’t do it so there she was, on this bridge, grapefruit in hand, trying to snap out of it with a piece of citrus. He didn’t like cats or grapefruit even. She wore yellow tinted sunglasses that made her look like an alien. It wasn’t good. She definitely didn’t ignore him, but that didn’t really count for anything. 

“There you are,” Ronnie said as she uncrossed her legs and and stood up to greet Joe. 

“You probably shouldn’t actually sit on the turtle, he’s a freshwater snapper- those hurt” Joe said, but she just smiled and grabbed his hand, yanking him down the street. She was wearing a puffy black knit scarf that she hadn’t had with her before. She buried her chin into it as they walked into the wind. 

Joe wanted to be the scarf around her neck, against her soft skin, feeling her neck vibrate as she shook with that raspy laugh that came all the way up from deep down. Joe noticed her scarf had brushed the side of her mouth, sending a smear of lipstick off of her lower lip. Ronnie’s lips were a dark purple color, like a grape popsicle, and Joe wanted to wipe away the escaping color. Joe laughed and slowly raised his shaking hand up to her chin and brushed his knuckle against her.  

“You’ve got a runaway, sorry,” he said blushing and fighting a grin. He looked like he’d either tasted something sour or had held his breath for too long and was near drowning. He felt like some combination of the two. 

“So, Mister Cash Box, coffee, tea, dessert, dinner- what’ll it be? You’re the one who’s been working all day, so I think this decision rests with you,” Ronnie said, gripping her clearly far too heavy purse. Joe wondered what else she had in there if she was able to miraculously conceal a huge scarf and it still remained just as large. Joe told her he didn’t care, which she interpreted to mean all of the above. Ronnie took them to Douzo’s, where they got the most colorful tray of sushi Joe had ever seen. He felt slightly immoral eating so many beautifully colored fish, but watching Ronnie’s face as she tasted them all, rolling her eyes back and throwing her body back in her chair like she’d just been hit in the chest with enjoyment, made it worth it. Ronnie talked nonstop for three hours, somehow managing to stuff her mouth during the brief moments that she allowed Joe to chime in. She had recently graduated from Boston College and studied ecology. 

“I really didn’t care what I studied but I could be outside all the time, which was worth all of the shit, dirt and muck I dug through. Sheeesh!” She spent her sophomore year at the University of Otago in New Zealand, where she discovered her feet could actually grow fungus if she left her hiking boots on for a few days a time. Joe didn’t really care much to imagine what color fungus could grow on feet, but it would probably be a dark green, brownish and speckled. He did, however, enjoy imagining what her small bare feet might look like. Ronnie’s toenails would definitely be painted blue, he thought, definitely blue. 

Once they finished, Ronnie quickly grabbed the check and paid their bill. Handing him his coat, she asked with a wink, “ready for stop number two?” It was already eight o'clock and the streetlights were on and twinkling in the midst of the faint snowflakes that fell softly on Ronnie’s coat. Her walk was as bouncy as it had been when he’d noticed first in the North Wing. She kind of floated, he thought. Maybe it was her shoes- they looked sturdy and perhaps gave her an extra bop in each step. 

Ronnie’s coat was open and the sides of it flared in the wind, rippling and gently hitting his shin. “Sorry,” she said, as she lifted up her scarf and dug two fingers into her cleavage. Joe froze, feeling his legs tense and his jaw tighten all the way up in his ears. 

Ronnie pulled out a metal box and opened it to reveal four cigarettes. She told him that she’d been trying to quit but couldn’t quit something that filled her up more than anything in the world. Ronnie turned around and lit a match that fell victim to the wind. “Gimme your hands, bug,” she said to Joe, as he looked down at his hands and placed them around her cigarette. He watched her light the match and hold the cigarette softly in her mouth, slowly sucking in and holding in deep, fixing her eyes onto him and wincing a bit. She blew a burst of white smoke, into his face and smiled, touching her tongue to her front teeth briefly. As she turned around and resumed walking, she buttoned up her coat up with two hands, allowing her cigarette to rest gently between her lips, staining it with a purple rim around the filter. 

“You know my parents died when I was fifteen,” Ronnie blurted out, as if it were not so much a question as it was a statement. Joe didn’t know what to say but grabbed her hand, like it was an instinct. His arm just moved. He knew his hand was sweaty but he didn’t care and hoped that she didn’t either. Hers was warm somehow, and he felt her fingernails on the back of his hand, gently tickling his skin.  She looked at him with blank eyes. “They were killed in a car accident, and I’m an only child, so.” 

“I’m so sorry,” said Joe, “I bet that’s-, that’s hard.” His eyes flickered from Ronnie, sidewalk, up to the streetlights. He could barely see them anymore, as the snowflakes melted into his eyes, causing him to blink excessively every few seconds. They were silent for a few moments as they held hands, Ronnie smoking her cigarette and Joe feeling his ruby tie rubbing against his neck as they walked. 

“I want to show you something,” said Ronnie as she made a harsh left pushing them onto Bardon Street, and taking them past a small bookstore. 

“This was my favorite place on earth. I would come here and get five, ten books at a time every month before I had to stop reading. I started dropping books onto my face when I tried to read them. I couldn’t hold them up.” Inside there was a short woman, 5’4’’ or so, standing against a bookshelf reaching all the way to the top to place a copy of “Astonish Me” onto a book stand. Ronnie told him that she met the woman on day fourteen. “She read to me for a while. It was nice.”

They kept walking until eventually Joe could see the lights lining the Longfellow Bridge. At this point, Ronnie dropped Joe’s hand and galloped full speed ahead towards a large pillar. Traffic was whizzing past, sending clumps of slush towards them, each scarcely missing the duo, but speckling the white snow that had piled up on either side of the road. 

Ronnie stood, back against the towering brick beam, and stone forms, arms out and head back, facing Joe. 

“This, bug, this right here. This is our pinnacle.” 

Joe looked at her with big eyes and suddenly felt his stomach twist. Ronnie reached into her metal box and brought out another cigarette, as she started filling her lungs yet again, she stuck her hands into her bag, pulling out a diary and a blue wig. She opened up her diary and read to Joe. 

“Day thirty-four. Become a fish. Today, your mission is to totally and completely transform into a water creature of your choosing! You will learn, you will love, and you will fill yourself with something new,” She said, “You, bug, you’re it!” Ronnie handed her diary to Joe and removed her brown hair, revealing a scalp of wisps and twirls of light blonde. She had a few hairs on her left side, but more on her right. Her scalp looked slightly purple, revealing veins that culminated above her ears. Joe stood still and tilted his head slightly. 

“What happened to you?” he asked

“I’m on my way to sunshine,” Ronnie explained with a smile, as she threw the brunette wig over the edge of the bridge and shook out the blue one like a pom-pom. Joe looked over the edge and saw the brown pile atop the frozen white layers of ice. Ronnie smiled big, showing her small teeth hidden behind her overly prominent gums. She jumped around, dancing and kicking in place. “It’s getting cold!” She shivered. Her red coat seemed to absorb her movement and showed her as a tower, a moving bulge. 

Joe watched her closely as she put on the blue wig. She looked so different- her small purple lips floating amongst her green eyes that he could see vividly, illuminated by the cars that fled past them. Ronnie told Joe that they couldn’t see each other again after this, but that he was the best day of the thirties she’d had so far. Joe scrunched up his forehead as she told him how much their day had meant to her; he didn’t understand what she was saying but swayed with the wind as if to remind him that he was attached to a body that was capable of movement. Joe fixed his eyes on her forehead, allowing them to blur so that he wouldn’t get sucked back into her. Joe could feel the fish swimming around inside his stomach, asking for forgiveness and demanding to be let out. It was all a joke.

Ronnie gave a small curtsey and smiled as she looked up at Joe. “It’s been my pleasure, bug,” she said. “Thank you.” She turned carefully around, throwing her bag onto her back with a rattle and shake, and walked across the bridge in her red coat. From behind, Joe could hardly tell it was Ronnie anymore. The long red coat didn’t show any of her legs, just her two black sneakers that disappeared into the snowy white air as she walked away, a shadow that carried her. He couldn’t look away from her even though he knew that eventually she would be far enough away that his eyes couldn’t see her like he wanted them too anymore. She would be nothing but a tall figure in the distance, a walking menhir that blended into the stonework of the bridge. Joe’s throat tightened and his eyes got colder as the wind pummeled them. Ronnie was the most unique creature that Joe had ever met. For a few moments, he stood there. He simply existed.

Joe opened the journal that Ronnie had left in his hand and read the first page, Forty days, a dairy, novel, novella, treatise, manual, anthology, by Ronnie Shreiver. Joe quickly ran his finger to page thirty-four where he found the words that she had read aloud to him a few moments prior. She didn’t make that up, jesus. He slowly flipped to page forty where she written a list entitled Fuck Cancer. There were lists of dates and the names of people under each day. He scoured the page for his name and couldn’t find it anywhere. Joe’s heart pattered and he looked up. Ronnie was gone. He leaned over to the side of the bridge to check for the brown wig, to be sure he hadn’t made this whole thing up. Sure enough the pile of brown hair was there, though slowly being covered by snow. Part of him wanted to climb down to the ice to try and take it with him so that he could remember what happened on day thirty four. He held the small notebook against his chest and took in a deep breath, the air filled his lungs and he felt dizzy. The snow continued to fall,  and Joe’s eyes blurred with the sting of the lights- the cold, and whir of blue, red, and green, towering away from him. 

Joe walked four blocks to Dillham’s and bought himself a cup of coffee and a Double Chocolate Chunk brownie. He sat in the front near the windows, peering out into the street, he looked for her. He looked until his eyeballs were so confused that they saw red in every color, figure, form and structure. Joe took out Ronnie’s journal but couldn’t bare to open it again, anticipating the sting. He sat there. Just one more minute, he thought, his head spinning and neck aching. Joe stood up, put on his jacket and set his mug into the bin of used dishes, sending a shockwave through the pile of half consumed and spilled mess. “Excuse me, sir,” said the man behind the counter, rushing to Joe’s table and following his path to the door, “you forgot something, here.” 

Joe said it wasn’t his. 

“Looks kind of important, eh? Might as well hang on to it- even just for the kids one day? Might become a nice bedtime story for a little one someday, huh?” The clerk said to Joe, holding up the journal and nodding his head. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess,” said Joe. He walked back up to the entrance and took the journal. 

“Can always keep writing your story- don’t have to end it just like that.”

Joe said thank you and kept walking. Maybe he’d make her a day thirty- five. Just in case.

[hayleyonthemoon]

Dino and the Magic Fruit Snack

Eight years old today. My feet landed in the corners of carpet between the paintings I’d covered the floor with last night and I sprung into the hall. The walls held their breath. Dad was asleep.   I crept down the stairs, around the corner, Mom would have come home early, there’d be a big box next to her with a kitten. Without an eye. Or a leg. There’d be eight green doughnuts and eight boxes of scooby-doo fruit snacks. She knew I’d never guess she’d be there. We’d whisper so Dad wouldn’t wake up, and sneak off to jump in the rain puddles, hoping he’d forget my birthday all together so it could just be ours. Even the dishwasher wasn’t humming. Ketchup-smothered dishes lined the counter. I got to work, picking the brown crust off as the smell made my nose-hair curl and fry up and gags crawl up my throat. One bottle of dawn outta do it. I squeezed and watched the bubbles come out. On the other side of a bubble I saw a $20 on the fridge and written right on the bill was “Happy Birthday Dino the Dinosaur” in Dad’s squirming sharpie letters. I snatched it, smelling the paper and all the history smothered on it, stuffed it in my pocket, and frantically cleaned the dishes, unafraid of the ketchup anymore. I had a mission to complete. The outside air smelled like quarters instead of pennies. My green Vans squished up the hill until the glowing red letters of the Hy-Vee sign climbed from over the horizon. A shoe-squeaky bee-line for the fruit snacks. Eight boxes of the Dinosaurs. A shuffle toward the floral department where I found a tiny pot for $3. The teenage clerk with ratty hair saw me dripping like a wet puppy, her eyes swimming with wonder and awe and - “Thank you,” I said, booking it out the door. The excitement bounced through my ribs, up my throat, down my arms. I was a pinball machine. Before I could unleash it I carefully untied my shoes, the rain pelting my neck, pulled off my socks, and left them all in a neat row and let them drown and die in the rain. “Sorry. This is important.” I said to the four of them. I scratched up slimy mud from the ground, filling the flower pot. I laid my hands out under the rain and watched the mud clear off oh-so slowly. They had turned bright pink. After stripping to my underwear - praying my Dad hadn’t woken up - I went to my room upstairs and locked the door. Sprawled in front of my crossed legs was the pot, the fruit snack box, and its contents dumped out. I tore a pack open. Tyrannosaurus Rex’s, Brachiosaurus’, and Pterodactyls fell into my palm. The green one. The Brachiosaurus. He was the one.   I made a hole with my forefinger in the mud like my mom taught me. Deep breath. “May you grow into my very own pet Brachiosaurus. Please. I’ll name you Curtis. Or if you’re a girl...um...please be a boy. I’ll water you every day until you’re big. I promise. I’ll take care of you and feed you and - and - okay, here it goes…” I tucked the baby dinosaur seed into the mud, rolled mud over its head to tuck it in. Then I ate 14 packets of fruit snacks laying there on my back, feeling the eight years of age nestle around me. Mom would be proud. In fresh clothes I crept downstairs to get a glass of water for my dino seed to drink. There he was, standing like a tree struck by lightning, lonely grey hair defying gravity, bags under his eyes taking the hit instead. Perfectly crisp clothes, black and grey. His fingers were on his neck, checking his pulse. He his eyes over shaky, shattered breaths. I stood still. “Can you stop staring at me please?” He checked his on pulse his wrist now. I looked at the tiles I knew so well from all the scrubbing, holding my breath. He took his ‘meditative breaths.’ Tightrope breaths. The last station in the morning circuit was the lymph nodes, before he’d go around again and again. Checking and checking. Just in case. Just in case. Just in case. Just in - “Dino. What are you doing?” “I’m thirsty.” I said to the floor, sliding to the cabinet and not knowing what to do because I couldn’t reach and he couldn’t see me get up on the counter like I do. “You could just ask.” I opened my mouth to say ‘okay.’ but it got jammed somewhere in my throat. The glass of water trembled in his wimpy hand. He checked his pulse again. A bee-line quiet sock-slide to the stairs and - “Wait.” He said. I stopped. Quiet. “Come here.” I sock-slid slowly. “Hurry up.” I looked at his feet, the yellow toe-nails like diving boards over the tile. “I didn’t forget your birthday.” “I know. The twenty dollars...on the fridge.” “Where is that twenty dollars now?” “In my room.” “Go get it. You’re trading it for a fifty. This is a big birthday, and your mom’s not here, I know.” I froze. “Dino?” “Ok.” I said, scurrying up the immaculate carpet. My lock clicked. It must have echoed into the kitchen. He knew. He’d march up here. The pot was sitting there all dirty, ugly, germy, lonely, hazardously. I scooped it up and placed it on the highest shelf in my closet. He’d smell it, or hear it, or see it with his x-ray vision. The shiny green fruit snack wrappers were lying around the floor like precious jewels, stolen. Just as my hand landed on the last wrapper he reached the restricted door knob. “One second, I was changing.” I threw the wrappers in my drawer and opened. “Those are the same clothes.” Frozen, again. Words piled up in my throat and made me nauseous like hot-dog puke. “So, where’s the twenty?” “I lost it.” “What? What have I told you about losing things?” He saw my green bedspread was laid lazy and crooked. “I bet you haven’t folded your clothes.” He opened a drawer, three away from the wrappers. Open. Open. Wrappers - laying over perfectly folded clothes. “I’m sorry. I was going to clean it. I swear. I just had to get the water. I was thirsty. It’s my birthday, anyway.” The words spilled like puke. “Excuses. What is wrong with you?” I took a queasy breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” He took the wrappers, suffocating them in his sickly hands. “Start thinking about someone other than yourself. Show some gratitude. Here, here’s your fifty. Cause you so deserve it.” He tore it out of his wallet and sliced the air.  “It’s disgusting in here.” “I know...” I stammered, unable to reach up for the money. “God. What is wrong with you?” He snatched my hand and thrust the fifty in it. I dropped it. He left me like a helpless weed, stuck to the ground. Burning tears swam around in me like secret sharks everywhere but my eyes. What was wrong with me? The house and I held our breath for the rest of the slow-ticking day. It was me on the same spot, wondering if while the Dinosaur grew into a giant with watery eyes, I’d really become a weed and not be able to reach out for it. It would step on me. Dad would frantically clean me up and I’d lay folded up in the ketchup-banana peel-coffee ground trash with no way out. Before sleep I checked the plant. The soil hadn’t budged. “I know you’re shy.” I whispered. “Wanna know a secret?” It listened. “Me too. So shy. Especially around my dad...He doesn’t seem to...like me very much.” It cared. “I don’t know if you heard what he said earlier…but I wish I didn’t mess up so much. I try to keep it all good and clean but…” A few shark tears came thrashing out of my eyes when I least expected it. I threw the pot back on the shelf, wiping them away quickly. Laying in the dark my ears became eyes. I could see the sound of silence, hanging like drapes, and a sudden sound of something slithering through it. It hovered above my face, something long and finger-like, until it reached my shoulder and took hold of me, its muscles clenching in a thin wormy string, sliding behind my body, wrapping around my ribs. Electric fear.   When I squirmed it clenched tighter and swung another layer of itself around my arms, pinning them to my sides. My wind pipes became chewed straws, flat and thin. The squeeze got tighter. My breaths got smaller. My heart stopped electrocuting me and simmered into a lazy puddle. The wrapping stopped when it reached my ankles. Dizzy. No cry escaped me.   Only the silence could speak this language. The creature smelled like sweet herbs. My stomach lurched against its grip, trying to pound its way out of my jailed body, to do what my puddle-heart gave up on. Drool fell from the corner of my mouth. My head filled with blood like a deer tick’s. The quiet cracked open. Dad’s wails poured through it. A helpless baby, needing to be rocked. The house quaked with the waves of his putrid pain. He was stomping up the stairs. Please find me. Nausea broke across the last of my physical awareness. Everything but my voice cried for help. Get me out. Get it off.   Outside my door he cried. There was the sound a pool makes, when the water is disturbed and laps on the sides. Waves. Why? They stirred loudly through the silence now. The opening door dumped light into my room. My father spilled in. He wept and the floor became soppy with his tears and the waves from the hallway. “Dino... “ He gasped. “I’m sick...I’m sick…” He gagged. Three inches of water laid on the floor now. I struggled to speak. Help me. Get me out. “Dino! LISTEN TO ME!”  He fell to his knees. The water was two feet tall now. “Dino...Dino...Dino…” He sobbed. My paintings floated dead in the water. It reached the top of my mattress now and curled under my back. Sharp and cold. “I’M SICK!” he hurled in my face. His rancid breath melting over me. “I’m so scared. Do you know what will happen? The doctors? Do you know what they do to people?” Help me. Please. “Your mother’s gone. And I’m dying. I can feel it.” “Why aren’t you listening to me?” he grabbed my body, shaking my shoulders, his hands angering the vine. It gave a final squeeze, breaking my ribs just as the water covered my face and filled my nostrils. He let go of me. He let go all together, letting himself float up in the water above me; a ghost. Terror was still etched on his unconscious face, outlining a screaming frown. My body grieved for the air. It was a burning rush. My mouth opened in the same horror as my fathers. Air. Air. Please air. The water pressed on me mercilessly. Dense like syrup. Float. If the vine wasn’t here I could float, like my dad, float out the window and spill back into the fluidity that is air. If the vine would get off GET OFF. Anger burned so hot it could set the vine on fire. The dinosaur never came. My creations only know how to destroy. I am destruction. Something light spread through me, sunny. That light peeled me from my trapped body and I floated above it, watching it lay there, eyebrows twitching. I felt pity for that person. I went through the ceiling, through the attic with the boxes of my paintings, all their color draining into the drowned house. I came to the roof, sitting in what would feel like air, but felt like nothing. There were no lungs anymore, just light.   The neighborhood houses were asleep.Just me. Until I saw another light reach through the roof, my Dad. He sat beside me. He felt new. “What happened?” I asked. “I flooded the whole damn thing, Dino.” “That’s ok…” “No it’s not. I haven’t been good. I haven’t been good at all.” “Yes you have. It’s not easy, living with all your fear, all the doctors, I know.” “It’s probably even harder to live with me.” He looked down, wilting. “I’m sorry. I love you.” Everything punched open. I couldn’t say it back. I couldn’t push it out. “Didn’t you see I was all tied up?” He looked at me “You were?” His eyes were full of color instead of empty pages. I looked at the blanket of darkness settling over the world instead. “Why didn’t you say so?” I held the tears with all my might. “I’m right here.” He hugged me, lighter than light, no barrier of skin or bones anymore.   I smashed into crying. An eternal, silent universe of home passed by - and then - he said “We have to go back and find them. Those bodies.” “You hate having a body. Don’t you want to just leave it behind?” I asked. “No.” “Why not?” “Because I’d be leaving you behind. You’re worth the pain.” “I am?” “Of course.” “Then...then why am I not ever good enough?” “You’re perfect, now. I was the one who.... I’m just so sorry.” We sifted back into my room. The vine had let my real body go. Dad’s body hovered over mine, arms reaching desperately into the water. I took my bodies limp hand and lead it down to the front door, where air could reach it, finally. I crawled back into myself like a cosy parka. I was heavier than I recalled, but sturdy as well. Dad returned to his body, too, standing up and looking at me. The way he did before the roof. The way I knew so well. Like the roof never happened. He opened the front door. Water flooded into the midnight world, knocking him down like a bowling pin. I didn’t look back, running forever, leaving the puddle of a person I knew for just one night.

[advotproject]

Chips

February 5, 2015

I am a Jewish mother; I thrive on feeding. I am from the Middle East – we are offended if you don’t eat our food. I served two years in the Israeli Army. I know what it is like NOT to have the food you like at reach. I am a carb and sugar girl, and I love to nosh. I know what it is like to want something to eat and not be able to have it. Chocolate is a food group in my world.

In my work with incarcerated youth, food has played a role in establishing trust, showing my love, proving that my word can be relied upon, and really just filling that sweet need. I used to bring snacks every week, a little bit of a bribe and a lot about just doing something special for my girls. This round of workshops I was not allowed to do that. Somewhere something happened, and such it is in places like this – now food is not permitted. I kicked, I begged, I nudged. Oy, did I nudge. Finally, the director allowed me to bring a treat three times:

1. When we reach the midway point of the program 2. The day of the show 3. At our last meeting

I take what I can get. He realizes he doesn’t have a choice. Today was the midway point. I brought doughnuts, Taki Chips (very, very spicy chips) and lemonade. The overly tattooed boy at Vons smiled, “Now that’s a party, ha, ha, nothing healthy!” I have a pang of guilt, but let it go. I used to have a deal, that out of every few snacks I bring, one would be healthy. Not because I am pushing the healthy food, I tell the girls, but just to give an option, to invite the possibility of yogurt, fruit and maybe some granola to enter their world. To which one 16-year-old who was five months pregnant said, “This healthy shit? Is actually good Ms.” They loved the fresh fruit.

I would try to get things I know they don’t have many chances to taste like papaya, kiwi. I introduced them to new tastes. It was exciting and funny for them and me. But today was a little different. This is a tough group. I want them to see that I see them, respect them. I get them what I know will surprise them, and make them happy. I want to comfort them. God, how I want to comfort them. So, I buy the unhealthy food, some might not approve. Ah, but my girls? Well, they are elated. We wrote poetry today. It was deep and a little intense and we ended with food. We sat around a long table; there was laughter and an abundance of joy. I carefully pass out the chips, put in a bowl for each girl, and although I like spicy food, this is too intense for me. I am very careful not to touch anything with my fingers.

“Aren’t you having some Ms.?” “I can’t eat this. It’s too spicy for me,” I say. “If I even touch my fingers, I’m finished.” They think that is hilarious. Then it is quiet. “Ms? Why did you get it if you can’t eat it?” “Because you eat it.” Again quiet. “Wow, that’s a lot of money to get this for us.” “Not really,” I say. (ALL of the food together cost less than 30 dollars). “NO it’s a lot,” they are adamant. “Wow.” “Thank you, thank you.” Oh, so many thank yous. And then it happened, the one I have been trying to get to, the one who barely smiles, walked over stood real close to me and whispered, “You got me my favorite.” I take a deep breath and smile. “You deserve it. You have been doing a great job, and we are half way through the program.” “You got me my favorite,” she says again, and there it was, a smile.

I have been waiting five weeks. It is the tough ones, I know, that are the ones who have been hurt the most. They are the ones I need to win the trust of, and when they smile? I know they are ready to let me in. And, if they do not let me in, at least they can give the tough mask a rest.

“Ah ha,” I said. “Be careful, be careful, it’s showing, it is showing,” I say. “What?” She says in a panic. “YOUR SMILE!”

That makes her laugh. She finally looked her age. “You should do that more often,” I say. “You have a beautiful smile.” And in a heartbeat she gives me that street look. “Don’t do that,” I say. “Now you look like you’re going to steal my car.” We both burst out laughing. “You’re funny, Ms.” she says. “And, you brought me my favorite food,” she smiles again. She cleans up the trash, takes my bag and walks me to the office. It’s the little things. It is an intention. It is paying attention. It is sometimes as simple as a bag of chips. So this week, figure out someone’s chips, and give it to them. Give them their favorite, and make them smile. I promise you, you will smile more.

[trendingnewsb]

30+ “Pics Or It Didn’t Happen” Moments When People Had Images To Prove Their Impossible Stories

How Is That Even Possible?

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It’s As If It Was Meant To Be

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I Walk Through The Park And Suddenly I Saw This

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Kansas City Fire Department Saves Kansas City Police Department From Elevator

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“When Your Three Year Old Tells Man At Mcdonald’s That His Pants Are Falling Down.” Friend’s Photo

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When I Was 11 I Played Chess With Morgan Freeman

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Upon Arriving To Help Get My Keys Out Of My Car, The AAA Guy Locked His Keys In His Car And Had To Call AAA

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A Gorilla Flipped Me Off, So I Flipped Him Off In Return And He Was Very Offended

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My Aunt Got Some New Neighbors Who Came By To Introduce Themselves Today.

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I Go Walking, After Midnight, Out In The Moonlight

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Sorry Class, My Dog Ate Everyone’s Homework

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Photo My Mom Took Today. Deer Slipping On Ice

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Paddling In The Middle Of Monterey Bay, And This Guy Needed A Break

Sandwich Shop Offers Liam Neeson Free Food, Liam Neeson Show Up

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I Think A Squirrel Fell Off My Roof

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Girlfriend Saw A Rainbow Pigeon In London

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On The Boat With My Family And I Was Sitting On The Edge To Get A Good Photo Of The Water And Me And Two Dolphins And It’s Calf Jumped Out Of The Water And This Image Was Caught At The Perfect Time

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I Love Retail

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My Bus Driver Looks Almost Exactly Like Walter White From Breaking Bad

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Hadn’t Seen My Bff In A Couple Of Years. After An 8 Hour Drive, I Got Out Of The Car As She Walked Out Of The House. In The Same Damn Shirt

My Buddy Went To A Wedding Last Weekend And This Swan Wouldn’t Stop Staring At Him Through The Door

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Mom Told Me The Rooster Was After Her Today. Had To Check Security Camera To Verify

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An Owl Flew Into My Car Once, In Las Vegas, While The Car Was Moving With The Windows Open. I Spent A Solid 3 Hours Figuring Out How To Get This Out Of My Car

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When I Was A Young Comedian, Robin Williams Stopped In To Do A Surprise Set On A Show I Was Hosting. Talked To Him For 20 Minutes After The Show. Then I Handed My Friend A Camera (Not A Phone, That’s How Long Ago It Was) And Asked Robin For A Picture. He Gave Me A Huge Bear Hug And Said “How About Now?” What A Sweet Guy

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Buddy Of Mine Calls Me To Tell Me He Just Rolled His Jeep Through A Telephone Pole. I Said Pics Or It Didn’t Happen. He Sent Me This

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So This Happened In Northern Wisconsin

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Heard Something Going On In The Kitchen Then Heard Screams Of Bloody Murder. Walked In And Saw This. A Goat Stuck In My Trash Can

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I Went Away To Nerd Fitness Camp And Really Took To The Archery Portion. In Some Freak Shot, I Managed To Shoot The Edge Of A Balloon Without Popping It. The Instructor Never Saw Anything Like It

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My Friend Texted Me Saying She Was Watching A Squirrel Eat A Pizza In A Tree. I Said, “Pics Or It Didn’t Happen.” She Replied With This

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Went To An Ax Throwing Booth At A Regional Highland Games And Threw An Ax Into Another Ax That Was Already On The Target

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My Girlfriend Happened To Catch All 3 Stages In A Ladybugs Life Cycle On A Single Leaf

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I Snuck In To A Volcom Release Party By Wearing A Grocery Store Receipt

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Chuck Norris Pinned By My Dad

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I Had 3 Different Colored Squirrels In My Yard

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After Sixteen Years Of Driving Past This Sign, It Finally Happened

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I’ve Been Looking For This Forever. Finally Found It At My Parents House. Here’s My Twin Brother Eating Pizza With Some Famous Twins In 1991. When I Was In 10th Grade My High School Friends Didn’t Believe That Mary Kate And Ashley Olsen Used To Be Friends With My Twin Brother And I

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I Was Taking Fresh Air At The Window When Suddenly

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Proposed To My Girlfriend And Realized There Is A Heart In Our Shadows

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Saw This Caterpillar At Work Today That Has Little Penguins On Its Back

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After Eight Hours Of Balancing Stones On The Beaches Of Lake Superior Yesterday, I Was Exhausted. Then I Saw This Big White Rock, Got Re-Inspired, And Created One More Piece, The Favorite Of The Day

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Johnny Depp Was In My In-Laws’ Wedding Band, 1982

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This Happened Unexpectedly To My Dad’s Friend In Idaho Circa 1980 While He Was Leaning Into His Car To Get Something

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I Once Bought A Disposable Camera. There Was A Picture Taken Already

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I Was Mowing My Lawn And Came Across This Pink Grasshopper

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Sitting On The Couch With A Headache And An Ice Pack On My Head When My Girlfriend Tells Me Not To Move

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Dude Just Picked Up A Goose And Casually Walked Away With It When I Was Feeding Ducks With My Kids. Turns Out He Raised The Geese From When They Were Babies And Just Holds Them About Every Day

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A Butterfly With ’89’ On The Side Of Its Wing Landed On My Shorts

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I Was Playing With My Cat When This Happend. She’s Sucking Her “Thumb”

I Threw A Dorito On The Ground And It Landed On Its Side

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Found A 94 Year Old Dollar On The Ground

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Normal Day In Australia… Just Witnessed The Local Police In Hot Pursuit Of Two Emus

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My Dad Was Petting A Tiger And Taking Pictures. The Tiger Didn’t Like That Apparently And Got Ahold Of His Wrist. He Thought To Himself “I Might As Well Take The Last Picture Of Hand While It’s Attached To My Arm.” He Was Able To Free Himself

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Someone Pretended To Be Tom Cruise In A Small Chicken Shop In North Eastern Thailand And Is Remembered There Forever

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I Was Eating Lunch In The Local Park When I Heard A Rustling Sound Under The Bench I Was Sat On. Then A Squirrel Ran Out From Underneath It Carrying A Full Doughnut, Sat On The Grass In Front Of Me And Proceeded To Eat The Entire Thing

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2 Steps Into Walking Down The Aisle. He Said ‘Goddamit Jeri, Did My Pants Just Fall Down?’

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Looked Out My Window At Work And Saw This

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So This Just Happened

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Today Is The Proudest Day Of My Life. I Successfully Took A Picture Of Me High Fiving Myself

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My Husband Left For Work One Morning, Took The Train. When He Got Back To The Car After A Long Day At Work He Found Our Bunny Sitting Under The Car In The Parking Lot. The Train Station Is A 20min Drive From Our Home, No Idea How It Got There! He Managed To Catch The Bunny, And Bring It Back Home

My Mom Rehabilitates Large Cats, As In Lions Tigers Jaguars Cougars Etc… She Always Has Scratches On Her Arms And Legs And No One Ever Believed Our Family When She Told Them Why

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Spotted This Little Guy Holding On For Dear Life On My Way Into Work This Morning

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So This Happened To My Neighbor Last Night… Don’t Drive Drunk

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It’s So Cold Right Now That I Can’t Even Flush The Toilet

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I Crawled Into A Bear Cave With Two Cousins To Video Tape Hibernating Bears When I Was A Teenager…they Were Not Asleep. Our Parents Destroyed The Tape In Hopes That It Would Prevent Future Stupidity, But These Pictures Survived

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A Little Over Two Years Ago I Took A Selfie With A Google Car And It Ended Up On Googlemaps

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So I’m In The Taco Bell Drive Through And He Jumps Through My Car Window And Into My Lap. Meet Jose

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A Buck Decided To Lay Down By My University’s Library Windows

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from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2CguHwY via Viral News HQ

[spookybooscarystorytime]

Death by Dark Web Feederism by Spooky Boo

New Post has been published on http://www.scarystorytime.com/purgatory/death-by-dark-web-feederism-by-spooky-boo.html

Death by Dark Web Feederism by Spooky Boo

This story is going through editing. I lost the original text and this is taken through auto transcription. It will be completed soon. For now, listen to the podcast or the video. Enjoy!

I have always been a sucker for a good

feederism show. I have this addiction to

food and even though it will make me fat.

I just want to keep eating and eating. I

limit myself though as I don’t want to be

overweight so I enjoy watching other

people consume copious amounts of food

for their own pleasure.

The videos always seem so fake.

Time after time I would run into a cam

girl or a porn show where either she

would be real fat and just eat on the

cam or the porn show would be mostly

about porn and no real intention of the

person getting fatter and fatter.

I wanted to see a person gorge on food. I

wanted to see how much they could handle

before they gave up so I started visiting theaters and forums and asking

around. Everyone was really quite clueless no one really understood what I

wanted. They were all into the fantasy as

well and didn’t want to show their faces

on cam nor did they have anyone to feed

them. I was so bummed.

“Doesn’t anyone really eat and get fat a command?”

I screamed on the keyboard in one forum

my yahoo messenger chimed at me I looked

at Yahoo and there was an ID requesting

a chat I didn’t recognize but the name

was Chowdown two four six zero zero one.

I was quite intrigued by them so I

accepted the request yes I quizzed I can

help you the absent voice on the other

end typed help me with wet there was a

short pause and then chao sent a picture

of a man tied up on a chair dressed in a

gimp suit it was tied up in his stomach

was swelling in such a way there was no

way it was normal what is this another

porn show

I quickly typed a little annoyed not at

all this is a live show about to happen

right now

suddenly a download file popped up on my

screen download this file click on the

server fat s BDSM and type in the

passcode a purse and 3d f20 a app it

will let you in not really carry if it

was a virus or not I downloaded the file

and opened it for a moment nothing

happened then a server browser popped up

with many different server names and

numbers I scrolled through the list

until I found fat ass BDSM and clicked

on it within a few moments a dialog

popped up asking for the password I

typed it in and waited suddenly a large

window popped up with a different guy

sitting in the chair he was a bit fatter

than the other there were two windows

next to his picture one with the list of

names and the other with a chat these

people were participating in I looked at

the names and realized they were the

pass codes used hmm anonymous I liked

that I smiled the man in the chair had a

leather mask over his head and a mouth

and eyes completely cut out the rest of

his body was naked except for the boxers

his hands were bound behind his back and

his legs are bound to the legs of the

chair I could see a smile on his face

through the cut leather a woman walked

into the room she was dressed like a

housewife in the 1950s her black hair

was pulled up into a ponytail and her

1950s dress looked like she was about

ready to go to a sock hop

she wore five-inch heels with bobby

socks and a plaid skirt this was really

becoming amusing I was about to log off

then she rolled a table into the room on

the table was an assortment of food from

Donuts to a huge pan of lasagna there

was so much food that no way anyone

could eat the whole thing

feet of donuts one of the chatters spoke

up she started to feed the man the

doughnuts one at a time he chewed them

up and swallowed like nothing was going

on make him drink a soda

another chowder typed she smiled

grab the back of his mask it pulled his

head back she started pouring soda into

his mouth until he gagged and chipped

when he spit it out she slapped him soda

was dribbling down his chin and making a

big mess on the floor when he burped say

excuse me bitch someone typed she

slapped him again say excuse me

he did then the text started to get

violent hey bitch give the fat fuck more

she wagged her finger at the cameras of

condemning the swearing and picked up a

bunch of lasagna with her hands and

started shoving it into his mouth pile

after pile of lasagna went into his

mouth and he chewed and swallowed until

he couldn’t take any more he started to

rush and she slapped him if he wretches

again punch him in the gut she shoved

more soda and lasagna into his mouth and

he started to gag she punched him in the

gut twice he stopped and accepted more

food this time somehow managing to keep

it down as she poured more soda down his

throat tears started to squeeze to the

bottom of his mask his bare stomach was

getting so big that it possibly couldn’t

be normal

I was curious why this guy wasn’t

vomiting yet because that was something

I did not want to see why hasn’t he

puked yet I typed immediately regretting

what I wrote she gave me a wicked grin

then poured more soda down his throat

and started smacking him over and over

again until he retched and let out soda

all over the floor he tried again but

she held a smell shut he spasmed and

voluntarily until the feelings of cited

I supposed

dump all of that pie in his mouth the

man screamed something that sounded like

safe word safe word but she shook her

head no kill him with the food the

commands were going one after the other

it was revolting and scary this wasn’t

be tourism this was murder

make him eat and die save word he bawled

and tried to jump from the chair his

restraints held him as he crashed to the

floor he stared right at me I could see

the pain in his eyes the woman brought

out a funnel and a tube then attached it

to his head and a halter and held the

funnel with her hand while she held him

down with her foot she started pouring

the chocolate milk mixture into the

funnel and as he swallowed and swallowed

it was gone the next one started and he

continued to try and drink but his eyes

were bulging and his stomach was so

stretched that it looked like it would

burst he kept on drinking the chatter

started to put up dollar figures in the

chat window

it started with twenty five dollars and

then went up to nine hundred and ninety

five then stayed for two minutes while

she continued to fill him up with

chocolate mix there was a bell sound in

the room it was the first time she spoke

it sounded that maybe she was rushing

995 is the top bid what would you like

the patron five-string 3 as 0-1 took a

moment to type it out in the words of

horror across the screen took me by

surprise pour the mix in his funnel

until his stomach ruptures

I heard it too Ching sound and the words

winner were now next to five string 3s 0

– one’s name a short man about 4 foot 3

filled in a lot of chocolate mix already

made and set it beside the woman the

man’s eyes bulged from his mask as tears

welled up in his eyes from the looks of

it he was begging us to stop but no one

would I tried to look away from the

screen but then I wondered if it was all

even real it’s probably fake I laughed

myself she looked right at me and

started to pour the first jug down the

tube it’s not fake Randy would you like

to be next my heart pounded at her words

somehow she knew my name she heard my

voice I watched as she poured jug after

jug into the poor guy’s throat until he

violently convulsed and stopped his head

turned toward us his blood and chocolate

poured from his mouth and he choked soon

the light from his eyes dissipated and

he was gone do you she laughed and

pointed at the camera I quickly shut off

the laptop and vomited into the trashcan

next to my desk I had heard of this

happening on the dark web before but I

didn’t know I was there I wiped the

machine and trashed the hard drive I

never wanted to be near that again a few

days later I got a call on my cell phone

are you ready to play Randy the familiar

Russian woman asked I threw the phone

against the brick wall and left town I

never returned

[tonyduncanbb73]

August 2017 in Review, From So Much Pizza to ‘Grief Bacon’ and Chicken ‘Wangz’

The month in openings, closings, top news, and more

August 2017 saw plenty of restaurant openings, including tons of pizza (1000 Degrees Neapolitan, Blaze, Unchained, Oath Craft, Sweet Tomatoes), a number of out-of-town chains (those first two pizza spots, plus Caffe Nero, Wagamama, and more), a variety of cafes and other all-day dining options, and more.

On the closure side, it was a quiet month, but a few longtime spots did say goodbye, including Jamaica Plain dive bar Drinking Fountain and the Fireplace in Brookline. Fort Point’s popular Tavern Road, which opened four years ago, also closed in August.

Read on for a summary of August 2017, including the most-read news stories and maps, the openings, and the closings.

Jump to: Most-Read Stories | Top Maps & Guides | Openings | Closings

Most-Read Stories

Facebook

A Halal Guys meal

Tavern in the Square Disappears From Cambridge: The locations in Porter and Central squares are now closed.

Tavern Road Is Closing in Fort Point: August 26 was the final day.

Alton Brown Appreciates Boston’s Hand-Pulled Noodles and Sardine-Filled Wine Bars: Tell him where to eat when he returns to the city in October.

Brookline’s About to Get a (Self-Described) Best Burger Bar: The enthusiastically named restaurant opens August 10 with boozy milkshakes and dry-aged beef.

The Fireplace Is Closing (for Real This Time) After 16 Years: August 31 was the final day for the Brookline restaurant.

The Halal Guys Finally Brings Its Coveted Gyros to Boston in September: Get ready for piles of chicken, hummus, and baba ghanoush.

1000 Degrees Neapolitan Pizza Fires Up Downtown Boston Tomorrow: Opening day includes free pizza, cooked in two minutes.

Look Inside Explorateur, Opening Today in the Historic Masonic Lodge: All-day dining and a France-meets-California menu.

Boston Restaurants Respond to This Weekend’s ‘Free Speech’ Rally: Some are making donations to groups such as the Southern Poverty Law Center.

A Restaurant Whose Name Means ‘Grief Bacon’ Opens in Worcester: With house-made sausage, charcuterie, and more.

Top Maps & Guides

Katie Chudy for Eater

White Trash Hash at Lulu’s Allston

The Hottest Restaurants in Boston Right Now, August 2017: The Heatmap is updated monthly; the August update included the addition of Café du Pays, Pammy’s, Ruckus, and Yellow Door Taqueria.

The Hottest Brunches in Boston Right Now, August 2017: The Brunch Heatmap is also updated monthly; the August update included the addition of Buttermilk & Bourbon and Pagu.

64 New Boston Restaurants to Check Out This Fall: We’ll continue to update this guide throughout the fall with updates on new restaurants opening throughout Boston and beyond.

The Ultimate $1 Oyster Guide, Late Summer 2017: Where to find dollar oyster deals in Boston and beyond.

A Handy Map of Boston-Area Barbecue Joints: So much meat.

Vital Brunch Spots to Know in Boston: Whether you’re up for a classic dish, dim sum, or something with a little Southern flare, here are some essential Boston-area brunches that’ll knock your socks off.

33 Essential Boston Coffee Shops: Start your caffeine adventure here.

The Cocktail Heatmap: Where to Drink Right Now, August 2017: The Cocktail Heatmap is also updated monthly; the August update included the addition of Cafe Artscience, Cantina La Mexicana, and Yellow Door Taqueria.

The Eater Boston Event Guide: Updated weekly, this guide provides recommendations for food events to attend in the coming weeks.

Where to Watch College Football and NFL in Boston: Watch sports, drink beer, eat wings.

Openings

Facebook

Meatballs from Certified Meatball Co.

110 Grill (1175 Main St., Haverhill, Boston): This location chain accommodates gluten-free and other special diets and has a bunch more locations on the way.

1000 Degrees Neapolitan Pizza (45 Court St., Downtown Boston): The first Boston location for this New Jersey-based pizza chain.

Assaggio Restaurant (29 Prince St., North End, Boston): Now owned by DePasquale Ventures, this Italian restaurant reopened in August with a new menu and a new look.

Balance Patch Video Game Cafe (1031 Commonwealth Ave., Allston, Boston): A gaming cafe near Packard’s Corner with sandwiches, coffee, and more.

Best Burger Bar (195 Washington St., Brookline Village): Burgers, dogs, and chicken “wangz” in the former Middle Gray space, plus a cocktail list by Brother Cleve.

Blaze Pizza (961 Commonwealth Ave., Boston): An ever-expanding counter-service pizza chain that counts LeBron James among its investors.

Caffe Nero (416 W. Broadway, South Boston): Yet another location of this London-based, Italy-inspired cafe chain has opened in Boston.

Certified Meatball Company (429 W. Broadway, South Boston): A ball-filled restaurant from the group behind Wink & Nod, Southern Kin, and more.

Cheeky Monkey Brewing Company (3 Lansdowne St., Fenway, Boston): A brewpub with a street food-inspired menu, replacing Tequila Rain by Fenway.

Curds & Co. (288 Washington St., Brookline Village): A high-tech cheese shop (there’s an app involved) that serves grilled cheese, cheese plates, and some other prepared foods.

Curry House (102 Water St., Downtown Boston): This Indian restaurant also has a Brookline location.

Davis Square Hand Crafted Donuts & Bagels (377 Summer St., Davis Square, Somerville): Long-planned doughnut and bagel joint in Davis.

Evy Tea (1 Monument Ave., Charlestown, Boston): This is the second brick-and-mortar location for the growing cold-brew tea company.

Explorateur (186 Tremont St., Downtown Boston): France-meets-California cuisine and an all-day cafe in the Masonic Lodge by the Common from a restaurant group that typically opens more club-oriented spots.

Honeycomb Cafe (107 Savin Hill Ave., Dorchester, Boston): Breakfast and lunch — featuring Iggy’s Bread, Union Coffee Roaster, and other local producers — in the former home of an ice cream shop.

Intrepid Cafe (150 First St., East Cambridge): A cafe featuring Mem Tea tea, Danish Pastry House baked goods, and Bread Obsession breads.

Kummerspeck (118 Water St., Worcester): A very meaty restaurant, featuring charcuterie, sandwiches, and more; the name (“grief bacon” in German) idiomatically refers to emotional eating.

Milkweed (1508 Tremont St., Mission Hill, Boston): A restaurant serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner, from the owners of Blarney Stone in Dorchester.

Moon Bar (304 Stuart St., Back Bay, Boston): Mooncusser Fish House’s more casual downstairs counterpart, serving soft-shell crab BLTs, lobster rolls, and more.

Oath Craft Pizza (181 Massachusetts Ave., Central Square, Cambridge): This Nantucket-based pizza chain keeps growing; this location is right by Saloniki in the Novartis building.

Punjab (485 Massachusetts Ave., Arlington): This Indian restaurant had been closed for 18 months due to damage from a burst pipe; it reopened in August.

Spring Shabu-Shabu (304 Western Ave., Brighton): A hot pot restaurant that took over the former home of Maki Maki, a sushi restaurant.

Sweet Tomatoes (1279 Washington St., West Newton): Over a year after a tragic car crash that killed two customers and injured others inside the restaurant, this pizzeria has reopened.

Taste Wine Bar & Cafe (101 Summer St., Downtown Boston): A wine bar and cafe with an accompanying wine and cheese shop.

Teamoji (3 North Beacon St., Allston, Boston): The replacement for Tealosophy, serving bubble tea, ice cream in puffle cones, ice cream in fish-shaped pancake cones, and more.

Tous Les Jours (152 Harvard Ave., Allston, Boston): The third Massachusetts location of a South Korean-based chain that serves French and Asian treats.

Unchained Pizza (505 Adams St., Quincy): At long last, the original location of this pizzeria has reopened; it now has a Dorchester sibling as well.

Union Street Restaurant (107 Union St., Newton): This Newton staple briefly closed for some renovations and promptly reopened under new ownership.

Verts Mediterranean Grill (267 Washington St., Downtown Crossing, Boston): The third Massachusetts location for the Texas-based fast-casual chain.

Wagamama (100 Northern Ave., Seaport District, Boston): This is the third Boston location of the UK-based noodle chain that is currently open; a longtime Harvard Square one closed shortly before this opened.

Closings

Official Site

Roasted pineapple roll at Haru Sushi

Dot 2 Dot Cafe (1739 Dorchester Ave., Dorchester, Boston): This cafe opened in 2008, serving breakfast and lunch as well as hosting live music and other events.

Drinking Fountain (3250 Washington St., Jamaica Plain, Boston): This classic dive bar first opened in the 1940s and had been under the same ownership since 1977.

The Fireplace (1634 Beacon St., Washington Square, Brookline): After a false alarm a few years back, the Fireplace closed in August after a 16-year run; the space will reportedly become a Mediterranean seafood restaurant.

Haru (55 Huntington Ave., Back Bay, Boston): This New York-based sushi restaurant closed its only Boston location in August; six New York locations remain.

Lanes & Games (195 Concord Tpke., Cambridge): This bowling alley, restaurant, and bar said goodbye in August after decades in business; it’ll be replaced by an apartment building.

The Playwright (658 E. Broadway, South Boston): This popular Southie bar closed after 17 years, but it is expected to reopen with a new name and renovated space soon.

Spotlight Tavern (208 Rantoul St., Beverly): This North Shore restaurant and music venue closed suddenly in August.

Tavern in the Square (1815 Massachusetts Ave., Porter Square, Cambridge; 730 Massachusetts Ave., Central Square, Cambridge): Both Cambridge locations of this local pub chain have closed. The Porter Square space will be home to a new Shaking Crab location, while the Central Square one has already reopened as 730 Tavern, Kitchen & Patio.

Tavern Road (343 Congress St., Fort Point, Boston): Brothers Louis and Michael DiBiccari closed their popular four-year-old restaurant and bar in August.