#i had to make it grainy cos quality wasn’t the best but i think it still looks cute

[aboutmetamorphosis]

HARRY STYLES • SNL Photoshoot Outtake (2019) • Colourised Version

[iartlife]

Chapter Three

Pt. IV

THE KING

Hans and Officer Gladstone had ran back up to his house by the resort. He was convinced if there was any wolfsbane in a hundred mile radius of the area it would be in his old workshop. He had no idea where to even start looking if he didn't happen to have any, so this was their best bet to start.

The search began fruitless. However, he did find some witch hazel in a cabinet. His opa's gas mask from World War Two along with other items that belonged to him cluttered up the surrounding area. An old picture was jutting haphazardly out of a journal. A line of combat boots along the visible edge of the photo.

Curiosity drove Hans to pull it the rest of the way out. On it was a man that looked like his son Liam; his opa as a young man. A poor quality photo but he could make out enough of his features. He was standing with five other men, all in uniform. To his left was another man who had eyes Hans would recognize anywhere. Hans didn't know he had fought in the war with him, for Opa never talked about the war. His eyes looked sad but determined.

"Is that your father?" Gladstone asked.

"Grandfather."

She squinted at the picture. "Oh."

"My son looks a lot like him."

"That's so weird. Genetics are interesting." She pointed at the man standing next to him in the photo. "That guy looks really familiar. Another relative of yours?"

"He's-" Hans didn't know if he should tell her, but what else would he say? "the one we called earlier."

She processed that for a moment. "So, Gamble's at least a hundred years old."

"Gamble?"

"Yeah, that's the name I gave him. You told me to make one up." She was examining the photo. He wasn't sure what she thought she would find. "Technically you made it up, but it's got that 'unknown motives' feel I was wanting to give him in the report."

Hans frowned as he tried to recall the conversation.

"You must really not like him. You make a face like he's slimy and twisted when he gets brought up."

"Well, no one ever believes me when I tell them not to trust him. He's been a 'family friend' for over a hundred years, but I think he's older."

"He a vampire? Is that rivalry a real thing?"

"Wh- your theories are interesting..." Hans tried not to laugh. "It's possible I guess. He doesn't smell like a vampire, though. He doesn't smell like anything actually..."

"Alright, why don't you trust him?"

"Oh, well uh," Hans was trying to remember something that actually had happened other than 'I don't like the way he looks at people' or 'he gives me the creeps.' "I just don't. He's tricky. I don't see how anyone could ever like him."

Gladstone continuing to study the photo. Probably trying to make out details despite it being so grainy. "Whats all over his face?"

Something hit the outside of the shop.

Hans flew outside and stopped about halfway between the door and the edge of the forest. When he turned around he saw a makeshift javelin, probably fashioned from a small branch, stuck to the side of the wall with a small glass jar hanging from it. Tinted clear liquid with a blue pulp like substance floating around in it.

"Very funny!" Hans yelled to the woods. "You better not be on my land!"

Gladstone looked understandably surprised when she popped out of the door. "What happened?" She looked when he pointed at the jar hanging next to the door. "What is th-" She didn't finish.

"Gamble, if I had to guess." He huffed.

Her eyes got huge. "He's here!?"

"Somewhere." Hans nodded to the deadly mixture. "Neither of us should touch it. Probably not even the jar. Do you have any gloves?"

"Maybe."

Gladstone rummaged through the cruiser and returned with a plastic bag. She turned it inside out to put the jar in without risking it making contact with her skin. She cut the rope with a pocket knife once she had a good hold. "You don't care that he was following us?"

"Kind of but at least he's helping. He did all the hard work for us."

She tied the plastic closed. "But what do we do about him?"

"Nothing."

"Why not?"

"If you want to stalk the only stalker no one can find, be my guest. But, if you drop off the face of the earth don't say I didn't warn you."

They got back into the cruiser. "You're not going to help me?"

"Not with that, I like being on the face of the earth."

Disappointment showed on her face. "And you're sure it was him?"

"Without a doubt."

"Do you at least know where I can start?"

"Here, apparently," he gesture to their surroundings. "Maybe eavesdropping from anywhere within a half mile or so. He could also be back up the mountain by now. It's pointless."

The drive back to Parkvale was silent except about halfway back Gladstone said, "I'm going to find him. He's suspicious enough to at least question."

When they returned to the police station they headed to the interrogation room Nate was in. Hans took the jar out of the bag, his hand protected with a latex glove he found in the car, the other covered his nose. Nate smelled worse than before, if that was even possible.

"What are you doing?" The nurse asked.

"Saving his life." Gladstone replied.

Gladstone held his head back as Hans poured the contents of the jar into Nate's mouth. He didn't seem to react much less swallow.

"Did it work?" Asked Gladstone.

Before Hans could respond, Nate inhaled suddenly and deeply. His eyes widened and he snapped the restraints that kept him bound to the table and landed on the ground between them, coughing up blood and thrashing on the floor. The three of them kneeled down to hold him still.

Hans looked at Gladstone. "We'll have to wait and see."

A man entered the room, thanking the officer that allowed him through. He was wearing a nice suit and carried a briefcase. The three on the ground stared at him, a bit confused.

"Hello, my name is Co-Warden Stacy McMillan. I work at the Kincaid Maximum Security Prison. We would like to hold your prisoner for you." He paused and waited for someone to respond but no one did. "The Warden has been working on some cells. He has custom designed a few for oddly specific abnormalities that I think might suit your situation perfectly."

"We haven't even confirmed he is the killer. The DNA test hasn't had any results yet." Gladstone said much more calmly than she looked. "How do you know so much?"

"I have my sources. I also know he attacked officers of the law. My offer is simply for your personal safety. You, and anyone on this case, would be more than welcome to see him for interrogations and such at any time you please, of course." Stacy smiled. It almost looked genuine.

Nate groaned and turned onto his side, still trembling a bit but no longer coughing up blood.

PREVIOUS | NEXT

MASTER

[corvid-knight]

How To Deal With Murder

For everyone who read Being A Brother Is Hard As Hell and wondered what the fuck Bro and D did...here's your answer.

(Read it on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13697835)

TT: Yo. D. TT: Tell me you're home right now, big bro.

TG: its your lucky day

TT: Ha. TT: It's really not. TT: I'm in the elevator. I'll be up in a minute. TT: You need to get out the first aid kit.

TG: bro whatd you get into this time?

TT: You'll see.

TG: not reassuring

TT: Yeah.

You stare at your phone and shake your head, rolling off the couch. Your brother isn't usually this cryptic, unless he's done something he really doesn't want you to know about. That fact, when taken with the fact that he started out by asking for help, means that something's really fucked up right now.

TG: dude come on whats going on

No answer. Damn it.

You have the first aid kit—the heavy-duty one that you put together, not the standard one that's just good for cuts and scrapes—laid out on the coffee table when he comes in. He doesn't slam the door, but carefully shuts it and locks it before coming to sit down.

"Hey. What happened?" you ask, leaning back to look your bro over. His shades are gone, but he's acquired a leather jacket that you don't recognize. The expression on his face is completely fucking neutral, a calmly blank look that makes him seem a hell of a lot older than nineteen.

"Hmm." It's a purely noncommittal noise, and it's all the answer you get as he unzips the jacket and gingerly strips it off. Now you see why he's wearing it—his white shirt's ripped at the collar, stained deep muddy red in two spots, one around his shoulder and one closer to his stomach than his chest.

Shit. Shit. Shit. That's a lot of blood.

"Derrick, we're going to the hospital."

"Nah. They report gunshot wounds to the cops." He shrugs and hisses quietly at the movement, pulling the fabric of his shirt away from his skin before shaking his head. "And don't fucking call me Derrick...it's ruined anyway; cut the fucker off."

"Gunshot wounds. What the fucking hell? Dude, I can't take a bullet out of you—"

"There's an entry and an exit, so you won't have to." He sighs impatiently and grabs the scissors off the table, clumsily cutting at the front of his shirt until you take them out of his hands. "Help me bandage this up. That's all you need to do."

"Derrick."

"I'll kick your ass, D," he warns, and you can tell from the flash of anger in his orange-gold eyes that he means it. He's always hated his name, way more than you dislike yours—you just shortened yours down to its first letter; he'll throw a fit if anyone uses his at all. Something about how pissed he's always been at the parents that foisted him off on you.

"You wish you could." The wound in his shoulder is a cut, deeper than you're comfortable with handling but not life-threatening. Probably not, anyway. "I'm perfectly capable of knocking you out and dragging your ass to the ER if you don't give me a reason not to. As in, tell me who the fuck I have to kill for doing this to you."

He laughs at that, one short sharp angry noise that almost scares you into dropping the scissors. "Nobody, trust me."

"What?"

Your brother shakes his head again, leans back and closes his eyes as you start wiping blood off his skin. He wasn't exactly accurate when he said there was both an entry and an exit wound; it's more like a furrow cut into his skin, something that's messy and ugly and is definitely going to leave a scar. When you touch it wrong he groans, but he doesn't try to pull back, doesn't even flinch.

"Bro. Hey. What happened?" you ask again, not even really expecting any more of an answer.

And sure enough, he just shakes his head. But after a second, he sighs and rolls his head to one side. "Mama...just killed a man..."

You weren't expecting softly-spoken song lyrics, either.

As a result, it takes you a moment to process them.

When you do, though? "You didn't. You fucking didn't, Derrick, what kind of sick joke—"

"Jesus, D, be gentle." He grimaces and shoves your hands away from his chest, and you actually feel a pang of guilt under the confused horror that's currently doing its best to throw your mind into a blind panic-loop. "It's not a joke. There's a corpse in the back of my truck, wrapped up nice and safe in a tarp, got some trash and shit piled up over it." He sighs and lets his head fall back, hands dropping to his sides. "And a tape from the security system in my jacket pocket. Need to get rid of that."

"...I don't understand any of this."

"Good. You don't need to. Just patch me up, I'll handle it all, and you can forget this ever happened."

"Oh hell no."

"D, please." He finally opens his eyes to look at you, and for a second that blank mask slips to show that he's in pain, upset, and maybe more than a little scared. It's only a second, but he lets you see it. "I'm tired, this shit hurts like hell—"

"There's a body in your truck!"

"It's hidden. It's okay for the moment."

"How is any of this okay?"

"It'll be okay."

"Derrick fucking Strider—"

You know that you probably shouldn't've used his name again as soon as you say it. His mouth sets into a thin, angry line, and he shakes his head, closing his eyes and hunching up.

"Shit," you mutter, and start hunting through the stuff on the table for what you need to clean him up.

He doesn't say anything as you disinfect the cut on his shoulder, but halfway through cleaning out the bullet wound he makes a soft, distressed sound. When you look up you see that his eyes are half-open, rolled back so only the whites show. The fact that he's passed out is actually relieving, once you make sure he isn't choking or anything, because you need to try and sew up the giant fucking hole in his skin.

Which you manage to do. And you only throw up once. This is why you weren't meant to be a doctor.

He's still out when you finish, so you pick up the leather jacket he was wearing and go through the pockets. The search reveals three plastic baggies—two with a couple dozen pills apiece, and one with some kind of powder that you don't intend to let come in contact with your skin, at all—a folding knife, a cracked flip phone that isn't your brother's and won't turn on, and a tape.

After a second of thought, you put everything except the phone and the tape back in the jacket's pockets. You pop the back off the former, separating the battery and the sim card before putting all three pieces back in the pocket—that might prevent anyone from tracking the thing or it might not, but no one can say you're not doing your best here.

Once that's done, you take the tape into the other room, put it in the player, and rewind it. Not all the way—you don't intend to sit through the whole damn thing.

It's from a security camera, all right. Not much else the black-and-white, low-quality footage could be. All it shows is an empty parking lot somewhere, with a time stamp of three hours ago.

You fast forward until you see your bro's truck, then hit play again. He's still alone onscreen at this point, parking and getting out, walking in slow circles and very obviously scanning for cameras. You can see the exact second that he sees this one, stopping and looking directly into it for a good ten seconds.

"Damn, bro," you hear yourself whisper. He planned this, didn't he?

Onscreen, he nods and gives the damn camera a small smile and a wave. (Cocky lil' asshole, you think, ignoring the thought under that, the one that wants to ask what you're going to do about this shit.) He moves back to his truck, takes the tailgate down and pulls something you can't see closer to the very back, and boosts himself up to sit in the back, crossing his arms and settling down to wait.

You fast forward the tape again.

The time stamp advances half an hour before another car pulls in. This one's small and expensive-looking; anybody who actually gave a fuck about cars could probably tell you a lot about it, but you're willing to bet that it's worth more than what you got paid for any two of the screenplays you've co-written. The guy that gets out isn't anyone you know (thank god) but he's a type that you're pretty damn familiar—confident, angry, thinks he owns the fucking world.

Drug dealer, is your first thought. The baggies from the jacket influence that assumption, but even without that little piece of evidence you probably would've ended up at the same guess. It's just something about that kind of guy.

You know how to lip-read, a little bit, but the angle here sucks and you can't see the faces of either of the two onscreen. You see your brother shake his head and slide off the tailgate, though. The dealer's hand goes down to his pocket, and you wince and close your eyes.

When you look again your bro's bleeding, but he's got a goddamn sword. The other guy's on the pavement, his whole face covered in what looks like chocolate sauce and most definitely is not.

"Fuck." You almost want to rewind and see what the hell your bro did. You're actually reaching for the remote when the guy on the ground twists and reaches to pull something out of the waistband of his jeans.

The muzzle flash shows up white and grainy, and you hiss as your bro staggers back. There's the gunshot wound, yeah.

It only slows him down for a second, though. Then he's standing over the dealer, katana coming down in a strike that you can tell is calculated. You count four swings, and he's pulling back for another when you hit the button to eject the tape.

"Goddamnit, bro."

"You didn't have to watch that, you know," he says from behind you. When you turn around, he's standing there in the doorway, leaning against it and watching you. "You could've had plausible deniability, dumbass."

"You told me you killed a guy. Call me Pandora, but I kinda wanted to see if you were serious."

He rolls his eyes and holds out his hand for the tape. "Great. Now you know I was."

You don't hand it over. "Who was he?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Fucking tell me, asshole. I just got to see you commit pre-fucking-meditated murder, Derrick—you can do me the itty-bitty service of telling me why the hell you did it." Fuck. He really is going to smack you if you keep using his name.

He stares at you for maybe half a minute, then nods and looks down. "Fine. He's an asshole who fucked with the wrong person, sent a couple people to the hospital and expected he was getting away with it because his daddy's got connections."

"So you killed someone who's going to end up getting you killed." Fear's rising in your chest again. Dammit, bro.

"Nah. His old man doesn't give a fuck; isn't going to look too hard for him, unless I'm stupid enough to let somebody find his body." Your brother gives you a smile that's utterly humorless and terrifyingly confident. "And I don't intend to leave anything to be found."

Fuck.

"Where's the katana?"

"Wiped down with bleach, snapped in half, the two pieces in dumpsters a couple miles apart." He crosses his arms, mostly keeping the pain that movement causes off his face. "No prints on it."

"The guy's car?"

"Right where he left it. I wasn't about to leave evidence in it, and it's not like anybody can place me anywhere near it."

"How much blood is there in the truck?"

"None. I brought two tarps, wrapped the bastard in them before I loaded him up." He sighs and straightens up, nodding at the tape in your hands. "I need to go get rid of him, though. Get rid of that for me, alright? Burn the damn thing—I don't want any evidence."

"You need me to come help you?" If he says yes, you'll do it. You know you will. Your brother's just done literally the worst thing you could've imagined him doing, and you're ready and willing to help him cover it up.

But he shakes his head and turns away. "Nah. I'll call you if I need you; otherwise I'll be back at some point tonight or tomorrow, alright?"

That is not, in fact, all right.

"Yeah. Fine. Be careful, bro."

He fucking laughs.

A minute later you hear the door shut, and you sigh and look down at the tape you're still holding. "...fuck."

You don't know why you do what you do next. He asked you (told you) to burn the tape, but what you do is set it by the TV, find one of your tapes and take it into the kitchen, snapping the casing in half and pulling out the innards of the thing. Out takes a minute to find a metal bowl, set it in the sink and dump half a bottle of rubbing alcohol over it.

Flares up nicely when you drop a lit match in there, though. Even if it does smell fucking horrible.

Amazingly, the smoke alarm doesn't go off. You probably need to change the batteries.

When there's just a homogeneous mass of melted plastic, you turn on the sink and run water onto the mess until there's no more flames. There's absolutely no way to tell which tape you destroyed, just that you did destroy one.

Unlike most twenty-somethings, you have a safety deposit box. The bank's still open at this point, thankfully, and that's where you go. The tape gets tucked down under a box of papers, and you're back home long before your brother shows up again, the next morning.

When he does, he goes into the kitchen and comes back to the main room almost immediately, flopping down on the couch and closing his eyes. "Thanks, D."

"Didn't do anything. And neither did you, right?"

"Yeah. Exactly."

"Your stitches aren't bleeding, are they?"

"I'd tell you if they were. You can check that shit out when I wake up, though, alright?"

"...yeah. Fair enough."

That's literally all that's said about the whole thing, for the next decade and a half. Contrary to your expectations, it never comes back to bite you in the ass. No one ever shows up to accuse him of anything, he doesn't die from an infection from your amateur doctoring skills. Nothing.

Like he said, it's all okay.

Except you have a tape of your brother murdering a man.

Which is...still okay.

He's your fucking brother. That means you'll do what you have to to keep him safe. All in all, this isn't that big of a deal.

(Well. That's what you tell yourself. Makes it easier to mostly forget it ever happened.)

(Mostly.)

[imaginedaydreamsquad-blog]

Blind Pt. 2 - Joe Sugg Imagine #6

Hey guys,  Change of plans! It will take me another part to end the story, sorry. But I hope you’re enjpying the second part anyways. Love, Kat xx. ——————————————————————–

It’s been a month since she left and Joe sorted everything out. He wasn’t missing her as much and the thought of coming home to an empty apartment wasn’t frightening anymore. He stopped worrying about her, because Caspar told him she was fine. But since she left he hasn’t had one one night stand. He would go out and he would drink but he couldn’t stand the looks or the smiles of any girl he thought was pretty. Because Caspar said they looked like her. Joe saw her face on every girl. And it drove him crazy. It was a Sunday morning and he was playing guitar, learning a new song as his phone rang. He didn’t even look on the screen while picking up. “Hello?” “Joe. It… It’s Y/N” Joe didn’t know what to say. “Are you still there?” “Yeah. Yeah I am, sorry.” Even in his ears his voice sounded weird. “How are you?” He didn’t know what to answer. His heart was pounding hard against his ribcage, he didn’t expect to hear from her that soon. Or ever again if he was honest. “I didn’t think you’d call.” “I wrote that I’d call. I just needed a few weeks to myself.” “Yeah. Yeah, right.” “How are you?” She asked again. And suddenly Joe had the urge to cry. He didn’t know why. “Fine. You?” You could hear the tears in his voice. “I’m good, thanks. Things are getting easier day by day. I never thought moving to another country was that exhausting.” Joe thought he misheard that. “Another country?” “Oh, I figured, Casper would tell you. I’ve moved in with Britt. I’m in LA now.” “YOU ARE WHERE?” “LA? Joe, is the service okay, aren’t you hearing me well?” “Why would you move that far away from me?” He couldn’t hold it back anymore. He always thought she weren’t far from him and that thought made it easier to be away from her. But LA? Did he broke her that much? “Joe, I was applying for a job at the youtube space here anyway. I got it, I had the choice between LA and London so I went for LA. I mean, I wanted a fresh start.” “You could’ve had a fresh start in London as well, Y/N.” “Yeah. I guess.” Her voice was filled with sadness. “I’m sorry, you know. I’m so fucking sorry and I miss you so much, Y/N. If I had known what I was putting you through, I never… I’m the worst best friend anyone could have.” She could clearly hear the tears in his voice. “Joe, no. Don’t say that. You had no idea I’m… I WAS in love with you. It’s fine. I just needed space. Space I now have. And… And I miss you too. So much.” Now Joe could hear the tears in her voice too. “So you don’t hate me?” “No, I don’t. You’re my best friend. Forever.” From then on they called each other almost every day. They started where they left off. Joe even cancelled plans on the evenings to call her before her work. Everyone of his friends were happy, that they were getting on again. It was just as easy talking to her and he knew that LA really made her happy. She seemed so much more herself and that was making it easier to accept that they wouldn’t see each other.

“You’re coming to VidCon, right?” Joe made himself dinner, talking to Y/N on the phone. “Yeah, I planned it, I hope nothing happens.” “You know I’m actually working at VidCon this year, so we’ll see each other.” She told him and Joe’s heart skipped a beat. He would finally see his best friend again. “You are? That’s so cool! I’m really happy. I miss yooouuuu.” He really did. Even though they talked pretty much every day it wasn’t the same not having her there. She laughed. “I miss you, too. But don’t you think it’ll be awkward. I’m scared it’ll be.. you know… after everything what happened, the letter and stuff…” “Y/N, no. You’re my best friend. We talked about it, we worked it out, it’s fine. We’re fine, alright?” “Alright.” “Good. Now eat your breakfast you only have half an hour left before work.” Y/N laughed about his concern she wouldn’t eat enough. Joe was very caring about the ones he loved. They talked the whole time she had left and when they ended the call there were smiles on both faces. But Y/N still was overthinking the get together with Joe. Was it too early? Since she moved to LA everything was going great. She made friends, she went out, she even went on a few dates. But could it be a backlash if she would see him again? “Why are you so quiet today?” Britt asked over dinner. “I’m just thinking about seeing Joe again. Do you think it’s right?” Britt shrugged. “I really don’t know, Y/N. I mean, you’re really getting over him. You even have a crush on someone that’s not him. For me that’s a really good sign. But you was head over heels for Joe. Seeing him again might not be making it better.” “That’s exactly what I thought! I mean, I miss him so much and everything in me just wants to see him, but that scares me and I don’t know if I’m just missing my best friend or.. if I really am still in love with him. On the other hand, I have a date with you know who tomorrow night.” “NO WAY!” Britt squeaked in excitement. “He asked you out? I’m so freaking happy for you. You almost talk as much about him as about Joe.” Y/N laughed. “I know, I thought he was kidding at first. But I’m really excited.”

VidCon was loud. Extremely loud and Y/N was getting a headache in the first two hours. She was running around between all the helpers who got problems, the security and the main stage. There were people everywhere and she could barely make her way through the masses. Joe did send a text, saying he arrived on time, which was good. He probably was giving autographs right now and would later be interviewed on some stage. It was the late afternoon of the first day and Y/N was exhausted. Two more hours to go, before she could leave. But Britt and her already made plans to go to the afterparty for influencers so she couldn’t just chill and watch Netflix although that was all she wanted to do right now. “Y/N!” Someone screamed over the noises and she saw Jack, Conor’s younger brother waving at her. She smiled and waved back, before making her way to him. ”Jack, oh my god, it’s so nice to see you.” They hugged. “Yeah, I’m glad to see you, too. Joe is on break and is looking for you everywhere.” “He is? Well, I think I’m giving him a call then, thank you for letting me know!” “Anytime, love. Do we see each other at the afterparty?” “Yes, a hundred percent. We’ll talk!” They hugged goodbye and Y/N was looking for a quieter area to call Joe. “I’m looking for you! I’m at stage 3, backstage.” “I’m coming, they have technical difficulties anyway.” And with that she went to stage 3 first helping with the problem and then looking for Joe backstage. She saw him almost immediately. He looked good, like he slept well although he had to have a jetlag and with a hint of a tan. London seemed to have good weather too this summer, Y/N thought. He recently got a haircut, his hair was shorter than the last time she saw him. But the most interesting thing were his eyes. They were shining as he smiled at the man infront of him, probably a co-worker of Y/N’s but she wasn’t sure about that. His eyes were the first thing she fell in love with and they were the most difficult to forget. Not that she wanted to forget them as a whole. But she wanted to forget the dreamy look in them when he smiled, because it always made her heart skip a beat. As if he sensed her look, Joe turned to her and his face lit up completely. “Jesus…” Y/N sighed as her heart like she had predicted skipped a beat. Joe quickly made his way to her and pulled her into a warm hug. She breathed in his scent and hugged back. “I missed you” She mumbled into the crease where his shoulder and his neck met, where his scent was the most intense. “I’m so glad to finally see you again, love.” They separated from each other and that closely Joe could see the little freckles on the top of her cheekbones, the sparkles of gold in her eyes and the crinkles under them from smiling. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, he thought. It was nothing he never thought before, you had to be blind to not see how beautiful she was. “How was your flight?” “Everything went perfectly fine. I didn’t sleep so I could sleep at night and my jetlag wouldn’t be as bad.” “Very smart, Joe. Very smart. Ugh, I’m exhausted. Being a supervisor at such a big event isn’t as easy as it seems, may I tell you that. I’m glad I’m nearly done for the day.” She couldn’t take her eyes of off him. It’s like she had a grainy picture of him in mind and now that he’s infront of her she had to take every little thing from him in to make it high quality. “Me too. If you want we could grab dinner together and after that we’ll meet the others and go to the afterparty.” She wanted to go with him so bad. “I can’t. I already made plans with Britt to eat at home, we both need a shower after today. But you can join us if you want.” “I.. don’t know I made plans with the boys, but maybe can cancel that…” “You don’t have to, it’s fine. We’ll see us at the party anyways. And tomorrow we could grab lunch together if you want. Or you could come over and see my new place.” “I know, but I want to spend as much time with you as I can before I have to leave again.” That melted her heart. She could see how genuinely happy he was to see her and that made her even happier. But she could practically feel herself falling for him again at every second.

[thebrewstorian]

Pop Culture Conference 2017: Beer Culture: Session 6: the Macros

In the sixth session we heard turned towards macro brewing -- and to hipsters.

Paul Bruski gave the talk "Re-Becoming The Beer It Never Was: Macrobrew’s Stealthy Nostalgia," suggesting that their marketing was based on a sort of "rebecoming nostalgia." He sees them invoking iconography, referencing an idealized time (sounds like the Brexit talk from San Goodman). For anyone who's paid any attention it's easy to see how macro implies "Americanness" - just look to their campaigns of brewing the hard way, not backing down in the face of challenges, beer born the hard way, and references to the struggles of their founder's ambitious journey. This narrative is all part of an ambitious legacy and nostalgia of beer, but it also says that "your history is our history."

And this isn't for new brewery acquisitions or in reference to the craft movement, you see the same thing in the older more "nostalgic" brands through the use of retro-script typefaces, typically some link to German-ness, and a reference local places. Bruski spent the rest of his talk giving examples, highlighting the ways branding links to the past, but also the surprising similarities between their marketing strategies.

Pabst is portrayed as a heritage brand and is branded with the old packaging. Ironically, every attempt to market was actually an attempt not to market, and this ultimately plays into a sort of concurrent normalcy and outsider status.

The new Old Tankard was relaunched with a reformulated recipe and marketed as a 21st century beer made with "new" hops. Their online "brand story" even includes old recipe book, which is nearly impossible to read or conclusively say is the actual recipe used for that beer.

Old Milwaukee also has a new brand that harkens back to history. In this case the old made new is a pin-up series, where you get 21st century stars & stripes pin-up girls. Stay tuned, apparently there is a hunting series coming up.

Lone Star is an excellent example of a beer using a history narrative, even the name connects to a local landmark and the "national" beer of Texas comes in commemorative packaging. It also comes with a message: we are you and you are us. Perhaps ironically, their parent comes also has Primo in Hawaii, so they are you there too. Delightfully, you see the same branding/web site template for Olympia beer. All three work to convince you the company and product are dedicated to history, (not) subtly suggesting things were better back then.

There's a reference in my notes to "Gannett" and the CEO deciding to bring New England beer back. Not sure what point I was recording there??

The Hamm's bit was great because Bruski sang the song! So if you are older than 35 you can probably sing it too... But here's a link in case you don't remember. 

I love the bear... 

This was the beer born in the land of sky blue waters, and it had a memorable bear and jingle that certainly rightly earned its place as one of the hundred best ad campaigns of all times. The iconography still pulls from a regional identification with the "Land of Sky Blue Waters," and of course it's an easy leap to link this brand with the "small town brewery" movement even though the beer is made in a massive facility.

Speaking of nostalgia, people from the Midwest and beyond know about the Grain Belt sign, and even if they didn't know about the beer they had an attachment to the iconic branding. And this is a really interesting example of how an attachment to a sign saved a beer and brand; it reminded people about Grain Belt beer even though it wasn't being produced anymore. And when the sign was in danger the news that surrounded its peril reminded people enough that now it is being brewed again.

Bruski concluded by asking us to consider what goes into a beer that is beyond ingredients. What is the impact of a strong brand? It may invoke a false or fictitious nostalgia, but we have a need for it as we live in this time of rapid change. We may feel stripped of our private identities and struggling to find a place in the world. And that singing bear might make us feel better.

Someone really digging into nostalgia as it relates to hipsters and melancholy was Daniella Gati in "The curious case of PBR and hipster melancholia." So since I'm from the NW I can spot a hipster (and know about beer), but Gati explored the idea of what makes a hipster beer. Is it local? Is it something with a weird name? We saw an odd attachment by hipsters to PBR - no longer Pabst Blue Ribbon, but this simple yellow beer, with a taste and consumer audience that is very different from craft ethos. What does its popularity mean?

So what's the deal with PBR? It's a bland, light, and simple beer, brewed uninterrupted for almost 150 years and supposedly from an unaltered recipe. The company was about to go broke around 2000, and oddly enough this lack of advertising, which appeals to a group that eschews direct advertising, is because they ran out of money. POW!! -- PBR was suddenly embraced by hipsters on the west coast, seemingly on their own accord. And in a world inundated by big billboards, PBR seemed like a refreshing break because of lack of ads and their attraction was similar to why people turn to craft. PBR attempts to re-situate beer into its historical past, to a pre-craft time when beer was simple and "men were men" with an unease with trendy marketing.

Pivoting briefly to craft: this is a category of beer that is perceived as less faceless, but also linked to a "minuscule scale," with each bottle allegedly reflecting small or unique quality. This implies a deeper connection to craft, a labor of love, a love of detail, creative experimentation, and localness. And of course this shift to a new culture of drinking, there is also an implication of a dissatisfaction with mass production.

I joke about NW folks automatically spotting hipsters, but Gati delved more into the question "Who is a hipster and what do they believe in?" We could dismiss their persona or culture as random, but this is as misleading as saying flower children of the 1960s were simply into floral patterns. It is not just a random thing, but way to forge a sense of connection and to understand society.  

Their identity is based on an ironic rejection of consumerism and how it has given way to the consumption of goods. So they like the cheap beer and embrace an anti-bourgeoise stance. But, ironically ironic, to them consumption is actually central, and she says their insistence on simplicity is actually a sort of hyper consumption and their tastes are expensive. Their love of cheap beer isn't because they can't afford more expensive beer. They are contemporary, young working professionals or students, likely from an upper/middle class and white demographic, who are insisting on a counter culture status and thinking of themselves as fringe. Regardless of appearance, Gati says these are predominately privileged people and not from a truly poor segment of society.

But this "disavowing" of consumerism leads to a sort of melancholy nostalgia ((and she quotes Judith Butler here on melancholy), where she sees hipsters longing for a working class era. But because many come from middle class origins, there is little connection to a blue collar existence. This is paradoxical, because as they necessarily reject mythical working class roots, there is still a loss. Deepening the paradoxical nature, there was never an "authentic" American beer experience, so the hipster is actually creating this nostalgia for the past. Gati says this mythicized working class group with an attachment to an illusory "purer" working class tradition is how we got to Nov 8th.

Perhaps it's an awkward (or obvious) transition from the election to zombies... 

Brandon Harris presented "High-End or Zombie Brands? Assessing Brewery Authenticity as seen on Instagram." Harris did an amazing survey of Instagram looking for clues for how you can  spot an account that looks like a craft brewery but is actually a fake one.

This project was driven by an increase in the use of Instagram by smaller breweries to connect with their consumers, but also the trend of A-B InBev purchasing craft breweries and how they were co-opting the social media site in a sort of zombie way - zombie brands that canibalize the industry from the inside. Harris wanted to figure out a way to pick out the zombie accounts from the macro companies from those that were run by craft brew staff.

Here are some of the things he noted about macro: Overall, the posts show the company's place in American society. From a style perspective the aesthetic is very stylized and yes, you see lots of celebrities, it's clear this is a photoshoot, and usually there is a watermark with an age warning or something more about the company. From the perspective of the main thematic concepts, you see concerts and celebrities, but also an implied progressivism, a move that shows they are trying to bring back millennials and be more "liberal." (Maybe the quotes are ironic, maybe not.) At the same time, Harris noted a heavy dose of hostility in the comments sections, with posts opposing gay and immigrants rights. You also see A LOT of reference to professional sports and athleticism, and of course a powerful relationship with the NFL.

On the craft side, it's usually pretty apparent that the vibe is one of an independent company that is creating its own media. Regionalism is built into the image, and the aesthetic always focuses on the product. It's also common to see that point of view of the participant, and a trend towards professional and grainy pictures (which isn't a contradiction here). This message is "this is who we are." From a content standpoint, craft breweries highlight production at multiple stages, and their messaging tends to be educational and intended to inform their community. At the same, it seems clear that these are appreciators don't brew; home brewers are a diminishing part of craft beer so people are getting into brewing another way. Instagram posts also show a lot of collaboration and it's clear that we are supposed to see how well everyone works together. Implied message? Macro doesn't do collaboration. Another version of collaboration is in the tagging on Instagram, so you see tagging by a bigger craft company as a sort of legitimizing of the smaller craft company.

Pictures commonly show employees and a lot of interaction, so even if the audience isn't full of brewers you still can see the process and engage with the making. And within these employee pics it's pretty common to see a lot of the founders -- the inherent message is that these used to be dudes with big home brewing equipment and now look at them.

For craft, community involvement is huge, and you'll see pictures related to their charity and philanthropy. Smaller companies will show direct impact on the local community; this is not just a back drop but part of their authenticity.

One interesting difference between craft and macro companies is in how they interact with fan pictures. The larger craft breweries will give photo credits and add tags to individuals or other businesses. You don't need a tv commercial if you take time to interact, and this is reflected int eh tone of the response comments from the breweries in that they sound like actual people interacting in multiple spaces. On the flip side, macro companies only tag the highly stylized pictures, and infrequently even for those. They don't seem to be interested in one-on-one interaction with user and there is a sense that the macro isn't "talking to commoners."

And so where does the zombie bit come in? The confusing accounts are those that are a sort of hybrid, hiding behind a sort of crafty camouflage. So the pictures are still grainy etc, but when you dissect the words in the posts you'll see some vagueness. An example is in not actually talking about specific sources even when talking about sourcing. At the same time, there is a real benefit for some to the buy out. You'll see transnational brewing tours, massive crowds and concerts, help with orchestration, and beer sold in ballparks or stadium. This zombie threat isn't an automatic thing with a buy out, but eventually you can see the differences. If you have a big bank account, pretty soon you are going to use it. Harrie said you can see this reflected in a reliance on media firms or packaging gimmicks eg non-standard size cans (these cost $$). It takes a critical consumer to spot the difference.

Another good discussion in this session!

One person asked how we can measure the benefit to the community? One panelist said you can ask if the brewery is unionized or employee-owned? Are the employees making enough money? Some breweries will show event pictures as promotion, while others will be more specific about posting donation amounts. Panelists suggested that at the very least, if this is an industry where identity is based on the "local integration" then it also needs to start working with economists to find figures to back up claims that craft is more locally connected. There might be some pressure from craft community, but actual community involvement is pretty much an individual choice.

Another person asked where the definition of community stops? We might want to benefit the person who lives next to us, but what about the person who lives in the next county or across the country or in another country?

And a final question tackled how we measure "authenticity." One panelist suggested that authenticity is constructed and and it si personally perceived. So, in considering social media, how do we gauge its impact and its interaction? Nw we're seeing a new job category of social marketers -- with online interaction and monitoring being their whole job. Though it sounds easy or fun, this is a lot of work and the people who do it are overworked. It's interesting to consider how we focus on how people connect or interact, and even what we expect about individual engagement. For example, do we want to be tweeting with the brewer? At the end of the day, new apps rarely allow people to do new things, but it does allow them to do things more efficiently.

Curious about the pictures? 

Beerd Beer and PBR

Hamms Bear

Beer Zombies