#i hope i didn’t misunderstand something crucial which makes this all shit

[runninguplenorahills]

“Hammer to fall” theory

“Hammer to fall” is a song by Queen which is about accepting that death is something you can’t fight or escape. “Waiting for the hammer to fall” basically translates to “Waiting for death to get us” because it will. And that’s not a bad thing but it’s simply a part of life.

This song is actually used in a scene in Stranger Things. In Season 2 episode 6 “The spy” Dustin needs help from Steve because of d’art and on the drive to Dustin’s house “Hammer to fall” plays on the car’s stereo:

[i can only screenshot the subtitles so I had to edit the picture in]

It seems very insignificant. We only hear a couple of words and then the music descends pretty quickly as Steve asks Dustin if he’s sure that d’art isn’t just a lizard.

But there’s one line that kinda threw me off and so I’ve been lookin into the lyrics a little more and I feel like “hammer to fall” might’ve actually been supposed to be foreshadowing for specifically the last scene in s4 and possibly for things that will happen in s5

[although we don’t know that ofc but I’m just theorizing]

Let me elaborate

First off: the fact that the song revolves around waiting for death to get us kinda correlates with Henry’s speech about how people live their lives with no purpose other than to die in the end.

And now let’s look at some of the lyrics:

“Here we stand or here we fall / history don’t care at all”

->Hawkins is where it all started and Hawkins will be where it all ends. Some will survive and some will die there. And when the final battle will ensue their history of fighting the Upside Down won’t really matter. It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve fought it before because the final battle will be ten times worse.

“Lady Mercy won’t be home tonight”

-> the battle is going to be merciless! They won’t get an easy way out! They probably won’t all survive! Vecna is going to be cruel to them like he’s not been before!

“We’re just waiting for the hammer to fall”

-> the end of season 4 marks the moment the characters know that it’s time to await death again!

“In the shadow of a mushroom cloud”

-> According to the official script of s4’s final scene, they’re awaiting death in the shadow of a mushroom cloud.

“What the hell are we fighting for? / just surrender and it won’t hurt at all”

-> This is a nod to how Vecna is mercy killing his victims. They shouldn’t fight it because Vecna is putting an end to their suffering. It won’t hurt if they just surrender! And I feel like this could also be foreshadowing to how Vecna might try to get specifically Will to surrender to him next season.

-> We also have this:

the song “Never surrender” is actually a song about never giving up but the specific lyrics they chose for this scene are kinda depressing. Mike is also singing along so the meaning applies to him. We also get another making out scene later in the same episode with the song “Can’t fight this feeling” and since both songs are used in the same context it’s safe to say that there’s a connection. Mike has a hard time fighting his feelings for Will / fighting the fact that he’s gay but he can never surrender to his feelings because he’ll get abandoned by everyone if he does. He will get hurt if he does. Therefore “Just surrender and it won’t hurt at all” might be foreshadowing the fact that when Mike stops fighting his feelings and just surrenders to them instead in s5, things will actually change for the better. It won’t hurt at all because he’ll realize that he’s so loved, that there’s so much love in his life!

-> The connection to Mike could also foreshadow that Mike will be targeted by Vecna because of the fact that he can never surrender to his feelings. He’s lost and on his own with his problems which makes him an easy target. Now the question is if it’s also foreshadowing the fact that Mike will surrender to Vecna cause it won’t hurt at all.

“Lock the door […] / baby now your struggle’s all in vain”

-> this line also reminded me of Mike. It reminded me specifically of how Mike locked the closet door by giving his monologue to El which therefore made his struggling throughout the season end in vain!

-> and for s5 Mike’s struggle with his sexuality and also his struggle with his mental health are all in vain, his arc doesn’t lead anywhere, there’s no payoff IF he does surrender to Vecna. And I feel like this might be foreshadowing that we get a fake death for Mike next season. We’ll think his arc is all in vain but we’ll actually get the payoff in the end because Mike didn’t actually die.

“It’s gonna fall”

-> people are going to die and Hawkins is going to fall!

-> Mike is going to have a fake death

-> we also have this:

Argyle is talking about how Surfer boy pizza will overthrow Domino’s but Mike is also in the shot so a lot of people have already created the theory that it’s connected to Mike and probably means that Mike and El’s relationship will break apart. That’s it. The dominoes are not gonna fall like in a chain reaction, the domino on the Domino’s logo is gonna fall apart!

The Domino’s logo used to look like the one on the left when stranger things takes place but all throughout the writing of stranger things [so obviously also during the writing of s4] the Domino’s logo looks like the one on the right. See how there’s one blue and one red domino now? And the blue [Mike’s color] has two dots in it while the red one [El’s color] has only one dot. The domino resembles the love triangle! The two in the blue one are Mike and Will and the one in the red is El! It shows that Mike and Will have already emotionally chosen each other but when the domino is finally gonna fall apart, meaning Mike and El will break up and the red part of the domino will separate from the blue part, Mike and Will will have officially and openly chosen each other while El has chosen independence!

And it’s gonna happen! [“it’s gonna fall”]

“[…] waiting for the hammer to fall / […] one more time ”

-> one last season, one last battle, one more time waiting for death to get them!

[innovativestruggles]

ObiRin Misconception - Obito’s Trauma

Okay why is it that I am seeing so many obirin hate lately? Let me clear up some misunderstandings. This is by no means a post for people to change their minds about shipping obirin (ship whoever you want, it’s not my business), rather, people are disliking this ship for reasons I find ... well... baffling. 

So here is my perspective (and no, it does not invalidate another’s perspective in any way just in case you’re wondering).

I have always been an avid obirin shipper, and as a feminist, people may question the contradictory nature of this.

Obito is in an incredibly complex character and alas, there is a reason why I absolutely love him. He is my favourite, has always been and will always be (also, he’s a villain and he’s hot). Though there are parallels between Obito and Naruto, it’s important to distinguish the nuances. Both characters had no family growing up (I am not going to count Obito’s grandma as she is an anime only character and not technically canon), had it tough at the Academy, disliked by a lot of people and technically an outlier. However, Obito never had an older mentor growing up, whereas Naruto did (that would be Iruka). When children are growing and developing, having someone to provide that nurturing environment and guidance is crucial for their mental and physical development. Because neither of them had their families, Naruto was lucky that he had Iruka. Iruka provided that big brother figure, the mentor and in some ways a caring environment for Naruto, despite the hardships. Obito, however, did not receive any of this. 

What Obito did have, was Rin. The two have been childhood friends for a very long time. Rin gave Obito that sense of security and attachment, despite them being the same age. She always cared for him and saw him more than just some dumbass nuisance Uchiha outlier. Obito’s love for Rin transcended romance. Of course the romance was the overt part, but his love for her was his sense of security. She was his safe space. When a child grows up without love or care from a parenting figure or a mentor, they will find ways to cope and latch onto the closest thing they can find safety and comfort in. Rin took on this role. So when Rin was killed before him, naturally there would be a sense of deep despair and anger. The trauma for Obito was remarkably intense, and his ability to bounce back from adversities was nullified. Why? Because;

1) The intensity of the trauma, grief and loss 

and 

2) The safety net, safe space and sense of security that shielded him from the world’s adversities were gone. Obito had nowhere to go.

A lot of people would say: “but he had Minato,” “he had Kakashi,” “he had Kushina.” Yes he did, and they were kind to him (minus Kakashi, and I will get to him in a sec) but they only came into his life for a short period of time. Their interactions were not on an intense level as it was with he and Rin. People need to remember that Obito learnt his idea of safe attachment on his own and he latched onto Rin. He was never taught to do that with adults as he grew older. Naruto however, had Iruka, who most likely taught him a lot of things about the importance of the village, the importance of camaraderie, friendship etc Obito did not have this, so naturally, his ability to trust adults (even loving kind ones like Minato and Kushina) would take a lot longer or sit very tentatively. If there were conflict or adversity, he would run to Rin, or think of her because that was all he knew.

If you unpack Obito’s character, there were immense attachment issues and trauma that most likely transcended what Naruto had. Naruto had his fair share of trauma but he had support that allowed for some resiliency. Obito was NOT obsessed with Rin. He was not infatuated with her. He was psychologically intermeshed with her. This is very different from so called obsession and infatuation. Psychological intermeshment stems from traumatic upbringing in childhood (lack of nurturance from an adult caregiver, abandonment etc), and then again from losing their sense of security/safety (Rin in this case). Because Obito was so intermeshed with Rin, losing her was essentially losing himself - and he blatantly said this. He lost all hope when she died. So he did what he could to get that sense of security back, even if what he did was questionable.

Then you have the complexity of the curse of hatred that intertwines the storyline, which make things even more complicated. But this curse was what pushed the storyline and placed Obito as an antagonist. He did not start a war because of a girl. He started a war because he was angry with the way the world functioned. How the countless wars kept ending lives and taking loved ones away from people. He did not want people to go through what he went through. In essence, this mindset has villain written all over it, but it also compels a strong backstory for Obito because of his complex childhood upbringing and the trauma he experienced.

We move to Kakashi, who had his fair share of childhood trauma. But people need to remember that he had a father who provided that nurturing environment for him. Even if his father died in tragic circumstances, Kakashi, though traumatised, was able to bounce back and push forward with the support of his friends and village. He had an adult attachment figure (gosh I sound so social workey but this is how it is) where he learnt how to tackle adversities. Again, with the death of Rin, there was trauma there for him too. So why was it so different between Obito, Kakashi and Naruto? The latter two being able to bounce back and push forward but Obito lost control? It all comes back to childhood upbringing and the presence of an adult caregiver/mentor. That, and then again, the presence of the curse of hatred (which was why Sasuke was pretty fucked up despite coming from a loving family). 

Something else I’d like to add re; Kakashi. He started being nice to Obito in that one episode where they were trying to locate Rin. He was a plain asshole before that. So technically the two of them were never on friendly terms before this event. Kakashi did not give two shits about anything aside from completing the mission. This is the reason why I do not ship Obito x Kakashi. To me there was no love, care and nurturing between those two. Obito “died” not long after being friendly with Kakashi, so that wouldn’t warrant a ship between those two. Whereas with Rin, it is a different story. Also, for those of you who thinks it is creepy that Obito has photos of Rin on his board, I’d be surprised if your 12-13yo self didn’t put love hearts of your crush over their school photos, or tested your marriage names together. Seriously.

So to summarise; Lack of childhood nurturance + lack of adult caregiver + trauma + curse of hatred = Obito

And like I said, just because of all this crap Obito’s been through, it does not excuse what he did or make what he did right (he was a villain after all).

Yeah okay rant over.

I’m open to discussion, but please keep it civil.

[the-goofball]

Raffi Musiker...

...and how she became Picard’s First Officer.

Excerpt from ‘The Last Best Hope’ by Una McCormack

[...]On-screen, the woman said, "My name is Lieutenant Commander Raffi Musiker, and I'm an intelligence specialist at Romulan Affairs. As you're aware, we've been tracking some odd communications from Romulan space in recent weeks - odd even by Romulan standards."

Listening to Musiker, Picard found himself taking a liking to her. She had a faintly disreputable air, a plesant change from the smooth operatives that Starfleet Intelligence usually fielded. Her frankness was refreshing, as was the fact that she was clearly not daunted by the grandeur of her audience. Most of all, she was on top of her briefing. A question came about the reliability of their sources, which was dispatched with confidence and ease. Then another question came about the range of the blast from the supernova, and here she stopped and took a moment to collect herself.

"What I want to say is, that these calculations are a worst-case scenario. This implies that effects in climate change are already being felt. Sometime in 2387. I'll show you that first. Because it might make the best-case scenario less damn frightening."

Picard leaned over to Clancy. "What was her name again?" "Raffi Musiker," said Clancy. "Lieutenant Commander Raffi Musiker."[...]

Hours later Picard talks to Beverly Crusher via com:

[...]"Can I offer you some free advice?" she said.

"Of course, Beverly. Of course."

"Put someone right next to you who isn't scared of you."

"Scared--?"

"You're quite... now, let me get this right. Not intimidating... not severe... huh. That's it. You can be quite certain of yourself. And that can stop people from telling you things that you need to know."

"Certain of myself?"

That half-smile again. "Don't get me wrong! With good reason. Most of the time. But you're only human like the rest of us. You make mistakes. And you need someone there who's able to tell you when that's happening."[...]

.

[…]Lieutenant Commander Raffi Musiker, when asked to wait for a senior officer, did not generally sit patiently in a chair, and she saw no reason to do so for a legend either. She stood outside the admiral’s office, bouncing up and down ever so slightly on her heels, ready for action.[…]

[…]Raffi mentally ran through her presentation one more time. The instruction to see the admiral had been brief, courteous, and not particularly informative as to the purpose of the meeting. She knew, from superiors and colleagues, the impact of her presentation and so she assumed she was here to give a direct one to the man himself and answer any questions he might have. Then back to her desk at Romulan Affairs. Only now she would have met a legend. Gabe, her son, was dying to hear about him. Mom’s job was mostly that thing that meant she didn’t always make his soccer matches, but every so often she managed to deliver something incredibly cool, like this.[…]

(And because I couldn’t decide what to leave out, there’s a bit more under the cut.)

[…]The admiral closed the screen, rose from his chair, and came to greet her. The legend, come to life. She had the edge on him when it came to height, but he moved with a commanding grace. “Commander,” he said, “thank you for making the time to see me today.” His voice was measured, cadenced; the kind of voice, she suspected, that you could not help but listen to, and then do exactly what was requested.

“Happy to supply whatever you need, sir.” She looked around the room for an audience that wasn’t there. Didn’t he have a senior staff in place yet? “Are we meeting here?”

He gestured to two comfortable seats in the corner of the room, where teapot and cups stood waiting on a low table. “Take a seat. Tea?”

“Sure, thanks.” Raffi sat, uneasy in the easy chair, putting padds on the floor beside her, and then leaning forward, palms on her knees. He took the chair opposite, smiled disarmingly, and poured tea. “I assumed I was giving a presentation this morning, sir.” She sipped her tea. What the hell was this stuff? It tasted of goddamned perfume. Was it too late to ask for coffee?

“I’ve watched your presentation half a dozen times now,” he said. “It’s insightful, informative, and precise. I was very impressed.”

Hey Gabe, wait till you hear what the Great Man said about Mom. “Thank you, sir.”

“Could you tell me, please, from your perspective as an expert on Romulan affairs, what you believe our chief difficulty will be in Starfleet’s dealings with them?”

He didn’t waste time, did he? Raffi took a breath. “Opposition, sir,” she said. “Believe it or not, they are not happy that Starfleet is devoting so much time, energy, and resources to helping them. They are hating all this. They hate that we know they’re in trouble, and they hate accepting help. They won’t want to lose face.”

“I understand. What else?”

“And even if they’re united on this, they’ll be divided among themselves about what to do with us. Some will want to accept our help for a while. Some will try to make it impossible for us to function. Others might try to get rid of us—”

“By force?”

“By subterfuge, more likely. Secretly, so that half of them won’t know whether it’s a sanctioned operation or not. The saying in our office goes that Romulans don’t tell their left hand what their right hand is doing.”

The admiral nodded. Yes, he recognized that.

“That makes them inconsistent and unpredictable,” Raffi said. “Not to mention damn annoying. They’ll say one thing and do another, and they won’t even know themselves what their real policy is toward us. Expect the unexpected, sir.”

“I see. Would it help at all, Commander, if I approached Ambassador Spock and had him petition the Senate to instruct cooperation with this mission?”

“Excuse me, sir? How would that help?”

He looked surprised. “The ambassador surely commands considerable respect—”

Raffi laughed out loud. “Spock? They think he’s a nutcase!”

His eyes opened wide. Shit, she thought, me and my big mouth. She had a vision of herself, explaining to Gabe: No, the admiral hated me, and that’s why I’m being court-martialed… Hold on. Was he… smiling? “Sorry, sir,” she said quickly. “No, I wouldn’t advise that. Ambassador Spock’s mission to Romulus may look very laudable to us, but from the Romulan perspective he and his supporters are outliers. Reunification of Romulus and Vulcan? Hey, when I was a kid, I wanted a unicorn. With wings. I didn’t get one. I didn’t even get a damn pony—”

“A personal mission of peace, the ambassador calls it.”

“Well, the Romulans consider it very personal. Almost…” She scraped around for a word that wouldn’t offend. “Um. Idiosyncratic?”

“In other words, they think he’s a crank.” He was most definitely smiling. “Carry on talking so frankly to me, Commander,” he said, “and we shall get along very well. Very well indeed.”

The door buzzer sounded. He called out, “Come.” Kaul came in.

“Apologies for the interruption, sir, but you asked me to let you know immediately when the ship was ready for you.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, Kaul! Yes, I’ll be on my way shortly.” He turned back to Raffi. “The Starship Verity has been assigned to lead the first fleet out to Romulan space. A nice name, don’t you think?”

“Sure…?”

“ ‘A true principle, especially one of fundamental significance.’ ” He looked pleased. “I believe that remembering such things will be crucial to the success of our undertaking. Above all, we are on a mission to protect, preserve, and save lives.”

Raffi nodded, faintly. This meeting was not going in the slightest how she had anticipated. No presentation. He said he’d already watched it half a dozen times. He clearly didn’t want it in person. For some reason they were now discussing eternal verities. She was a simple intelligence officer, maybe turned a mite suspicious by having to think like a Romulan twenty-four hours a day. She wasn’t any kind of philosopher. Why was she here?

“Lieutenant Kaul,” added Picard conversationally, “was on staff here before even I was. Seconded from Admiral Bordson’s office. Their loss has been my gain. She’ll be vital to operations here on Earth.”

There it was again, that extraneous information, as if giving her a picture of the setup here.

“Sir,” said Raffi, “may I ask you something?”

“By all means,” said the Great Man. “You must always feel you can speak freely to me.”

She’d never had any superior officer say that to her. Sometimes quite the contrary.

“This isn’t a briefing, is it?” said Raffi. “This is an interview.”

“That’s correct, Commander. My apologies if I kept my cards close to my chest, but I wanted to see how you answered my questions face-to-face.” He sipped some of his revolting tea. “You’ve answered them most satisfactorily.”

“Which means…?”

“Which means I’d like you as my XO.”

She put down her cup with a rattle. Tea spilled. “Shit!”

His mouth twitched. “I sincerely hope not. Most certainly we have some difficult times ahead. More difficult than either of us can imagine.”

She turned and looked out through the transparent aluminum partition into the busy office. All those people, dashing about, putting the nuts and bolts of this mission together, building this operation from data, information, decisions, actions. Sure, it was easy to take the piss out of the padd pushers, but nothing could happen without them. Working out what was needed, where it could be found, how to get it all to the right place at the right time. She had no idea how to do this… She took a breath. How do you say “no” to a legend?

“Sir,” she said, “I’m not an administrator.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, this is a flattering offer, sir, I hope you understand that. Truly flattering. But an operation like this?” She gestured to the room beyond. “I’m not cut out for this kind of work. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

She saw understanding dawn in his eyes. “Ah, there has been a misunderstanding. I have a very able administrator arriving to head up the office here on Earth, Commander Crystal Gbowee. She’s on her way from Starbase 192 as we speak. She’s worked with the UFPHCR coordinating numerous missions— she was on Bajor for a while after the Occupation, and on Cardassia Prime during the reconstruction effort there. Once she arrives, I shall move over to the fleet. This mission must get underway, and soon.” He glanced out across the busy room. “No, the appointment here is filled, I’m afraid. I’m sorry if that’s a disappointment.”

His eyes were quietly twinkling with suppressed mirth. No, of course he didn’t want her here. She’d be no damn good here, would she?

“Then—”

He leaned forward in his seat, held her eye, very serious now. “I’m asking you to come aboard my ship, Commander. Be my first officer on the Verity. But I’m asking more than that, and I think you know it. I have left my crew behind on the Enterprise. I must replace them, and if I am to succeed, I need an excellent XO. And what I require above all from my XOs is honesty. I shall need you always to tell me the truth. What do you say? Is that something you believe that you could do?”

Shit, she thought, and managed not to say it out loud this time. No, this was not what she’d been expecting when she’d walked into this room.

“It’s a big decision,” he was saying. “There may be all manner of ties keeping you here on Earth…”

Gabe had a soccer match next week. She’d missed the last one putting together that damn presentation. “When does the ship leave?”

“Six days.”

So she could make Gabe’s match. But there would be the next match, or the match after, the long months away, the individual seconds and moments of simply being present that were tiny for her, but that constituted the whole of Gabe’s life, his childhood.

“I…” Damn, she wanted this post. She could do this job. She was made to do this job. She’d known the second she walked into this room that she wanted to work with this man in some way. But she’d never imagined she would be offered this. Right hand to a legend. Right in the middle of the greatest operation that Starfleet would ever mount.

He was smiling at her. “Would you like to see the ship, Commander? The Verity? You’d be spending a lot of time there, after all. You can make your decision after that.”

“Yes,” she said, already knowing what her decision would be. “I’d love to see the ship.”

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Michael After Midnight: “Pregnant Pussy” by UGK

[TRIGGER WARNING: RAPE, PEDOPHILIA, ETC. NOT SAFE FOR WORK, NOT SAFE FOR LIFE. THE SUBJECT OF THIS REVIEW IS A SONG FEATURING EXTREMELY DEPRAVED LYRICAL CONTENT.  PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION.]

 In the year 2010, A Serbian Film was released. The movie is something I refuse to ever watch or review, and for very good reason: the film is unrepentantly bleak, miserable and, oh yeah, it features an infamous scene involving, as the movie describes it, “newborn porn,” where a newborn baby is raped onscreen. As I’m sure you can imagine, I (and anyone who enjoys keeping the contents of their stomach firmly within said organ) really do not think baby fucking is alright. But of course, no one could possibly ever come up with something more depraved than this, right?

Well, I wish I could say that, but almost two decades before that twisted movie, the rap duo UGK (comprised of members Pimp C and Bun B) managed to one-up that fucked up shit. 

The early 90s was a wild time for rap music, where violent, edgy gangster rap and the most ludicrous, over-the-top shit thrived. Look at some of the early work by rappers like Snoop Dogg or Eminem, with the cartoonish, boundary-pushing violence and offensive lyrical content. This was the norm. But UGK, most famous for guest starring in Jay-Z’s “Big Pimpin,” went one step beyond everyone else on their Banned EP. On said EP was a song called “Pregnant Pussy,” a song so absolutely fucked up and depraved it would probably give GG Allin pause.

I am going to go line by line of this song and dissect the sheer depravity of this be-all end-all of edgy, offensive humor. This is your last chance. You can still walk away.

The song begins almost normally, with a slow buildup to the music, but as soon as the main instrumental hits we are slapped in the face with the chorus, which unfortunately is one of the tames lyrics in the entire song:

Pregnant pussy is the best you can get Fucking a bitch while her baby sucking dick

So hopefully you can see the problem here. The problem is that Bun B and Pimp C have a crucial misunderstanding of how pregnancy works. Also they’re pedophiles I guess. This line is repeated a couple of times to let it really sink in, let it really hit you what exactly is being sung, to the point where you might not even notice the line that closes out this opening chorus:

I got your fat pregnant bitch in my waterbed And I'm 'bout to bust a nut on your little baby's head

To be fair, this one is kind of tame in comparison.

Now for our first verse, Pimp C takes the mic and comes in strong!

I guess you can call me a family man Cause I care for bitches' babies every chance that I can

As we are about to find out, no. We can’t call Pimp C a family man. We should not even allow him near babies, and here’s why:

I don't give 'em clothes, or diapers and shit But I like to feed they babies with my big black dick

This is actually a running theme with this song. I’m not simply talking about the rappers and their desire to get fellated by unborn babies, I’m talking about how they casually drop lines like that before switching to stuff that’s comparatively normal and even tame (or tame by the standards of a song about getting blowjobs from fetuses).

Like, look at the lines immediately after the above:

Cause I'ma tell you if you didn't know You ain't did shit 'til you fucked a pregnant hoe The pussy is hotter, it's got a extra kick It feel like hot potato pie around your dick Sometimes I swing high, sometimes I swing low Sometimes I like to fuck a pregnant bitch on my floor Hit it kinda hard, and speed it up fast Fuck her 'til she get the cherry blisters on her ass

It’s filthy and extreme, yes, but this is honestly the sort of horny, crass shit you’d expect from a rap song like this. This is normal, this is... well, “good” is a bit of a strong word, but you know, I’ll take it. Of course, immediately after those lines we get hit with this:

Cause if she expecting, I can satisfy And at the same time, give her kid a pacifier And I love it when I bust that old nut Cause I know that her baby's just gon' lick it all up

This is why we can’t have nice things.

The second verse has Bun B, the other half of UGK, step up to the mic and he delivers more comparatively normal, raunchy, old school rap sentiment:

Ain't no pussy like one impregnated A pussy made for nutting in, I could never hate it A swoll pussy hole is the best on earth And a big dick helps make an easy childbirth I love the big titties but I hate the taste of milk And a bigger, fatter ass on my dick is smooth as silk

Like yeah, this is vulgar and all, but this is pretty good. In their own weird rapper way, they’re showing love for pregnant women, and who says pregnant women shouldn’t get a rap song about how sexy and desirable they are? Maybe this is a turning point for the song, maybe from here things get bet--

Now if she got a boy, it ain't fun But if she got a girl, then it's two pussies for the price of one

The more I listen to this song, the more I feel like these two are just joking, but... why tell this kind of joke? I can’t deny this is funny in a shock humor kind of way, like “Jesus Christ why the fuck are these guys talking about cumming on unborn babies?” but it’s such a fleeting feeling. 

Eventually as I listen to the song more and more I become desensitized to the shock and it just leaves me wondering why they thought this was a good idea to record? Did they just decide to go to the most repulsive extreme possible so that no one else ever would?

Once again the song seems like it’s going to be normal. We get like one normal rhyme this time, and then we’re hit with this:

I'm fucking all over the womb Now I move your baby to the side so I can get a little room

This song is pretty definitive proof as to why God no longer speaks with us.

I love to fuck them pregnant hoes Your baby's sneezing out nuts because I bust one in his nose So when your little child is born I bet the motherfucker tell you pregnant pussy got it going on

So, this part here is interesting. We’ve now heard from Pimp C and Bun B, we’ve heard both of them talk about how they love fucking pregnant women and indulging in their weird unborn pedophilia fetish, and that last line is delivered with the exact sort of tone you’d expect from a song wrapping up. It’s followed by the chorus and you think “Sweet fuck, they can’t go any further, can they? This has to be it. They dropped the fucking title in a verse, that’s it, they’re done.”

Sorry to disappoint you, but we live in a cruel, uncaring world.

You see, fuckin' pregnant pussy is simple All you gotta do is hope the baby think your dickhead is a nipple And if the cum snatcha stimulate my sack He just might get a fat load of Similac And if he start kicking, I'ma keep sticking Go a little deeper, give his bad ass a whipping Within nine months, I can hit it late or sooner It's me, Miss Jones, and Mr. Jones Junior And once I get the bitch in the raw Me and her kid can have a nice ménage à trois So believe I ain't kicking no bullshit Cause pregnant pussy is the best you can get

So yes, Pimp C drops this final, nightmarish verse, and then the chorus plays us out.

So, what do I think of the song? What was the point of all this? Is there enough bleach in the world to get this song out of your head?

Well, I think this song is utterly repulsive... but also rather fascinating. It makes songs like Eminem’s “Kim,” which is a six-minute murder fantasy where Em slaughters the titular woman, a six year old, and her boyfriend look incredibly tame. The lyrical content is just a non-stop pedophilic nightmare that goes beyond edgy humor and just leaves you feeling gross and uncomfortable.

But it’s just... fascinating because of that. This shit right here isn’t just a trainwreck. This is a train genocide. Pimp C and Bun B rounded up good taste, lined it up against the wall, and executed it with extreme prejudice. I almost don’t want to get mad, or offended, or disgusted at this, because I feel like if I do the boys of UGK win. The more I listen to this, the more I feel like this is just the ultimate troll song, sputing the most utterly repulsive lyrics one could ever conceive of just to garner a reaction. And I mean, it works.

Frankly, like or hate this song. Either reaction is understandable. I don’t know if this song can even be measured in metrics like “good” or “bad,” it’s just so beyond the realms of good taste, regular taste, human sensation...This shit right here is the sort of thing that almost tanked James Gunn’s career, and somehow these two went on to rap alongside the man Jay-Z himself. Is there any justice in this world? No, no there isn’t, not even a little bit.

But there is pregnant pussy. And I guess that’s something. 

[mystic-kitten-writer]

You’re so sweet for being so reassuring and not minding at all how I ramble about astrology 🧡 I’m very flattered with how you said how observant I am, thank you for that! But oh my gosh, please, there’s nothing to be jealous about. I personally feel like I get bogged down by details that at times I get too caught up and the bigger picture gets overlooked. (1/9)

And Zuko really is the poster child of a Mars man, you summed it up perfectly!! I am far from being an expert, but I love the validation you shower me with 🥰 Though I actually would love to reach a level where I can offer chart readings to anyone interested and have it be some kind of little side job one day. But ahh, there’s still so much I have to learn, from traditional to modern, it’s a discipline really worth getting into. (2/9)

I’ve never really thought about Azula’s nor Mai’s sign. Now I really want to think + look into it! It would be fun to analyze how that affected their dynamic with Zuko. I’ve been meaning to do a rewatch of the entire series due to quarantine, but even with staying home, there’s still school. And I find myself more stressed and not in the proper headspace to do a whole rewatch + be able to appreciate it properly. Idk if that made any sense, but hopefully I get over it soon. (3/9)

I’m hypothesizing that Azula has strong Leo/Scorpio to her, though she shows the negative qualities. She’s very loud, loud as in she makes people take notice of her + seeks praise/basks in any praise given to her, feeling entitled to all of it. Though I have to give it to her, she has this compelling vibe to her, so her entitlement is valid. She’s also cunning + manipulative and is a master at being so. Though none of that is her fault, she just really didn’t know any better. (4/9)

I would associate Mai’s no bull-shit attitude with Capricorn/Aquarius. I actually haven’t read the comics but her no bull-shit persona shines in the series and it’s fantastic! She’s not upfront with her feelings, but blunt with everything else. At the same time, she didn’t have a problem with stepping up when needed, such as stepping up to Azula. All of which fit into the archetypes of Cap/Aqua. And I agree communication between her and Zuko would be crucial for understanding between them. (5/9)

Those are my best guesses, I’ll get back to you more on how their signs played into their interactions with Zuko when I get to rewatching the series later! Yue’s gentleness comes from her Venus energy, and it’s wonderful how it allows Zuko’s inner Cancer to be visible. I also just realized Yue’s Libra energy and Zuko’s Aries energy play a part as to why they’re so appealing to each other too. They are opposites that just absolutely complement each other! (6/9)

Oh, I’m a Taurus + Libra moon + Sagittarius ascendant! Thanks for being curious ☺️ Going back to how you said you’re a Scorpio and your sister is a Taurus, I can relate. My mom is a Scorpio, and similarly, it took growing up for me to understand where my mom is coming from because we used to disagree on a bunch of things. I don’t have a proper explanation for it tbh. Other than the fact that Taurus and Scorpio are naturally opposites, so misunderstandings can easily arise. (7/9)

Though funny enough, I have a lot of people in my life that have Scorpio in their chart, and I’ve read a few times that if signs that naturally oppose each other make the effort to connect, then the connection is extraordinary. And as a Taurus, the people who positively affected me most are people with Scorpio energy, so I guess it’s the universe’s way of bringing balance. (8/9)

Omg, all of my asks basically make up a whole essay on astrology, and I really can’t believe I typed all that out. But thank you for sharing my enthusiasm for it 💓 I promise I can talk about things other than astrology though, aha. The next time I send you a message it’ll be on a different topic for sure! Also, I have no idea if any parts duplicated/are missing because Tumblr made me wait an hour before I could send everything. So I hope everything shows up properly! (9/9) - 🌻

I don’t know if it’s just me – but it makes my DAY getting long asks.

I love reading people’s words because you can tell how much effort and joy the person has while writing something (whatever the topic is). Like high-key, I wait for your asks because they’re always so long and in-depth, and as someone who suffers from word vomit – I can appreciate the passion and overall love. So, you better not send me short asks – I will hold it against you 😂 LOOL I need an essay buddy~! 😉

I AM CLAIMING DIBS ON BEING YOUR FIRST CUSTOMER. You can read my whole soul damnit because while I totally agree with you that Astrology is a broad discipline with much material to learn and cover, you have a vast knowledge on the topic already. I can totally see you doing it! You explain things very well, and as I read, I find myself learning stuff, and as someone who loves learning – your attention to detail and how clear you are is much appreciated.

Trust me, I get that feeling of stress. Like even though I finished school, and I can relax for the summer because my summer classes got cancelled, being stuck at home is starting to get to me. I’m very much an ambivert (leaning towards introverted), and usually, being alone is my fav zone. Still, I do enjoy going for walks and staying active (even if it's solo activities #Idontdoteamworkandusuallyendedupplayingsoloevents). But the weather has been poor, and I think all my family and friends are starting to get cabin fever 😅. Are you done your classes for the semester yet, or do you still have time to go?

OUUU, I see that mix of Leo Scorpio. Gosh, you're so good at this stuff. I can ask you questions all day LOOL. Like that manipulative aspect is, no doubt in my mind, a Scorpio thing 🙈. Like I’m a Scorpio, and even I can admit it – we’re master manipulators (for better or worse). But I’m surprised by the Mai one! Not because I don’t agree, but because I couldn’t pin one down for her, but I think you nailed it. I’m excited to see if you change your opinions once you watch the show. Because something I notice that happens naturally as you age, is certain traits of the zodiac signs become more prominent or disappear. Because, unsurprisingly, first episode Zuko to comic books Zuko are pretty much two completely different characters. He went from ‘don’t touch me’ to starting every single hug in the comic books with Aang and Sokka, etc. (Soft Zuko does things to me 🤭).

SO, QUESTION – how does Yue’s Venus influence Zuko’s cancer, and how does Yue’s Libra’s energy influence Zuko’s Aries? Like I know, they influence each other, but I’m trying to find the right words, or examples, of it happening. Or ways to describe how they affect each other. I’m sorry if I’m not making any sense. I just – there’s so much to learn, and I want to know more and more 🤯

HANDS DOWN, I would not label you as a Taurus!

I was going to label you as a Libra (so I’m happy I got that one right, kind of), but I’m so shooketh about the Taurus. But I can’t agree with you more on the fact that while Taurus/Scorpio’s are opposites, if they put effort into the relationship, it's incredible. Because I think a lot of it stems from miscommunication. Like I believe communication is vital in any given relationship, obliviously, but certain signs need an extra sprinkle of it to work.

My sister just had a second baby, and her first baby is a Libra/Scorpio cusp, and the second girl is Scorpio, and her husband is also a Libra/Scorpio cusp. I had to laugh and say good luck raising two mini-mes! She’s like I shot myself in the foot LOOL 😂😂😂

And don’t worry about it, hunny! If I ever miss a part, I’ll send a post right away in search of your missing ones because I need your words 😉

[eagesoldartblog]

Have you ever been so not proud of something like what happened here

Day four of Whumptober!!! Aw yeaHHH!!

Human Shield 

Above all else, there’s a tense silence. Neither person spoke, focused only on the other. Taking in their facial features and body language, gauging each other based on the small actions and twitches of their hand. 

How exactly did Death expect either to respond. One a towering spectator with a thirst for blood and a coward dressed in yellow. 

The walls exudes a sinister scent. Nearly frigid. 

The specter- Lewis glares at Arthur, doing nothing to conceal the fury burning in them. Infact- their fists smoked and burned, their plates of bone glowing pink. Resisting every temptation to subject Arthur to the peril they planned. 

The only reason Arthur wasn’t burnt to a crisp right there-

Was because Death forbade it.

Death, Arthur swallows tightly, blinking back a shudder as he thinks back to the numbing void outside of the walls, an all powerful being who- for some reason- patiently waits for all the souls to return to them. The one who brought both him and the dead spectator into its walls. 

*Why... is it because this spectator wants to kill him?* 

Arthur didn’t know how much of that glare he could handle. 

“S-So...” Arthur swallows, remembering how Death *promised* that no harm shall come to Arthur within their home, but this is a risk sigh the probability of a bomb exploding, but he needed to know, “Why are you after us...?” 

The spectator blinks, pink rings flaming. The fire within them growing by the pinkish glow now coming into their sockets. Muscles tightening, it speaks, “You have a lot of nerve to ask such a thing, Arthur.”

Voice gravely, echoing and sharp, the familiarity punches Arthur in the gut. It was so close to Lewis... Please don’t do this to me And yet, the only thing Arthur can ask himself is Why does it know his name?

“Is it?” Arthur challenges shakily, “you’ve been following us for a while. Are you - you’re after me at least, right?” 

”Who else?” It snaps.

Don’t flinch, Arthur. Don’t flinch. Stay strong.

“The girl.”

”Vivi,” Fuck it knows HER name too? ”I must say, I’m horribly disappointed in you. Disrespecting her that way.” The ghost scowls- seems to, and Arthur can’t help his flinch. 

“If you know anything about the world of supernaturals, then you know the importance of a name.” 

Eyes widen, the spectator tenses, now anxious and ... embarrassed? Holy shit did I actually manage to one up them??

They also notice Arthur’s victory, ”Fine. Whatever.” hissing, the flame of his hair ignites, growing tall and gaseous, ”You’re correct, I have business with you first and foremost.”

“O-kay!” His spine strains from tension, “Well. Uh- who are you?”

”You know who I am.”

Arthur bites his lip, swallowing back, “Mmm... no, no I don’t. Unless it’s from a case that I forgot! Then maybe?” He shrugs, really really hoping that the spectator doesn’t break its one restriction. 

”Excuse me?”

Should he say this? Should he really- oh well! “We- we lost our memories a while ago! A lot of past cases are completely gone for me, and - Vi doesn’t even remember one of our members or-“

”Which.” They take a step closer to him, far too close than Arthur would have liked.

They’re practically chest to chest, and Arthur needs to strain his neck to look past their tie. 

He didn’t know what compelled him to say it, share this crucial information with someone so dangerous.

“Our best friend. He went missing the same night we lost our memorie- AH!” 

When they snatched his wrist, Lightning bolts shoot through his arm. Amplified by the metal joints twisting under the iron grip of the spectator. His wrist now arms length away forcing Arthur impossibly close.

“S-stop..”

”Why should I? Your best friend is missing? You coward! Parading around like you’re innocent! And you feigning ignorance won’t get you anywhere, you knew who I was in the cave, so what’s different?”

The shooting ripples of pain rocket through Arthur’s arm, electrifying his fingers and frying the nerves of his shoulder, but it was far easier to deal with in comparison to the heart pounding anxiety coursing through the rest of him. 

The chase, the drive. Each horrible second of running down that horrifically warm cavern, met only to the blood stained, magenta burnt stalagmites that seared themselves to his memory. Overlapped with the horrible night where Lewis’s screams echoed through every wall. Where the only thing he felt was a cold numbness and endless agony.

What was different? What WAS different?

Voice strained and shrieking, Arthur squints through the tears, “Stop it! Death will-“ 

”I’m already DEAD, Arthur! I fell to your hand, why do you keep running from the truth-?!” Lewis’s burning scalp burst into flame, melting away to reveal the same face Arthur winced at many times before- from photographs, to missing photos, to voicemails, to the cave.

NO! NO NO NO- DONT-!

His grip didn’t falter. 

“Lewis, have you already forgotten our deal?”

Lewis’s grip on his arm releases, allowing Arthur to tumble back- landing on his ass and pinning his metallic arm to his side, praying he could make the electrical sparks hurt any less. So much so that he completely missed the parental tone whispering in his ear. Soothing him with comforting words and encouraging him to- 

Not thinking straight, Arthur lets his metal arm fall numb- ignoring its jittery sparks- and reaches to his prosthetic shoulder. Disengaging the locks far quicker than he should have been able to. 

None of those thoughts came to mind, not until the arm clatters to the floor, and Arthur is left weak and gasping and sobbing from the electrifying burns encapsulating his bones and heart.

“Didn’t I make my conditions clear, Lewis Pepper? Bring you two here, to allow you both peace. And yet, you’ve broken my only rule. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Arthur does his best to not fall over, the horrible pain barely subsiding and offering any leeway for him. 

In fact, if he didn’t hold his breath, he wouldn’t have heard Death’s voice surrounding him. 

Something grazes his fried shoulder, what felt like a hand. Anywhere it’s palm rubs, a soothed feeling simply... took the pain. Relaxed his heart. Brought the overwhelming thoughts to a soft hum and not a powerful shriek. 

Allowed him the strength to turn back and see what scene had taken shape around them. 

No longer was their wall paper and stained glass murals on the wall, instead, everything took on a much more... angelic appearance. Each wall covered in faintly drawn eyes, all blinking and focusing on them all. 

”I must say, I am disappointed in you.”

”And?” Lewis dared, and it became noticeably more twisted, long, draping wings of all kinds lining the walls like curtains. 

And for once, Arthur wasn’t fearful. 

But Lewis sure was.

Crouched over on himself, Arthur blearily glances around the new interior of the room. Everything was reflective, and thus shone a brilliant purple and pink as Lewis's flame lit up their surroundings. 

Lewis was... closer to him. Arthur didn't even realize it at first until he realized he was trapped in the immense shadow towering over him, but Lewis's back was turned to him. 

The golden heart, at Arthur's side. 

Breathlessly, Arthur switches from the golden- *brilliantly* beating heart, and Lewis's furious stance- his shoulders tense and feet planted apart, both fists clenched and enveloped in fire and burning flames. 

Why...

"Who are you? Why do you stop me?" Lewis demands, his voice and anchor crack in equal measure. 

Arthur grabs it, confused and compelled, the fear radiating from it drew him closer. Maybe this can give us an advantage..? Maybe-

The wings bristle, puffing up, and Arthur shudders. A warm wind washing over them. An even calmer chuckle tickling his ears. 

Oh Lewis, you misunderstand. You too perished far too early, and that is why I wish to do everything I can for you to get the justice you deserve. But Arthur, is innocent. In terms that he did not commit the act of judgment, but one of my own. 

The stained glass dyes red. And all at once, the walls, glass, and floor, shatter.

[extra-flamey]

Nissa Revane: Actually Autistic (why accurate representation matters (featuring gruulfriends))

This entire post is actually in response to @jiangyanggu‘s post about Chandra/Nissa being an adhd/autistic wlw power couple. I wholeheartedly agree! Go gruulfriends! But there was more I wanted to say about this, especially about Nissa. I don’t usually attempt a big post like this, because I’m not that great at putting my feelings into words. But with something so near and dear to me, I wanted to at least give it a try and put my thoughts out there. 

(Warning: personal story + character analysis under the cut. If you wanna skip my ‘backstory’ and go straight to the analysis, you can skip the first 5 paragraphs.)

I’m a woman on the spectrum who was diagnosed late (about 17 years old). I was having trouble in school way before that because I was nauseous on a daily basis (which, in hindsight, was caused by being in a constant state of stress) and had to stay back a year since I couldn’t keep up anymore by just showing up once every three weeks. Without getting into too much detail: after a couple years of weekly visits to all sorts of doctors and therapists, I was finally diagnosed with autism.

With the diagnosis a lot of things changed. Unfortunately, these changes weren’t all that positive at first. The first thing that took a hit was my self-esteem. While it wasn’t all that high to begin with, hearing people at school use your disability as a slur really does something to you. Along with that I had to switch schools, because for some reason they don’t take kindly to students staying back two years in a row. My new school was one for people with autism as well as other similar disabilities. This should have been great, but it wasn’t. I was still too nauseous to attend. Also, while changing school I had lost a lot of friends and I couldn’t exactly make new ones because when I was present, I was too afraid to talk to anyone. Finally, to put a cherry on top of the shit cake, my family was under the impression that I was misdiagnosed and didn’t actually have autism.

But nearing end of that school year, two things happened. 1: I finally went to a psychiatrist who was able to prescribe me fluoxetine. Originally used to battle depression, but for me it helped get rid of the constant fear and stress which lifted the nausea entirely. And 2: I got into Magic. Hello, new special interest!

Let’s fast forward a few months with the release of Kaladesh. It was around this time I started following the story as well. And I’m so glad I did.

This is where Nissa comes in. I liked her before I started reading the stories. I’m a green player at heart and really like elves. Funnily enough, I was already shipping her with Chandra, because as a lesbian I’m always looking for two female characters to ship. The thing about just playing the game though, is that you don’t get to see a lot of personality from its characters.

So... reading.

The first one I read was of course ‘Homesick’. The first thing I noticed (besides Chandra being adorable) was this:

And in addition:

I’m instantly on high alert. For most people with autism (including myself) being touched can be extremely uncomfortable. Nissa reacting in this manner is a huge possible indicator. And can we also take a moment to appreciate the way in which Gideon handles the situation?

Then later we get this scene from Chandra’s perspective:

Other than this being the initial gruulfriends scene that got me hooked, the eye contact part really stood out to me. Again, for a lot of people on the spectrum, making eye contact is really uncomfortable as well. Some refrain from it altogether. Since eye contact is such a crucial part in communication though, it’s one of the first things you have to learn if you want to get better at connecting with people. However, what you usually get when you start out is the staring. Seeing as Nissa has lived alone for most of her life, she likely didn’t have to bother learning how to make eye contact until she joined the Gatewatch.

And for my next point:

I don’t know about you, but this sounds exactly like sensory overload to me. To me, this is one of the worst parts, if not the worst part of being autistic. There isn’t really anything you can do about it other than seclude yourself from anything and everything. For anybody unfamiliar: I like to think of it as every sound, noise, smell, etc, being amplified until your brain short-circuits. Remember what I said about the constant stress and fear that made me nauseous?  Sensory overload plays a huge role there.

Now for the last point I wanted to bring up (this time from ‘Renewal’, the last installment for Aether Revolt):

The awkwardness of communication. Not knowing how to talk to people, how to put your thoughts into words. Misunderstanding which usually comes from being unable to read between the lines. Or, also a fun thing, leaving out information because you think it’s obvious while it really isn’t.

And I also wanted to include this:

Because I think it’s beautiful to see how far Nissa is willing to go for Chandra, to be with her.

I let my mother read these snippets and you know what she said? “That’s you.”

So here we’ve got a character who I like, look up to and can relate to. The latter had never happened to me before when it came to characters with autism. They’d always have this ‘redeeming quality’ of being a genius; something associated with autism, but there’s a small percentage that’s notably great at something. Other things to consider are how the characters portrayed are usually male or that they’re usually ‘straight’ but struggle in the romance department. Nissa seems to defy all of these ‘rules’ (if they actually go through with what they’ve set up between Nissa and Chandra).

Now I know an argument against the previously mentioned reasons would be that not all symptoms I have pointed out exclusively apply to autistic people and that’s true. However, with so many things that are typical for people on the spectrum, it’s hard not to see the pattern.

So, Nissa has helped me accept who I am as a person. Helped me accept the difficult things I struggle with on an almost daily basis. I’m not filled with constant self-loathing because I can’t do everything I’d want to do. There’s just things I need a little more time with and that’s okay. This is why I’m so grateful for her. I fear for her though. It appears as though Wizards is done with her. I hope this isn’t the case, and that she’ll survive War of the Spark and live happily ever after with her girlfriend, Chandra (a girl can dream).

Thank you so much for reading this long rant-like... whatever this is. If you want to discuss something said in this post, or just to chat, my inbox is always open.

[derireo]

reserved | (6) | z.yixing

word count: 2445

genre: violence + humor + angst; mafia/triad au + badboy!lay

chapter summary: lei fan has come back and is pleasantly surprised to be greeted by xu tai and zhang he. as they head back to the office, something unexpected happens and lights everyone’s nerves on fire.

chapters: 5 / 6 / 7

Chapter Six: Arrival

"Isn't this a bit much?" Lei Fan complained. She wished to say that the situation she was in was cliche, but she knew it was just protocol for these men. The wind was beating against her body once she stepped out of the airport and it made her hair whip around in different directions. She noticed the row of men on either side of the entrance leading towards a definitely inconspicuous car waiting for her.

She groaned in embarrassment as she walked down towards the car with every man in each row giving her a 90 degree bow. It would have been much more embarrassing had they picked her up at the very front of the airport, but she was escorted to an empty part of the hangar. She didn't expect to be welcomed with so many of Xu Tai's men, rather she would have liked it if it was only Xu Tai and Zhang He welcoming her home.

By the time she reached the car door, Lei Fan quickly turned around to look for Mo Shan and Ma Chou who were still at the end of the row. They bowed to her respectfully and then waved, indicating that she would be okay entering the car alone.

She pouted to herself, reluctant on entering the car, only to be met with a grinning Xu Tai in the back seat.

Lei Fan startled when he popped a small confetti popper and whooped as she buckled herself in, the floating pieces of paper making a mess of their hair and the car. To make it worse, Xu Tai released two more confetti poppers in the car, startling Lei Fan twice more as she was just starting to calm herself. "Our baby is back!" he celebrated, throwing confetti at the chauffeur.

The chauffeur stayed quiet for a moment, rummaging his hand through a compartment beside his seat before turning around to throw a cold water bottle at Xu Tai's face, grumbling in annoyance. "You're going to have to clean the car later, idiot."

At the sound of the driver's voice, Lei Fan perked up in excitement; not being able to recognize the man's identity earlier due to darkness in the vehicle and the man wearing sunglasses. "Zhang He!" she exclaimed happily, moving out of her seat a little to move forward, her hands landing on the man's shoulders from over his seat. "I totally didn't recognize you," she blabbered, "Why didn't you call or text me when I was overseas?" she pouted.

Xu Tai guffawed at this; crossing his arms over his chest in protest, "I called and texted you when you were overseas!" he mentioned.

Lei Fan frowned at the fact, "But you weren't Zhang He," she drawled, turning her head back to look at Zhang He through the rearview mirror. Her eyes practically glistening in happiness when he removed his sunglasses to look back at her with a brief smile, his hand moving around to grab hold of the gearshift and taking the vehicle off park.

"Sorry, Xiao Lei. Been busy." his voice was gentle, and he pointed a glance towards the woman that told her to sit back down in her seat. He didn't say much after that which made Lei Fan curious, so she looked towards Xu Tai for answers, her lips forming a pout. The man who was being stared down sighed to himself, slouching in his seat. "He's been taking care of my meetings and other duties."

"Isn't that a bit much for a bodyguard to do?" Lei Fan inquired, the frown apparent on her face. She would have understood if Zhang He was busy with work within his expertise, but it doesn't make sense for him to attend Xu Tai's meetings for him. Zhang He is Xu Tai's bodyguard, but he shouldn't be a stand-in for such an important character in the city.

"Well, not really," Xu Tai grumbled, "Zhang He isn't --"

Xu Tai paused when he saw the warning gaze in Zhang He's eyes from the rear view mirror then noticed how he took a hand off the wheel to point at a hidden microphone placed near the air vent at the front.

The man swallowed awkwardly as he remembered that all vehicles under the use of The Fallen [1] had microphones for security, as well as to see if there were any rats in the circle. Xu Tai rubbed the back of his neck; scolding himself. Not everyone who is under Zhang He and Xu Tai know that their roles are switched, and only Xu Tai, Mo Shan, and Ma Chou know Zhang He's true name as of now.

The only reason why Xu Tai can't say anything is because there are other members who listen in on the conversations; not Zhang He nor Xu Tai unless they go there themselves.

Lei Fan's frown deepened when Xu Tai stopped speaking and patiently waited for him to continue -- if that was even going to happen.

Snapping himself out of it, Xu Tai looked at Lei Fan with a sheepish smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he slapped the back of his neck a few times, Zhang He sighing quietly to himself in relief. It wasn't the perfect time to throw a bomb like that at Lei Fan, and Zhang He was still trying to figure out when that chance would come.

"I'll tell you later," the man driving said vaguely, causing Lei Fan to nod, albeit hesitantly.

"So, how was it overseas? Make any friends?" Zhang He prodded, causing Xu Tai to perk up at the questions. He had hoped Mo Shan and Ma Chou didn't make it hard for her to socialize with others. They can be pretty intimidating and cause misunderstandings if they're not careful enough. Lei Fan smiled though, and happily nodded to the questions, "It was great overseas! Definitely easier studying there rather than here." she gloated happily, her smile brightening up the mood in the room.

"And I made maybe one or two friends? Mo Shan and Ma Chou were kind of protective of me," she said, causing Zhang He to press his lips into a thin line, "But it's fine! I wasn't planning on making friends in the first place, but the people I met were persistent." she laughed quietly, shrugging her shoulders.

"I'm kind of glad they were." she kicked her legs cutely, Xu Tai gazing at the woman beside him with a sort of motherly fondness in his eyes.

The car eventually became cloaked with a comfortable silence as the two men had nothing else to say, Lei Fan quietly fiddling with her fingers. She wished she had at least brought her bag with her into the car, but Mo Shan and Ma Chou insisted on bringing her luggage back to Xu Tai's place with them so that she could travel back comfortably.

A gentle melody began to swirl out from the radio that Zhang He turned on, causing Lei Fan to sigh and visibly relax into her seat. It was a long plane ride back home and she was too busy watching movies on her mini screen that she didn't get to sleep, so she took the chance to take a nap now.

The low rumble of the bass vibrated along the leather of the seats, lulling the woman to sleep as the humming of Xu Tai's voice flowed into her ears.

The overseas trip was meant to help Lei Fan discover herself as well as keep her safe from any threats that would have followed if the people whom attacked her found out that she was still alive. At first, it was Lei Fan's idea to leave, since she didn't get to go to post-secondary right after high school, and again, at first, Xu Tai was quite opposed to the idea of her leaving the country. He felt uneasy to have her go by herself.

Zhang He supported her though, and quietly told Xu Tai that it was a good idea; it would help her avoid that Xiahouji and Guo Dian and hopefully have them forget her existence. There was going to be a lot of problems if any of the men Xiahouji hired found her strolling the streets right after her presumable death.

Xu Tai relented, but persisted on having his two bodyguards go along with her to help her get by. He worried that if anyone outside of the circle knew she was affiliated with him or Zhang He, they'd definitely spread the news to other groups -- even groups outside of China. It was crucial that no one knew about her, and even gave her an alias she could use to cover her true identity.

Thankfully, Lei Fan had yielded when it came to changing her name overseas to keep from anyone connecting her to someone else from The Fallen or Heaven on Earth.

Xu Tai was abruptly interrupted from his thoughts as the car violently screeched. Zhang He had stepped on the brake as hard and as fast as he could, the gravity making everyone in the vehicle to fall forward. Lei Fan was roused from her nap and was surprised to have her head bump into the head rest of Zhang He's seat.

"Sorry," the man grumbled, his forehead wrinkling in worry for his passengers in the back. A few men were running across the street without looking, but they were still quite far so Zhang He continued to drive until one more man popped out from the alleyway ahead. The figure surprised Zhang He and he stopped the car as fast as his reflexes could make him, the man who ran out on the street falling to the ground.

Before Zhang He could bark out any sort of profanity that came to his head first, the man quickly jumped up from the ground and put his hands on the hood of the car, a grateful smile on his face but a crazed look in his eyes.

"Sorry about --" the unknown man was going to apologize until someone inside of the car caught his attention.

Zhang He noticed how the man's eyes widened, and how his gaze was fixated on something. Before Xu Tai or Zhang He could act, Lei Fan had already seen the man's mouth forming the shape of her name, causing her to properly look at the man's visage; she visibly paled when she recognized who it was. Thankfully, before the man could do or say anything else, Zhang He pressed the heel of his hand into the car horn while Xu Tai forced Lei Fan into his chest, cradling the back of her head as Zhang He swerved around the stranger as fast as he could, speeding down the street when he jumped out of the way.

"Shit!" Zhang He groaned helplessly, his hand punching the steering wheel while Xu Tai finally let Lei Fan breathe.

"Guo Dian..." Lei Fan mumbled, seemingly in a daze. She hadn't expected to run into him right after stepping back into China. She didn't even think he would still be around this area after what happened to her a couple of years ago, but seeing his face again definitely brought up emotions she would've liked to stay deep down inside for a while longer.

She held her head in her hands, her mind racing.

Nimble fingers wrapped themselves around her wrist to gently rouse her from her mumbling, tugging her into the comforting warmth of Xu Tai's solid chest. His lips pursed to hush her rambling, his hand again finding the back of her head to cradle her into his body, his cheek pressed against her hair while Zhang He changed the route they were using to head back to the main office.

"Stop thinking about him," Xu Tai murmured, rocking the woman in his arms back and forth to calm her shaking body. The car was tense after the unforeseen event with Xu Tai holding an incoherent Lei Fan and Zhang He's body perspiring out of anxiousness.

Guo Dian wasn't supposed to show up this early into Lei Fan's return, and Zhang He would've preferred it if he never showed up at all, but it was inevitable. The two men knew it was inevitable as recent reports have shown that Guo Dian's gang has been causing a ruckus in several areas near the outside of their city. It was only a matter of time until they would infiltrate and spread themselves out amongst the city, but Zhang He had estimated that they wouldn't do so until a few weeks or months later.

Xu Tai grimaced to himself as he felt a warm liquid flooding down his neck and pooling into his collarbone, and his heart nearly broke into pieces when he heard the helpless whimper of his dear friend's voice muffled against his skin, "Why, Guo Dian..." she cried, "Why did you look at me like that?"

The men could do nothing but listen to the cries of a young girl who was betrayed by her boyfriend and best friend, only bringing herself more pain as she reminded herself of that night where she was left to die in that grimy alleyway.

"Hush now, sweetheart," Xu Tai whispered, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he printed a light kiss to the side of her head. Zhang He impatiently tapping his fingers against the wheel as he waited for the gates of the main office building to open, the engine roaring and the exhaust pipes spewing condensation as he drove down to the garage.

"I'll take care of this." Zhang He spoke harshly under his breath as he parked the car, not waiting for the two passengers in the back to leave while he slammed the front door. His stride was heavy, but his footsteps were silent in the gloomy garage, and he locked the doors to the vehicle once he heard the soft padding of Xu Tai's shoes against the concrete and the thump of the backdoor.

Taking a quick glance back, Zhang He saw Lei Fan being cradled like a child in the other man's arms. He pointed a finger at his friend, his gaze telling him to take care of the her until he's gotten things under control and has intel on the current situation with the infiltration.

The boss took the stairs to head up while Xu Tai used the elevator to head to the top floor.

"Great way to start the fucking day." Zhang He laughed humorlessly.

__

[1] The Fallen: The gang Zhang He and Xu Tai is in charge of.

[makeste]

“Cool motive; still adultery” (or, ITP: makeste rants about Gokudera’s stupid dad)

@natashawogver Haha, so this reply ended up being so damn long that I ended up doing it as its own post so that I could add a cut.

First, I can’t speak for everyone, but I’ve always assumed “Gokudera” was his mother’s surname rather than his dad’s, and the parts of fandom I’ve interacted with seem to concur, I think? But since Gokudera’s father never got a canon name, I use “Gokupapa” at times just to make it clear who I’m referring to without having to type out “Gokudera’s father” every time.

Anyway! I said in my answer to your previous ask that I could go on for days about this topic, and I probably will, so! Just... be warned, lol.

The thing is, it’s absolutely possible to take Bianchi’s statement at 100% face value. It was a misunderstanding. His parents really did love each other. His mom was sick and didn’t want to get attached to him (and vice-versa), so she limited her contact with him. His father was heartbroken and wanted to marry his mother, but she refused, thinking it would be better for everyone that way. Somehow this all got twisted around, and rumors about Gokupapa’s infidelity spread, but the rumors all missed out on the crucial points that (1) he actually was in love with her, and (2) that she did from her illness rather than under any suspicious circumstances. Fine. It’s possible; it checks out; there are letters proving this; TYL!Bianchi says this is the case. So fine, let’s assume this is what actually happened.

The thing is that if this really was how the events actually played out, in my opinion it not only does not redeem Gokudera’s father, it actually kind of makes him a bigger asshole than ever. And on top of that, it makes his mom kind of an asshole too. The manga tries to play off this revelation like it’s supposed to redeem Hayato’s parents, but in actuality, if this is all true, both of them were pretty irredeemably selfish, and their actions came very close to ruining Hayato’s whole life. So okay, let’s get into all of the reasons why they, in fact, suck.

First and foremost: Gokudera’s father cheated on his wife. This is indisputable no matter which version of events we go with. He was married with a young daughter, he had a mistress, and he got his mistress pregnant. “Yes, but he was in love!” Okay! Cool motive; still adultery! “But he was going to marry her!” Sure, but then he didn’t. Nor did he divorce his previous wife. In the end he wound up pretending Hayato was her son instead. I can’t imagine she was very happy about that. Shades of Catelyn Stark and Jon Snow, most likely, except that Ned was actually a decent guy, whereas we have no evidence at all that Gokupapa was anything other than a big sack of shit.

Gokudera’s mom! Lavina! Let’s talk about her. First of all, it’s clear that whatever else, she genuinely did love her son dearly. She died before he was even three years old, and by all accounts only ever visited him a handful of times, and yet he still has deeply affecting memories of her more than a decade later. For her to have had that much of an impact on him in just that short amount of time, she must have been absolutely radiating love for him on each and every one of those visits. She’s a saint in his eyes. He loves her and misses her even though he barely knew her. I absolutely won’t argue that she didn’t love him, because all evidence says otherwise.

But -- she abandoned him. Because she thought it would be best for him, supposedly, but still. She left him with his father and basically surrendered all responsibility for him, and gave up the few short years that they could have spent together. She denied him the chance to get to know her, and minimized what seems to have been one of the few bright spots of his childhood. And by turning down Gokudera’s father (even though we’re led to believe they were in love), she ensured that her son would never have any hope of being seen as legitimate, something that ends up making his life fairly miserable later down the line.

So to sum, Gokudera’s mom = loving, but absent. As for Gokudera’s father, his infidelity is only one small aspect of his being a piece of shit! 

Let’s talk for a second about Gokudera’s childhood. By all accounts, he grew up desperately lonely. It’s clear that he and Bianchi were very isolated growing up. They don’t appear to have any friends, and they were tutored at home. It’s also fairly clear that Hayato was not receiving anything in the way of paternal affection, judging by how totally enamored he was of Shamal, idolizing him and seeking his approval and going so far as to imitate his hairstyle. Look, Shamal isn’t exactly a tender or affectionate guy. He’s mostly just an asshole! On the few occasions that he does show any type of caring toward Hayato, it’s always in the most gruff and indirect ways possible. So for this guy, as aloof as he is, to be receiving that level of reverence and admiration from this six or seven-year-old boy speaks volumes about just how starved Hayato was for any type of kindness or attention. It means that he had no one else. Maybe he wasn’t suffering from any physical abuse yet at this point, but there was absolutely neglect. And you can tell this left scars on him that he’s still struggling to deal with even as a teenager.

So now, let’s talk about the actual abuse. Poison cookies! All right, so before I start in with this, I just want to make it clear that I don’t blame Bianchi for any of it. As I’ve said before, I truly believe that she didn’t (and still doesn’t) understand the damage she actually did. She loves her little brother and her cooking was made with love; how could it possibly hurt him? There’s a lot of inherent tragedy there, because this ends up forcing the two of them apart, and up until that point, Bianchi had really been the only loving presence in Hayato’s life from what I can see. And she still doesn’t understand what caused the rift between them.

Because this was all first revealed back during the Daily Life arc, it was all played up for comedic effect, and so it wasn’t ever examined too closely. We’re not really meant to think on it too much. But later on when the manga does become serious, and more events from Hayato’s past are revealed that absolutely are serious and tragic and treated with gravity and solemnity, it gets harder to ignore the tonal whiplash. You kind of do have to go back and look at the whole poison cooking thing again, this time from a more serious standpoint. And when you do, it’s pretty damn fucked up.

Basically, Hayato was poisoned on a regular basis for two whole years. It was painful and traumatizing to the point where just the memory of it physically affects him years later. And the one responsible for making all this happen in the first place? Dear old dad. After the bizarre “success” of that first disastrous concert, Hayato is forced to eat his sister’s cookies before every single performance. His dad fucking forced him to eat poison for fucking entertainment! Like, it’s such an insanely over-the-top tragedy that that itself is the joke. It’s so absurd and so out of the blue that it’s hilarious. Or at least it is in the original context when we first get this reveal all the way back in chapter 10.

But as the manga’s tone gradually sobers up and matures, Gokudera’s role in the series shifts from “hotheaded whipping boy whose hypertragic past can be exploited for comedic purposes” to “deeply-insecure-yet-determined character whose genuinely awful past can be milked for lots of angst.” Conveniently enough, the series never revisits the whole poison cooking story once this shift takes place, but what we do get is a brand new backstory in which Gokudera despises his father because he believes that he had his mother killed. 

Let’s repeat that: Gokudera believes that his father murdered his mother. Whether or not this is actually true or not almost doesn’t matter, because the fact remains that Hayato believed this story without question from the moment he first heard it. It means there was absolutely no doubt in his eight-year-old mind that his father was capable of that. And small wonder that he wouldn’t doubt it, because this is a man who first neglected him and then later went on to abuse him. Because that’s what the poison cooking thing is, in this revised context: abuse. Full stop. There is absolutely no other way to look at it. 

So yeah! It’s pretty safe to say that a man who was capable of that would also have been capable of callously killing a woman just to cover up his own indiscretions. He doesn’t exactly have a lot going on that would make one want to give him the benefit of the doubt.

But again, canon later swings around and says this was all just a misunderstanding. He didn’t kill Lavina, and Gokudera was in fact “born into this world loved by both of his parents.” To add onto that, TYL!Bianchi tells Gokudera all this while also observing that she “doesn’t expect him to understand right now.” The implication is almost that Gokudera is somehow the one who’s been in the wrong this whole time, and he’s been unfairly assuming the worst about his dad, and judging him without fully understanding the situation.

This. Is. Bullshit. And it’s where I take the most umbrage with regards to this entire thing. Because here’s the final bit of evidence that Gokudera’s dad is The Absolute Worst, and it’s probably the most damning of all: he lets Hayato run away. He lets him leave, and there is no evidence at all that he ever made any kind of attempt to go after him and bring him home. This is an eight-year-old child, who up until this point has grown up in a fucking castle, and who has absolutely no knowledge of the real world whatsoever. He went from fairy tale levels of wealth to literally living on the street. Anything could have happened to him. Probably a hell of a lot did happen to him that will never be fully examined, because this was a manga aimed at kids and young teenagers, and also it ended back in 2012 lol. But it’s not hard to imagine. Even assuming the most G-rated version of events possible -- say, in a world where drugs and human trafficking and violent street crime somehow aren’t a thing -- he’s still homeless, and all alone. We know from canon and from the light novels that he basically just drifted from place to place. 

In the opening section of his light novel story Bakudan Bambino, he wakes up after getting himself knocked out in a brawl to find that a good samaritan has taken him in and bandaged up his wounds. He is incredibly confused by all of this, but it’s not the fact that he was knocked out and woke up in a strange place that confuses him. It’s the fact that he didn’t wake up bleeding in an alley somewhere, but that instead some guy he didn’t even know helped him out for absolutely no reason without expecting anything in return. Hayato is at such a low point in his life at this stage that he literally can’t conceive of someone actually doing that, because he’s spent the past four years having it repeatedly hammered into his head that people aren’t like that, and the world isn’t like that. He has issues. He is miserable. Later in the novel, when he asks that same good samaritan guy why the hell he keeps helping him out, the man answers that it’s because Hayato’s eyes always seem to be saying ‘help me.’ Basically, in those four years he’s been through absolute hell, and the entire fucking time he’s been suffering through it completely and utterly on his own.

But here’s the thing -- he was eight years old when he left. He had no plan whatsoever, no fucking idea what the hell he was doing. You can’t tell me he could have possibly made it very far, at least at first. Where the hell could a stupid little eight-year-old kid with no money or transportation or anything possibly could have gone that his father, a man with a ton of resources and wealth, wouldn’t have been able to track him down? He wasn’t laying low; we know for a fact that he attempted to join a number of other mafia families, only to be turned down by all of them because they didn’t want a spoiled rich brat, or “a half-breed.”

This all goes to show that they knew who he was, though. It’s not a secret. All his father would have had to do was put the word out that Hayato had gone off on his own and that he would be very grateful (in the $$$ sense) to anyone who could aid him in tracking him down and returning him. This is assuming that he couldn’t have just had his own men do it. Basically, there’s no way that Hayato successfully manages to run away and not be found unless his father actually didn’t want to find him.

And when you think about it like that, then it does start to make more sense. From the start, Gokudera’s father never shows any kind of attachment to him, and is content first to ignore his existence, and then to later on actually have him poisoned for laughs. Best case scenario, he doesn’t care about him one way or the other. Worst case, Hayato is actually a thorn in his side and he’s happy to be rid of him. Because he is still illegitimate, after all, and who knows what kind of political troubles that could end up causing as he starts to get older. And there’s a good chance that Hayato’s stepmother, Bianchi’s mother (who is never once mentioned throughout the entire series but who does, one has to assume, exist) isn’t particularly fond of Hayato and never has been. So really, who even cares if he runs away, then? In the long run it’s probably for the best. So rather than showing even the slightest bit of concern over his son’s safety and well-being, he just lets him run away and apparently disregards the matter entirely. Just abandons him to whatever might happen out there, and good riddance.

And this -- this is why I can’t swallow the whole “your parents loved you and each other” thing at the end of the day. Because even supposing that the latter part is true, the former absolutely is not. It can’t be. And it bothers me so much, because it’s like, so are we supposed to get the impression that Gokudera’s dad is just a misunderstood guy who was only ever trying to do his best, then? Because if not, why even bring any of this up? Is this supposed to be a cathartic revelation for Gokudera, to realize that not only is his dad a dick who never gave a shit about him, but that his mom, too, played a part in how these events all turned out, and that it was her choice not to ever see him? How the fuck is that supposed to make him feel better about the whole situation? In the end it somehow just makes it all end up being even more of a huge clusterfuck.

Lol oh my god. So that’s pretty much all of my thoughts on the matter. As you can see, I still have very strong opinions about all this, and I still haven’t gotten over it after all this time, to the point where I actually wrote a fic that partially revised Gokudera’s backstory just so I could resolve it all in my own mind in a way that actually felt satisfying to me. (The link is here, incidentally, and I really have some nerve linking to that considering that I still haven’t finished the epilogue for it yet. But I guess I have no shame lol.) It’s probably the single most infuriating thing in the entire series for me. I should probably chill out just a little, but! He’s my goddamn son. It’s like you said: I love everything about him too, lol. So for his sake, I will always be mildly enraged over this two-page plot point that occurred ages and ages ago and then never came up again.  (︶▽︶)b

[notesfromthepen]

Rigged

RIGGED (Written in 2017 and is a A prequel to The Clinic)

CHAPTER 1

Waiting on your H dealer, when it's been 24 hours since your last fix, is like waiting on the results of an AIDS test after a Xanax-fueled tour of the world's sleaziest brothel.

Anxious? I'd say so.

The cold sweat beading up on my lower back, and the increasing frequency of the chills spreading across my clammy skin, reminds me that it's been way too long since my last dose of "medicine." This is my first trip to the pharmacy tonight, making it the most crucial as well.

In case you've never been dope-sick, and waiting to score, allow me to try and enlighten you. The physical part is what you hear about most frequently—probably because it's absolutely horrific. Imagine the worst flu you've ever had, combined with the aches and pains of a high speed collision. Newly aware of every inch of your biology, you discover pain in places previously unknown to exist. The individual striations in every muscle scream for relief. Every cell of your being becomes dedicated to the sole purpose of ending the misery. You inevitably realize there's only one solution—and waiting for it is torture.

In addition to the physical aspects of withdrawals, are the mental components of this living hell. First, every sensation is heightened to unbearable levels. Which might not be so bad if every sensation didn't already make you want to jump off the roof of the nearest office building. Every imagined discomfort leads to a string of terrible emotions; discomfort to anger, anger to rage, rage to acceptance, acceptance to depression. Count yourself lucky if it stops there.

Uncomfortable? To say the least.

The sweat behind my knees is making my already clammy skin stick to the dilapidated faux-leather seats in this piece of shit rust bucket! The sensation has me on the verge of snapping. If I had the energy, I tear this fucking car to pieces.

As with everything in my life, my opinion of my car is determined by the chemicals in my system—or lack there of. Currently I'm feeling a bit pessimistic.

The problem with Hondas are that they refuse to die. Like an eighty year old supermodel, trying in vain to be fully useful, she works when she can and never misses the chance to complain, but the memories and pity are just enough to keep her around.

All this waiting is excruciating. It's enough to make me wrap my lips around the first firearm I can get my shaky junkie hands on. The only thing keeping me from pulling the trigger on that idea, is the knowledge that sweet, sweet relief is just around the corner.

Hopefully.

Nothing about this lifestyle is ever a sure thing.

When you're selling a product like heroin, you don't exactly have to be punctual—or reliable. It's simple economics: the demand side, colossally outweighs the supply part of the equation.

So with nothing left to do, I curse my life and wait. I'm sitting here, with baited breath, waiting for Tina's phone to ring so we can find out which apartment we're meeting D at, so we can finally get our meds and get the fuck outta here. We've already been here for twenty minutes, and I'm starting to count the seconds.

Oh, by the way, Tina is my current companion and possible codefendant on this mission in misery.

Tina is one of the numerous and interchangeable drug buddies one acquires in this line of work. Nothing brings odd pairings together like addiction. The only thing that me and Tina really have in common is our drug of choice—which in turn, means that we have practically everything in common. She's currently sitting shotgun in my elderly supermodel of a car and she's just as anxious and dope-sick as I am.

Everything and especially everyone in a junkie's life serves a purpose. Today, Tina's purpose is that we're using her dealer.

She's been talking for the last ten minutes straight. And even though I'm her only audience, she's not talking to me as much as she's talking at me. Which is fine, because I tuned her out ten-seconds into her diatribe. Being an addict leaves very little room for any non dope-related business. Because of our isolation, only snippets of what she's saying makes it through our respective bubbles. The bits that are making it through, only do so, because she's growling her words.

"Asshole's always late!..

"Tired of this shit.

"Creepy fuck...someone should just...

"Touching me...

"Deserves it..."

The only other sound, in this Honda on life support, is the white-noise of fast food wrappers and empty Red Bull cans being shuffled around in our endless attempt to find a more comfortable position for our legs, a position no dope-sick junkie in the history of the universe has ever found. Just as I think I can take no more—on the verge of losing my shit—it happens!

Tina's pocket glows white-hot. My heart does that rollercoaster drop of anticipation. In the time it takes her to fumble in her pocket to answer her phone, my withdrawal symptoms have become slightly more bearable; a welcomed light at the end of a horrific tunnel. Before she can answer our electronic lifeline, I'm hammering her with questions:

"Who is it?

"What's up?

"Is he almost here?"

She holds her index finger up in the universal sign for: Gimmie a fuckin' second.

I hold my breath.

She doesn't have to say anything for my cold sweats and back pain to come rushing back. It's written all over her. "OK, well call back as soon as you get here," she mumbles into the phone. She tosses her phone to the floor with the other useless trash. With just a shred of hope, I wait for the official verdict—suddenly I'm all ears.

"Thirty more fuckin' minutes!" she spits. She might as well have said, "Not in this lifetime, but maybe in the next..."

"Thirty minutes? We've already been waiting a fuckin' half an hour!" I yell.

I'm not talking to Tina as much as I'm talking at her.

We spend the next ten minutes taking turns pointing out the injustice of having to wait another half an hour to score. Our shared frustration and self righteous indignation is the closest we come to sympathy; the junkie's version of bonding.

The cigarette butts spilling from the ashtray are a harsh reminder of the time we've spent in this waiting room on wheels.

I try—and quickly fail—to do anything other than count the seconds until Tina's phone reads 12:17, when exactly thirty minutes have passed, so she can call D back if he still hasn't shown—which is more than likely to be the case.

This return call must be handled with finesse. A junkie never wants to piss off the dealer—but almost always does. The user/dealer relationship can be delicate to say the least. One too many pestering phone calls, and you run the real risk of getting your appointment rescheduled or—god forbid—cancelled all together.

Just like dealers aren't punctual—junkies aren't exactly patient. If you tell a junkie that you're gonna be somewhere in five minutes, then you better be there in five minutes.

There is no figure of speech when it comes to drugs.

The dashboard clock says it's 12:05.

Twelve more minutes.

My nose is constantly running—another side effect of not taking my meds on time. In the past five minutes, Tina has gone from ranting like a drunken sailor, to an uncharacteristic, and completely unsettling, silent rage. It's tricky to tell when a junkie is acting strange—junkies are always acting strange, it's what we do—but something about Tina's recent silence is giving me indigestion. Maybe it's just the lack of dope, but it something feels off.

To say Tina is temperamental, would be an understatement. I've seen her lose her shit on numerous occasions. All five-foot three-inches of dirty-blonde, tattooed, fury. I've heard her scream "ASSHOLE!" at the top of her lungs. I've seen her punch, slap, kick, and claw her way through more than one "misunderstanding." However, I have yet to see her engaged in thought and silent rage.

I would ask her what's up, but right now I've got one thing on my mind—and it isn't Tina's mental state.

There's not a situation on the planet that I can't put off until I'm high—including death.

I lean forward and turn on the radio; my feeble attempt to distract myself from the slow crawl of time. Johnny Cash's, "Sunday Morning Coming Down." It ends up just being a soundtrack to my suffering.

How appropriate.

And Tina, like a roman statue with a lip piercing—fire behind her eyes—is unmoved. Then, just as I come to the strenuous decision that it's time to give D a return call, the gods intervene.

All the triggers I've been waiting for, come to life: the buzz of the phone, vibrating a millisecond before it rings, the radiant white-light of the screen, and the EDM ringtone that erupts from the little magic device. Brought to life by the incoming call, Tina's phone becomes our own pathetic disco ball, shooting lights and music around this coffin on wheels.

I fumble to turn radio off the radio. This call supersedes anything in my life at the moment. It's so quiet in here that I can almost make out what D's saying. And then, disaster strikes. Her phone goes dark—like dead-battery dark. Once again, my heart tumbles down my ribcage into my bowels.

"Fuck!" snaps Tina. She grabs my phone from the dashboard, dials a number, and presses it to her ear. "It's me, my phone died." A moment passes and she ends the call with a flat, but possibly, maybe, a slightly hopeful, "Yep." She drops the phone in her lap.

With the anticipation of a defendant in a capitol murder case, I wait for the verdict. Life or death?

Staring straight ahead, she says, "He's about to pull in."

"It's about time."

Finally—a victory. A slow smile creeps across my face.

CHAPTER 2

If I wasn't so distracted, I'd probably try to figure out the cause of the uneasy stirrings in the pit of my stomach—but like I said, most things can wait until I'm high.

My phone rings. Everything else fades into the background. After two more "yeps" and an "OK," Tina hangs up, and motions towards the parking spot by a nearby dumpster—the location seems fitting. I pull in—never taking my eyes off the rearview mirror, as if there's a prize to be won by being the first of two junkies to spot the arriving chariot.

There it is!

A small black dot slowly grows in the rearview mirror, getting larger and larger, until it goes from a black smudge, to a full-sized Chevy Caprice, complete with driver.

Life is full of small victories... usually followed by monumental failures.

I've seen D on a few occasions, not unlike the circumstances of today, and he's seen me. The big difference is that a junkie never forgets a dealer. A mental file we store for future use. Dealers, on the other hand, only need to remember the clients they're currently serving. As soon as a client gets locked up, or ODs, their file is deleted and replaced.

They say sharks only have a ten minute memory.

D gives me a quick once over—searching his mental files for a match. The look I get is closer to general indifference than recognition.

Tina leans forward to get a look at the Caprice. "Unlock the doors," she orders.

The command catches me off guard. D's door slowly swings open. Smoke tinted yellow from the one working street light, billows towards the sky. This is quite unusual, but I guess the "doctor" is getting into my car for this transaction. I pop the locks and slide my seat forward to make room for our company. I quickly brush the back seat clear of debris, scattering more tokens of this lifestyle onto the floor.

When you live your life an hour at a time, it's rare to be prepared for anything unexpected.

A pristine white Jordan slides from the crack of the Chevy's driver side door and touches down on the asphalt below. Before I can calculate how many packs of heroin I could buy for the price of the immaculate sneakers, there's a change of plans. Tina calls an audible. She slips from the car, leaving her door open. By the time I realize what's going on, she's climbing into the passenger seat of the Caprice. Like a scene in rewind, D's Jordans ascend back into the car. The door closes behind them.

Through the midnight tint, all I can see is shadows. Muffled bass lines are the soundtrack to these urban shadow puppets. I'm forced to watch this exchange from a severely twisted rearview mirror. I don't want to crane my neck towards the shadow show, or invade any expectation of privacy, but the mirror has no problem doing it for me.

Once again, I'm jolted by the feeling that something's off. Call it intuition or paranoia, or whatever you want, but for an instant, it runs up my spine. And as quick as it comes on, it's forgotten.

Without much else to do, I decide to try and be productive. I reach deep under the seat and retrieve what—to the uninitiated—would appear to be a regular old gym sock. I grab the sock by the toe, letting its contents spill into my lap. The opening of the sock gives birth to a silver baby in the shape of a spoon, its handle folded in half. A slender piece of plastic with bright orange ends follows the spoon—faded numbers run up its sides. I shake the sock, hoping for more. This little mama should be carrying triplets, not twins. I turn the sock inside out in search of a stray Q-tip.

The Q-tip: a junkie's prophylactic. When you cook your dope, all the good shit dissolves into the water, all the cut and foreign shit that the heroin picked up along the way, doesn't. So to keep any of that nasty shit from being shot directly into your blood stream, causing blood poisoning or death, we use a Q-tip.

The cotton is rolled into a tight little ball, the cotton ball goes into the spoon, and the needle goes into the cotton. Pull back on the plunger—and, presto, you've got your filter.

The only problem is, I don't have a Q-tip. But any self-respecting junkie knows that, in a fix, a piece of a cigarette filter works just as well, and since I've never met a junkie that doesn't smoke--it's usually an easy find. Seeing no need to ruin a perfectly good Newport, I dig through the ashtray, flicking the older butts aside, in search for a clean-ish looking filter.

Junkies are nothing if not resourceful.

I grab the least stained butt I can find and, using my teeth, start to peel the paper from the filter, when an explosion stops everything. A million little diamonds, that used to be my rear window, rain down on me. I instinctively make myself as small as possible. Everything starts to move in slow motion. I spin around towards the sound of the explosion. The once muffled music is now several decibels louder and crystal clear. Before my gaze comes into full focus, a growl emerges from the cover of the music.

Behind the guttural sounds, and the Young Jeezy soundtrack, is a woman's voice. "I told you…You piece of shit!" It's Tina—and it's all starting to fall into place. "Now who's the victim?!" She's says.

She's not talking to D, as much as she's talking at him.

Squinting in anticipation, and a genuine fear of what I might see, I slowly open my eyes. Everything comes back into focus. What starts as a blur of black mass resolves into the Caprice. G's window is shattered. His head is slumped against the empty window frame, his right hand is pressed against his head, where his ear should be. The hat that was on his head just a few seconds ago, has tumbled to the asphalt with the broken glass. My mouth hangs open. My eyes bulge in panic. I stare at the doctor's head as it drops crimson-red pearls to the ground in slow motion.

Time is sped back up by another jarring sound. This time it comes from my passenger door being furiously slammed shut. Before I can turn to face the intruder, Tina is next to me screaming, "GO, GO, GO! FUCKIN' DRIVE!"

Hmmm, a classic case of fight or flight? All things considered, flight sounds like the only reasonable response. I turn the wheel and slam the old rust bucket into reverse, clipping the front of D's Caprice in the process. And since I don't plan on exchanging insurance info, I shift the old supermodel into drive and make our getaway. Through the broken window I hear the injured doc yell, "You're dead bitch!...You and your lil' boyfriend!"

Boyfriend?..C'mon!

CHAPTER 3

Squealing around corners, in a mad dash to take every side street and backroad possible, I put as much distance between us and the black Chevy Caprice as possible.

"Goddamn it Tina! What the fuck were you thinking?! Holy shit...Holy shit...Holy shit!" My eyes dart from the road to the rearview mirror.

"Relax Daniel," she calmly replies, as if my reaction is completely unwarranted. She calls me "Daniel" in an attempt to sound motherly and sarcastic. No one calls me Daniel anymore—she knows I hate that.

"It's Danny, you cunt!...And what the fuck was that all about?!..."

"What was it about?" she says. "It was about time, is what it was. And how about principle—principle and justice...and karma, and all that shit...and well, this...this is a BONUS!"

Tina holds up a rather large sunglasses case. It's butterflied open. Between glances at the road, I see it's contents spilling into her lap. The case overflows with little marble-sized baggies. Baggies, of what appear to be, individually wrapped, pieces of dry dog food. It's close to an ounce. I swallow in disbelief. An ounce of heroin—free for the taking. Nice, convenient, gram-sized baggies of heroin.

It's funny how often the word "free" is misused.

It takes everything I've got to maintain this mock indignation with Tina. In all reality, I want to pop a bottle of champagne and profess my love for her. I want to kiss her on the mouth and do a victory dance, but I hold fast.

"Jesus Christ! You could've let me know...Where did you get a gun from anyways? You know you can't just involve me in this shit! What are we gonna do? You gotta call him and let him know I had nothin' to do with this!"

A few seconds of silence pass. I'm out of breath.

"Are you done?" 

She takes my continued silence as a yes.

Look, just head north on I-95, we're goin' to Tommy's. We can lay low there for a minute—I’ll take care of everything when we get there."

I know enough to know that when Tina says lay low, she really means get high. With no other ideas of my own, I follow her lead.

As I head for the highway, Tina reaches under the passenger seat. Her arm emerges holding a small makeup case. It's her version of a gym sock. She pops open the glove box and retrieves the ancient owners manual buried inside.

Everything in a junkie's life serves a purpose.

It's obvious, that what Tina places on her lap, is a junkie's owners manual; its edges are gnarled, its corners dogeared; water stains and black smudges, from the bottom of countless burnt spoons, decorate the cover in a Jackson Pollack'esq design.

It's not just our bodies that suffer the effects of this lifestyle—it’s any and everything in our blast radius.

With the speed and precision of an emergency room physician, Tina preps and readies her fix:

Heroin.

Water.

Flame.

Cotton.

Needle.

In that order.

She pulls the rubber band from her hair, slides it over her hand, up past her elbow, where she releases it with a snap. Her efficiency reveals her experience.

I try to collect the tools I lost in the excitement. I'm not quick enough. Tina's already locked and loaded. "At least get mine ready before you..." I plead with her, but it's too late. I know this, because she's already taking the rubber band from her arm. She gathers her hair to put the makeshift tourniquet back in its proper hiding place.

Everything in a junkie's life serves a purpose.

Before she can secure her ponytail, her arms start to move in slow motion as if she's suddenly under water.

"Bitch!...At least wait for me!" My words don't even reach her. I'm in this shitty Honda Accord, dope-sick and on the run from a wounded and recently robbed dope dealer, hell bent on killing the both of us, while Tina is somewhere on or above Cloud Nine. The distance makes this a one way conversation.

I can hardly be pissed at her. Like I said, we can put off anything until we're high.

I'm pawing at the floor in search of my rig, when I'm interrupted by a gurgling from the passenger seat. Tina's slumped forward, her head resting on the open glove box. Yellow foam slowly bubbles from her pale lips. Even her bile moves like it's stoned.

"Tina! Goddamn it!" I jerk the steering wheel to try and jolt a response from the increasingly-blue girl in my passenger seat. My attempt succeeds in shaking some of the foam from her lips. That's it.

Nothing—absolutely no response.

I have to pull over. I need to find a place to sort this shit out. My mind scrambles to recall a place nearby. A place appropriate enough to bring a dead, pistol-toting, junkie-girl back to life—then it clicks. There's a Publix shopping plaza about a mile from here. Me and Sal used to park in the back, by the loading docks, after they closed and shoot dope. It's not perfect, but it'll have to do.

If you're an American of any age, race, creed, or color, you know the type of strip mall I'm talking about. They're all variations of the same couple of stores:

Regional grocery store.

Dollar store.

Chinese take-out joint.

Pet Smart.

Hallmark.

Planet Fitness.

Maybe a GameStop.

The only thing that changes, from town to town, is the configuration.

Depending on the location, and time of night, the dead zone behind this retail hell can be quite accommodating to junkies and makeshift paramedics.

Tonight I'm both.

I pull into the parking lot, the lights still buzzing with electricity. All the storefronts are dark, with the exception of the Publix grocery.

A few rouge cars dot the parking lot out front. Night cleaners and stock boys mill around behind the windows. I kill the headlights and pull around back.

The contrast between the front of a strip mall and what lies behind it is astonishing. It's a perfect metaphor for America. A squeaky clean facade of retail joy and pleasantry out front—but just under the surface, is all the trash, oil stains, and broken dreams used to fuel this corporate cancer. It's beauty on the surface, and a rotting lie underneath: the American way.

Idling here in the dark, looking for the best place to park, I still hear the faint wheezing from my passenger seat. It's a good sign—it means Tina's still alive.

I try to suppress the panic that has me on the verge of puking. Being dope-sick doesn't help.

I pull into the darkest part of the center-most loading dock. The aroma of the dumpster a few feet away says we're behind the Chinese take-out joint. I turn off the engine. The silence that follows somehow brings more gravity to what's already a black-hole of a situation.

I can hear the click of the engine cooling.

I can hear the bass drum sound of my pounding heart.

What I don't hear, is wheezing from the passenger seat.

I grab the lever on the side of Tina's seat and recline it as far back as it will go. She falls into position like a dead fish. Her head rolls to one side, her eyes, open and lifeless.

"FUCK! FUCK! Wake up you ASSHOLE!..Please wake up!"

I use the back of my hand to wipe the foam from her mouth. I tilt her head back and pinch her nosed closed. Any junkie worth their weight in track marks knows basic CPR. I go in, forcing panic breaths between her clammy lips. Her chest rises and falls with each exchange. The bile on her lips tastes bitter—metallic. I do my best to ignore the smell of rotten egg-foo-young and crab-rangoon wafting from the open dumpster.

I draw Tina's next breath, deep into my lungs. My stomach revolts. I fight the nausea as best I can. I brace myself on the Honda's armrest, trying to catch my breath. Just as I think that the worst is over, I shoot my head out the passenger window, spewing a mixture of Red Bull and macaroni onto of the asphalt below. I'm momentarily frozen, transfixed by the Kool-Aid stained pasta I had for lunch today. Little pink noodles dot the ground like some deranged preschool art project. Before I can take my first post-puke breath, the half-digested noodles begin to glow.

Shit!

Everything slowly illuminates from what can only be the headlights of an approaching car, closing the distance at a steady idle.

You gotta be fuckin' kidding me!

At this time, in this location, and traveling at that speed, it's either a cop hunting, or a junkie trolling—neither of which is welcome. I slither back behind the wheel and recline my seat to match Tina's.

The mantra: please don't stop, please don't stop, runs on a loop in my head.

From the shifting light on the surrounding surfaces I can guess the distance of the intruder. A faint illumination on the ceiling slowly expands, enveloping more of the interior, with every second. Me and Tina lie face up, like a twisted Romeo and Juliet, one of us lifeless—the other pretending to be. Our faces are gradually bathed in expanding light as the vehicle creeps closer. The impending illumination is unbearable.

I hold my breath in anticipation.

Neither one of us is breathing.

The pounding of my heart, and the crunch of tires slowly rolling over asphalt, are the only sounds in the world—and they are deafening.

This is taking too long! Whoever they are—if they don't pull off soon—Tina’s a goner. Even time starts to move like it's stoned.

The light slowly gives way to shadow. The intruders are now directly behind us. The contorted rearview mirror gives me a glimpse of a late-model minivan crawling past.

I finally exhale.

The van continues at the same slow pace down the length of the strip mall. The skunky smell of dirt weed brushes me through the window. What an infuriating relief.

Fuckin stoners!

I slip from the car and maneuver around to the passenger side. Judging by her most recent shade of blue, Tina is in dire need of a more vigorous form of CPR. If I'm gonna get her back to the land of the living, I'll need a flat surface.

I crouch down and open Tina's door. Two little baggies of dog food tumble to the ground. I swing her legs out of the car. It doesn't take much to move a hundred pound junkie. At the first little tug, her lifeless body pours onto the asphalt. She smacks her head on the floorboard in the process. This shit couldn't get much worse.

I start the process again.

Head back, pinch nose. Breath...Breath...Breath...

Nothing!

I place my hands over the center of her chest.

Three compressions.

Pause.

I go back, to force a few more breaths into Tina's lungs, when my brain realizes what my heart refuses to accept: a million breaths wouldn't be enough to reverse what heroin and time have already done.

I pinch Tina's nose, to give it one more ceremonial attempt, when our little grocery store revival is suddenly illuminated by blue and red flashing lights. I drop to my stomach and army crawl towards the rear of the Honda—dragging myself through a minefield of heroin baggies, vomit, and crushed fortune cookies. I open my eyes, and what I see sends my heart into the pit of my stomach. I pray that I'm hallucinating.

Roughly fifty yards away, the stoner van is blocked in by a flashing police cruiser. He must've seen them pull in and came around from the other side of the strip. Revealed, under the flashing lights of the cruiser, is a cop's silhouette approaching the van.

Panic.

My desire to stand up and run is overwhelming. It's becoming clear that I'm more of a flight than fight kinda guy. There's just too much of me that would be left behind if I just ran away, so without any conscious thought, I creep over and slide open the little door on the side of the dumpster.

Luckily, this scene unfolds on the passenger side of the car, blocking any direct line of sight from the cops. The hot-trash smell of the open dumpster hits me like a ton of bricks. It takes everything I have not to spew again.

The things you can do in the name of self preservation is chilling. A sort of autopilot washes over me. I scoop up Tina—they way you'd carry your bride through the threshold--and stuff her through the opening of the dumpster. It's fairly empty—considering the smell. She slides almost completely out of sight. The soles of her shoes are all I can see. The tattered bottoms of her Converse All-Stars flash:

Blue.

Red.

Blue.

Red.

It's such a disturbing image that I lose myself, and just end up standing there, staring at her blinking shoes. 

I'm snapped back, by the clunk of a distant car door, and fall back into autopilot. I creep back around to the drivers side and slide behind the wheel. I close my eyes, hold my breath, and turn the key. The ancient Honda comes to life with what feels like a roar, but in reality is more like a purr. I leave the lights off and back out, the way I came. I idle in reverse, the entire way, to avoid any chance of my brake lights alerting cops.

Fingers crossed...

I think ninja.

I think stealth bomber.

I think the invisible man.

Fifty more feet and I'm clear.

Time has once again slowed to a crawl. I'm afraid to breathe.

Twenty feet left to go.

Every inch is excruciating, every muscle tight. I swallow hard.

Ten more feet. 

I think cat burglar.

I think Harry Houdini.

I think James Bond.

Five more feet.

By no small miracle, I clear the back of the strip mall. No one is the wiser as I slip out of the parking lot into the Florida night.

Victory!

Left on Palm Bay Rd.

Right on University Blvd.

Left on 1-92.

Before I can process the last fifteen minutes, I'm merging onto I-95 north.

Returning from autopilot, back to my body, is agonizing. I'm greeted by the panic-sweats and dry heaves of a full fledged withdrawal. A combination of convenience and lack of emotions direct me to my destination. Just like Tina said: I'm heading to Tommy's house.

CHAPTER 4

Using the term house, to describe where Tommy lives, is a bit of a stretch. I mean, technically it is a house, with four walls and a roof but, if we're being honest, his place would be more accurately described as a structure formerly known as a house.

Tommy is what happens when someone's precious baby boy, who can do no wrong, becomes a raging drug addict. The entitled child run amok.

It's not that Tommy was unfamiliar with the word No. It's just that his experience came from saying it, not hearing it.

His parents made a decent living operating the family's carpet installation company. And though they were by no means rich, they were definitely comfortable. Growing up, Tommy reaped the benefits of his parents success—as well as their complete lack of backbone. It's really not his fault that he turned out to be an entitled, self-righteous, spoiled, piece of shit. I'm sure anyone in that situation might've turned out the same. But realizing that his current shortcomings may not be his fault, make it no easier to stomach his presence.

But like I said: Everything in a junkie's life serves a purpose—even acquaintances of the likes of Tommy.

We first started hangin' out with him by default. When me and my fellow neighborhood delinquents first started dabbling in illicit substances, we still lived with our parents. We had no steady place to consume our stolen alcohol or medicine cabinet pharmaceuticals.

Enter Thomas Rosewood.

Always eager to be accepted, and more than willing to abuse his parents inability to say No, Tommy quickly became the default host of our drug-fueled early days.

Tommy was the addicts version of the neighborhood kid with a pool; we overlooked more than a few of his character flaws for the sake of a place to hang.

Quid-pro-quo.

It didn't happen overnight, but before anyone could stop it—least of all his poor parents—the once respectable family home, became a full-fledged drug den. With the choice to either put their foot down, or leave? They left.

Since then, a nearly constant infestation of dopefiends and low lives have made Tommy's childhood home practically uninhabitable.

Everything in a junkie's blast radius suffers.

I pull into Tommy's driveway, grab the gym sock and dope, and bolt for the door, dodging an obstacle course of miscellaneous junk along the way. I reach the front door and almost break my neck on a layer of old newspapers and loose envelopes, all mailbox overflow.

Knocking is pointless, since nine times outta ten, Tommy's either asleep, or too wasted to respond. I turn the handle and attempt to force my way in. The debris on the other side of the door makes this a more of a struggle than it should be. After some heavy shouldering, I manage to wedge the door open just enough to squeeze through.

It takes a minute for me to adjust to the dim surroundings. The smell of fresh cigarette smoke let's me know that Tommy is awake—or at least he's alive. I follow the faint sound of TV chatter into his bedroom/living room.

A combination of convenience, and a total lack of self respect, has led Tommy to the "natural decision" to drag his bare mattress into the living room.

Classy.

I find Tommy sprawled face up and fully clothed on the mattress, his eyes closed. A lit cigarette between his fingers, with a two-inch cylinder of ash, dangles precariously over a burnt towel on the floor. The towel—clearly a junkie's towel—bears the scars of countless burn marks of varying size and severity. Through the burn holes, you can see that the carpet underneath has suffered a similar fate.

Everything in the blast radius...

The only source of light in the whole house is the bluish glow of the television.

Tommy hears me come in and does his best to appear wide awake and aware. “Hey...Danny?..." he says. "What's good bro?" His attempt to look like a functioning human being lasts a whole five seconds before his eyes slowly droop shut.

For unknown reasons, the more stoned a junkie is, the harder they try to look sober. It's similar to a lush who refuses to admit they're drunk, or a staunch Republican pretending he was just innocently tapping the floor of the truck-stop bathroom with the toe of his loafer slid under the stall next to him.

We all want to be what we're not.

Even in his deteriorated condition, Tommy seems startled by my appearance—which says a lot about my current condition. I step over him on my way to the kitchen, taking my shirt off in transit. I toss the shirt into what—I’m assuming—is the trash area in the corner. It knocks over a wall of empty beer bottles. I flip on the light switch, turn on the faucet, and start to washing up.

In his best sober voice, Tommy mumbles, "Where's Tina?"

"It's a long story," I shoot back, "I'll tell you as soon as I get some dope in me."

I splash my chest with water. The sensation gives me a rush of chills that stands my neck hair on end. I clean off just enough to avoid blood poisoning when I shoot up. I can't even process anything outside of being dope-sick.

With Tommy in a state of suspended animation, I pull out my tools and clear a space on the kitchen counter. Judging by Tina's reaction, this shit is of extremely quality, like stop-your-heart high quality. I figure it's best to be on the safe side—well as safe as you can be while shooting heroin.

For the third time—in as many minutes—the phone in my back pocket buzzes.

I can put off anything until I'm high.

I pop open the case and take out one of the gram-sized baggies. Even with those lost in the mayhem I still count fifteen baggies. I snap the case shut and set it on the countertop.

Now the important stuff. Using my teeth and fingernails, I delicately untie the little plastic knot securing the bag. I open the bundle. The entire gram is in one solid chuck; a testament to its life-threatening quality. I use my thumbnail to chip off a piece of “dog food" about the size of a match head. I drop the tiny chocolate chip into the waiting spoon. I lick my thumbnail clean. The bitter taste, another indicator of the high quality I'm dealing with.

A jolt of anticipation shoots up my spine.

Spoon—check.

Heroin—check.

I take the orange cap off of the plunger-end of the syringe and hold it under the drip of the faucet. Any junkie in a rush knows that this cap holds exactly 1cc of water: a full syringe. So instead of drawing the water up through the needle, and shooting it into the spoon—wasting precious, precious time—I just fill up the cap halfway and dump it in. You never want to completely fill your rig, that way you still have room to flag.

You know that cheesy scene in every drug movie, when a string of blood shoots back into the syringe? That's flagging. It's to make sure that the needle is in a vein and not in a muscle. Trust me, it's a painful mistake to make.

The water surrounds the little chocolate chip of heroin, forming a deserted island in the spoon.

Spoon—check.

Heroin—check.

Water—check.

My patience is all but extinct. I shove a cluster of beer bottles aside and get down to business. I find an old cigarette butt and make quick work of rolling a piece of the filter into a ball. I stir the mixture and drop the yellowed filter into the chocolate solution. The little yellow ball instantly triples in size as it soaks up the liquid. Contrary to popular belief, heroin doesn't have to be cooked. I lay the tip of the needle in the tiny yellow-brown pillow and pull back on the plunger. The contents of the spoon recede into the needle. I turn the rig upside down and give it a few taps to shake the bubbles free. They float upwards, where I squeeze the collected air from the needle.

Finally!

My weapon readied, I clinch my left hand into a fist to better expose my veins. I've never needed a tourniquet. I was blessed, or cursed—depending on who you ask—with pronounced veins.

I find my target and, with the precision of a brain surgeon, I angle the needle and go in, following the direction of the vein.

Pro.

I pull the plunger back just enough to see a little string of crimson shoot into the rig and swirl with the muddy mixture inside.

Perfect flag.

I push the plunger down until the syringe is empty.

After injection, you have about ten-seconds before being completely dumbstruck. Most junkies can get a hell of a lot done in those precious seconds.

I put the spoon in my mouth to clean it, and swallow the filter.

Waste not want not.

I put the cap on the needle and shove the gym sock in my front pocket. I twist the bag of heroin temporarily closed. Before I can put it back in the case, it hits me, first in the head, then down through my body. The case slips from my hands to the counter.

I'll spare you an attempt at describing what a heroin high feels like. It's not something you can truly appreciate secondhand. All I'll say is, there's no better feeling on this planet—or in this life. The problem, is that the inverse is also true, if you go without. But when you're dealing with the devil, you buy the ticket and you take the ride. And right now I'm on the upside of that deal, so I take a second to savor this moment.

I'm anxious to see how strong this shit really is. Considering how little I did, and the battle I'm currently losing with gravity, it's really-really good shit...like unbelievably good.

Tina never had a chance.

I'd like to make it to the couch to collapse for a few minutes while I get my bearings, but it's a good ten feet away. Ten feet or ten miles, it's all the same. I turn around and slide to the floor, using the cabinets as my guide. My ass hits the floor and I feel just safe enough to close my eyes for a few seconds.

Darkness.

I'm not completely out of it. A good heroin high is like watching a movie, ten frames at a time, every few minutes. And though the visual aspect is greatly reduced, the auditory senses manage a little better. I guess it's because you don't have to keep your ears open to hear.

On the edge of death's doorstep, these are the moments we live for. 

For an instant it's all worth it.

CHAPTER 5

Through the pink clouds, I hear a stirring in the living room. Tommy must've been rousted by the empty beer bottles I took out on my slide to the floor. He's saying something but, between his incoherent mumblings and my inebriated state, it's too much to decipher. I muster just enough strength to open my eyes in response, but not enough to turn my head to face him. All I can see is my war-beaten shoes in front of me and the dilapidated cabinets on the other side of the kitchen.

Man, this place has really gone to hell.

Darkness washes over me again...

I hear that Tommy has made his way into the kitchen, still mumbling something, when a pungent odor hits me. It's the unmistakable smell of crack smoke.

The blast of the strong stimulant immediately pulls him from his stupor. He's instantly speaking more clearly. "Holy shit!.." he swallows. "Where the fuck'd you get this?"

Though I can't see, I know he's holding the case full of heroin. I moan incoherently in response. The thought of this dirt ball pocketing my loot, forces me to seriously consider getting to my feet. Ultimately, I go with a much easier to execute verbal command instead.

"Gimmie it!" I slur. I struggle to hold my hand open in his direction. He places something in my palm. It's not the case. Wrong size, wrong temperature. I pull my hand into my field of vision. It's a, hot-to-the-touch, fully-loaded crack stem, and a yellow lighter.

Now I'm no crackhead—it’s just not my style—but who am I to look a gift pipe in the mouth? And considering my current predicament, I could probably use a little more pep in my step.

In excruciatingly slow motion, I lift the stem and spark the lighter. A cartoonishly-large flame shoots from the Bic. I hold it to the glass stem and pull the flame into the cylinder with little short puffs—just little puffs—until my lungs are filled to capacity. I exhale everything in one deep breath. A thick yellow smoke fills the kitchen. My face goes numb. A string of saliva slips from my lips onto my chest. 

I wait for the ringer.

A ringer is what crackheads call the sound that follows a massive hit of high quality dope.

It comes on like a freight train and sounds like a massive church bell ringing between your ears. My eyes snap open. I take a huge panic breath. My hands instinctively go to my face to cradle my head in an attempt to deal with the overwhelming intensity of such a strong upper. "God-damn, I hate coke!" I say, through peek-a-boo hands.

CHAPTER 6

My phone buzzes in my back pocket again. This time, I pull it out to check the caller I.D. It's a number not saved in my phone, meaning it's unrecognizable. I press decline. I have eight missed calls from the same number.

Fear washes over me as I weigh the possibilities of who the persistent caller could be. The crack-high only adds to my terror. I scroll through the call log. It's the same number that Tina dialed from my phone earlier tonight.

Fuck!..What an idiot!

In all the mayhem, I completely forgot that Tina used my phone to call G after hers died. And now he has my number. With just ten digits, he's one website away from finding out everything about me.

Just like that, a single snowflake of personal information becomes an avalanche.

The only thing keeping me partially sane, is the knowledge that D doesn't know where I am...not yet at least. I turn the ringer off and slide the phone into my back pocket.

Outta sight, outta mind...kinda.

Climbing to my feet, the reality of the situation comes down on me like a hangover. I slowly lift my head to see Tommy standing a few feet away, holding the open sunglasses case.

"Where the hell did you get this?!" he says.

Shit!

I snatch the case out of his hand. "Look do you wanna get high, or stand here and play twenty fuckin' questions?!" I hand back the stem and head for the couch. He stands still for a moment, unsatisfied with my evasion but not quite willing to pass up free dope. He plops down next to me. He pulls a spoon and rig from his pocket and drops them on the table.

I really don't need another shot right now but it's the only thing I can think of of to distract Tommy from his line of questioning. In a few minutes he should be too inebriated to ask anything.

I fish around for the open bag of dope and get to work. I come back from the kitchen with with a Mickey Mouse shot glass full of tap water. On my way back, I watch Tommy, trying to get a read on him.

Nothing.

Nothing, but the typical strangeness. He's fully focused on his phone, looking up Facebook updates, or porn. Whatever it is, his distraction brings me a sliver of relief.

He looks up from his phone and says, "Looks like you got more than just personal...Let me buy a few of grams.

"Not for sale," I say. "I'm holding it for somebody."

"Danny, C'mon bro, you can come off somethin'," he whines, like a spoiled brat.

Hoping to put an end to the chitchat, I agree, "Fine, gimmie a hundred bucks."

"A hundred?..I gotta hit up an ATM," he says. "I ain't got that much on me." He fishes out his wallet and rifles through the bills inside. "Nope, eighty-four." His math is more of a starting offer than a statement.

"Look, gimmie what you got, and a half-gram of that hard you been smokin', and we'll call it even."

Fuckin' junkie.

I'd just give it to him if it wouldn't look so suspicious. Anything to shut him up. Although, I really could use the money.

"Deal." He lays the money on the table and separates the crack into a piece of newspaper. He origamis the package closed for me.

I stuff both in my sock and continue preparing our fix.

Done.

Both rigs are ready to go. Tommy's fix is significantly more potent than mine. Not enough to kill him, just enough to keep him outta my hair for awhile. Believe me, I've had my fill of dead body disposal for one night. My rig has enough to counteract this paranoid coke high—and hopefully not much more.

I do my shot, light a cigarette, and sink into the couch. It's immediately obvious that I did too much...again. Once this crack wears off, I'm gonna be in trouble.

Tommy does his shot and, for some reason, tries to stand up. He makes it halfway before collapsing back into the couch, dropping his phone and crack stem to the floor. I scoop up the paraphernalia and head to the bathroom for a little privacy.

Once inside, I pull the crack from my sock and pack the pipe. Taking a drag from my Newport, I toss Tommy's phone on the sink and search for my lighter. As soon as I find the Bic, his phone lets out the short buzz of an incoming text. I almost didn't notice through the heroin haze currently overtaking the coke in my system. I squint at the phone. As the words on the screen register, the lighter and stem tumble from my loosening grip, to the floor.

Small victories, huge failures.

Fighting the heroin, to take it all in before I fade away, I read: Good look! B there N 20. Sender: G

Terror would overtake me, if the heroin didn't get there first. And in the worst possible moment, in the worst possible place, everything fades to black.

I'm jolted back to life by a searing pain in my hand. My eyes shoot open just in time to see the Newport drop, from between two severely burnt fingers, to the floor.

Saved by a cancer stick! I wonder what those anti-smoking assholes would have to say about this.

I check Tommy's phone to see how long I was out. Ten minutes. I gotta get moving, but first things first, I don't stand a chance in this condition. I quickly find the pipe under the sink and the lighter behind the toilet. I take three frantic blasts and gather my things. I open the bathroom door.

Two muffled car doors shut in quick succession. Sounds like D is early, for the first time in his life.

My overworked heart nearly leaps from my chest. I weigh my options. Leaving through the front door doesn't seem too practical, but leaving with the H still sitting on Tommy's coffee table, is unthinkable.

Frozen, halfway between the bathroom and living room, I watch two silhouettes sprint past the windows towards the front of the house.

The front door thuds with the weight of a doped dealer behind it. Thankfully, the trash prevents anyone larger than a junkie from squeezing through—at least not without a struggle. A hand pushes through the door, then an arm. The intruder slows for just an instant as our eyes meet. It's not G, but he can't be far behind.

This is my only chance.

Tommy's slumped over on the couch. I have to step over him to grab the sunglasses case. When I do, I trip over one of his stupid, lazy, useless, fucking legs, and in my attempt not to crash through the glass table, I accidentally kick the case, scattering its contents, like loose popcorn, across the room.

FUCK!

The front door bucks again. The henchman now has half his torso inside the house.

I bolt back to the bathroom and wedge a broom between the door and tub. It won't hold for long, but it might slow them down. I jump in the tub and tear away the curtains covering the window looking out onto the side yard. I fling open the tiny window.

The thuds have stopped. Voices approach the door. I hope the broom holds.

"Come out Davey, we just wanna talk. All we want is the girl and the dope."

I say nothing while I attempt to slip headfirst through the window.

The asshole could at least get my name right.

The door bucks violently in response to my continued silence. The thin wooden door splinters behind me as I squeeze through the pinching window frame. I rock back and forth, trying to free myself from the black hole gravity of the house. Just as I pass through the event horizon, and the window vomits me out onto the lawn, three deafening gunshots ring out behind me. For the second time tonight, I'm showered in glass.

I pat myself down for bullet wounds. Everything seems to be in order. I scramble to my feet and sprint to the driveway at the other end of the house.

Jogging through the front yard, I find G's Caprice, behind the Honda, blocking my exit. I glance around the littered driveway, looking for something sharp. A phillips-head screwdriver protrudes from a rotten pumpkin on an old washing machine

It should do

I slam the screwdriver through the front tire of G's Caprice. It slumps forward onto the rim with a hiss. I jump into my beautiful Honda and start her up.

Oh baby, please don't fail me now.

The thugs inside must've realized that the bathroom is without a junkie, or they heard the car start, because the front door suddenly swings inward. My pursuers face the same problem coming out as they did going in. The door opens just enough for a large arm, holding an even larger gun, to slide through and fire blindly in my direction. A bullet pierces my passenger door and lodges in the seat next to me.

I shift the war horse into reverse and stomp on the gas. The Honda peels backwards into G's automotive roadblock. Both cars inch towards the road. This old supermodel doesn't have the balls to push the heavier sedan completely out of the driveway.

The goons are now cranking at the door with more success. I shift back into drive and pull forward, creating as much space between the two cars as possible. I shift into reverse, gaining momentum in the new found space, and slam into the Caprice. The Honda manages to push it a few more inches. 

The door swings open. G and his henchman spill into the yard. I crank the wheel and stand on the gas. The Honda lurches forward, running over a used tire and a stroller full of miscellaneous shoes in the driveway. I lower my head and aim for the road.

Several more shots ring out. Another one of my dwindling, intact, windows is shattered to pieces. The car jumps as I pass over the drainage ditch surrounding the house. The old Honda screeches victoriously as it gains traction on the road.

Together, we make another escape into the night.

I can't believe I had to leave the dope!

I make it out of that rat bastard's house with my life, but not much more:

Eighty-four bucks.

Almost a gram of crack.

And half a pack of Newports.

Oh yeah, and my life—but that's not worth much these days.

OK, Think... What next?

I have to get off the road to try and sort this shit out, but first, I'm in desperate need of gas. No doubt, the low-gas light would be blinking furiously if it wasn't forced into early retirement from overuse. It's obvious that this old girl is running on fumes from the way she's bitching and sputtering. I jerk the wheel back and forth to shake any loose gas to the center of the tank. This trick is usually good for an extra mile—at least that's what I tell myself. I make the sign of the cross and pray that we make it.

I coast into the gas station, just before my ride completely shits out. The bright fluorescent lights above the gas pumps reveal the actual state of the old girl: three shattered windows, numerous bullet holes and dents pepper her body, and the rear bumper hangs, like a broken jaw, just inches from the ground.

I scan the interior to get a loose inventory:

Three phones: Tina's, Tommy's, and mine.

Needle.

Spoon.

Lighter.

And nothing else worth mentioning...

Wait? No—it can't be. Holy shit. Please, please, please let it be!

I fling open the passenger door and brush the debris from under the glove box—and there it is! A single piece of dry dog food wrapped in plastic.

There is a God!

Small victories, huge failures. I'll take the wins wherever I can get 'em.

I make my way into the little bodega, glancing over my shoulder to check the pump number before I enter. A small cuban lady organizes cigarettes behind the counter. She gives me, and then my ride, a once over. Nothing seems to be out of place—well not enough for her to act on anyways.

The great thing about bad neighborhoods, is that the people in them have enough bullshit going on in their own lives, that they tend no to go looking for it in others.

I gather my supplies and drop them on the counter:

2 Red Bulls.

1 hotdog.

1 plastic bottle of lemon juice, in the shape of a lemon.

"Oh, and twenty on pump four," I say, "and a pack of Newport 100's please."

She punches the corresponding buttons on the register. $34.89 blinks on the display. I toss her a folded up fifty. She unfolds it and uses the edge of the counter to straighten it out. A few more buttons and the drawer shoots open against her hip. I pocket my change and cradle the items in my arms. The Red Bulls against my bare chest are freezing.

I dump the bounty into the passenger seat, on top of the shards of glass and flecks of pink macaroni. Something in the front seat steals my focus. There's a little spot of dried foam on the open glovebox. Tina. I zone out, staring at her biological fingerprint, until the intercom chirps with static. 

The pump's little metal speaker has a thick Cuban accent. "Sir, jour pump iss ready," it says.

It takes me a few seconds before I get to my feet and start pumping the gas.

CHAPTER 6

The gravity of tonight's events is starting to weigh on me. With all the adrenaline, and life altering shit of the last few hours, my high is quickly fading. It's all catching up to me, until emotions begin to break through my chemical armor.

This is unacceptable!

Adjacent to the bodega is a self-service carwash. At this time of night, it's as dark and desolate as any slime ball could ask for.

I pull the battered Honda into the port furthest away from the lights of the gas station. And for the first time since Tina blew D's ear in half, I have a second to think.

I kill the engine, but leave the key one click forward so the radio still works—plus I'll need the ambient light from the dashboard when I get my shit ready. An old tape protrudes from the glovebox. I push it into the tape deck. It creaks and strains under the ancient mechanics. A low-quality recording of "Santeria" by Sublime fills the surrounding carport.

Here it comes...It's starting.

First, I just well up. Then silent tears run down my cheeks onto my chest. It doesn't take long for this episode to evolve into a full fledged sobbing fit.

I don't even know what I'm crying about.

Not to sound like a sociopath, but it's not for Tina. I've seen a dozen people O.D. over the years. It's certainly not because of G, or the fear of losing my life at his hands; I abandoned my attachment to this miserable life years ago, when Sal died. To be completely honest, I've secretly wished—for sometime now—that it would just come to its natural end already. It's not for the loss that my family would suffer over my death; again, I gave up on any real concern for the feelings of my loved ones a long time ago. I mean, hypothetically, I want them to be happy and pain free—just not enough to actually do anything about it. Besides—after the initial grief—their lives would be infinitely better without me in it.

Nope...I'm blubbering like a baby because I'm sobering up. I'm sobbing, because I've never been good at this. I've never been able to deal with this emotional bullshit!

Get it together you fuckin' pussy!

The sobbing fit becomes a punching match with the steering wheel.

FUCK!…I'm falling apart.

The tape ends. It clicks twice as it switches to the other side. The brief silence before the first song starts, is broken by 2live Crew's "Pop that Pussy."

Now, I feel ridiculous.

I turn the volume down and wipe my face.

It's time to do what I always do when this happens. I pull out my tools and place them on the war-beaten owner's manual. I'm no longer fuckin' around. It's time for a real speedball. I use my fingernails to pinch a healthy slab of crack off, into the spoon.

I know what you're probably thinking: You can't shoot up crack. But you underestimate the junkie ingenuity. You can discover a lot when you're willing to try anything.

Crack cocaine has a dense, water-resistant quality, so dissolving it in water, like heroin, won't work. It takes something more acidic. You can use vinegar or lemon juice, or—in a pinch—you can use the little sugar-free Kool-Aid packets. Just mix the Berry Blast powder with a little water, and presto—you’re ready to shoot crack.

I grab the lemon-shaped bottle from the seat next to me and squeeze half a dozen drops into the spoon. With the plunger end of my syringe, I crush the island of crack into dust, where it dissolves into the surrounding yellow sea. But that's only half of tonight's recipe. I take a nice chunk of dog food and add it to the concoction.

Crush and stir.

The rest is academic—same as always. 

I draw up the solution and ready my fix. I'm trying to find enough light to take my shot when my phone buzzes.

Another text message steps on my chest. It's just one line, an address: 2765 Jefferson St. Palm Bay Florida.

My sister's house.

CHAPTER 7

Sitting in this shitty car, in this shitty carwash, I go through the cycle.

Fear turns to anger.

Anger turns back to fear.

Fear turns to self hatred.

And self hatred finally turns to the acceptance of defeat.

Checkmate. 

Game over.

I text back: What do you want?

My heart sinks. Visions of my sister and her husband, lavishing attention on my two year old niece, fill my head. Holidays with the family. Vacations filled with joy and laughter turn dark, as I see those familiar faces, duct-taped and hog tied, wearing masks of fear and confusion on their faces. They might never work out all the details, but surely—in their final moments—they’d know that it had something to do with me.

I'm startled by the phone, as it lights up with the reply:

You got one shot! I want tha rest of my shit and the fuckin' bitch! Otherwise I'ma have 2 Xpress my disappointment to ur sister directly. Make it quick I'm already here.

There's no point telling him that Tina's already dead, that I spilled half the heroin when I was dumping her body—he’d never believe it. Even if he did, I doubt it would offer him any relief in the revenge department. 

But one thing at a time.

Right now, my priority is keeping G and his goons away from my sister.

I take a breath and text back:

Fine. Tina and the dope, no problem. On my way to get her now. I'll text when I'm ready.

G: 

You got 30 mins bitch! U kno where I'm at.

Well, it's obvious what I gotta do.

I'm a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of 'em. Once G gets what he wants, he's just as likely to kill me, as he is to let me go. But right now he needs me to get to Tina, and the dope. If this is going to work, I'll have to make every second count. I told G that I was on my way to pick up Tina. So that's exactly what I'm gonna do.

I toss the phone into the passenger seat and grab the loaded rig. Not that I need any extra motivation. But I could use the fuel. I find a vein and push the elixir into my bloodstream. I toss the rig out of my last remaining window and crank the key forward. The engine turns over at the exact moment that the speedball takes hold. Me and my beautiful rust bucket roar to life; me and my elderly supermodel, ready for one last strut down the runway. Pedal to the floor, we screech from the carport into the darkness. 

CHAPTER 8

I pull into the strip mall where I dropped Tina off. Even the overnight workers are gone. I pull around back, from the opposite side this time, and make my way to the dumpster behind The Golden Buddha. I don't see any crime scene tape, so I assume no one's noticed the contents of the dumpster.

The depth of silence is unsettling.

The cacophony of sweetly rancid smells float from the dumpster. Time hasn't helped.

The cocaine racing through my veins keeps me focused on the task at hand. I slide the dumpster open. Without the blue and red lights of the police cruiser, I can't see a thing. I open the passenger door, to activate the interior lights of the Honda. It's not much, but it helps. I turn around, and there they are, the bottoms of two, barely visible, size-seven Chuck Taylors.

I grab the ankles attached to the shoes and tug. Because of the angle, and the debris involved, Tina proves more difficult coming out than going in. Just like Chinese food. After some repositioning, I manage to pull her free from the dumpster. I cradle her in my arms, like that Madonna and Christ painting, only, Tina's crown of thorns, is chunks of fried rice and lo-mein noodles.

Thank god my emotions are currently under a chemical lock-and-key, otherwise I'd be a worthless mess, and my sister and her family would be as good as dead.

I gently set Tina down against the rear tire, so I can clean her up before putting her back in the car. I brush the debris from her hair. I reach into the car for something better. All I can find is my secret gym sock. I use it to wipe her face clean.

For the first time ever, I actually see her. She's seen better days, but behind her piercings and unkempt hair, she's beautiful. Without the attitude—and the pistol—her features are attractive and gentle. She's pretty—in that girl-next-door kinda way. I brush the remaining strands of loose hair behind her ear and kiss her on the forehead. She tastes like duck sauce.

I slide my arm behind her waist to pick her up. Something solid is tucked into her back pocket. I pull it out and before I can get it under the dome light, I know exactly what it is. The little chrome .380 that took a chunk outta G's ear.

Of course!

So much has happened that I'd completely forgotten about the gun. 

I stare at the little game-changer and reformulate my plan. I toss the burner under Tina's seat and slide her into the car. I recline her seat as far back as it will go, to avoid any curious onlookers.

Trying my best to make up for lost time, while still remaining somewhat under the radar, I keep the Honda within three MPH of the speed limit. If I'm not careful, a high-speed chase over several counties, ending in a nationally televised suicide-by-cop, is a real possibility. Getting pulled over just isn't an option. I do my best to mind my Ps and Qs—well, as much as is possible while I'm high outta my mind, in a bullet-riddled Honda with expired tags, a mangled rear bumper, and a dead girl in the passenger seat. I have no choice but to use back roads and side streets to remain relatively anonymous. But this safer route is too time consuming for G's thirty minute deadline.

I send a preemptive text:

Took longer gettin Tina in the car, she's really fucked up. On our way. Gotta take back roads. B there in 15. Don't do anything to my sister.

In case G was trying to avoid any evidence in his previous texts, I just dropped an electronic bloody glove in his lap. Hopefully it will keep him from jumpin' the gun.

G: Hurry up bitch, B4 I change my mind!

Maybe not.

I zigzag through the neighborhoods, to a park a few blocks from my sister's house. The clock on the dashboard says I've got exactly eight minutes to set this plan into motion.

There are two streetlights, at half power, still on in the park, one in the parking lot and one between the playground and the picnic tables. I pull Tina from the car and carry her to the picnic table farthest from the streetlight. I do my best to prop her up, like she's a regular park goer just having a midnight snack. I do a decent job, but I can't get her head to stay up. Luckily, there are very few differences between the posture of a dead girl and the posture of a junkie. I place her hand on the table, on top of a bag of pork-fried-rice meant to look like the stolen dope.

The darkened playground is directly between the parking lot and Tina's "table for one." It's your standard new-millennium child-friendly recreation area: a few swings, a platform with plastic slides and tunnels, a tire swing made from recycled rubber, a mock telescope, and an oversized tic-tac-toe wall; all rounded corners and smoothed edges.

This is why our civilization is doomed. By the time this post-millennial generation takes the reins, we won't stand a chance. This soft-bellied, everyone-gets-a-trophy, pampered and entitled group of kids will grow up scarless and spineless.

This over padded playground is just a symptom of something larger; maximum protection, minimum adversity; infancy stretched for decades. With no immunities—physical or mental—it’s likely we'll be brought to our knees by some new form of chicken pox—or the fear of contracting it. But then again, I was never coddled or pampered and I'm not exactly the pride of my generation; and my generation isn't exactly the pride of the human race. So maybe our collective doom is inevitable.

I park the Honda behind a group of trees on the edge of the park. I jog back to the playground and slip into one of the darkened tunnels facing Tina's table.

I send a text:

Just dropped her off at the park you passed on the way in. She has the rest of your shit. I had nothin' to do with that shit earlier. Held up my end. You'll never hear from me again. Deal?

G:

Hear from U? I better neva C ur bitch ass again. As long as that bitch is there wit my shit then I'm dun wit U. Hope you said bye to that ass 2. I'ma get my $ one way or anotha.

CHPATER 9

I hold down the power button on my phone to make sure it's off.

No more distractions.

No more surprises.

I settle in and wait. For the first time in forever, I'm in control.

Tina's words from earlier echo in my head: "Creepy fuck....always tryin to.... deserves it!.." In hindsight it sounds obvious that she was on the verge of doing something drastic, but I'm not exactly big on recognizing other people's problems—much less doing anything to help.

Thoughts of what might have driven her to such drastic measures cloud my concentration. There were stories, here and there, about G trading dope for sexual favors, junkies "renting out" their girlfriends for the weekend. Girls would come back with tales of rough sex and general degradation, sporting black eyes and bruises as souvenirs. There were even rumors of girls that never returned. I just chalked it up to exaggeration and urban legend. Like all things, I figured there was probably some truth to it, but that most was nothing more than gossip. 

With the events of the last few hours, I'm starting to wonder.

My frustration turns inward. My newfound focus becomes harder to maintain. My naïveté and self-centered attitude prevented me from stopping any of this. If, for just an instant, I put someone or something ahead of this fucking addiction, I could've stopped this train wreck from happening.

G's missing an ear.

Tina's dead.

In all probability, Tommy's dead.

I've committed enough felonies to spend the rest of my life in prison.

And I'm on the verge of getting my sister and her family killed. 

And that's just in the last few hours! This is just the most recent in a series of catastrophic events, and at the center of all of them—is yours truly.

Anger smolders in my chest like a hot coal. I grit my teeth and tug at my hair in an attempt to keep from exploding, but It happens anyways. It's just too much, too fast. 

"Stupid! Stupid! Fucking piece of shit!"

All the heroin in the world couldn't hold this back. Tears of frustration and rage roll down my face, dropping onto the wood chips gathered at the bottom of the tunnel. I throw myself around and beat myself up inside this little plastic tube, exercising my demons.

Just when I'm ready to collapse, I hear a car door slam. One distant clunk, quickly followed by another. My focus returns—like waking from a dream. I wipe the tears away.

Mental stability has never been my strong suit.

I hear nothing for a good thirty-seconds—and right before I risk poking my head from the safety of the tunnel, I hear the faint sound of voices approaching. A resolute determination envelops me. It's surprising, the return of my single minded focus. The feeling, that all the twisted experiences in my fucked-up life has led to this one moment, becomes undeniable.

The voices grow louder, until they're close enough that I can hear footsteps. They can't be more than twenty feet from the tunnel, and maybe another forty feet from Tina. My hand slides to my lower back and grips the cool metal of the pistol. On the ride here I counted seven rounds in the clip plus the one in the chamber.

The unchecked arrogance of those in power can leave them with the false sense of safety—especially when it comes to dope dealers. I'm counting on this. Their nonchalant tones tell me that these two have all but counted their chickens. They're voicing their intentions for Tina loud enough for her to hear—if she were still alive. Threats disguised as idle chatter.

They're not talking to Tina as much as they're talking at her.

Here they come without a care in the world. I do my best to channel the spirits of great warriors.

I think Sun Tzu.

I think Miyamoto Musashi.

I think Geronimo.

I crouch down and let them pass by the tunnel. I can only see them from the waist down. They're swinging pistols as they walk.

One deep breath, then I count: 3...2...1

I slip out of the tunnel—silently, swiftly—and fall into step directly behind them. And as confidently as I've ever done anything in my entire life, I raise the .380 to the back of henchman's head and fire a single shot into the base of his skull. It's startling how fast he crumbles—mid stride—like a marionette with his strings cut. In the blink of an eye he goes from present to past tense.

One down, one to go.

My arm goes from noon to eleven o'clock. I fire again. In the split second it takes me to get off the second shot, G is turning to face the commotion. The bullet aimed at the back of his head tears through his right cheek and pops out just under his left eye. Bloody shards of shattered teeth explode from his mouth. The shot doesn't have the same effect as the first. Dazed, but definitely not dead, he stumbles forward doing his best to stay on his feet. He still grips his pistol, but in his condition it's more of a prop than a weapon. He struggles to level it in my direction. It does nothing more than give me a clear target to kick from his grasp. Disarmed, he collapses to his back, gurgling threats he's no longer able to follow through on. Blood bubbles up from between his lips; the crimson red liquid, dotted with the little white pieces of the molars and incisors he used to chew his food with.

I kneel down beside the injured shark and grip his throat in my left hand. The blood on his neck is sticky. Warm. He jerks his head in Tina's direction. I follow his gaze. Tina's succumbed to gravity. She's toppled from the table, her limp hand spilling the dope-fried-rice in the process. I see the confusion in his eyes as he tries to make sense of the bizarre scene unfolding in front of him. He summons the strength to gargle, "What the FU—“ when I put the gun to the side of his head and pull the trigger. The blast is muffled by the close proximity of the barrel to his head. A human silencer. The tiny lead round pops out of his bandaged ear. His unfinished syllable turns into a deep sigh, as the last bit of life evaporates between his lips.

Done.

I tuck the gun into my waistband and begin rifling through the pockets of the recently deceased. I'm collecting all personal identifiers:

I.D.s

Credit cards.

And most importantly: phones.

One look at D's call log and I'd jump to the top of the cop's persons-of-interest list. I mean, I'm the only person in tonight's escapades that isn't a few short minutes away from being zipped up in a municipal body bag.

I shove the personal effects, and a knot of G's confiscated cash, into my pockets. I take the keys from his belt loop and hit the lock button on the key fob before hurling them into a group of trees on the edge of the park. Something in the Caprice will eventually lead the cops to G, which will lead them to me. But I'm willing to bet that the car isn't registered in his name, and without instant access to it's contents, it should take a little longer to identify him, which will give me a tiny head start.

I scramble to the picnic table and roll Tina over. I wipe the dirt from her face and tell her, "Thank you."

In a neighborhood like this, the recent gunshots will have definitely inspired a few concerned phone calls to the authorities. Some of the windows in the nearby houses are starting to blink to life. I imagine a throng of housewives in plain nightgowns, peeking through blinds, waking up their groggy husbands, and shuttling their recently-roused kids back to bed before calling the cops.

I'm ready to make yet another in a string of recent escapes into the Florida night, but first I have one more stop to make.

CHAPTER 10

I shoot out of the park in a straight path to the highway. This is just to give the window-watchers the illusion that I immediately fled the area.

I twist my injured Honda through the neighborhood streets until I pull into my sister's driveway. For piece of mind—before I can fully commit to a life on the run—I need to make sure that G kept his end of the deal.

I look at the ever-growing pile of phones in my passenger seat. Modern day dog tags. Trophies. Evidence: Tina's, Tommy's, the Henchman's, D's, and mine. All of our phones, commingling in the seat next to me. The way this night is playing out, if your phone ends up in my possession, there's a really good chance that you're already dead.

I fish my phone from the pile, highlight "Sis" and press call. After a few rings it goes to her voicemail. I hang up and try again. The phone is still ringing when a bedroom window lights up, probably hers but I don't know. I've never been inside her house. Seconds later, there's a groggy, "Hello?..Danny?.. Jesus," she says. "It's the middle of the night. What?…" Her utter disappointment cuts deeper than any insult she could muster.

I say, "I'm really sorry, I butt dialed you—by accident. But since you're awake, I just wanted to tell you how much I love—“ Before I can finish, she hangs up. "You," I say into the empty line. Her bedroom window goes dark.

I lose myself imagining what life on the other side of her front door would feel like.

Living for someone else for a change.

Finding joy and love in a shared life.

Milestones reached together.

Love over lust.

To truly know the meaning of family...

But as the saying goes, that ship sailed a long time ago. And if I don't get outta here ASAP, my ship is going to crash head-on into the breakers.

I shake the thoughts from my head and back out of that imaginary life. My broken jaw of a bumper scrapes the asphalt as I slink into the night.

Petting the dashboard, I try to coax a few more miles outta the ol' girl. "C'mon baby, we're almost done." 

I make this promise with fingers crossed.

I make a B-line for the nearest I-95 on ramp. At this point it's a game of chance, whether or not I can make it the five miles to the highway without crossing paths with an inbound police cruiser?

I wipe my sweaty palms onto my jeans and do my best to steal my nerves. Without any realistic chance of blending into traffic, I end up overcompensating for the sad condition of the old Honda Accord, with body posture. I shrink into the dilapidated seats, my elbow on the open window frame, my hand resting on the side of my face in a feeble attempt at obscuring my identity. Admitting that this does nothing more than ramp up the suspicious factor to a comical level, I return to doing my best impression of a law-abiding motorist.

Embarrassment being as much as a factor as strategy, I decide to go with speed over stealth. I put both pedals to use, weaving through the sparse traffic. The less time on the road, the better.

I clear Ocean Drive, take a right on Palmetto. There it is, just a few blocks away, the I-95 on ramp.

My heartbeat slows. A smile crawls across my face. I only notice, because I catch my reflection in the twisted rearview mirror. It's right there, a genuine smile, illuminated by the yellow-tint of the spaced out streetlights flashing by. A slow motion strobe light, a slide show, with the same repeating frame. With every approaching streetlight, the evidence of my satisfaction retreats, little by little, until it disappears completely.

The words, "small victories, huge failures," come to mind.

I flick my blinker, more out of habit than a belief that it actually works, and merge into the on ramp under the reflective I-95 north sign.

Home free.

I push the pedal to the floor to coax this beautiful old beast up to highway-speed. I shove the exposed cassette tape back into the deck. The ancient electronics come to life with an orange glow. 2live Crew leads into a bootleg version of U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday."

I take a deep, well deserved, breath.

A victory breath.

Nearing the end of the on ramp feels like entering a new world, leaving behind the sleepy, early-morning roads of Central Florida, for the rumbling, chaotic, East-Coast artery that is I-95. At this time of night—or morning, depending on the last time you slept--the highway is littered with long-haul truckers, construction crews, and vacationing families.

Just before the ramp disappears into the highway, a faint glow out of the corner of my eye steals my attention. The best part of Florida is just to my right. I take in the beauty that is the Florida sky, just before the sun breaks the horizon. It's that brief moment, when you can't quite tell whether it's morning or night. An array of pastel oranges and smears of gold, burst forth from behind a layer of billowing cumulous clouds. Rays of color beat back the inky night sky with each passing minute. Looking ahead, I can see the past to my left, and the future to my right. Caught here in the present, a warmth washes over me, and for the first time in my entire adult life, I feel safe. An overwhelming feeling—that everything is going to be OK—dawns on me.

A singular event.

An epiphany.

A revelation.

I flip the blinker and merge.

CHAPTER 11

Flashes. A movie—ten frames at a time—every few minutes.

The deafening squeal of tires.

The crunching sound of twisting aluminum and plastic.

Then nothing...

Blaring distorted horns.

Broken glass and Red Bull cans float around me.

My world tumbles, with no care for gravity.

Then nothing...

The smell of burning rubber and foam.

Singed hair.

More nothing...

A slow, warped, version of "Sunday Bloody Sunday" is the soundtrack to this confusing nightmare.

Nothing.

Darkness...

CHAPTER 12

Beep...Beep...Beep...Beep...Beep.

I'm brought to semi consciousness by the worst headache of my life. I hear the wheezing of mechanically-forced air every few seconds, and the constant metronome of electronic beeps and clicks. I try to open my eyes. A thick layer of crust, and what feels like tape, makes it practically impossible. I manage to partially open my left eye. All I can see is the ceiling. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A beeping to my right grows louder, faster. There's a commotion of people rushing around.

Again, darkness.

Cloudy dreams, distorted visions, blanket me.

Luscious blades of green grass wedge between my toes, tickling my feet. A green, so vibrant that it only exists in movies and photos, covers the ground.

The largest island in this sea of grass, is a red-clay baseball diamond. Sets of aluminum bleachers border the base lines. Festive banners, that read: "23rd Annual Corporate Softball Game," in bright bubble letters, hang from the dugouts. In smaller letters, at the bottom of the banner, the phrase: "Slow and Steady Wins the race," sits between a cartoon tortoise and hare.

A much smaller island, off in the distance, is formed by a perfect little picnic scene. A wicker basket of fried chicken and potato salad sits atop a red and white checkered blanket. A bottle of red wine holds one of the corners in place, and a woman in a sundress sits cross-legged on another.

She waves me over as if she's been expecting me.

I'm struck by pangs of guilt and embarrassment. It takes a moment, but as I draw closer, I realize that it's Tina—well, it's a version of Tina. A sober, cleaner, and all-around healthier version—one that I have yet to meet.

My expression must betray my insecurities. She attempts to comfort me with a tender smile and a pat of the blanket, signaling me to sit. A nearly imperceptible glow surrounds her. This heavenly aura suits her surprisingly well.

I sit down next to her. She pats her leg. I lean back and rest my head in her lap. I gaze up at her. The cloudless sky frames her face. She brushes the hair from my forehead, the entire time maintaining her luminous smile.

Her compassion comforts me completely.

The background chatter of the softball game's announcer, intermittently breaks the silence. "Batting third, is Sally from payroll. Careful Joe, if you don't go easy on her, your paycheck might come up missing." A few idle chuckles come from the bleachers.

I owe her an explanation.

I start to plead my case. She looks down at me, her face, upside down in my vision. She simply holds her index finger to her lips, in the universal sign for: Quiet, your words are unnecessary.

"Ball four," he says. "Sally takes her base. Coming to the plate next is Drew C, our warehouse supervisor.

I stare up, into Tina's eyes, and exhale my guilt in one massive breath. Both of us content in our unspoken communication.

Looking up at her, the bright blue sky surrounding her face dims ever so slightly around the edges.

She cradles my head and raises me to a sitting position. She pulls the basket closer and motions to the bottle of wine.

"A swing and a miss. Strike one!"

I grab two glasses from the picnic basket. Tina uncorks the wine.

"One ball and one strike," he says, "to the first thoracic vertebrae."

I pour the wine and hand Tina a glass. She winks and hands me the plates, nodding towards the basket.

"Strike three! Our next batter is a damaged C-1 vertebrae, a multiple car pileup."

I pull out a bowl of fried chicken. The smell says that the poultry's past its prime.

"Ball three. The count is one quadriplegic patient," he says, "complete paralysis, and two strikes."

I grab two drumsticks. They go limp in my hand. The bones inside feel shattered.

"Strike three! Permanent immobility."

The feel of this picturesque day starts to shift. Purple and black storm clouds roll in like waves. The wind begins to whip, sending our plates tumbling into the green waves of grass.

Tina's gaze never leaves me. Her subtle smile, her compassionate aura, the only things unaffected by the sudden shift.

She holds up her glass of wine to cheers. I raise mine to meet hers. The glasses clink together. A crack, spiderwebs through the rim of my glass. We drink. The wine turns thick and metallic when it touches my lips. The unmistakable iron taste of blood rolls my stomach. I struggle to swallow.

Tina pulls me close, her hair frantically whipping in the wind.

Thunder rumbles nearby, growing closer with every breath. Lightning crackles in every direction. A stray bolt crashes into the tree next to us, splintering the behemoth to its roots. The leaves are instantly set ablaze. The air smells like charcoal.

Blissfully unaffected, Tina takes my face in her hands. Snowflakes of ash, and lightning bugs of smoldering embers, dance around us as they float to the ground. She leans in and kisses me ever so gently. I feel upside down, as if God, from the Sistine Chapel, has reached out and touched me. Our cheeks brush against one another as she moves her lips up to my ear. Her breath feels like life itself. My body shudders with anticipation. With the world crumbling to ashes around us, she pauses, and as soft as a butterfly's wings, she whispers three words:

"No-More-Running."

They enter through my ear and tumble down into my chest where they take root.

No-More-Running.

Just three simple words.

And for the first time in my entire life—with no more road ahead, and with nowhere left to go—I finally stop running…