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dcbbw · 5 years

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Wine and Whiskey

This is a one-off request for Drake x MC/Riley. It my version of the conversation that takes place in Olivia’s wine cellar during the social season, where Drake and MC share a drink. This post is NSFW. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please excuse any typos and/or grammatical errors.

All characters belong to Pixelberry.

Song Inspiration: You Can Keep Your Hat On, Joe Crocker: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hfgwrdYUQ2A

Word Count: 2340

Tags: @gennesaret @cora-nova @carabeth @hopefulmoonobject @katedrakeohd @aworldoffandoms @lauradowning29

Drake X MC, Drake X Riley, Drake Walker

Drake Walker waits in the Nervakis wine cellar. He had come across it during his wanderings through the stately mansion as he avoided the pomp and preparation of the formal dinner. Some dinner. Seated at the very back of the room, at a table that was invisible to all servers. If Brooks hadn’t of “fainted”, there would not have even been a bowl of lobster bisque to split three ways: Drake, Brooks, Hana. Drake felt so bad for Hana…she did not deserve that treatment. Well, none of them did, but he was used to the commoner treatment. Brooks was used to being snubbed and short-changed by the noble ladies. Ladies. Hah. More like pure-bred bitches. The lot of them can go jump off a cliff, if I don’t push them over first. But Hana, she had done nothing except befriend Brooks, and for that, she was being banished to Social Season Siberia.

When he first came across the wine cellar, he ambled around, checking out the vintages of the wines, and was very impressed that Olivia had such exquisite taste in wine. He really had not given it another thought, until he saw Brooks was sitting in exile at the table with him. Hana who? The three of them were sitting at the table waiting for a meal that would never come, and he was telling Brooks and Hana about coming across it. Brooks cracked a joke about drinking at least a bottle of the wine as revenge, and next thing Drake knew, he was blurting out an invitation for Brooks to meet him later that evening in the wine cellar.

Now, he was sitting in the basement, drinking a shot of whiskey, waiting for a woman he could never have to come keep him company. Drake was not sure when or how it happened, but he was completely smitten with Brooks. Sure, she was pretty and smart, and tenacious to hold her own or die trying. She saw through the bullshit. Yet, there was so much more to her than that. Brooks had layers, and he wanted to expose and learn each one. But she isn’t here for you. Your best friend can offer her an entire kingdom, and she is upstairs right now competing for his attention, his affections. Meanwhile, you are sitting here, with your dick in hand, and pie in the sky dreams.

He turned his head as he heard light footsteps on the stairs, then smiled a little as Brooks came into view. She had a scowl on her face, which caused him to raise an eyebrow. “There you are, Brooks. I was beginning to think you didn’t have the guts to show up. You know, out after and curfew and all that.”

“Oh, please Drake….I have more than enough guts to keep up with you.” She flashed him a smile to take the sting out of her words. “This has been one pissy evening. No food, Maxwell forgets to teach me the Cordonian Waltz, and then Liam kisses Olivia. In front of everybody.”

“Heh. Liv can be pretty insistent.”

”Doesn’t mean he had to respond. And then takes her outside.”

“Outside? Really?” Liam, what the hell are you doing?

“Yeah, really. Says he talked to her privately so as not to embarrass her. Whatever. He is waiting for me right now, you know. In the east wing. Says he wants to show me the view from the hot tub.”

“Sounds like you have options. And maybe a decision to make.”

“I’m drinking. What’s on the menu, barkeep?” Drake grinned and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. For all of Olivia’s shitty ways, Lythikos may be the best stop yet on this social season tour. He had gotten to spend a lot of alone time with Brooks skiing and star gazing, and now….drinks and conversation. Enjoy it while you can.

“So what’ll you have? Pretentious, expensive wine or a real drink?” He held his flask of whiskey up.

“Pretentious and expensive, please.”

“That’s savage, Brooks.” Riley shrugged. Drake poured the drinks, and they clinked glasses. “Cheers.”

Riley took a deep swallow of the wine, and closed her eyes in bliss. “Ahhhhh. So velvety, so smooth. I see why nobles love their wines.” She looked over at Drake. “How are you holding up? I know how you feel about nobles and pageantry.”

Drake shook his head as his eyes held hers. “Okay, I guess. It just seems so pointless and wasteful.” Drake paused as he searched for words. “I know it seems as if I complain all the time when I really don’t have to do anything except show up to support Liam, but it isn’t a free ride by any means. My father gave his life protecting Constantine, and not two weeks later, the Court was ready to put me and my family on the street. Liam was the one who advocated for us, and promised us a home at the Palace for as long as we needed it. He’s the only noble worth a damn, the only reason I stay around.”

“Oh, Drake.” Riley said softly, putting her hand on his arm.

Drake briefly looked at her hand, and continued. “So yeah, I see past the fake smiles, the false concern, and the glitter and glamour. These nobles don’t care about anyone but themselves, and your usefulness to them. They know nothing about the moments in between.”

“The moments in between?” There was confusion in Riley’s voice.

“They live in these huge ass mansions, but don’t bother to look at the architecture. They sit in fancy chairs, but don’t take the time to appreciate the craftsmanship. The time people took to create these things they collect like stamps. They don’t appreciate the flavors and vintages of the drinks they hold, just the cost. Not a one of them appreciates the art of an honest conversation, they just want to sway you to their ideas, their politics, and one-up each other. They are so busy acquiring, they don’t have time to appreciate the acquisitions.”

Riley nodded in understanding. “The moments in between. There haven’t been many so far. “

Drake looked at Brooks with relief and appreciation. She gets it. He had been a little afraid to bare his soul to her, but if anyone could slip through the cracks in the walls he had built over the years, it was her. She had been slipping in since the plane ride to Cordonia.

“Drake, what do you think of me?” Whoa. Where did that come from?

He poured them each another drink before answering. “I think my best friend is falling in love with you, so what I think of you is irrelevant. You’re here for him. He can offer you the literal world, and me…..I can’t come close to that.”

“Not an answer, Drake. And right now, you are offering me a moment in between. You are giving freely what Liam can only parcel out.”

Drake’s eyes darkened as he let out a deep breath. “I think you are amazing, and beautiful, and you make me want to let down all the walls and guards I have. I feel like I want to kiss you and either kill the dream or fuel the fantasies I have about you.” His eyes met hers over his glass. “Better?”

“It would be better if you kiss me.” Drake whipped his head to look at her. That’s the wine talking.

As if she could read his mind, Riley sat the wine glass on the table. “I’m not drunk Drake, but I am curious.”

Riley came over to Drake, her face mere inches from his. Don’t do it! DO NO DO THIS! Liam really, really, really likes this woman. This could hurt everybody. This will change things! DO NOT KISS HER!

“What the hell”, Drake growled. His mouth crashed onto hers, his hands holding her cheeks. His hands are rougher than Liam’s, Riley thought. His tongue was demanding and insistent. Riley felt as if she were both floating and drowning from his kiss. She threw her arms around his neck, leaning further into the kiss.

Drake broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he stared into her eyes. “We’d better stop.”

“I don’t want to.” Her tone was both pleading and defiant.

“Liam…” Drake’s voice trailed off.

“I have never been with Liam, and he has nothing to do with this. This is between me and you, Walker.” She kissed him again. Urgently. Passionately. Well, hell.

Drake pulled her tightly to him, wrapping his strong arms around Brooks as his hands explored her back. Kissing her with the desperation of a drowning man trying to come up for air. His fingers fumbled with the zipper of her dress, but soon enough the dress fell to the floor with a soft whoosh. “Take me Drake.” With pleasure.

He undressed hurriedly, never breaking eye contact with Brooks. Riley’s eyes looked him over appreciatively, her eyes widening when she saw his manhood extending from his curly pubic hair. Long, thick, veiny. Once he was naked, he scooped her up and carried her to the end of the table and sat her down. He leaned in to capture her in another kiss. His tongue was insistent, exploring her mouth. Riley’s hands ran through his hair as his hands unclasped her bra. Riley shrugged out of it. Drake’s calloused hands rubbed and played with her breasts as his kisses trailed down the side of her neck.

He went lower, grabbing an erect nipple in his mouth, gently biting it. Riley gasped. Drake pulled the nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. He took his hands to push her breasts together, and he pulled both nipples in his mouth, nibbling, licking, sucking. Riley pulled his head closer into her as her breathing became faster.

Drake felt the excitement in his cock, and with a groan, pulled himself away from her perfect breasts. He lifted his head, and let Riley pull him into another kiss as his hand roughly pushed her panties to one side. He inserted a finger inside of her, and almost lost it right then and there. She was so wet, so tight. He began to pump his finger in and out, while Riley thrust her hips against the table. He could feel her getting close, but he wanted to prolong the sensations. He wanted more of her before this all came to an end. He slowly removed his finger, and licked her juices off before putting it in his mouth to suck it clean.

“More, Drake…..I want more.”

He pushed her back on the table, helping her pull her panties off, while pushing her legs apart. His tongue darted out, licking her clit. She sucked in her breath at his touch. His tongue explored her slick folds as his finger began pumping in and out of her again. He ate her like he was starving man, and this was his first meal in days, and his last meal for months. He licked, lapped, sucked as Riley moaned and pulled him by his hair deeper into her center. I can’t hold out much longer.

Without a word, he pulled her from the table, and bent her over the bar stool. Placing his hands on her hips, he plunged his thick cock into her, and groaned. Oh Jesus. He could feel her walls pulsating around him. He pumped in and out of her furiously. He had always imagined being with Brooks being more soft and gentle, but he wanted her so badly. To know that she wanted him too had him wanting to take her quickly, in an almost primal way. It helped knowing Liam had not been with her. That he was the first, after a lifetime of being last.

Their bodies slapped together, Riley’s grunts a sexual duet with his growls. Until he felt her walls convulsing around his cock as she let out controlled yells. She’s a screamer. He felt himself falling into an abyss of pure pleasure as he let out a yell of his own. He quickly removed his cock from her and released himself all over her asscheeks.

He collapsed on top of her back, wrapping his hands around her waist as they lay there in silence, panting and sweating. Once their breathing became normal again, he grabbed his white tee shirt to clean her up. He avoided her eyes as they dressed.

“Drake, where does this leave us?” I want to be with you forever and ever.

“Seems that is more your call, Brooks. You know I am here for you, but we both know who you are here for.” Riley’s face was unreadable as she considered his answer.

“Hey, we better get out of here. Early day tomorrow and all that.” Riley nodded. She helped him tidy up and leave the wine cellar as they found it, minus one bottle of wine. He held her hand as he led her upstairs.

They stood in the hall after carefully closing the wine cellar door behind them, both unsure what to do. As they stood at the bottom of the staircase, they both saw the flickering light at the end of the east wing hall.

Liam’s waiting for her.

Drake looked down at Brooks."I can walk you to the east wing if you’d like.” Riley looked at the light for a moment too long, and back at Drake.

Extending her hand to him, she spoke. “Actually, I would like it if you escorted me to my room, please.”

#drake walker #trr fanfic #choices the royal romance #drake x mc #drake x riley

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fuckress · 5 years

Note

I dare you to answer every single question in the "weird asks that say a lot" (tho you can decline the dare, or just answer one you really wanna answer)

me? declining a dare?? HELL NO! So buckle up, this is a long one!

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans?–> coffee mugs

2. chocolate bars or lollipops?–> hmmmmm… chocolate bars.

3. bubblegum or cotton candy?–> neither really… there aren’t many stores where I can buy cotton candy just like that. So I guess bubblegum.

4. how did your elementary school teachers describe you?–> quiet, reserved, smart. I think that’s about it.

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups?–> actually cans. But I’ll settle for bottles if I can’t get cans

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear?–> hm… a mix between tomboy, sportswear and formal.

7. earbuds or headphones?–> both. earbuds while on my phone and headphones while on my computer.

8. movies or tv shows?–> tv shows. Keeps me occupied for longer and I don’t have to pay attention too much.

9. favorite smell in the summer?–> that fresh breeze when at sea or ocean. Or, the smell before a thunder storm.

10. game you were best at in p.e.?–> dodgeball, along with basketball and volleyball. which doesn’t mean I’m any good at either, those were just the ones I didn’t suck as much lol

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day?–> usually, I skip breakfast and have lunch. But if I want something, it’s usually a sandwich with either avocado, fish or something else.

12. name of your favorite playlist?–> uhh.. don’t really have one.

13. lanyard or key ring?–> both ^^ key ring to keep all keys i need together and a lanyard to lock them to my pants or something.

14. favorite non-chocolate candy?–> popcorn. I’m not entirely sure tbh, I’m simply eating popcorn now so that’s why it came to my mind lol

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment?–> ooh, good question. hm… catcher in the rye is up there… life of pie too… killing mr griffin…. hm. most books from my english classes it seems. the german ones sucked.

16. most comfortable position to sit in?–> sitting on one leg with the other angled. it’s kinda hard to explain, I guess.

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes?–> gray sneakers

18. ideal weather?–> sunshine, not too warm (maybe around 25°C), with a little breeze.

19. sleeping position?–> any position and every position

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)?–> either computer or mobile phone

21. obsession from childhood?–> hm. I guess drawing might be one. Other than that, I don’t think I have an obsession from back then. Maybe anime and cartoons in general, but nothing specific.

22. role model?–> don’t have one

23. strange habits?–> can’t think of anything right now..

24. favorite crystal?–> opal

25. first song you remember hearing?–> I don’t know the song titles of those, sadly. I do remember the ketchup song

26. favorite activity to do in warm weather?–> either taking a walk or sleeping in the sunshine. Not really much interested in activities.

27. favorite activity to do in cold weather?–> sleeping..

28. five songs to describe you?–> Alone in the room by asking alexandria, haze by tessa violet, choke by i don’t know how but they found me (the vibe of the song, not much of the lyrics), bones by emily finchum, dreamin by the score

29. best way to bond with you?–> oh, there are many ways tbh. either ask me about my obsessions and if they are similar to yours, let’s talk about those for hours. or just show up and talk bullshit, I’m always up for bullshit. or let’s rant about stuff that we both hate. just. yeah. I’m really not that hard to please, if you don’t treat me like shit, we’re good.

30. places that you find sacred?–> nothing comes to mind tbh. that doesn’t mean i don’t think places shouldn’t be treated without respect.

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names?–> jeans, sneakers, black tanktop and a blazer. or hoodie. things I’d usually wear as well. best to kick ass and take names while wearing what you like most, right?

32. top five favorite vines?–> “two bros, chilling in a hot tub, five feet apart cause they’re not gay.”“Say Colorado!” “I’M A GIRAFFE”“THIS BITCH EMPTY! YEET!”“Shit, duck!” “Oh, cause of the duck is it?” *gets hit by a flying duck*“Cabbage, cabbage, cabbage. LETTUCE, LETTUCE, LETTUCE!”

33. most used phrase in your phone?–> yaaaaaaf, yaaaaaaaas, rip, mood, aaaaaaaaaaargh, wtf, eyyyyyyyyyyyyy, oooh, fuck, ehehehehehehe (usually after a dirty joke), yay~, yehi wasn’t able to just pick one

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head?–> none. thank goodness

35. average time you fall asleep?–> maybe.. 30min?

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing?–> oooh boy, I don’t remember.

37. suitcase or duffel bag?–> suitcase. They’re easier to handle

38. lemonade or tea?–> tea

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie?–> neither.. I don’t really like cakes or pies

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school?–> there was a warning of a school shooting due to some internet posts. Nothing happened at our school, but people were scared. Other than that, constant firealarms due to bullshit reasons like cooking or dust. And being late for school due to flooding and casually walking in to class with zero fucks left to give.

41. last person you texted?–> a friend who sent me a cute pic.

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets?–> BOTH AND BIG ENOUGH TO FIT MY PHONE IN PLEASE

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket?–> Hoodie and leather jacket.

44. favorite scent for soap?–> something fresh like lemon grass or so. Or some herbs. Nothing too sweet and no nuts

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero?–> I like a lot of superhero stuff, but fantasy is up there too.

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in?–> I’ll sleep in literally anything, depending on how tired and lazy I am to change.

47. favorite type of cheese?–> none

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be?–> a pomegranate i think

49. what saying or quote do you live by?–> none really. More like a motto. Be the best you can be and enjoy yourself as much as possible.

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have?–> pfft. tons of things. i can’t possibly pinpoint one

51. current stresses?–> New job starting soon where I’m not really sure how well I’ll be able to handle it, sleep scedule is fucked, being on my own entirely with no friends nearby.. ah well.

52. favorite font?–> don’t have one

53. what is the current state of your hands?–> slight lingering pain, a bit cold, no injuries

54. what did you learn from your first job?–> my first ever job was as a waitress/barkeeper at age 14 or something. What I learned there… some people expect too much of you without helping you. And it’s ok to go away from a bad envirenment. Your own well being is most important.

55. favorite fairy tale?–> It’s either the tale of Icarus or the tale of Kunegunda. Those are actually the first ones I ever heard.

56. favorite tradition?–> hm.. don’t have one

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome?–> School, College, emotional breakdowns

58. four talents you’re proud of having?–> drawing, being able to view at problems rationally and finding solutions, reading people I know, my bullshit kind of humor

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be?–> Let’s get this fucking party started!

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be?–> slice of life. They’re the most wholesome with weird and funny friendship moments

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.?–> The risk I took was calculated, but damn, am I bad at math.

62. seven characters you relate to?–> I’m too lazy to think of seven, so have one: Killua from Hunter x Hunter

63. five songs that would play in your club?–> see number 28.

64. favorite website from your childhood?–> YouTube. Well, not really childhood, but early teenage years.

65. any permanent scars?–> I have one on my forhead from an accident when I was a kid. Don’t know if other scars are permanent.

66. favorite flower(s)?–> forget-me-nots

67. good luck charms?–> a d20 dice

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried?–> hm… I think I surpressed any bad memory like that. Can’t remember

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned?–> brown eyes can be changed permanently blue due to some genes and pigments being linked together

70. left or right handed?–> I’m right handed

71. least favorite pattern?–> anything with huge contrasts and tons of messy lines. hurts my eyes and brain

72. worst subject?–> history. Never was good at remembering dates and years and that shit.

73. favorite weird flavor combo?–> I… don’t have any..

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen?–> a 6, usually. Except if i need to do stuff or I’m trying to sleep. then a 4.

75. when did you lose your first tooth?–> I think, around the age of 9..

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)?–> chips

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill?–> a succulent always grew really well with me. Or cacti.

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store?–> Never had coffee at a gas station. I did have sushi from the grocery story, but they were never any good.

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver’s license photo?–> driver’s licence photo

80. earth tones or jewel tones?–> jewel tones

81. fireflies or lightning bugs?–> wait… wat

82. pc or console?–> PC. Never had a console

83. writing or drawing?–> drawing

84. podcasts or talk radio?–> podcasts

84. barbie or polly pocket?–> I had both growing up. As a kid, barbie. later on, polly pocket.

85. fairy tales or mythology?–> why not both.

86. cookies or cupcakes?–> cookies

87. your greatest fear?–> complete darkness

88. your greatest wish?–> to manage well enough not to have to worry about anything

89. who would you put before everyone else?–> parents i guess

90. luckiest mistake?–> I bet there were so fucking many but I can’t remember right now

91. boxes or bags?–> depends. boxes for organizing stuff at home, bags for shopping and gathering things like bottles or clothes

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights?–> lamps and overhead lights

93. nicknames?–> Chan

94. favorite season?–> fall

95. favorite app on your phone?–> telegram, messaging my friends and all

96. desktop background?–> a picture I made a while ago I called galaxy marbles

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized?–> around 4 or so

98. favorite historical era?–> don’t have one, the all sucked

there. I did it. holy shit that was a lot.

#ask #ask game #long post

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fairest · 6 years

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DIDN’T GO TO TWITTER YESTERDAY - September 12, 2018

Find your country.

In the American food court of O’Hare’s Terminal 3, eating my bean & whole egg burrito from Burrito Beach, I thought, the Viet Cong were the Dirt Bag left of their time.

Except the Viet Cong knew how to kill red state Americans.

(At that time red states were blue, weird.)

The only thing the Dirt Bag left knows how to do is put two pictures side by side on a timeline.

But there is hope.

Maybe once, in the past, all the Viet Cong could do was tweet, too.

Maybe it’s only the beginning for the Dirt Bag Left and at the beginning there is only talking, organizing.

Right now it’s still the Truman years.

Dewey defeats Truman, Clinton defeats Trump.

Right now it’s still the French colonizing the American mind (all these poems hurt my feelings and all the Marx bullshit) and in 50 years we will find the right American words and we will remember how to die.

Project for an extremely online leftist: Google Image Viet Cong & Google Image Dirt Bag Left and place the images side by side on Twitter.

I have this note here: On the airplane, the milf reads her thriller.

I have this note here from long ago: a male pilot who misses his flight reading a romance novel.

Find your country.

Today, my wife’s 34th birthday, I saw a young man sitting on the curb, coming to the end of a novel.

The streets smelled of a rain that had passed over.

The farmer’s market band was singing: find. your. country. find your. country.

My wife was holding our son.

We were warmed by the cool sun, my honesty.

What my honesty has done to my perception, how it has allowed me to see things which I could never look at, because someone else was looking.

I asked my wife, is that The Corrections or The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay? And my wife said, it’s The Corrections.

Writers always look at the books people are reading.

In fact it’s one of the only things a writer can do.

It is hard for me to edit my novel during this outpouring because the characters in my third person omniscient novel live to deceive themselves, but here, for this waterworks, I am admitting myself (admit one) in the first person.

I was watching the farmer’s market band and thinking to myself, musician is the only honorable profession, everyone else is a scab.

How can you face yourself, sitting there looking at Visio and TweetDeck, when you could just as easily pick up that guitar and strum.

I can still see the couch where I finished The Corrections, a cheap college couch, I cried on the last page.

I only remember one sentence, it’s the only sentence I almost remember from a Franzen novel: ‘she was going to make some changes in her life’.

It comes at the very end. It’s about the character Enid Franzen. Chip Franzen’s mommy.

The novel ends on a note of supreme, mainstream hope, an almost Bellovian hope.

Nothing says hope more than making changes.

Hope: One day Mr. Sammler goes to bed with the right papers.

Who was the Tolstoy of the Jews?

Franzen the Great. Our last great male Jewish novelist.

It was also the couch where AbercrombieAnnie1983 (the best screw[s]of my life) told me she had herpes, and I said so I can’t see you anymore (I can’t fuck you anymore) I can’t love you anymore (I won’t fuck you with a disease).

I can still smell Annie’s pussy and now you can too. It wasn’t odorless like Kardashian pussy, it had a focused smell.

I used to write things like that in MFA school and people would look at me with hatred, disgust, like they were my grandmother, so I tried to stop doing it.

Style is what you are trying to stop doing?

All of that was in my head for different periods of time and different amounts of headspace, standing in the cool sun listening to the farmer’s market band run through the changes for Find Your Country, on my wife’s birthday.

My wife is a the one.

That’s not a typo, my wife is a ‘the one’.

It took Karl Ove 240 or so pages to leave his wife, go back to his MFA school, propose love to his mistress or some girl he used to know in college….

It would take me eleven million words to leave my wife.

It’s just hard to imagine.

When I see my wife’s friends I think, you gals have aged. When I see my wife she looks the same as she did the day before I met her.

As a good man (I am a good man, my father is a great man, my grandfather was an OK man, his father was a bad, bad man) I searched long and hard for a the one and when I find a the one my memory was erased.

Even AbercrombieAnnie1983 (in 2001) is gone.

It takes 5-7 generations for the badness of man to reach full flavor.

For best results, drink 3 to 4 generations per day.

I read a clearly engaging essay yesterday by Charles Finch … who I know in real life … hi Charles ... but he is not the Charles I mentioned yesterday ... who said ... critics are bitter people … about Karl Ove and it reminded me how part of Karl Ove’s Q&A … like when an indie bookstore talks to Karl Ove … what they Q&A about … is that he “gave up” on art.

Like he “gave up” on art the way Henry Miller gave up on art when he broke the sound barrier of the autobiographical novel, but like Andy told me that time in Vilnius, nobody reads Henry Miller anymore, Stuart, and I added in my own head, not even me.

Miller once said it got to the point of madness where no matter what I said about the man I could have easily have said the exact opposite.

Although I’m back in New York … that’s why I was at the airport this morning thinking about the Viet Cong … and I always bring Aller Retour New York in my bag when I come back, although I haven’t opened it for 12 years or so, and I didn’t bring it this time, I brought Eros the Bittersweet instead, which got Burrito Beach red salsa sauce on it and now is kind of fucked up.

Karl Ove fits easily into Algren’s criticism of Henry Miller: the problem with Karl Ove is that he thinks he thinks.

Much more than Miller himself does.

That’s my problem. I think I think.

This reminds me a lot of David Frum.

I feel like I made fun of David Frum the last few days but I don’t know David Frum.

Making fun of people you don’t know is for people who go to Twitter.

I didn’t go to Twitter yesterday.

Sorry David Frum.

Thought about tweeting yesterday:

At the Tribeca Target, my wife said even the mannequins are fat now, and I told her she should tweet that. I’m not going to tweet it’s insane that Tribeca has a Target.

I came to this sentence in Charles’ essay, which gave me a painful pang of recognition: writers who leave more questions than they answer.

I thought to myself, am I a desperate amateur who thinks he thinks and leaves more questions than I answer?

I wrote a humor piece … the only literary criticism possible for me … since literature is hilarious … about Karl Ove … this was like five years ago … I wrote it in Managua … because Dario is boring in English … it was about why Karl Ove is famous … because people like to say ‘Karl Ove’ … you know … like the Seinfeld joke about salsa … that people only like salsa because they like to say salsa … you know I’d been to parties … and people said Karl Ove … but when they said Karl Ove they didn’t mean Karl Ove … they meant themselves … like when they say David Foster Wallace they don’t mean David Foster Wallace … they mean themselves … I did a search for the unpublished article a few moments ago … I was going to send it to HTMLGiant or The Awl at the time … I must’ve erased it … if you’re interested, I’ll leave a broken link to it in show notes.

Giving up is something only men can do.

I have this note here: something only men can do.

I have this note here: A list of verbs from mammals before humans that humans can also do but it’s just the kind of “good writing” with “strong, interesting verbs”: crawl, pounce, slither, wag, others? Use them during editing process.

Women are not allowed to give up.

Men are allowed to give up when they want to harness creativity.

That Picasso line … it took me a lifetime to learn how to paint like a child … if a woman said that she would be laughed out of the salon.

Don’t paint like a child, grow up, paint like a man.

Sometimes I wonder if female writers are burning up, they have ten thousand words to go, and they look over at their husband, and he’s fast asleep.

I don’t give up.

I am trying pretty hard right now.

I detest creativity.

I am uninterested in the expanding of my mind I want a long, drawn out compression that lasts longer they I could with AbercrombieAnnie1983.

Creativity takes me always from behind.

It’s weird my president is mad at Nike, they make a shoe called Air Force One, then again he likes his own plane.

Creativity takes a step back for a moment, long after I am miles ahead.

I am scared of creativity.

American writers spend a long time being afraid of advertising.

It takes an American writer 900,000 private words before they can say to themselves: fuck advertising.

The Charles Mingus composition Myself When I Am Real, how does it go again, is it a vamp or a romp? Is it a song, or a book?

For the longest time as a child I would think to myself, I am not creative enough.

I believe in God, saints, angles—the triune stumbling block to creativity. But I don’t believe in fairies, goblins, witches, Batman, the ruling class, late capitalism, planets with more than one moon … Luke Skywalker’s farming planet … I never believed that shit.

If a woman gave up on art man would say, cool have a kid.

I have a note here about men’s bodies that make my cock move: the young falafeltarian waiters wear tight white polos. Does a man still starch a polo these days? My fantasy: their nails clipped in half-moons.

I wrote my wife a card for her birthday.

Happy birthday my love. The wine was dark. The food clean. The service sucked. The conversation spoke to us. There will never be another you.

I wrote her a card from our son, too.

I am scared to die for my country.

My son might not be.

I wrote it out with my right hand to be cute (editor’s note: the desperate amateur who thinks he thinks asking more questions than he can answer is, IRL, a lefty).

Writing the card backward was a notable experience.

I fucked up cute all words except the word Mommy.

I write mommy almost if not equally well with my right hand as with my left.

Maybe it’s because I have so much hope.

I have so much hope for the world, my son, my wife, my mommy even though she is old.

My mama’s got cancer in her breast, don’t ask me why I’m motherfucking stressed, things done changed.

I hug my wife, between us our son.

Find Your Country.

Hold your influences close.

Hold your closest influence closer.

#OG #Diary #Twitter #September 12

3 notes · View notes

tango-uniformed · 6 years

Text

Tango first 5000 words

August, 2018

5:00 PM

Amtrak en route from Baltimore MD to Greenville SC

Vivienne Bastian considered himself a fan of public transportation. He knew how to drive, but rarely did so, preferring to walk when he could or take the metro or the bus when he couldn't. He disliked riding bicycles; he had tried to get into it in college but after nearly swerving into traffic and getting hit by a dump truck, he'd given up on all that. The best kind of public transportation was riding the train. Especially long train rides. He liked to sit by the window and watch the landscape change. He liked talking to the strangers who he would never see again. It was all so terribly romantic. He fancied himself a character from one of those black and white noir movies, one of those reporters who talked like Humphrey Bogart and got into trouble and solved the mystery and saved the day.

Those guys always carried around old fashioned recording equipment and talked into it as they moved the story from act to act. It would be interesting if he started to do that, to move his own story along as he moved through it. Or, he thought, he could be like Dale Cooper and treat his recording equipment like a friend or co-worker and act like he was bouncing ideas off of it. Was that strange? It wasn't strange, was it?

To do something like that, of course, he would have to have access to the recording equipment on his phone. And the ability to speak without his uptight, insane brother ranting at him on the phone from hundreds of miles away.

"I think you've really lost it," his brother was saying in his nasally faux-New Englander voice which was an affectation he had picked up to get him further along in his career. "You pick up and leave in the middle of the night and get on a train to Tennessee of all places? I mean, I know you don't have a job to worry about, but you're an adult, you can't just abandon all your responsibilities like that. Are you having a nervous breakdown?"

"I have a job, Will," Viv said, for the thousandth time. He was sitting comfortably by himself on the train. There weren’t many passengers at, despite the fact that it was early summer and the schools were still out. "I make things and people pay me for it."

"On the internet," Will said derisively.

Viv smiled and imagined how much better life would be if he had been smart enough to not call this prissy sad sack of a man in the first place. Once Will knew where he was, it was only a matter of time before he bypassed his self-imposed oath to never talk to their parents again, and then go snitch.

"I think you're having a nervous breakdown because the theater fired you."

"That was a year ago and I am not having a nervous breakdown, you're totally projecting." Would a person who was having a nervous breakdown bother to pack a week's worth of clothes that were all planned out, outfit by outfit? Viv had even researched the weather in Chattanooga and packed accordingly. Supposedly it was pretty humid there. Would a person who was having a nervous breakdown call a friend to take care of their plants for a week? Would a person who was having a nervous breakdown even call their brother to let him know they were ok? No, no, and no. If anyone was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, it was his recently divorced brother. "I told you that I'm just trying to find Christian, I'm following the clues he left me and--"

"--You're living in an insane fantasy world--"

"--since it's clear he's tracking his old buddies down, the closest one was Virgil Osborn, who went back to his hometown in Tennessee after the service." Talking to Will was like talking to a sea-urchin. Every little thing made him spiky and defensive. Impossible. He was worse than Dad.

He was only an hour away from Greenville. Once he got there, he planned on renting a hotel for the night. He'd put the final touches on the episode-- the first episode of a series, he hoped-- and then upload it. That would really set the whole thing into motion. It was what would make it real. Once he put his intentions out there, into the universe and into the public, there was no going back. He'd have to follow through.

The only thing Viv knew about Greenville was that they had a big theater that Hamilton would be coming to later in the year. He hoped that meant they were ok with gay black people. He anticipated it being more accepting than Jeptha, the Eastern Tennessee town of 2000 he was on his way towards the next day.

Will was still ranting at him. Viv tuned back in. "Christian isn't missing. Christian is never missing, or hurt, or in trouble, or what have you. He's just him. He ran away. Again. He'll turn up when he wants to turn up. He's the only one of us who gets away with everything, and you're a fool for falling for his bullshit again. It's like you're the youngest brother or something, instead of us all being born at the same time."

"If you read the Google Docs he left--"

"--You mean his obviously PTSD fueled manifestos--"

"--There's all this shit about what happened in Kandahar, with him and Blue and the others before they all got discharged. And I think-- I mean, I'm guessing-- there was some kind of cover up that goes back to the OVA. Or the OVA found out about it through a military leak, I don't know. Christian must have thought it was a big deal, so when Osborn and Jankowski turn up dead a few months ago, he freaked out and thought this big conspiracy was behind it. And yeah, after reading it, I'm inclined to think so too." Viv took a big gulp of the canned Starbucks Frappuccino he had bought at the last stop. He needed the caffeine. He wondered if he could vape on the train. He hadn't seen any signs saying that he couldn't. Would it set off the fire alarms or something? He took his Juul out of his pants pocket and looked around for any attendants or other passengers who looked like they would complain.

"Yeah, PTSD fueled manifestos," Will said dryly. "The OVA only deals with magic. Why would he think they care about some idiots who got drunk in Afghanistan one night and only narrowly avoided getting court-martialed?"

The only passenger nearby was a middle aged white lady who looked like she had taken about a hundred valium. Viv surreptitiously took a drag on his electronic cigarette. The pod he was using was green apple flavored. He felt his nerves immediately calm and hoped that he wasn't addicted to nicotine. That couldn't happen with vapes, right? He exhaled and fanned the air a little bit as he kept talking, in a more lowered voice. "Did he tell you what happened in Kandahar?"

"He told me what he thought happened."

"With the, the black slime that started moving up from his fingernails and the way he couldn't remember any of it?" Viv thought about his own fingernails and felt the need to take another drag from his vape.

Will was silent.

"You still there?"

"Why didn't you go to Boston to see Blue if you think Christian's army buddies are showing up dead?" Will asked, staunchly changing the subject away from dissociative periods and black slime. He never liked to talk about it. Not even when it was right there in front of him affecting him. "If there really was a pattern and Osborn and Jankowski's deaths are connected, wouldn't he be next? Or wouldn't Christian have gone to him first since he's so close?"

The few times that Viv met Blue had been deeply uncomfortable since he had introduced himself under the assumption that Christian was dating him. Which was ridiculous in retrospect, since Christian had never dated anybody. But Blue had a variance that allowed him to control his own heart rate, so at least it had been fun to trick his mother into thinking the guy had fallen over dead at her table.

"There wasn't as much on him," Viv said lamely. "Just some articles from 2015 when that girl tried to rob the place he was working at and put him in the ICU for 3 days."

"I forgot about that."

"Yeah." The vapor around Viv looked a little thick. He kept waving it away and glancing around for employees. "Anyway. I don't know. It'll be interesting, an interesting story. I think people will like it."

"Don't you mean 'I think I'll find my missing brother'?" Will asked, and laughed cruelly. He laughed through his nose for some reason. Nobody else in the family laughed through their nose.

Viv wanted to put a knife into this particular brother and then twist it. "How's Emmy?" he asked.

That took all the pompousness right out of him. "Good. Almost walking," Will said, deflated. "I had her this weekend. I have to see Jennifer's attorney to finalize custody next Friday."

Hopefully that meant Jennifer would be getting more custody of Emily than Will was. His brother's ex wife was fun, attentive, and thoughtful in a corn-fed Midwesterner kind of way. She didn't need to be subjected to the dysfunctions of the Bastian family any more than she needed to be. And the baby definitely didn't need to be around any of them.

"That sucks," Viv said, as fakely as possible. "I guess I'll have to go over to your-- I mean to Jennifer's house the next time I want to babysit my niece. I'll send you pictures of her."

Without so much as a 'fuck you', Will hung up.

Viv shook his head. So dramatic. It was sad that he had to punch below the belt like that, but sometimes Will forced his hand. At least Christian never mocked him.

The last time he had seen Christian was almost a month previously. He had shown up at Viv's apartment in the middle of the night without warning, soaked with sweat and ranting about how they-- the Bastian triplets-- were not safe. That was when he had shared the Google documents with Vivienne. It was nearly 3 gigabytes of information, most of it incomprehensible. It was not the first time he had shown up out of nowhere like that, but it was the first time that he had proof to back up his claims. Most of Christian's collection of documents were information accessible from the public-- articles, screenshots from twitter, videoclips, even basic information from Wikipedia. But some of it was from the Office of Variant Affairs, as well as from the military and looked...official. He wouldn't answer any of his brother's questions, he was too amped up, just repeating that they weren't safe. By the time Viv had gotten him to de-escalate, Christian had determined that he had to go. He said that he was off to Tennessee, where Osborn had died 4 months ago, and left.

Still, Viv had not reported his brother missing. Nor had Will. Nor had their parents-- not that Christian had any contact with them recently. But surely they knew. There was no way that they were going about their lives unaware that nobody had seen one of their sons for an entire month, could they?

He had heard that if someone was missing over 30 days, they weren’t really missing any more. That was when you were supposed to send the authorities their dental records. Viv had no intention of doing that either. He knew his brother wasn’t dead, Christian was too….Christian for that. He had just Gone Girl-ed himself for whatever reason and was probably in trouble.

So he hadn’t filed a missing persons report. And he wouldn’t.

It wasn't because he didn't trust the cops to find Christian. It was because he wanted to find him himself. It was a better story that way.

Contemplating this, Viv took another long drag from his vape and exhaled.

And just like that, the smoke alarm went off.

********

ETN.ORG

APRIL 15 2018

JEPTHA MAN FOUND DEAD AT STILLWATER MOTEL DIED OF DRUG OVERDOSE

Shelly Asburn

JEPTHA- A 32 year old man who died earlier this week at the Stillwater Motel overdosed on drugs, says county medical examiner.

Virgil Alexander Osborn, of Jeptha, Tenn. was found the morning of April 13 in a car in the motel's parking lot, according to county medical examiner, Jerry Xi, who conducted the man's April 14 autopsy. The car, parked in the westward lot, was running, Xi wrote in his report, and the heat was on high.

The toxicology report has not been released. Autopsy reports show Osborn's manner of death was accidental.

County Sheriff's Office deputies found Osborn dead inside the vehicle just after 8:00 am after responding to the motel for a medical call.

Sheriff Brian Craddock had previously said foul play was not suspected in the death.

Reach Shelly Asburn at Shasburn(at)ETN.com and follow her on twitter (at)ShellyAsburnETN

*******

August, 2018

7:45 PM

Greenville, SC

The hotel Viv checked into after disembarking the train (thoroughly humiliated and publicly shamed by an attendant for vaping) was actually pretty nice. Greenville wasn't the pit of despair he had imagined it to be. It was located on a river, which he had walked next to while scoping out the big theater, the Peace Center. The place wasn't like Baltimore, but it was pretty good for the South.

Well, for what he imagined the South to be like. He had never been down there, unless you counted trips to Miami to visit his father's sister. The rest of his extended family all lived in Cuba (his father's family) or Haiti (his mother's). Between that and Viv's own dismissal of every part of the United States that wasn't California, Florida, or located above Maryland and below Maine, he didn't have much room in his heart for travel.

But Greenville was very nice. If he had more time there, he could see himself maybe going to a play and checking out some of the local restaurants. He did not have time. The bus that would drive him to Chattanooga was leaving at 8:00 in the morning, so all he could do was wind down in his hotel room.

He reclined on the bed, wearing the terrycloth robe that came with the room. The bed was comfortable, more comfortable than the one he had at home. Hotel beds always were. Viv had his headphones on and his laptop perched on top of his round stomach, carefully finalizing his edits of episode 50 of his podcast, "Slack". It was a...variety show. Most of the time he just talked about music and invited guest speakers to discuss politics or pop culture with him. Sometimes he did some investigative journalism-- mostly having to do with the arts scene or true crime. He really hadn't found his niche, but had enough listeners to scrape together barely enough to live by on Patreon. Sure, it wasn't the same as when he had been in charge of sound design at the Owensby, but it was enough.

Plus, he was his boss and could do whatever he wanted now. He had total creative control. That's what counted.

If Viv thought too hard about what Will said about him finally having a nervous breakdown over being fired, he actually would have a nervous breakdown, so he focused on work. The sound of his own voice was already starting to irritate him. He sounded very Maryland and very gay, neither of which were affectations.

"I'll keep you guys updated on this story as it unfolds," his recorded voice from 3 days ago was saying. "And for Patrons of a $10 level or more, I'll be uploading some of the documents my brother left for me-- the ones I feel safe doing so with that is." Viv rolled his own eyes at himself and tugged off his headphones.

For a few minutes he blindly surfed the internet until he found himself watching a video of a squirrel getting stuck in a bagpipe for no reason. He exited Google Chrome.

He used the remote to turn on the tv. Whoever had stayed in the room before him had left the channel on Fox News, which was like kryptonite for Viv. He stared at it for a moment, transfixed in horror. A Republican Representative from Indiana was talking, clearly begging for her seat as mid-terms approached.

"I'm just saying," she told the camera, all big teeth and dead black eyes. "There are people out there who have the inherent ability to kill others using nothing but their minds, and the OVA does nothing to regulate this. Sure, these school shootings get a ton of press, but what about the guy who goes postal and snaps his wife's neck telekinetically? What about the people who can create fires just by blinking? Shouldn't everyone else have the right to protect themselves using firearms?"

An image of his father, who had walked with a cane since the age of 35 after his left leg was irreparably mangled by gunfire during his service came to Viv's mind. He shook himself from his trance and flipped the channel to Real Housewives of Orange County.

He exited out of the sound editing software on his laptop and pulled up Christian's Google docs, scanning through them to see if anything new caught his eye. So far, he had only organized them into sections. One section pertained only to Tennessee and Virgil Osborn. Another contained information about Monty Jankowski's death in California. One section was about Blue. One was just for Christian-- for some reason, his discharge papers and medical records were all scanned in there, although there was nothing out of the ordinary there. But Christian had also included his report cards from Elementary school, as well as notes from 2008 when he had been forced to see a therapist. Then there were miscellaneous bits and bobs of information. There were emails Christian had exchanged with thauma-slurry distilling factories from some big company, Proverge. There were old scanned paper documents in Russian that Viv couldn't make heads or tails of. Academic studies from the OVA's disease prevention branch coupled with Wikipedia pages on biological warfare. Every single episode of his podcast. A video of their mother playing the piano at a concert in Germany during the 1980's. A photograph of their father when he was young, surrounded by smiling people. Will's medical records. A copy of Jennifer's sonogram when she was pregnant with Emily. A copy of the pink slip Viv had received when he got fired.

How did an ex-military chump turned security consultant like Christian get his hands on all this?

He clicked on Osborn's files and rapidly began going through them again, preparing himself for the next day. The toxicology report had not been released yet, but Christian's notes emphasized that he had died overdosing a methamphetamine-fentanyl speedball. Since Christian seemed to know everything these days, Viv believed him. His brother had even narrowed down Osborn's dealer from blurry convenience store camera footage; a tall young woman called Arlene Kennelly who was involved in the local criminal organization.

The puzzle pieces were all there but it was up to him to put them together. He was less good at detective work than he had once assumed, and it frustrated him. He clicked out of Osborn's files.

Viv watched the video of his mother playing the piano, hoping that it would calm him down. It was from before she had triplets, and she was beautiful and happy. She was a better pianist than anyone he had ever paid to see, it was no wonder that she had gone all over the world when she was in her 20's. In the video, Maya Bastian (for some strange reason, Viv's father had taken her name and let go of his name, Perez) played the solo piano part of Rhapsody in Blue in front of a crowd of people in uniform. Her hair hid her face from the camera.

Hearing her play made him feel a little bit better. It reminded him of being a kid, when she was teaching him and his brothers. It made him think of the way she would guide his hands on the keyboard, and the way that everything seemed right in those moments.

It made him feel better but not better enough to forget that at one point Christian had rooted through his garbage like a psychotic raccoon in order to retrieve his pink slip.

Thinking about that made him feel itchy. He snapped his laptop shut and grabbed the room service menu, eyeing the mac and cheese. Food was good. Food would make him feel better, along with a hot shower. He had another long drive in the morning, to a probably terrible little town that nobody had heard of. Viv needed his rest.

I AM NOT TORTURING MYSELF BY WRITING VIV BEING ANNOYING FOREVER JUST PRETEND IM WRITING THINGS THAT ARE SIGNIFICANT AND I'LL FILL IT IN LATER I GUESS. I’M JUST GOING TO SKIP AROUND.

********

ROBERT RAPHAEL KENNELLY

Booking Number: ########

Booking on: 05/26/2010

County: Hamilton

Date Of Birth: 01/15/1989

Charges 1. Violation Description: FELONY POSSESSION SCH II CS

Bond Amount: $50,000

********

In his dream, Viv looked at himself in the mirror in the bathroom of his childhood home and saw that he was 7 again. The child version of him was fatter than he was at 32, and wore his hair in a little afro because his mother thought it was cute. He wore a t shirt with a dinosaur on it and red sneakers. But Viv was only looking at his face. His child-self's face. He was unable to look away, or even break the gaze from his own big brown eyes.

And in his dream his nose and mouth were covered with thick black slime.

*********

US ARMY DD214 PARTIAL TRANSCRIPT

BASTIAN, CHRISTIAN MATEO ######### ########

ARMY RA ######### 02 SEPT 2007

######### MARYLAND 30 MAY 1986

OTH ########## ##########

######### ########## ##########

######### ########## #########

AFGHANISTAN 02 SEPT 07-- 13 JAN 08

#############

*******

August, 2018

8:00 AM

Stillwater Motel, Jeptha, TN

There was no free continental breakfast at the Stillwater, but the woman at the front desk noticed how dead on his feet Viv looked, and made him a fresh pot of coffee. She even poured it for him and seemed to want to sit and chat as he drank it. Her name tag read "Beth". She was exactly what Viv imagined when he thought of someone who would work at a crappy motel in Appalachia. A white woman in her 50's with a weathered face, badly bleached hair, and a big smile that he couldn't quite let himself trust. Her features were slightly abnormal in the way that people who were exposed to certain kinds of magic became. Sharp teeth, big ears. Her sandpapery skin was mottled green on her neck and hands, as if she was permanently bruised. As if she was rotting.

"What you here for?" she asked him as he took his first sip of coffee. It was surprisingly good. She had added two creams and two sugars just like he had asked. Underneath her accent was the distinct lisp that anyone whose mouth and teeth were affected by magic got. "The only thing 'round here for visitors to do is hunt, and the season don't start for months."

Did he look like the kind of guy who went blowing holes in defenseless animals? He was wearing dark wash jeans, sneakers, a black t shirt and a light grey hoodie over it; his 'dressed down' look. He was trying to keep any hint at flamboyancy out of his voice. Was he that good at acting or was this lady making fun of him?

“Well,” said Viv, thinking wildly as he drank his excellent coffee. He might as well try to find the girl who sold Osborn the drugs that killed him. Waving a picture of Christian and asking if anyone had seen him seemed less effective, more disastrous. He would save that for further along in this particular excursion, when he had some solid ground to base his assumptions on. “Well. I’m looking up my friend who I met on the internet.”

“Ah,” said the desk woman, Beth. She smelled like tobacco. “How millenial.”

He decided to just go for it. This was a town of 2000, after all. The chance that any given person he talked to knew someone who he actually needed to talk to was phenomenal. “Do you know an Arlene Kennelly?”

“I know some Kennellys. Not sure about an Arlene,” said Beth. She unfolded a local newspaper, appearing uninterested. “There’s a whole hive of Kennellys around here.” For a second she looked up and made eye contact with Viv, just long enough to be meaningful. “Not sure ‘bout your friend, but my mama wouldn’t let me play with nobody from that family when I was coming up.”

What the fuck did that mean.

Viv backtracked. “My friend is very nice,” he said, knowing for a fact that that was not true. Well, he was guessing it was true. The woman he was looking for didn’t have anything in Christian’s collection, as far as he knew, and cursory google search of her name had brought up no arrest records. On the other hand, it was clear that she was a drug dealer partially responsible for the death of Virgil Osborn, and, according to Christian, involved with the whole plot. “Thanks for the information, though. And the coffee.”

“Anytime, sugar.”

He retreated to his room to get ready for the day and to make sense of what the desk woman had meant. Since he planned on staying in the area for more than a few nights, he didn’t want to piss any service employees off. Hopefully she would make him coffee again tomorrow, and maybe they would talk again and he would bounce some things off of her local knowledge.

In Viv’s room was the following: all he had packed since he got on the train to come south. 7 outfits. His pajamas. 2 pairs of shoes. Toiletries. His laptop, his headphones, and the cords for both of those objects. Nothing else. It made him feel like he was a foreign journalist in Malaysia or something. Living rough.

As he paused to grab his phone charger, he caught a glimpse of himself in the old mirror that hung above the room’s dresser. It was something that had been bought in the 80’s or 90’s, with a yellowing trim and warped face. Viv usually avoided looking at himself in mirrors, for a myriad of reasons, but he decided to right then. He looked tired. There were bags under his eyes like he had not slept. His skin looked dry. He was not smiling, not excited.

There was nothing to be done about it.

********

Cedars-Sinai Medical Center

8700 Beverly Blvd

Los Angeles, CA

90048

###-###-####

######@##########

March 17, 2005

Levi Monday

############

Los Angeles, California, 661

Dear Mr. Monday,

Our repeated attempts to collect the balance due on your mother's account which you cosigned for have been ignored. Your account has been referred to an outside collection agency, ####### Collection Agency Services. In order to prevent negative marks on your credit history, we suggest you contact us immediately to make a payment. We accept MasterCard, VISA, and Discover.

If your payment is already on its way, we thank you and ask that you please disregard this notice. If not, we would appreciate receipt of your payment as soon as possible. If you are unable to make payment in full due to financial difficulties, a reasonable payment plan is available so you can satisfy your obligation and keep your account in good standing. If you would like to further discuss the details of your account, please do not hesitate to call patient billing at ###-###-####.

Sincerely,

Patient Billing

Cedars-Sinai Medical Center

**********

August, 2018

11:30 AM

Main Street, Jeptha, TN

At least the weather was nice.

That was the only good thing Viv could say about this small town, after wandering around it all morning. It was balmy outside. Not too hot, not too windy, barely humid at all. A moderate summer day. Pleasant. He had been expecting more heat, but really, it was not much different than it was back home.

“Ok,” he said, speaking into the recorder on his phone and hoping that he came off as more of a ‘Dale Cooper’ than an insane man who was talking to himself. He thought about naming his imaginary audience. Who could be his Diane? He liked the name ‘Francis’ but was leaning towards the more classic ‘Dear Listeners’. “It’s been hours now and I haven’t learned anything apart from everyone in this town knows a Kennelly or two. I just haven’t found the one I’m looking for. Getting frustrated. I feel like I did when I was canvassing in college.”

He was sitting on a bench in the downtown area of Jeptha. If you could call it a downtown area. There were a few little stores lining Main Street-- a hardware store, a diner, a pawn shop and the like-- but nothing of any real interest and nothing that would lure in tourists. The whole place was run down. From what he could tell, most of the town’s jobs came from a nearby factory, the boiled cabbage like fumes of which he could smell and were making him ill. It was a place that would have made him sad, if he had sat down and thought about it. But Viv only had room in his mind for his purpose there and shoved any contemplative thoughts to the back of his mind for later, when he would need them for adding flavor to his story.

“Thinking about getting lunch,” he said into his phone. A stretched-out looking teenage boy wearing a Black Sabbath shirt walked by him and made eye contact. Viv didn’t look away from him. He wasn’t scared of any redneck high schooler, variant or not. “There’s a Bojangles near the motel. And there’s a diner. I don’t know, it looks like some local flavor. Maybe I can ask around in there. And there’s probably pie, that’s always a plus.”

#writing

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