#missing man Iron County

[wausaupilot]

Search expands for missing NY man last seen in northern Wisconsin

A search continues in the northwoods for a man missing since October. The latest:

By Shereen Siewert | Wausau Pilot & Review An urgent search is underway for a missing New York man last seen in October near Mercer, police have confirmed. Namrud Tessema, also known as “Rudy” or “Wegahta,” is a 46-yaer-old father of two who was last seen Oct. 22 walking barefoot in the area of Maple Ridge Road in Mercer. Friends and family say he is on a spiritual journey, with an interest in…

[robthegoodfellow]

May I Find You One December RENAMED Here I Go Again

1: Don't Know Where I'm Going, Sure Know Where I've Been

for @fizzigigsimmer

(caligator, referenced past harringrove, age difference, referenced character death, references to neofascism/evangelicalism)

.

Billy’d been warned against stopping in Stark County, but when you had to go, you had to go—and anyway, he was running low on gas. And snacks. 

And, since he wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, it’d be wise to get out, work the rust from his joints a bit. 

Glancing around as he filled the tank, the town looked normal enough; your average main drag in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota. Couple sleepy shops, general store, dinky diner—one of those blue lives matter flags hanging limp by the door, vivid polyester garish against all the beige. 

Basic shit. 

No obvious signs of a place under the iron thumb of a white nationalist evangelical militia, and he was just about to roll the dice on that diner, maybe snag a coffee and a slice of pie, when a police cruiser ambled into view, pulled into the fueling station opposite.

Just his fucking luck.

Billy studied the pump, face schooled a pleasant bland. Marveled at how, even after all these years, his days of tussling with fascist pigs long behind him, the same wolves were stirring in his head. One baring its teeth on a low growl, ready and willing to tear the fucker to shreds, the other poised, still as stone, itching to turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble.

At fifty years old—fifty plus, but who was counting—he preferred neither option. The meter clicked off, and he watched his hands replace the nozzle, screw on the gas cap.

Even his hands were fucking old. Thicker—blocky knuckles. Veins starting to bulge. Grandpa hands. 

Sense memory flashed, suppressed so quick and smooth it left barely a ripple. Wouldn’t do to indulge in fond longing for those gay glory days, for the hands he still missed like phantom limbs, some nights, this aching absence. Not within spitting distance of a patrol car. 

Because why test the thought police, right? He could reminisce on youthful love lost when he was back on the highway, heading west.

Good boy, he heard, like Billy had a tin can cupped to his ear, the string trailing off into the fog of time. 

So strange what stayed sharp, he mused, rounding the hood, gripping his keys. Behind him, the cruiser door swung open with a creak. Like—despite the photos, it was hard to really conjure the face, hold it steady in his mind. A face through a window in the rain, and more so as the years slid by. But that voice still whispered clear as day—sometimes a Jiminy Cricket, keeping Billy out of trouble, sometimes a little prankster demon, pure trickster. 

And the hands. The feel of those hands had never left him, touch embedded in the skin.

He sniffed, ducking his chin, scolding himself. So much for smothering his inner queer.

The door was open, sanctuary of the driver’s seat calling his name, when something drew his attention across the way—some movement, maybe, or shift in the air. Pulling his gaze, against his better judgment, to meet the bored stare of the emerging cop.

His chest—seized, breath caught in tight lungs by a tighter throat. Distantly wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like—crushed in a cold fist.

Because the eyes staring back at him were Steve’s. The furrowed brow above lips pinched in a frown. The lines of his jaw, his nose. Like the rain had stopped and he could see him clear through the pane. Then the lips twisted, a sudden sneer, straight out of senior year.

“Got a problem, pal?” 

Billy blinked rapid, took in the flak jacket and badge announcing him as the Sheriff’s stooge, the douchey camo hoodie layered underneath, dark hair slicked back, sides shaved like he’d stepped off the cover of Nazi Vogue.

What the fuck.

“Asked you a question, old man.”

Billy coughed, half a laugh, half choke, and shook his head. Same voice—his voice. Steve’s. Only the tone was all wrong—mean and self-important—more like… like Billy, once upon a time.

Like if his old bratty attitude and Steve’s voice had a baby. That’s what he was hearing right now. Like—

Wrenching his brain back on track, Billy rebooted. Cut him off before the brat could launch another volley.

“Sorry, officer,” he said, and couldn’t help it—the amusement thrumming beneath the words, or more accurately, the unhinged hysteria. “Must be going senile.”

The eyes narrowed—assuming that if he wasn’t in on the joke, he must be the butt of it.

“In fact,” Billy went on, blindly following some instinct, he knew not where. “Think I might be having some heart trouble.”

The cop did not spring to the aid of a needy citizen, but eyed him skeptically. “You smell burnt toast?”

“That’s for a stroke,” Billy corrected, and he’d gone and done it again—only this time a fondness threading the wry mockery. “Heart attack is pain in your arm and whatnot.”

The brat didn’t shoot him dead for perceived disrespect, which was something. Really he just seemed—confused. Baffled. And boy, Billy was right there with him.

This wasn’t Steve, he reminded himself. Wasn’t him. Just a random dead ringer in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota, a likely foot soldier in the brutal local militia.

And Billy should just leave him to it, obviously. Because this wasn’t Steve.

So—bid the doppelganger adieu, get the hell out of dodge. Billy cleared his throat.

“Don’t suppose protect and serve extends to helping some geezer find a place to eat while he rests awhile?”

Now the perplexed indignation was out in force, head tilted so far to the side it was liable to roll off his neck.

Hand to God, Billy thought he’d kicked the death wish long ago—his Y2K resolution—and yet here he was. Still talking, coaxing the neofascist to come closer, chucking all caution to the wind for a pair of pretty, over-familiar eyes.

“C’mon,” he said, and made the smirk self-deprecating. “I make it across the street without keeling over, I’ll buy ya a coffee.”

The brat straightened, something like tolerant intrigue settled in the quirk of his brow. “All right, then, old timer.” As they stepped off the sidewalk: “Don’t expect me to hold your elbow or nothing.”

“Oh, nah,” Billy replied, waving him off. “Dignity won’t allow it.” And then—he winked. Winked at the boogaloo boy. He’d lost his mind. Farewell, sanity.  “Name’s Billy.”

No response from the boy in blue until they reached the diner steps. “I’m Gator,” he said, hauling the door open, gruffness at odds with the tinkling bell.

To his credit, Billy didn’t break down into gibbering laughter.

Gator. This asshat wearing Steve’s face, this Duck Dynasty heir apparent—was named Gator.

Way off in Indiana, Steve must’ve been rolling in his grave.

Next

[traitorca]

My Iron Lung - The Walking Dead

Daryl Dixon x Grimes!Reader: 1

Masterlist

Disoriented.

Disoriented was the only word that could be used to explain that agonizing plane trip to Georgia, and in following, the extensive drive to Kings County. Your childhood home, the one in which you shared with your older brother, Rick, the same man who was shot in a police chase and left in a comatose state in the hospital.

When you got the call, it was late that evening, having just clocked out of work early to get some very needed shut eye. You hadn’t slept in days, being called to the office to investigate a newly reported bacteria in one of the patients donated for study.

You were walking to your car, the bastard sitting alone in an empty hospital lot. You had stayed late tonight, being the last to finalize a recent study.

“Hey-! Lori, just the girl I was missing.” You cheered, exhaustion lacing your tone as you opened your car door. “What’s up?”

There was no response, just heavy breathing, an unfocused mind on the other side of the phone. You could tell something was very wrong.

“Lo?” Your voice came out more raw than intended, worry now flooding your mind. You knew of your brother’s marital issues. Christ, he’d call you in distress, day by day about the countless nonsense they chose to argue about. “Lo? Did you guys fight-? Hey, you’re okay right?” You knew Rick wasn’t aggressive, never in your life could you imagine he’d get violent, not with Lori. He treated that woman as if she was fragile, like he was afraid to speak his mind. That’s what pissed her off so much, you knew that. “Just- breathe! Hey, it’s okay-“

“No-“ Lori’s voice croaked out, pained, broken whimpers following as she failed to keep her composure.

“Oh, sweetheart.” You frowned, adjusting your position in your front seat. The doors were locked, key resting in the cars ignition. “Really- it’s going to be okay-“

“Rick’s been shot-!”

You fell silent, jaw slacking as your eyes nearly widened out of their sockets. Your lips quivered, small cracks of sound escaping your throat before you cleared it. “..he’s dead?”

It was more of a statement than a question. You didn’t want to know the answer, but at the same time, you needed it.

“..No- no, not yet. He’s- he’s in the hospital right now- he’s in a coma they said.” She was afraid to answer, voice shaking as if she couldn’t believe it herself. This poor woman.

Carl. Oh, poor Carl.

“I’m coming.”

“Oh-“ Lori sounded relieved, her breath releasing as if she had been holding it in. “Oh- but I don’t want you to get in trouble with your job-“

“That’s my brother, Lori.” You whisper “and you’re my family. You need me more than they do.” Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry. He was still alive- you could make it to see him.

“Oh god-“ she started to cry, her voice breaking under the pressure, long ugly sobs releasing into the phone.

“I’m coming, Lo. I promise.”

Working as an epidemiologist was plenty difficult, but being across seas was even harder. You and your brother shared many values, one of them being family oriented. You loved your family. Your sister in law, your nephew, your parents, but your brother was the closest person you ever had to a best friend. Seeing as you grew up quite sheltered under the protection of your older brother and his best friend, Shane, you never found the need to venture outside that circle.

That was until you all grew up, and they chose their professions, and you chose yours.

“Remember when we were little and I stole your toy truck?” You whispered, firm hand gripping his own. Rick looked like every other body you had seen in your line of work. But he wasn’t like them.

That seems like a insensitive thing to say- as if those bodies weren’t people too, once alive- laughing, crying- breathing people. (ironic considering what you’re reading huh? guess we’re all just bodies in the grand scheme of things.) but the difference was- Rick wasn’t dead. He was in an induced comatose state, hooked up to several ivs, machines clicking and beeping as they worked to keep him stabilized. It sounded like your new life, the sounds you had grown so accustomed to- now surrounding the memories of a life you once lived.

They had gone into surgery before you had even arrived, bullet wounds dressed in thick, white bandages. You wouldn’t label yourself as a paranoid individual, but you wouldn’t lie when you said you checked them at least once or twice since you had been there. They had to force you out by the time visitation hours closed- you begged, attempting to use your badge, your rank as an individual, to stay with him in the hospital. Your brother had always been a protector- but seeing him now, you felt as if it was your time to return the favor. Alas, most people in the United States who worked in healthcare were jackasses, so they were the least bit lenient, and you were sent home.

Shane had temporarily moved in with Lori and Carl, your sister in-law and nephew almost dependent on him as Rick slipped into his unresponsive state. You didn’t blame her for needing the extra help, that’s why you had flown all the way from the UK to see her.

Now, you would say your relationship with Shane was strained- you two definitely got along FAIRLY well in your youth- but let’s just say, his aggravating ass could’ve been an attributing factor to your occupation being across the ocean. So seeing him now- well, you wished it'd be under better circumstances- this didn’t really give you the chance to be an ass towards him.

“Hey, Aunt Y/N-“ Carl started.

“Yeah babe?”

“What’s it like? In Europe?” He came to sit next to you, the couch barely shifting underneath his weight.

“It’s not as hot as this, I can tell you that. Jesus Christ, I don’t know how you put up with it. So glad I left-“

He giggled at that, head leaning down upon your shoulder. You smiled. You had never given a thought to having kids- hell, you never really dwelled on relationships. High School was a mess, leaving you with an untasteful look into what future relationships could hold for you- highschool sweethearts were hard to come by, Lori and Rick being an exception, but even now you could attest that there was nothing “sweet” about them. They had a rocky relationship, as much as you’d like to say you didn’t blame either of them for their quarrels, Lori left you often surprised at what problem she had conjured up against your brother. Nevertheless, your brother raised you right, and you knew she meant well. For the most part.

“It’s not that bad! We have ice cream-“

“Oooh yes, Ice Cream.” Shane joined in, walking over to the couch with a mug in his hand. Coffee sounded so good right now. “Y/N, I didn’t get to welcome you back properly- so, I hope this will suffice. You’ve been real busy with Rick- so. Relax a bit.”

You take the mug almost immediately, eyelids slightly lowering as you brought it near to your face. You sipped from it, body immediately encased in a foreign warmth. You couldn’t imagine a world without coffee. (Woo child, get ready too.) “Relaxing would be wonderful, Shane. If only that was possible.”

He laughed, save his questionable sense of humor, as his hands went to mess with the remote control to the tv.

“Can I have some coffee-?” Carl curiously asked, eyes wide as he took in the glorious mug cemented in your hands. He half expected you to hiss, like a vampire revealed in the light- but you merely smiled, hands lowering the mug to his lips.

“Careful Carl, it’s hot.” You giggled. He honestly felt more like a brother than a nephew, reminding you of Rick when he was younger. It was uncanny.

He took one sip and recoiled- cheeks puffing out as heat swelled to his face. “Gross-! It tastes burnt!”

“Yeah, because there’s no sugar in it, idiot.” You responded, hand going to mess with his hair. He groaned in response, body sinking into the couch to avoid your hand. Despite the noise, Shane seemed rather distracted by what was on the tv, driving your attention away from giving Carl the biggest noogie of his life.

‘UK GOES UNDER GROWING PANDEMIC, MARTIAL LAW ACTIVE’ in big bold letters. A news lady giving a report, videos and photos of strange, sickly people. What a time to come over to the states, am I right? What the hell did you miss? Surely this couldn’t be related to the patient you had seen a week ago- something couldn’t spread this fast. Not normally, you’d get a sign first- a warning.

Was that patient your warning? Had you left them unattended to see your brother- was this your fault?

“Well shit, you know anything about that?” Shane pointed the remote at the tv, drawing his hand back down to the side of the couch. You jumped, almost as if he had read your thoughts. “Lori, you hearin’ this?” He called to her, distracting her from her frazzled, grieving state in the other room.

“What?” Now she had another thing to worry about- great, thanks Shane. “What the hell is that?”

You just stared, eyes narrowed, struggling to fully understand the concept placed in front of you. Videos of people biting- no, eating other people. It was something out of the horror games you’d used to play- Silent Hill level shit. “I didn’t hear about any of this.” You whispered, eyes trailing down to Carl, who seemed equally perplexed as his mother. She looked so lost.

“I’m sure it’ll be taken care of- Martial Law is a big deal.” The only thing you could muster, eyes meeting Lori’s. She looks grateful for your attempt, but it did nothing to calm the panic behind her eyes.

And as if the good lord was smiling down on you, he decided to prove you wrong. One more fucking time.

Which brings you to now, things stuffed in a car as you waited on Shane to come back with your brother. You were semi-confident- (haha, right)- in your abilities, as a scientist and a doctor, that you could take care of your brother in his state while you got the FUCK out of Kings County and to Atlanta. The pandemic- newly named the Apocalypse, was the fuel of everyone’s Halloween, Michael Jackson: Thriller inspired nightmare. Zombies everywhere, but they weren’t dancing- no, they were just- doing.. zombie things. I guess.

That’s making light of a situation that was not fucking funny. It actually, to your dismay, was as dry and dark as Shane’s humor.

Carl and Lori laid in the back seat of the car, huddled away from the windows as you sat in the driver's seat. Stressed was an understatement, you were scared shitless. Waiting for your brother and his best friend to come out of those hospital doors, government troops rushing in and out of them at the same time- guns, gunshots, sirens- those dead people walking the streets, steering for any sound, anything that moves.

“Shiiit, come on Shane- come on-“ you were gripping the steering wheel, leather squeaking as you strangled it, nails nearly folding in on themselves as you pressed. “Oh shit-“ you watched as a gun was shot by an army soldier, a bullet fatally landing in a corpse's head, its body dropping afterward. Blood flew everywhere, your eyes growing heavy as you wished to close them- close them and wake up only to find that this was a dream.

You know that before this, you had wished your brothers accident was a dream- a stupid, fucked dream, but this was so much worse- and the candle on top? it might’ve just been your fault.

But to your experience, the Grimes family had a strange way of coming to church, and if being the subject of every plague was your way of repenting, God was giving you no chance to miss it this time.

Which, must've been why he had sent Shane back out of that building without your brother over his shoulder.

taglist 🏷️: @poubxlle

[presleyintheworld]

This is the first chapter of my fic Man of Mystery (title subject to change) about Raylan trying to solve the mystery of Tim's personal life. The rest of the chapters will be published on AO3 (CalamityKid) as I write them. It hasn't been beta read, but I tried my best. I hope you enjoy!

Trigger warnings: references to child abuse, alcoholism, and PTSD.

☆☆☆

Tim didn’t take days off. Voluntarily, at least. If Raylan had set that bar on the ground, Tim crawled under it.

The last time, after he’d taken a bullet to the shoulder at the hands of one of Audrey’s ladies of the night, he’d lasted a three whole days inside the desolate white walls of Lexington County Hospital before convincing Raylan to break him out. He was back at his desk by the end of the week.

Art was well-aware of Raylan’s demons, the recurrent daddy issues and the self-righteous vigilante act that stemmed from them, but he’d yet to pin down Tim’s particular brand of fucked up. Why he showed up early and stayed too late. Why a mere few days out of the office seemed to make him twitch with a nondescript restless energy. Why he never smelled like booze when they both knew he’d spent the previous night losing a battle to Jack Daniel’s. It would have been easy to blame his time in the service and the vague allusions he’d make every so often to the things he’d seen there. But Tim wasn’t easy. Not in that way, at least. No, Art got the impression that war hadn’t been Tim’s problem—his initial one, anyway; it had been his solution.

There was an ambiguous nature to Tim that inspired speculation, a fill-in-the-blank of a redacted government document. He was something of a conspiracy theory in and of himself around the office, the reticent hotshot sniper with perpetually tired eyes and a stack of fantasy novels on his desk by his gun. Any real knowledge or perspective on the man was a hard-won victory, and even that seemed superficial at best, like the way a person can talk without saying anything at all. Art had read his file, of course: his body count and service record, the psych evals he’d managed to pass, but it was like solving a puzzle with missing pieces. Reading a book with a prologue scribbled over in pen. He let it slide because Tim was still Tim—steadfast, reliable, professional where it counted. He let it slide and hoped neither of them paid for it.

He'd been insisting for weeks that Tim take some time away from work. Only a day or two, if that was easier to stomach than the full extent of the vacation days he’d hoarded over the span of his career. The odds had been stacked against him even broaching the subject and he’d never been much of a gambling man, but he’d been pleasantly surprised when Tim accepted the offer with minimal pushback. It was ironic then that he was the one to summon Tim to the VFW on his first day off.

The first thing Raylan asked when Tim strolled onto the scene was a critical, “Are you drunk?” A question which, as a rule of thumb, Art thought, was not particularly something you wanted to hear asked of a US Marshal with a sharpshooter’s aim and questionable PTSD diagnosis. Or lack thereof.

Tim drunk wasn’t really that much different from Tim sober, save for maybe an indistinct haziness that seemed to settle over him, like a painter blending out the harsh edges of a brushstroke. Everything about him seemed more relaxed in a way that felt…genuine, noticeably different from the calculated sense of indifference with which he carried himself day-to-day. He was less put-together than Raylan had ever seen him at work, less guarded in a way that was so unfamiliar he was nearly unrecognizable. His usual collared shirt had been exchanged for an oversized flannel, the fabric worn in places from years of use. The edge of an intricate tattoo on his chest that could just be made out above the neckline, a set of dog tags visible around his neck despite his tendency to deflect conversation regarding his service. All pieces of the puzzle.

His hair bordered on just this side of disheveled, as if he’d only pulled himself out of bed at Art’s call. Raylan couldn’t decide if he looked his age or thirty years older. It prompted the question of what Tim would even be like in a decade or two; whether he’d be inside this very building, clinging to war stories and whiskey like so many of the aging veterans that sat around recalling their glory days. It was hard to picture.

“Was tryin’ to be,” Tim hummed absently. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye like a small child just woken from a midday nap.

Raylan cocked his head, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Why?” His tone held more curiosity than concern. Mysteries were like an itch beneath his skin and Tim was the walking embodiment of one, the bastard.

Tim leveled him with an unimpressed stare, swaying slightly on his feet. If he hadn’t finished that last drink, maybe he’d have had the mind to confront Raylan on his hypocrisy. Instead, he just sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers lingering to massage a migraine from his temples. “My boyfriend’s away and I’m codependent,” he finally said, letting his hand fall away. He didn’t give the remark any time to land before he was shouldering past them and flashing his ID to the guard.

Art just shrugged tiredly when Raylan glanced at him. He exuded the same energy as a weary parent who had long since given up understanding his children.

Raylan added this comment to the list of times he couldn’t differentiate between Tim’s laconic sarcasm and his passive honesty. The man had a way of speaking that made everything sound sarcastic and true all at once. He’d consider it impressive if it weren’t so damn annoying.

[nightsprung]

incoming / @lastblues, featuring art donaldson for jordan riley: "what if i kissed you right now?”

the last two years have been nothing short of a whirlwind for jordan. coming out of an engagement with no marriage, no ring and no man was enough of a tabloid shit storm to deal with — one that she shouldered gracefully with little acknowledgement, as she had perfected over the years. the rothfield massacre helped with that; going through the media gauntlet before earning her degree gave her the thick skin she needed to survive the hollywood gossip machine. seeing her named plastered across headlines amid her failed engagement didn’t bother her much. she let the public mull over the reasons why her romantic life was in shambles (demanding work schedules, putting career before love, the ever-present cheating rumors) — they could speculate, and she would stay busy with a full filming and promotion schedule.

one of those projects — drop shot — is finally gracing the big screen and with it, comes the beginning of what jordan hopes is a massive positive reception of her hard work. the months spent training alone to serve an authentic performance as a tennis professional at the top of her game should earn her that much, and she had art donaldson to thank for that. while tashi duncan had been the director’s first choice for a trainer, they couldn’t pass up an offer for the next best thing. jordan was pleasantly surprised to have clicked so quickly with him; he knew when to be firm during training and when to crack a joke or ease up, and didn’t take it the wrong way when jordan asserted she didn’t want her hand held through the process.

maybe that’s why she was so happy to see he had accepted the premier invite. maybe that’s why she had taken time on the carpet to make sure she said hello and caught up with him. maybe that’s why she had made sure he got the details on the after party celebration, and maybe that’s why she lingered past her usual hard limit of a two hour party window. her attention had been occupied most of the night by others — colleagues, friends, former collaborators, future collaborators. let’s get lunch soon, I’ve got a project you’d be perfect for and I want to hear your thoughts.

it’s everything she’s wanted and there’s still some pieces missing.

she manages to sneak away and find herself on a balcony far enough removed from the rest of the crowd to where she can breathe, and when she realizes it’s occupied, she turns to leave, and when she notices it’s art, she finds so many reasons to stay. the rest of the world seems to disappear as she stands beside him, leaning against the iron frame of the balcony, looking out over the director’s estate — rolling hills and a winding drive up, easily one of the priciest homes in orange county. but her thoughts are elsewhere as the conversation flows between them with an ease that only comes with a natural connection.

she doesn’t notice the gap between them getting smaller and smaller. not until they’re turned into each other, and she’s close enough to count each freckle dusting across his nose, close enough to smell the mixture of his cologne and aftershave and the imported beer he’s been drinking. his voice has gotten softer now, so soft that she almost misses his question. almost.

‘ are you asking permission? ’ she can’t help but find it endearing. they’re both fully grown adults and yet he possesses a boyish quality so effortless, it’s charming and she leans into it. she’ll reach a hand out to smooth the lapels of his jacket, observing her work before her gaze lifts to meet his. if she craned her head, she’d be the one kissing him — but she doesn’t want to take the opportunity from him. not yet. ‘ there’s only one way for you to find out. ’

[sapphyreopal5]

Probably sounds terrible on my part to have missed this notification but last night I was thinking about a man I briefly dated over 11 years ago. I looked on his Facebook and saw a comment on my last birthday post to him from 8/4/2023 I somehow missed from 40 weeks ago. It was a comment from this guy's sister named Whitney telling me that earlier that year he passed away. It turns out he passed away 4/1/2023 unexpectedly, not sure what happened.

I remember dating him briefly, went out on 2 dates to be exact before he was incarcerated a county away. I remember this young man rode a motorcycle to both of the dates we went on. Maybe a few days after I had stopped hearing from him I recall one of his younger brothers reached out to me via Facebook Messenger at one point letting me know what happened to him. I in turn had to tell our Anatomy & Physiology professor what happened to him to which he decided to give him a W for Withdrawal since he knew his sister Whitney (who would he that ended up telling me he passed away over 11 years later).

He is who I affectionately called my pen pal from years ago, as I spent that summer making visits to him at times and wrote to him. I was at Sunset Beach when he was released. I remember the very last time I spoke to him on the phone was while I was at Sunset Beach. It was when I returned home is when I found suddenly my phone calls weren't being answered and phone calls never went to voicemail. On Facebook, nothing couldn't find him. Realizing I had been ghosted, I threw away the letters he had sent. I kind of regret doing that now in a way but it is what it is.

Turns out after I asked him via Messenger back in 2019 that he figured I deserve better than him. Said that he ended up getting into drugs and alcohol a lot because of the pain from having the plate in his spine from a hit and run (and left for dead) in a parking garage from years ago. Also told me that he tells his friends I'm the one that got away to which I said "more like pushed away." He did apologize for hurting me and does mean what he said. The very last time I spoke to him was related to some political post he wrote which was back in 2021.

Interesting timing with finding out he passed away given the current state of things. I also returned from another beach just 4 days ago aroudn 2am and it is now that I discover he is truly gone from this world for good. I checked to see what date it was 40 weeks ago when I read his sister Whitney's comment letting me know her brother passed away earlier last year. The date? Friday, 10/13/2023. I will say I'm saddened by just now discovering this news so late, let alone to hear of his passing. On a side note, it's ironically the same jail he was in when he was my pen pal that's less than 20 min away from the Charlotte SPN Con I went to almost 5 months after he passed away (and not knowing it at the time), which also took place on the same day a former coworker passed away. His higher self Poseidon did tell me that the guy did return to him after he passed away. I'm also aware that it is another Poseidon incarnation's 42nd birthday today who happened to have starred in the movie Friday the 13th (and is the first time I saw him). Happy birthday Jared by the way, I hope your day was happier than mine.

This news I think is rather saddening for me because I do think he was telling me the truth when he said that I was the one that got away. When I was 17 years old and dated someone my parents did not approve of, my dad said to me that if a man cares about a woman but knows her family doesn't approve (for legitimate reasons), he will let her go. Him letting me go in believing I deserved more than what he could give me has been hitting me a little hard today. He seemed to have seen a lot more potential and positive things in me than I even see in myself most times. Before I heard about his passing away, a song from the movie Phenomenon came to mind, Have a Little Faith in Me. I watched the 1996 movie Phenomenon (one of my favorites) a couple days ago and heard the song Dance with Life at the very end. It's a somewhat fitting song for this scenario I think.

I know this is a bit late but rest in peace Blake, I will see you again one day.

[crayo1acrayons]

If you find any info i missed please write it in the coments

Missing: Jack Walten

JACK WALTEN

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

A series of images all of which are Jack Walten

Name: Jack Walten

Age: 42 Years Old

Height: 6'2

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Black

Last Seen: June 11th, 1974

Last Seen Wearing: Dark Red Suit

An image of Boozoo the ringmaster

Mr. Jack Walten, born September 23rd, 1932, was a hard working man and the happy father of 3.

Walten studied in "Cleary University" in Livingston County and graduated in 1959, on the same year he married Rosemary Peony Walten. He would later raise a family with Rosemary.

Mr. Walten became highly known on Brighton, MI. for his company "Bunny Smiles Incorporated" and his restaurant franchise "Bon's Burgers". However, he would mysteriously disappear 2 weeks before the opening of Bon's.

Little has been known about Jack's whereabouts for the past 4 decades, but there's still hope to get closure on this man's disappearance.

​

Most recent news about Walten's disappearance goes all the way back to the year 1979. Felix Kranken, company co-founder of Bunny Smiles would state the following in a radio interview.

"I still wonder about what happened to my best friend, to this day I get people asking how I've handled the situation, how I've managed to keep on with this company knowing that he's been gone for years. It's hard to look back at Jack, because... I know that those happy memories and experiences I had with Walten and his Family will never happen again. And he'll never get to see what our dream company turned out to be. But there's still hope, I guess"

-Felix A. Kranken, MLBQ FM Radio, March 29th, 1979

Please contact us in case of any sighting or clues as to what could've possibly happened to Mr. Walten

When this button is pressed it shows you a drawing of a person pieces of bon are ripped and placed on top. It is hard to tell where bon starts and the person (jack?) ends. The words did you forget about me written to the side of it.

In the most recent update the website looks like it had been corrupted the photo of jack is to the left there is text that says 

???????????????????????????????????????????????????

I am here

 

Name: 

Age: 

Height: 

Hair Color: 

Eye Color: 

Last Seen: 

Last Seen Wearing: 

They say that falling in love is wonderful

It's wonderful, so they say

And, with a moon up above, it's wonderful

It's wonderful, so they tell me

I can't recall who said it

I know I never read it

I only know they tell me that love is grand

And

The thing that's known as romance is wonderful, wonderful

In every way, so they say

To leave your house some morning

And, without any warning

You're stopping people, shouting that love is grand

And

To hold a girl in your arms is wonderful, wonderful

In every way

So they say

Note:These are lyrics from the song They say it's wonderful by Doris Day written for the musical Annie get your gun 1946.

Now when you press the contact button it shows a photo of a porcelain looking doll with very human looking eyes the image is cracked and since this update the website's name is: Help

Update: roughly january this year the main website was changed again.

I can see

I can feel

 I can love

(That is all That is on the page)

Personal thoughts:

Starting from the top and making my way down I re-read what I compiled. During this process I realize that Jack is last seen wearing a dark red suit, one I believe looks a lot like the one boozoo the ringmaster wears. Now people probably already made this connection but doesn't it seem awfully convenient that boozoo’s picture is in his missing poster? Jack came up with the idea for the bon’s burgers franchise making him a ringmaster of sorts as he ran the place like a ringmaster a circus. Wouldn't it just be ironic that he gets stuffed into boozoo who shares the same job as him? Why else would his photo be on jacks missing poster?

Edit: I then realised the boozoo is already inhabited by charles and im just an idiot who conects all the wrong dots

[amatchinwater]

Paring: Briles (Stiles/Brett)

Warnings: talks of a character death, hurt/comfort,

Summary: After the death of his father, Stiles is sent to Devenford Academy, a live-in school for supernatural kids. Arriving, he finds his childhood best friend Isaac now has a pack of his own, and his Alpha wants Stiles.

a/n: This is fully written, and I'll post a chapter a week-ish

Chapter: 1 of 12

Ao3 link Masterlist

Devenford Academy

---

As a young spark, losing his mom was really difficult. She’s who Stiles got his powers from. His father is- was, fuck- human. When she died, Stiles’ dad didn’t know how to teach him about his ever blooming powers. All he could do was guide his son through his mother’s journals and hope for the best. Since his mother couldn’t be there to teach him, it was the best they could do. It was a way for them to bond over the loss of the most wonderful woman in their lives.

For Stiles, it was enough.

Now the spark doesn’t even have his father.

Noah Stilinski was the sheriff of their hometown Beacon Hills. A damn good one at that. Respected. Loved. Honored. And Stiles’ whole damn world. Until a simple late night call for a domestic disturbance turned sour. A man with recessive werewolf genes didn’t turn for the first time until his thirties and it made him feral, having killed his entire family with his bare hands. The police report, that Stiles didn’t even have to steal, said his father didn’t even have a chance to draw his gun.

With no living relatives, there was only one place a newly turned eighteen year old spark still in school could go. Devenford Academy. A prestigious private school for the supernatural. Seeing as the students live on campus, it’s goodbye to Beacon Hills. Maybe it’s for the best. There’s nothing there for him anymore.

Now Devenford isn’t an orphanage. While yes, it does take supernatural orphans, it’s just a school. Anyone smart, well known, or rich enough can attend. His childhood best friend, Isaac, was brought there three years ago when he became a werewolf. It was meant to help him adjust and find a pack. But really, it was his father’s excuse to not have to deal with an inhuman son. 

If it wasn’t under such grim circumstances, Stiles would be more excited about seeing the wolf again.

It doesn’t help either that it’s pouring. Rain has been pattering against the car for over half the drive. That added to the fact that the driver hasn’t said much on their journey, it’s just giving this whole thing a little bit too much macabre for Stiles’ liking. The spark is all for murder mysteries and horror stories, okay? He’d just rather not live one.

“How much farther?” Stiles asks. He knows that Devenford is still within Beacon County, but it feels like they’ve been driving for ages. Maybe he should’ve just tried to sleep. That probably would’ve made the trip easier. Not to mention he wouldn’t feel all of these nerves if he was passed out.

Surprisingly, the man behind the wheel answers, “another ten minutes or so. You should see the lake any minute.”

Right. The lake. Home to sirens and mermaids. The spark has never had the pleasure of seeing one in person and given their reputation, he’d rather not ever. He’ll stay as far away from the lake as possible, thank you.

Sure enough, another minute or two, the trees on their right clear a bit, revealing a massive lake. It’s a bit cliche that it’s blanketed by a layer of fog, but it’s stunning nonetheless. Stretching as far as his eyes can see.

Nearly entranced by the lake, Stiles almost missed the castle of a school coming into view. He’s never even seen pictures of the place. But the giant stone and brick building with towers and balconies is as beautiful as it is terrifying. 

Stiles can’t help but gulp when the car pulls up to an iron gate with a giant ‘DA’ seal a few minutes later. This is his home now. The spark is still trying to wrap his head around that. Not like he can run. Mountains cover the back of the school with woods and the lake surrounding its front and sides. Spark or not, Stiles would be lost in three steps. 

Even after the gate creaks open to let them through, they still drive for a bit until coming to a stop in front of the school. They round a fountain with a black marble dragon spitting water on their way. Two people wait for him on stone steps under the awning. A short, black-haired woman holding an umbrella and-

“Isaac,” Stiles breathes out. Flinging open his door, the spark throws himself out of the vehicle. “Isaac,” he yells, running straight for the wolf. It didn’t hit how badly the spark needed a familiar face until he saw him.

The wolf’s arms are already opened, pulling Stiles into a hug. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure you’re sick of hearing it, but I’m so sorry,” the wolf says. The spark collapses into the embrace, feeling warmth in his heart for the first time in a week. Isaac squeezes him tighter, “dude, I’ve missed you.” 

Stiles pulls back to get a good look at the wolf. He’s gotten taller than the spark. Bulkier too. But he kept those beautiful curls that give Isaac an almost boyish nature. Lets people not think he’s some dangerous werewolf. Or the mischievous kid who used to play pranks with Stiles. It suits him.

“It’s really good to see you,” the spark chokes. He takes a steady breath to calm himself. Stiles knows it’s okay to cry and isn’t ashamed to do so in front of the wolf. But he’s been crying for days and the spark just got here. He’d rather not start out in tears. 

“You too, man,” Isaac pats his shoulder reassuringly. 

“Mr. Stilinski,” the woman says gently. He turns to face her, her face holding a kind smile. “My name is Satomi Ito. I’m the principal here,” she explains. “While the circumstances are unfortunate, we’re pleased to have you here.”

The spark manages to muster something close to a smile, “thanks.”

“I have been informed rather incessantly,” Ms. Ito shoots Isaac a look, the wolf ducking his head before she chuckles, “that you and Mr. Lahey used to be close friends before he came here.” Satomi steps further under the awning, lowering her umbrella, “you two will be sharing a room. We agreed that it might help you better adjust by living with someone you know.”

That’s awfully considerate from a woman he just met. “Thank you, you’re probably right,” Stiles says.

“No need to thank me,” she smiles. “I promised Claudia I’d take care of her son if he ever came to Devenford.” The spark’s eyes bulge, she must be the werewolf that his mom mentioned in her journals. “Yes, I knew your mother. Your father too. Their loss does not go unnoticed with me,” Satomi’s features soften, seemingly lost in thought about his parents. It’s nice to know that other people cared about them too. “You have the day with Isaac to tour the school and settle into your room. If you need anything,” she places her hand on his shoulder, “don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I will,” the spark assures her. There’s a thud behind him when she nods and walks away. The driver was kind enough to take his bags out of the trunk for him. “Oh, thanks. And thanks for the ride.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Stilinski,” is all the man says before getting back in the car.

Isaac slings one of the bags over his shoulder, “you ready?”

—

Two winding staircases later and several turns, the spark follows the wolf to their room. The wood floors are a nice touch, reminding Stiles of his house. Sliding around on his socks and giggling. The countless times he slipped because of his clumsy nature.

“You know,” Isaac plops the bag on Stiles’ bed, “I told my pack to say back today. Give you a day to breathe. But, there’s one more person who really wanted to see you.”

“What?” The spark asks, confused as to who else would be here that he knows. But also, “you have a pack? Are you an Alpha?” That’s not something he’d heard about in the letters and texts. “Wait,” Stiles stops his babbling, thoughts catching up, “who wants to see me?” 

“Can you handle a visitor right now?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, “I’m grieving, not broken. Who is it?”

The wolf sputters a laugh, “come on out.”

Come on out? Are they hiding somewhere? 

There’s rustling in the closet on Isaac’s side of the room. A mess of spiky blonde hair gracelessly falls out, a shoe flying with him. The boy pops up, blue eyes and a dopey smile on his face.

Stiles blinks. 

Who the hell-? 

The longer the spark stares, the more the wheels turn. He almost looks like, “Liam?” Stiles asks in disbelief. There’s no way.

“Surprise?” The boy holds his arms out.

“Holy shit,” Stiles laughs, rushing to the other boy. “I haven’t seen you in years!” He gets nearly crushed by Liam’s embrace, but it’s totally worth it. “You’re so big!” The spark used to babysit the other boy before they moved away. That was so long ago, Liam was maybe eight years old at the time. “But I thought-”

Liam pulls back, “I got werewolf genes way back in the family. I started going here and my parents moved to be closer to me. I joined Isaac’s pack,” the young wolf says with a grin. It’s insane to see him all grown up like this. Stiles’ heart is swelling in his chest that there’s two people he knows right off the bat. 

“So you are an Alpha?” Stiles faces his old friend.

Isaac laughs, “hell no. Our Alpha is Brett.”

Who names their kid Brett? Stiles snorts, “sounds like a douchebag name.”

“He’s a little rough around the edges before you get to know him,” Liam admits. “But he’s a pretty good guy. You’ll get to meet him tomorrow, you guys have a few classes together,” the wolf says, holding Stiles’ schedule in his hands.

The spark snatches the paper, playfully chastising the younger boy, “you’re back in my life for two minutes and you’re already going through my shit. What are you, five again?”

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Liam wraps his arms around the spark, ignoring the question. “I always liked your dad. He would always play the siren for me.” 

“I missed you too, buddy,” Stiles returns the hug. While he’s not exactly happy to be here, the spark is happy to have friends again.

It definitely makes this easier to swallow.

—

“So where’s your pack?” Stiles asks, setting his plate down beside Isaac. They spent hours touring the school and setting up his room. Got done just in time for dinner. 

“Over there,” the wolf points over his shoulder. 

“So why aren’t we sitting with them?”

Isaac takes a bite of his burger as the spark sits, “they’re fine. You’ll meet them tomorrow. I told them not to bombard you, remember?”

The spark looks around, finding Liam in the sea of tables outside. The wolf is with three other boys and a girl. One of which is gorgeous. Blonde hair and blue eyes. Tall even though he’s sitting. Jacket discarded so you can see his muscles bulge the green button up top. God, he’s painfully pretty. When their eyes meet, the wolf grins at him and sends Stiles a little wave with his fingers, mouthing ‘hi’.

It shouldn’t make him blush, but it stupidly does.

“A-are you sure you don’t want to sit with them?” The spark drags his eyes away from the other wolf to poke at his salad with his fork. “They’re your pack after all, aren’t you guys supposed to share meals together?”

“Relax,” Isaac bumps him with his shoulder. “It’s one day. I will be fine and so will they.” The wolf snickers, “you’ve caught Brett’s attention though. Liam is telling him all about you.”

Right. Werewolf hearing. Well, the young wolf better be saying good things. But Stiles won’t dare say that out loud. “Which one is Brett?” Stiles asks, though he’s sure he knows the answer.

“Big blonde guy,” Isaac confirms the spark’s suspicion. 

“And how did I manage to catch his attention?”

“He probably thinks you’re hot,” Isaac shrugs, “you are kind of his type.” 

How in the actual hell is Stiles that guy’s type? In what possible world does that make even a shred of sense? Because it’s definitely not this one. Brett is nothing shy of a sculpted Greek God. Stiles is just- he’s just- well, not that. While the spark has filled out a bit from playing lacrosse, he’s still pretty lanky after quitting the team. And Stiles has more moles than skin at this point, just a canvas of connect the dots if you ask him. Literally. Stiles made a mushroom out of a cluster of moles and freckles on his arm.

Isaac must be mistaken.

“Yeah, right,” Stiles scoffs, shoving some lettuce in his mouth. “I don’t need you to stroke my ego, Is.” The spark is more than aware of what he looks like. 

“Fucking hell,” Isaac sets his burger down, face twisting with disgust, “I’m not telling him that.” Stiles looks at him confused. He knows wolves can hear each other, but what the hell did the Alpha just say? “Just trust me when I say you look a lot better than you think you do. Okay?” 

“I-I guess,” Stiles furrows his brows. Looking past the wolf’s shoulder, he sees Brett already watching him and Liam clutching his ears while the boy beside him laughs. The Alpha winks at him, making a kissy face. Heat burns the tips of his ears and the spark quickly averts his gaze. “Is, what did he say?”

The wolf whines a groan, “please don’t make me say it. Hearing it was bad enough,” Isaac tries to busy himself with his fries and ranch. 

“Did you forget how annoying I can be?” Stiles chuckles, poking Isaac in the cheek, “you know I’m not going to drop it, right?” The spark needs to know considering the face he just got from the Alpha. 

“Dammit,” Isaac tosses the fry on his plate. “I know you won’t.” The wolf sighs, “he said he won’t stroke your ego, but he’ll definitely stroke something else for you if you want him to.”

Stiles freezes on the spot, fork hovering mid air as he just stares at his friend. Who just says things like that with full confidence? To someone they haven’t even met yet, no less. People who like Brett and are probably used to getting what they want, duh. But still, the spark would be lying if he said that it didn’t affect him at all. The feeling in his gut is something Stiles hasn’t felt because of someone else in a while. 

“Exactly,” Isaac grumbles, “I hope that was as uncomfortable for you as it was for me.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says absentmindedly, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Doing his best to finish his meal and not fixate on Brett’s forward nature. “Totally uncomfortable,” he says, still distracted. “How often do you guys do that? Communicate across distances like that, I mean.”

“Well,” Isaac covers his mouth as he chews, having polished off the last of his burger. Wiping his face with a napkin, the wolf continues, “I mean, we’re not the only werewolves in the school. But yeah, we do it quite often. On campus, there isn’t really anywhere we can’t hear each other if we focus hard enough.”

Stiles makes a noise of understanding, finishing the last of his chicken and salad. He’s read about werewolves in school, but the spark didn’t really learn a lot. “Interesting.”

“That means,” the wolf scoops his and Stiles’ now empty plate up, rising from the table. “If you ever need anything, even just someone to make sure you have space to breathe, call for one of us. All of us except for Mason will hear you. He’s a spark like you.”

Stiles gets up, following his friend more than a little confused. “But, I’m not part of your pack. Why would they help me?” Packs are tight knit, that the spark knows. 

Isaac stops abruptly to put their dirty plates on the cart, the spark smacks face first into his back. Ow. “You may not be part of the pack, Stiles,” the wolf turns to face him. “But you’re family to me. That’s good enough for them.” The spark turns around in time to catch Brett’s gaze, he nods in confirmation. “And being family,” Isaac slings his arm around the spark’s shoulders, carting him back towards their room. “That means if you want to join the pack, you simply need to ask. No formalities or anything like that.” 

—

Today has felt ridiculously long. Packing his belongings, a draining car ride, tours, the room set up, a new place, and a flirty Alpha. Stiles is utterly exhausted. The spark’s body is drained, mental capacity more than a little depleted. So why the fuck can’t he sleep?

Stiles has tossed and turned repeatedly. Tried singing a song in his head until he was drowsy. The spark even tried counting fucking sheep. Nothing has worked and he’s highly irritated. So Stiles has resorted to just laying on his back staring at the ceiling. Not that he’s entirely worried about his perception, but if Stiles doesn’t want to come off as a total prick to everyone tomorrow, he needs sleep. 

“With all due respect, I’m never going to be able to sleep if you don’t,” Isaac rustles around in his bed.

The spark didn’t mean to bother him. “I’m sorry,” he says, rolling over to face the wolf. “I’m so fucking tired, dude. But I just can’t fall asleep.” 

Isaac pushes his curls out of his eyes, “something on your mind?” The wolf asks, concern flashing over his tired features.

“Yes and no,” Stiles huffs, trying to fix his pillow for the tenth time. “I was hoping that bunking with you would make this just feel like a glorified sleepover.”

The pair used to spend the night at one another’s houses all the time when they were kids. But the spark just can’t forget the reason he’s here. Which leaves sleep an elusive little beast. 

“No one expects you to act like everything is normal. You know that, right?” Isaac scoots over, lifting the blanket and patting the empty space beside him. Stiles hastily joins the wolf, getting wrapped up in Isaac’s arms. “You went through some shit. You’re allowed and pretty much expected to feel however you want to about it. I was a mess when I first got here.”

Stiles sniffles, eyes beginning to sting, “you were?” He burrows his face in the wolf’s neck.

“So bad,” Isaac chuckles. “My dad was a piece of shit, but he was the last blood family I had left and he threw me out when I turned. My wolf was super distressed. Bad enough that my third second night, Brett and his pack came to my room and showed me that I didn’t have to be alone anymore. They seeked me out.”

“I miss him so much,” the spark cries, squeezing Isaac tighter. He never imagined having to live in a world without his dad. At least not for a very long time. Stiles hurts.

The wolf kisses the top of his head, “I know man, I know. But you’re not alone. You have a pack- a family- if you’ll accept us. For now,” Isaac settles, rumbling softly in his chest, “try and get some sleep. I’m right here.”

“Thanks, Is,” Stiles yawns, the gentle vibrations from the wolf’s growl calming his mind and heart.

---

Chapter 2: coming soon!

[thaissa1918]

Here is Santini. He tried drowning me in the Hudson river #FBI with his #corrupt #weehawkin #cops #police Let's get to it. My landlord pulled a gun on me for the umpteenth time and the #clifton #NewJersey 3police #refused responding to the incident. My Indian landlord said "I will solve my legal entanglements you by killing you, Jill!" When the #CliftonPolice refused responding as always, I said "THAT IS IT I AM OUT OF THIS USA COPIUNTRY I CAN'T EVEN GET MYSELF A LITTLE POLICE PROTECTION WHEN SOME MAN IS POINTING A GUN AT MY HEAD." I guess that is the way M#MAYOR #ANZALDI whose family one can easily as I did, just find Anzaldi and his very #IGNOBLE #FAMILY #LOCOSANPOSTRA on top of any #NOBEL #ROYAL #SICILIANS.

Since @Weehawkin is well known for its mafia only recently did the town busts 118 La Cosa Nostra members and here is the news article on that. RETRO KIMMER'S BLOG: BRINGING DOWN THE MOB: FBI BUSTS 110 CRIME SUSPECTS! TEHRE RETRO KIMMER'S BLOG: BRINGING DOWN THE MOB: FBI BUSTS 110 CRIME SUSPECTS THERE IS LOTS MORE TO COME!! I JUST DID NOT WANT MY POST DELETED I HAVE SOME MAFIA HACKER DELETING AS A WRITE AND WHOM HAS BROKEN TWPO COMPUTERS THIS PAST WEEK,

Ok, well after my landlord pulled a gun to my head and the local police #DUNCES TOLD ME ON THE PHONE "WE AREN'T RES[OMDING MISS STARR." (FDBI IT WOULD BE NICE TO GET THAT RECORDING THE #CLIFDTONPOLICE HAVE ALONG WITH THE 50 POLICE REPORTS I FILED AGAINST MY LANDLORD BECAUSE WHEN I LEFT THAT APARTMENT IOA SKED FOR ALL MY POLICE REPORTS AND THE LOCAL #CLIFTONPOLICE TOLD MER "YOU NEVER FILED EVEN ONE JILL." (((PISSED OFF FURUIOSYLY A WALKED AWAY AND FILED A DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE FEDERAL COMPLAINT AGAINST MOBSTER SANTINI FOR VIOLATING HATELAWS BEACUSE I HAVE A MEDICARE CARD AND I AM PERMANANTLY DISABLED ACCORDING TO THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT@!

Isn't that a kick in your mobster ass(hole for brains) Santini??? It would not be any loss if someone pointed a gun at your head La Cosa Nostra "Santini," why? You don;t have any brains asshole!

Look, Weehawken mayor uses 'mob' tactics to intimidate cop, attorney says - nj.com Weehawken mayor uses 'mob' tactics to intimidate cop, attorney says

Isn;t that sad as it is ironic because Santini and this #proud #blackcop was in the boat claiming to their #corrupt #mobster #press #agents tried using their equivalent #moster #tactics on me while I was swimming for my dear across the #Hudson #River trying to escape them and get to the JFK airport and out of the country alive.

Lets' back up to the police in #clifton not taking the incident report. Immediately after that occurred, I received a telephone call from the efirst assistant prosecutor of the Superior court of Passaic County New Jersey USA. As #JeremyPaxman would say #IAMNOTIMPRESSED !

The first assistant Prosecutor told me "I am not going to prosecute the landlord for pulling the gun on you and threatening you, Jill." It !"was some women. I did not care if it was "Santa Claus."

I have a #college #degree in #American #criminal #law , I used to work for the #unitednations in #NYC as a #warcrimesinvestigator for #years and I was #NOTIMPRESSED myself! BUT O KNEW MORE THAN SOME CORRUPT MOBSTER IDIOT FIRST PRPSECUTOR BECAUSES IN THE #UNITEDNATIONS ONE HAS TO HAVE AT LEAST #TWENTRYYEARS OF #EXPEREINCE AND #EDUCATION IN #INTERNATIONAL #LAW #SANTINI YOU DUNCE SO WHAT DIDF i SAY TO THE WITCH? THIS AND PAY ATTNETION WEEHAWKIN #MOBSTER COPPERS AND YOU PROBABLY WILL LEARN SOMETHING YOU TOO #CLIFTON # COP #CREEPS BECAUSE #FBI I AM WILLING TO TESTIFY INANY COURT OF LAW AGAINST THESE MONSTER MOBSTERS BECAUSE THIS IS A CRIME AGAINST HUMAITY AND BECAUSE I AM JEWISH, THIS IS A CRIME OF GENOIDE AND THAT IS WORSE THAN MURDER SANTINI! THAT IS WHAT I [PUT ON MY INTERNATIONAL CRIMINAL COURT AFGAINST HARRY J SHORTWAY AND ISNT IT IRONIC NOW I HAVE FILED THE SAME COMPLAINT AGAINST YOU SANTINI AND THE BLACK COP WHO NEVER CALLED THE AMBNULANCE FOR ME AND JUST SAT THERE AN HOUR WHILE I WAS DYING. BEFORE I LEFT #CLIFTON I TOOK 70 PILLS BECAUSE I COMPLETELY GAVE UP BECAUSE WHEREVER I GO AND NO MATTER WHAT IS THE INCIDENT NO POLICE COME TO MY RESCUE. i WAS IN NEWARK NJ NOW.

BROAD STREET IS A ;LARGE WIFE STREET IOT HAS THE FEDERAL BUILDING OF THE USA AND THE FBI ONB IT. I RAMMED MY CAR INBTIO 8 POLICE CARS WHICH WERE ONLY FAKE MAFIA MEN! how did I know? I DID NOT STOP FOTR ANY OF THEM. I MADE IT CLEAR AS i APPOACHED EACH OF 15 POILICE CARS I SAID " I AM CIA, MOVE OVER OR ILL RUN YOU OVER!!!" THEIR CARS WEERE BLOCKING MY ESCAPE. I RAMMED INTO THEM UNTIL I MADE THEM MOVE OVER WITH OR WITHOUT ANYT COP IN THEM I DID NOT CARE IT IS A LIFE FOR A LIFE IN THE MAFIA RULES TOO. I KNOW "ALL ABOUT IT." HA HA HA ONE FAKE COP DARED NOT TO LISTEN TO ME. HE BNLOCKED MY CAR ON A ONE WAY STREET. I YELLED "MOPVE OVER YOUR MADIA ASS OR ILL RUN YOU OVER BREAINLESS *UCK>" HE REFUSED TO MOVE SO i POUT MY FOOT DOWN TO THE MEDEL AND HE JUMPED OUT OF MY HARMS WAY. BUT NOT ONE PUOLLED A GUN WHICH MADE ME KNOW THIS IS WAS A SAET-UP TO TAKE A HIT OUT ON ME AND KILL ME AND I HAD 16 POLICE CARS ON BROAD STREET CHASING ME AND NOT ONE PULLED A GUN AND THEY ALL SAID [PULL OVER AND [POINTED GUNS BUT THAT WAS IT AND THEN A MIRACLE HAPPANED, I H AVE NE ER DONT THIS MYSELF WITH DADDY AND MOMMY IN A CIA MISSION DURING THE CASTRO REGIME BUT THEY WERE DERIVING MAYBE LOL AS SOON AS THE SIGN SAID "WELCOME TO WEEHAWKIN NOT ONE COP POLICE CAR FOLLOWEDX ME THERY ALL STOPPED AT THE NEWWORK CITY LINE,

Putting Harry J Shortway (NJ USA Detective) In Jail (Read More)... COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS: WHEREBY MLADIC & KARADZIC TREATED ME WITH WEST MILFORD DETECTIVES HARRY SHORTWAY & PETER VAN GILST

12th December 2009, by Unknown

NJ Detective Harry Shortway Junior Dares Making A Run For Political Office in Vernon NJ Five vie for three Vernon seats (WARNING TO VOTERS)!! Over a decade ago I began trying to prosecute Harry J Shortway for setting me up to be killed in NJ and , The former Fort Dix, Inspector General, said to me: "Jill, Harry Shortway's affiliations with criminal organizations are much too powerful for me to take on at the state of NJ level; that I need the FBI to handle the scope of such an inquiry." I have proven that Chris Christie has lied about having organized criminal contacts during his hearing on "Capitol Hill." You can thank your Serbian friends for this Jill Starr

NJ Detective Harry Shortway Junior Dares Making A Run For Political Office in Vernon NJ

Five vie for three Vernon seats (WARNING TO VOTERS)!! Over a decade ago I began trying to prosecute Harry J Shortway for setting me up to be killed in NJ and , The former Fort Dix, Inspector General, said to me: "Jill, Harry Shortway's affiliations with criminal organizations are much too powerful for me to take on at the state of NJ level; that I need the FBI to handle the scope of such an inquiry." I have proven that Chris Christie has lied about having organized criminal contacts during his hearing on "Capitol Hill." You can thank your Serbian friends for this Jill Starr

http://www.instablogsimages.com/images/2009/10/29/shortwaybadcop_KJreZ_21672_200x150.jpg

COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS: WHEREBY MLADIC & KARADZIC TREATED ME WITH WEST MILFORD DETECTIVES HARRY SHORTWAY & PETER VAN GILST Wednesday, April 15, 2009 12:07 PM 9/19/2009 http://www.eubusiness.com/Members/lpcyu/nj-detective-harry-shortway-junior-dares-making-a-run-for-political-office-in-vernon-nj-five-vie-for-three-vernon-seats-warning-to-voters It is an extremely important legal case I am submitting to the Hague Court in the Netherlands as an individual complainant from here in the United States of America. I hope it will set an international precedent even in America people are abused by their own public elected government officials. I am fully convinced now, that after a decade of asking the American legal governmental authorities (local, state and federal levels) to arrest and try, Detective Harry Shortway, and his corrupt law enforcement associte, Sgt. Laughlin, in a court of law in America for attempting to murder me; moreover physically and emotionally torturing me and my family in 1990/1991, it is clear, the United States of America is either unwilling OR incapable of taking the bold moral measures to arrest Harry Shortway and his associates; ensurng he receives a fair trial here in America. Similarly to American diplomats such as, Hillary Clinton, ironally accusing Serbia of not submitting General Mladic to the Hague ICTY, for trial. Hypocritical America, don’t you agree (?)

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"ROBBERS GET CASH IN HAMILTON SHOP," Toronto Globe. September 30, 1933. Page 2. --- Armed Men Hold Up Dominion Store on Caroline Street ---- HATCHET CASE PROBED --- (Staff Correspondence of The Globe.) Hamilton, Sept. 29. - Two armed men held up and robbed the Dominion Store at 140 Caroline Street South tonight of $30 in cash, and fled in a car. They were about 40 years of age and well dressed.

Miss Josephine Wheeler, clerk, was alone in the store when the two men entered about 7.15 o'clock. They flourished their revolvers, ordered her Into a back room, and told her to keep quiet, "If you know what is good for you." One of the men then went behind the counter and emptied the cash register.

Miss Wheeler told the police that one man was about six feet tall, clean-shaven, and well dressed in a grey suit and cap. The other man also wore light colored clothing, she said.

Allegedly Lit With Hatchet. John Tossone, 50 Gerrard Street, was removed to the General Hospital this afternoon suffering from a scalp wound and a possible fractured skull. Angelo Bambien, 366 Hughson Street North, was arrested on a charge of assault. as it is alleged he hit Tossone over the head with a lather's hatchet. The two men were at 50 Gerrard Street, and Bambien is alleged to have been quarrelsome and under the influence of liquor. In a rage, it is alleged, he raised the hatchet and struck Tossone with it twice, first with the sharp edge and second with the hammer end of it. Tossone's condition was reported to be fairly good, despite his injuries.

George Brown, 5 Inchbury Street, was severely burned this afternoon at the plant of the Canada Iron Company when he was pouring molten metal and the container overturned, setting fire to his clothes. He was burned about the chest, abdomen, head, arms and legs. Fellow-work- men rushed to his aid and stripped his burning garments from him: He was removed to the General Hospital. His condition tonight was reported to be slightly improved.

Hurt By Wrench. Sidney Piner, 467 Wellington Street North, was injured painfully on the face this afternoon when working at the Hamilton Cotton Company. wrench slipped as he was tightening a nut and struck him. He was removed to the General Hospital.

Ernest Denyes, alias Edward Burns, who was arrested last night after several citizens chased him from a house on Holton Avenue South, appeared in Police Court today on a charge of housebreaking. Before pleading to the charge Denyes asked for an adjournment, and, with the consent of Crown Attorney Ballard, the case was laid over until Wednesday. Mr. Ballard suggested ball be set at $1,000, should Denyes apply for it.

Lorne Gibson, hired man on the farm of John Prouse, in Ancaster Township, where ten fires occurred this week, appeared before Magistrate Vance in county Police Court this afternoon on a charge of vagrancy. A 14-year-old boy who lives at the farm also appeared.

County police asked for an adjournment of one week, and Gibson was remanded, while the boy was allowed to return to the farm. No fires ccurred at the farmhouse today.

Police said they expected there would be fresh developments by the time the case is proceeded with, a week hence.

[foxcassius]

i think a lot of people today do not understand what folk music is or what i mean when i say i like folk music. because what i meam is there is a hazy, wide gradient of music that starts (with contemplator.com actually but to avoid going back in time to infinity we shall say) with dervish and old blind dogs and makes its broad way over towards tall heights and bon iver and their ilk but also towards tim mcgraw, anyway, the point is somewhere before tall heights and bon iver and the weepies, right around where the tallest man on earth sits on the gradient, the music becomes indie pop (-ish), and then the gradient moves in the direction of pop music. but like iron & wine is well on the side towards folk, as is david francey and the staves and radical face, and this qualification has something to do with instrumentals but mainly has to do with the ""definition"" of folk music at its core, which relates to the passage of stories and lore between peoples and generations via song, which is that a folk song explicitly tells a story. and the definition of "a story" gets a bit convoluted here, because its clear in classical folk music what story is being told, and the story can be told narratively but they are often told through an exchange of only dialogue (they also sometimes use a combination). for example, danny boy is a story that we come to understand simply through hearing a person (sometimes considered a family member, others think it is a lover) talk with young danny boy about how he has to go to war and he may well return when the speaker has passed away. pad the road wi' me (popularized perhaps by malinky but a well-known scottish ballad) tells through dialogue AND THEN narration of a courtship between a young traveler and a local girl. i courted a wee girl (popularized perhaps by dervish) is narrative, with the singer telling us of how he courted a young maiden only for to her to marry another and telling us of her wedding day and the woe he felt. but when more contemporary songs are introduced, that's when "well what counts as A STORY" becomes the argument. thomas county law by iron & wine tells all about a place with detail and metaphor. lazy eye by hem is fully first-person narrative, telling us of a person watching their lover and reminiscing. david francey's torn screen door is a perfect narrative describing an abandoned farmhouse and lamenting the death of countryside community. and so some may ask, is gotta have you by the weepies not also telling a story? of how a person needs their lover despite all? is back to autumn by tall heights not also telling a story? about how the narrator is missing their grandfather and thinking back to when he was with them? but to me it all comes down to a feeling of place and characters. even thomas county law, which is ABOUT a place, brings the singer in as a character that can be defined. lazy eye is set in one place, whether it be a hotel room or a bedroom. torn screen door is set in a clearly described location with an identified narrator and secondary character ("my love"). not only do we have these places, an emphasis is put on describing the place and/or identifying the characters and/or telling the story in explicit detail, and even when using metaphor the locales and people and stories feel concrete. back to autumn is set nowhere. but the tarpaulin jacket (british folk song) is CLEARLY set at a deathbed, even if we're not given that detail in so many words. and i really dont mean to say all of this to be pretentious, i have worked it out in order to be able to identify what music i like and WHY. but if i were to talk about this to someone in person i would just sound like SUCH a pretentious douche so instead i have to pretend to like tall heights more than i do the next time i see stephen in person.

[veesunderthetree]

ENG America can be fire and it can be iron. It can be oily and slimy like a fish or silent and enveloping like a snake. She can be as tall as the first skyscrapers of those years, she can be boundless like the great prairies his mother had told him about. For Bly, America was a dream and a legend, a home and country without borders, but above all... above all terror. He found the gaze of the entire lodge upon him, but on the other hand he had initiated the speech. “Now that you have decided on this destination, since it is also where I come from, it seems right to me... to warn you about what concerns me. To avoid surprises." He swallowed silently. Feli, Hubert, Grayson, Raven, Franco and even Lagrange looked at him expectantly. He looked at them one by one raising an eyebrow, he couldn't understand how they could have the slightest interest in that story-nevertheless he went on talking, marveling at the ease with which the words came out of his mouth. “I was born in Mariposa County, my family lives in a mansion on top of a hill. When I was… very young, a group of dissidents attacked us, my sister and me.” he took a deep breath, wrinkling his nose. He was putting a wall between himself and the memories to avoid recalling them without control, a subtlety that a psychoanalyst like him was able to perform in order to "mentally" separate himself from the events. “They ravaged her, violated her, killed her in front of my eyes and cut off her head. We buried her like this, without the skull.” “The coldness with which he talks about it is disturbing ... ” Grayson looked at the other cronies with a decidedly tried look. "It's called dissociation," Felicita replied. “Something like that traumatizes you for life.” Still, they weren't talking to him. They were talking to each other, about him. Bly felt that if Monocle was still a split personality at this point, he would at least have masterminded a massacre of the poor fellows. Not him; he actually understood them: he couldn't understand how serious it was and why they continued to listen to him. Was it really that important, what he had to say? He just washed it off with water, he really didn't seem worthy of attention. Lagrange introduced herself into the conversation discreetly, glancing at him because he probably didn't look good. He was aware of it and at the same time he had no idea, he only felt the firmness and the gaze fixed on a vague point in the air. Okay, he wasn't well. He was on the long mellowed threshold of a tantrum, or worse he was about to send the group to hell with a blackout where he didn't know what he was going to do. “For the Doctor's culture, burying one's headless dead is an incredible affront.” “Yes, for Native Americans - my grandparents - the spirit of a body whose parts are separated, especially the skull, is forced to roam the earth restlessly without ever reaching the afterlife, the Great Prairies or what what's up. It becomes a ghost or worse." He suddenly felt incredibly light-headed, he didn't want to keep talking about it. He looked at Hubert, even looked at Felicita but he knew he couldn't get comfort if they didn't know him completely or almost. “Then I literally vaporized the perpetrators and their families in an explosion. That was how Tara found me and took me under the wing of the Caped Crusaders. After that I went to Sacramento, then to San Francisco, where she later replaced Yurei for me." "Actually, it was you who replaced him," Lagrange pointed out, making him feel like a sketch of a man fumbling on a smooth glass sprinkled with oil. He had a crush on Yurei, but it was no use—however he tried, the Japanese-raised American didn't seem to want to start a romantic relationship with him. Respecting his colleague's wishes, he still remained a good friend and colleague. “I don't know where my family is or what happened to them. I don't know what state my house is in, my sister's head is still missing and her killers... their blood is on my hands. Do you still want to come with me?” “Bly, you know we always stepped in if there was an issue that was affecting one of us. We went to Egypt and Cairo for Hubert and Felicita. If this thing concerns you personally, and you want us to intervene about it, we are the first to want to come.” “Actually…since we have to go through Salem…” “Do you want us to intervene?” Grayson repeated it to him forcefully and Bly was literally overwhelmed by tears. His eyes glazed over, aware that he would soon cry he narrowed his gaze to two slits to hold back what he could. It was nothing new that he felt small, stupid, a little likeable at times and that not everyone liked him. He was a Caped Crusader for that too, by the Gods! But in his feeling so irrelevant, he thought he could only offer help and never receive it, seeing his problems as little more than a nuisance to be given to more local, powerful, and definitely committed people like Grayson, Hubert, Feli, and even Franco. In front of them he had made a prolonged series of fools, mistakes to no end - he was ashamed of himself to be honest. Yet, they were all there. Even Lagrange. “Y-yes…” he said with little force, whispering a barely audible “Thank you.” "Well, it's decided: we're leaving for America!" For the first time he saw a softness in Grayson's eyes that he had never noticed before. On the verge of his own tears now, misguided as they were, he took his handkerchief from his vest pocket and turned away briefly, wiping the contours of his eyes and cheekbones. He prayed to any divine entity or unwilling to listen, the spirits and any saint because their safety was kept intact throughout the journey and beyond. What would have happened otherwise? Would he send the remains of a father to his unborn daughter, or lifeless favorites to his mentor? And Franco, perhaps sent back to the cage and left to be killed by the guards, by hunger and by beatings? No. he would never have accepted it. ITA Entry 5 L’america può essere fuoco e può essere ferro. Può essere oleosa e viscida come un pesce oppure silenziosa e avvolgente come un serpente. Può essere alta come i primi grattacieli di quegli anni, può essere sconfinata come nelle grandi praterie di cui gli aveva parlato la madre. Per Bly l’america era sogno e leggenda, casa e patria senza confini, ma sopratutto... sopratutto terrore. Si trovò lo sguardo dell’intera loggia addosso, ma d’altronde aveva iniziato lui il discorso. “Adesso che avete deciso questa meta, dato che è anche da dove provengo, mi sembra giusto... avvertirvi di quello che mi riguarda. Per non avere sorprese.” Deglutì silenziosamente. Feli, Hubert, Grayson, Raven, Franco e persino la Lagrange lo guardavano con aspettativa. Li squadrò uno ad uno alzando un sopracciglio, non riusciva a capire come potessero minimamente provare interesse per quella storia - ciò nonostante andò avanti a parlare, stupendosi della facilità con cui le parole gli uscivano di bocca. “Sono nato a Mariposa County, la mia famiglia vive in una villa sulla cima di una collina. Quand’ero... molto giovane, un gruppo di dissidenti ci ha attaccato, me e mia sorella.” prese un lungo respiro, storcendo il naso. Stava mettendo un muro tra sè ed i ricordi per evitare di rievocarli senza controllo, una sottigliezza che uno psicanalista come lui era in grado di eseguire per separarsi “mentalmente” dagli eventi. “L’hanno devastata, violata, uccisa davanti ai miei occhi e le hanno tagliato la testa. L’abbiamo seppellita così, senza cranio.” “E’ inquietante la freddezza con cui ne parla...” Grayson guardò gli altri compari con uno sguardo decisamente provato. “Si chiama dissociazione” gli rispose Felicita. “Una cosa del genere ti traumatizza a vita.” Eppure, non stavano parlando con lui. Stavano parlando tra loro, di lui. Bly sentì che se a questo punto Monocolo fosse stato ancora una personalità scissa, avrebbe come minimo architettato una strage sui poveri colleghi. Lui no; lui per la verità li comprendeva: non riusciva a capire quanto ci fosse di così grave e perchè continuassero a prestargli orecchio. Era davvero così importante, quel che aveva da dire? Bastava lavarlo via con l’acqua, non sembrava davvero degno di attenzione. La Lagrange si introdusse nel discorso con un fare discreto, lanciandogli un’occhiata  perchè probabilmente non aveva una bella cera. Se ne rendeva conto ed al tempo stesso non ne aveva idea, sentiva solo la fermezza ed il proprio sguardo fisso in un vago punto dell’aria. Ok, non stava bene. Era sulla soglia da tempo ammorbidita di una crisi di nervi, o peggio stava per mandare il gruppo al diavolo con un black out in cui non sapeva cos’avrebbe potuto fare. “Per la cultura del Dottore, seppellire i propri morti senza testa è un incredibile affronto.” “Si, per i nativi d’america - i miei nonni - lo spirito di un corpo a cui vengono separati i pezzi, specialmente il cranio, è costretto a vagare senza pace sulla terra senza mai raggiungere l’aldilà, le Grandi Praterie o quello che c’è. Diventa un fantasma o peggio.” Si sentì improvvisamente la testa incredibilmente leggera, non voleva continuare a parlarne. Guardò Hubert, guardò perfino Felicita ma sapeva di non poter avere conforto, se non l’avessero conosciuto completamente o quasi. “Dopodichè ho letteralmente vaporizzato i colpevoli e le loro famiglie in un’esplosione. E’ stato così che Tara mi ha trovato e mi ha preso sotto l’ala dei Crociati Mascherati. Dopodichè sono andato a Sacramento, poi a San Francisco, dove in seguito mi ha sostituito Yurei.” “Veramente sei tu che l’hai sostituito” puntualizzò Lagrange, facendolo sentire un abbozzo di uomo che annaspava su un vetro liscio e cosparso d’olio. Aveva una cotta per Yurei, ma era inutile - per quanto provasse, l’americano cresciuto in Giappone non sembrava voler iniziare con lui una relazione sentimentale. Rispettando i desideri del collega, gli era rimasto comunque buon amico e collega. “Non so dov’è la mia famiglia, nè che fine ha fatto. Non so in che stato è ridotta la mia casa, la testa di mia sorella è ancora dispersa ed i suoi assassini... il loro sangue è sulle mie mani. Volete comunque venire con me?” “Bly, sai che siamo sempre intervenuti se c’era un problema che riguardava uno di noi. Siamo andati in Egitto e al Cairo per Hubert e Felicita. Se questa cosa ti riguarda personalmente, e vuoi che interveniamo a proposito, siamo i primi a voler venire.” “Veramente... dato che dobbiamo passare da Salem...” “Vuoi che interveniamo?” Grayson glielo ripetè con forza e Bly fu letteralmente travolto dalle lacrime. Gli si appannarono gli occhi, conscio che a breve si sarebbe messo a piangere ridusse il suo sguardo a due fessure per trattenere quello che poteva. Non era una novità che si sentisse piccolo, stupido, un po’ piacione alle volte e che non piacesse a tutti. Era un Crociato Mascherato anche per questo motivo, per gli Dei! Ma nel suo sentirsi così irrilevante, pensava di poter solamente offrire aiuto e mai riceverlo, considerando i propri problemi come poco più di un fastidio da dare a persone più altolocale, potenti e sicuramente impegnate come Grayson, Hubert, Feli e persino Franco. Davanti a loro aveva fatto una prolungata serie di figuracce, errori a non finire - si vergognava di sè stesso a dirla tutta. Eppure, erano tutti lì. Perfino Lagrange. “S-si...” disse con poca forza, sussurrando un appena percettibile “Grazie.” “Bene, è deciso: si parte per l’America!” Per la prima volta vide una dolcezza nello sguardo di Grayson che non aveva mai notato prima. Ormai sull’orlo delle proprie lacrime, così sbagliate com’erano, prese il fazzoletto dalla tasca del gilet e si voltò brevemente, asciugandosi il contorno degli occhi e gli zigomi. Pregò qualsiasi entità divina o non volesse mettersi in ascolto, gli spiriti e qualsiasi santo perchè la loro incolumità fosse conservata intatta per tutto il viaggio e anche oltre. Cosa sarebbe successo in caso contrario? Avrebbe spedito le spoglie di un padre dalla figlia non ancora nata, oppure dei prediletti senza vita dal mentore? E Franco, magari rimandato al gabbio e lasciato uccidere dalle guardie, dalla fame e dalle botte? No. Non l’avrebbe mai accettato.

[7r0773r]

The Hard Life by Flann O’Brien

It is not that I half knew my mother. I knew half of her: the lower half—her lap, legs, feet, her hands and wrists as she bent forward. Very dimly I seem to remember her voice. At the time, of course, I was very young. Then one day she did not seem to be there any more. So far as I knew she had gone away without a word, no good-bye or good night. A while afterwards I asked my brother, five years my senior, where the mammy was.

—She is gone to a better land, he said.

—Will she be back?

—I don't think so.

—Mean to say we'll never see her again?

—I do think we will. She is staying with the old man.

At the time I found all this very vague and unsatisfying. I had never met my father at all but in due time I was to see and study a faded brown photograph—a stern upright figure wearing great moustaches and attired in a uniform with a large peaked cap. I could never make out what the uniform stood for. He might have been a field marshal or an admiral, or just an orderly officer in the fire brigade; indeed, he might have been a postman.

My memory is a bit mixed about what exactly happened after the mammy went away, but a streel of a girl with long lank fair hair arrived to look after myself and the brother. She did not talk very much and seemed to be in a permanent bad temper. We knew her as Miss Annie. At least that is what she ordered us to call her. She spent a lot of time washing and cooking, specializing in boxty and kalecannon and eternally making mince balls covered with a greasy paste. I got to hate those things.

—If we're ever sent to jail, the brother said one night in bed, we'll be well used to it before we go in. Did you ever see the like of the dinner we're getting? I would say that woman Annie is a bit batty.

—If you mean the mince balls, I said, I think they're all right—if we didn't see so many of them, so often.

—I'm certain they're very bad for us.

—Well, that paste stuff is too thick.

—How well the mammy thought nothing of a bit of ham boiled with cabbage once a week. Remember that?

—I don't. I hadn't any teeth at that time. What's ham?

—Ham? Great stuff, man. It's a class of a red meat that comes from the County Limerick.

That's merely my recollection of the silly sort of conversation we had. Probably it is all wrong. (pp. 3-5)

***

When the tea things had been cleared away, Mr. Collopy resumed reading his paper, but after a time he suddenly sat up and glared at the brother, who was dozing opposite him at the range.

—I want a word with you, mister-me-friend, he said abruptly.

The brother sat up.

—Well? he said. I'm here.

—Do you know a certain party by the name of Sergeant Driscoll of the D.M.P.?

—I don't know any policemen. I keep far away from them. They're a dangerous gang, promoted at a speed that is proportionate to the number of people they manage to get into trouble. And they have one way of getting the most respectable people into very bad trouble.

—Well is that a fact? And what is the one way?

—Perjury. They'd swear a hole in an iron bucket. They are all the sons of gobhawks from down the country.

—I mentioned Sergeant Driscoll of the D.M.P.——

—The wilds of Kerry, I'll go bail. The banatee up at six in the morning to get ready thirteen breakfasts out of a load of spuds, maybe a few leaves of kale, injun meal, salt and buttermilk. Breakfast for Herself, Himself, the eight babbies and the three pigs, all out of the one pot. That's the sort of cods we have looking after law and order in Dublin.

—I mentioned Sergeant Driscoll of the D.M.P. He was here this morning. God help me, being interviewed by the police has been my cross, and at my time of life.

—Well, it is a good rule never to make any statement. Don't give him the satisfaction. Say that you first must see your solicitor, no matter what he is accusing you of.

—Accusing me of? It had nothing to do with me. It was you he was looking for. He was making inquiries. There may yet be deleterious ructions, you can take my word for that.

—What, me? And what have I done?

—A young lad fell into the river at Islandbridge, hurt his head and was nearly drowned. He had to be brought to hospital. Sergeant Driscoll and his men questioned this lad and the other young hooligans with him. And your name was mentioned.

—I know nothing about any young lads at Islandbridge.

—Then how did they get your name? They even knew this address, and the Sergeant said they had a little book with this address here on the cover.

—Did you see the book?

—No.

—This is the work of some pultogue that doesn't like me, one that has it in for me over some imaginary grievance. A trouble-maker. This town is full of them. I'm damn glad I'm clearing out. Give me a bloodthirsty and depraved Saxon any day.

—I've never known you not to have an answer. You are the right stainless man. 

—I refuse to be worried about what brats from the slums say or think, or fat country rozzers either. 

—Those youngsters, Sergeant Driscoll said, were experimenting with a frightfully dangerous contraption, a sort of death machine. They had fixed a wire across the Liffey, made fast to lampposts or trees on either side. And this young bosthoon gets his feet into a pair of special slippers or something of the kind. What do you think of that? 

—Nothing much, except it reminds me of a circus. 

—Yes, or The Dance of Death at the Empire Theatre at Christmas. Lord look down on us but I never heard of such recklessness and sinful extravaganza. It is the parents I pity, the suffering parents that brought them up by wearing their fingers to the bone and going without nourishing food in their old age to give the young poguemahones an education. A touch of the strap, night and morning, is what those boyos badly need. 

—And how did one of them get into the water? 

—How do you think? He gets out walking on this wire until he's halfway, then he flies into a panic, gets dizzy, falls down into the deep water, hitting his head off a floating baulk of timber. And of course not one of those thooleramawns could swim. It was the mercy of God that a bailiff was within earshot. He heard the screaming and the commotion and hurried up. But an unemployed man was there first. Between the pair of them they got this half-drowned young character out of the river and held him upside down to drain the water out of him.

—And the pinkeens, the brother interposed.

—It was a direct act of Providence that those men were there. The high-wire genius had to be lurried into hospital, Jervis Street, and there is no need to try to be funny about it. You could be facing murther today, or manslaughter.

—I've told you I had nothing to do with it. I know nothing. I am unaware of the facts.

—I suppose you'd swear that.

—I would.

—And you have the brazen cheek to sit there and accuse the long-suffering D.M.P. of being addicted to perjury.

—And so they are.

—Faith then, and if I was on the jury I would know who to believe about that Islandbridge affair.

—If I was charged with engineering that foolish prank, I would stop at nothing to unmask the low miscreant who has been trying to put stains on my character.

—Yes, I know right well what you mean. One lie would lead to another till you got so bogged down in mendacity and appalling perjury that the Master of the Rolls or the Recorder or whoever it would be would call a halt to the proceedings and send the papers to the Attorney-General. And faith then your fat would be in the fire. You could get five years for perjury and trying to pervert the course of justice. And the same Islandbridge case would be waiting for you when you came out.

—I don't give a goddam about any of those people.

—Do you tell me? Well, I do. This is my house.

—You know I'm leaving it very soon.

—And Sergeant Driscoll said you were to call at College Street for an interview.

—I'll call at no College Street. Sergeant Driscoll can go to hell.

—Stop using bad, depraved language in this house or you may leave it sooner than you think. You are very much mistaken if you think I am content to be hounded and pestered by policemen over your low and contemptible schemes to delude simple young people——

—Oh, rubbish!

—And rob them, rob them of money they never earned but filched from the purses of their long-suffering parents and guardians.

—I told you I don't know any simple young people at Islandbridge. And any young people I do know, they're not simple.

—You have one of the lowest and most lying tongues in all Ireland and that's a sure fact. You are nothing but a despicable young tramp. May God forgive me if I have been in any way to blame for the way I brought you up.

—Why don't you blame those crows, the holy Christian Brothers? God's Disjointed.

—I have warned you several times to stop desecrating my kitchen with your cowardly blackguarding of a dedicated band of high-minded Christian teachers.

—I hear Brother Cruppy is going to throw off the collar and get married.

— Upon my word, Mr. Collopy said shrilly, you are not too old to have a stick taken to. Remember that. A good thrashing would work wonders. (pp. 99-104)

[onlydylanobrien]

Dylan O'Brien - NME Magazine Interview

Dylan O’Brien: “I was in this transitional phase – close to a quarter-life crisis”

From YA heartthrob to legitimate leading man – how the 'Maze Runner' star hit his stride after a whirlwind decade

Definitely!” hoots Dylan O’Brien when NME asks if he still has to audition. “I’m not Tom fucking Hanks, bro.” He’s clearly amused by our question, but forgive us for thinking the 29-year-old actor gets cast on reputation alone. A decade into his career, and he’s making an impressive transition from teen TV star and YA franchise hero to charismatic leading man.

New York-born O’Brien cut his teeth on MTV’s hit Teen Wolf series, before landing the lead in the Maze Runner film trilogy based on James Dashner’s hugely popular novels. Leading a band of bright young things that included ex-Skins tearaway Kaya Scodelario, Game Of Thrones’ Thomas Brodie-Sangster and Will Poulter, he honed his craft while racking up nearly a billion dollars at the box office. “My career is a constant acting class,” says O’Brien. “To be able to do the Maze Runner movies simultaneously with Teen Wolf was amazing in terms of getting in reps and working my [acting] muscle.”

Now for the sometimes tricky bit. Many actors struggle with the post-breakout period, but O’Brien is making it look easy so far. This year’s Netflix hit Love and Monsters proved he can carry an old-school family adventure, and new film Flashback (out next week) reveals an appetite for weirder, more cerebral work. He stars as Fred Fitzell, a young man reluctant to buckle down to life as a nine-to-fiver with a boring corporate job and a long-term girlfriend (Mindhunter‘s Hannah Gross). When he runs into a freaky-looking acquaintance from his teenage years, Fred becomes obsessed with finding an old high-school friend he used to drop a mind-bending experimental drug called Mercury with. It’s difficult to say any more without entering spoiler territory, but Flashback is a wild ride underpinned by the idea that we can exist in several realities at once. Even if you follow every plot twist, you might not fully understand the end. “Oh, it’s definitely a headfuck,” O’Brien agrees. “There’s not totally an answer to figure out. There’s a lot of different things that people can take from it.”

Speaking over Zoom from his LA home, O’Brien is bright, thoughtful and really good fun to talk to, especially when he relaxes into the interview, but he clearly knows where his line between public and private lies. When he first read the Flashback script, written by the film’s director Christopher MacBride, his “mind was blown” by just how much he related to Fred. “I felt like I was in this transitional phase of my life that was, you know, sort of close to a quarter-life crisis type thing,” he says. “For whatever reason, it was like me and this script were meant to be. I remember reading it and thinking: ‘I am this guy right now.'”

“There were a lot of things in my personal life that were neglected for a while”

When we ask why O’Brien felt as though he had reached a “transitional phase”, he gives an answer that’s vague but not exactly evasive. For understandable reasons, he doesn’t mention the incredibly traumatic motorcycle accident he sustained while shooting the final Maze Runner film in March 2016. O’Brien suffered severe trauma to the brain and said in 2017 that he underwent extensive facial reconstructive surgery after the accident “broke most of the right side of my face”. Tellingly, he’s never really revealed what happened on set or how it affected him.

Today, O’Brien dances around the details of the accident and other issues he was dealing with at the time, but doesn’t shy away from discussing his inner conflict. “You know, it was a lot of personal things combined with at-a-point-in-my-career things,” he says after a brief pause. He says he’d have been going through some of this stuff anyway, simply because of his age, but it sounds as though success intensified it all. “It was like this whole fucking storm of shit,” he continues. “I was simultaneously so fulfilled and happy about these, like, otherworldly and surreal things that I had experienced in terms of where my career had brought me. I had all this confidence and fulfilment and beautiful people [in my life] – such amazing things to experience at a young age. But at the same time, there were a lot of things in my personal life that were unchecked and sort of neglected for a while.”

O’Brien says that in time, he realised he had to “stop for a second” and “re-explore how I wanted my life to look going forward”. In fairness, you can see why he needed a breather: his career took off while he was still a teenager. After his family moved from New Jersey to Los Angeles County when he was 12, O’Brien contemplated a career as a sports broadcaster – his Twitter bio still bills him as a “no longer suffering Mets fan” – then began posting YouTube videos as moviekidd826. A funny, slickly edited skit titled ‘How to Prepare for the SAT in 45 seconds’, shared when he was just 17, shows he was a born performer and storyteller. YouTube success led to him getting a manager, but his breakthrough role in Teen Wolf still came out of the blue. At the time, he was treading water at a local community college and taking auditions on the side.

Still, he has since taken a rather fatalistic view of this career-making moment. “It’s totally weird because, when I think about it now, I don’t see how it could have happened any other way. I can’t picture myself doing anything else now,” he told Collider in 2011. “It was really sudden and a little random, and not provoked by anything. It was just out of nowhere. It wasn’t my intentional doing.” Today, O’Brien summarises his skyscraper career trajectory succinctly. “I guess I just graduated high school and started acting,” he says. “And then I felt like I was just flying by the seat of my pants and never got a chance to stop.” Thankfully, straight-out-the-blocks Hollywood success hasn’t taken away his sense of perspective. When I say how easy social media makes it to compare yourself unfavourably to others, O’Brien jumps in: “Yeah, that’s very true. I was watching the Billie Eilish doc the other day, and I was like, I’ve done nothing. I’m not an artist at all!”

“No one thought ‘Love and Monsters’ was going to be good!”

O’Brien is also self-deprecating when he talks about being cast in Flashback, suggesting it happened because he had such an intense connection with Fred. “I was honestly like, ‘Who is watching me right now?’ That is the best way I can describe how I was feeling when I came across this script,” he says. “Chris [MacBride, director] and I had this conversation that went so well in terms of [my] understanding this script that I think he’d sent around a lot and [that] very commonly wasn’t understood. I think Chris has even said that the night before shooting, he suddenly had this thought, like, ‘Wait, do I even think he’s a good actor?'”

Though O’Brien has firmly ring-fenced elements of his private life, he’s actually pretty frank about his acting vehicles. He readily admits he was expecting a snobbish response to Love and Monsters, a CGI-heavy hybrid of post-apocalyptic action and romcom that dropped on Netflix in April and topped the streamer’s daily most-watched list. “It means so much that Love and Monsters has gotten the response that it’s gotten,” O’Brien says. “No one thought this movie was going to be good.” His blunt honesty makes me laugh out loud. “No one did though!” he says in response. “And so, fuck that. You know, most of the people who say something to me about the movie, they’re like: ‘I watched Love and Monsters, and it was… good?’ And honestly, that just cracks me up.” For obvious reasons, we hastily decide not to share our response to the film – namely, that it was a whole lot better than expected.

In Love and Monsters, O’Brien plays Joel, a survivor of a so-called “monsterpocalypse” that has bumped humans to the bottom of the food chain. Though he’s known in his colony as a bit of a coward, Joel sets off on a treacherous 80-mile journey to find his high school sweetheart Aimee (Iron Fist‘s Jessica Henwick), which means evading the hungry clutches of various supersize grizzlies including a giant monster-frog hiding in a suburban pond. It’s a simple but pretty out-there premise that wouldn’t work if O’Brien’s performance was even slightly condescending. Instead, his unselfconscious sincerity really sells a film that has as much in common with the family-oriented Robin Williams movie Night at the Museum as darker fare like The Walking Dead.

His obvious affection for the project really comes across during our interview today. “When I read the script, I just thought it was so sweet and funny and smart and unique, but at the same time reminiscent of all these movies that don’t really get made any more,” he says. That’s a fair point: Love and Monsters is neither a fail-safe superhero movie nor a slice of classy Oscar bait. “And when they were talking about how to market this movie, it was so funny hearing all these conversations like, ‘How do we actually get people to watch it?'” he adds. “But that’s a big part of the reason I wanted to do this movie: because it felt like something I missed seeing.”

“I’m lucky to be surrounded by people who want to make something out of love”

So in a way, Love and Monsters was a risk for an actor seeking to establish himself outside of a bankable movie franchise and a hit TV show. O’Brien has only made four films since his final Maze Runner outing in 2018, and insists he hasn’t been tactical with his choices. “I don’t have anyone saying, ‘We need to get you in an Oscar vehicle’, or any of that kind of shit,” he says. “I’m really lucky to be surrounded by people who think like me: that you should do what you’re drawn to, and make something out of love.”

He’s recently finished shooting a mysterious crime thriller called The Outfit in London with Mark Rylance. Directed and co-written by Graham Moore, who won an Oscar for his screenplay to Alan Turing biopic The Imitation Game, O’Brien calls it “quite possibly one of the most special pieces of writing I’ve ever experienced”. He first read the script on a plane and says he “actually stood up and clapped” when he got to the end. Considering O’Brien probably wasn’t flying Ryanair, this reaction presumably attracted a few baffled glances.

Anyway, it must be pretty intimidating walking onto set with Rylance, a multi-award-winning actor revered by his peers – Al Pacino once said he “speaks Shakespeare as if it was written for him the night before” – but it sounds as though O’Brien took it all in stride. He says he’s confident in his abilities, but admits to having a slight wobble whenever he begins a new project. “I’m always sort of re-questioning everything – like, ‘Can I even act?'” he says. “But I think there’s something very natural about that. I think even Rylance could relate to that feeling. Acting is like starting a new year at school every single time.”

At this point in his career, O’Brien has made peace with the fact that some people will have preconceptions about him based on what he’s known for: Maze Runner and Teen Wolf. “People will put you in a box no matter what,” he says. “There was definitely a time when that would get to me, especially when it felt like somebody had a perspective on me that in my soul, I just felt wasn’t accurate.” Still, there’s no doubt he wants to show us what’s really in his soul with more films like Flashback. “If anything,” he adds bullishly, “it just makes me think: ‘Right, I’m really gonna show them now’.”

‘Flashback’ is out on digital platforms from June 4

[theodora3022]

Bloody Rose(Sebastian Michaelis x Vampire F!reader)

Request: Sabastian with a female vampire s/o? Can be yandere or not! You choose.

Notes: I made this in headcanons form and I’m typing on mobile during witching hours, so bear with me dear anon-

I decided to go with fluff since I am in a soft mood today~~

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of blood

To others, you were a tailor owning a small haute couture shop, a spinster who make her living by making outfits. But they won’t know you been doing this since the Georgian times.

You move from county to county, around England every decade or so, to avoid suspension. Luckily no vampire hunters has ever been on your tail: you consider yourself as a good subject to the crown despite being a blood drinker. You only consume animal blood, which made you a harmless vegetarian. Being a forever maiden is not unpleasant by any means, apart from being banished from sunlight. You miss being able to run around in the sun freely. When you do go out during a sunny day you cover yourself in fabric as much as possible, resulting you with overly pale skin.

Contrary to common belief, you slept until the afternoon, opening up the store even during the day. You had forced yourself to change your biological routine to fit in the human society. Although your bed resembles a traditional coffin in shape, it is never an actual one. The mirrors in your shop were not backed by silver, so you can still see your reflections.

You happened to be at late Victorian London when a mysterious murderer decides to drain the blood of thier victims like a vampire would, how unfortunate.

You were one of the suspects, so Sabastian and his lord were obligated to pay you a visit. Although they did not put you as priority to begin with: you never done things like this. 

You welcomed them to your store with a polite smile and warm greetings, as any good saleswoman would. 

Ever since transforming, you had not drank a drop of human blood. However, you can still smell the scent of their blood even through skin. It feels like...a natural perfume to you, to describe it at best. Some are sweeter then others, like tempting sweet delights, and you had to make sure you are well fed before going near them. 

That little lord’s blood is sweet and tempting. The butler, however, his blood just...is that even blood? You thought to yourself. It reminds you of the mighnight, danger lurking underneath the peaceful surface.This man is no ordinary human, you can sense that much. You had never delt with a demon before, therefor your knowledge is rather limited, only from books and theaters. 

Vampires are demons are cut from the same cloth, in a way right? Both can only venture in the shadows for eternity, trying to get by without being slain by those self righteous dastards. Sebastian had met some of your kind over the centuries, albiet none of them are as lovely as you are. You still act like a young human woman, if not for your overly pale skin you would be considered as normal. He wonders what made you this way, as all vampires, save a selected few, are humans before something happened. You seem like a kind lady, not one of those blood-hungry lowlifes he had seen before. 

You showed Ciel your collection, took his measurements when he demanded, never flinching away from the young lord’s cold attitude. When you went into the inner chamber to retrive more material choice, Ciel decided you are most likely not the murderer they are looking for, and Sebastian agrees. There is not a single scent of human blood on you or anywhere in sight, as demons can smell such things even one uses the finest soap to cover the traces.  Even though you are a vampire, if you are harmless to others Ciel is not intersted in fighting you(he has a demon for butler, so?).

“But she is a fine tailor, right milord? Maybe you can just make this a normal shopping trip.” What an unsual person you are, thought Sebastian. He might just take a little more time to observe you. It has been forever since he met another immortal being that does not irritates him.

“Very well. This would not be a complete waste of time then. I need a new suit for the social season anyway.” The young man tsked.

When they asks you to deliver the order yourself, you were hesitant about going outside. Your ususal customers send their servents to collect their orders, as you insisted so. You know what sunburns can do to you, but they offered you a down payment you cannot refuse. It is a risk you are willing to take. Even vampires needs gold to survive, if you do not wish to massacre humans for food.

The moment you stepped onto the estate, covered in a long hooded cloak and gloves, you can sense great calamity has occured in this location rather recently. But that is none of your concerns, the customer’s private life is nothing to pry about.

The servents...they are an odd flock, to say the least. They might seem clumsy or even impotent, but you know that butler knows better then to hire three imbeciles.  

After you made your delivery, Sebastian insists on you staying for the afternoon tea. You wanted to decline, since normal food has been tasting like wet paper ever since that awful day, but you find it hard to say keep saying no to such a comely man. He is the most goregous male you ever seen, and you say that as an immortal. The term “devilishly handsome” is like a tailor made suit for him. 

To your surprise, you can faintly taste the refreshement’s fruity flavours. When you were human yourself you have always loved food, missing it much when all you can taste is blood. So you helped yourself to quite a few tarts and biscuits, not knowing the demon had added special ingredients just for your vampire taste buds. You were so focused on your plate that you missed Sebastian’s calculating smile. 

That esclated rather quickly, soon you found yourself promising to tailor more clothes for Earl Phantomhive, therefore being on their premise more. 

Sebastian would always treat you to a plate of mouth-watering refreshments before you depart. Soon you find yourself answering his somewhat intrusive questions, as it is only fair to give him some compensation for those delicious treats.

The questions are surfaces ones at first. What is your favorite color or your preferred weather. Then to more personal territory, such as the reason behind your spinsterhood or what in a man that attracts you the most. You would blush madly, a feeling you have not felt in years fills your empty soul, and tell him your little answers.

How endearing. Compare to werewolves who behaves like canines, vampire leans closer to the feline side. You reminds Sebastian greatly of the black cat he encountered last spring. Your nonchalant and cheerful attitude are identical to the lovely creature. Oh and how he loves petting her soft fur. He wonders how your hair would feel under his hands. He initially might just be curious of how an odd vampire you are, but now the demon had found you to be quite an entertaining presence.

It has been so long since you had any friends, so you opened up to him quickly, disregarding the risks. You even revealed your identity to the man in black after he swears on his heart to not tell a soul. 

“My entire family was slaughtered by venegeful vampires. My father used to work as a vampire hunter for the mad King, therefore he made enemies of many. Ironically I survived, only to found out I turned into this. A creature who can only hide in the shadows forever. I swore I would never be like those blood suckers, I would never kill someone just to saitate my blood lust. Thank you Sabastian, for all those delicious cakes. They made me feel human agian once more. Also thank you for listening to my rambles, it has been so many years I confided in someone.” So you where a noble lady once. That is where your fine but antiquated manners originates from.

What a calamity you had suffered, yet you remain strong and lighthearted nonetheless. Moving from place to place, afraid to be burnt for your youthful appearance.You deserve to be cherished as the treasure you cleary are. No more hiding and running, not if he can help it.

You gladly accepted Lord Phantomhive’s offer to serve as the household’s tailor, the pay is generous and working for one person greatly reduce the risk of being discovered. Plus you get to spend more time with your new friend Sebastian! It is an offer you cannot turn down.

Sebastain is in a contract right now, but Ciel could only live so long. Prior to meeting you, he never thought about the future after his contract is completed. He imagined the two of you traveling across the European contient as friends, or something more, for the rest of your infinate lives. He has always been alone whenever he was not in a contract with humans, but the idea of being with someone forever is rather appealling to the demon. 

Even though he does not let his emotions discract him from his duties, you can still feel how he smiles whenever you enter the room. You would curl up your lips jovially in return, sometimes even teases him for having a charming smile. 

For now, Sebastian would be your good friend, always lend an ear to you for anything, or offer his shoudler should you need it, as long it does not get in the way of his duties to his liege. But who knows what would happen after the contract is completed? The world is yours to explore, with infinate amount of time, with him by your side.