#or did you want me serving on your jury while manic?

[niniblack]

I'm kind of infuriated at the moment that the county court and district court don't share info. I was summoned by county court in April and excused due to disability (should be permanently) and now I've just been summoned AGAIN by the district court and have to get a new form filled out and mailed in so that I can again be excused, hopefully permanently, due to disability.

I'm not magically sane enough to serve on a district court when I wasn't sane enough for county court, jesus christ. The amount of anxiety this is causing is insane.

[dougmeet]

SMC Clusterf***: Richmond Inn & Suites, Baton Rouge, La. Only Good Ol' Boy Hotel Group in Shreveport -- Hotels for Walmart Corp. -- Could Have Anti-White GM, Trudi Veals, F***-up The 'One-car Funeral' Which Was My 10-month Stay ...UNTIL BLACK JANITOR & COP EVICTED ME CHRISTMAS 2020!

(via Who Kicks Out Hotel Guest During Pandemic? Wyndham Hotels Richmond Inn & Suites GM Trudi Veals Baton Rouge LA, Owner SMC Hotels Group, President Delton Smith, Trademark Collection : mrjyn : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive)

Richmond Inn & Suites, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 225-924-6500 Front Desk, 24 Hours, Trudi Veals, GM

In retaliation with protection of owners, SMC Hotels Group, Wyndham Hotels Resorts, Trademark Collection, a concerted campaign of Constructive, Self-Help Eviction and Violation of Federal , CDC Eviction Moratorium, 12.27.2020, this commemorates Trudi Veals first extortive influence of former Front Desk Clerk, Faith, her first principal conspirator.

Faith tried what the Janitor did succeed, in temporarily impressing a sullen -- from censure -- Trudi Veals had her  momentum halted by superior,  Senior Vice President of Hotel Holding company, SMC Hotels Group, John Holmstrom, who upon hearing from an ex-employee through me what had been happening, had ordered Veals to fire her Assistant, Faith, but because of Faith's faithful efforts in helping her boss, Trudi’s illegal force-out of long-term tenant (me), Veals refused, with a tbsp of lies, and with that, crossed the line of no-return, forcing, on the morning after, a pall   throughout the employees faces.  And they all blamed me, courtesy of the rumor-mongering Trudi Veals.

Dispatch one employee to preserve stability, assuage a resident offended is necessary business to corporate execs, and if they happen to stop the personally motivated machinations  of an employee like Trudi Veals, which they had no idea existed, then all the better.  Whether it was rabidly disputed, although well-known among her confidants and helpers, they knew she was lying because they’d blown it and given her free reign.

For Trudi, just groom another assistant in the final intimidation -- the same spoiled dinner which put her appetite down -- only whetted it now.

Commission, as agent of Hotel, someone with no authority, who could then be explained away as acting autonomously in whatever foolish, non-procedural lunacies he decided of his own to commit, as  what occurred with the janitor, whom she picked as her favorite, one day after Christmas Holiday Weekend,  standing in my hall among his posse commitatus, all in the presence of a silently nodding BRPD, as if to say to any question I definitely had about the absurdity of this shitshow of authority, “... n da tom perrod'f tree our  firm nah (read in Jamaican patois) ...” officer nodding, there wouldn't be an answer. Just a command by the janitor to vacate, as a paid in full, with no court writ or order or notice to leave, to pack and be gone in three hours during the height of COVID-19 lockdown and Presidential Eviction Moratorium, December 27, 2020 -- 10 months since I had, a tenant in good standing occupied legally the dwelling at Richmond Inn & Suites, Baton Rouge, La.

Flight of Ideas and Magic Thought with a virulent predilection of her fantastical imaginings; her inability to control her trait -- relating as fact, lies of incredible construction, Dalian Hotel Policies of absurdity meant to entertain her during these manic episodes which, if confronted, she would blithely revisit, delighting herself again in her shock at admitting, ‘yes, it was all true,’ --  the grievances at Richmond Inn & Suites  left unaddressed for at least the year I was there were accommodated under the management of Trudi Veals.

Two coequal haints visit themselves upon unsuspecting whitebread rubes causing chaotic dustdevils of indeterminate origin.

What number in a year?

How many in a decade?

Of what percentage in the recent past did she dispense with issues in precisely this manner?

Veals enjoyed (as i would see it perpetrated) the $250 assessment.

A rainbow of dreaming washes over me to see its filthy lucre pour from tablespoons of sugar which Trudi administers herself and stirs in that same Macbeth Witches cauldron, while she is now rendered diabetic, debited of limbs and digits -- payment for criminality which through mawkish tears to a shrill interlocutor, she will respond in her Video Sentencing, as the culmination of a life in hospitality.

Inhospitable. No matter, Judge, nor Virtual Jury, Habeas Corpus Delecti, let him / her / it prevail.

That when HIS HONOR enter through Virtual Gallery his Courtroom, Hizzoner, heard bursting from Bailiff, virtual or corporeal, motions remanding  to house arrest, not withstanding, an ankle device shackles, which she did through counsel plead, too much like slavery its burden, her ankles hurting; unto which, adjudged too late, she fell prostrate, her clangorous show farced, and from request of referent obdurate did the Seersucker clown, whose Public Defense came from her diminution of payment -- she was entitled to her Constitutional Right to an attorney --  provided freely by the court, from the unrefined cowshed, overburdened, he couldn't remember which case was hers again -- from his car, to his watch, to his heels -- and through motions improper to a stickler at home for Kramer Vs. Kramer, but not in this Federal District Court of Appeals, appellate counsel for appellant to Bard of the Bench, his days at Harvard and Oxford and his rise through the ranks, horsehair wigs, robes, bibs and gavels,

Criminal barristers will keep wigs and gowns, as the Lord Chief Justice intends to keep the current court dress in criminal proceedings. The Bar is a single advocacy profession with specialisation in particular practice areas. There is logic in having the same formal court dress, where formality and robes are required, for criminal and civil barristers... There is strong identification of the Bar of England and Wales in the public's mind and its formal dress nationally and internationally.

to Justice whose scales weild equal to the malice practiced by those whose Liberty it steals, the gavel heard in the Barrister’s Vatican, like a Solomonic Revelation brought from  unsealing  those Seven Seals -- no Branch Davidian to waste judgement further,  enthroned, not  by Holy Rood,, but Terrible Swift Sword -- the Word of Law -- and before it ,she ask Mercy, which jurisprudence disinclines, a Judicial Granting on what she was standing, on grounds that she just couldn't stand up much longer,  Honorable man in the robe she did cling to as he floated on issue to his decision, a final declination to a continuance deemed by  court; that, And hereby, on this day, now, Say:

By preponderance of irrefutable evidence and with special circumstance, a verdict of guilty, through choice of Defendant --  wishing no man to judge her, but the eminence through Law Whom Ruleth Equal  All. No Prejudice Nor Fear, did he set down sentence which should end thus: To a term no longer than that which Defendant should be incarcerated, as to  the amount of days and nights in moral turpitude she squandered her victims, he rendered the craven acts with special malice and cruelty of intent, as a mere agent Lessor of Lodgement, an Innkeeper, unlawfully with deprivation in violation of Plaintiff’s Covenant of Peaceful Existence, did she relieve.

And so by Order of the Court, she SHALL serve out her sentence under the overpass where the I-10 ends in a maze of Los Angeles’s Skid Row, in a tent where she be remandered, although not really standard, under the lowermost overhanging awning, in a place of habitation -- already, before her, the I-10 so loud and fumid, where she'd be able to think clearly throughout the ordeal.

Warranty durable, should it of necessity in its fulfillment of determinant, subsection policy of coverage to which no clause, nor likelihood of risk amortization, through those Great Bodies of Bayesian Logic, Probability Statisticians, managed to assess that which boldness demurred, with warning our proclivity of enjoyment, times of danger and lack of inhibition, such courageousness wasted of adrenalized wash, natural narcosis, which we enjoy, compared with our duty to dispatch one-quarter century of pent-up niggling, as visited our frustration, whose credit shall present us who read this, no obloquy which I caused, you hear, as that to same degree, I shall enjoy a fireplace on the side of the transcontinental dedicatory slab to the movement of all our narcotics, this land, from its West to its East, an hyperbolic Woody Guthrie pharma-colonized mixture, which is our land now, and made for you and me.

In the deep, wretched South of my birth, says Barry Hannah -- wretched, but, still howling -- like the dinning rubber meeting road of Mario Andretti on nights you hear high-whining Formulae, its Straightaway Quarters where races are won; cacophonous to God -- to the Devil such an idea of fun -- inner-perturbation become discomfit as in dreaming,  you find yourself lost in its midst, the ringing never respite,  tintinnabulation -- this starts, so you now do, clangorous noise you weren't dreaming, remember the concept of Hearth, warm like home, your stay it may see you through this place, the same way as Religion absolves, guarantees of mortals to Glory and Promise of sinning, wanting you commit  your memory as Gospel, when you from sweating awaken into a sub-tropical destination, at 90 degrees humidity, it's really not the heat, it's the torpidity which require strong one-two punch to cough-up your lunch, from economy of motion lost is gained 90 degrees insight whose side of the Highway is not paved with gold, nor paved with  sound barriers, when looking across, it is seen, the thing which precludes  asking aloud when outside, but which would provide perfect protection from eavesdropping G-Men tailing John Gotti and Sammy the Bull, who loved nothing more than eluding them through Bridge and Tunnel traffic massing upon Little Italy Gravy Joints,  FBI packing in for home; the other side, where I, from my third story watch as you, like the painting by Munch, I cannot hear, but the shape of your mouth is as though you appear, ready to scream.

I know because it happened to me, I, like you, now also deafened by sounds only Eviller ears hear, they abound on both sides of the Slab, I-10, where you hear -- its squeals, through the name of the One, it to you hearkens with dread, and dead cursed squall, its sequel, again, and once more, it screams: Trudi Veals!

You late check-ins may wish her, or beware (by reading) The Curse of Richmond Inn & Suites, a Wyndham Hotels and Last Resort Trademark Collection, or the story of Trudi Veals. She is most simply recognized by her bromidic, counterfeit deficiency of presence, resembling the Executive doubles, who, saved by the Plague and its Social Distancing, indispensable to onerous owners of Inns and Suites which are inhospitable and untenable, and cannot be defended. Though Katrina would finish a Century of Death denied it by five years with interest, and finally restore it through penalty of profiteering, abusive mobs, unlike the present Gallows Humored fable, 'Ring Round the Rosie,' illustrative of Corporate Raiders and bottom-tier Hoteliers, whose review provides, simply through teetering acquisition by newly installed CEO, for reasons illustrated by its janitor, Mike, with two unopposable thumbs, the minimum rating it can receive is 'Two Thumbs Down.' SMC Clusterfuck, only Good Ol' Boy Hotel Investment Group of the Shreveport Country Club, Marina, building Hotels for Sam, over to Alabama, Walmart Corp., right in their back yard, who through anti-white racist tending by a General Manager of one-quarter century employ, Mrs.Trudi Veals, to fuck up the 'one car funeral' which was my brief 10-month stay at his lodge,  Richmond Inn & Suites, a Wyndham Trademark no one wants to steal. But everyone wants to read what really went on in the NEW Hospitality Horror Mystery Novella:  The Curse of Richmond Inn & Suites Repeats - a Trademark Collection John Holmstrom, through what strikes me as sensible,  and intuitive in his initial resistance in support for Trudi Veals -- refusing to authorize her request to evict me over what was transparently fallacious.

but President, Delton Smith, Number One Son of great old man Henderson Smith who has just passed, to carry on a family business with as much respect, courtesy, decorum, and hospitality, as a preppy rich kid in a Beemer, wheeling through cherry-picked gig of 8 years at the Hyatt®, a riot of paychecks, nothing really his, everything free to take, the helm, the Presidency of Boards and even Louisiana Hotel and Lodge Association (a derelict clubhouse), even the spotlight at the Socialite event of the Season, marrying another Shreveporter, Dame of Vassar, probs.  Together through wealth and throwing money at things, may their short time together, as they settle down in a place, well, since they both hate it there, it is excellent indeed, that Delton's a Hotelier.

Grandson of former Times section editor feted at engagement party Maggie Martin Shreveport Times  Elegant black and gold invitations requested the presence of friends at the Nov. 10 engagement party for Delton Smith and Caroline Wiggins, who marry on the most glittery of evenings — New Year's Eve.Invitees gathered at the Pierremont area  home of Dr. Kurt and Prissy Grozinger with others co-hosting.

It was an evening to remember with lamb chops on the dining room table and fried oysters passed by wait staffers, the talked about offerings of the evening.

Smith and Wiggins met through mutual friends, and Smith proposed at Capella Resort near Singapore. 101 is a lucky number for

Capella as well as promising 101 alluring waterfront accommodations, the hotel opened

its doors on 10.1 - October 1st

The two went were there for wedding of friends Smith met when he worked in the city. Smith is in hotel development and Wiggins is manager at Poppy's Monograms.More:

Fireworks surprise newlyweds after Coushatta reception

Smith's parents are Harrison and Cissie King Smith. His maternal grandmother is the late Beverly King Hand, a former Times editor well remembered for revising a Times style section. The bride's parents are Susie Wiggins, of Shreveport, and Pat Wiggins.Spotted in the crowd: Brian A. and Ginny King Homza, Drs. David and Carol Clemons, George and Clare Nelson, Bobby and Maura Pugh, Andy Querbes, Gary and Lisa Love, Dr. Charles and Katherine Sale, Lounelle Black, Mary Patrick Baucum, Bill and Nancy Broyles and the groom's paternal grandparents Shelby and Adelaide Smith. Maggie Martin is a Times reporter/columnist. She can be reached by calling 820-7404. Email: mmartin@shreveporttimes.com.

More on this story

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[tedbundy2019-blog]

Who was Theodore Robert Bundy?

The first episode out of four in this documentary, “Handsome Devil”, starts off with showing us crime scene photos of Lisa Levy and Margaret Bowman. Then different reporters, detectives, and family all saying nice things about him while they’re showing his victims. Throughout the first episode of this documentary it talks about the victims stories and how Ted Bundy was tied to them. It also talks about Ted Bundy and his life, like what could have led up to this point. 

The second episode out of four in this documentary, “One of Us”, starts off with showing us a strike for women’s rights, equal rights, and how women should be united. Ted Bundy says “A person of this type chooses his victims for a reason. His victims are young attractive women. Women are possessions. Beings which are subservient more often than not to males. Women are merchandise.” This is important to see women fighting for their rights and then comparing how he thinks of them because it’s not very highly. Throughout this episode they interview one of his victims from Utah that got away, Carol Daronch. Ted Bundy was caught by getting pulled over by a cop with a mask, rope, an ice pick, handcuffs, and more in his trunk. Carol looked at different men in a line-up and pointed out Ted Bundy. At the end of this episode Ted Bundy is served a warrant for his arrest for the murder of Caryn Campbell in Colorado. Ted started preparing himself for his escape. He would jump off the top bunk in his cell to brace his legs for the impact, he mentally measured the distance of the corner of the court house to the alley, then the alley to the riverbed, then the riverbed to the mountains and ran those distances in his cell. He practiced how long it would take him to change out of his courtroom attire into shorts. Ted Bundy escaped.

The third episode out of four in this documentary, “Not my turn to watch him”, starts with the manhunt for him. He eventually came back into town after going into a state of shock because it rained and he needed food. After being put in prison again, he escaped… AGAIN. He slipped through a small hole in the ceiling of his cell that he carved out. He just walked out of the front door and disappeared, nobody knew where he went. After 16 days of being missing, he killed two out of four women in a sorority house at Florida State University. After 40 days of being missing a 12 year old girl goes missing, Kim Leach. After 46 days of being missing, he gets arrested for looking suspicious. They found out his car was stolen from the sorority house and he had 20 stolen credit cards, and he refused to identify himself. The police started investigating and questioning him about the sorority house but he wasn’t fully cooperating. He finally told them who he was in exchange for a phone call to his girlfriend Elizabeth. He told her that he was sick and he couldn’t contain himself anymore. This episode ends with showing the darker side of Ted Bundy. He hasn’t shown this side of him to the public. You can tell he’s a little crazy looking, he’s eager to talk to the press, and he becomes a little aggressive.

The fourth and final episode of this documentary, “Burn Bundy Burn”, starts with dozens of reporters in a room talking about Ted Bundy. This was the first time a trial had ever been on TV. It shows Ted Bundy turn on his attorneys, saying he didn’t intend to plead guilty and he tried to fire him, in the middle of court. Ted Bundy cross examined the first police officer on scene. He asks questions about what it looked like, what the girls looked like, their body positions. He asks the police officer to describe in every detail. It seemed like Bundy was trying to relive the murders. The next court hearing, Ted Bundy locked himself inside his cell and then shows up late. The judge tells him that they will operate whether he’s here or not and Ted tries arguing saying the conditions he’s living in are holding him back from functioning properly. When the jury came to their decision and found him guilty of all seven counts his demeanor changed completely.  He didn’t want to die, his mom believed he didn’t deserve to die but he was put on death row. When he went to trial again for not being competent, his lawyers found someone that specialized in the brain chemistry of violent men. She found out he was depressed, bipolar, and had manic episodes. By discovering this, Bundy got a 24-hour extension before his scheduled execution. Three days before his next execution, he decided to confess to try and extend his life. He started confessing to everything, revealing all of his secrets to clean his soul before dying. Thousands of people showed up the day of his execution screaming “Burn Bundy Burn” outside, making shirts, signs, singing songs to mock his death. Ted Bundy said they’re crazy. He talked about killing himself because he didn’t want to give Florida the power of killing him but Dr. James Bobson talked him out of it. After he was pronounced dead, everyone outside cheered and screamed with joy.

Ted Bundy was a very interesting man. He manipulated over 30 women, killed, and raped them. His charismatic personality helped his manipulation. It was hard to believe for some people that he was capable of doing such horrifying things because he seemed like one of them, normal. After years of going to trial and being in prison, it changed Bundy. He became more impatient with the court, he started becoming more aggressive, and he started showing more of the anger built inside. The true Bundy started to reveal itself. The act he was putting on for everyone to see was disappearing. 

Throughout the documentary, Ted Bundy would be describing his opinion about things and they would show pictures or videos of exactly what he was talking about. For example, in episode two, he talks about how women are merchandise and how someone who kills young attractive women like this does it for a reason. While he was talking about that, videos of women in nice clothing were showed walking across the street, smiling, living their life. I think they did this because it puts the image in your head that he killed innocent women, just trying to live their lives. Another thing the documentary did was show the crime scene photos and pictures of all the victims. This was very heart wrenching for me because they didn’t do anything wrong, none of his victims did. He killed whoever fell into his trap.

I learned a lot about Ted Bundy and his character. Information I learned in this documentary is information I wont be able to find anywhere else. I thought of Ted Bundy as just another serial killer before watching this. After watching, I can’t believe how manipulative, scary, and crazy he truly was. This left me wondering if there is more than the 36 victims he admitted to. 

The bigger question is, is Zac Efron the perfect choice for this role? Again, I think he is because of Ted Bundy’s personality he showed the public and his victims before he killed them. Ted and Zac share common personality traits like being trustworthy, attractive, and charming. I also think it will be a challenge for Zac to get into the mindset of such an evil person. Another very interesting fact i found out while watching this documentary is, the Judge sentencing him to Death Row called him an “extremely wicked, shockingly evil, and vile” human being. This is also the title to the movie Zac Efron is starring in. 

If you want to watch the Ted Bundy Tapes, it’s on Netflix. 

[some-triangles]

PART 4

Utena has turned into a car.

I think it is incumbent on the viewer at this point to try to unravel both why this makes sense as a gesture and why it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Point 1: It’s a magical girl transformation sequence.  Ikuhara, having worked on Sailor Moon, knows all about this stuff.  The beats of a transformation sequence are as follows: upon activation of an arcane device, a girl loses all her clothes and emerges clad in fetish gear.  The ideal transformation sequence from a commercial perspective ends up with a girl wearing an outfit which appeals as much to young girls as it does to grown men.   As has previously been established, grown men like cars – but this car is hot pink, shaped like a uterus and is trying as hard as it can to be a horse.  Or two horses.   It is a “car” in the same sense that Sailor Moon is a “high school girl”.   It has been optimized to serve all of the needs of the academy at once.

Point 2:  What we are dramatizing here is the fact that despite her avowed wish to leave the academy Utena has still been socialized in patriarchy and therefore cannot fully transcend her status as a player of the academy’s game.   When she took Anthy’s hand and led her in the general direction of “out” she was still playing prince, saving the damsel in distress.  This gesture does not work because the academy owns it.   When she attempts it, she is revealed as what the academy forces her to be: an object.  An exciting, ambiguously-gendered object, admittedly, an object which is absolutely up to date and this year’s model, but an object that is nonetheless made to please a particular audience.  As long as Utena can still be the receptacle of male fantasy – as prince or princess – the story cannot work.

Point 3: Back in the old academy Anthy’s role in the final confrontation was to get stabbed a whole lot and lie in a coffin.   Of course, something important and transformative did take place there, and the gesture that changed the academy did come from Anthy in the end; but she didn’t look cool doing it.  Utena did all of the on-screen work.   If Anthy is retelling the story here she wants to emphasize that despite all of Utena’s princely self-sacrifice the most difficult thing anyone did in that room was reach out of that coffin.  She also wants to emphasize that she’s the top.

Akio killed himself earlier because he was unable to find his “key”.  He lost it when he realized that Anthy was, if not enjoying herself, at least tacitly “consenting” to what he had been doing to her, which was, as far as he was concerned, not nearly as hot as the whole drugged princess routine. Anthy, however, already has Utena’s key. Get it?  What we are emphasizing here, in case anyone got the wrong idea from the TV-mandated chasteness of the original series, is that queer desire is actually an integral part of the revolutionary moment.  Anthy is able to go through with this because she really, sincerely wants to fuck Utena’s brains out.

So Utena’s sex car is saved from rusting away from disuse.   The shadow puppet girls arrive to give Ikuhara’s old buddy Anno a shout-out and the race is on.

It’s worth considering whether there might have been a way to do the car metaphor without going full bananas zany with it – whether we might have found some kind of tonal harmony between Touga in the cabbage patch and Anthy in the driver’s seat.    It would probably not have worked but I would have loved to see an attempt.  As it is, the narrator has gone manic and we are flying, buddy, we are up in the clouds.

The shadow puppet girls (who apparently all have pink hair in this universe – emphasizing their artificiality, I suspect) complete their setup and a new challenger enters the race.

Shiori’s car looks kind of like Soundwave from Transformers.  I always liked Soundwave.  Her car is also considerably more phallic than Utena’s, having as it does a cycloptic bull for a figurehead.   Shiori is acting as an agent of the academy here simply by making this a race, rather than an obstacle course - the idea that only one special person gets to leave the academy at a time plays right into the prince/princess narrative.  It’s not a part of the story that Anthy particularly wants to dispel, either, which may be telling.

Shiori says the line of century, which I’m going to render literally for maximum effect: “It’s a big mistake to think that you were the only one who was able to turn into a car.”

Behind the bull Shiori is a big ol’ Chrysler station wagon with frilly upholstery. She underscores the crabs in a bucket motif by saying that only she is cool enough to do something as neat as escaping the world before crashing into a retaining wall and exploding in a completely unforced error, which makes sense when you consider that nobody’s driving her.

Anthy has a nasty sense of humor.

Next up are the thousand drone tanks of the world’s resentment.  The jokes are flying thick and fast now – the shadow puppet girls pick up the encroaching horde on a “vegetable scanner” which superimposes the danger on a picture of a salad, and the three filler dudes who were so fillery that I never mentioned them once in my recap of the original series show up with radar guns. The drone horde also makes a lot of really high-pitched honking sounds.  The director wants us to know that he knows that this is stupid.  The viewer may well ask what all that trauma from before was about, in that case, but there’s no time, the drones are attacking.

Utena’s chassis is effed up in much the same way that her uniform was back when she fought Touga that one time.  Like the opening theme says: “what I want is to find my place in life and my self-worth, taking who I've been up until today and heroically stripping her down until she's bare, like the roses whirling in freedom.”  Cast off that magical girl fetish gear, and be free!  And nude. While we continue to film you.  Trust us, it’s all very liberating.

Just as our heroes are about to be splatted by the biggest drone of them all, a tow hook shoots out from nowhere.  It’s our heroes’ friends!   Or… people who we can assume they made friends with, off screen, at some point!

Ikuhara shouting in the distance: “Oh, the whole bandminton game thing was too subtle for you, huh?  Need to have everything spelled out for you, huh? FINE”

They are driving Wakaba, a Jeep.  (The utility vehicle is truly the plain friend of the motorsports world.)  Explaining their presence, Juri says that high ideals attract noble companions. (I like overtly conceited Juri, and wish her incarnation from the original academy had had a little bit more of that going on.)  Miki tells Anthy that they will definitely follow her outside at some point.  I do not believe him.

The final challenge approaches.  It’s a giant Disney castle on wheels.

Thanks, Ikuhara.  I am beginning to see a Point 4 emerging to complement points 1 through 3 above, straight from the director: “If I make this as shiny, noisy and overt as possible, maybe you idiots will pay attention this time.”

The castle hoves massively into the lane in front of them as somewhere in the distance the bongo player goes nuts.   The shadow puppet girls implore Anthy to turn around and head back, but she’s not running anymore.  Suddenly, the car is wearing a dress.  Car Utena gets a secondary transformation - like, that wasn’t even her final form – like, you got your DBZ in my Sailor Moon, you got your Sailor Moon in my DBZ – like, we are now somehow even more uterus-shaped –

The extended dance mix of Rinbu Revolution starts playing, and let me just say that it is an incongruous choice for a car chase/demolition derby.  Anthy makes it through the castle, to general rejoicing, but there remains one final obstacle.

Point 5: to make all this masculine bullshit appear as silly as possible.

Akio tells Anthy that if she goes out there all she’s going to find is the end of the world.  Which is true, of course – the point of the whole castle palaver, the point of all this fetishizing of youth and innocence, is to keep death at bay.    If you can’t grow, you can’t die; but of course if you can’t grow, you can’t live, either. 

Akio tells Anthy to go back to being a living corpse.  (He can’t find his key, otherwise.)  Anthy tells him to fuck off so he squeezes them between some giant tank treads.

 Utena there, getting denuded again, of course.

Then this happens.

The prince is very, very dead.  The castle collapses in a hail of rose petals and eurodisco.  The shadow puppet girls lose their animating essence and become straw dolls named “Tenjou Utena” and “Himemiya Anthy.”  Cause they were puppets the whole time, see?

“Real” Anthy and “Real” Utena chat about how there are no roads in the outside world and so they will have to make one themselves.  They say this as they are literally driving on a road.   Still on screen and still being filmed, the two girls recline naked on a speeding motorcycle and make out, as you do once you have been freed from the male gaze.  

We end on a shot of another castle in the distance, which seems like a hopeful sign but should be the most ominous fucking thing in the world, if you’ve been paying attention.

The only possible conclusion is that they have not actually escaped.

In the end I can only interpret the last act of this movie as a titanic shrugging of the shoulders, an admission of a failure to envision what escape from this milieu actually looks like.  In this failure it invited other authors to take a crack at the same problem using the same kind of symbol language, which is how we got Madoka and its “let’s reframe choosing to be the Bride, who is still absolutely necessary to the functioning of the universe, as a revolutionary act in and of itself” thesis, among other things.   Ikuhara has a lot to answer for.

The problem of course is that a genuine escape from the academy should probably not be written by someone who has a vested interest in the academy’s continued existence; and so I think if anyone does end up writing the Utena story with an ending that works, it won’t be Ikuhara, or, not to put too fine a point on it, dudes generally.

Then again it’s possible that outside the academy there are things besides writing and rewriting the same old story to worry about.

[writersindigestion]

teased | edward nygma x reader

“was it even regret, anymore?”

reader gender: female

words: 4362

warnings: trauma, substance abuse, paranoia, PTSD, minor violence, minor blood, Edward is still Mean and Green

notes: hey there again, everyone. once more - for your ease of reading, i’ve split this chapter into another two parts… because it was almost at 10,000 words. :////’ sorry i suck so much. but i’m nearing the end… i think. expect another part within the next week or so.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FIVE | PART SIX also available on: AO3

For [Y/N], personally, the following weeks were filled with inactivity. She continued on her previous schedule as she’d been doing since her friend was killed, only making sure to at least sometimes talk with the people outside of her apartment. There were some good films that she saw in theatre, though she spent the whole time snogging her girlfriend, and had only assumed that the movies were “good”. There were some sports games she cheered on, some museums she visited, some books she rented - but nothing felt normal. The manic woman was beginning to realize that she’d likely never feel that way again.

More beers, more wine, more snakes at her spine, and the crucifix ever-taunting her from across the street.

For Gotham, however, the weeks were bigger than they’d been in recent history. They saw the escape of the Arkham monsters (Nygma not included, thank the Lord), they saw the rise of Fish Mooney’s escapees (undead or otherwise), and, most importantly, the catapulting of Oswald Cobblepot to the mayoral throne.

[Y/N] had long since chosen to remain oblivious to the goings-on in her hometown, having spent an exorbitant amount of time with the news droning on in her empty headspace - politics, theft, murder, mass homicide, life-threatening magicians and several attempts at axing Jim Gordon and Bruce Wayne. Then there was Theo Galavan - even for a criminal, she didn’t like him. Had she not been too afraid to leave the house, she wouldn’t have voted for him. Not that it mattered, since no one else had been alive to challenge him.

Little did she know, her ignorance would be her downfall.

“Babe, you’ve got a letter!” Chryssie called from across the apartment, sauntering into sight with silky, pink pajamas floating around her form.

[Y/N] leaned backwards to peer over the cushy loveseat she sat on, her form having been curled up over a popular sci-fi novel. She dogeared the corner of the page and set the book down on the coffee table, her lips parting slightly in surprise. “Really? Who’s it from? Not many people have gotten the memo about my new address.”

The envelope was heavy - clearly a fancy type of cardstock. She glanced over the off-white surface, her eyes catching the tiny, decorative speckles that blended into the background like an impressionist painting. The return address read ‘City Hall’.

“Ugh, government letters,” [Y/N] growled, making her girlfriend turn towards her.

The larger woman tutted, then chuckled, reaching for a pot to boil pasta in. “You probably have jury duty. Aren’t you special, babe?”

Her groans of disdain intensified, but she sliced delicately into the package, pulling out the paper that rested inside. Cramped fingers unfolded the letter, and she cleared her throat dramatically,

“Dear valued citizen,

You have been invited to a celebration of Mayor Cobblepot’s victory in the recent elections. We have hand-selected a number of individuals based on their contributions to Gotham City. The mayor’s home welcomes you to join us this following Sunday, provided this message reaches you safely. It would be an honor to have you.

No reply is needed, and plus-ones are accepted.

Warmly,

Oswald Cobblepot & Team”.

The pair couldn’t help but laugh at the card, practically bent in half with hysteria.

Chrysanthemum broke through her giggles first, “No offense, [Y/N], but what have you ever done to help this city?”

The seated woman spoke between wheezes, “Well, I was a member of the safety patrol in Junior High - clearly worthy of a Nobel Peace Prize.”

“You sure kept those hallways safe.”

“Hey! That was an important job! Think of all the collisions I stopped.”

“God forbid those clumsy preteens gently bump into each other.”

[Y/N] grew facetiously irate, “I prevented FATALITIES - I wore a BADGE! And a NEON VEST!”

Chrysanthemum paused for a moment before commenting, “Seriously, though, you probably got an invite for your work at the GCPD.”

Her partner rolled her eyes, tossing the letter onto the coffee table. “Oh yeah - my ‘work’ - delivering mochas.”

“Hey, now… We are only half as strong as our errand boys!” Chryssie exclaimed, stirring a spoon around in the pot of noodles that she’d nearly forgotten. “So what dress should I wear?”

The other woman sputtered, “W-What? I don’t want to go to this ‘party’! What if they make me wear a button? It probably wouldn’t even match my outfit. Not to mention…” She hesitated, grabbing the envelope again, pointing to the included address, “This guy isn’t celebrating in City Hall - he is partying in his house, which I’m positive is filled with breakables!”

“They need a safety patroller to stop guests from running into their precious valuables.”

“A neon vest really won’t match with anything I own…”

And so the couple decided to attend the celebration - well, one did, and the other begrudgingly followed.

The mayor’s mansion was indeed grand, and filled with fragile objects. [Y/N] kept her arms locked close to her body, and her body away from the walls - it would be just her luck to accidentally break something.

Both women wore black dresses (“In case either of us needs to don that sacred vest.”), their skirts coming to rest just above the knee, with the rest of the bodice fitted to their personal shapes and tastes. [Y/N]’s outfit, while beautiful, was slightly more conservative than her partner’s. She wondered, anxiously, if it made her appear insecure.

Of course, nobody would think anything of it, but her paranoia was potent, personal, and positively irrational.

She kept a stiff arm locked into the larger woman’s, content to let herself be dragged around, as if Chryssie was the one invited in the first place. Bodies swam gracefully between each other, every person grinning like they were actually excited to be there - [Y/N] didn’t believe it.

After awhile of being at the party, she felt comfortable enough to unwind from her girlfriend and mingle with the unfamiliar faces.

Where were the people she knew? If other precinct employees weren’t there - why was the former secretary - who left without warning and refused to answer any and all calls about her absence - invited?

The neurosis settled in full-force this time, and her shaking hand found its way back to the crook of her lover’s right elbow. Between mingling, she whispered these misgivings frantically in Chrysanthemum’s ear, but only got scoffs in return.

Frustrated, she kept her further concerns bottled up, and neglected to speak to most of the people they were now passing by.

Eventually, the feedback of a microphone drew the party-goers’ attention to the front of the room. [Y/N]’s anxiety was somewhat soothed at the hush that fell over the crowd, her senses no longer being assaulted by unrelenting stimuli. A deep breath in, and back out - she was going to get through this.

A man limped up to the mic stand following an over-exuberant introduction from a colleague. He was rather short, for the typical grown male, and had the haircut of someone far too deep into their grunge phase. His grin was proud, bordering on arrogant, but she’d already seen him an innumerable amount of times. Hard to forget the face of a known criminal and gangster when he had shown up so frequently at her place of employment.

Oswald greeted his guests, offering a sincere welcome, “Thank you all for coming - it means the world to me that I have your support…”

[Y/N] tuned out his babbling, staring politely in his direction so as to feign alertness. Absentmindedly, she noted him talking about his mother, his campaign team, and those who voted for him. She swirled the champagne around in her glass, gaze now drawn to the bubbly drink as opposed to the new mayor. Yeah, yeah - when is the buffet open? I’m starving.

“… And most of all, I want to thank my chief of staff, Edward Nygma, for believing in me, especially when it felt like no one else would. Without his faith - none of this would have been possible.”

But she didn’t hear anything past the moment when the mayor mentioned his name. Suddenly petrified, [Y/N] bent to the floor, staying on her feet as she pretended to search for an earring. Chrysanthemum had already realized the issue, crouching next to her as well. Applause erupted around them, and the larger woman grasped her friend’s hand tightly, pulling her away from the noise, their escape hidden under the cover of the crowd.

[Y/N] broke into a near-run as soon as they were out of the room. Chryssie almost had to jog to keep up with her partner, not wanting to risk the two of them being separated. Especially when she knew what was coming.

With the other woman unaware, Chrysanthemum held her breath, waiting on the edge of her seat as they finally reached the exit.

“Isn’t it a little early to be fleeing the scene? We haven’t even served dinner yet.”

[Y/N] didn’t bother turning around, she immediately placed her hand on the doorknob, twisting it with purpose. And it moved - she wasn’t locked out at all, but her girlfriend’s hand on hers rooted her inside the building. Panicked, she cast an alarmed look at Chryssie, seriously debating whether or not she wanted to physically attack her partner, but the look in the other woman’s eyes stopped her from acting.

She could see the devil in her peripherals, but she’d already made up her mind that if she didn’t look directly at him, maybe he’d cease to exist. Instead, her gaze bore deeply into her friend’s, finding grief, finding guilt, finding fear where she thought she’d find malice. Immediate remorse flooded through her - there was no way Chrysanthemum was doing this on purpose. She was no traitor.

What the fuck did he do to her?

Swallowing thickly, [Y/N] questioned her lover, “Can you tell me what’s going on? Did he hurt you?”

Chryssie’s face screwed up - silent, tense tears leaking down her cheeks. She tugged the smaller woman closer, grasping now with both hands. Her voice was quieter than feathers fluttering to the floor, “He didn’t hurt me… He said he didn’t care about me.” The couple’s eyes locked together. “But that if I cooperated, he wouldn’t hurt you.”

[Y/N]’s stomach dropped, and her palms twitched with an ugly anticipation. “You shouldn’t have worried about me. You should’ve taken care of yourself. I would never live it down if something happened to you. Maybe we could’ve gotten away.”

“You know we wouldn’t get away. We wouldn’t make it outside of the city before he found us.”

“We could have tried, Chrysanthemum! We could have tried! He’s not omnipotent-”

“He might as well be - what if we-”

Edward Nygma interjected himself back into the conversation, now standing only inches away from the couple. He fiddled with his cufflinks, giving a calculating, close-lipped smile to the both of them before he spoke, “If you two are done bickering, I have some things to attend to.” His large hand pressed against Chryssie’s shoulder, easily creating distance between the lovers. She looked confused, afraid - he enjoyed it. Always a pleasure to present dilemma to the simple-minded.

[Y/N] made a grab for her friend’s hands again, but was cut off from her side - a criminally tall man instead taking her outstretched arms. She wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at him. All she saw was the green of his suit tie, and even that seemed to dissolve under the weight of her renewed trauma and overall dissociation.

“Wait, wait - what the hell are you doing?” Chrysanthemum called, trailing after the murderer as he pulled her girlfriend into a separate room, “You said you wouldn’t hurt her. Are you a liar and a crook?”

For just a moment, she had his attention, and he turned to her with a flourish, hands still tugging the stumbling [Y/N] along. Edward’s smile was dazzling as he quipped, “Naturally.”

Chryssie was removed from the mayor’s grounds shortly afterward, not being given the chance to get a word in edgewise. She caught her best friend’s gaze before a closed door blocked her from sight. Never before had she seen someone more shell-shocked in her lifetime, and she never would again. After hours of waiting outside the mansion gates, she hailed a taxi, choosing to return home after the guards threatened to call the cops on her.

[Y/N] could only wish that she were being arrested. The hard, unforgiving seat of a police car would have been a welcome comfort against the capture of Nygma.

“I honestly hadn’t expected you to run away so quickly after that day. Smart of you, though - I was a little busy with some things anyways,” Ed started, releasing one of her wrists in favor of sending a short text message. He held up a finger for a moment, as if telling her to quell her thoughts until he was finished typing.

She didn’t have any thoughts. She didn’t have any senses. Everything seemed just a little too far away from where she was standing. All she saw, all she could concentrate on was red - and it was probably her own blood, as opposed to his, that was painted across her psyche.

Long fingers folded the phone closed, placing it in his left pocket with an uncanny amount of grace. He ran a thumb along the inside of [Y/N]’s arm, humming idly.

They came to a stalemate, neither bringing forth any conversation for the sake of letting the other suffer. Unfortunately, for the smaller of the two, Edward had all the power in the situation, and he intended to get what he wanted. He always got what he wanted.

She let out a yelp, trying to pull her wrist out of his grasp as a dull thumbnail started digging angry, red circles into her skin. Her failed attempt at release only served to make his scratching all the more painful, his nail dragging down the length of her forearm as she closed her free hand around his, grabbing his middle finger and yanking it backwards until it nearly touched his carpals.

Ed let her go, his finger on the brink of breaking, and took a surprised step backwards at her sudden display of violence. He looked her up and down - this was not the same woman he left in the precinct basement, crying over her dead friend and chained to some leaky pipes. She had vanished to a far corner of the closed room, soothing the angry marks on her arm like a feral cat, licking its wounds.

[Y/N]’s lips curled back over her teeth, and she snarled as she spoke to him, “You should have died in Arkham, you evil, conniving bastard.” Her breaths came in heavy pants, scraping past her teeth so sharply that the nerves behind her enamel started to ache. “You deserve to suffer for the rest of your life, and then you should be brought back from the dead so you can suffer all over again.”

Something dark - darker than usual - passed through his scrutinizing, brown eyes. She saw the tightness in his jaw, the flexing in his neck. For a second, her fear and rage-induced bravery wavered, but she swallowed, a flagrant attempt at steeling herself against Edward.

But he didn’t advance on her, allowing the frightened woman her space, if only to help push her guard down. He kept himself in check, positive that the end would justify the means.

“I’ll allow you that one. I’m sure that you aren’t happy to see me,” He deflected, settling the topic back on [Y/N], “So how are you? It’s been quite a long time since we last met.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she took another step backwards, hands reaching out behind her for any unseen obstacles. “I think you know how I’ve been, Nygma.”

Ed clicked his tongue at her indignance, flashing a smile that hardly reached his cold, dead eyes. “Now, how are we going to understand one another if you won’t communicate with me. We didn’t keep in touch - how would I know what’s been going on in your life?”

“Because you’re smart. You know you’re smart. I know you’re smart,” She snapped, “What good does it do to tell someone what they already know?”

Another smile - this time twice as unfeeling, as unforgiving. “Humor me.”

It didn’t sound like an invitation. Everything Edward said sounded like an ultimatum. She didn’t know what she’d be sacrificing if she refused to play his games. What were the rules? How did she participate if she didn’t know what the penalties and rewards were? Her head hurt.

“I’ve been terrible,” [Y/N] started, words clipped and enunciated, but she thought better of her decision to enlighten him, “I haven’t been sleeping well. There is a draft in my bedroom.”

She watched him nod, his face feigning grief, feigning sympathy. He’d gotten his hair cut since going to prison - the shaved sides and voluminous top made his cheekbones all-the-more severe, his features all-the-more sharp. Ed had seemingly shed his geeky exterior in favor of a more threatening, business-like persona. It was sensible, she supposed, being that he was the mayor’s chief of staff - but it was much easier to have courage against a mathlete than a mobster. The woman found herself missing the days when she got to be the bully. If she’d known how events would pan out, perhaps she would’ve been meaner to him.

Begrudgingly, she wondered if being nice would’ve helped at all. It was likely that any kindness shown towards him would’ve resulted in a different, more co-dependent type of fixation.

He’s a murderer, a terrorist, a liar, a cheat, a thief, a hypocrite, a traitor, an abuser - there is no need to feel sorry for him, not even in retrospect.

He hummed, drawing the attention of his verbal opponent. “How tragic,” Edward mocked, his feet beginning to creep in her direction, “Sleep is very important to the human body, Miss [L/N]. Perhaps you need better insulation in your home? I could get you some help with that.”

“I’m quite alright, thank you. My girlfriend and I simply wear a few more layers,” [Y/N] vibrated, leaning away from him, but not wanting to box herself in a corner again.

He stopped in his forward assault about two feet in front of her. “Ah - yes, your girlfriend. You know you’re lucky, right?”

She refused to feed into his taunting, angry with herself for even mentioning Chryssie. “Yes. Very lucky. She’s terrific.”

“Chrysanthemum - a lovely name for a lovely person,” Ed drawled, caring little whether or not this woman played into his words, “She looked at her most lovely when she was begging for your life.”

He’d barely gotten his taunt through before [Y/N] launched herself at him, catching the lanky man around the waist and toppling the both of them. She reacted far quicker than he did, taking his shock as an opportunity force her palm into the underside of his nose. The man beneath her let out a cry of pain, and god did she relish that sound. It was even better the second time, when she closed both of her fists and smashed them down across the middle of his face.

He was reeling from the affliction, but thought rapidly, using her lack of grip to throw the woman off of him. This was not going as he had planned. Edward had to regain control of the situation before she ruined his plot any further. The towering male clambered back to his feet, hand pressed against his visage to soothe the aching.

[Y/N] had found footing long before he had, and used the discrepancy to put distance between them once more. “Did that hurt, you fucking moron?“ She growled, spit flying from her lips, cheeks flushed a deep shade of maroon, “I’ve seen middle-schoolers with more guts than you.”

His eyes narrowed, and he let go of his nose in a fit of egotism that he couldn’t quite catch - not that he’d ever been good at that. He sniffed, reaching for his pocket handkerchief, “Impressive, Miss [L/N], I must say that I’ve been caught quite off guard. Are you legally prepared to deal with me when I press charges against you?” Nimble fingers folded the kerchief long-ways, and he dabbed lightly at the blood that dripped from his nostrils. “I imagine your wallet isn't very well-lined from selling coffee.”

She didn’t flinch at his threats. “Go ahead - sue me. Send me to prison. I dare you,” [Y/N] barked, her hands still balled into tight, angry fists, “The only place I can think of that would keep me safer from you is death.”

“Death is not a place - it is a state of being.” Ed was then quiet for a moment, his head already leaps and bounds ahead of the woman. She was brave, yes, but she was still an idiot. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” He quipped, his rhetoric short as he started circling around to his opponent’s side.

She mirrored him, stalking in the opposite direction to avoid letting him get too close. Her palms were beginning to sweat. Maybe she’d managed to land a good punch, but she would never be able to match him in an intellectual battle. He underestimated her - she knew that - and it was probably the only advantage she had against him.

His long legs stopped in their assault, and he changed directions, heading towards the door that they’d only just entered through. With a twist of the knob, it was open, and he stepped to the side, gesturing for her to exit.

[Y/N] squinted at him. “What the hell are you doing?”

Edward didn’t hesitate to answer. “You’re free to go.”

Her mind shut down entirely, her fists uncurled, her face unscrewed. “I’m free to go?”

Momentarily, his indifferent expression darkened. “Don’t make me repeat myself - I didn’t stutter.”

“Just what are you playing at? What am I going to find if I go out there?” Contrary to his offer of escape, she moved further away from Ed, his sudden complacence painfully suspicious.

“I’m not playing at anything. You want to leave, and I’m offering you a chance to leave.”

“That’s a load of bullshit - we both know it. What reason do I have to trust you?”

He smiled, his face lacking warmth almost entirely. In fact, the man’s personality seemed encapsulated in sub-zero temperatures. “I’m not asking for your trust, Miss [L/N], it’s something I simply don’t require…” Brown eyes settled idly on their prey, an unfriendly sort-of mirth lacing their irises. “What I’m asking is for an unwelcome woman to leave the mayor’s home.”

She bristled, but didn’t bother to test his patience any longer. Though reluctant, her unsteady legs drew past the hateful, worthless man, and she heard him follow her out of the room.

He watched her as she stiffly made her way down the front steps, [Y/N]’s entire body alight with anxiety. She paused for a moment, taking a glance backwards at him, and Edward tilted his head in acknowledgement. “I’ll be seeing you, Miss.”

Her steps quickened after his goodbye, and she had to hold back tears until she was off the property.

Chrysanthemum didn’t let go of her for a second that night, and in the following couple of weeks, she watched her companion deteriorate faster than she had after Kristen’s death.

[Y/N] quit her job. She canceled her gym membership. She gave away and donated practically all of her belongings, no matter their worth, not matter their sentimentality. She stopped speaking with friends. She stopped speaking with neighbors. She stopped leaving the apartment. She stopped communicating with her girlfriend. She stopped smiling. It hardly seemed like she breathed anymore, and she definitely didn’t sleep.

When slumber took even a moment to grace her eyelids, all she saw was Edward Nygma. It was a nightmare that she could neither wake from, nor rest from.

The familiar shape of a beer bottle found its way back into her limp grip, her body conforming into the chair that she’d spent so many long days rotting in. Tired eyes found their way back to the Catholics wandering in and out of the cathedral. And the will to live lost its way back to her heart.

She was exhausted in her lethargy. All she did was think - of ways to escape, of ways to beat him, of ways to recover, of ways to get help. There was an outright guarantee that if she even attempted to contact the police, it could mean death for the woman she loved - [Y/N] didn’t have to ask Nygma to figure that out. He meant to see her again. No one could offer sanctuary from a man that seemed to have buried his grubby hands in every niche of Gotham City. So quickly he’d managed it, too.

A happy family walked out of the doors to the church, smiles on their faces and their heads in the clouds. Inwardly, she asked herself if even God himself could save her from Ed’s disgusting, bruising clutches.

She asked herself again.

She asked herself again.

She asked herself again.

Her tongue darted out to run across chapped lips, and she set the beer bottle on the side table, rising slowly from her seat. Bare feet brought her to meet the broad face of the packed, homey-looking bookshelf. Her fingers skimmed the bindings, looking for something particular. After several moments of searching, she felt it - a worn, faux-leather covering, a little handle sticking out for ease of transport. She pulled the book from its space in the collection, warming her palm over the canvas as she brought it back to her seat, opening the aged pages with care.

Her eyes did not comprehend anything they were reading, she was so wrapped up in her thoughts. This was her chance. Maybe she could get away with this - ’God-willing’.

-

What. The. Fuck? Ed. You’re a prick. And… You look like a string bean. >://’ Anyways - let me know if you enjoyed this part! I’ve been working real hard on this story! Once again - I am taking requests, and would probably cry if you left me some. Also - still interested in a beta reader to help me check for continuity and grammar, ect… Love y’all. - writersindigestion

[homestuckshakespeare]

Act 3, Scene 2

SCENE II. OLIVIA's house.

Director’s note: As ever, the long couch flanked by big-leafed potted plants. Equius, the couch is yours. Nepeta, take one of the plants. Rose, take the other. You’re on-deck anyhow. Then, lights up.

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN

DN: Dirk, enter dejected and dismayed, as one who has been thoroughly embarrassed. John and Jade, you are trying desperately to convince him to stay, because you’re taking his cash. I say again: desperation. So, Dirk plods across the stage, and you two flit after him.

SIR ANDREW

No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.

SIR TOBY BELCH

thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.

FABIAN

you must needs yield your reason sir andrew

SIR ANDREW

Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count's serving-man than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw't i' the orchard.

SIR TOBY BELCH

did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.

SIR ANDREW

As plain as I see you now.

FABIAN

this was a great argument of love in her toward you

DN: Dirk, turn towards them now, and you are sad and angry both.

SIR ANDREW

'Slight, will you make an ass o' me?

DN: Jade, you’re going to prove it with logic, like doing a mathematical proof. John, you’re chiming in to reinforce her. Jade can do whatever gestures she wants, and John, you mimic her when you can. Dirk, consider it. Hand on chin or what have you.

FABIAN

i will prove it legitimate sir upon the oaths of judgment and reason

SIR TOBY BELCH

and they have been grand-jury-men since before noah was a sailor.

FABIAN

she did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver you should then have accosted her and with some excellent jests fire-new from the mint you should have banged the youth into dumbness. this was looked for at your hand and this was balked: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off and you are now sailed into the north of my ladys opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on a dutchmans beard unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt either of valour or policy

SIR ANDREW

An't be any way, it must be with valour; for policy I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.

SIR TOBY BELCH

why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. challenge me the count's youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven places: my niece shall take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman than report of valour.

FABIAN

there is no way but this sir andrew

DN: Dirk, you are grudgingly persuaded, and nod.

SIR ANDREW

Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

DN: John, put your hand on Dirk’s shoulder and physically steer him slowly toward Stage Right. When Dirk stops, shove him a little. Go on like this for your speech.

SIR TOBY BELCH

go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink: if thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of ware in england, set 'em down: go, about it. let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter: about it.

DN: Dirk, you should be almost off-stage for this line.

SIR ANDREW

Where shall I find you?

SIR TOBY BELCH

we'll call thee at the cubiculo: go.

Exit SIR ANDREW

DN: John, when Dirk leaves, turn slowly to Jade, and grin manically. Run over to her. High-five. Jade, you are just as excited as John is, and you put an arm around his shoulders.

FABIAN

this is a dear manikin to you sir toby

SIR TOBY BELCH

i have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.

DN: Jade laughs. For the “you’ll not deliver it,” be genuinely concerned that this might happen - you don’t actually want them to fight. John, in contrast, is intent on delivering it, but doesn’t think it’ll happen anyway.

FABIAN

we shall have a rare letter from him: but youll not deliver it???

SIR TOBY BELCH

never trust me, then; and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. i think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. for andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, i'll eat the rest of the anatomy

DN: Jade, you’re reassured by this, and add more to reassure you both.

FABIAN

and his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty

Enter MARIA

DN: Rose, run in, and pant a little bit when you’re talking. You have beheld something hilarious. John and Jade, you’re delighted to see her. Jade can squee a little bit. Everyone is super exited!

SIR TOBY BELCH

look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.

MARIA

If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He's in yellow stockings.

SIR TOBY BELCH

and cross-gartered?

MARIA

Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' the church. I have dogged him, like his murderer. He does obey every point of the letter that I dropped to betray him: he does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map with the augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such a thing as 'tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady will strike him: if she do, he'll smile and take't for a great favour.

SIR TOBY BELCH

come, bring us, bring us where he is.

Exeunt

DN: RUN offstage. You are all beyond excited about this. Wait a moment, then lights down, then Equius strike the couch, John and Jade get the potted plants.