#pressure washer machine

[jpttools]

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[marsixm]

i did so much today im so tired

[tcustodisart]

I need to draw her more often...

[inga-don-studio]

Two things I have learned:

1. Big industrial carpet stain extractor machines are very fun to use

2. The stains will have their revenge on every muscle in your body the next day so watch out

[vootclean]

https://vootclean.com/high-pressure-machines/ - High-pressure machines are essential tools for various industrial cleaning and maintenance tasks, providing the power and precision needed to tackle tough jobs effectively.

[manmachinworks]

The Power of the Ultimate Car Polisher Machine | Manmachine Works

The world of automotive detailing has undergone a remarkable transformation with the advent of advanced tools and technologies. One such revolutionary tool that has become indispensable for professional car detailers is the car polisher machine. These machines have redefined the art of auto detailing, providing unmatched precision, efficiency, and quality in achieving that coveted showroom finish.

[thoughtfulenemyking]

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[seat-safety-switch]

One of the things that nobody tells you about automotive repair is how much of the job involves cleaning. Brake cleaning. Contact cleaning. Interior cleaning. Wiping off pounds of mud so you can even see. Some fixes, you spend more time cleaning off the area than you do actually doing the work.

There are two schools of thought on this issue. Not everyone believes what I do, which is that clean cars run better than dirty cars. Some part of the immortal machine spirit smiles upon you for having treated it well. I will swear as I am being lowered into the ground that a car wash picks up, like, a quarter of a horsepower.

A couple years ago, I went out mudding in my buddy's Isuzu Impulse which had been inexplicably converted to a dune buggy. He tells me that some kind of entity came to him in the woods and told him to do it, but I'm pretty sure it must have been some stoned kids on spring break. Either way, it's very satisfying to pop the pressure washer and hose off five pounds of mud from each of the seats after we're done playing. It's by far my favourite kind of maintenance: done from afar, indiscriminately, with power tools.

Of course, there are limits to my love of the clean. For instance, my old Impala has a hole in the floor big enough to catch a mid-sized dog inside. Road salt and the oil leaking out of the engine make a huge mess in the interior. Cleaning it is futile until I've fixed the hole, and I can't fix the hole until I've cleaned it well enough to get a weld down on what's left of the metal. So instead, it's got some stolen hotel towels duct-taped over the hole. When one becomes too rancid, I put it in my neighbour's trash, and wear my hotel-maid outfit to go get a new one.

Don't worry; I do a little bit of tidying-up while I'm in there. Otherwise that towel cupboard would be so cluttered. How could anyone see what they're doing in there? Super dangerous to the workers, they should be paying me.

[justsescape]

I want to see Asuka treated like a barn cow and milked consistently.-

"Another nineteen inches added to my bust measurement today," Asuka declared proudly. The tape measure was so tightly wound across her gigantic breasts that flesh was bulging around its length. "HA! No other cow in this barn can even hope to compare to my greatness. I am the best and most productive cow this barn has ever known!"

Asuka's body was downright unrealistically proportioned. Her arms and legs were so slender that they could have led her through a career in ballet -- but her boobs were like beanbag chairs, draping over her fragile figure like they aimed to cover it entirely. In her stall, she had taken up a habit of sitting atop one of her many, many filled milk barrels and letting her bust simply spread across her thighs and droop down until her downturned nipples grazed against her toes. Come nightfall, she never asked for a blanket. Slipping beneath her overdeveloped chest was like sleeping underneath a thick down comforter.

"Oooof... carrying the weight of this business makes my back hurt in more ways than one." Asuka had long since traded her Evangelion's hair clips for a cow-eared headband. The rest of her outfit was similar: cowprint thigh-highs, cowprint gloves, and a cowbell dangling from a collar around her neck. Practically the only thing that she couldn't cover up were her titanic tits. An entire alphabet's worth of bras trembled in fear at the mere thought of it. "But if my milk is the best, then it's my duty to serve the clueless masses!"

The measuring tape retracted from Asuka's chest as a pair of manhole-sized, clear plastic cones clung themselves to her oversized nipples. They didn't always land in the same place each day; familiar red rings still marred her pale skin as mementos of the previous week's sessions. The staff never let them fade completely. No one produced more milk than her.

"Would you hurry up and start already?!" Asuka's arms flailed as wildly as they could -- perhaps to overcompensate for all the ways the rest of her body now couldn't. The cowbell rang dully with every little tilt of her head. "It's not like I can drag my boobs down to the milking machine and do it myself! You know I would if I could, just so I wouldn't have to put up with you incompetent morons!"

Attached to the plastic cones were a pair of tubes that slunk lazily over the fence surrounding Asuka's stall. They snaked and coiled through the thoroughfare of the barn, into a door that was consistently ajar, and down a flight of stairs into an underground repository. Somewhere in the dark, they connected themselves to the barn's central milking machine. It was a towering, modular, deafening system -- like a server farm stacked on top of another server farm. Multiple clean-suit technicians ran around its perimeter, barking orders and readings and jargon at one another. Perhaps this was the job of the least-endowed cows.

The entire complex began to buzz. It took every ounce of power the barn could muster to service Asuka's outrageously productive breasts.

"Here it goes!" Asuka's toes curled in anticipation; her hands dug into her bust, skin bulging in between her fingers. "I'm ready!"

BZZZZZZZZZZZ!

It was less like a pump and more like a vacuum. Milk didn't come out of Asuka's nipples in rhythmic spurts, but in a hydrant-like flow that resembled that of a pressure washer. Her product coursed violently through the tubes like water through a fire fighter's hose. Other cows in the neighboring stalls -- some with D cups, some with beach balls, but none bigger than Asuka herself -- gripped their own fences as they watched the tubes jostle and shake against the hay-covered ground in the thoroughfare.

"MMMMMMMMF!~" A bit lip; trembling knees. Asuka's hands clutched the barrel she sat upon like she was a pilot gripping an ejected seat. "How... h-how does this f-feel... even... nnNNNnnfff~... even better every time...?!"

Down in the underground, the technicians rapidly exchanged full barrels of milk for empty ones. They stacked atop one another against the walls -- almost like the beer cans in Misato's apartment. Years ago, that was the place Asuka called home. Now she wouldn't be able to fit through the front door.

"Nnnngh... I... I can't... I c-can't st-stop myself... m... mmMMmmm... moooOOOOoooo~..."

Beads of sweat clung to the tips of Asuka's bangs. She panted like she had just run a marathon -- but the marathon of milking had only just begun.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Blind Offer 4

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After a leak causes you to evacuate your apartment, your landlord offers a vacant unit that’s too good to be true. (short!plus!reader)

Character: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Lloyd Hansen, and August Walker

Note: Monday was like a punch in the face. This is one of my Corrupt-A-Wish requests but I won’t reveal which one right away because it’ll be part of the plot!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love turning intended one shots into series. Take care. 💖

It’s not often you manage to sleep in. It’s a true feat for you to wake up after nine on your days off and not lay wakeless and frustrated at six in the morning. Despite this, you feel less than rejuvenated. In fact, you’re exhausted as you sit up and rub your eyes with the heels of your hand.

Dizziness follows you from the bed as you stumble to the bathroom. After letting out the pressure in your bladder, you rinse your face with cold water in an attempt to chase away the dregs of fatigue. You grumble and leave your reflection in the dark.

You snatch up your phone and head downstairs. You flip through your notifs, including a message from your landlord. You’re not entirely surprised by the good night. He seems to struggle with his social filter and timing. Sending you sweet dreams after midnight isn’t exactly sauve.

Whatever. He’s a bit strange but he could’ve lied and charged you for the washer. He could’ve even made you pay for a hotel. As odd as this whole arrangement has become, your complaints can’t outweigh the trouble saved.

You set up the coffee machine to brew and turn to lean in the crook of the counter, enamoured with your phone. You know it’s bad to just sit there staring at a screen at first light but you’re slightly disoriented. You feel like you have to do something to keep from thinking too much.

The coffee is a bit strong. You choke it down as you bring up your inbox. Maybe you should check in about the apartment. Today would be perfect to get back to normal. You have a stretch of five days coming up and you would rather not be scrambling to pack up on a work night.

You bring up Steve’s chat and ignore his last text; ‘sweet dreams, sweetheart ✨’. That’s better left unacknowledged. 

‘Hey, wondering what it’s looking like at my apartment. When do you think it’ll be ready?’

You hit send and stare into the depth of your coffee. The taste isn’t what you’re used to. You like a lighter roast over the smoky dark flavour. You force it down for the much-needed dose of caffeine and rinse the cup. You pause and stare at the dish rack. It’s empty.

You set your glass inside and reach to open the cupboard above. All the dishes are neatly stacked. The plate you used last night set with the rest. The pans are away and the cutlery too. You swore you left them to dry.

You shake off the ripple of unease. Your phone buzzes and you look down at the incoming call. He can’t just text?

You answer it, clearing your throat before you croak out a hello.

“Hey, uh, sorry I haven’t updated you. Been pretty busy,” Steve jumps right in. You can hear activity on his end of the line, “it’s not looking like this will be done today.”

“Oh, really?” You sigh, “well, okay. Thanks for letting me know–”

“Rogers–” Someone calls from his end and he quickly shushes them.

“Yeah, it’s turning out to be a bigger issue than I thought but if you need anything at all, let me know.”

“Of course, thanks. Um, I’ll let you go. You sound pretty busy.”

“Just a lit–”

The line cuts off. You pull the phone away from your cheek and look at the screen. The timer is paused and the call moves to your history. You’re sure if there’s anything important, Steve will call you back.

You bring up the tab viewer and clear away all the windows. You open a new app and stare at the logo, waiting for it to load. It doesn’t. You close out and try again. Hmm. You pull down the menu and check the wifi; connected without internet. Really?

You notice the bars at the top of your phone are gone too, a circle with a line blink over them. No service either. What the hell? A tower might be out. You put your phone screen down and leave it in the kitchen. You’ll give it twenty and hope it’s back up once you’re dressed.

Upstairs, you dig out an outfit to lounge around in and start on your daily routine. Brush your teeth, cleanse, moisturise, the very basics that make you feel human. Usually, the process renews you but today, everything is a task. You feel and look drawn.

You pull on your lavender sweat and plain white tank. You go back downstairs and retrieve your phone. Still no signal. That means you have to entertain yourself. Or… maybe you can find a coffee shop with a functioning hotspot. You could use something sweet after the bitter dark roast.

You pull on your sneakers and slide your phone into your purse. You jingle the keys as you approach the door. You tend to use the doorcode, it’s just easier, but just in case the wifi is messing with the system. You flip the latch back then grab the handle and twist.

The door doesn’t budge. You try again, yanking harder. You use both hands, pulling on it until you’re out of breath. What the fuck? Are you locked in?

You go to the small box mounted beside the door and check the screen. Armed and secured. Okay? You punch in the code Steve sent you but the thing just beeps at you five times and shows ‘incorrect passcode’. You try again, making sure you punch it in slowly so you don’t get any numbers backwards. The same incessant beeping sounds.

“Ugh!” You cross your arms and step back. You can’t even call Steve to tell him.

You fish out your phone and raise it above you. You walk through each room, trying to find a signal. Nothing. You sniff and try to disconnect and reconnect to the wifi. It doesn’t work. You don’t even know where the router is to reset it.

Panic starts to crawl its way up your body. This is so strange. You’re trapped here, alone, isolated. On your day off, too.

You put your purse down and your phone and go to the window in the front room. Try to push it open but it won’t move. The clasp does nothing to free it and your distress begins to build. What is going on?

You lean forward and look outside, hoping you might chance on an elusive neighbour or a passerby. Nothing. The street is just as empty as usual. 

What do you do? Just sit and wait? You’re at a loss.

You stagger back and fall heavily onto the couch, holding your head in your hands. Something isn’t right, you can feel it, but your mind nips at your intuition. It’s nothing. These things happen. Bad luck comes in threes; broken washer, shitty encounters, and now, you’re cut off from the world. 

You’re through the worst, right?

🖤

You doze off in the tedium of your new wireless existence. You don’t realise until you come too, face down on the leather couch with an arm hanging down to the floor. You bend your elbow and push yourself up, a pang sparking across your lower back from the stiff cushions. You look around, searching for your bearings.

You lean forward and take your phone. It’s been almost two hours since the world shut you out. The service bar is still blinking and the wireless is still disconnected. Goddamn it!

You climb to your feet and shake your head, trying to free yourself from the cobwebs. You’re hungry. You should eat. It’ll give you something to do.

You take out the prepackaged salad in a plastic container. You should eat it before it starts to wilt. You pop the lid off and add the little packets of nuts and cranberries, then drizzle over the dressing. You stir around the leaves, coating them with the oily vinaigrette.

You eat slowly, staring at the fridge and the touchscreen set into it. Fancy fridge. Fancy everything in this place. You almost miss the simplicity of your rattling fridge and leaky washer.

You get about halfway through the salad and give up on the dry kale. Not enough dressing in the world can make that good. You close up the container and put it back in the fridge.

You trail back up the hall to the entryway. You grab the handle again, wrench as you pull on it with all your might. You plant your feet and grunt, fighting to pull it from the frame. You stop and flip the latch, thinking maybe you accidentally locked it. Nope, still stuck.

“It’s not going to open,” a voice echoes from the high ceilings.

You spin and press your back to the door, looking around frantically for the intruder. You don’t know that voice. There’s no one there. Oh god, are you going crazy?

“What the fuck is going on?” You ask aloud, cringing as you realise that is definitely insane. You’re talking to a house.

“I said, it won’t open,” the deep timbre comes again. You gulp.

“Wh- where are you? What– Who–” you sputter, confused at what’s going on. You push away from the door and spin, searching for a shadow or ghost. Whatever it is that’s possessed this place.

“I can see you but you can’t see me,” the narrator says.

You still and turn back to face the security box. Still armed and secured. You pivot slowly, searching the walls and the corners.

Even if you found the cameras, what would you do?”

You squeak and clap your hands together. Okay, this is fucked up. This has to be a nightmare. You close your eyes and bow your head, willing yourself to wake up.

“Rogers is right. You’re a nervous one.”

You pop your head up and stare at the ceiling, “what are you talking about? What is going on?”

The voice laughs. You shake your head as you sink your nails into the back of your hands, clenching them tight. Your heart pounds behind your ears, spinning your head.

“Steve? You know Steve?” You ask desperately.

“Doll, you can ask all the questions you want. You give answers, I don’t.”

You whimper, eyes wetting in horror. This can’t be real. It can’t be. Whatever this is, Steve will come and let you out. Whoever this creep is who hacked his system if just fucking with you.

“Shut up,” you snap, “you… you weirdo. What the fuck?”

“You got a filthy mouth,” he rebukes, “lady’s shouldn’t talk like that.”

You reel and stammer. You scoff and pull your hands apart, trying to steady yourself, “fuck you, dude. Men shouldn’t be doing whatever the fuck it is you’re doing. Spying on me, or whatever.”

There’s a click and silence. You wait for a response. Nothing. You spin again, searching. “Hello?”

Your voice reverberates around you. No answer. Just the still, stolid silence of the house.

A low whir underlines the quiet and you face the door again. The narrow windows along either side begin to disappear. You can’t believe your eyes. Black barriers descend over the glass and block out the sun.

You rush into the front room, finding the same thing on the wide bay window. You rush over but can’t stop it, recoiling before the barrier can crush you. Shit, shit, shit. 

“What is happening?” You holler as you face the open room.

Again, you’re left with your own question. You don’t get it. Is this a joke? Wait, what if this isn’t Steve’s place? You were always told not to trust a landlord…

🖤

You pace and pace until your legs give out. You're weak and wilted. Your mind as addled as your body. You don't get it!

You cry out, begging for an answer; what's happening? Who is this bodiless voice? What do they want from you?

Is this what it's like to snap? To enter psychosis? It can't be real yet you don't think you could machinate such a fantastical terror on your own.

You lay in a heap on the floor, waiting for whatever comes next. It's all you can do. Your fingers are bruised and scraped from clawing at the door and windows. Your eyes are swollen from the flow of tears that rises without permission only to recede to a pulsing anger that makes your skull throb.

You hear a jingle. Digital and bubbly. You pop up and reach for your phone. You keep it on vibrate but you never know. No change. No service.

You huff. What the fuck was that? You clasp your phone tight and wobble to your feet. You walk between the couch and the low coffee table, following the jingle as it sounds again.

You enter the kitchen and find the screen of the Amazon Echo flashing at you from the counter. Where it once displayed the time and weather, you see a blaring font. You get closer and lean in to read it.

'Go to your room. Put the dress on.'

You blink. Huh? What dress? You don't wear dresses. You shake your head and stand straight, looking up at the ceiling.

The device chimes again. You read the new message. 'Do it.'

You sigh. What the hell is this dystopian fever dream?

The screen clears, a new message; 'bad girl, your disobedience has been noted.'

Your chest knots. You don't like the sound of that. It's both frightening and enraging.

You tap the screen. Maybe you can access something through there. Maybe get the wifi working. It does the respond to your touch, it changes again.

'Turn around.'

You retract your hand and stand stalk straight. Eyes wide. You quiver as you slowly shift around. You shield yourself, expecting someone to be waiting for you.

You only find the small flatscreen mounted in the corner of the kitchen lit up. The TV screen plays the very scene you stand in. You get closer, lowering your arm as the figure on the screen does the same. The angle is high, you follow it up to the corner.

You take as step back and glance again at the smart screen on the counter. You jump as music erupts from it, a song you know, that you heard recently. 

'The world is a vampire Sent to drain Secret destroyers Hold you up to the flames And what do I get for my pain? Betrayed desires And a piece of the game'

Another message blips up on the screen. You near, hugging yourself as you read it.

'Last chance.'

You shudder and nearly swallow your tongue. You should be defiant. Be strong and stand your ground. You're utterly terrified. Is it Steve? Did he do this?

You turn solemnly away, accepting defeat. You enter the front room and almost in a trance, traipse up the stairs and down the hall. You stop in the doorway of the bedroom. You gasp.

There's a dress on your bed. It wasn't there before. You've never seen it. The red checker pattern, the wrap cut. It's old fashioned in a way. 

The music wafts up louder from the first floor. You spin back to the empty hallway. Someone else was here… are they still there?

[prettybabybaby]

¡ 18+ only ! ¡ minors do not interact !

content: obsessed!roommate!remus, fem!reader, masturbation (m)

¡ marauders masterlist !

“Remus!” You call, rushing towards the washing machine. He watches you, eyeing the way your breasts bounce beautifully with every step, caged by your tight top. Your skirt is clinging to the curve of your hips and ride up your thighs. The fabric folds over itself, dangerously close to the apex of your thighs. He released a breath from his nose.

His mind floods with filthy thoughts of kissing up your thighs and forcing his head under the slutty, skintight fabric, mouthing at your little panties and tasting the slick that soaks through them. Annoyance fills him quickly as he thinks of the abundance of men about to perv on you as you dance around, swaying your hips, touching up your figure in a drunken haze.

“Would you mind tossing these in the wash with your stuff?” You hold out a bundle of clothing, your gym set. The pretty blue one that makes him uncomfortable in his trousers. The one you wore just hours ago to the gym. The one that collected your sweat, your natural scent and sweet perfume. His mouth runs dry and his grip tightens on his laundry basket.

Remus nods calmly, “yeah, sure.” He reaches for it, fingers tingling where they brush yours. Your manicured nails are covered with a clear, glossy polish but are devoid of color. The fabric is warm in his grasp and he places it atop is dirty sweaters. “Should be done by tonight.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Rem,” you smile, placing your hands on top of his, squeezing. The pressure is just right, the perfect warmth and softness. His cock hardens and he’s grateful for the basket.

“I’ll be back before midnight,” you rise to your toes, leaning over the basket to kiss his cheek. He stares down your spine and over the swell of your ass in the tight skirt. His skin heats under your lips. It’s too wet, too sticky with gloss and he feels himself getting harder and harder, imagining the mess on his cock.

You pull away and he misses the contact instantly. “Oops,” you say sheepishly, “I got some lipgloss on your cheek.”

He reaches to touch it, wiping off just a bit on his middle finger. “It’s okay. Have fun.”

You turn and walk away, “I will! Bye!”

As soon as the door shuts he drops the basket, closing his eyes as he inserts his finger in his mouth. He laps at the sticky gloss, picturing your pretty lips. His other hand gropes his dick, trying to emulate the pressure of your hand.

Remus wipes at the gloss on his cheek, smearing it across his pink lips. He shivers and licks his lips. The washer door is open, detergent and fabric softener in the appropriate compartment but he pays it no mind.

He reaches greedily for the gym set, unraveling the bundle and breathing heavily as he holds it to his nose. He inhales deeply, feeling your sweet scent travel into his lungs. His hips jerk as he presses his body against the washing machine, shutting the door closed with his weight.

Remus mouths at the thin fabric of your panties, using his tongue to taste any bit of you. He moans at the flavor that coats his tongue, the salty, saccharine sweat left from your plush thighs. He can feel his mouth watering and his hips rutting against the metal of the washing machine, his leaking precum soaking his pants.

“Fuck,” he slurs. He needs more, his body burns with want. Need.

His mousy hair falls to his face as he clutches the little shorts, bunching them into a ball and stuffing it down the front of his pants. He sighs, cock jumping against the shorts that were pressed against your pussy, sticking to every crevice of your cunt. Remus’ hips fuck into it, hitting the steel of the washing machine. It shook, slamming against the wall with his desperate thrusts.

Remus buried his face into the panties he held in his fist, sniffing and drooling on them and using his unoccupied hand to feel up his cheek. The gloss is sticky and shaped like your lips.

He ruts desperately, thighs tense but knees weak. He’s so desperate but he doesn’t have it in himself to feel embarrassed. the ghost of your presence on his cock, in his nose when he inhaled, and on his tongue when he sucked on your skimpy underwear.

Remus’ hips stutter and he cums, an animalistic moan escaping from deep in his throat. He sighs, rubbing his face against the fabric of the panties, getting as much of you on him as he can.

[vootclean]

https://vootclean.com/high-pressure-machines/ - High-pressure machines are essential tools for various industrial cleaning and maintenance tasks, providing the power and precision needed to tackle tough jobs effectively.

[diazsdimples]

Some Sentences Sunday!

Tagged by my beloved @daffi-990 and @jesuisici33

Hi, I am a bad person. I started a new WIP. This, to be fair, is gonna be a short, hopefully funny, smut oneshot. Please enjoy this small (long) snippet!

Eddie’s hanging out the washing when he notices it. Just for the record, it’s not like he regularly inspects Buck’s underwear, thank you very much, but he’d felt something tacky on the inside of the flimsy fabric when he’d been about to peg it up, and had investigate like any sane person would do. Eddie’s initial thought is “fucking washing machine, can’t even wash out the laundry powder”, mostly because there’s a white residue under where his thumb was placed moments earlier and there’s been occasions when their black shirts have had clumps of laundry powder still on them despite the tossing about they’ve received in the washer. It’s upon further inspection that something clicks into place. Eddie’s not an idiot. He was a teenaged boy once and by extension is very familiar with what dried come looks like (although his was usually in socks, not underwear). It’s more just what it’s doing in Buck’s underwear that’s got him so confused. Because Buck can’t – he’s not – surely he’s not – Eddie stands in front of the clothesline with Buck’s come-stained underwear clutched to his chest, and decides that it’s lovely weather for an existential crisis. They’re not going through a dry spell, are they? Eddie definitely wouldn’t call it that, they’re still having sex at least three times a week, schedules allowing, but it has been a little busier lately, what with Christopher starting high school and his workload increasing (and by extension Eddie’s workload increasing because he’s apparently been appointed Head Homework Helper even though Buck repeatedly points out that he’s a wealth of untapped knowledge). So not a dry spell, but could be considered water restrictions? It strikes Eddie how tragic his situation truly is. His beloved partner of 6 months resorting to coming in his pants like a randy teenager because Eddie’s 14-year-old son suddenly has to learn algebra. He briefly imagines Buck sneaking into the bathroom and rubbing one out, too worked up to even take his pants off first, before slinking back into the kitchen to help Eddie with dinner and Eddie’s heart fucking clenches. He's been letting his boy down, and now Buck’s resorted to alternative methods of relief. This simply cannot go on. Only problem is, Eddie’s got no idea what to do to fix it. Eddie takes a deep breath and faces the stark truth. He’s going to have to talk to someone about it. Steeling himself, he pulls out his phone and dials the first person he thinks of. “Hen? I’ve got a problem. And you cannot laugh at me.”

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