#removing surface rust from guns

[theroguebanshee]

Removing rust from guns with Rod from Aegis Gun Care// Episode 55 For The Love Of Guns

I had a flood in the studio that left my P320 full of surface rust. I contacted Rod from Aegis, since he has worked on flood guns before, and he walked me through the removal of the surface rust. In this episode, Rod talks about what to do when your gun is exposed to water.  #gun #gunsmith #firearm @TheRogueBanshee You can reach Aegis Gun Care…

[leviathanleva]

Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

........................

[Blood and Injury, Ghoul Trafficking, Minor Character Death]

[5.8k words]

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 7 "The Road"

“She asked you a question.” the tip of his gun bumps against the skull of the poor man in angry sovereignty. “Not nice t’ keep a lady waitin’.”

The man in question is a scrawny fellow with yellowish, vein-ridden eyes and greasy black hair just shy of his shoulders. A sunbaked, chewed-out lab coat adorns his shriveled form, hiding a multitude of self-inflicted scabs and prickles, but you’d caught a glimpse during his scuffle with Cooper. A self-proclaimed doctor who’d used his own flesh and blood in the name of science and study, he looked nothing short of deranged, but he’d survived until the ripe age of sixty-two and that was enough solid ground for you to trust his expertise.

You sat opposite of him, occupying a wide, crummy slab of concrete that had once been the roof of his laboratory. The entire building was waning, descended to a few walls surrounded by a rusting fence, but it offered enough shelter for most wastelanders to deem habitable. That’s why you’d stopped by, having endured your second month of surface exploration during what you’d learned was the middle of summer, you’d built higher tolerance for the hostile environment, but still couldn’t compare to Cooper. You’d needed respite, to catch your breath under a shade while greedily gulping down lukewarm spring water.

The doctor had heard your intrusion upon his sanctuary and had been more than hospitable, shoving grimy bottles full of murky substances of different consistencies in your face to get you to buy something. When he’d announced that he was a representative of the medicinal sphere another idea had popped into your head, one that required more talking and less buying diluted piss in a corked test tube labeled “Acne Remover”.

He could teach you medicine. The basics, at least, ways to patch up a wound using primitive things you had on hand, and you’d read such books before, but none of them touched on radioactivity nor explained what RadAway or stimpaks were.

The ghoul had been surprisingly agreeable, however, before you could discuss a plan, he’d taken to his ways and was already rasping threats while cracking his knuckles. You’d thrown your hands in the air with a displeased eye-roll as their tussle heated the dust off the floor.

It’s always violence with him…

“A stimpak? I can. Of course, I can.” the doc hacks and spits a mixture of blood and saliva to the side, then turns back to you with a wet snort. “It’s easy. Anyone can make a stimpak. Anyone. Who can’t? It’s so easy.”

“Great.” you nod, gripping your pencil with such force it’s shy from snapping. This was not what you’d had in mind by exchanging information – no guns or violence and absolutely no blood. But your fiendish companion had other ideas and beggars weren’t choosers. You lick your thumb and turn your notebook to a fresh page. “Please explain then. Slowly.”

The owlish look you receive has you eyeing Cooper with a lost frown, a plea for guidance because this man was clearly out of it with no intent on returning to normalcy.

He’s the heavy hand to your soft words as always.

“Talk.” he snarls and digs his boot in the doctor’s ribs, kicking him off his knees and onto his side. There’s no discussion, no bargaining, just a built-in cruelty and lack of patience.

“Jeez, you didn’t have to – ” you scrunch back in abhorrence, reaching for your face as if you were the one taking the beating.

“ – My notes.” a gargled sputter comes from the wheezing man. He laughs, rotting teeth proud on display as he knocks on the side of his head with such force you heard it from where you sat. “Head’s not good. Can’t remember anything. Gotta see my notes. It’s in the notes.” his spastic gaze is bouncing between you and the ghoul. “I can get 'em. Right there.” he’s jutting a finger up at his workstation where a gnawed-out leather bag rests. “Gonna get 'em. Tell you how. Okay? Gonna get up, gonna get 'em.”

He’s motioning for peace with palms spread wide as he slowly rises. The pistol follows him with cold-blooded precision as he wobbles to his desk. You turn halfway to watch as the notepad rests on your thigh, then tuck a wild strand of hair behind your ear.

He sifts through his belongings and it’s not much, but he’s sustained himself so far with the scarce scraps he’d managed to find. Meanwhile, your backpack was still brimming two months later because you had the trinkets to trade for food and water. You had a bodyguard for free and the luxury to indulge in hygienic habits most commoners didn’t see even on their deathbeds.

Bearing a soft heart, you wanted to leave him at least a granola bar, a guaranteed meal with no strings attached so the upcoming night wouldn’t leave him convulsing in a corner from hunger. He was skin and bones at best, a walking skeleton with cracking, aged skin, and protuberant wild eyes, the kind that have seen too much.

But you knew better, rather he starve and struggle than you ending up facing the ghoul’s wrath for acting stupid again. There was no room for kindness here, there would be no praises, just you naively reaching out a helping hand and ultimately having it bitten.

God, you hated this mess of a world…

“Here! Here, here.” he exclaims through a scratchy throat and shows you a torn, brown folder stuffed with sheets of paper. He digs his nose into it, stubby, arthritis-ridden fingers roughly handling the pages like a manic man searching for the meaning of life between the words. “It’s here. Has to be. I wrote it, y’know. All by myself.”

A sharp whistle rings in your ears and your head snaps back to Cooper. He nudges his pistol toward the folder and cocks his head with a scowl.

“Take em.”

You’re taken aback. Your face falls and you glance at the madman behind you with a slack jaw – he’s pressed into his workstation, the folder held snugly to his chest and encased in his frail arms. His hair sways as he stiffly shakes his head with disbelief.

“No.” you breathe out, a voiced thought, then repeat with more authority. “No! I can’t take his notes, how will he work without them?” you’re gesturing towards him with pencil in hand and direness to your voice. “Look at him! He can’t even remember his own name. We can’t just – ”

“ – I ain’t sittin’ here all day just cuz you wanna play Broken Telephone with a con bastard.” he’s a harsh mentor, doesn’t bat an eye at the implication or the devastation his order might cause. The rim of his hat dips, painting menacing shadows over his already monstrous features. “Take the damn notes.”

There’s no equal ground for arguing and the doctor stands there, forced to watch as his life is put on an uneven scale. Either shot or left to wither away without his only source of income, he couldn’t even choose, he was left to be toiled between your hands and the ghoul’s.

You’re bubbling with righteousness, but that won’t do. There are many things your companion dislikes and for unexplained reasons, standing up to him while trying to do the right thing is one of them.

“Please.” the plea leaves your lips as a hiss. Your face is wrinkled with exertion as you attempt to stare Cooper down to a more agreeable state.

You’re grasping at straws, fighting not to drown in the reality of your actions being the cause of another person’s death. This was no raider, or cannibal, not a warped beast hunting you for supper. This was a fellow survivor, a struggling soul the wasteland hadn’t been as lenient towards. Beneath the delirium and madness, the jumbled words and soup of senseless thoughts, he was still human.

You couldn’t. You couldn’t.

“Was your idea, Sweetheart.” a derogatory coo, a sentence that rips up your act of chivalry. He’s almost smirking as he puts you down with just his gaze. “Gotta finish what you started. Now take the fuckin’ notes.”

Impatience nips at his command, only amplified when he sees you refuse to move. His weapon lowers and he takes a few strides with a searing grunt and bared fangs. He’s no gentleman; picks you up roughly by the arm and forces you to your feet as disapproval of your disobedience brings forth his crow’s feet. There is no grace when you’re non-consensually pushed toward your victim, no elegance guides your step to ease the mourning of the man you’re about to strip from any chance of long-term survival.

But you’re also meek with your gestures, approaching him delicately once your footing is set in stone, hesitantly until there is only a thin gap separating you.

His leg juts to the side with barely contained need to run and he once again winds up at gunpoint.

“Don’ be fuckin’ stupid now.” the ghoul spits as his chin dips, he’s peeking beneath his hat with eyes that could boil flesh off bone.

Regret drains the strength from your fingers when you pinch the bottom of the folder, left to weakly tug it out of his grip as he begrudgingly relents. Your vision is set low, trained on your feet, scorned by actions you couldn’t back away from. You take his prized possession and look away until not a blip of him poisons your vision, then after swallowing nothingness down a dry gullet you manage to mumble:

“I’m sorry.”

You skitter back to Cooper, each step hastening your pace until you’re in the sanctity of his proximity. You don’t falter to see his nod of approval, instead hiding behind him, the side of your head leaned between his shoulder blades. Pathetic, powerless, and made cruel, your brows twitch, pulling down the skin of your sweaty forehead as you clutch at the folder with a distant mind and quivering bottom lip.

You leap a thousand miles away, condemned to weigh the doctor's odds and spare your sanity the burden of his demise. There were always radroaches scuttling about, he could live off them. They weren’t your cup of tea but they were edible. If he was smart enough he could gather sand and pebbles, make a filter and cleanse his urine to a drinkable consistency. It wasn’t that hard, he could survive if he wanted to. Maybe he could…

Maybe –

The familiar click of a pistol rattles you out of the dreamlike state.

You tense.

“Wait.” your hand shoots out to lay over his wrist, applying a minute amount of pressure to stray the firearm. “We got what we needed, right? You don’t need to…Please?” your voice cracks and your beseeched eyes lift to face his. “Please.”

The doctor hasn’t moved, frozen solid and silent aside from the low, bizarre hums and attempts to cough out the gunk tickling his lungs. He was sick and mad, defenseless against a loaded gun, compliant with your inhumane deeds, hadn’t said a peep of protest. The least you could do was leave him be after ripping away the little dignity he’d had.

Your way is brutal though, leaving a helpless old man to be overcome by a death worse than a bullet to the head. But you weren’t one to make a tough decision in a dire situation, you didn’t have the guts to do what would be considered a mercy. His chances were null and shooting him now would save him a great amount of suffering. You could walk out and wait for the shot to ring out, turn a deaf ear to the shriek of oblivion.

But you weren’t doing what was best for him, you were doing what was least painful for you.

Masking your selfish spinelessness as a courageous act of standing up to your dominant half to spare a soul. This was no heroism, it was torture. You’d seen firsthand how sadistic fate was in this dystopian world you now called home, but what could you do when the sight of him had you near tears?

Cooper lowers his pistol with a disgruntled scoff and you release a shaky breath.

“Whatever you say…” he clasps his weapon back in place and flings both his bandolier and tato sack over his shoulder.

It was suspiciously easy, but you didn’t question his change of heart, instead keeping close to him after shooting the deranged doctor a last apologetic frown.

He’d been with you since you’d left the vault, acting as the spear to your shield, the one to take action while you sat back and prayed for the best. You were still as friendly and ready to lend a helping hand as when you’d met and if it hadn’t been for him you would have been long gone by now. The wasteland was working on remolding your antics, but it was a slow process in your case and until then it spelled hardships and disaster for both of you.

Actions have consequences, bad ones, good ones, all of them. He’s tried and failed to teach you so he decides a harsher lesson is in order, one that will stick. That’s why he ignores the shuffling behind him and keeps a heavy-lidded neutral expression.

Actions have consequences and yours is being swung straight towards your head.

The bits of gravel crunching beneath your boots keep your hearing busy enough to miss the vigorous grunts and noises being regurgitated some feet away from you. It’s inconceivable that the person to whom you showed mercy would do anything to cause you harm. His uncoordinated, rushed steps don’t even register until they’re thumping right behind you.

You’re a second too late to react before the empty glass bottle is shattered against the side of your head.

All you muster out is a choked gasp as the ground beneath you slips and you’re falling. The world spins with sickening speed yet your fall is delayed, like a swaying feather.

You don’t feel. You feel nothing below your neck.

Your stomach churns as everything is flipped upside down. The folder is snatched from the safety of your armpit. You’re numb when you collide with the dusty concrete, feel only a cushioned resistance from an impact that’s supposed to hurt.

The air is knocked out of your chest, you’re suffocating on dust. Cooper’s boots are doubled and swaying in your vision as they move. You squint to try and focus, but can’t manage much except to roll on your back and twitch when a shot is fired. A guttural scream, then silence.

The scarce clouds visible from beyond the hole in the ceiling are swimming. You want to reach out and touch them.

The sky always leaves you speechless.

“Why…? Why couldn’t you just let it go…?”

You sit up slowly, hunching over as your legs cross to keep you steady. The dull pulse blossoms into pain and you press a trembling palm against your head only to find it dampened by scarlet red. What you thought was snot tickling your cupid’s bow turns out to be blood once you wipe it off with your wrist to see.

Your breathing accelerates and you look to the ghoul before you succumb to a full-blown panic attack.

He’s bending down to retrieve the folder from a man now dead before approaching you with leisurely steps and placing it in your lap once he’s knelt in front of you.

You didn’t feel like crying before you were face to face, but now your eyes are brimming.

“Next time, you don’ fuckin’ stop me.” he speaks in a low tone, letting you weep. His image shakes and you try your hardest to focus, wiping at your eyes and blinking rapidly, all in vain. “When I speak, you listen. No talkin' back, no attitude. You wanna live, you do as I say when I say.” he checks you over carelessly, sees no glass stuck to your skin, only cuts, and deduces a potential concussion from your uncoordinated movements. “Hope you learned your fuckin’ lesson.”

Your downfall, your savior, your opposite, your everything.

He’s up and walking, and you’re given no time to tend to your wounds, not even to rip off some gauze and stuff it in your nose. You replace the notebook and pencil with a water bottle, cup a hand under it, and spare some water to then splash over your face and wash away a part of the bloody smears. A sip is forced down after a short struggle because your stomach refuses to welcome anything. With jelly legs, you rise, flail briefly because the act makes the world whirl and your brain feels like it’s pressing against the inside of your skull, a sickening sensation, seething and pulsing.

Your shoulder grinds against the walls to offer support for your off-course balance as you make your way out of the rundown building. There are no thoughts in your head, for once everything is still, a dark, blank canvas swallowing any image before it can even surface. There’s only a dull ache deep within your chest, mourning, partly for you, partly for the doctor.

Cooper is waiting for you outside with a cigarette pinched between his lips and kicking at the cracked soil.

High-pitched screeching deafens you as the sun’s rays nearly blind you on the spot. Your sensitive eyes are filling with more than tears of sadness, you’re snarling instinctively with a hand shielding your vision. It’s almost nauseating and leaves your knees weak.

Was it really always this bright?

The sun has no sympathy, it blasts scorching heat as if it knows exactly where your head is exposed and oozing, it targets you with viciousness because you’re battered and broken. You lift the stained folder, let it rest against your crown and give off enough shade to keep you from fainting.

With a pained expression, you follow after the ghoul once he takes a particularly long drag from his cigarette and turns on his heel.

A trail is left in your wake, blood, tears, sweat, all marking your path as you struggle not to trip over your feet. Each step is heavy and rattles both your teeth and your brain. It’s an alien sensation, not truly pain, it’s closer to pressure and it’s agony when combined with the rest of your unpleasant symptoms.

Your breaths echo in your ears, drowning out your footsteps because you’re heaving for air like a woman drowning. The world still swims albeit less so and sometimes it’s unbearable and you’re forced to cling to Cooper’s arm and squeeze your eyes shut as he guides you. All you want is to lie down somewhere soft and sleep, but there’s no building in sight, no trees, nothing.

You walk an endless road, hours of silent torment.

With enough distance and suffering, the day is finally coming to an end and everything is bathed in deep oranges and blaring pinks. The sunset is behind you, your shadow faces you and is as decrepit and tortured as you, you’re heading east, not that it matters. You can finally open your eyes fully without wincing and that’s one less discomfort to sulk over, but then another takes its place instantaneously.

Your backpack feels heavier than ever, it digs into your armpits and it would have been worse if you hadn’t sewn the ripped strap back in place, but it made no difference now. It weighed on your back, further ruined your posture.

You readjust it multiple times with a handful of irritated grunts.

“Ain’t nobody told you t’ stuff the whole fuckin’ vault in that thing.” finally he speaks after an eternity of wordless wandering. He’s eyeing you judgmentally while mouthing another cigarette. “Said to bring essentials.”

More fuel to the fire, more salt in the wound. He’s a relentless bastard when he wants to be.

You stop to rest your hands on your knees and catch your breath and you’re a pitiful sight, but that doesn’t stop you from glaring death at him. Too far gone, in too much pain and fear from failing to understand how much damage the blow to your head had caused, you’re a hair away from losing it completely.

“Nobody told you to bring that nasty attitude either, but here I am.” you snap back through gritted teeth. “Dealing with both.”

He pauses.

“Wha’d you say?” he’s tossing away the smoke and storming towards you, but you’re not your usual self – you don’t back down or shrink away or try to run. You’re staring him dead in the eyes with a nasty look. “Care t’ repeat, Missy? My hearin’s not what it used t’ be.” he’s taunting you while holding your face with one large hand, squishing your cheeks until your lips pucker.

“You’re an asshole.” you snarl with hatred; his roughness causes your nose to fill with blood again, a fresh batch that follows the edge of your curled back upper lip and dribbles down his glove. You look almost feral, you almost fit in with your environment, but your eyes are still soft despite everything.

“Only reason why you ain’t getting’ a beatin’s cuz you already got a concussion.” he jostles you harshly, always does when you’re stepping out of line, but he’s too late to deal punishments this time.

You’re past his demeaning attitude, you’re fed up with being flung like a ragdoll and tied up and blamed for existing because you attract bad attention and he has to waste bullets. You’re bleeding and bruised and hungry and out of patience for his teachings. It might be the concussion, might be something else, but you’re writhing.

You’ve had enough.

He was no hero. He was a fucking pest.

When he shakes you for the second time and pain stabs up your neck like a knife to the spine you shudder. The sound that leaves you is worse than your visage, a carnal bellow, a menacing reverberation that could rival that of a cornered animal.

You bite him.

You sink your teeth into the plush between his thumb and forefinger with enough force for your jaw to burn. You’re clinging to his wrist and when he forces you back your nails leave angry red lines over his skin, even through his coat. You take a wide stance to retain some balance and glare at him from behind a curtain of wild, sweat-drenched hair. Your nostrils flare wide and you spit out the grime you’d bitten off.

“Well I’ll be…” he sighs while tipping his hand slowly and looks over the blunt teeth marks adorning his glove. They glisten with a thick coat of saliva. A fowl grin cracks his somber features. “If you wanned t’ swap saliva, Darlin’, should’a just said so.”

He glides his tongue over the bitemark, then licks the blood clean off his fingers. He’s tasting you, he’s savoring you and your façade falls in repulsion.

That disgusting smile never leaves his chapped lips.

You’re on the verge of insanity, pushed to the brink from everything that’s happened in the past two months and today spelled your breaking point. You’re at your wit’s end and all he does is laugh at your misfortune without a drop of empathy. How can he enjoy your misery? What kind of sick man finds pleasure in another’s pain?

“What is wrong with you?!” you shriek as your hands ball, the folder you’d forgotten you still held, creases under the pressure. You land a fist against his chest, then another, and, of course, he doesn’t even flinch. “Why are you like this?!”

He holds your arms while stifling his cackles, softens your blows while you fuss, lost in your tantrum and throwing conniving insults his way while somehow avoiding any vulgarities. It would have been a comedic performance if your condition potentially worsening didn’t make him fret. He didn’t need you passing out in the middle of nowhere because you couldn’t control your frustration.

“Who did this to you?”

Who hadn’t? His darling wife had dug a knife in his back, taken his daughter away and left him to rot. He’d known the taste of betrayal and disloyalty before the bombs and now it was a free-for-all massacre. He’d not just lost everything, it had been ripped away from him. Every single person he’d known had either tried to kill him or left him stranded.

“Who hurt you so bad…”

But who were you to ask him such questions? Who were you to sink your claws so deep and stir him awake from his bitter slumber spanning over two centuries? Who were you to question his ways and fight to find better solutions? Who were you to mend wounds you’d not caused?

You were nothing.

You were everything.

“Easy.” he warns, paying no heed to your desperate laments, then releases one of your hands to snake an arm around your waist when your knees give out. “Easy now…Easy…”

You’re bawling into his collarbone, sobbing an ugly song, and staining his vest with heavy tears. Your fists uncurl once you’re done drumming at his chest and your fingers sink into the warmth beneath his coat. He’s a solemn golem, doesn’t react to your advances, he doesn’t see you as a threat.

“Why didn’t you just shoot me in the start…”

His heartbeat never changes, but you hear him swallow a lump. He watches over the top of your head as you succumb to periodic trembles and tire yourself out completely. A dainty and ethereal creature compared to him and even in your rage and unquenchable sorrow, both caused by him, you still cling to him.

You were similar in that regard. He had shown you the same mercy you’d shown to the doctor. Selfish spinelessness, lack of courage, weakness, twisted empathy. He was no hero, but you sure made him feel like one. A part of him was addicted to the goodness you carried and didn’t want to let you go. And he cared little for how fake or real it was, he just needed to have a taste once in a while, get a reminder that softer things yet thrive in the dark crooks of the apocalypse.

“Should’a stayed in Tillburry.” a rasp so low you could have mistaken it for a rustle in the wind.

He’s already locked eyes with you when you finally unfurl your face from his vest and look up. Newfound anger spells doom on your lips. It doesn’t suit you to be angry.

“I didn’t want to stay in Tillburry.” there’s spitfire in your voice as you talk down his feeble statement. A last soft punch to his chest to solidify your words as you continue. “I want to stay with you…”

“Y’ dunno what’d fuck you’re talkin’ about.” he gravels out a tender scold, his eyes dip to your frown, his mouth waters.

He inches closer, earning an inquisitive noise from you, but you don’t back away. You grip onto his coat and for once his heart is heavy as he lowers his head until the rim of his hat is brushing against your forehead. His breath hits you and it’s rich with the smell of cigarettes.

Your inhales are forced, brash and vocal, sucked in through parted lips as you take him in for the first time. Contrary to your beliefs, he had eyelashes, thick and dark and you wonder if he was brunette before he became a ghoul. His eyes were molten gold in the dying sunlight, prettier than yours would ever be, his cheekbones were high, accentuated by the lack of fat in his cheeks.

Once upon a time, he was a handsome man.

He’s pawing at your waist to keep you close, a precaution for the slim chance that your brain kicked back into function and you pulled away like you should. He had no right taking your first kiss, he had no right to anything of yours, but there was nobody present to stop him. A small guilty pleasure, a moment of indulgence, that’s all he wanted and he’d set you free.

You’re sweating, you’re shaking.

Were you really that scared of him?

“Coop – ”

“ – ‘S okay, Pumpkin. ‘S okay…” he coos in a hushed tone, tender and sugary. “I got you…Sweet thing…I’m here.”

A queer affection coming from a man who was anything but, your mind was hazy, you’d faint any second. Your stomach is bursting with fluttering butterflies as you give in to the needy hands kneading your sides.

What was this…

“ ‘M a bad man, I know…I know. Don’t deserve this.” he sees you searching for words, gives you a good squish and you’re so pliant under his fingers it makes him weak. “Is okay…Close those pretty eyes o’ yours.”

He’s so close he can feel the heat radiating off your skin, your nose is brushing against his cheek and his lips are ghosting over yours.

“Helloooo!”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

A caravan approaches, pulled by a pair of well-fed brahmin. A man is vigorously waving a hand your way, bearing a wide smile with mostly missing teeth.

You rush to straighten your dress once you’re abruptly released and pushed away. There’s danger dancing in Cooper’s stance as he mumbles an inaudible slew, his hand is at his holster and his shoulders become ridged. There’s a heat to your cheeks that you hope the sun masks and the medical folder is tucked in front of your chest as a barrier.

Judging by the ghoul’s reaction, this man, whoever he is, is trouble and you’re not mentally prepared to withstand another bloodbath.

He flings the reins, urging the brahmin to pick up the pace and the distance between your parties grows too short too quickly. You can only pray for a peaceful exchange. His cargo is large, rectangular and covered by a dark sheet bolted to the carriage on either side.

Once he’s close enough a distressful symphony reaches your ears and you step closer to Cooper out of habit. There’s the rattling of metal, a cacophony of pained moans and haggard groans, animalistic noises from a beast you’d yet to encounter.

Was he from a circus? What kind of animal made such sounds?

“Shut the hell up back there!” he slams his fist against the cargo, you guess it’s a cage of some sort, and the mystery animals fall silent. Then he stills the brahmin and flashes you a polite smile. “Evening, Miss.”

“Hello, Sir.” you nod and the firm hand on your hip tells you to be very careful with your next words.

He doesn’t even address Cooper despite him standing in front of you, just gives him a good full-body scan and averts his attention back to you. It’s strange, for once you’re not in his shadow, your gut warns of a dirty truth hidden behind that dark curtain, one which you didn’t want to delve into.

“Sorry to bother you this late an hour.” he plants an elbow against the backrest of his seat and turns to face you properly. “I was just wondering if you were selling.”

The wind picks up your hair, for a moment the world is still.

“Selling?” you cup a hand over your eyes to block out the dying red sun falling behind the distant horizon. Your brows lock in confusion because he certainly didn’t look like a merchant. “Selling what?”

“The ghoul.” he answers as if it’s the most obvious thing, then when you don’t answer immediately he decides to add a bit more honey to the mix. “Would pay good caps for that one.”

“The…WHAT?!”

Your blood runs cold. The moans you’d previously heard turn hauntingly grim and you try to look everywhere but the covered cage. The grip on your hip is bruising in strength; the only way to ease Cooper before he snaps is to step on his boot.

The bent stop sign a few feet down the road looks weak enough. You wonder if you can tear it out and bludgeon the man to death, then shake your head. He’s not a man, can’t be if your suspicions are true.

Because who would do such a thing…

“Stop.”

 It was impossible to entertain such thoughts. There exist so many words to describe the evil and grotesque and none of them come close to encompass such inhumane deeds.

“Sorry, Sir, not selling this one.” you muster out, shake off your horror and mask your malice with an awkward smile. You pat the ghoul’s shoulder like he’s a pet. “He’s a good mule, can’t imagine traveling without em.”

The words nearly make you gag while the man howls a throaty laugh.

“Sure looks like it. Real shame.” he sits back and grips the reins once more with a serene look as he stares into the sunset.

He doesn’t deserve to see such a sight, he doesn’t deserve to be so relaxed, he doesn’t deserve to live –

“ – Weeellp! If you change your mind, my establishment’s stationed in Pitfalls Valley. Big building, can’t miss it.” he gives you a playful wink and a click of his tongue before tugging at the reins “Have a good evening, Miss.”

The disturbance awakens the cage once more and the voices come back to life, despicable and anguished.

You can’t even process what had happened before you’re made to move.

“We gotta go.”

The gentle tug on your dress leads you away as you stare back unblinking. There’s a myriad of bony hands reaching from beneath the curtain, scraping at the bottom of the caravan, pulling at the metal bars, some of them are tiny.

Hate in its most primal state is an emotion you had never felt, not until today. You had never dreamed of killing someone until today. For once, you’re ready to watch a shootout, but it’s also one of those rare moments where Cooper prefers to walk away. You’re looking at him with pleading eyes and all he can offer is a bitter:

“It ain’t our problem.”

You’re no Mary Sue, you can’t charge into a battle and win, armed or not. You can’t be the hero those locked up ghouls need. You can’t do shit because this isn’t a fairytale. It’s life – cruel and cold, real and so unbelievably merciless, sick and twisted. There is no happy ending for anyone, there are no miracles.

All you can do is move along, stuff the memories in the depths of your subconscious and get over it because at least you’re still alive and free. It’s either wallow in despair or swallow it and survive. There is no joy, there is no love, no compassion, no humanity. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten.

You link your fingers with Cooper’s and squeeze.

“What kind of fucked up piece of shit sells ghouls…”

That cracks a smile from him. He closes his fingers over your hand until it disappears behind an aegis of leather.

“Well look at you startin’ t’ swear proper.”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

<<< Chapter 6

Chapter 8 >>>

🌼 Daisy Masterlist 🌼

Masterlist

Tag list: @bountydroid @windierhades @ultimatreality @gruffle1 @v3lv3tf0x

@fallout-girl219 @one-of-thewalkingdead @robin-the-enby @savanahc @whatthefuckkrichard

@rockst4rkitty @lisnamavka @lomlbillieeilish @itsyellow @cloudroomblog

@skykaykay @i-just-like-to-read @landlockedmermaid77 @enaelyork @maeplaysbass

@sgt-barnesveins

[atomicbland]

Just A Mirage Pt. 3

Sorry this took so long yall! Anways here's part 3, my first ever spicey scene. did i mention i have an intox kink (this fic is practically dedicated to the gorgeous @ghoulphile at this point)

pairings: cooper howard x fem!reader rating: 18+ MDNI! warnings: bondage, degradation, pet names, mentions of age gap (obviously), Cooper Howard being a jackass in general, canon typical chem use, smoking AO3 Link

Golden morning light pours through the dirty filter of the windows, stirring you awake. As sleep left you you could feel the weight of Dogmeat curled up atop you. You pet her, forgiving her for scratching you, after all, she was too damn cute to stay mad at. You shift to see that the Ghoul was still sound asleep, his hat had fallen to the floor during the night, the scarred skin of his head on show for the whole world to gawk at. You decide to leave him be as it had been a long day yesterday and this was the first time in a while the two of you had safe lodging to relax in.

As quietly as possible you rise from your makeshift bed and creep past the sleeping ghoul, cautious not to let him stir or else you’d have a man and his dog up your ass all day earlier than you would’ve preferred. You gather your bag, holding it to your chest to muffle the rattle of contents and tiptoe your way back towards the glass house. Dogmeat follows behind you as if she were taking over the cowboy’s guard duty shift. 

It’s much easier to see in the glass house in the morning, you find a table next to the door stacked with boxes- something you hadn’t seen in the dim light yesterday. Nosey, you pilfer through the stack. Your years in the wasteland have taught you to never leave any box unchecked, loot was anywhere if you were lucky enough. The first few boxes were filled with faded papers, letters, diary pages, and some newspaper clippings with coupons for Nuka Cola, nothing really special or too important. In the next box, you find a small square tin, rust spots freckle the red lacquered surface, when you open it you’re rather surprised to see it half full, with a pipe nestled in the dried tobacco. You stash it in your bag, half considering giving it to the Ghoul in hopes he’d lighten up around you. Rifling through the rest of the box yields you some more canned water, Nuka Cola, and some nudie magazines filled with scantily clad women gardening. While you rather keep going through the boxes you didn’t want the Ghoul waking up to you missing lest you end up back on his leash. You found some more straw-berries closer to the entrance, picking some in hopes it’ll deter your greedy travel companion from breaking into your stash of food. Dogmeat, who had been in full guard mode sitting facing the door perked up when you moved toward the exit,  you tossed a straw-berry her way as the two of you walked back to the living room. 

“Had fun without me darlin’?” The Ghoul is upright on the sofa. his cheek was fat with his bullets as he spit-shined the barrel of his gun. He looks up at you through his lashes, spitooning a bullet in the palm of his hand before reloading. You’ve noticed his nervous habit, his mouth needed to be busy. If he wasn't using it to talk shit it was doing something else, smoking a cigarette, huffing chems, chewing on a piece of ass jerky, or sometimes sucking on the sweet lead of a bullet. And while you would think twice to put any form of ammo in your mouth -considering in the wasteland some people’s nervous habit involved stabbing- you didn't have much grounds to judge him.

“I was searching that place where I found the berries. Here.” You pull the red tobacco tin from your bag and hand it to the ghoul. 

He opens it and smiles, removing the pipe from the tin to examine it. He sticks the cavity of his nose into the tin, taking a sharp inhale. His exhale laced with excitement. “Now that's some top-shelf shelf dumb luck you got there sweetheart.” 

You ignore his backhanded compliment, fidgeting in place. You muster the courage to ask him to help you harvest some of the apples from the trees. You hated asking for help when it came to reaching anything since most men took it as an invitation to show off their size compared to you. The Ghoul stood a good foot over you, often having you hide behind him in sketchy situations knowing any foe would attack the smaller target first.  

“There’s more stuff back there,” you clear your throat, “I just can't reach everything.” 

“Well,” he spits the last bullet straight into the chamber with skilled accuracy, spinning it closed and returning the gun to its holster. “I ain't never been one to turn down a damsel in distress.” 

Dumb luck my ass. You think to yourself as you hold your breath to avoid inhaling the dank moldy air of the storage room. You could hear the Ghoul’s heavy footfalls from behind as he slowly scanned the shelves of the room, able to see much better in the dim light that poured through the door to the oasis.

It's almost blinding when you break free into the glass house, the morning light a gleaming beacon of life among the wasteland. You drank in the picture in front of you, it was a lush paradise filled with shades of emerald, and more plants than you had ever seen in one place threatened to burst through the windows. 

A low ragged chuckle from behind broke your stupor. You turn to look at the Ghoul, his hand habitually placed on his holster the other gripped the bandolier that slung across his shoulders a large grin plastered across his face. "Well, I'll be fucked." 

Ignoring him, you make your way to one of the closer apple trees. The bark was as warped and pockmarked as your cocky companion, branches splayed in every direction and littered with supersized apples ever so slightly out of your reach. Too engrossed in sizing up your woody opponent you don’t hear the gravel crunch behind you, the large gloved hand that claps down on your shoulder, startling you.

 “Ain't you the luckiest lil lady this side of the wasteland.” His hand slides down to rest on your hip, pulling you close as if to comfort you. The heat from his hand finds its way from your hip to your core, pooling between your thighs as you long for his touch to become more. You tilt your head up, meeting the rich hazel eyes of the monster behind you. You watch as his free hand reaches up into the branches, leaves rustling in protest as he plucks an apple with ease. 

“Two hours. Be back at this spot.” He mummers, sliding the apple into your hands. His palm lingers at your hip, and it may have been your imagination but you swear you feel his fingers curl ever so slightly as if to pull you closer. 

You break from his touch, your body on fire from where his hands were. Embarrassingly frustrated you venture into the foliage of the glass house, willing your mind to focus on finding supplies rather than linger on the fantasies the Ghoul kept dangling in front of you.

You had managed to make it to the other end of the glass house without coming across even a stray radroach. Alive at least. The remains of the beasts were still fresh, and Dogmeat, who continued to serve as your dutiful guardian while the Ghoul was out of eyeshot, lapped up the viscous bug goo like a hot meal on a cold night. The back end resembled a small study, short bookcases filled with tomes in various states of decay.

Withered crates, that had long been looted lay scattered around an ancient desk consumed by overgrowth. Despite the empty state of the crates, the desk remained untouched, drawers swollen shut with time and humidity. With some effort and prying with your knife, you break open the drawers of the worn and misshaped desk the contents spilling out onto the ground with a plume of dust. A rather large book sat atop the pile the worn cover read “Victory Vick’s Garden Guide: Sowing the Seeds of the Future!” Thumbing through the pages, each one contained illustrations of all sorts of plants with long blocks of text describing everything you could ever need to know about it, which plants would survive or even thrive in nuclear fallout, how to grow crops in artificial light- a section marked “Sponsored By VaultTec”- and towards the back were some recipes. Your body hummed with excitement at the discovery, a wealth of pre-war knowledge now at your fingertips. Encouraged by the find you bust open the rest of the desk, watching the junk spill out in hopes of striking gold. 

You had made yourself comfortable under the canopy of some large leaves, the dirt was a soft cushion beneath you as you curled at the base of the tree with your treasure trove of a book. Aside from Dogmeat's furious digging in the earth for monstrous worms, you were isolated from the world outside, unaware of the passage of time. You hugged your satchel of goodies close to your chest, as you became engrossed in the pages in front of you, determined to find information on some of the items you had found after searching the bookcases.  

A whistle breaks the peaceful silence of the oasis. Stubborn, you ignore it, convinced that the answer you’re searching for is just on the next page.

Another whistle rings out this time ripping Dogmeat from her worm hunt, head popping up, ears high and alert waiting for an order. The gravel crunched under the Ghoul's boots, his footsteps soft as to not give away his location.

 "C’mon now girlie, I been awful nice lettin’ you make your mudpies and flower crowns while I’ve been bustin’ my ass.” You can hear him circle in on your location, spurs clinking against the rocks. On instinct, you tuck yourself further under the brush you'd do anything if it meant more time in your paradise. 

He takes your silence as a challenge, you hear him suck his teeth as he mutters something under his breath. A long high whistle pierces your ears and makes your skin crawl, Dogmeat shoots out from your hiding spot to the origin of the noise. You scramble for your bag, shoving the tome inside and clutching it close.

 Dumb bitch. Cursing the dog as she’s given away your location to the Ghoul.

The familiar hiss of his inhaler can be heard next to you, a peak through the leaves reveal his dusty boots confirming his whereabouts. Lightening pain shoots through your head, a tight grip on your scalp tears from your little slice of heaven and into the icy glare of the Ghoul. “Gotcha.” He growls.

 A squeak escaped your lips and your eyes grew like saucers, your mind raced as to whatever punishment he had in store for you. The leash was uncomfortable, but it was better than being hogtied and hauled over his shoulder like a sack of scraps- and that was for running ahead of him and into a bunch of feral ghouls. His grip on your hair reminded you of the way his hand held your ass so tightly that you had bruises there for weeks. 

You could see something in his eyes, a dark carnal desire. His lips twisted into a smile as his grip tightened releasing another small squeak from you. "Ain't anyone teach you that you’re 'sposed to come when called."

You cursed yourself, his domineering touch never failed to turn you on.

“Sorry…” Your voice falters, hoping and praying he’d spare you the lasso if you looked pathetic enough.

“Sorry ain’t gonna cut it no matter how much you pout them pretty lips o’ yours babygirl.”  He pinches your cheek, patronizing you further as if the stupid pet names weren’t enough. "And to think I was fixin' to give your ass a treat for findin' this place." Removing his hand from your face, he pulls a jar of golden liquid from his pocket. "Somethin' sweet for bein' such a good girl." His words were a deep, hungry growl that twisted at the tension in your core. 

Your face grew red upon realization. He could smell you, every wastelander knew a ghoul’s sense of smell was heightened, however, you assumed that applied only to the feral ones. When he had you tied over his shoulder he could smell how wet being helpless had made you. He only released you from the hogties because the scent of you damn near made him disregard his bounty and take a bite, opting to squeeze a handful of your ass as a means to cope. And right now he could smell your drenched cunt. 

"I don't want any of your stupid chems," you spat, the feelings from his rejection bubbling back up. You felt stupid for letting him toy with you like this for so long all the while he got to have his fun. 

"Oh sweetie, this here's better than any drug you'd ever had.” He releases your hair and pockets the jar. “Now c'mon girlie." He grunts as he tosses you over his shoulder effortlessly, a familiar firm grip on your ass.

He had carried you all the way back to the living room despite your protests of being capable of walking yourself. He tosses you onto one of the battered couches, stealing your bag in the process. Not wanting to push his buttons further you sit quietly watching him meander to the firepit and kneel before it, Dogmeat follows him briefly before stealing a sofa for herself, exhausted from her worm hunting and uninterested in the foodless firepit. The Ghoul is quick to light a fire, taking his time to carefully pack the pipe you’d given him with tobacco in the bright amber light. He then takes to searching through your bag, your stomach drops knowing he’s discovered your stash and will more than likely pocket the items for himself, selling off anything else for caps. But a light wave of relief washes through you when all he takes is your matches, using one to light his pipe, and pocketing the tattered cardboard book.

"Now tell me lil' lady," he spoke, puffs of thick smoke rose around him as he came back to his feet. Each step he took towards you was accented with the creak of the floor, plumes of smoke crawled from his nose with every raspy exhale. "Why'd you go an' hide the best stuff for yourself?" His tone similar to scolding a child as he waves your prized book in your face before tossing it onto the cushion next to you. 

“I-” You’re cut off before you can manage another syllable, the older man not finished grilling you.

“And, I hadn’t forgot ‘bout your lil’ stunt back there. You damn sure know how to make my job extra difficult don'tcha sweetheart?” He flips your bag upside down, emptying the contents onto the cushion on the other side of you; another pipe, a jar of fuzzy green herb, a pair of shears, some caps, and two packs of RadAway. He knelt to your level, face dangerously close to yours, picking up each cap one by one as he watched you looking for any opportunity to further scold you. 

"Now sweetheart," He started, planting a hand on either side of you hunching over to meet your eyes and effectively cornering you between him and the tattered upholstery. "Best answer me this time 'round. I ain't one for repeatin' myself." He leaned in, narrowing the space between the two of you. The heat radiating from his body nearly unmatched by what welled between your thighs. Daring to close the gap you lean towards him, causing him to stiffen at the unexpected challenge. 

"Wouldn't have to hide it if someone wouldn't take everything for himself…” You pout, avoiding his burning gaze. Any bravado you had to stand up to him like last night has been stripped away leaving a flustered, sexually confused mess.

He smiles, eyes dark under the brim of his hat. “Not everything darlin’. After all, you’re still in one piece. Ain’t you?”  His question is punctuated with a cloud of smoke in your face making you sink back into the sofa your face burning hotter than the heat radiating off the Ghoul.

“Oh come on now, don’t start acting all shy on me. Don’t tell me this lil’ bitch is all bark and no bite.” The leather of his glove is cool against your flushed cheeks, forcing you to look back at him. “Now speak.” The command is low and gritty, his hand tightening on your cheeks.

“The stuff looked like it was worth the caps. I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you! And maybe I didn’t feel like being pushed around for a few fucking hours and wanted to be alone. The whole world doesn’t revolve around you jackass!” You can’t stop the words from flowing from you, overcome with the nauseating mix of every flavor of frustration the damn finally broke and you wanted to give the Ghoul a piece of your mind. 

Your withered companion smiles, his pipe balanced between yellowed teeth, completely unphased by your lashing. He releases his grip on your face, as if pleased with your answer and grabs the jar of green herbs, rolling it over in his hand, examining it.

"Dont’cha know what'd happen to ya' if you got caught alone with this?" He asks, dodging any of your accusations. Despite the rusted lid he manages to unscrew it, a pungent unreal smell pours out, a blend of peppercorns, old wood, and earth.  A low growl of approval roused deep from him, ripping the now exhausted pipe from his mouth. 

“And what is it exactly?” You cross your arms at the Ghoul’s obvious deflection.

 He plucked a small cluster from the jar, crumpling it into his pipe. "Ain't seen any of this shit since New Reno." He mumbles, transfixed on the herb, ignoring your question. 

You lean towards him flicking his hat back pulling his attention from his newly packed pipe and back to you. “What is it?”

"Mary Jane." He spoke low and eyes lidded sparking the pipe and taking a long drag, the cherry glowing like a small sun. The cowboy savored the draw, holding the smoke in as long as he could, choking down a cough. On exhale, long tendrils of smoke pooled from his lips as he spoke. "Sweet, sweet Mary Jane." 

The Ghoul moved to sit next to you, his long legs kicked out in front of him as he reclined. As he took another long, greedy drag you couldn't help but watch, studying the way his marred lips perfectly sat around the mouthpiece of the pipe. The sickly sweet smell of the herb made you awful curious if it tasted anything like it smelled. After all, you had never seen the Ghoul this visibly distracted by anything besides his vials that kept him alive. 

 Curiosity is getting the better of you as you watch him take a draw. "Can I try?"

A deep rumble of a laugh reverberated through you. "Thought you ain't want none of my stupid chems." Pitching his voice higher mockingly. He adds to his teasing by directing the pungent smoke to your face, enveloping you in a musky haze.

You look away in embarrassment never once interested in the plethora of chems available in the wasteland yet here you were entranced by this sickly sweet smoke that came from the ghoul's pipe.

Another crackle of the pipe as you hear your companion take a long, slow draw. Gloved fingers find their way on either side of your cheek as he gently pulls you close to his lips. A small gasp escapes you, allowing a stream of earthy smoke to dance across your tongue. Heat races from your core to the tips of your ears. Your head swimming from the taste of Mary Jane dancing in tandem with the Ghoul’s softer, intimate touch

You tried hard to ignore your arousal. You are fighting off the desire to close the small gap between you and the monster but to your disappointment, he pulls away before you can act on your hormones. Instead, he places the tip of the pipe between your parted lips, the taste of him lingers on the wood. Strong arms swing your legs over his pinstriped lap forcing you to pivot your body to face him.

 "Now take a big long breath for me darlin’." He stares deep into your eyes, hunger still there as he watches intently ensuring you’re following his directions. The smoke burns its way down your throat to your chest, the taste is acrid adding to the unpleasant feeling. A gloved hand gently pulls the pipe away from your mouth deeming you’ve had enough. 

“Now hold.” The Ghoul’s hand moves to the small of your back, rubbing small circles. Your head grows fuzzier with every passing second that you hold your breath. 

“Breathe out.” He gently instructs, you listen eager to rid the burning smoke from your lungs.

"Good girl." It's damn near a whisper. The words travel down your body settling into your needy heat. 

The pipe meets your lips again, and you quickly pull more smoke into your lungs, igniting the bowl of the pipe to a cherry red. The sharp inhale shoots smoke to the back of your throat making you choke. Plumes pour from your nose and mouth setting your airway on fire. Your pathetic sputtering for air is greeted with a gentle hand rubbing your back. 

“Easy now darlin’. Don’t need you passin’ out on me.” He says, placing the pipe between his teeth, leaving his hands free to caress your thigh and back as you catch your breath. Whatever Mary Jane was made you feel warm and fuzzy, your eyelids fall a bit as you cradle into the feeling and sink into the Ghoul’s broad chest. Your head moved with the rise and fall of his chest as he smoked, enjoying the impossible closeness and reveling in his tender touch. One hand held onto your waist working to keep you upright and balanced in his lap, the other hand lazily kneaded the softness of your thigh. 

Touch starved, and dazed you spread you legs ever so slightly in hopes of a wandering hand. The warmth brought on by the Mary Jane mingled with the growing need in your core, your threadbare underwear soaked. A pitiful whimper escapes your lips when a hand dips lower, brushing your achingly still clothed mound, and your hips roll desperate for more pressure. 

"Feelin' alright there sweetheart?" The question punctuated with another plume of smoke. 

You don't bother to look up, yet the words to express your need are fleeting, swirling around in your mind, your tongue dumb. All you muster is another whimper. He tilts your head up and you greet him with a lidded dopey smile, taking some pleasure and pride in feeling his cock harden under you. 

"Now darlin', I need you to use your words." One evil, teasing finger trails the damp cloth of your pants, lingering on your clit in small circles. “If there’s somethin’ you’re wantin’ you just gotta ask.” The Ghoul’s voice is low and warm. He watches you writhe under his touch, soft pants leaving your lips as he continues to torture your needy cunt. 

Wordless, you take his hand and guide it under the waistband of your pants, cursing the barrier your underwear still posed. You could feel how hot his hand was even through the leather of his gloves as he cupped your soaked mound. His heartbeat picked up in your ear from your bold request, and much to your disappointment he removes his hand. Your eyes shoot up to glare at him and you watch as he sets the pipe aside before taking the tip of his glove between his teeth, pulling it off with ease to reveal his scarred hand which quickly returns to its place in your pants. The waistband of your underwear tightens as he wraps the fabric tightly around his fingers, threads popped in time with the crackle of the fire as the time worn fabric gave way. Dutiful fingers now at your bare wet slit worked their way up and down, teasing at the entrance to your needy hole. Marled lips find their way to your neck, peppering your sensitive skin with featherlight kisses pulling whisper like moans from you. Your hands slither around his neck creeping under the collar of his duster, nails digging into thick, pitted skin pulling him closer, swimming in the intoxicating scent of Mary Jane, tobacco, and leather. The kisses move up your neck, tracing your soft jawline up to your ear his breath warm against you.

“You smell like a bitch in heat.” The Ghoul growls in your ear, a rough finger dips into your entrance slowly drilling away at your sensitive spot. “Best keep quiet darlin’. Don’t want somethin’ findin’ us in such a compromisin’ position don’t we?” He nips your ear as a second finger joins the first, stretching you and pulling a loud moan from you. His fingers work at the soft spongey spot, your core twisting and flipping from every coax of his digits. Your legs are unable to still themselves as each motion brings you closer and closer to the long needed release your hips writhe in his lap unintentionally grinding on the cowboy’s achingly hard member. You don’t even notice his low groans of pleasure, enraptured in the intense euphoria he’s working you towards, your needy cunt tightening around him, as your pleasure reaches a crescendo, crying out in wanton ecstasy from the gunslinger’s skilled fingers. He moves his roughened hand to your clit, rubbing tight circles as you ride out your orgasm, head fuzzy from the chems you shared and drunk on orgasmic bliss. Your head falls into the rad-warm crook of the Ghoul’s neck, eyelids heavy and breathing shallow. 

‘Th-thank you, Sir.” You murmur nuzzling into him. 

“Call me Coop darlin’.” He says, planting a soft kiss on your head. He pulls his hand away from your pants inspecting the glistening mess on his fingers in the firelight. “Only makes sense, considerin’ our proper introduction.” Coop mutters to himself, licking your slick off his fingers, tasting his hard work. 

[avastrasposts]

Frankie & Din

Ok, the brain worm inspired by @fuckyeahdindjarin post about which Pedro boys would bicker and fight has had me in a choke hold these past few days so I might've blurted out a 2.8 k one-shot with our favourite pilot, sweet Frankie and our favourite space boy, broody Din based on the line; "Go on then, space boy, fly this.” 

Happy Frankie (and Din) Friday!

Also, no warnings needed, this is just nonsense!

And yes, I did download a 34 page manual on how to start a helicopter to write this.

Frankie was immediately drawn to the sleek looking…airplane? The word didn’t seem correct for the silvery vehicle that stood parked on the asphalt, at the outskirts of the old airfield that stood host to the aviation fair. The vehicle glinted in the sun, a thruster on either side of the main cabin. They tapered off to sharp points, as did the cabin, giving the whole shining build a look of speed. It hovered just above the ground, seemingly not needing any landing gear. 

As Frankie got closer and circled around the vehicle, he noticed a figure stepping out from behind it. The man, at least he thought it was a man, was as shiny as the vehicle, clad from top to toe in glinting metal armor. Even his head was covered by a metal helmet, a black T shaped visor on the front. Despite his dark aviators, Frankie had to hold up his hand to shield his eyes under the peak of his cap, as the bright sun bounced off all the metal, He’s gonna start a fucking bush fire, he thought to himself. 

“Hey,” Frankie said, giving the shiny man a small nod as he walked up to the main cabin and looked into the open cockpit, “Nice ride.”

“Thanks,” came a gruff, modulated voice from behind the helmet. He was standing still next to one of the thrusters and Frankie noticed that he had a strange looking gun in a holster on his hip. 

“This thing, uuhh… a new prototype or something?” Frankie asked, putting his hand on the edge of the cockpit as he leaned in for a closer look at the controls. 

“Don’t touch that.” 

The shiny man’s tone was low but with a thinly veiled warning right under the surface. Frankie immediately took his hand off the cockpit. 

“Sorry, man, just curious about the controls, never seen anything like it.” He looked up at the helmeted man, “You fly this thing?”

“Yes.” 

“Cool.” Frankie pursed his lips as his eyes slid over the sleek form of the vehicle. “Wouldn’t mind trying it out if it’s available?” Frankie didn’t notice how the shiny man slowly tilted his head to the left, the visor trained on him. 

“I’m a pilot myself, you see,” Frankie continued, “Flew a heavy loaded Mi-8 over the fucking Andes once.” He rocked back on the balls of his feet, “yep, I cleared that ridge.” 

The other man silently crossed his arms, shifting his weight over to his right hip, as he watched the pilot circle back to one of the thrusters. 

Frankie squatted down, tilting his head to look inside the thruster, “I think you’ve got some rust here, pal.” 

“There’s no rust on my ship.” 

“Yeah, well, either you’ve got rust or you’ve got a pretty weird paint job,” Frankie poked between the blades as the other man uncrossed his arms and straightened up, the fingers of his right hand twitched and flexed, he he walked over to the thruster and stopped right behind Frankie. 

The shadow of the armored man fell over the pilot who had to crane his neck to look up at him from his crouched position. 

“Oh, sorry, let me just…” Frankie scrambled to his feet and shuffled to the side as the other man bent down and peered through the blades of the thruster, running a finger along the inside. As he pulled it back he gave the pad of the finger a hard stare, the rust red dust clearly visible. 

“Told ya,” Frankie said with a smirk, “this climate is hell on any metal.” He strolled over to the other thruster and peered through the blades, “Yup, you got some here too, pal. Personally I recommend Loctite Naval Jelly, best rust remover on the market.” 

The only response was a non-commital grunt through the modulator as the man stood up. 

“Soooo…how fast is this thing? Looks pretty zippy,” Frankie lifted his hand to pat the front of the ship but halted his movement as the shiny man turned his head and looked directly at the hand hovering an inch over the bonnet. 

“The original N-1 tops out at three point five parsec, this one has been heavily modified, I haven’t tested the max speed yet.” The armored man strode over to where Frankie was standing and rubbed his hand over the metal where the pilot’s hand had almost touched, buffing out an invisible spot.

“In English, pal?” 

“Eleven hundred kilometers per hour.” He ran his hand over the bonnet, caressing the smooth shape.

“Get the fuck out of here! Eleven hundred k per hour?!” Frankie’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline, “You’re fucking full of shit!”

“She’s a repurposed N-1 Starfighter fitted with the original Nubian Monarc C-4 hyperdrive and two added J-type Nubian 221 sublight engines.” The pride in the man’s modulated voice was evident as his hidden gaze drifted over the sleek starship. 

“Ok, this is some serious hardware,” Frankie’s voice was impressed as he did another lap around the vehicle, “any chance of a test flight?”

“It’s a one seater, sorry,” the other man’s voice betrayed that he was in fact, not sorry that the ship would seat only one person. 

“Oh, that’s ok, I’m a pilot too, remember?” Frankie walked over to the cockpit again and looked in, keeping his hands away from the edge this time. “Just show me the basics and I’ll get a feel for it in the air.” He looked up at the armored man, trying to find his eyes behind the visor as he gave him his most serious look. 

“No.” 

“Not even pilot to pilot? Professional courtesy?” 

“No.” 

“You drive a hard bargain, man, “ Frankie sighed, taking a few steps back and admiring the ship again, swiping his cap off his head for a scratch before cramming it back down, “She’s a real beauty.” 

“She’s a spaceship, not comparable to the vehicles a regular pilot flies,” the man said, “your skills won’t translate.” 

“Ah, man, c’mon, I’ll take you up in the Mi-8 as a thank you,” Frankie pointed over to a large army helicopter parked a few rows away. “She’s not as fast as your baby here, but she can fit thirty seven troop seats, kinda handy when you need more than just the one guy to show up.” 

Frankie tilted his aviators down his nose, giving the other man a look up and down under the beak of his cap, “No offense, your armor is very bad ass but sometimes you need a full company of soldiers, ya know?” 

The shiny helmet tipped to the right as the armored arms crossed over the metal chest plates. 

“Ok, ok,” Frankie said, “I’ll make you a deal, if you can fly the Mi-8 right off the bat, I’ll shut up, you’re the better pilot.” The visored helmet came up and stared at Frankie, “But, but, if you can’t, then you show me the ropes on this baby and I get a test drive, low speed, low to the ground, I promise.” 

The shiny man seemed to consider Frankie for a few long seconds, the gloved fingers drummed on his metal pauldron. 

“Ok, deal. I’ll fly your helopticer.” 

“Great!” Frankie grinned and motioned towards the Mi-8, “And it’s heli-cop-ter but uhm, hey, man, whatever,” he gave the armored man’s gun a quick look as the black T of the visor looked at him. 

…

“Ok, here we are,” Frankie stepped into the chopper’s spacious hull and hooked his aviators into the neckline of his t-shirt, “pretty nice huh?” 

The other man looked around, taking in the utilitarian set up, no comfort, strictly focused on practicality and gave a barely perceptible nod, “Reminds me of my old ship, a Razor Crest. More space than the N-1.” He walked over to the cockpit and took a look at the interior. “What kind of fire power do you have?” 

“Uuhh...at the moment, six weapons stations, for rockets and bombs, and two side-mounted machine guns, but all inactive in this particular one.” Frankie tapped the empty mount attached to the chopper.

“No lasers?” The other man’s helmeted chin tilted up, surprise in his voice and Frankie’s eyebrows knotted. 

“No, no lasers, we use bullets on this planet, pal.” 

“Huh,” came the modulated reply, the visor turning back to the cockpit as he stepped into it, looking around the controls. 

“You need keys for this thing, or what?” he asked, sitting down in the pilot’s seat. 

“Hey shiny, that’s the wrong seat,” Frankie snarked, stepping into the cockpit. The other man froze for a moment before he shuffled over to the other seat as Frankie’s chuckled, he felt pretty confident about this bet. Leaning back against the side of the co-pilot seat the man had just vacated, he crossed his arms and grinned. 

“Go on then, space boy, fly this.” 

The visor snapped back to Frankie who just arched an eyebrow at his own reflection, bouncing back at him from the smooth metal. 

“Keys.” Came the flat, modulated response. 

“No, no keys, you just activate the circuit breakers,” Frankie replied, watching the armored man scan the control panel. Through the modulator came a small huff. 

“Hrrrmm…” Frankie cleared his voice, “over here,” he said, leaning over the smooth metal of the shoulder piece and pointing to a row of switches. 

The other man flicked them and his fingers hovered over the next set of switches marked Banks for a few seconds, before he flicked them too. 

“And then the battery…” Frankie said, pointing to the dial when the other man’s gaze roamed across the panel. The dial had several settings and the gloved hand grabbed it but didn’t turn it, another huff coming from the modulator.

“DC Battery Buses,” came Frankie’s voice from behind him and the gloved hand turned the dial to the correct position before he sat back against the pilot’s seat, scanning the controls again. Frankie waited patiently, arms crossed, as the shiny helmet searched back and forth over the panel. 

“Hey, man, let me cut you some slack, ok?” Frankie finally said. “The deal was strictly speaking about flying, I’ll start her up and then you can take over.” He pushed off the co-pilot’s seat and stood behind the other man, “Shift over, pal.” 

The armored man sat still for a beat and Frankie reached out and tapped the metal pauldron, “Hey, buddy, you still hearing me?” 

“Yes.” The man stood up, and Frankie took an involuntary step back, the broad metal armor filling up the space between the two front seats, dwarfing the other man. 

“Uuuhh…yeah, so let me just start her up,” Frankie cleared his throat and squeezed himself between the seat and the very solid wall of metal in front of him and sat down in the pilot’s position. While his fingers danced over the control panel with practiced ease, the other man sank down in the co-pilot’s seat, watching the pilot flick a number of switches and dials while the machine slowly came to life around them. 

“Throttle on, Auxiliary power on, Rotor brake off,” Frankie mumbled, “Engine one start, engine two start.” WIth a hum the large rotor blades above the chopper started moving, making the other man lean forward and look up through the windshield as they slowly turned, picking up speed. 

“Alright, there we go, you’re up, space boy,” Frankie grinned and stood up, moving back behind the pilot’s seat again. 

“Don’t call me ‘space boy’,” the modulated voice had a surly tone as he moved across. “It’s Din.” 

“Nice to meet you, Din. I’m Frankie,” the pilot said, sitting down in the vacated co-pilot’s seat. “Now, there’s your stick, nice and steady on the up, give her power on the throttle but easy does it.” 

It turns out there are some similarities between Din’s shiny spaceship and the behemoth Mi-8 helicopter, physics are still physics. And although the large machine wobbled, the mandalorian managed to make it rise more or less straight up under Frankie’s watchful eyes. Going down was less smooth, the landing gear smacking hard against the asphalt, making the helicopter groan as Frankie winced. 

“Nice landing, man, but let's not make it a habit, ok?”

“Dank farrik.” 

“You owe me a ride, pal,” the pilot grinned from ear to ear, as he reached over and flicked a couple of switches, the roar of the Mi-8 slowly dying down. 

“Hrmph…” 

…

Frankie bounced on the balls of his feet as the two men made their way back to the N-1 starfighter, the setting sun glinting off the smooth metal. 

“Man, much as I love my chopper, I’ve got to give it to you, Din, she’s a real beauty, look at those lines!”

“Try not to touch the metal, I just had her polished.” 

“Yeah, of course, pal, of course,” Frankie strode up to the cockpit with Din reluctantly trailing behind. “Uuuhh…how do I get in? Just jump or what?” 

Din nodded, a low sigh heard through the modulator as Frankie grabbed hold of the edge of the cockpit and hoisted himself up. He surreptitiously buffed out a fingerprint the pilot had left behind on the shiny metal finish. 

“So…let’s see…” Frankie hummed to himself, letting his fingers trail across the buttons on the panel of the N-1 as Din nervously hovered by the cockpit, flinching as Frankie started flicking buttons. 

“You might wanna step back a bit there, pal, I got this,” Frankie grinned at him, the glass dome sliding back over the cockpit and the engines roared to life. 

“Wait..what!” Din spluttered as he had to stumble back, Frankie grabbing hold of the yoke and revving the engine. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be right back!” Frankie yelled, a wide grin on his face, before pulling back on the yoke, the N-1 taking off, leaving the mandalorian on the ground, coated in dust. 

“Dank farrik!” Din reached back to engage the phoenix pack, only to grasp at air, the damn thing was still stored on his ship!

Looking up he could see the starfighter zip across the sky, climbing higher. 

He punched the comms link on his vambrace, “Bring her back now or I will bring you in cold!”

“Hey, you’ve got direct comms to the ship, awesome!” Frankie’s voice crackled through the receiver, “Don’t worry, I just wanna clear the atmosphere, I’ve never been to space. I’m almost there.” 

“Come back now!” Din roared through his helmet but Frankie ignored him, a strangled gasp coming through from the N-1. 

“Holy shit, Din…this is incredible…” Frankie’s voice was laced with awe as the starfighter breached the Earth’s atmosphere and shot into the exosphere. “This is fucking incredible, man. It’s fucking space!” 

“Don’t go further out, we’ll lose comms, Frankie,” Din turned his head up towards the sky, watching the thermal trail of the N-1 disappearing up past what his helmet visor could track. 

“Don’t worry, I just…fuck…I just need to take in this view,” the comms went quiet for a minute, all Din could hear was Frankie’s shuffling inside the cockpit as he turned his head to take it all in. “Man…I can’t believe you get to see this on the daily, you’re one lucky fucking pilot, Din.” 

“Yeah, it’s pretty incredible, I guess,” Din conceded.

“Alright, I’m coming back, lemme just….there, got a shot of it, Pope’s gonna blow his fucking mind when I instagram this shit.” 

The starfighter soon appeared as a tiny glinting dot in the sky and Din focused on it, following its decent back down to earth as Frankie smoothly pulled the ship out of the dive, leveling out and gliding back down to the asphalt, letting it hover just above the ground as he slid back the cockpit glass. 

“Holy fucking shit, man! That was fucking incredible!” Frankie jumped out of the N-1, slapping Din on the shoulder, as he bounced around the thrusters, “Absolutely fucking incredible!” 

He stopped and grinned at Din, his smile nearly splitting his cheeks. “Man…I cannot fucking believe you get to do that every day. I never thought I’d say this, but fuck, that actually beats flying choppers!” 

“Yeah, it’s wizard,” the mandalorian said, the modulator betraying a bit of glee as Frankie continued to bounce around the N-1, snapping shots of it from every angle. 

“Uhhm…” Din tilted his head and jerked his thumb behind him, “I’ve got a…an acquaintance, she’s restored an old Razor Crest. If you want, I can check if she’ll give you a good price, if you’re interested.”

“You serious?” Frankie stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide under the brim of his cap, “a spaceship?”

“It’s not an N-1 starfighter, but I think you’ll like it.” 

“Lead the way, pal!” Frankie slapped his hand on Din’s metal pauldron before hastily retracting it, “Sorry ‘bout that, I’ll just….” he surreptitiously buffed the metal with the sleeve of his flannel shirt under Din’s hard gaze. 

The two men walked off down the airfield as the sun dipped down beneath the horizon. 

“Hey, maybe when I get this ship, we can work together?”

“No.” 

“I bet you need extra cargo space sometimes.” 

“Hrmph…”

“Everybody needs a bit of extra space, pal”. 

“Maybe.” 

“Hey, lemme tell you about that time I flew over the fucking Andes!” 

“No.” 

The End

@imaswellkid Though you might enjoy this too!

[bittybug-sunflower-blog]

Chapter summary: Beka learns Hunter’s truth and starts over with her life.

Warning ⚠️: Mature themes and language, sex, drugs, abuse, blood, death, drinking, suicide attempt, and smoking

Word count: 2809

Rating 21+

Extra: alternate universe story

Chapter 2

Several weeks passed, and Beka's relationship with Hunter blossomed. The joy of their engagement brought a sense of completeness to their lives. However, as the excitement of their impending marriage built, the delicate balance began to fray.

One rainy evening, Beka received a tip about illegal activities taking place at an abandoned warehouse. The information seemed suspicious, but her determination pushed her to investigate despite the storm raging outside. As she neared the warehouse, the unsettling reality of the situation began to weigh heavily on her.

"This unit 99 requesting backup at the Tipoca City warehouse." Beka said through her scanner, she got nothing but static, "This unit 99 requesting backup at Tipoca City warehouse." Beka repeated, again, static Beka groaned in frustration, the rain was interfering, and she had no time to wait for anyone. By the time backup arrives, they may be long gone. Beka pulled out her service revolver and placed six bullets in each cylinder. She clicked the gun before rolling the cylinder in her hand. She got out of her car, the rain beating down on her body. She moved with silent precision. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of rust and decay. The silence was occasionally pierced by the clanging of metal and muffled cries. Beka moved cautiously, her heart pounding as she ventured deeper into the shadows. She started to hear voices.

"Listen clanker you don't give what we want, we have to do this hard way." A rugged voice said. Muffled pleases and screams were the response.

Beka moved fast and she eventually came up on her suspects, she yelled aiming her gun towards them, "Freeze! Coruscant Police!"

What she saw inside was a brutal shock. Hunter and four other men were engaged in a ruthless interrogation. The man in the center of the room was bloodied and bound, his desperate cries for mercy drowned out by the cold indifference of Hunter's group. Hunter's usual warmth was replaced by a chilling detachment.

Beka stood frozen, terror in her eyes as she struggled to comprehend the scene before her. Hunter's gaze met hers, his face shifting from cold determination to shock and regret. "Beka —"

"Hunter, what's going on?" One of his men, gruff and incredulous, demanded. "Who the hell is she and what is she doing here?"

Hunter's eyes were locked on Beka, trying to convey a sense of urgency and calm. "Beka. Please, just—"

Another man, his face a mask of confusion and anger, added, "Is this some kind of setup?"

Beka's mind raced, the horror of the situation overwhelming her. Her body was paralyzed, unable to move as she took in the brutality around her. She turned and fled the warehouse. Her steps quickened as she heard one of the men yell for her not to escape. She got in her car turned the ignition on and sped away. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she sped through the rain-slicked streets.

"Beka wait!" Hunter called as he made his way out of the warehouse, by that time Beka could only see Hunter's figure getting smaller as she drove away.

She reached a secluded lake, its surface reflecting the moonlight in haunting clarity. With trembling hands, Beka removed the ring Hunter had proposed to her. She threw it into the murky depths, watching it disappear, a silent farewell to the man she had known. Beka just sat by the lake contemplating her next moves. The following morning, Beka found herself at the police station, her heart heavy with the weight of her decisions.

She walked to the commission's desk, her face set in grim determination. "I'm resigning, Sergeant Windu," she said, placing her badge and service weapon on the desk. "Effective immediately."

Windu looked up, surprised. "Beka? What's going on what brought this on?"

"Too much has happened Serge." Beka sighed, "I'll have the proper paperwork filled out and sent to your office by the following day."

"Are you sure?" Her sergeant asked.

"Absolutely. Thank you for everything Sergeant Windu" she replied, her voice unwavering despite the turmoil in her eyes. "It's time for me to move on."

As Beka made her way out of the office, Seneca stood there dumbfounded, "Beka?"

"Stay on the straight and narrow my friend, for your sons' sake," Beka said looking at her friend with a broken smile.

Beka got back to her apartment and sighed. There wasn't much time for her to break down. She knew everyone would ask questions and Hunter; Hunter would be looking for her. She packed what she needed.

She met with her landlord, "Here." Beka handed him an envelope of money, "Cutting my lease today, sell whatever is left in the apartment." Before the landlord could even say a word, Beka was gone.

Beka threw her suitcase in the car and finally sat at the wheel, she finally let herself cry. She started cursing at herself angry at how naïve and stupid she was, how dumb for not seeing the signs that Hunter was a crime boss. Without any direction, Beka just drove away.

A few months have passed now, and Beka underwent a dramatic transformation and left behind her old identity. It started with working as a bartender in another state. She watched one band in particular, the Ribbon Singers, their music was smooth and soothing. One night, Beka was late cleaning the bar when she started singing an old jazz song, dancing lost in thought. She took a broom and used it as a prop for her singing and dancing. When she ended her performance, she could hear clapping from behind. She turned in surprise to see a man. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that spoke of professionalism and attention to detail. His sleek, dark hair was neatly styled as his goatee, and he carried himself with a polished demeanor.

"You got a gift young lady." The man smiled, "Finis Zapal, I can make you a big star now." He cut straight to the chase as he pulled out a white small card handing it to Beka.

"Um, I'm good thanks though," Beka said looking at Finis's card and then back at him.

"Really sweetheart, you have talent that I have not heard in many years, come to our rehearsal tomorrow morning and see if you'll change your mind when you see us up close and personal." Finis grabbed his coat and hat from a nearby stool and tipped his head to Beka as he made his exit.

Beka looked at the card and sighed she had nothing else to lose. She arrived early the next morning at the bar, though having very little sleep that night. She saw the band from last night warming vocals and testing instruments.

"Can we help you?" a sharp snappy voice came from a woman.

Before Beka could respond Finis appeared, "Relax Lina, ah you came! Come now, show everyone what you got." He took Beka by her hand and led her up on the small stage, "Go ahead and sing umm..."

"Beka." Beka giving her name, "What do I sing?"

"Sing whatever sweetheart," Finis ordered.

Beka looked at the other band members and they shrugged one started hitting the drums slightly while another started playing the bass. With no sense of direction, Beka started singing. She let the music guide her, her voice sympathy of emotion. When the song came to an end everyone bar staff, the band members, and Finis all clapped.

"Um, thanks." Beka sheepishly said as she rubbed the back of her neck.

"Sweetheart, welcome to the band, start rehearsal and dress fitting tomorrow," Finis said turning to walk away.

"Mr. Zapal, um I don't exactly feel comfortable being in the spotlight considering a past and stuff." Before Beka could explain more Finis interrupted.

"Wear a mask, go by a stage name, and get the crowds invested in a mysterious singer," Finis suggested before going back and talking with the bar staff.

Beka stood still, looking at the band she would be working with. She gave a nervous smile, unsure of what to expect next. "Hi, I'm Beka," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The band members looked at her with skepticism.

In the weeks that followed, Beka began performing in small, smoky bars. The dimly lit venues, filled with the scent of tobacco and the low hum of conversation, became her new stage. Her talent quickly gained attention, and she adopted the stage name Miss Ribbon Singer. It was Finis who suggested the name, and he also recommended that she have a custom mask made to hide her identity.

The mask, a delicate piece adorned with intricate designs, fit snugly over her face, leaving only her expressive eyes visible. "This will keep you safe," Finis had said as he handed it to her.

As she sang under the dim lights of a jazz club, the mask she wore was not just a disguise but a symbol of her reinvention. It shielded her from her past and represented her new beginning. Each performance, each song, was a step away from the life she had known and a stride toward the one she was creating.

The smoky haze of the club swirled around Beka as she stood on the small stage, gazing out at her bandmates. Each one was a character in their own right, adding color to the tapestry of their music.

The drummer, Gavid Ardel, with his wild curls and perpetual grin, sat behind his drum kit. The gentle clinking of his drumsticks was a familiar sound, a prelude to the rhythm that would soon fill the room. "You've got this, Miss Ribbon," he'd say, offering Beka a reassuring smile before every performance. His framed face and his perpetual grin were infectious, and his bright shiny bald head spoke of someone who just wanted to have fun and let loose.

Gil Renda, the pianist and often singer, took his place at the battered upright piano. His fingers danced over the keys, producing melodies that seemed to come straight from his heart. His affection for Beka was no secret, evident in the way he lingered close to her, his eyes always seeking hers. "Your voice is as beautiful as ever, Beka," he'd often say, his tone filled with admiration and flirtation. His dark hair, always slightly tousled, fell just above his brow, giving him a disheveled, artistic look. His eyes were an inviting brown, full of emotion, and they often sparkled with admiration when he looked at Beka.

Beka, ever polite but uninterested, would simply smile and thank him, focusing on the music rather than his advances. "Thanks, Gil, but I'm not interested in dating," Beka said courteously. Gil nodded he knew Beka's heart still longed for that person from the past.

The former lead singer, Lina Harik, now relegated to the role of backup singer, stood a few steps behind Beka. Her arrival changed everything. Lina's blue eyes would stare down at Beka. They are wide and expressive, framed by long, dark lashes that match her brunette hair. To make matters worse, Lina harbored a crush on Gil and couldn't stand seeing his affections directed elsewhere. "Don't think you're all that," she once hissed at Beka after a particularly well-received performance.

Beka, striving to keep the peace, would ignore the barbs, focusing instead on the music. "Don't worry hon, he's yours." Beka would always remind her.

Corr and Cran Agow, cousins who played bass and guitar respectively, stood on either side of the stage. Corr, the bassist, was stoic and reserved, his deep notes providing a solid foundation for their sound. He rarely spoke, letting his music do the talking. Cran, on the other hand, was more outgoing, often seen with a broad grin as he plucked away at his guitar. "We're like two halves of a whole," Cran liked to say, ruffling Corr's hair in a rare show of affection. Corr, the bassist, was tall and lean with a deep, resonant voice. His skin was a rich, dark brown, and his close-cropped hair and serious expression reflected his reserved nature. Cran, the guitarist, was shorter and more muscular, with a warm, deep brown complexion and a playful, natural fro. Both cousins had broad grins and colorful clothing matched their energetic personality.

As Beka took her place at the microphone, the club's dim lights casting a soft glow over her masked face, she felt a surge of determination. The mask, a delicate piece adorned with intricate designs, was not just a disguise but a symbol of her reinvention. It shielded her from her past and represented her new beginning. Each performance, each song, was a step away from the life she had known and a stride toward the one she was creating.

The band began to play, the music filling the room and wrapping around Beka like a comforting embrace. She closed her eyes and let the notes carry her away, her voice rising and falling in perfect harmony with the instruments. The audience, captivated by her voice and the mystery of her masked persona, grew larger with every performance.

"Thank you," she would say at the end of each set, her heart swelling with a mixture of gratitude and determination.

With each performance they grew larger in popularity, eventually performing for big movie stars, politicians, and audiences out of bars and lounges. They still had the occasional ask to perform in bars which Finis accepted here and there. They were getting record labels, and deals, having their music recorded and broadcasted everywhere. Beka began writing songs for not only her band but for other talented and famous singers. Beka was resolute in her decision to leave the scars of her past behind. The mask gave her the freedom to be whoever she wanted to be.

Every show was always sold out. They toured towns and cities left and right. Beka found herself back in the city of Coruscant. But despite the new life she built for herself, Beka never forgot where she came from or the people who mattered most to her. She was often afraid her past would come back, and she had every right to be. Beka wrote to Gruno and Jetto often, sending letters filled with stories about her new life, though she kept the details vague. She'd tell them about the places she visited, the people she met, and how she was finally doing something she loved. Yet, she always left out the part about being Miss Ribbon Singer, about the late nights in smoky clubs and the adoring crowds that hung on her every note.

Every time she signed her name at the bottom of the page, she felt a pang of guilt, knowing she was hiding something from the people who meant the most to her. But then she'd remind herself that she was protecting them, that the world she now inhabited was far removed from the quiet life they led. She thought about writing to Seneca but knew it was best not to.

As the band was preparing for tonight's show, Beka sat on a crate her mask above her head. She started contemplating what to do. They were in a local lounge because they offered a big payout and Finis couldn't say no to it.

"Hey, are you..." The voice stopped in their tracks, "No way, Rebekath, Beka Hardt?" A voice yelled.

Beka quickly pulled her mask over her face, "No, no you must have gotten me confused with someone else."

"Beka, it's me Valree." They explained. With striking short blue hair, cut just above the ears, a bold choice that contrasted sharply with their profession. As security personnel, they wore men's clothing—a crisp, tailored suit and polished shoes. The blue hair and sharp suit created a distinctive look.

"Valree Brights?" Beka smiled, she embraced her old friend in a tight hug, "What are you..." Before Beka asks.

Valree spoke up first, "When Seneca said you quit, didn't expect a whole career change."

"Val, too much happened, but look at you, you're now a bouncer?" Beka asked taking in her friend's attire.

"Damn straight, listen I know you don't want to talk about it, but you need to talk to Seneca, she's the most hurt," Valree said putting a hand on Beka's shoulder.

"I know, listen can you keep me being..." Before Beka could finish,

"Keep it a secret so you don't get overwhelmed with fans and Seneca comes knocking at you with her fists, I gotcha." Valree laughed.

"That," Beka smirked pointing a figure at Valree.

"Miss Ribbon Singer you're on in two minutes." Called the stage manager.

"Knock them dead kiddo, come talk to me after the show," Valree said.

Beka only nodded at her old friend a smile spreading across her face.

[alittleghostwhoeatsbread]

Dafür Zu Verrostet

Fred had used and abused many a pedestal in his early years, having favoured concrete or metal square blocks for their plainness and balanceability before growing up and settling on a marble triangle in Victoria Square, the realisation that flair and a lack of balance weren’t always a bad thing settling it, perching on its upmost tip and striking the pose of that of a naked and aroused sailor mistaking a distant pile of seaweed for the bosom of a charitable mermaid for twenty years. Victoria Square was a haven, filled to the brim on all sides with statues of different forms, shapes, and materials, its centrepiece being the visitor named Floozy who lounged in a jacuzzi shaped fountain the size of a bus and the colour of jade with hands that stretched to the sky as if asking a cloud lover to return, but Fred was close only with the two statues perched close enough to his own pedestal to converse with without shouting- Vicky, an iron made royal figure with a froggish chin gently cradling a baton, and Hazel, a sandy stone sphinx complete with exposed tongue and fangs. One day as the sun rose and turned the square the colour of an oranges intestine, it deemed it time to cling to the statues forms and highlight their imperfections with the magnifying glass of a recently divorced judge, sending a perfect ray out to strike the surface of Fred’s backside and showcase a small patch of discoloured flaking metal to backside loving Vicky, who upon being showcased too immediately raised her baton and pointed it at the affected area of the closed-eyed Fred, who was smiling up at the warming sun with the bliss of a tightrope stander mid tightrope stand, jerking it up and down as if it was a gun rather than a baton.

           “Rustitis, Fredrick. On your backside. Rustitis!”

           Closed-eyed Fred instantly became open-eyed Fred and his peaceful smile began the slow downward crawl of an accidental amputee to their accidentally displayed and dashed about limbs, opening into a chasm of fear while waking several statues who’d still been sleeping with the rhythmic hammer on metal slapping of his own ass, slapping which caused more of the rusted surface to flake and drift off with the Joie de vivre of a gang of oddly coloured snowflakes who know their own attractiveness and aren’t afraid to flaunt it.

           “No, no, no. It can’t be. Maybe it’s bird shit or a miraculous tattoo. For God sake look again and say it’s bird shit or a miraculous tattoo,” Fred pleaded with a Vicky who was still pointing her gun at his ass in a way that cast no shadow of doubt on the hard bodied fact that if she had ammo or a real gun, she wouldn’t have hesitated in shooting.

           Hazel, whose pedestal was on the side of Fred which meant his backside was inaccessible to her, woke up during this hullabaloo, confusedly lapping at the air with her fat tongue until the sun helpfully exposed with a blinding light another patch of rustitis on Fred’s shoulder blade and caused her to retreat that fat lapping tongue back into her mouth to hide, almost leaping off her pedestal to forcibly remove him from the square but resisting, partly because he was her friend but almost entirely because the idea of actually touching him was too much for her to bear.

           “Oh, Fred. I’m sorry,” she murmured, shaking her great head from side to side with enough force to hammer the final nail in the coffin of belief that the marks could simply be miraculous tattoos or bird shit.

           “Don’t let them take me,” was all Fred said to the nail being hammered, his eyes, which had looked pleadingly at an invisible patch of bosom shaped seaweed for twenty years, spinning to look pleadingly at his friends instead.

           But it was too late for anyone to not let anything happen even if they would or could, which they wouldn’t and couldn’t, as the signal had been sent and received as soon as the word of rustitis had been uttered and within seconds they arrived in white coats and vans with miniature cranes on top, eyes cold and uncaring, ears hearing but ignoring Fred’s stammering pleas as they wrapped several ropes around his waist and attached them to the top of one of the cranes which had cogs that immediately began to scream like coals in heat as they strained in removing him from the top of his triangle. They screamed for five minutes alongside a Fred whose feet clung like a hunch to a back to his pedestal and hands reached desperately out for his recoiling friends who still cared enough to turn their eyes away and pretend they didn’t want what was happening to happen before his hunch feet lost the fight with a POP! and he came off his pedestal and was lowered into the back of a van to watch from the rear window, his arms still stuck in the pose they’d held for so long, as his home pantomimed a hairline and receded away.

           The van sped through the city and Fred’s eyes grew as mournful as a dog in heat as they passed several of his old pedestal points and he wondered if all the times he’d watched other statues with rustitis getting dragged away without making a sound other than a small laugh was why the disease had targeted him, doing his best to feel sorry for all the past victims of his small laugh in his heart of hearts as if it would make a difference to his own circumstances before discarding his limited memories of them and feeling sorry only for himself in his heart of hearts, fearfully considering what was going to happen to him. He, Vicky, and Hazel had debated on what happened when the rust part of rustitis got worse, usually after an afflicted statue was taken screamingly away, and had laughed as they discussed possibilities such as disintegration, missing limbs, and exposed or hidden genitals rotting into twisted things that sang with lyres about the sadness of having never being touched before they were rotted twisted things. He briefly became afraid that his penis would become a twisted rotten thing that sang with a lyre before dismissing the possibility with a clenching of the fists, believing fervently that his penis was at least of the class of genital that would pluck a harp as it approached its end, a clenching of the fists that was remarkably therapeutic as it enabled the metal to stretch, with the grinding grind of a convicted robot’s ass being dragged alongside the back of a police car as a method of cruel and unusual punishment by a cruel and unusual jury, as it hadn’t been able to for twenty years.

His feet were still stuck in the unusual tippity toed ballet position that had been required for him to stay bonded to the tip of his triangle and the stuckness of them prevented Fred from turning his head around enough to look not through the rear window but through the gap behind him where two heads belonging to two white coats floated, but his ears could prick like radar dishes and hear well their mumbles and grumbles about the damn growing number of patients being brought to the Establishment’s treatment hall and how it was too much dammit. Fred had never heard of the Establishment or its treatment room but the fact he was going to a place where treatment was to be had filled his chest with the hope the sailor he had posed as for so long must have felt at mistaking the seaweed pile, and he began working on stretching out the rest of his body as the city continued to pass with the speed of a runaway cat who’d got the cream. He'd just gotten his feet to unstick so he could turn and stare through the back of the white coated heads to what they were driving towards when they pulled into the driveway of a large granite building with all the charm of a train ticket inspector, completely square and almost impotent looking, and the driving stopped, the backdoor of the van being thrown open by more figures in white and the scream of the van’s crane cogs coming again as Fred was pulled out, suspended, and dropped onto a little trolly with wheels that wheeled him towards a huge doorframe as square as the building with a sign above it reading, WELCOME TO THE ESTABLISHMENT: CLEAR YOUR THROAT UNLESS YOU’RE A PATIENT.

The white coated figures pushing the trolly hacked and hawked to unclog themselves before wheeling Fred into a spherical hall as in odds with the shape of the outside of the building as an abstinent ant with a horny-horny hippo, the sloping hall walls bordering a space filled with beds that in turn were filled with statues in a variety of positions and stages of rustitis- some merely with flaking patches of discolouration like Fred, some peeling all over like overheated oranges, some as rusty as a former prodigy returning from retirement- any tiny movement from them letting out froggish croaks and creaks but those croaks and creaks being kept to a minimum as they all kept movement of any kind as infrequent as possible, most of them lying as still as if their beds were their pedestals and the other statues their visitors.

Despite their stillness, rust floated off the statues filling the beds, forming clouds, puffs really, in the air of swirling vapour metallic in taste no matter what material the statues they came from were made from and Fred was pushed through and made to inhale these puffs on his journey from the entrance all the way through to the back of the hall, which was the back of a hall, blocked from both extending the space further or revealing whatever wilderness lay beyond it by a curved brick wall that Fred was pushed up against before being levered onto his back on top of a bed homed in by metal bars. The bed was bordered by a row of others just like it that followed the sideways curve of the back wall- the hall being set up like a Dantesque version of hell, the rows of beds continually forming their own circles that grew incrementally smaller until the ice cold centre was reached- the two on either side of his own being occupied by a wooden whinnying and rearing horse and an alabaster little girl with an oversized and extended hesitant finger hesitating over some invisible debris. The white coated men who’d wheeled him in nodded at Fred after tying him to the bed with a leather strap that would have looked more at home in a brothel to say that yes they had brought him and that yes their job was done before leaving with a sharp turning of their heels and Fred’s legs, one of the only parts of him able to move with restriction, began air running desperately in the air as if he did it enough he would somehow air run back to a period in time when he was not tied to a bed and slowly rusting.

The wooden horse did its pose a service and let out a high-pitched whinny before immediately doing that same pose a disservice by turning that whinny into the wet-lipped hacking of a smoker face to face with a clown, inciting the little girl on Fred’s other side to look at Fred and let out a tinkling akin to the splash of urine in a dark alley.

“Did you hear that helped with the rust?” The horse asked in between hacks, his raised legs nibbled, almost to what would have been bone if bone had been there to arrive at, by rust, raising higher and kicking with glee and a little bit of hope as if he might have actually heard it helped with the rust.

“Yeah, ha-ha, did you?” The little girl also began kicking, not her legs which were cemented together to form a shapeless mound the rest of her body rose from like the fire of a firework, but her oversized hesitant finger which abused the air with wags.

“I just want to run. Out of this bed, out of here, out of the present, but I can’t because I’m immobile and not by choice.”

“If you didn’t hear that helped from someone then being immobile should be your choice, it’s good for your rustitis,” the little girl’s wagging finger purposefully came to a stop as the horses' legs also stopped kicking. “We’ve heard, and from trained and informed specialists in white coats too, that staying as still as we can might be the way to being cured. Why do you think we’re strapped down like this?”

“You’ve ruined a solid week of immobility,” The horse neighed, its gaping nostrils gaping furiously. “My rust has gotten worse already, look. Look at it!”

Completely smooth holes with the look of tunnels of the worming worm, larger than the nibbled patches that had been visible before, had appeared right across the horses hide, dotting it like enlarged speckles, and when Fred turned his head and saw these holes leading to somewhere he didn’t want to go but was heading any way he shivered and turned his head and body as much towards the little girl as he could, questions falling out of him.

“Are we safe here? Has anyone here ever been cured? How long have you been here? Why are we strapped down? Does rustitis make your genitals twisted and rotten? Will being so close to others like you with it worsen my own rust? Answer the second question first please,” Fred flicked the insides of his eyes down to all the parts of his body not covered in strap but keeping the outsides of them solely on his penis, rubbed gold by twenty years of visitor's hands, his mind playing tricks with him so that he sometimes saw rust there and sometimes didn’t as he waited for the little girl to race to answer all his questions but specifically the second one, the little girl being interrupted before the starting whistle by the horse forgetting its desire to stay immobile, click-clacking its teeth together.

“Boulton’s going bucket,” it shouted to the excitement of all the statues whose beds were positioned in a way that they could see what was about to occur, all immediately abandoning their own respective immobility exercises and spinning as much as their straps would allow them in the direction of a bed containing what had possibly once been a full statue but may have always just been an overly large bust of a head.

The head of Boulton had two eyes which had rusted into perpetual shuteye and a mouth that was looked down upon by what might have once been quite a regal moustache but was then little more than a smear, tiny patches of metal not rusted and showing his original colour splattered like pox across the rest of his features showing him to have been a statue of much finer quality and material than most of the ones salivating at the sight of him trembling and flapping his looked down upon mouth with the haplessness of a seashell with wings, each flap letting out a cloud of the progressively darker rust until, with a tremendous booming noise that temporarily made the world go black, he exploded into a beam of light so dense and bright it couldn’t be seen into. The beam of light, stretching from floor to ceiling of the hall, stayed dense and bright for several seconds before beginning to swirl in the manner of a tax-evading tornado, the tip of its swirl bouncing on the bed in the spot where the head of Boulton had been before finally dissipating, leaving behind only a little nest of fragmented rust, the egg resting in its centre not an egg at all but a shiny silver bucket that shouldn’t have surprised Fred by appearing but still did. The horse’s teeth were two coconuts making love, going slower and slower as the excitement of the scene died down, stopping without finishing as the cheering and whooping of the rest of the statues faded too and several white coats appeared to remove the bucket, the bodies of all the statues returning to their immobility with the exception of their eyes which fixed and flickered to remain on the fastly disappearing bucket that had been Boulton until the fastly disappearing bucket that had been Boulton had completed its disappearing.

Fred’s teeth took up where the horse’s had left off and clicked together, two homeless pennies huddled together in a winter rain, as he contemplated what he’d seen until he felt as if he felt all the patches of rust on his body growing and eating away at him bit by bit as if there was a hungry rat let loose inside the pipes and tubes of his innards who had no qualms about coming up for air to munch indiscriminately on things it thought looked tasty, and when he felt as if he felt that a mad thrashing, accompanied with a little old lady groan that escaped his lips like a stray balloon and rose into the air, began to be done by him. The little girl turned to look at the fearful flaying of Fred, reaching from her bed with her oddly long finger to prod him gently but repeatedly in the left eye, a shhhhhhing sound emerging serpently from her lips until he stopped thrashing and groaning to look at the tip of her prodding perpetually ponderous finger which had an expanding patch of rust on it far worse than any of the other patches on her, a rust so rusty the slightest breeze or gust or gale sent parts of it smoking away into the ether and encouraged him to scuttle as far back on his bed as a strap would allow.

“Did you know Boulton?” She asked once he’d scuttled.

“N-n-no,” Fred stuttered, fearfully watching the tip of the little girl’s finger sway in the space his left eye had occupied.

“Then what’s up duck?”

“I didn’t know that’s what happened.”

“You didn’t know going bucket meant you turned into a bucket?”

“I didn’t know we would go bucket at all!”

“What did you think would happen? We’d disintegrate into clouds and float into the sky and that would be that? Wishful. The white coats told horse who told me that we’d have to have a really lazy disease for it to end us like that. At least we don’t have a lazy disease.”

“What are they going to do with him now he’s a bucket?”

“I don’t know. Use him to collect water or hold a mop. Sell him to people who’ll use him to collect water or hold a mop. You know, bucket things,” the little girl, who’d finally withdrawn her finger and gone back to being still, shrugged with her eyes.

“But doesn’t the idea of that scare you? Buckets don’t have eyes or a mouth or anything,” Fred was adrift and agog that nobody else was adrift or agog themselves about the entire situation.

“I’m assuming we won’t need eyes or mouths or anythings when we’re buckets but of course it’s scary and we’re all scared,” the horse snapped while moving its mouth as little as possible, his teeth hitting together nonetheless with a force that made it clear they wished Fred’s gonads were between them. “Why do you think we’re trying to stay still? For fun?”

Fred sat up as much as he could sit up to angrily reply, the strap pulling tight across his chest with the type of restriction only a strap made for restricting could enforce, just enough for his body to be at an obtuse angle and for the digits at the end of his hand to mimic a furious mouth, but before that open mouth could spew or sign any words at all into the ether, an old speaker attached like a hair follicle to the curved wall directly above Fred’s head, snap, crackled, popped and announced with the voice of an elderly snake charmer that it was that time again, yes that’s right, treatment time and streams of white coats began flooding into the hall from areas unseen and unknown, all with different objects in hand, all of which they held with the air of charitable givers giving umbrellas to those caught in the midst of a terrible rain shower when in fact the objects they had in hand were nothing like umbrellas brought in the midst of terrible rain shower but things such as guitars, canvases, paints, beers, plates of food, cans, megaphones, tape recorders, violins, microphones, wine, chopsticks, detergent, antibacterial spray, soap, shampoo, tables and chairs, boxes of toys such as little cars and figures, torches, blankets, teddy bears, teddy dogs, teddy cats, dogs and cats, one giant tortoise being led by a lead, forks and knives, meringue, stones, and lemon shaped juggling balls. A white coat with an electric violin and amp went to the horse’s bedside, another holding a plate of macaroni and cheese went to the little girls, and approaching Fred’s, a white coat with white hair and a small white goatee and two cheekbones made from bone holding a can of polish, a rag, and a bottle of beer, all of which were brandished in front of his face with a hand as steady as an unflyable kite as the sound of an electric violin being poorly played filled one ear and cheese and pasta being force fed filled his other.

His white coat mimed clearing his throat before screaming over the sounds coming from the bedsides beside Fred and the similar sounds coming from and echoing around the entire hall.

 “Hello, I’m sure you have questions. Hold them inside for a mere moment. Introductions first. You are my patient and you have rustitis. I am Doctor Doc, one of the leading healers and leaders of the Establishment and I will be treating your rustitis. This will be a long process that may take longer than you last. We are sorry this is the case but the case it is, so try and take heart that your potential demise could be the key to us finding the cure for others. You can let your questions out now.”

Fred’s face had turned as shiny as a new fish from holding in just two questions which had been competing with each other to be the first to scale his body and emerge victorious from his mouth so when he did let them out, both of them having arrived at the same time and been beating on the drum of his clenched lips, they spewed into the world almost simultaneously.

“Your name is Doc? What will you be treating me with?”

“Yes, my name is Doc, short for Doclan, and with the items I hold in my hands, of course.”

The can of polish, rag, and bottle of beer was again brandished to Fred’s face before the bottle of beer was placed on the ground and, with the air of a magician convincing an audience he is about to do a dramatic trick but instead just exposes his nipples to them, Doc twisted the nozzle on the can of polish from locked to unlocked, spraying the substance first on just the visibly affected rust areas on his torso but then everywhere so that foam as white as the surf of the sea coated his body. Fred looked at the little girl as his body was foamed, her oversized finger poking at the white coat of the white coat who was shovelling food like slime into the Styx into her, each poke causing the white coat no apparent discomfort, their face remaining as jolly as a jellyfish in spring as their mouths repeated, ‘It’s homemade at home by me!’, but each one reducing the size of that finger, and then looked at the horse who lay as still as he could as the electric violin let out a tune that could have been O Danny Boy and could have been a cat being molested, accepting its treatment with the wide eyes of a steed broken in and willing.

Doc, once Fred was covered to his satisfaction, began wiping away at the foam with a variety of polishing techniques more akin to that of a window cleaner- the S shape polish, The V shape polish, the rubadubdub polish, the whenI’mcleaningIsinggggg polish, the circular polish, the freestyle jazz polish, before doing the towelling off a wet child finale- each stroke, rub, and wipe of the rag on Fred’s surface making him tingle as Doc, who spoke as he stroked, rubbed, and wiped, ducked his head close enough for the words to be heard.

“You’re in luck having me treating you. Such luck. I almost cured my last statue. They were showing such promise. I’d faded not one, but two of their rust patches to patches of almost not rust before they, alas, went bucket. But I considered what I’d done, and I think now I’ve figured out a way to speed up the process. With these treatments and my new know how, you could be the one!”

“What treatments? Where? You’re polishing me, that little girl is being force fed, someone’s playing some awful violin. I don’t understand,” Fred’s voice came out in the tone of a claustrophobic tortoise feverously praying to escape its shell.

Doc stopped polishing in its tracks and looked sternly down at Fred who’d shouted loudly enough for some other white coats to hear, his mouth in the middle of his goatee a puckered anus ready to release a shit storm as the violin screeched into silence and the white coat holding it brandishing their horse haired bow like a rapier towards Fred, eyes wet as puddles and cheeks pillowy.

“Of course, you don’t understand, are you a white coat? Are you a member of the Establishment? Have you ever had to treat a patient so sick you’re afraid that nothing you do will ever cure them? No, you’re a statue with rustitis. A statue with rustitis whose damn well lucky if you ask me to be being treated by such an esteemed white coat as Doc.”

Doc held his hands up before the bow, twisting them as if controlling the internal temperature of the angry white coat.

“Now, now Igoress, calm down. Carry on with your playing, which I much mention is getting much better by the way, Fred here is just afraid.”

Igoress stared at Fred with their bow brandished for several more seconds, its tip shaking with a Parkinsonian tremble before spinning with a dancers gait back to the horses' bedside to begin again inciting wails from the electric violin while Doc, still paused in his polishing, looked down at Fred, his brows berating him as his mouth gently explained, the very definition of a man with good bedside manners.

“We members of the Establishment treat our patients with rustitis in the best way members of an Establishment not made to treat patients with rustitis can do. This disease hasn’t been around long and we don’t know much, so we treat it in the ways we think best. Me, for example, I’ve always been a good polisher, Igoress over there can, almost, play the violin, and Llewyn has always made damn good macaroni and cheese. Now, accept your treatment because it will only maybe work if you accept it and there is nothing else to be done.”

Fred fell silent as Doc began to polish him again, accepting the rubs and wipes like tight hugs from an aunt you’re obligated to accept them from, until his parts unaffected by rust shone like the light of life, the parts affected had an even uglier blemish to them than before, and Doc wiped some sweat from his face, throwing his rag down and cracking open the bottle of beer he’d placed carefully on the floor before matronly lifting Fred’s head up and tipping some of the liquid across his tongue and into his depths where it swished and swashed down with the sound of a rainstick when you’re all tucked up inside. Fred liked the taste of the beer and was disappointed when Doc stopped pouring into him and started pouring into himself, relaxing into an armchair that appeared from nowhere at the bedside as an alarm went off and the rest of the white coats placed little white pills in their statues mouths that even without swallowing made them close their eyes and sleep and all streamed away, leaving with their items so quickly that if you blinked you would have missed them, all except Doc, who stayed in his armchair beyond a blink watching Fred and taking minuscule sips of the beer in between periodic licks of his lips.

“I’d like to start devoting a bit of extra time to my treatments,” Doc explained without being asked to. “I feel that forming a connection with my patients is the missing link to what I’ve been doing and forming a connection can’t be done to a time constraint or while polishing someone. No, you have to have a drink with them after a hard day's work. I’m simply doing my duty to my treatment by doing this. Does that make me better than the rest of the white coats who don’t do it? Most of them would, and do, say yes, but not me. I’m very humble.”

Doc leaned forward and poured more beer into Fred’s mouth which had been left agape with the aura of a tunnel waiting to let in battle reinforcements, the alcohol entering his system until his head felt as if a bumble bee was in there bumbling about and his pleading sailor face became a content sailor face, a grin changing its structure as Doc finally finished off the beer with a dramatic gulping, throwing the empty bottle into his deep white coat pocket, his eyes shiny as he spread his wide hands wide, the lines of his palms beckoning Fred to lean into the treatment by asking, ‘Tell me about you Fred’, and Fred did.

“I’m Fred. A statue. I stood in Victoria Square on a triangle pedestal for twenty years. The visitors of the square liked me and the two statues I stood with liked me. I liked them too. All of sudden I caught rustitis and now I can’t be in the square or stand on my triangle because I was taken by you and the Establishment. I’m confused and scared about maybe becoming a bucket without eyes or a mouth or anything.”

 “The lines on my palms didn’t ask you to tell me about your situation. I read your case file, and I know your situation. I want us to form a connection, Fred, my Freddy boy, I need you to tell me a secret. A secret something that reveals a certain something about yourself to me. A secret something that I can gasp and nod and feel as if I know you in a way nobody else does.”

Fred cleared his throat and thought until the beery bee in his bonnet told him what he already knew, that he’d had spent his life posing and had no secrets, not in his bonnet nor his bumper, and so, scared that would mean he couldn’t lean into the treatment and thus commence to be treated, closed his eyes like a rabbit afraid of rejection, whispering. “But I don’t think I have any secret somethings.”

Doc’s mouth became an upside-down rainbow with two pots of gold masquerading as dimples on each tip as he considered what he’d heard before he grabbed Fred’s hand, rubbing his thumb over the surface of his metal, pointing first at his chest and then at Fred’s with his other hand, pointing and pointing until Fred felt a little sailing ship sail by his heart and throw a rope around it before sailing into Doc and throwing that same rope around his, tying them together.

“Now that’s worthy of a connection. Do you feel that? That’s treatment baby. You told me something and to make this connection as strong a connection as a connection between a white coat and a statue who’ve just met can be, I will now disclose something to you. When I was young I… sigh… I had a dream where I molested a shrew.”

Doc nodded after his confession, looking down in shame while Fred nodded in return to show he’d heard and accepted that secret and what’s more wished he could move his arms out of their restrictions enough to pat him on the side of his white goatee and gently show that he felt the connection, oh boy did he feel it, but before he could say something to show what he was wishing, Doc was standing up and looking at his watch.

“That’s enough treatment for today methinks. We have a connection that we will continue to build on in further treatments, believe you me.”

Doc pulled out a white pill of his own and, putting it on a tongue which lapped out as trustingly as a trussed up taco terrier, forced Fred into a sleep in which he didn’t dream but merely stared at an oil painting depicting the horror he’d no doubt feel when turning bucket until he awoke again in a hall absolutely bustling with statues in states of shock and excitement about the four buckets that had appeared while he’d been gone, all lining the back wall, the horse who Igoress had been playing so badly to one of them, gone and replaced with a bucket made from shiny wood and dull metal bolts.

“Finally awake?” The little girl asked, not yet a bucket herself but much rustier than she’d been before Fred had slept, her childish features marred by the creeping and crawling patches, her oversized finger suddenly normal sized as she turned as fully as her restrictions allowed, her rust addled components letting out Shakespearian shrieks as she did… haaaaaaarkkkkkk… horatiooooooooooooo… “You missed it all. I was lucky. I woke up as it was happening. Four buckets, all at the same time. Look, the light of them burned the floor! The horse wasn’t even that rusty, but it didn’t matter, bang, bucket he was. He wasn’t even awake yet.”

Fred shook his head in a daze and a similar shrieking as what came from the little girl came from the folds and sheets of him… Viennaaaaaaa…. and when he looked down to see how that could be so, in shock and horror, he saw, with shock and horror, that his own rust had gotten worse to a degree less than that of the little girl now he’d woken up but more than she’d been when he was first brought in, a swirling pattern of it decorating his chest and shoulders giving him the fear his life would never be beautiful or good that sipping expired milk will give you.

“Nobody thought you could go bucket asleep or as not very rusty as the horse was but now everybody’s thoughts have been changed by the fact that both of those things can and have happened,” the little girl suddenly gave a leap from her back, coiling her spine so that she came a tiny bit into the air with a smile. “But try not to show you’re scared. There’s a new educated rumour going around that showing fear makes you go bucket faster. I’m also heard that the previous advice of staying immobile to help with treatment was just a joke by the white coats and that it’s actually more helpful to keep moving.”

The little girl’s features ticked in perpetual movement as if some great beast was waking inside of her and pushing at certain nerves within her casing and it was then that Fred noticed that it wasn’t just her, that whereas when he’d last been awake the hall had been accompanied by the Royal Stillness Symphony Orchestra, it was, now he was awake again, accompanied in fact by the Royal Movement Symphony Orchestra, all the other statues leaping and jerking within the bounds of their confines like machine parts come loose from their machines, smiles spitting in the face of fear tattooed on their faces so they resembled convicts queuing up to be shot but not giving their shooters the satisfaction of shooting people not smiling in a spitting manner. Fred began to move too, with more force than everyone else, jerking his limbs around and letting out a scream that shut most of the other statues in the immediate area up and removed their smiles, a scream that had an under and overtone of fear to it, words mingled in with its gargling,

‘HOOOOOOWHOOOOOOFuckfuckfuckfuck, I’m afraid and I’m not going to hide it because I am afraid and you keep changing your minds about how to fix things and I want to speak to Doc because I’m his patient and we have a connection and I want him to hold me and tell me it’s okay to be scared.’

When his scream finally fell off the edge of the cliff it had been precariously balancing on, the other statues in the hall began their fearless in the face of fear smiles again, making them even bigger than before so they could make like a gaggle of magpies ignoring a dodo in distress, thinking in their hearts that he would be next to go bucket while they would all get better, and then, from wherever in the Establishment the white coats congregated, Doc appeared, sliding through the circular maze of beds, white coat billowing in a capeian manner, to place a hand on Fred’s brow gently.

“You are showing you’re afraid, stop it. Have you not heard the new advice now we’ve had enough of our joke? Showing your fear is detrimental to your treatment.”

“I told him. I told him,” the little girl said. “I tried to help. Can I get a new white coat because I tried to help? Please. I don’t want any more macaroni.”

Fred and Doc ignored the little girl who was doing the worm in bed as she spoke, their eyes on each other as Fred’s tongue waggled, “But I am scared. Very scared. Scared about this, scared about that. Scared I’ll go bucket when I really don’t want to, scared because I’m even rustier now than when you started treating me.”

Doc put two fingers upon his chin in an Apostolic manner before using his remaining six fingers to undo Fred’s restraints and wave him up and out of bed with a ‘come with me’, chirp, taking his hand and pulling him away from the back wall of the hall and through and towards the right side wall of the hall, on which, almost hidden, sat a small brown door with the number three perched like a cleaved in two number eight on it. Doc pushed the door open roughly and they stepped through into another hall, larger than the one they’d left and more appropriately shaped to the cubic nature of the building from the outside, one divided into patchwork sections by towels and rags and curtains with a thin mazey strip of a path running between them for you to find their way through. They walked down this path for a while going sideways and upways and crossways, Fred marvelling at the sheer lack of noise permeating the air, as if all sound was being smothered by a jealous pillow, until Doc stopped them at a floral curtained section, his name embroidered on it in emerald green thread, and they entered, Doc pushing Fred down on a wheely chair next to a chest of drawers and quickly drawing the curtain back across the hole they’d made, the silence which had followed them in there becoming somehow even more so, so it was as if they stood in a vacuum cleaner that had accidentally hoovered up the vacuum of space.

“This is my office,” Doc said, sitting down himself while synonymously drawing up the sleeve of his white coat to reveal that he had a pale arm under it, a pale arm of normal length but one that’s paleness was disfigured by patches of greenish rustitis. “And as you can see I, and I’ll tell you now all of the other white coats as well, have what all you statues have. None of us has gone bucket yet, but the time is getting closer. None of our treatments have worked so far and I, we, need one of them to work, for all our sakes.”

Fred’s mouth, so used to falling open and letting out a string of fearful nonsense, was already halfway to being open but was stopped on its rusty hinges by the palm of Doc striking it with the sound of a triangle being clanged somewhere in the back of a complicated piece of music.

“We have a connection. You showing your fear makes me want to show my fear and I don’t want to show my fear because deep down I believe what we white coats have made up. Besides, neither of us should be afraid at all because I have a plan that has never been tried before and so is almost certainly bound to work.”

“What is it?” Fred kept his tone nice and middle ground though his innards were a battlefield of giblets stampeding to escape a disintegrating arena.

“I’m going to put a white coat on you and let you treat some statues.”

“Why would that work?”

“Because it doesn’t seem as if it should. Why should trees grow when wood seems so dead? Who knows. This has never been done before, a statue white coat, who would have thought, and so I think if you treat a few statues, eventually either they or you will begin the process of de-rusting and BOOM, a cure.”

At that Doc threw off the rest of his white coat and then top to reveal that underneath them he was nearly all rustitis with a hole where his heart should have been so that if Fred had wanted to he could have peeked through and seen the face of God, and then he threw that white coat at Fred caught it with his head before standing and slipping it on, becoming a white coat in all the ways putting on a white coat can make you, it muffling the screeches of his movements as Doc himself pulled on a t-shirt and sat down where Fred had been sitting, putting his feet up in the air with the air of a handsome feline about to be milked.

“Don’t dally, go, go,” he said when Fred paused.

“But where shall I go? Who shall I treat?”

“I guess I can hold off Llewyn and his macaroni for now so go to the little girl. Treat her.”

“But how shall I treat her?”

Doc sighed like a trunkless elephant.

“What are you good at? What can you do?”

“I can stand really still.”

“It has to be something more than that. You can’t just put on a white coat and stand as still as a statue.”

“But I’ve never done anything other than be a statue.”

“Well, we need something.”

Doc got up and began rummaging through the wooden chest of drawers that by golly seemed to be there simply to be rummaged around in before, with a “Hoooooooo”, he withdrew a large thermal mug sealed with a black lid and threw it to Fred whose hands sprung to grasp its round warmth instinctively, caressing it as a bovinophile would an udder.

“Take a sip of that with your gob.”

Fred did as Doc said and took the lid off, releasing a finger of visible steam that suggestively fingered his nose holes and carried with it the stench of a burnt carrot, before sucking a sip and turning back to Doc while posing as he imagined a version of himself that had been born a white coat would do while treating, putting a hand on his hip and sullenly gazing into the middle distance, a pose that made Doc act as a stray dog at a buffet, veering up further on his hind legs and smacking his lips.

“That’s what I’m talking about, yoooooooooooo-mama, you look great. Very Geil, to bust out my almost perfect German. You drink very well and what’s more look good doing it. That my friend is coffee, and drinking it shall be your treatment. That mug won’t ever run out, believe me, so take it, go to the little girl, drink around her, maybe talk to her a little as well, but mainly drink.”

Fred took more sips of coffee, deep ones that felt like rivers as they flowed into him, and sighed, the burnt carrot stench having been replaced by the stench of perfectly cooked toffee and the taste, which upon first suck had been like tar- hot and thick- dancing devilishly on his tongue, having replaced itself with what he could only imagine was the taste of godly ambrosia and didn’t move until Doc began to jostle him towards the curtain door with his feet.

“Don’t dilly dally, go treat. You don’t need to wait until treatment time dammit. You can treat by your own rules. Be the renegade white coat, the maverick. We all need you to succeed quickly, and I definitely don’t want to see you fail slowly.”

Doc’s words shoved Fred out into the wilderness for him to walk in the direction he thought was right for him to get back to the hall he’d been in before, zigzagging like a hindered bolt of lightning through the maze of curtains, towels, and rags, drinking his coffee as he did and feeling more and more like dancing in a moonlight he wished was spotlighting him until finally stumbling upon the back of the brown door with the dismembered eight on it and opening it, puff puffing on his mug’s hotness like a choo-choo train has he stood white coated before the ailing statues, forgetting with his feeling of power that underneath that white coat he was still also an ailing statue. Fred followed the curvature of the hall like a blind mouse, sniffing at the toffee-scented finger of steam and trusting it to point him in the right direction until he came again upon his own empty bed and the little girl who he was surprised hadn’t rusted any more in his absence, the bed where the horse and then the bucket that had once been the horse having been filled by a cat-sized plastic statue of a slug hunting toad desperately stretching its tongue a metre out.

The armchair that Doc had materialised by Fred’s bed had since been placed by some unknown helper at the little girl’s bedside and Fred swept himself onto it with a dramatic flurry, coughing to gain the still gyrating and jiving little girl’s attention, stroking the lapels of his white coat as he did, expecting the little girl’s little mouth to fall open at the sight of him, a statue as a white coat, but instead, that little girl’s little mouth simply grinned as if she’d merely stumbled upon a balloon filled with grinning gas.

“A new white coat, oh yes a new treatment! Thank God, I couldn’t have swallowed any more macaroni, let alone cheese.”

“Are you not surprised it’s me giving you that new treatment?” Fred asked, slightly put out, leaving his thermal mug hanging from between his teeth like an armless Inuit.

“You? I don’t know you. I suppose I knew you for a bit when you were a statue but I don’t know any white coats so even if you are the same statue I knew for a bit underneath that white coat, I certainly don’t know you now so no, I’m not surprised but am curious as to what you’ll treat me with? I really hope it isn’t more macaroni food. Don’t tell me it’s more macaroni food.”

Fred’s put outness disappeared at the sight of the little girl’s eyes looking so earnestly and questioning at him, a man of power and decision making, so, raising his thermal mug dramatically with his pinkie sticking out like some sort of vestigial tail and wiggling his ass to get comfy, drank deep from his well of coffee, almost drowning himself before coming back up for air, blowing his finger of steam into the little girl’s eyes where it coiled and licked like a flame at the rust creeping around the sides of them.

“I drink this coffee and you listen as I most likely, almost certainly, definitely, talk. The end result, the treatment works and either you or I are cured.”

The little girl, obedient as a fable, waited as Fred sucked back some more joe, waited as time commenced to pass, the seconds doing what seconds do, speeding down the autobahn into nothing as Fred waited for some words he could use to treat the little girl with to arrive at his tongue until finally the little girl, who was patient and obedient only until she got tired of being those things, proceeded to incite the words to appear herself.

“Tell me a story. A good one.”

Fred looked into the depths of his coffee and swirled the shadow substance around as he tried not to panic, taking back the finger of steam from the little girl, breathing it in, deeper and deeper so that its entire length became inserted into the depths of his brain, its tip there not licking or lapping like fire but prodding and pushing at all the sleeping masses and parts that resided there in beds with quilts up to their chins, legs and feet skinny and disused but sturdy enough to carry their weight as they were awoken by the incessant prods and pushes and forced to roll over and out of those beds with grumbling grumbles, pulling at red tipped levers that sparked and flashed.

“There was a girl once who desired nothing more from the world than to be able to eat porridge and sit on a boat on the water,” Fred’s voice was a mistreated otter standing before a warm hug as it started in its attempt to tell a story, a good one. “She had many oats, lots of milk, and a very nice boat made from shiny wood with a blue sail sticking from its mast, but unfortunately there wasn’t a drop of water around for that boat to sit on as the ground where she lived was a hungry beast. A dry thing filled with cracks and slices like the dome of a bald head made from sand.”

Fred’s voice was interrupted by his hands raising his mug back to his lips to take back more than the finger, cramming in fact the whole body into his brain, finding room somehow, smacking his tongue at the taste and clicking his fingers, feeling gargantuan in both mind and spirit.

“One day, sad beyond belief at not being able to eat her porridge while sitting on a boat which was, in turn, sitting on water, the girl began crying thick salty tears that dribbled from her eyes and fell like drops of rain from the tippy tip of her nose. These tears plink plonked to the hungry ground and, knowing their origins despair, surprisingly, raised a knife before they could be swallowed, threatening the shocked ground with castration until the shocked ground lost its appetite and cowered into a foetal position, allowing the tears to stay until their edges touched other edges and became more than single tears...”

The little girl in her bed watched Fred talk and every now and then inhaled deeply with a flaring nose that acted as a net swinging around a lakeside trying to catch a hint of the scented steam that had once floated from the top of his mug and tickled her but was then firmly ingrained with the rest of its body within the maze of his brain, each swing being followed by a shower of rust flakes falling from her marred features, what had been her oversized finger but was then little more than a stub waving in the air with the air of a frog conductor conducting a symphony of bassoons as if it, as a sort of finger itself, could call the steam back out.

“… soon they formed a lake the colour of an aristocrat’s embarrassment that drowned the ground and raised the little girl’s boat in the air. Unfortunately, the girl, who had jumped onto her boat as soon as the lake started forming, had only two hands available and could only grab a few barrels of oats and a single jug of milk to bring on board the boat before the rest of her stock was washed away, but she didn’t mind too much to see them go. In fact, she was happy enough to be sitting in a boat on some water to stop crying once a large enough lake had formed. To stop crying and start smiling as she prepared a small bowl of porridge and ate it for the first time while bob bob bobbing on the lake.”

Fred waited for the little girl to speak, his hands, in the manner of a giant holding a lock of hair taken from a non-giant lover they’d physically loved and subsequently crushed, curled around his mug, nervous until the little girl clapped her hands together and wriggled and jiggled for the first time not from her desire to be constantly moving but because of excitement.

“I liked that. I liked that a lot. I like this treatment and when I had it, I liked the smell of that coffee. Could I try some of its taste?”

“Coffee taste is for white coat’s only and even if it isn’t and I’m wrong, it’s still a no because though Doc told me this mug is endless, he could be wrong, and it would make me very sad if it was finished by anyone other than me.”

“But what if the taste could cure me quicker. You’d be the best white coat around then and even if it did run out, get more.”

The little girl’s lips pursed, stretching towards the edge of Fred’s mug in a manner crocodilian, but Fred only nodded thoughtfully in the way all nodders who aren’t listening nod, sitting back, his white coat brushing his ankles as he took another bigggg long gulp of coffee, the taste of it having acquired subtle hints and clues of hazelnut, dark chocolate, and iron the more he sampled, and he flicked through these hints and clues, enjoying each one individually and collectively while stroking a large patch of rust along his collar bone, quite enjoying the lumpy bumpiness of that too until his stroking came upon a small patch of rust within the larger patch that felt less lumpy bumpy and more just lumpy, causing him to use his eyes and see that the small patch of rust also looked less lumpy bumpy and, what’s more, less rusty than the larger patch around it.

“Break time for treatment, that’s what I say,” he stammered before running back to the office of Doc, finding it upon throwing back the curtain much changed; Doc, still there, but lying in the crack of a luxurious heart-shaped bed completely naked apart from the parts of his body, such as from the waist down and where once there had been pectorals, that while Fred had been spouting a story to the little girl had succumbed to rustiness and gone away.

“You see what has become of me?” Doc raised his head when he heard Fred come pantingly in, also raising what would have been a thumb if hadn’t just been a fist. “All in the space of five minutes. One second I was relaxing, drinking a beer, polishing my arm, trying to form a connection with myself, the next, reality’s palm, my face, SMACK, I fell, my legs piles of rust, my middle melting away. This is a cruel disease.”

“But look,” Fred sensually exposed the small patch of treated rust housed tumourly within the larger patch of untreated rust on his collar bone. “I’m getting better.”

Doc attempted to jump to feet that no longer existed and so simply fell back down onto the bed with the grace of a disco dancing dodecahedron, what had once been a jolly well deep belly button becoming less than that and joining the dusty rust pile of himself lying in the middle of the hole that had been his middle, but still the light in his eyes jumping to attention as he shook his hands together as if they belonged not to him but to two eminent businessmen who’d been waiting a long time to meet and whose first impressions were more than good.

“I’m the greatest of all the white coats. Look at that rust, running away from its death which my imagination imagined with such force it’s becoming reality. Was it just drinking the coffee around the patient that did it? Was it more? I need information.”

“I drank the coffee around her, but I also told a story I made up. I’d never done that before, make a story up, but apparently, I’m good at it. I’m a storyteller.”

“Undoubtedly. Indubitably. Christ on a cracker at Christmas this is exciting. What about the patient? Did her rustitis show any improvement? Did you give her any coffee?”

Fred clutched his mug tighter, hesitating before clearing his throat with a shake of the head, swirling the hem of his white coat around his knees like a blackhole hating ballet dancer doing their act in front of a ballet hating blackhole.

“I gave the little girl some coffee, of course. Are you suggesting I didn’t? Of course you’re not because she did have some, but when she indicated that she didn’t enjoy the taste as much as she enjoyed my story I stopped giving her any just in case it was a waste. Which it would have been, because no there was no improvement to her rustitis.”

“So, the treatment only works for those administering it. Mmmm, a reversal of the typical white coat/ patient relationship. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm, how interesting and good,” Doc smiled at Fred before holding out a hand, its one remaining finger doing the mariachi. “Well, pass me my white coat back then, lickety-split. I’ve gotta get to work!”

“What do you mean?” Fred instinctively took a step back. “I’m getting better. If I take the white coat off, I’ll stop getting better.”

“You won’t, you won’t. Well, you will, but only until me and the rest of the actual white coats are cured. Then we’ll take to the beds and let the rest of you have way. That’s an actual white coat promise. Now come on, have off with it.”

“What if I go bucket before you’re finished being cured? What if all the statues do? Look how quickly your rust has spread.”

“Exactly, look how quickly I could go bucket if we don’t start my treatment immediately! Now I don’t want to invoke our connection, not to mention my natural superiority over you, a statue, but I have to insist you pass me my things right now.”

Fred took a long swig from the mug, knowing as he did that his connection to Doc had been seized like a jewel by Blackbeard by the black stuff in there, the finger and body of steam, which had slunk back out of his brain as soon as his making up of stories was over, beckoning him to drink some more and then never stop drinking, to stay in the liquid forever, and so, shaking his head at Doc once he’d finished slurping, Fred stamped his foot on the floor.

“Our connection has been rerouted and I won’t do what you insist. I’ll keep wearing this white coat, drinking this coffee, and spinning my yarns until I’m completely cured and not just on my way there, and you’ll keep lying there and getting worse until that happens.”

Fred’s shout was a grain of rice announcing its passion for frying, the sheer loudness causing Doc to cower in his bed with his neck sinking into his chest, his crumbling hands held up as to defend themselves against a Fred who hadn’t planned to strike him, his crumbling hands which had a meekness that prompted Fred to strike him despite his lack of plan, giving him a little flick on the nose that turned its rust black and blue. Doc began to howl once he’d been flicked, the jagged end of his waist that had once worn legs kicking up and down as he mixed vowels together indiscriminately, “OOOOOOUUUUUUIIIIIIAAAAAEEAIOUEAIIIII!”, before Fred stopped his mixing as abruptly as an ant in headlights by flouncing off through the curtain to continue his treatment, waving his elbows like maracas until he reached the little girl who was pleased to see his mug again, her lips immediately pursing.

“Well, it’s been several minutes. Break times can’t last forever, and I figured I should see how you were looking. I see now you’re looking exactly the same except for several patches that have gotten significantly worse. On with the treatment then!”

“I really think, and it’s not just because it smells so good it would make me salivate if I could salivate, that if you shared the coffee my treatment would go much faster and with a bang and a wallop and a tick, I’d be as cured as ham and then you could be as cured as that too.”

Fred stiffened like a statue and put the little girl’s pursing in the bin by physically pushing her lips back towards the rest of her features, his breath becoming the sound of wind in a tunnel and funnelling out to strike the little girl’s face, the same shade and scent as the finger of steam arising from his mug as he asked.

“Are you a white coat?”

“No.”

“Have you ever even worn a white coat?”

“No.”

“Exactly. You’re a white coatless statue so do as white coatless statues are supposed to and leave the treatment ideas to me and the Establishment. In fact, if you can’t just leave your thoughts where you find them, discard them in a bin. The coffee is mine. Ask for it again and you’ll receive no treatment from me or anyone else and bucket you shall go. Stand of the under?”

The little girl sat sullenly back and she and Fred stared at each other, a battle of wills armed with batons having a baton-type tussle, until, finally, she was tussled into a submission that equalled the back of her head resting on her bed’s pillow and her ears opening wide enough to swallow the voice of Fred, who clenched one white corner of his white coat in hand as he again began to story and sip, the rusty parts of him becoming slightly less rusty at the end of each one he spoke, the rusty parts of her becoming slightly more so throughout. He told her the one about red having a fight with blue who was having a fight with yellow so it was that they were all fighting until they realised the fine line between love and hate and stopped to form a throuple and collectively give birth to brown, he told her about the man who stuck himself in a hole filled with quicksand and refused to leave until he was given the perfect bite of croissant but eventually sank to the bottom all alone and biteless, he told her about a featherless bird who was mocked for being featherless and unable to fly until it evolved and invented a flying machine that helped it fly better than any of those with feathers, he told her about a photograph of a desert that wasn’t fixed in space and time and how its image would shift and move depending on the time of day and of the little boy who found the photograph and realised he could dive into the image and so did dive only to find he was and had been a desert snake all along, he told her about a bowler hat made from wood by a carpenter who’d always wanted to be a hat maker instead of what he was and how that wooden bowler hat was rejected by the men and women who wear hats not made from wood but because of that rejection went on to experience adventures no other hat-shaped object in the history of anything could claim to have experienced such as becoming a pirate and marrying a slug, he told her about a chocolate bar the size of a skyscraper never unwrapped and destined to never be so though it was made of the most delightful tasting chocolate the world had ever seen and so simply basked in the sun until it grew so hot it melted and flooded the city it sat in.

The little girl never got to hear the end of the chocolate bar story as that same little girl, all of a sudden, went bucket with a tremendous bang much louder and tremendouser than the bang Boulton had bequeathed when he’d done the same, a shard of bright yellow light piercing Fred’s eyes in the instant before she fully became a bucket but had already ceased to be a statue, the bucket of her when it appeared having the appearance of any old classic plain stainless steel bucket if that stainless steel was whiteish rock, its surface trembling against the buffed surface of Fred’s hand, which he briefly laid on its side in commiseration, as if it still held the writhing spirit of the statue it’d been, before pushing himself while still story telling in the direction of a chicken the size of a desk rock rocking back and forth in a bed too small for it that would have been rusted from beak to cloaca if patches of unrusted granite resembling miniscule versions of the polka spots of a polka man hadn’t still dotted its sides.

“… and the city was forever coated, chocolate coated. The end. Good story, shame you only heard the end. I’m Fred, a white coat, previously just a statue with rustitis and without a white coat, I’ll be treating you…”

“Baaaarqqqkk?” came from the chicken, who was one of the rare statues made so well they could sound only like the thing they’d been made to resemble, as Fred went straight into the story of a man who, being in love with his own daughter, locked himself up in a high tower without windows or doors to protect her before ultimately being rescued by a foolish hero who thought he’d had been locked up by a fiend and needed rescuing and who, upon being rescued, thought he’d been saved by God’s grace and had permission to take his daughter as a wife and did just that to the misfortune of their severely impaired offspring, the coffee bouncing around Fred’s mind like a ball designed to bounce causing him to speak faster and with more excitement, his foot tap tapping in time with his words, each one giving out the ringing of a bell muted by touch. The chicken went bucket at the very end of the incest story as if consciously taking a way out, wings a-flapping as it boomed away, but Fred barely noticed- so intoxicated was he by the mug and the substance within- his veins a marching band marching and banding in a rising drone, his tongue a piece of Velcro catching those sticky treatment words flying from his sparking mind as his body zip zipped from the chicken’s bedside to a section of four bedsides that he spoke to as a whole, as if their rusted forms formed one giant bedside, speaking until the crackling speakers lining the hall walls crackled to announce that it was that time again, that time equalling treatment! and all the other white coats began flooding in, some commencing to remove the buckets Fred had left in his wake.

“Excuse me? You, statue, why are you in a white coat?” Four white coats chorused in unison, the hair on their heads bristling with just as much union, every strand of it on their skulls standing up and increasing in thickness so that they could have easily and collectively brushed down a dragon if there’d been a dragon handy and a person big enough to wield them, as they stood to the side of the bedsides that Fred was treating and that they were used to treating themselves, their voices aggressive but not enough to stir the big ol’ cup of coffee that was Fred who thought, ‘I know your secrettttt,’ when they interrupted him and stood up, his movements fluid, his rust barely surface level, to grip and rip their white coats from their bodies.

Gasp, shock, and horror were things done and felt by all the statues who could see the rust eating away at the white coats and curiosity followed by a gasp, a shock, and a horror were done and felt by the statues who couldn’t see this exposed event but could and did hear tell of it as like a domino falling, screams followed by a roiling as statues strained against their restrictions filled the air. The white coats Fred had exposed screamed too, their noises the same as foxes caught in play, their legs slightly crossed and bent, covering their rust with hands and arms despite their rust being uncoverable no matter how large the palms or expansive the fat while the rest of the white coats, unexposed but being angrily confronted by shouting straining statues- like blocks of mouldy cheese that know they aren’t appetising and that they won’t be eaten and that if they aren’t eaten will simply mould even further- thought, ‘fuck you,’ and took off their white coats to make themselves even more unappetising, exposing their states of decay to the masses. Once they were all exposed, all the white coats then all fled the Establishment, each fleeing footstep causing great puffs of rust to rise from their afflicted bodies and float in the air, the exact colour of a variety of extinct and poisonous caterpillar, before being sucked towards the inhaling wailing mouths of the restrained statues lying beneath them while Fred, whose eyes had reflected the fleeing scene, turned back to the bedsides he’d been speaking to and carried on with it in the same garbled excited manner that reflected the fact that his coffee was sweet and bitter and made his liver a jazz drummer beating a cymbal at 4/4 time.

“Now we’ve got them out of the way, now we’ve got the space to ourselves, as it should be and as it is, I’ll carry on, I’ll tell you my stories, I’ll make them up because I’m a deity writing the history of an elephant named Grady. Or maybe I don’t have to make anything up for it to be a story? Maybe this is the story and we should fuck Grady? A stream of story sent straight from my consciousness to yours, beamed in like an image to a television. Tell me can you see this in your heads? Can you see me sitting and speaking to you as closely as if I was actually sitting and speaking to you this close? Or am I crackly and distant like a pirate radio station or your grandmother who never thought you smelt good enough to hug on Christmas? Drat and blast it, I have to tell you, I know I shouldn’t, you’ll be upset I’m not allowing you the opportunity to take this opportunity now there are all these vacant white coats lying around, but I’m too busy to give even some of you this opportunity. I’m a white coat drinking coffee and telling tales busily but not too busily to have to tell you that I’m in fact being cured while you’re all slowly going bucket and that it’s all thanks to my drinking coffee and telling tales in this coat. Don’t be upset or angry, that is if you can even hear me over this din, this absolute racket of-”

All four of the bedsides interrupted Fred by going BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, the echo of those noises being followed by an even more alarming BANGGGGGGGGGGGGAAAAAAAABOOOOOOM! as loud as anything the world had heard since the first big bangaboom spat it into existence as every statue from the hall’s entrance to rear went bucket with the force of a large bomb going off in the style only large bombs going off can go off in, violently and with the power to make Fred, a bronze God with a firm palm over the opening of his thermal mug, go flipflopping through the heavens as the entire Establishment came down around the field of buckets and uprooted beds that had appeared, the building crumbling into nothing as Fred landed on his back one hundred metres away, getting up quickly to take a calm, measured sip from the pool of coffee he’d collected in the well of his hand.

“Well that’s something,” he muttered, staring at the rubble before raising his arms and shoulders in a full-bodied shrug that opened his white coat and revealed the rust that had once snaked up his chest had finally snaked away into nothing, the blast having blown it all away so Fred was as shiny and new as a shiny and new penny not yet put in a pocket or spent at a shop or tossed in the air and accidentally dropped down a drain. “My, my that’s something indeed.”

Fred took off his white coat and laid it gently on the ground to inspect and stroke his once again unblemished surface and think of the freakshow contortions Hazel and Vicky’s faces would achieve when they saw him lackadaisically stroll, white coat clad and rust free, back into Victoria Square to mount his pedestal and reinvent all that a statue could be; no longer would he pose in naked stillness, NO! he would keep his coat, change his pose often, without routine or rhythm, and keep making up stories to regale visitors with, a prop thermal mug of delicious coffee held clenched in hand, the only constant in his ever shifting posture. He began to walk back in the direction of the city on roads that had been close enough to the rubble that had been the Establishment when it went bangaboom to have become black and cracked like the toothless gums of a grandma coal, roads that sounded like dry leaves underfoot and remained like that until Fred had walked on them enough to allow the hungry horizon to swallow what he’d left behind. He drank at the same speed he walked- fast, erratic, and urgent- time moving as fast as that as well, speeding away from him, taillights winking, so that it was soon dark and he was soon on the outskirts of the city, staring at the lit lampposts lighting up the Aston expressway like the strip of an unloved and abandoned airport. There were no cars on the road and his feet were cow lovers shaking and banging their cowbells to make them go a-clanging and call their loved ones into pasture on a cold Sunday morning as they came down on the tarmac, his mouth a ravenous limpet slurping and suckling on an open wound as it drew coffee into him, coffee that made his thoughts flicker with the quickness of a deluge mob … Hazel… Vicky… coffeeeeeeeeeeee… dancing?.... Doc is bucketdeaddeaddeadbucket, dead as a doornail… how many doornails are in a pudding pie? Too many!... each one frozen and then thawed as if introduced to the centre of a dying star as they rapidly arrived and left, his mind being the centre of that dying star, pulsing, pulverising, pitter-pattering as he reached the end of the expressway and the great square pedestal of the great floozy, lounging jade-like in her jacuzzi in a spontaneously seductive manner, appeared in the distant centre of the bright city and into Fred’s sight.

His hurried footsteps hurried, turning the sound of cowbell clangs into the childhood memory of a hammer coming into contact with a sheet of aluminium and his leechy slurps into the gasping inhale of a pirate realising they have nothing left to live for… home… red slippers… clip clop… I’m a horse hoarsely heading homeward… hospice for can I ever stay still again?... how can I dance and run on a pedestal?... I’m a better man with a better plan... drink… sip… yeahhhh… his sight affixed so intensely on the beacon of the floozy’s great square that it was all he could see as he burst onto the square with the confidence of a gigolo knowing a large phallic legend will have preceded them and worked up a clammer, panting as his burst finished and no clammer was met, standing still finally to listen out for voices that upon not hearing he finally looked for amongst the metal, wood, and stone buckets standing upright on pedestals dotting a floor of smaller buckets made of veiny skin stretched thin that lay on sides or upside down and twitched as if attempting to escape their inherent bucketness, or dance in celebration of it.

[minimac-mspl]

Lubrication: Uses, Functions, Properties, and Maintenance

Introduction to Lubrication

Importance of Lubrication in Industrial Applications

Industries heavily rely on lubrication to enhance equipment performance. Some critical lubrication uses include:

Automotive Industry: The engine lubrication system ensures smooth operation, reduces engine wear, and prevents overheating.

Manufacturing Sector: Lubrication oil plays a pivotal role in reducing friction in CNC machines, conveyors, and robotic arms.

Mining and Construction: Heavy-duty lubrication types protect machinery from extreme temperature variations and harsh environments.

Power Plants: Lubrication systems ensure the longevity of turbines, generators, and compressors by preventing excessive wear.

Food and Beverage Industry: Specialized food-grade lubricants are used to ensure equipment hygiene and compliance with safety standards.

Understanding the diverse uses of lubrication enables industries to improve efficiency and extend equipment lifespan.

Key Functions of Lubrication

Lubrication performs multiple essential functions that contribute to machinery longevity and reliability:

Reduction of Friction and Wear: Creates a protective layer between surfaces to minimize direct metal-to-metal contact.

Heat Dissipation: Transfers heat away from friction points, preventing component failures.

Contaminant Removal: Lubrication oil acts as a medium to carry away dirt, dust, and metal shavings.

Corrosion and Oxidation Prevention: Lubricants contain additives that prevent rust and oxidation, protecting machinery.

Shock Absorption: Helps cushion impact loads, particularly in high-speed or heavy-duty applications.

Different Lubrication Types and Their Applications

Lubrication can be classified into various types, each suited to specific operating conditions:

Hydrodynamic Lubrication: A continuous fluid film separates moving surfaces, commonly found in bearings and gears.

Boundary Lubrication: A thin lubricant film prevents direct contact, often occurring in stop-start conditions or low-speed machinery.

Mixed Lubrication: A combination of hydrodynamic and boundary lubrication, suitable for gearboxes and automotive engines.

Elastohydrodynamic Lubrication: Found in rolling-element bearings, where high pressure causes temporary lubricant thickening.

Solid Lubrication: Utilizes materials like graphite and molybdenum disulfide for extreme environments where liquid lubricants are unsuitable.

Selecting the right lubrication type is crucial for achieving optimal performance and reducing maintenance costs.

Essential Lubrication Properties for Optimal Performance

The effectiveness of a lubricant depends on its fundamental properties:

Viscosity: Determines the flow characteristics and film strength under varying temperatures and loads.

Thermal Stability: Ensures that the lubricant does not degrade under high-temperature conditions.

Oxidation Resistance: Prevents sludge and varnish formation, extending lubricant service life.

Load-Carrying Capacity: This enables the lubricant to withstand extreme pressures without breaking down.

Water Resistance: Prevents emulsification and ensures effective separation in wet environments.

These lubrication properties dictate the overall efficiency and durability of machinery.

Understanding Lubrication Systems and Their Mechanism

A lubrication system ensures the efficient delivery of lubrication oil to machine components. Common lubrication systems include:

Manual Lubrication: Involves periodic application using grease guns or oil cans.

Automatic Lubrication Systems: Distribute lubricants continuously, reducing downtime and maintenance efforts.

Splash Lubrication: Relies on rotating components to distribute lubricant in gearboxes.

Forced Lubrication Systems: Utilize pumps to circulate oil under pressure, ensuring consistent lubrication.

Selecting the right lubrication system enhances equipment reliability and reduces operational costs.

Engine Lubrication System: A Vital Component for Efficiency

The engine lubrication system plays a crucial role in vehicle performance:

Provides continuous lubrication to reduce friction and wear.

Cools engine components by dissipating excess heat.

Cleans the engine by removing contaminants and metal debris.

Prevents corrosion and oxidation, extending engine lifespan.

Regular maintenance of the engine lubrication system is essential for preventing costly failures and ensuring optimal vehicle performance.

Lubrication Maintenance Strategies for Equipment Longevity

Implementing proactive lubrication maintenance practices helps prevent machinery breakdowns. Essential maintenance steps include:

Using the Correct Lubricant: Ensure compatibility with manufacturer recommendations.

Monitoring Lubricant Contamination: Regularly check for dirt, water ingress, and degradation.

Establishing a Lubrication Schedule: Follow a preventive maintenance plan to avoid failures.

Employing Oil Analysis: Use condition monitoring techniques to detect early signs of wear.

Applying the Right Quantity: Avoid over-lubrication or under-lubrication, both of which can cause damage.

Common Lubrication Problems and Solutions

Industries often face lubrication challenges that impact performance:

Contaminated Lubricants: Regular oil analysis helps detect impurities and improve filtration.

Incorrect Viscosity: Choosing the right viscosity prevents excessive wear and overheating.

Poor Lubricant Selection: Matching lubrication oil to application needs ensures reliability.

Inadequate Lubrication Practices: Proper training and monitoring improve lubrication effectiveness.

Addressing these challenges ensures long-term equipment reliability.

Conclusion

Lubrication is an essential aspect of industrial maintenance, reducing friction, preventing wear, and ensuring machinery longevity. Understanding lubrication types, properties, and maintenance strategies helps industries optimize operations and minimize downtime.

[ultraguardindia]

Does PPF Damage Car Paint When Removed?

When it comes to preserving the pristine look of your vehicle, Paint Protection Film (PPF) has emerged as a go-to solution for many car and bike enthusiasts. But as PPF becomes more popular, a common question arises: Does PPF damage car paint when removed? If you're worried about whether the PPF Coating will harm your car’s original finish, this article will give you the truth behind the process—what to expect, what to avoid, and how to ensure your paint remains flawless.

What Is Paint Protection Film?

Paint Protection Film, also known as PPF, is a thin layer of thermoplastic urethane applied to the surface of a vehicle. It serves as a barrier against scratches, stone chips, UV rays, bird droppings, road grime, and other contaminants that can degrade the paint over time. PPF Coating for cars and bikes has gained significant popularity due to its near-invisible appearance and protective qualities.

In regions like India, where environmental conditions can be harsh, PPF Coating is especially useful. Dust, pollution, and extreme sunlight can quickly dull a new car’s paint. This makes Paint Protection Film India a rapidly growing segment within the automotive detailing industry.

The Purpose of PPF On Car and Bikes

Applying PPF on car surfaces or bikes is essentially like putting your device in a screen protector. The goal is to preserve the original finish for as long as possible without compromising on appearance. With premium Car Paint Protection Film, you enjoy:

Resistance to minor abrasions and scratches

Protection from UV fading and oxidation

Easier cleaning and maintenance

Enhanced resale value

For motorcyclists, Paint protection film for bike offers similar benefits—especially on fuel tanks, headlight covers, and fenders, which are particularly vulnerable to damage.

Will Removing PPF Damage Your Car Paint?

Now, to answer the central question: No, removing a high-quality Paint Protection Film under proper conditions will not damage your car’s paint—provided certain factors are met. The integrity of your paint after PPF removal depends on several variables:

1. Quality of the PPF Coating

Not all PPF Coatings are made equal. Low-grade or cheap Car Protection Film can become brittle, yellow over time, or leave residue during removal. On the other hand, reputable brands offer high-quality films designed to be removed cleanly, leaving the paint untouched.

2. Condition of the Paint at Application

If your car’s paint was factory-applied and in good condition when the film was installed, the chances of damage during removal are extremely low. Problems arise when the PPF is applied over a poorly repainted surface or over existing defects like rust or chips. In such cases, the PPF might lift the weak paint when peeled off.

3. Installation and Removal Techniques

Professional installation and removal are key. Experienced installers use heat and the right tools to remove the PPF Coating for Car without harming the paint. DIY removal or rushed jobs can lead to adhesive residue or, in worse cases, paint peeling.

4. Duration of Application

While modern Paint Protection Films can last between 5 to 10 years, leaving them on for too long—especially beyond their recommended lifespan—can increase the risk of hardening and adhesion issues. Timely replacement ensures safe removal.

How Is PPF Removed?

The removal process involves gentle heating of the film to soften the adhesive. This is often done with a heat gun or steamer. The film is then slowly pulled back at an angle, ensuring minimal stress on the paint. A good installer will clean off any residual adhesive using mild solvents or specialized cleaners.

When done properly, PPF on car panels can be removed with zero damage and minimal hassle.

Common Myths About PPF Removal

Let’s bust a few myths that cause unnecessary fear around PPF:

Myth 1: "PPF will permanently bond with the paint."

False. PPFs are designed with adhesives meant to hold the film securely while allowing future removal without surface damage.

Myth 2: "You can just peel it off like a sticker."

Doing so without proper technique is a recipe for disaster. Always heat the film slightly to reduce tension and avoid tearing or paint lift.

Myth 3: "You don’t need professional help."

Unless you’re experienced, it’s best to let a detailing expert handle the removal of your Car Paint Protection Film or Paint protection film for bike to avoid any costly mistakes.

Signs It’s Time to Remove or Replace PPF

Yellowing or cloudiness

Cracks or peeling at the edges

Loss of adhesion in spots

Film no longer matches the car’s finish

Ignoring these signs can lead to a harder removal process later.

Tips to Ensure Damage-Free PPF Experience

To maximize the benefits and minimize the risks of using Paint Protection Film for car or bike, follow these tips:

Choose quality: Don’t cut corners—invest in premium PPF Coating brands that offer long-term clarity and clean removal.

Professional installation: Certified installers ensure the right prep, adhesion, and edge-sealing for your Car Paint Protection.

Maintain well: Wash regularly, avoid abrasive chemicals, and address film damage promptly.

Time the removal right: Don’t let the film overstay its welcome.

Is PPF Worth It?

Absolutely. The upfront cost of PPF Coating for Car or Paint protection film for bike is justified when you consider the cost of repainting, polishing, or fixing cosmetic damage over the years. In the Indian market especially, where urban traffic and weather conditions take a toll on vehicles, Paint Protection Film India is a smart, long-term investment.

Final Verdict

So, does PPF damage car paint when removed? No, it doesn’t—provided it’s a quality product, properly installed and removed at the right time. The key lies in using reputable brands and certified installers. With correct care, Car Protection Film not only preserves your vehicle’s aesthetics but does so without leaving any lasting marks when it’s time for removal.

[simsinter]

Blasting & Painting Equipment: Essential Tools for Surface Preparation and Finishing

In industries where high-quality finishes are crucial—such as automotive, construction, manufacturing, and aerospace—blasting and painting equipment plays a vital role. These tools are used for surface preparation, coating application, and finishing, ensuring both durability and aesthetic appeal. Whether it’s for removing rust, applying protective coatings, or creating a smooth, flawless surface, understanding how blasting and painting equipment works is essential for achieving top-tier results.

Blasting Equipment: The First Step in Surface Preparation

Blasting equipment, also known as abrasive blasting or sandblasting, is used to clean or prepare surfaces by propelling an abrasive material at high speeds. The goal is to remove contaminants such as rust, old paint, oil, or other debris, preparing the surface for coating or finishing. Blasting equipment is crucial for a variety of applications, from metal fabrication to automotive repairs.

Types of Blasting Equipment

Sandblasting Machines: These are the most common type of blasting equipment, using fine sand as the abrasive material. They are ideal for stripping paint, rust, and other materials from metal surfaces.

Shot Blasters: These machines use steel shot or grit to clean surfaces, making them ideal for preparing concrete floors or removing contaminants from large areas.

Soda Blasting Machines: Using sodium bicarbonate (baking soda) as the abrasive medium, these machines are gentler and perfect for delicate tasks like cleaning car parts or stripping paint without damaging the underlying surface.

Wet Blasting Systems: These systems combine water and abrasives to reduce airborne dust, making them ideal for environmentally sensitive areas or indoor use.

Blasting equipment can be portable or stationary, depending on the size and scope of the project. Many models are designed for industrial use, providing high efficiency and the ability to handle large volumes of work.

Painting Equipment: Achieving the Perfect Finish

Once the surface is prepared with blasting, painting equipment comes into play. Paint spraying systems ensure an even, smooth application of coatings, ranging from primers to topcoats. Unlike traditional brushes or rollers, painting equipment can quickly cover large areas with minimal effort and time.

Types of Painting Equipment

Airless Spray Guns: Airless spraying is a popular method for applying thick coatings quickly. These guns work by forcing paint through a high-pressure system, producing a fine mist without the need for compressed air. Airless spray guns are perfect for large surfaces and heavy-duty coatings like primers or industrial finishes.

HVLP (High Volume Low Pressure) Sprayers: HVLP sprayers use a high volume of air at low pressure to atomize the paint, producing a fine mist with less overspray. This type of equipment is ideal for detailed work and delivering a smooth, high-quality finish on surfaces like furniture, cabinets, and trim.

Pressure Pots and Cup Guns: For larger projects, pressure pot systems allow for higher paint volume and reduced clogging, while cup guns are perfect for smaller, more intricate jobs.

Painting equipment comes in various configurations to suit different project sizes, coating types, and surface textures. The right sprayer depends on the material being painted, the scale of the job, and the desired finish quality.

Benefits of Using Blasting & Painting Equipment

1. Efficiency and Speed

Blasting and painting equipment significantly reduces the time required for preparation and application compared to manual methods. These systems allow for faster turnaround on projects, making them ideal for high-demand industries where time is a critical factor.

2. Consistency and Quality

When using blasting and painting equipment, the results are more consistent and uniform than traditional methods. Blasting ensures thorough cleaning of surfaces, while paint sprayers provide smooth, even coats without brush marks or roller lines, ensuring a professional finish every time.

3. Durability and Protection

Proper surface preparation through blasting and the application of high-quality coatings ensures that the finished product is durable, resistant to wear, corrosion, and other environmental factors. Whether it’s a metal surface exposed to the elements or machinery operating in tough conditions, the right blasting and painting equipment ensures long-lasting protection.

4. Reduced Material Waste

Blasting and painting equipment, especially modern airless and HVLP sprayers, reduce overspray and material waste. This not only helps save on costs but also contributes to a more environmentally friendly operation, reducing harmful emissions and excess paint runoff.

Choosing the Right Blasting & Painting Equipment

Choosing the right equipment for your project depends on several factors, including the type of surface, the coating material, and the scale of the work. Consider the following when selecting blasting and painting tools:

Surface Material: Different materials (metal, concrete, wood) may require different types of blasting or painting equipment.

Coating Type: Some coatings, such as primers, require thicker application and may be better suited for airless sprayers, while fine finishes benefit from HVLP sprayers.

Project Size: Larger projects may require industrial-grade equipment for faster coverage, while smaller tasks may benefit from more compact, portable tools.

Conclusion

Blasting and painting equipment is indispensable for industries that require high-quality surface preparation and coating. These tools allow for efficient, consistent, and durable results across a variety of applications. Whether you're cleaning and priming surfaces for construction, automotive, or industrial purposes, using the right blasting and painting equipment can significantly enhance productivity and finish quality. By investing in modern, reliable tools, you can ensure that your projects meet the highest standards of performance and aesthetics. For more details visit our website: www.simsinter.com

[adpainting]

How Spray Painting Services Can Give Your Fence a Fresh New Look

A fence is more than just a boundary. It adds beauty, privacy, and value to your property. Over time, weather and wear can make it look dull and lifeless. Spray painting services offer a fast and effective way to refresh your fence and make it look brand new.

In this article, we’ll explore the benefits of spray painting services, how they work, and why they’re the best choice for your fence makeover.

Why Choose Spray Painting for Your Fence?

Spray painting is a game-changer for fence restoration. Here’s why:

Smooth and Even Finish – Unlike brushes or rollers, spray painting provides a flawless coat without visible brush strokes.

Quick and Efficient – A spray gun covers large areas faster, saving time and effort.

Long-Lasting Results – Quality paint protects your fence from moisture, UV rays, and rust.

Variety of Colors – Choose various colours to match your home’s style.

Cost-Effective – Spray painting services are often more affordable than replacing an old fence.

Step-by-Step Guide to Spray Painting Your Fence

1. Prepare the Fence

Before painting, proper preparation is key. Follow these steps:

Clean the Surface – Remove dirt, dust, and old paint with a pressure washer or scrub brush.

Repair Any Damage – Fix loose boards, cracks, or rust spots.

Sand Rough Areas – Smooth out rough patches for better paint adhesion.

Apply a Primer – A primer helps the paint stick better and last longer.

2. Choose the Right Paint and Equipment

Not all paints are suitable for fences. Use:

Weather-resistant paint – Prevents peeling and fading.

Oil-based or acrylic paint – Both work well on wood and metal fences.

High-quality spray gun – Ensures even coverage and a professional finish.

3. Start Spray Painting

Use Proper Technique – Hold the spray gun 6-12 inches away and move it in smooth, even strokes.

Apply Multiple Thin Coats – This prevents drips and ensures even colour distribution.

Allow Drying Time – Let each coat dry completely before applying the next one.

4. Protect Surrounding Areas

Spray paint can drift, so take precautions:

Cover plants, sidewalks, and outdoor furniture with plastic sheets.

Wear protective gear like a mask and gloves.

5. Maintain Your Freshly Painted Fence

Regular Cleaning – Wash your fence occasionally to remove dirt and debris.

Touch-Up When Needed – If you notice small chips, do a quick touch-up to maintain the fresh look.

Inspect for Damage—Look for cracks, rust, or peeling paint and address them early.

Benefits of Hiring Professional Spray Painting Services

While DIY spray painting is an option, hiring experts has its advantages:

Expertise and Experience – Professionals know the best techniques for a flawless finish.

High-Quality Materials – They use top-grade paint and equipment.

Time-Saving – No need to spend hours preparing and painting.

Guaranteed Results – Professionals ensure long-lasting beauty and protection.

If you want a perfect fence makeover, consider spray painting services for professional results.

Common Mistakes to Avoid When Spray Painting Your Fence

Even with the right tools, mistakes can happen. Here are some common errors to watch out for:

Skipping Preparation – Failing to clean and sand the fence can lead to poor paint adhesion.

Using Low-Quality Paint – Cheap paint may peel or fade quickly.

Not Allowing Enough Drying Time – Rushing through the process can result in uneven colour and texture.

Over-Spraying – Holding the spray gun too close can cause drips and streaks.

Ignoring Weather Conditions – Wind and humidity can affect the paint’s drying process.

How Often Should You Repaint Your Fence?

The frequency of repainting depends on various factors, such as weather conditions, paint quality, and fence material. Generally:

Wood Fences – Should be repainted every 3-5 years to prevent weather damage.

Metal Fences – Require repainting every 5-7 years to prevent rust and corrosion.

Vinyl Fences – Usually don’t need painting but may require occasional touch-ups.

Choosing the Right Color for Your Fence

Colour plays a crucial role in enhancing your property’s aesthetics. Some popular choices include:

Classic White – A timeless option that suits any home style.

Earthy Tones – Browns and greens blend well with natural surroundings.

Bold Colors – Dark blues or blacks create a modern, sophisticated look.

Matching Home Exterior – Coordinating the fence colour with your house adds harmony to your outdoor space.

Environmental Benefits of Spray Painting Your Fence

Using spray painting services can also be an environmentally friendly option. Here’s how:

Less Paint Waste – Spray guns distribute the paint evenly, reducing excess use.

Eco-Friendly Paint Options – Water-based and low-VOC paints are available.

Durability – Long-lasting results mean fewer repaints, reducing environmental impact.

Final Thoughts

A fresh coat of paint can transform your old fence into a stunning feature. Spray painting services provide a quick, cost-effective, and long-lasting solution. Whether you DIY or hire experts, your fence will look brand new in no time. Revamp your outdoor space today with the power of spray painting services! You can enjoy a beautiful, durable wall for years with proper preparation, materials, and expert techniques.

[safesaustralia7]

4 Expert Tips for Gun-Safe Installation

Collectively, Australians own at least 3.5 million guns currently. As the demand for guns continues to grow, there is a need to find safe ways to keep your firearms secure. A sure way is to install a gun safe to prevent unauthorized access, theft, and even unprecedented environmental damage.

Why Installation Matters

A safe is only as effective as its installation. Once you buy a gun safe, you need to install it correctly for security and protection. Correct installation can also help you meet the requirements of your homeowner’s insurance policy. Thus, you get insurance benefits, including full coverage in case of loss or damage.

Expert Tips for Gun-Safe Installation

Here are four expert tips to ensure you gun safe is installed securely to offer you the best protection.

1. Consider the Location and Position of the Gun Safe

The location of your safe can affect the gun’s security, access, and extent of protection in case of fire. How far is the safe from any doors or stairs? Choose a better-concealed location that has less foot traffic and is hard to tell. The right location should be concealed but accessible enough to make it easy to reach the safe during emergencies.

Additionally, consider the proximity or visibility of your safe to the home’s windows. The safe should be installed in a discreet location away from probable exposure to burglars and thieves. Besides theft risk, placing such safes directly or close to windows could expose them to direct sunlight or heat.

2. Check the Humidity

The installation process should also consider whether there is a risk of excess humidity. A build-up of moisture, mold, and mildew could lead to corrosion and rust that could damage the safe and guns. Install the safe in a room with moderate ventilation and humidity, usually on the first floor.

3. Account for the Weight and Size of the Safe

Gun safes come in different weights and sizes depending on their capacity and material. Your chosen location should comfortably support the safe’s weight. Therefore, avoid areas with weak floors or walls. Irrespective of weight, use high-quality anchors to secure the walls for maximum sturdiness. Heavy-duty bolts and anchors best secure the safe and keep it stable.

4. Ease of Access

The ability to access your gun safe on demand is essential. For example, a garage might be a perfect and discreet option for a gun safe. However, your access will be limited in case of an emergency. Consider escape routes and other emergency access options in the gun-safe installation process. The path leading to the gun safe should be clear with limited obstructions.

Pre- and Post-Installation Tips

Once you identify the best location, prepare the installation site. Remove any obstacles that could interfere with the safe’s placement. Level the surface to prevent the safe from shifting or tilting over time, which could hinder access.

If your safe is heavy-duty, it would be best to anchor it to the floor or a wall to prevent theft and unauthorized access. Get professional help during the installation.  Then, run a few post-installation functionality tests. The tests should check for bolting, electronic lock functionality, and other mechanisms. It ensures the anchors are tight and secure for long-term durability and security.

If you must do a DIY installation, refer to the manufacturer’s manual. Manufacturers include specific instructions and recommendations depending on the safe. Avoid lifting the safe alone, and ensure you have the right equipment, technique, and gear to prevent injuries. We insist on hiring professionals who have experience in safe handling and installation.

Install Your Gun Safe the Pro Way

Given the delicate nature of firearms, a gun safe is essential in your house. Proper gun safety installation helps enhance accessibility, security, and stability.

Are you looking to install a gun safe soon? At Safes Australia, we offer a wide range of gun safes that suit different needs, preferences, and budgets.  Visit our page for a range of options and get free professional installation.

[evershieldroofing]

How to Repair a Chimney Leak: Expert Tips and Step-by-Step Guide

To repair a chimney leak, start by identifying the source. Common causes include damaged flashing, cracked chimney crowns, or mortar deterioration.

Leaky chimneys can cause serious damage. Water can seep into your home, causing mold and structural issues. Fixing a chimney leak might seem daunting, but it’s manageable with the right guidance. This guide will help you understand the steps needed to repair a chimney leak.

You’ll learn how to inspect your chimney, identify the problem, and fix it yourself. By following these steps, you can protect your home from water damage and ensure your chimney functions properly. Let’s get started on making your chimney leak-free.

Identifying Chimney Leaks

Water stains on the ceiling or walls near the chimney can be a sign of a chimney leak. Musty smells coming from the fireplace indicate moisture. Rust on the damper or fireplace doors points to water intrusion. Peeling paint on the chimney exterior suggests water damage. Efflorescence, a white powdery substance, can appear on brick surfaces. Cracked or deteriorated mortar may also be a sign of a leak.

Essential Tools And Materials

You need a ladder to reach the chimney. A hammer and chisel will help remove damaged parts. Also, get a caulking gun for applying sealant. Safety goggles and gloves protect your eyes and hands. A trowel is useful for spreading mortar. A wire brush cleans the chimney surface.

You will need mortar mix to fill gaps. Sealant stops water from entering. Chimney caps keep debris out. Flashing prevents water from seeping in. Caulk seals cracks. Waterproofing spray adds extra protection. Replacement bricks may be needed for damaged areas.

Safety Precautions

Always wear safety goggles and gloves. Ensure the ladder is stable and secure before climbing. Work in dry weather to avoid slips.

Personal Safety Gear

Wear a hard hat to protect your head from falling objects. Gloves will keep your hands safe from sharp edges. Safety glasses can shield your eyes from dust. Non-slip shoes help prevent falls. Dust mask keeps harmful particles out of your lungs. Always work with a partner for extra safety.

Preparing The Work Area

Remove any debris from the area. Cover nearby items with a tarp to protect them. Set up a sturdy ladder on level ground. Make sure the work area is well-lit. Inspect the chimney for loose bricks. Mark any damaged spots with chalk. Keep your tools within easy reach.

Inspecting The Chimney

Look closely at the chimney's base. Flashing is the metal sheet around the base. It stops water from seeping in. If it's cracked or rusty, water can leak inside. Use a flashlight to inspect it well. Make sure it is not bent or missing.

The chimney cap sits on top. It keeps rain out. Check if it's damaged or missing. A broken cap lets water in. Also, ensure there are no debris or leaves blocking it. Clean it if needed. Ensure the cap is securely attached. Replace it if it is broken.

Fixing Flashing Issues

Check the flashing around the chimney. If it is bent, straighten it. Use a hammer to flatten it if needed. Replace any broken pieces. Make sure the new flashing fits well.

Clean the area first. Remove old caulk with a knife. Apply new caulk along the edges. Press it in place with your finger. Smooth the caulk for a tight seal. Let it dry completely. Check the seal after it dries.

Repairing Chimney Crown

Remove all dirt and debris from the chimney crown. Use a stiff brush to scrub the surface. Make sure to get into all cracks and crevices. The surface must be clean and dry. This helps the repair material stick better. Use a vacuum to clear any dust left behind.

Use a trowel to spread the crown coat. Apply it evenly over the surface. Make sure to cover all cracks. Smooth out the material. This makes it look neat. Let it dry for the recommended time. Check the instructions on the product. Once dry, inspect the crown. Ensure there are no missed spots.

Replacing The Chimney Cap

Replacing the chimney cap can help stop leaks. A new cap blocks water and debris from entering the chimney. This simple fix can prevent damage to your home.

Choosing A New Cap

A good chimney cap stops leaks. It also keeps animals out. Stainless steel caps last long. They resist rust. Measure your chimney top. This ensures the cap fits right. Mesh screens block leaves and debris. They also let smoke escape. Choose a cap with a solid top. This stops rain from entering.

Installing The Cap

First, climb up safely. Wear a harness for safety. Next, clean the chimney top. Remove old cap and debris. Place the new cap over the chimney. Use screws to secure it. Tighten the screws well. Make sure the cap is firm. Check for gaps. Seal any gaps with fire-resistant sealant. This stops water from entering. Test the cap after installation. Pour water to check for leaks. Adjust if needed.

Credit: www.hudsonvalleychimney.com

Preventative Maintenance

Regular maintenance helps avoid chimney leaks. Inspect and repair cracks in the chimney crown. Seal gaps in the flashing around the chimney base.

Regular Inspections

Inspecting your chimney regularly helps catch problems early. Look for cracks, loose bricks, and damaged mortar. Use a flashlight to check the chimney's interior. Ensure the chimney cap is in place and not damaged. Remove any blockages you find. Regular inspections can prevent bigger issues later.

Seasonal Maintenance Tips

Check your chimney before the winter season. Clean out any debris and soot. Ensure the damper opens and closes properly. Look for water stains or rust on the chimney. These may indicate leaks. Seal any gaps around the chimney to prevent water entry. Consider hiring a professional for a thorough cleaning.

Conclusion

Fixing a chimney leak is essential for home safety. Regular inspections help prevent damage. Identify the source of the leak first. Clean and seal cracks with proper materials. Replace damaged flashing around the chimney. Keep gutters clean to avoid water buildup.

Professional help might be needed for complex repairs. A well-maintained chimney ensures a dry, cozy home. Take action promptly to avoid costly repairs. With these steps, your chimney will stay in top shape. Enjoy peace of mind with a leak-free chimney.

Read more:

How Important is It to Hire Local Contractors for Timely Service? Discover the Benefits

What is the Best Construction for a Flat Roof? Expert Insights

How to Make Your Roof Look New? 5 Expert Tips

Dry verge kits are essential for roof protection. They provide many benefits for homeowners.

How Often Should I Clean My Roof? Expert Tips & Guidelines

[therimguy]

If you’ve ever admired a car with gleaming, flawless rims that seem to resist every scuff and chip, there’s a good chance those wheels benefited from powder coating services. Powder coating has become a top choice for car enthusiasts, daily drivers, and auto businesses alike because it combines durability and aesthetics in a single, eco-friendly process. By using an electrostatically charged powder that’s baked onto the wheel surface, professionals create a finish that’s more resistant to chipping, scratching, and corrosion than most traditional paint jobs. In this post, we’ll take a deep dive into powder coating services—from the techniques and tools involved to the pros and cons of powder coating compared to traditional methods. We’ll also discuss why choosing a professional service ensures the best, longest-lasting results, and how this approach can positively impact your vehicle’s safety, style, and resale value. If you’re seeking a showroom-worthy finish that stands up to the elements, this comprehensive guide is for you. Understanding Powder Coating Powder coating is a specialized process where finely ground particles of pigment and resin are electrostatically charged and then sprayed onto a metal surface—in this case, your wheels. The coated object is then heated in a curing oven, causing the powder to melt and flow, forming a smooth, hard layer that firmly adheres to the metal. Key Advantages of Powder Coating - Enhanced Durability: Powder-coated surfaces are highly resistant to wear and tear, scratches, and corrosion. - Uniform Finish: Because the powder is electrostatically bonded, it covers the wheel surface evenly. - Eco-Friendly: Powder coating emits fewer volatile organic compounds (VOCs) compared to solvent-based paint. - Wide Color Range: Everything from glossy black to vibrant metallics is possible. Real-World Example:A performance car owner chose powder coating for their alloy wheels before a multi-day race event. Post-race inspection revealed minimal cosmetic wear—far less than typical paint finishes—despite challenging track conditions. How Powder Coating Differs from Traditional Painting While both powder coating and painting aim to protect and beautify your rims, they’re quite different in process and outcome. FeatureTraditional PaintPowder CoatingApplication MethodSpray gun with liquid paintElectrostatic spray gun with charged powderDrying/CuringAir dry or low-heat ovenHigh-heat oven, melting powder into a solid filmDurabilityGood, can chip if not maintainedVery high, excellent chip & corrosion resistanceEnvironmental ImpactOften higher VOCs, potential overspray wasteMinimal VOCs, better utilization of materials Tip: If you prioritize longevity and uniform coverage, powder coating tends to outperform typical paint jobs—especially in harsh climates or rugged driving conditions. The Process Behind Powder Coating Services High-quality powder coating services involve several meticulous steps: - Wheel Inspection: Professionals check for bends, cracks, or structural damage before coating begins. - Surface Preparation: Sandblasting or media blasting removes old paint, rust, or grime. - Chemical Cleaning: The wheel is thoroughly cleaned and degreased, ensuring proper powder adhesion. - Masking: Important areas like lug holes or valve stems may be masked if necessary. - Powder Application: A specialized electrostatic spray gun applies the powder. - Curing: Wheels are placed in an industrial oven at high heat, fusing the powder into a solid, durable layer. - Cooling & Inspection: Once cured, the wheel is allowed to cool before a final quality check. Practical Tip: If your wheels have existing damage such as curb rash or cracks, address these issues first. Powder coating yields the best results on structurally sound surfaces. Step-by-Step Overview StepProcessPurposePotential Issues1InspectionIdentify structural weaknessesCracks, bends, or hidden corrosion2Sandblasting/Media BlastRemove old coatings & contaminantsUneven surface prep or incomplete removal3Chemical CleaningDegrease & ensure proper adhesionResidual grease impacting powder bonding4MaskingProtect non-coating areasOverspray onto lug holes or valve stems5Powder ApplicationEven, electrostatic coverageUneven thickness, missed spots6Curing in OvenHarden & fuse powder coatingIncorrect oven temp or curing time7Final InspectionVerify finish & durabilityMissed defects, color inconsistencies Why Professional Wheel Finishing Matters A high-quality finish is more than just the color—it’s about overall durability, safety, and long-term performance. Here’s why professional wheel finishing is worth the investment: - Specialized Equipment: From sandblasting cabinets to large curing ovens, professional shops have the tools for a precise coat. - Expertise in Materials: Different alloys react uniquely to heat and powder, and pros know how to handle them. - Consistent, Smooth Results: Skilled technicians ensure the powder is applied evenly to avoid drips, sags, or thin spots. - Warranty & Accountability: Reputable shops often provide a warranty on their work—something you can’t get with a DIY approach. Example:One customer tried a home powder coating kit but struggled with uneven thickness and trapped air bubbles. A professional recoat not only corrected the flaws but also provided a more durable, glossy finish. Benefits for Vehicle Safety and Performance Powder coating services do more than beautify; they can also positively impact performance and safety: - Improved Corrosion Resistance: A sealed wheel won’t corrode from road salt or moisture as easily, preserving rim integrity. - Consistent Wheel Weight: Properly coated wheels maintain uniform thickness; inconsistent coatings can create minor imbalances. - Longer Wheel Lifespan: Delaying corrosion and damage keeps wheels in top shape, reducing the need for replacements. Bullet Points: How Powder Coating Affects Your Ride - Extends wheel life under harsh conditions - Keeps structural integrity intact by preventing corrosion - Maintains proper wheel balance for smoother performance Real-World Example:A driver in a coastal city noted frequent wheel corrosion due to salty sea air. After opting for powder coating, they saw no signs of rust or deterioration even a year later—a stark contrast to the previous paint, which began chipping within months. Cost Factors and Long-Term Savings While professional powder coating services can carry a higher upfront cost than DIY paint, the long-term value is often substantial. What Influences Cost? - Wheel Size and Design Complexity: Larger or intricately designed rims require more powder and labor. - Pre-Coating Repairs: Bent or cracked wheels must be fixed before powder is applied. - Color and Finish Options: Specialized finishes (like metallic flake) can raise costs slightly. Long-Term Savings: - Less Frequent Touch-Ups: Powder-coated wheels resist chips and scratches, reducing the need for refinishing. - Higher Resale Value: Premium-finished wheels can enhance your car’s overall market appeal. - Fewer Replacements: Powder coating can extend the life of your existing rims, delaying costly new wheel purchases. Typical Cost Factors Breakdown FactorImpact on CostReasonWheel SizeModerate to HighLarger wheels require more material & laborDesign ComplexityModerateIntricate designs need more time and precisionCustom FinishesHighMetallic flakes or unique hues can raise pricesPre-Coating RepairsVariableFixing bends or cracks adds to labor & partsNumber of Wheels CoatedModerateBulk work can reduce per-wheel costs Example:A car enthusiast paid a premium for a custom metallic powder coat on high-performance rims. Over five years, the finish remained glossy with minimal chips, saving them from annual touch-up costs. The Environmental Edge Modern powder coating services provide notable environmental benefits over conventional paints: - Minimal VOCs (Volatile Organic Compounds): Powder coating uses dry powder, limiting harmful emissions. - Reduced Overspray Waste: Excess powder can be collected and reused, leading to less product waste. - No Harmful Solvents: Unlike solvent-based paints, powder coating doesn’t rely on chemical solvents that can damage the environment. Note: If going green is a priority, powder coating is one of the most eco-friendly finishing methods available. Choosing the Right Powder Coating Services Not all powder coating providers are equal. Here’s what to look for: a) Experienced Technicians - Ask about the shop’s track record and certifications. - Check if they specialize in wheel refinishing or just offer it as an add-on. b) Proper Facilities - Ensure they have an industrial oven for curing. - Verify separate zones for surface prep, application, and final curing. c) Range of Finishes - Look for variety: matte, gloss, metallic, custom colors, etc. - Confirm if they can handle multi-stage finishes. d) Reviews and Testimonials - Search online reviews for feedback on quality, turnaround, and customer service. - Request before-and-after photos to gauge final results. Practical Tip: Always request an itemized quote and confirm whether the price includes prep work (like sandblasting) and necessary repairs. Practical Maintenance Tips After Powder Coating To keep your powder-coated wheels looking pristine, adopt these simple care habits: - Gentle Cleaning: Use a pH-balanced car shampoo and a soft wheel brush or microfiber cloth. - Avoid Abrasive Tools: Steel wool or harsh scrubbing pads can mar the powder finish. - Frequent Rinsing in Winter: If you drive in snowy or salty conditions, rinse wheels regularly to remove road salt. - Protective Coatings: Waxes or sealants designed for powder coats add an extra layer of defense. Bullet Points: Quick Post-Coating Maintenance - Wash wheels weekly or bi-weekly to remove brake dust. - Refrain from using acid-based wheel cleaners. - Inspect for chips or scratches regularly to spot issues early. Realizing the Full Potential of Your Investment Taking advantage of powder coating services can give your vehicle an eye-catching aesthetic upgrade while saving you money and headaches in the long run. Whether you’re looking to preserve the condition of stock wheels on a daily driver or aiming to wow at car shows, powder coating provides: - Superior Durability: The thick, baked-on layer resists road debris and environmental factors. - Customization Options: From color to texture, powder coating lets you express personal style. - Professional Value: Properly coated wheels enhance a vehicle’s overall appearance and potential resale value. Thought-Provoking Example:A driver preparing to sell their sports coupe opted for a bold candy red powder coat on the wheels. The standout color and immaculate finish helped the car command a higher asking price, easily covering the powder coating investment. Conclusion When it comes to protecting and enhancing your vehicle’s wheels, powder coating services stand out as a versatile, durable, and eco-friendly solution. Beyond the vibrant finish that can elevate any car’s aesthetic, the process also offers practical benefits like corrosion resistance, reduced maintenance, and potential cost savings over the long term. Before you decide, remember that professional shops bring specialized equipment, experienced technicians, and quality assurance guarantees—factors that can make all the difference between a subpar DIY job and a truly showroom-quality result. Whether you’re updating your daily driver, restoring a classic project car, or simply seeking a protective finish for tough conditions, powder coating might be the winning choice you’ve been looking for. If you’d like to read more about eco-friendly powder coating solutions, check out Motor Trend’s Guide to Powder Coating Wheels. Are you ready to transform your wheels with a finish that’s as tough as it is stunning? Trust the specialists to do it right. Visit therimguy.ca to learn more about how professional powder coating can take your rims to the next level—both in terms of appearance and performance. Final Thoughts & Thought-Provoking Questions - Have you considered how much time and money you could save by avoiding frequent re-painting or repairs thanks to powder coating’s durability? - Could a customized powder coat finish—like matte black, metallic silver, or a bold color—help your vehicle stand out in a crowded market? - In an era where sustainability counts, is the environmental edge of powder coating worth factoring into your decision? Reflecting on these points will help you determine whether powder coating aligns with your aesthetic, financial, and environmental goals. Read the full article

[ranjith1902]

Thermal Spray Galvanizing: A Complete Guide

Introduction

Corrosion is a major concern in industries dealing with metal structures. To prevent corrosion and enhance the longevity of metallic components, protective coatings are widely used. One of the most effective and advanced methods for corrosion protection is Thermal Spray Galvanizing (TSG). This technique provides a durable, highly resistant coating that protects metal surfaces from environmental damage, chemical exposure, and wear over time.

In this comprehensive guide, we will explore the fundamentals of thermal spray galvanizing, its advantages, applications, and a step-by-step overview of the process.

What is Thermal Spray Galvanizing?

Thermal Spray Galvanizing (TSG) is a process in which molten zinc or zinc-aluminium alloys are sprayed onto a metal surface to provide a protective coating. Unlike traditional hot-dip galvanizing, which involves immersing a metal object into a bath of molten zinc, TSG uses high-temperature thermal spraying techniques to coat surfaces without the need for submersion.

This method ensures superior adhesion, high corrosion resistance, and a longer lifespan compared to other galvanizing processes. It is especially useful for large or complex structures where hot-dip galvanizing is not feasible.

Advantages of Thermal Spray Galvanizing

Thermal spray galvanizing offers several benefits over conventional galvanization methods. Some of these include:

1. Superior Corrosion Protection

The sprayed zinc or zinc-aluminium coating provides an excellent barrier against moisture, chemicals, and environmental factors that cause corrosion.

2. No Size Limitations

Unlike hot-dip galvanizing, which requires a zinc bath, thermal spray galvanizing can be applied to large structures, bridges, and immovable industrial components.

3. Stronger Adhesion

Thermal spraying forms a mechanical bond with the substrate, enhancing coating durability and making it less prone to peeling or flaking.

4. Heat Sensitivity

Since TSG does not require immersion in molten zinc, it can be used on heat-sensitive materials without causing warping or distortion.

5. Eco-Friendly Process

Thermal spray galvanizing produces minimal waste and does not require harmful chemicals, making it an environmentally friendly coating solution.

6. On-Site Application

Unlike other methods, TSG can be performed on-site, reducing transportation costs and allowing for maintenance of existing structures without dismantling.

The Thermal Spray Galvanizing Process

The TSG process involves several key steps to ensure a high-quality and long-lasting coating. Below is a breakdown of the entire process:

1. Surface Preparation

Before applying the thermal spray, the metal surface must be thoroughly cleaned to ensure proper adhesion. This is usually done through abrasive blasting, which removes rust, scale, and contaminants. A clean, roughened surface improves the mechanical bonding of the sprayed zinc.

2. Zinc Wire or Powder Preparation

Thermal spray galvanizing can be performed using either zinc wire or zinc-aluminium alloy powders. These materials are fed into a thermal spray gun, where they are melted and atomized into tiny particles.

3. Thermal Spray Application

The molten zinc or zinc-aluminium alloy is sprayed onto the prepared metal surface using one of the following techniques:

Flame Spraying: Uses an oxy-fuel flame to melt zinc wire or powder.

Arc Spraying: Uses an electric arc to generate heat and melt zinc wire.

Plasma Spraying: Uses a plasma torch for high-temperature coating applications.

4. Coating Thickness Control

The thickness of the applied coating depends on the intended use and environmental exposure of the metal. Generally, the coating thickness ranges from 50 to 200 microns.

5. Sealing and Finishing

To enhance durability, a sealer or topcoat can be applied over the thermal spray layer. This further improves corrosion resistance and provides additional protection against abrasion and environmental factors.

Applications of Thermal Spray Galvanizing

TSG is widely used in various industries due to its ability to protect against corrosion in harsh environments. Some common applications include:

1. Infrastructure and Bridges

Bridges and steel structures exposed to moisture and pollutants benefit greatly from TSG due to its long-lasting protection.

2. Marine and Offshore Industry

Ships, offshore platforms, and marine equipment require robust anti-corrosion coatings to withstand saltwater exposure.

3. Automotive and Transportation

TSG is used on vehicle chassis, frames, and other components to enhance durability and resistance to weather conditions.

4. Aerospace and Aviation

Aircraft components, especially those exposed to extreme temperatures and atmospheric conditions, benefit from the protective properties of thermal spray galvanizing.

5. Power Plants and Industrial Equipment

Pipelines, turbines, and industrial machinery are coated with thermal spray galvanizing to prevent corrosion and extend operational life.

Maintenance and Longevity

The lifespan of a thermal spray galvanized coating depends on the environment in which it is used. Under normal atmospheric conditions, it can last for decades without significant degradation. However, periodic inspections and maintenance are recommended to ensure optimal performance. If damage occurs, the affected area can be easily repaired by reapplying the thermal spray coating, unlike hot-dip galvanizing, which requires complete reprocessing.

Conclusion

Thermal Spray Galvanizing is a highly effective and versatile method for protecting metal structures from corrosion. It offers significant advantages over traditional galvanizing techniques, such as flexibility in application, superior adhesion, and environmental benefits. Whether used in construction, marine, transportation, or industrial applications, TSG ensures enhanced durability and longevity of metal surfaces.

By implementing this advanced coating technology, industries can reduce maintenance costs, improve structural integrity, and promote sustainability. If you are looking for a reliable and efficient way to protect your metal assets, thermal spray galvanizing is an excellent choice.

Contact Now:

Mobile No:9845063120

E-mail: marketing@mythriindia.com

[qwindowsanddoors]

Porch Door Repairs: A Comprehensive Guide to Fixing and Restoring Your Entryway

Identifying Common Porch Door Problems

Before diving into repairs, it’s essential to identify the issues affecting your porch door. The most common problems include:

Warping or sagging: Wooden doors can warp or sag due to moisture exposure, leading to misalignment and difficulty in opening and closing the door.

Sticking or difficulty closing: This problem may occur if the door has shifted or if the weatherstripping is worn or damaged.

Broken hardware: Hinges, locks, and handles can wear out or break over time, leading to difficulty in operating the door.

Peeling or chipped paint: The door’s finish may start to peel, chip, or fade due to exposure to the elements, diminishing its curb appeal.

Drafts or poor insulation: Gaps or cracks in the door can cause drafts, making your porch area less comfortable and affecting energy efficiency.

Tools and Materials for Porch Door Repair

To tackle most Porch Door Repairs, you will need the following tools and materials:

Screwdriver set

Hammer

Replacement hinges or locks

Wood filler or putty (for wooden doors)

Sandpaper or power sander

Paint or wood stain

Weatherstripping or door sealant

Level

Drill (if needed for new holes)

Caulking gun (for sealing cracks)

Repairing Warped or Sagging Doors

Wooden doors are particularly susceptible to warping due to moisture changes, which can cause the door to sag. If your door is misaligned or dragging on the floor, try these solutions:

Tighten or replace hinges: Check if the hinges are loose or damaged. Tighten the screws, or if necessary, replace the hinges to restore the door’s alignment.

Reinforce the door: For severely sagging doors, you may need to remove the door, apply a wood adhesive to the joints, and use clamps to straighten it. Once the adhesive sets, reinstall the door.

Planing the door: If the door rubs against the frame, use a hand plane or power sander to shave down the edges for better clearance.

Fixing Sticking Doors

If your door sticks and is difficult to open or close, you might have a misaligned strike plate, or the weatherstripping could be too thick. Here’s how to resolve the issue:

Adjust the strike plate: Loosen the screws of the strike plate, move it slightly, and tighten it back into place to allow for smoother operation.

Replace or adjust the weatherstripping: Remove old, worn weatherstripping and replace it with a new one that fits properly. If the weatherstripping is too thick, trim it to ensure a snug fit.

Repairing Broken Hardware

If the hardware on your porch door is damaged, it’s crucial to replace or upvc door repairs it promptly to maintain security and ease of use.

Replace broken hinges: If a hinge is rusted or broken, replace it with a new one. Ensure that the new hinge matches the original size and screw pattern for a seamless installation.

Fixing the lock: If your lock is jammed or broken, check to see if it can be lubricated with graphite or a silicone-based lubricant. If the lock is beyond repair, replace it with a new one.

Restoring the Finish

To improve the appearance of a worn porch door, sanding, staining, or painting can help restore its former beauty. If your door has peeling paint:

Sand the surface: Use sandpaper to smooth the peeling areas and remove any old paint.

Repaint or stain the door: Apply a fresh coat of paint or stain to the door, ensuring that you use a weather-resistant finish to protect it from the elements.

Sealing Gaps and Preventing Drafts

To prevent drafts from entering your porch, check for gaps around the door. Apply weatherstripping along the edges of the door frame and use caulk to seal any visible cracks. This will enhance insulation and improve energy efficiency.

[superiorexotic24]

Why quality matters exploring automotive paint shops in West Palm Beach

When it comes to maintaining or enhancing the appearance of your vehicle, quality automotive paint services are essential. Whether you're looking to repair minor chips and scratches or completely transform your car with a custom color, the quality of the paint job can make all the difference. In West Palm Beach, where the sun, humidity, and coastal elements can take a toll on a car's exterior, choosing a reputable automotive paint shop is crucial. Here’s why quality matters when exploring automotive paint services in West Palm Beach.

1. Durability and Longevity of the Paint Job

One of the most significant reasons to invest in high-quality Automotive Paint West Palm Beach is durability. West Palm Beach’s climate can be harsh on a car’s paint, with the intense sun, humidity, and saltwater air contributing to quickly fading, oxidation, and deterioration of lower-quality paint jobs. A premium paint job uses high-quality materials that resist fading, chipping, and peeling, even under the toughest conditions.

UV Protection: High-quality paints are formulated with UV inhibitors that protect the vehicle’s color from fading or discoloration under the Florida sun.

Scratch Resistance: Quality automotive paint offers greater resistance to scratches and chips, ensuring that your car retains its pristine look for longer.

Corrosion Resistance: Given the saltwater exposure in coastal areas, a good paint job can help protect your car’s metal body from rust and corrosion, something low-quality paint can’t effectively prevent.

Choosing a reputable paint shop ensures that the materials used can withstand the wear and tear of the West Palm Beach environment, prolonging the life of your vehicle’s paint.

2. Expert Application for a Flawless Finish

High-quality paint is only as good as the way it’s applied. When you select a professional automotive paint shop in West Palm Beach, you’re not just getting premium materials but also expert application. Skilled technicians use specialized tools and techniques to ensure the paint is applied evenly and smoothly, creating a flawless finish.

Attention to Detail: Expert technicians take the time to prep your vehicle properly, removing imperfections, sanding, and priming the surface before applying the paint. This ensures that the finish adheres properly and that there’s a smooth, consistent layer across the entire vehicle.

Spray Booths: Professional shops use controlled spray booths that prevent dust, dirt, and contaminants from interfering with the paint job. This environment ensures a clean application, which is crucial for a high-quality finish.

Advanced Equipment: Quality paint shops use state-of-the-art spray guns and equipment that allow for precision in both color application and blending, providing a seamless and uniform look.

Without expert application, even the highest quality paint will result in unsightly drips, streaks, or uneven coverage. In contrast, professional service ensures that your vehicle receives a perfect finish every time.

3. Color Accuracy and Customization

When it comes to custom colors, achieving the perfect shade is critical. Whether you’re matching the original factory color or opting for something entirely unique, top-tier automotive paint shops in West Palm Beach use advanced technology to ensure color accuracy.

Digital Color Matching: Reputable shops use color-matching technology to analyze your car’s existing paint and replicate it with exact precision. This is especially important if you're repairing or touching up specific areas without repainting the entire car.

Custom Colors: For those who want to personalize their vehicle with a custom color, high-quality shops can mix and match pigments to create a truly unique look. From vibrant metallics to subtle pearlescent finishes, professional paint shops can execute any design flawlessly.

The importance of quality in color application cannot be overstated, especially when dealing with custom hues. A high-quality paint job will ensure the exact color you want and make sure it lasts without fading or discoloration.

4. Increased Resale Value

The condition of your car’s paint directly affects its resale value. A poorly done paint job can be a red flag to potential buyers, signaling poor maintenance or subpar repairs. On the other hand, a high-quality paint job will not only keep your car looking great but will also preserve its value in the long run.

First Impressions Matter: A shiny, well-maintained exterior gives the impression that the car has been well-cared for. Buyers are more likely to pay a higher price for a vehicle that looks new and is free from imperfections, such as scratches or fading.

Quality Over Cost: While it may be tempting to go with a cheap paint option, this can actually cost you more in the long term, as low-quality paint jobs are more prone to wear and may require frequent touch-ups. Investing in a quality paint job ensures your vehicle stays in top condition for years.

When it comes time to sell or trade in your car, a professionally applied, high-quality paint job will undoubtedly help you get a better price.

5. Protection Against Environmental Elements

West Palm Beach’s coastal climate is both a blessing and a challenge for vehicle owners. Salt air, humidity, and the intense sun can all take a toll on a vehicle’s exterior. Quality automotive paint provides a protective layer that helps safeguard your car from these environmental factors.

Salt Air Resistance: The salty air from the coast can cause paint to deteriorate more quickly, leading to rust and corrosion. High-quality paint is formulated to resist this, offering a barrier against the harsh coastal elements.

Heat Resistance: The heat in West Palm Beach can cause paint to fade or peel. Premium automotive paints contain UV protectants that guard against the effects of prolonged sun exposure, ensuring the color remains vibrant.

Water Resistance: Quality paint also helps prevent water from seeping into your vehicle’s body, reducing the risk of rust and corrosion.

A high-quality paint job doesn’t just look good—it acts as a protective shield against the harsh conditions in West Palm Beach, extending the life of your vehicle.

6. Better Customer Experience

Choosing a high-quality Automotive Paint West Palm Beach shop goes beyond the finished product; it’s also about the customer experience. Reputable shops offer professional service, clear communication, and expert advice, making the entire process smoother and more satisfying for you.

Consultation and Advice: A quality automotive paint shop will provide a thorough consultation, explaining the options available and helping you make an informed decision. Whether it’s choosing a color, finish, or protective coating, a good shop will guide you every step of the way.

Timely and Efficient Service: High-quality shops are known for their efficiency. They complete projects on time, so you aren’t left waiting longer than necessary. Additionally, they are transparent about costs and timeframes, ensuring you know exactly what to expect.

By choosing a top-tier shop, you’re not only getting a superior paint job but also a positive and hassle-free experience.

Conclusion

When it comes to automotive paint, quality truly matters, especially in a place like West Palm Beach, where environmental factors can accelerate wear and tear on your vehicle. A high-quality paint job provides long-lasting protection, enhances the car’s appearance, and increases its resale value. It ensures that the custom colors are applied with precision, that the finish is flawless, and that the paint can stand up to the sun, salt, and humidity of the region.

If you're ready to give your car the best treatment possible, choosing a trusted automotive paint service like Superior Exotic Color & Paint in West Palm Beach is the best decision. With a focus on quality materials, expert application, and exceptional customer service, we’ll ensure your car looks as good as new for years to come.