#slopped grass in front yard

[paulshamymoms]

My Journey Begins

I was always told that I acted older than my years .That was due to the way my mother raised us.We were forced due to circumstances to mature quickly and my mother always helped to improve our understanding and broadened our vocabulary that people noticed and complimented it.

My one neighbor had apparently noticed and at the age of 13 I began to need money. Her husband worked evenings and I offered to cut their grass and we settled on a good price as it was a fairly big yard.

The wife(I won't mention any names )would always bring me a cold glass of water,Kool-aid,ect.

We would talk on my breaks on the front porch and I soon noticed that she was always braless.Her breasts sagged and when she forgot to button up all the way,I could get a peak of her mature tits hanging down.The friction of her cotton shirts would play cause her nipples to harden and it was hard to take my eyes off of them.She would always catch me and give me a ghost of a smile.This would cause me to get a hard on and make it difficult to resume my chore of cutting the grass.

She had three children (all way younger than me) and I started to become like an older brother to them.I had finished cutting the lawn and when I went to collect my pay,Her husband asked if I'd like to come over the next day and paint their back porch and stairs.I immediately said yes as it would be more money !

The next day, I showed up and began the job. She would come out occasionally to see the progress .All I saw was her erect nipples and her leaning against the door frame smiling at my discomfort.She let her eyes gaze down to my crotch and it felt like it was going to burst out of my shorts.She would then turn away to go back into the house.

After I completed the painting, I went inside to find her. I called out and I heard her coming down the stairs and saw she was carrying a laundry basket.She said" He's sleeping and we needed to keep our voices down."I apologized and asked if she'd like me to carry the basket to the laundry room (it was down in the basement) she smiled and said thank you as she handed me the basket.She followed behind me and I could smell her perfume and could hear her beginning to breath hard.

When we got downstairs, I set the basket down and turned around.She gave me a hug and I could feel how hard her nipples were .She lingered long enough to feel my hard on ."Did I do that to you ?" I was at a loss for words and could only nod.She placed a hand on my chest and smiled at how hard it was beating. I was mortified ..I hadn't even really kissed a girl, nor had I even gotten to 2nd base.

She had total control of me at that moment. She then reached down and took my hand and placed it on her chest.

She just stood there and looked me in the eyes and nodded.I then slipped my hand inside her shirt. I let my hand run down the slop of her breast until I found her erect nipple.No sooner had I cupped it,she gasped and closed her eyes.I then felt her hand push mine tighter to her chest.

"Honey!! Where are you?" was the next sound we both heard.

The spell was broken, she quickly buttoned up her shirt and answered him."I'm downstairs!In the laundry room."

He then simply asked for the clothes he needed for the night shift and asked if I had left yet as he could tell that the job was finished. She said yes and that I would be back tomorrow to collect my pay.

When his footsteps retreated ,we both looked at one another and smiled.She kissed me on the cheek and thanked me for our moment.She asked if I would be interested in more and again,I was at a loss for words.She said that we would have to be careful before we proceed.....

Story will continue...

Thanks for reading

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Spideychelle as parents?

Here it comes―the fluffnami I warned you all about on Monday. You’ve officially waited too long to seek higher ground. The fluff is coming.

Kid-Me-NotPairing: Peter x Michelle (Spideychelle), Ned x Betty (Netty Pot)Rating: T (a very smol swear)Word count: 2060

They think about moving every year, but so far they haven’t.Peter knows it’s both of them, not just him, because sometimes he catches hiswife staring at a particular facet of their apartment, and when she looks athim, he goes, “I know,” and she makes a face like it’s doubtful that he’s readher mind.

The farthest out of the city they get on a regular basis isBetty and Ned’s corner of suburbia. Peter likes the drive and his wife likesthe mature trees, but not the ‘1950s American Dream capitalist bullshit vibe,’as she calls it. She also likes the blonde-bricked houses and Peter takes hisfoot off the gas whenever they pass one so that she has longer to admire themwithout having to state her preference out loud.

A trip to the Leeds’s is a regular thing for them, thoughmore frequent once summer rolls lazily around again. Flo is five now and goesinto a streaming shrill vibration of excitement at the mention of a visit.She’s been raised to call the two Leeds kids her cousins. The drive is just farenough that it used to put her to sleep, but these days the sedative propertiesof the car ride are only powerful enough to lull her small body into a consciousdoze. She exists in this low-power mode with a hand propped under her chin anda serious expression as she gazes out the window, not really noticing theflowers in people’s gardens or the dappled light on the perfect grey curbs, andnot really caring about what she’s missed. Peter’s great delight of the driveis catching glimpses of her in the rear-view mirror.

“I brought club soda for Betty,” his wife remarks idly fromthe passenger seat. Briefly, he grins to himself, rubbing his lip with athumbnail. Her posture is so like their daughter’s and at this point, Petercan’t remember who picked it up from whom.

“That’s really nice of you,” he says. “I’m sure she’llappreciate that.”

She goes by ‘Chelle’ now, which he feels has the sort ofheart-wrenching elegance of a ballet every time he hears it. It’s so adult.Frequently, Peter forgets they are both 34.

Pulling into the driveway is the catalyst for thelast-minute divvying up of who’s carrying what out of the car and which ofFlo’s toys are to be left in the backseat so she won’t scream if the other kidsget a hold of them. (Peter has been diligently working on his daughter’sjealous phase, but prefers not to test her restraint on what will already be ahigh-energy day.)

Chelle and he forsake the formality of the front door infavour of the gate, going straight into the backyard. He and Ned built the gatethemselves and Peter gives it a fond pat on his way through. Flo has alreadyraced ahead; it’s pointless to try to carry her. When she was a toddler, therewas less kicking, but the second her feet were lowered to the ground, she tookoff like a released wind-up toy.

“Hi,” he says to Ned. “Hi,” to Betty. And they’re saying“hi” in return, and so is Chelle, and hi’s are basically flying through the airlike mosquitos.

Sure enough, there are mosquitos flying through the air aswell because Betty’s grown sensitive to the scent of the citronella candlesthey usually scatter around the outdoor living space. In his spare time,Peter’s been working on synthesizing a replacement that will repel pestswithout the distinctive odour.

Arms full of bags of hotdog buns and an entire case of clubsoda (seriously, Chelle could’ve just bought Betty a two-litre bottle. How muchdoes his wife expect her to drink?!), Peter uses his foot to close the gatebehind him, but not before Ned’s devious cat bolts.

“Ohmigodohmigod,” Ned mumbles, flustered, but Betty justtouches him on the arm and steps around him.

“PalPY!” she calls, high and clear.

Emperor Palpatine whizzes back into the yard and the crisisis over. Peter and Ned laugh to themselves, slapping each other on theshoulder. Chelle has spread her armload of offerings on the patio table andwrapped Betty into a hug like a favourite draping blanket. She’s not asqueezing kind of hugger, his wife, but the sort to relax fully into it like avertical trust fall. There are few people she hugs.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Ned declares when Peter hands over thehotdog buns.

“Man, don’t tell me…” Peter begs.

“Yep,” Betty chimes in. “He forgets to buy them every time.”

She bites into a strawberry from a fruit tray she’s justwhisked out of the house. Chelle selects a large cube of honeydew melon,furtively stuffs it into her cheek, then bends down to make their daughterlaugh with a chipmunk impression as Flo slingshots back to her parents in asudden fit of nerves. This happens when the cousins are reintroduced. Sheclings to her mother’s leg as her smile quickly springs back up―Chelle’sstroking her wavy hair.

“Peter expects it by now,” Ned asserts, indicating what hisbest friend of 20+ years has brought.

“Nah, contingency plan, dude,” Peter avows.

“MJ,” Ned says, using the name that’s never unstuck for him(in fact, he’s the only one who still uses it), “club soda? Lame.”

Chelle rolls her eyes as their daughter torpedoes away fromher, chasing her cousins to the back fence.

“It’s for your pregnant wife. Don’t be selfish.”

“He’ll appreciate it later when I’m not sprinting to thebathroom to throw up my hotdog,” Betty predicts.

“Hon, that is so freaking gross. So, who’s hungry?” Ned askswith a chuckle.

He retrieves a pair of beers from an open cooler, rocky withice cubes, and Peter follows him over to the barbecue. Betty is close behind.

“Ned,” she protests, “I can do it.”

“The smoke can’t be good for the baby.”

“The other kids turned out fine. Ned makes up new rules foreach child,” Betty informs Peter with a wry smile.

“Peter wouldn’t let me go out on the balcony when I waspregnant with Flo,” Chelle calls over from where she’s setting out cutlery.They always eat first. Many, many summer afternoons have established theirpriorities.

Peter throws up his hands, careful not to slop the drinkhe’s just opened.

“It stressed me out!”

Chelle shrugs and gives him a smug smile.

“You got used to it.”

“I had to. You started sitting out there every night whenyou were on the phone to Betty or May or your mom.”

She grins in remembered victory as Charlie hurtles intoPeter’s side.

“Hello,” says a kid with Betty’s hair and at least onemissing tooth.

“Hey, what’s up, buddy?” Peter squats and does theParker-Leeds handshake. It transcends generations now, which is pretty cool.

“Are you watching your sister?” Betty quizzes her.

“Yes,” says Charlie, three-year-old sister nowhere in hervicinity.

“Call her like you call the cat,” Ned suggests, attention onraising the lid of the barbecue to shuffle the meat around, burgers crumblingat the edges, hotdogs reluctant to lift from the grill.

“Ooh, do we think Daddy’s in trouble for that one?” Bettychecks with Charlie, who grins, swishing her neatly braided pigtails.

Their other child, Daisy, comes staggering through thegrass, hand clutched in Flo’s. Peter feels a thrill of pride, watching theirdaughter play the big sister.

“We’re going inside,” Flo announces. “Charlie has a newLego.”

“Awesome,” Peter tells Charlie, eyes lighting up. “How manypieces?”

“I might need to snag one of your club sodas,” Chelleinforms Betty. “I feel suddenly nauseous with déjà vu.”

The wives laugh hard at the expense of the nerds theymarried.

“But seriously,” Peter whispers. “How many?”

“One. Hundred. Seventy. Four,” Charlie says, enunciatingwith care to increase the impact of how impressive this is. He thinks she couldread the announcements when she gets to high school, like her mom did, butthat’s a ways off yet. The kid’s only seven.

Flo, tired of being in her father’s company yet not thecenter of his attention, falls dramatically onto his hunched back.

“Why is it called Legos.” She says it like a demand, not aquestion.

“Uh, I don’t know. Lemme look it up…”

Before he can get his phone from his pocket, the nextinquiry has left her mouth. He can see that the Lego investigation has beentemporarily derailed.

“Why is my name ‘Florence’?”

“This is her thing right now,” Chelle explains to theirfriends, shaking an open bag of pretzels in Betty’s direction. “Questioningwhat everything’s called.”

“I know this one,” Betty teases. Peter glances over hisshoulder to watch Flo’s eyes light up with curiosity. He rubs her warm forearm.“It’s because Uncle Ned and I, and your parents, went on a trip to a countrynamed Italy and, while we were there, they realized that they loved each other.Then,” she goes on (Peter can tell by his daughter’s face that she isenthralled), “your mom and dad went back there when they were grown up and theywere in a city called Florence when they decided to get married.”

“Because he asked her to?” Flo clarifies.

“That’s right,” Betty praises.

“Barely managed it,” Ned critiques under his breath.

“Thanks, pal,” Peter snarks back.

His best friend glances down at him and they share a grin,then Ned reaches out for Betty’s hand and reels her in to kiss her cheek.They’re romantics, both of them. Betty probably remembers the moment ofengagement better than either Peter or Chelle, and she wasn’t even there.

“Why is Mommy’s name ‘Chelle’?” Flo wonders.

Peter straightens up to grab a pretzel. He sets his beer onthe fold-out ledge of the barbecue, then picks up Daisy, who is looking forlorn,so far below the tall people.

“Michelle,” Chellereminds her. “That’s because Grandma watched too much Full House while she was waiting for me.”

“Where were you?” Charlie asks, confused.

“Still in her belly,” his wife explains. She points atBetty’s rounded stomach. “Like your brother.”

“Wha’ ‘bow you, Da’?” Flo asks, wandering back from thetable as she chomps a carrot stick smothered in probably too much ranchdressing.

Peter sticks his tongue out at Daisy to make her gigglebefore turning to his daughter with a confused frown.

“What about me?”

“Why is your name ‘Spider-Man’?”

Chelle howls with laughter while Peter attempts to handlethe situation. Ned and Betty have both known his secret for years (there areonly so many excuses he can give Betty for needing to abruptly leave theirhouse on foot with a ragged backpack), but Flo doesn’t really get thedifference between saying it in front of them and saying it to literally anyoneelse.

“Are we supposed to talk about that?” he tests her.

“No. I’ll only tell Charlie.” Quickly, she bounces to hercousin’s side and, over Charlie’s giggling, Peter hears Flo’s high voicesaying, “My dad’s Spider-Man.”

“That’s definitely talking about it,” he says.

“Ok,” she is quick to agree with a mischievous smile, “I’llonly tell Palpy.”

Flo darts off after the cat, who has decided on a franticrun across the yard. Charlie helpfully tries to copy her mother’s method ofcalling the cat, but Emperor Palpatine is not convinced by the imitation.

Peter spins Daisy around once before letting the toddlerinto the fray as well.

“She’s so much like you,” Betty observes to Chelle, watchingFlo track the cat with determination. “Brave, unstoppable.”

Ned snorts.

“Nah, she’s like Peter.”

“Watch it,” Peter warns jokingly, picking up his beer.

“I was gonna say because she has so much energy, dude, duh.”

“Well, that’s true,” Chelle says, walking to Peter andpropping her elbow on his shoulder. He holds her around the waist, longing tocradle her closer than social norms permit. “I don’t know what we’re going todo with two of them.”

For a moment, there is no sound but the sizzling hotdogs(Ned’s probably burning them―Betty is the true grill-master of the Leedsfamily) and the shouts of three little girls. Then, Betty’s delighted gasp andNed’s pure shriek of joy.

Peter’s beer sweats in his hand. He has never been happier.

[cult-magic]

Oh boy, ResDogs fic. Buckle up, kids, it’s gonna be a wild ride.

“Freddy, newly 18 and with no prospects, settles in a vacant house. He gets more roommates than he ever wanted, and some of them are less than human.”

   The bus pulled away in a suffocating cloud of hot exhaust and dust, leaving Freddy standing alone at the bus stop with a hand over his eyes despite his sunglasses, wishing he’d spent those few extra bucks on a decent pair of shades. But his money was running low already, the few hundred bucks he’d saved after working for Holdaway at the local precinct going to the bus fare and what little food he’d eaten since he left two days ago. Both his wallet and his stomach were running on fumes now, and he needed a place to stay.

   Two hundred and forty dollars had taken him to the middle of Tennessee, where the sun beat down hard and heavy even though it was mid-September. The air was sticky, the tarmac so hot he could feel it through his shoes. Heat waves rolled up from the horizon just down main street. Next to the sidewalk where he stood, a small diner boasted the best white gravy in all the south. Across the street stood an antique store, rusted and racist junk lining the windows masquerading as history.

   Freddy went walking until he came across a city hall in the center of the town square. Most of the storefronts surrounding it were empty, a few cars scattered in the parking lot. There was a barbershop across from the front door of the city hall, a pet store next to it with the door open and a loud fan whirring in the vacant threshold.

   Inside city hall, it was blessedly cool. The small, empty lobby gave way to one long, white corridor. On the walls were various maps and a copy of the town charter from 1876. The glass was smudged with fingerprints. On either side of the hallway, the pale wooden doors were closed, the frosted glass dim or backlit with the high afternoon sun. In the right corner at the end of the hallway, next to another closed door, a fern was dying slowly.

   One door was open on the left side, but when Freddy looked inside, he was greeted by an empty waste management office. He cut his loses and left the building.

   Around the back of the city hall, Freddy found a cafe sitting alone among a strip of empty storefronts, claiming to have coffee and milkshakes. Come back after five, the sign said, and they would serve him alcohol too. Freddy wondered if they carded as he stepped in.

   The woman at the counter waved him in lazily, said she’d be around to take his order in a second. Freddy slid into the booth, the cracked red vinyl sticking to his sweaty ass and back, pulling his skin unpleasantly. He tucked his bag between himself and the wall.

   “What can I get you?” the woman asked when she ambled up a few minutes later. She smelled like cigarette smoke and damp perfumed skin.

   “Strawberry shake,” said Freddy. The woman nodded uninterestedly and ambled off to place his order, her scent lingering until the overworked fan in the ceiling swept it away.

   When she returned, placing his already sweating glass in front of him, Freddy asked if she knew of any vacant houses around town. She eyed him suspiciously and said, “You can’t spit without hitting an empty place ‘round here.” She ambled off with a little more speed this time, taking glances at him from the counter as he finished his milkshake. He put money on the table and left without another word, her glassy yellowed eyes watching his retreating back.

   Freddy walked down a few empty streets, passing only a few people on the sidewalk or in their yards as he went, until he turned down a red gravel road and found a decrepit old house standing in a lot of tall yellow grass, a tangled jungle of trees starting on the edge of the yard. It was isolated, maybe a few miles from town, and deadly quiet. The sun was starting to make its way to the horizon, casting the world in golden light. Freddy decided, looking at the broken living room window refracting stretching orange triangles across the rotting wood of the porch, that this would make a fine temporary home.

   He went inside.

...

   They took two cars northeast out of Mississippi, passing through Memphis and stopping in Jackson for gas. When they came to Myersville - tiny, sparsely populated, and with only one road in and out - they decided this was home until the heat died down.

   Larry was driving the lead car, taking the curves nice and slow so the townspeople took no notice of their little motorcade. It was a rather moot point, seeing as it was so hot today no one was braving the outdoors. They drove through the town square, then on through what Larry guessed to be the only traffic light in the town. He followed the road to nowhere, checking his mirror occasionally to make sure Vega was still on his tail.

   Finally, after driving through what passed for suburbs in this town, Larry came across the perfect place. The house was old and had obviously been abandoned for some time, but most of the windows were unbroken and the roof looked in good shape. The grass was tall, but the woods off to the side would provide good cover for the cars. Plus, the place was at least three miles out of town with neighbors half a mile out. In the moments before dusk, Larry decided this place would be HQ until Joe called the all-clear.

   He parked on the side of the street in front of the house; he wanted to walk the grass before driving into it so he could avoid something gouging the tires. Vega pulled up behind him and climbed out, Brown emerging from the passenger side. Both squinted into the setting sun to see the house.

   “This the best place you could find?” said Brown.

   “It’ll work,” said Larry.

   Vega nodded. “Discreet and isolated. It’ll work, at least ‘til Eddie gets here.”

   “It’ll work ‘til Papa says it doesn’t need to work anymore,” corrected Larry. Nice Guy Eddie was the heir, but Joe Cabot was still the King, and Larry was nothing if not an obedient little knight.

   “Okay,” said Pink, “but what do we do with the cars? Any cop sees us loitering around here and they’ll be on us like pigs on slop.”

   Vega slapped Pink on the back genially. “You calling us slop?” he asked around his vague, threatening smile.

   “Only if you get us caught,” said Pink as he stepped away from Vega warily.

   “No one’s getting caught,” Larry interrupted. “We’ll pull the cars around the side after we case the place. C’mon, while there’s still daylight.”

   Larry brushed his fingers over his piece where it was tucked into the back of his pants. The place gave him the creeps: the low light cast long shadows over the yellow grass; the dying sunlight glinting off the broken windows on the first floor; the way the gables casted the top windows into darkness. The air smelled like dry dirt and wet rotten wood, and was mostly silent but for the bugs in the trees.

   “Creepy,” said Brown offhandedly.

   Pink threw a glare over his shoulder. “Be a goddamn professional,” he replied, as he had many times over the weeks they’d planned this job. Even after they had gotten away with the heist, Pink’s paranoia was in overdrive. Not to say that was a bad thing; they’d saved themselves from a nervous rent-a-cop thanks to Pink’s paranoia.

   Larry tried the doorknob, unsurprised to find it open already. The porch steps groaned in protest as the other guys followed him. Pink had his gun hanging at his side. Blonde was smoking, waving his cigarette at Brown when he tried to peer around him into the house.

   The inside was dark, the trees to the left blocking most of the light that would come into the living room. It smelled damp, like mildew and rotten leaves. The broken window was in the kitchen to the right of the front door, dead leaves and puddles of stagnant water were collecting in the sink and on the floor below it. Down the hall, Larry could see light falling in from open doors that probably led to bedrooms.

   “Hey, what’re you-”

   All four of them had guns pointed at the kid before any of them really had time to think of it. The kid looked terrified, fear-wide green eyes reflecting the light from the flashlight he had in one hand. He was camped out on a bare patch of floor, a sketchbook open in his lap and a pen clutched in his free hand. A duffle bag at his side was propping up his flashlight hand over the book.

   He was dressed like a kid trying to look tough, decked out in a leather jacket over a white t-shirt and dark jeans that all hung off his skinny frame like they belonged to his dad. His hair was dirty blonde and a little greasy with sweat, falling to frame his face like he didn’t know what to do with it otherwise. A pair of cheap sunglasses sat atop his head, probably meant to keep the hair back but not succeeding.

   “Shit,” said Larry, tucking his gun back into his pants. “What the fuck are you doing here, kid?”

   “Squatting,” said the kid. He was watching Pink, who had not yet lowered his gun.

   “Put the fuckin’ gun down,” said Larry. “He’s just a kid.”

   “I don’t fucking know that,” said Pink. “He could be a thief, or a fucking rat.”

   “He’s got a point,” said Vega, an amused smirk curling around his mouth. He took another drag from his cigarette, posture loose.

   Larry glared at him. “Stop egging him on, you fuckin’ degenerate.”

   “What’re we gonna do with him?” asked Brown. He was frowning at the kid from around Vega, but was making no threatening moves.

   Larry turned back around. The kid was standing now, legs long and ungainly, a little awkward and looking ready to run with nowhere to go. The flashlight was hanging uselessly from his fingers now, the dim light that made it through the gaps in the leaves casting sharp shadows across his pale face. Larry thought, with little difficulty, that he was gorgeous.

   “What’s your name, kid?” asked Larry.

   The kid hesitated, then said, “Freddy.” The fear in his face had lessened a bit, fading into cautious intrigue.

   “And what are you gonna do if we let you go, Freddy?” asked Larry.

   Freddy shrugged casually. Larry was caught by the way his hands, long-fingered and elegant, flexed with the motion of his shoulders. “Go find a new house, I guess,” he said. He looked at all of them, eyeing the guns where they were visible. “Squatting isn’t exactly legal, even if it doesn’t ping on their radar next to whatever you did.”

   “See?” Larry gestured at Freddy, shooting a smile his way when the kid started to fidget. “He’s not gonna do shit.”

   “Oh gee,” said Vega, blandly, “do we really get to keep him?”

   Larry rolled his eyes and started moving further into the house. The two doors on the right were bedrooms - one of which was suffering from a hole on the roof and a soggy mattress - and the doors on the left revealed an empty closet and a bathroom, respectively.

   “There’s still running water,” said Freddy, “but no electricity. I think it’s from a well. Water comes out kind of red at first, but it seems all right. I wouldn’t drink it, but.” He shrugged. “Should be okay for bathing and cooking.”

   Brown whooped, already undoing his tie. “You have no idea how much I need a shower, man.”

   “There’s no curtain,” Freddy called down the hallway where Brown disappeared, “or towels, or soap. Try not to make a mess.”

   Vega raised a cool eyebrow at Larry and cut his eyes to the kid before going outside to call Eddie and update him on their situation. Pink squinted at them all before disappearing into the back bedroom, whose mattress was dusty and a little moldy but not wet.

   Larry sat on the couch beside where Freddy was resettled on the floor. It was dusty and ripped up, one cushion missing and the whole thing smelling of mildew. Freddy had put aside the sketchbook and turned off the flashlight, now sitting with his back against his bag.

   “What’re you doing here, kid?”

   Freddy sprawled out a little more, forced casual. “Foster system cut me loose,” he said.

Larry’s eyebrows shot up. The kid was probably freshly eighteen, then, really just a kid. “So you packed up and moved here?”

“No.” Freddy made eye contact, like a challenge. “What are you doing here?”

Larry met his challenge head on. “Hiding from the cops ‘til the heat dies down.”

Freddy nodded and turned to watch Vega swagger through the door. He turned back to Larry after staring after him contemplatively. “What’s your name?”

Larry hummed and turned away from those pretty green eyes. “Mr. White.”

...

Weird shit started happening the first night. Brown and Vega took the bed in the back room and Larry convinced Freddy (with surprising ease) to settle with him on the floor of the front bedroom, where it was dry and the broken window kept the hot air circulating. Pink was in the living room, on the floor and using one cushion as a pillow.

Freddy was laid out beside him, sleeping the sleep of the deeply exhausted but newly-freed. Dust motes were floating in the faint moonlight seeping in through the window. Larry was too wired to sleep, so he watched Freddy instead. He really was gorgeous, especially with the soft white light falling across his face, long eyelashes casting gentle shadows on his cheeks. Sometimes, when he shifted, he made sweet little noises that had Larry’s mouth twitching into a smile.

He was knocked from his thoughts by footsteps outside the door, but when he got up to check, the hallway was clear and all three of his guys were sleeping.

Larry turned back to his room to keep vigil over the kid, his gun resting on the pile of his clothes.

...

Larry was woken from his light sleep by screaming, and he was in the kitchen just behind Pink with Brown on his tail, Vega following from outside, all four of them dressed for sleep with guns leveled on the problem.

The problem was this: Freddy backed up against the counter opposite the bloody dead animal, looking like he’d had the life scared out of him.

Larry put his gun down and moved to Freddy, slipping an arm around his back to steady him. “You good, Freddo?”

The kid sucked in a deep breath then started coughing; the kitchen was starting to smell like the thing’s insides. “Shit, yeah,” he said eventually, “just scared me s’all.”

“Well you sure scared the shit outta me,” Pink groused. “I thought someone was dyin’.”

“Someone did,” said Vega. “What is that, some kinda raccoon?” He looked like he wanted to poke it, but all he had in reach was his gun and he treated his piece like his baby.

“Opossum,” said Brown. He wrinkled his nose. “Looks like it’s been dead for a while.”

Freddy let out another breath. “I didn’t see it when I first got in here,” he said. He was trembling gently under Larry’s hand, coming down from the sudden adrenaline spike.

“Probably killed itself trying to get in last night,” said Larry. “Caught on the glass or something.”

Freddy seemed to accept that easily and let Larry lead him out of the room. Larry didn’t add that there was no blood on the window. He did add: “Someone get that shit outta there, it’s disgusting.”

Behind them, the others started arguing about who was handling the mangled little body half hanging out of the sink and who was cleaning up the gore.

...

Freddy was alone in the front bedroom, laid out on the floor and staring at the ceiling. The others were outside, talking about something heist-related to which Freddy was supposed to be privy. He could hear their voices filtering in through the busted window, muffled baritones and distinct profanity. Beyond them, the leaves were rustling in the wind. The sun was high in the sky, the wood where he was lying pleasantly sun-warmed.

Despite being effectively homeless and entirely broke, Freddy felt like he was doing all right for himself. He had a roof over his head, even if that roof leaked, and he had friends, even if his friends were nameless and aloof. White, at least, seemed to genuinely like him, and Blonde liked to tease him. It was more than he’d had before, so that made every bit of this situation precious.

White told him earlier that they were waiting for Joe, whoever that was, to call the all clear. Freddy figured he was some sort of mob boss or something, which as cool as hell if a little scary. It’s not like his life was going anywhere but the ground, anyway, so getting involved wouldn’t necessarily be the worst thing he could do.

Outside, the voices were moving away, probably going to the cars parked around the other side of the house. Freddy strained to hear them, but eventually their voices faded into the nature sounds, so Freddy let his focus drift, and that’s when he heard the murmuring. It was indistinct, soft, almost sounded like insects, but the longer he listened the easier it got to make out the individual voices. They were all talking at once, from every direction, filling the room like a tangible being. Freddy thought of Venom, huge and amorphous and hissing, and felt excited before the sensation fled.

A voice broke through the clamour, a clink of glass among the crunch of gravel: a clear “come” whispered in surround sound that sent a shiver through Freddy. He sat up, staring into the open closet. It seemed darker than it was before, or was that the midday shadows?

Freddy clambered to his feet, cold sweat starting to gather on his face, and stumbled out of the room. He could hear the others on the front porch, anyway, there was no reason not to go greet them. No reason to linger in his terror.

...

“I had the weirdest fuckin’ dream last night,” said Brown during lunch. He was talking around a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. “Dreamt I was a little kid again, and my dad was putting me to bed, but it was this house and he was covered in blood.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Larry, grimacing. Freddy grunted in agreement.

Pink groaned loudly. “Can’t I just eat my lunch in peace?” he demanded.

“No one needs to know about your daddy issues, Brown,” said Vega.

Brown made a face. “Who do you think I am, Madonna?”

“You talk about her enough,” said Larry.

“Fuckin’ ugliest Madonna I’ve ever seen,” said Pink.

“Listen assholes-” Brown was cut off by a crash in the back of the house. They were up and going before they were even done swallowing, guns at the ready. Freddy was slinking along behind them, curious but smart enough not to get in front of the action.

They found the the source of the crash in the bathroom. The curtain rod had fallen from above the bathtub, one side of it bent a little, the end broken in an ugly jagged edge like a broken bone. In the wall next to the mirror, the tile was shattered.

“The fuck?” said Pink. He swung around abruptly, sweeping into the back bedroom. The bathroom had no window and only the one door. The rod looked as if something heavy had been dropped from it, or pulled down on it.

He and Vega returned after a few tense moments. “No one’s here,” said Vega. He was cool as ever when he said, “Probably a ghost.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Larry snapped, but the way Freddy shifted beside him made his voice waver.

Vega grinned, smarmy as could be. “What,” he drawled, “little doggy scared of a few ghosts?”

Pink scoffed. “You believe in that shit?”

“Nah,” said Vega, “but our boy sure seems to.” He gestured to Freddy, who was looking a little pale-faced.

Freddy blew out a breath, flipping the bird at Vega. “This is just weird shit, man. Unsettling.”

Behind them, Brown nodded in agreement. “This place is straight outta Poltergeist.”

Freddy’s eyes got a little wider, so Larry told them to knock it the fuck off and pulled the kid out.

...

The day was rolling towards one and Larry and Freddy were settled in the ruins of the living room, Larry reclined on musty couch cushions and Freddy on the floor, leaning back on the couch and sitting on Pink’s makeshift pillow. A sketchbook was open in Freddy’s lap, the same one from the first day they met. They were silent, Larry smoking and staring at the ceiling and Freddy drawing with quiet concentration. The others were elsewhere in the house, occupying themselves as best they could. Somewhere outside, Brown was singing badly, a subpar soundtrack to a pleasant afternoon.

And it remained pleasant until Freddy nudged his leg gently and said, “Hey, look,” while shoving his sketchbook under Larry’s nose.

It was a bunch of figures walking as a loose group, swaggering across the page in comic book style. There were five of them, all decked out in black suits and sunglasses with ties acting as bright pops of color. It was highly stylized and made Larry grin; it was them, a bunch of fucking crooks done up in gel pen ink and thick paper. But he counted again and his grin falted.

“Kid,” he said, “who-?”

“That’s me,” said Freddy, goofy grin taking over his face. “Mr. Orange, fucking green as spring-”

“Kid,” Larry interrupted. “You aren’t one of us,” and god, watching that grin fall off his face was hard, but it needed to be said, “we aren’t some fucking Brady Bunch family, we’re a bunch of dirty thieves and you’re too fucking good to be a part of this. You deserve better than us.” Than me went unspoken.

The sparkle in those huge green eyes had disappeared halfway through his little lecture, his mouth set in a grim, disappointed line that looked too familiar on a face that sweet. Freddy’s eyebrows were drawn low, eyelids drooped, and his lean body held carefully relaxed where it was laying against the couch. “Y’know,” he said, casual as could be, “I don’t think you really get to decide what I deserve.”

Larry realized what was happening, then. He was taking cold for casual, hurt for apathy. The kid was a good actor, he though, better than anyone had ever probably given him credit for. A product of the system. And yeah, he realized he made a mistake right then, too.

...

That night was tense. Freddy laid with his back to Larry, curled into a ball like the last thing he wanted was Larry’s touch. Neither of them slept for most of the night, jumping at any little noise. Some time past midnight, something clattered in their room and Freddy made the most heartbreaking little noise. Larry wanted nothing more than to soothe him, but Freddy never turned to seek comfort, instead curling up tighter when Larry shifted. What little sleep Freddy did manage to get was plagued by nightmares that made him cry out. The one time Larry woke him up, he got a face full of scared green eyes and a weak scowl for his trouble.

The next morning, a hammer sat in the shade of the closet, something brown like rust smudging the handle and head. Freddy let out a puff of breath and shuffled out of the room as soon as he could.

Nice Guy Eddie showed up later that morning, Blue snoring in the passenger seat. Eddie swept into the house, zeroing in on Freddy immediately.

“Who the fuck is the kid?” he demanded, hand already reaching for the gun in the waistband of his fuckugly pants that went with his fuckugly windbreaker.

“Just a kid,” said Larry. “He don’t know nothin’.”

“Fuck’s he doing here?”

“Found him squatin’ when we got here,” said Vega. He was lazing against the kitchen counter. “He’s good company. Gets spooked easy.” Vega wiggled his fingers at Freddy, making half-assed ghost noises. Freddy made a face at him, which made Larry laugh under his breath.

Eddie glared at the kid, probably deciding whether to just kill him anyway, before he said, “Whatever. Keep your stupid mouth shut, kid.”

Freddy waved a hand, said, “Don’t have anyone to tell.” It was one of the saddest things Larry had ever heard, but no one else gave it another thought.

Blue brought in bags of food from the car, enough to last a couple days if someone shared rations with Freddy (even if the kid was an unexpected burden, Eddie wasn’t gonna make him starve). Eddie moved himself into the back bedroom, relegating Brown to the floor so he and Vega could share the bed. Blue put his bag next to the couch in the living room, picking the cushion up off the floor and putting it back in its place on the couch, claiming it for himself.

“Hey,” said Pink, “you can’t take that.”

Blue leveled Pink with a tired glare. “And why is that?”

“It’s mine!”

Blue sighed. “Son, I am sixty-eight years old. If I want the couch and all its cushions, I will fucking well have it.”

The group laughed, but Larry kept his eyes on Freddy. He was smiling faintly, but he was standing back, tucked between the doorway and the counter. He looked sad around the eyes, separated by a distance greater than whatever few feet he’d put between himself and the others.

Larry did that.

...

Eddie got the call at four in the morning. He was loud, greeting the other side with enthusiasm and saying goodbye with even more. “Home free!” he yelled, startling Freddy out of the last vestiges of sleep. The guys called out various exclamations of relief, White chiming in as well. Freddy curled closer to himself and buried his face in his jacket, his stomach churning. They would be leaving tomorrow.

They were ready to go by dawn, stuffed packed away in their three cars. The plan was to split up at the first major highway and meet up in a port city in South Carolina at staggered intervals. White and Pink would show up last after winding their way through Kentucky, up to West Virginia, and then down the coast.

Freddy was standing behind them as they went through the plan one last time, watching with detached interest. None of them had plans to bring him, though he saw White glancing back at him every few minutes. He wondered what White thought he was doing, looking back like he regretted leaving him here. Did he think he was making it easier on Freddy, making him think it was a choice out of his hands? Did he think the pity would make Freddy feel better once they were gone? He was either stupid or cruel.

Blonde slapped him on the back and called him a good pup before he left, a mean smirk on his face that was more familiar than offensive at this point. Brown gave his shoulder a squeeze, perhaps genuinely fond and perhaps patronizing. Pink cast him a suspicious glance on his way out and Blue and Eddie left without a second thought.

White waited until the others were gone before stepping up to Freddy and pulling him into a hug. Freddy stood stiff against him, head down to rest against White’s shoulder.

“Sorry, kid,” said White. Freddy sighed, sagging against him for a moment, letting his weight rest on his solid body. He pulled himself away, looking at White as he moved to stand closer to the ruined couch. They stood in silence, just watching each other. White left after that, wordless in the heavy silence.

The sun was hot on his face as he watched the cars pull away from the broken window. There was no breeze this morning, just hot sunlight and humid air.

Footsteps rang down the hall behind him. “Okay,” he said, “I’m coming.” Freddy turned away from the window, going further into the house.

...

“Shit,” said Larry before he pressed on the break and jerked the wheel around, doing a U-turn in the middle of the street. The two cars in front of them disappeared around a curve.

“What?” said Pink. “Did you fucking forget something?”

“Yeah,” said White, “Freddy.”

“We can’t go back to that fucking house,” protested Pink, “not for that goddamn kid.”

“The hell we can’t.” Larry sped back the way they came, urgency rising in his chest. He couldn’t stop thinking about the look on the kid’s face as they left. He’d seen that kind of hopeless resignation before, in criminals when a heist goes wrong, in cops when a heist goes all too right.

Pink huffed, glaring pissily at Larry. “Why the fuck do you care anyway? Just some kid.”

“He’s grown on me,” said Larry. He parked in the grass in front of the house, barely pausing to undo his seatbelt before exiting the car and running up to the house. He had a horrible feeling something bad was happening in that house.

He found Freddy bleeding from the gut in the front bedroom. It looked like something had tried to tear into him, but there was no weapon, nothing but Freddy’s hands, but the kid couldn’t do that to himself.

Against all odds, he was conscious and reaching for Larry when he appeared in the doorway. “Freddy,” said Larry, collapsing next to the kid and gathering him up as best he could. “Kid, fuck, what happened?”

“You came back,” Freddy croaked. His face crumbled then, in pain and fear and misery. “I don’t want to go anymore. I- bring me back.”

“Yeah,” breathed Larry, “yeah, yeah kiddo, I’m bringin’ you back with me.” He grabbed Freddy’s hands and put them over the wounds, pushing them down. “Put pressure on it, kid, c’mon Freddy.”

Freddy was groaning, no fucking tolerance for pain, when Pink showed up, gun drawn and panting. “I couldn’t find anyone,” he said. “Fuck, that’s a lot of blood. Fuck. Is it bad?”

Larry looked at him. “As opposed to good?”

Freddy cried out, one hand reaching for Larry. “White, bring me- bring me back, please.”

Pink tucked his gun into his pants and said, “What the fuck is he talking about? Bring him back from where?”

Larry paused, looking at Pink. He hadn’t thought of it like that. But that didn’t matter, not yet. “Help me,” said Larry. He lifted one of Freddy’s arms around his shoulder. Pink took his other, bending under Freddy’s weight. “Press on his wound,” he ordered. Pink reached around to Freddy’s belly, bitching the whole time.

They stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hall, out the door and down the ramshackle porch with footsteps from nowhere booming from behind. They staggered across the lawn of overlong grass to the car, Freddy wheezing and crying out Larry’s alias with every step.

Larry opened the back door of the Cadillac and dumped Freddy in, climbing in after him and tossing Pink the keys. “Get to Nashville,” said Larry, “I’ve got a contact there.”

Pink groaned. “You fucking owe me one, asshole.”

“Yeah yeah,” said Larry, “just fucking drive, fishface.”

Freddy’s breathing was labored and he was clutching at Larry’s hands, mumbling “White, White” under his breath. Larry pushed the kid’s hair out of his face, grimaced when all he did was smudged blood over his face. “My name is Larry, kiddo. Can you say it?”

“Larry,” said Freddy. He grinned tremulously, teeth streaked with his own blood. He tried to shift closer and screamed instead.

Larry hushed him, moving to support his head. “That’s it, Freddo. Rest now, we’ll take care of you.”

...

Six years into a life of crime and this was the first time Freddy was seeing the dogs again. Blue had long since retired, but the others were sat around the table like they’d been together all that time. Brown had shaved his awful goatee in the interim and Pink had gained a little weight to fill in his bug-eyed face, but otherwise things were mostly the same. Eddie brought a job from Joe (who was not a mob boss and was, in fact, Eddie’s dad) and, after delivering it, was laughing along with the lot of them at Freddy’s story.

He was telling the one about the ghost baby that haunted his and Larry’s apartment. It screamed and cried and banged on the walls at all hours of the day. Freddy knew it wasn’t actually a ghost; their neighbors had a kid about three years ago and he still cried like an infant, and the banging came from their loud fucking teenager. Still, it was a running joke between them that made for a good story during dinner with their friends, and who said the dogs couldn’t be friends, even if most of them didn’t know each other’s names?

Eddie slapped his hand on the table, still laughing. “You believe in that shit?”

Freddy sobered a little, still snickering but with a tinge of nerves. Beside him, Larry had gone still. Between the two of them, the incident six years ago was still rawest for Larry. “Yeah, I believe in it,” Freddy said, “Why wouldn’t I?”

Eddie snorted. “Because you’re a rational fucking human being?”

Freddy shrugged and leaned back to rest against Larry’s arm, which was stretched across the back of his chair. “I’ve got personal experience.”

Pink groaned. “And he got that personal experience all over my fucking car-”

“That wasn’t your goddamn car,” Freddy laughed, throwing a roll at him from across the table.

“Children, please,” said Blonde, unwrapping a toothpick. Beside him, Brown laughed loudly.

“Says the last guy on earth who still uses toothpicks-”

“What’s that got to do with anything-”

“Oh my god,” said Eddie, “shut the fuck up.” He leaned towards Freddy. “Anyone else seen your fuckin’ ghosties?”

“Yeah,” said Freddy. The table’s occupants nodded in varying degrees of enthusiasm. “Do you think I ripped myself open with a hammer claw?”

“His day’s over if he stubs his toe,” Larry added.

“That’s an exaggeration,” said Freddy. “But it doesn’t matter, ‘cause everyone else knows about the ghosts.”

“Always getcha when you’re alone,” said Brown, nodding sagely. “In your dreams.”

“Oh sure, Madonna,” said Blonde, sending the whole table into peals of laughter.

Freddy leaned into Larry’s side, hand coming to cover his scared abdomen as he laughed. It was the last visible reminder of those lonely few days. Larry always got this pinched look on his face when he saw it, but Freddy liked it. The texture was nice, moving his fingers from numb, rough scar tissue to smooth skin, and he liked remembering that he hadn’t been abandoned to the mercy of more than his share of ghosts.

Besides, he had his own Ghostbuster right here. He grinned at Larry and Larry smiled back, effusively warm.

“I’ll get the bill,” said Eddie when they started to quiet down. “You lot get to work.”

They all pitched in for the tip, though Pink bitched about it until Blonde offered to shoot him to the table at large. They shuffled outside, Blonde and Freddy lighting up the moment they got outside. “See you,” said Freddy, waving at the dogs as they drifted to their own vehicles.

“Later, Orange,” said Brown. He was swinging his keys around his finger on the way to his shitty old Chrysler, and when he got in they could here the strains of KBilly’s turned up too loud through the closed door.

“What a loser,” said Larry. Freddy laughed and followed him to their own car, rolling down the window to finish his cigarette and turning up their own radio.

“Just drive, old man,” he said, and they pulled away in a suffocating cloud of hot exhaust and dust, leaving behind Eddie and Blonde to their argument about whatever.

[murderincrp]

PROFILE LOADED... 「LEE JONGSUK」「VANGUARD」「TWENTY-SIX」

“Twenty-six-year-old SECOND IN COMMAND and KBS NEWS REPORTER that goes by the alias ‘DANTE’. His allegiance lies with VANGUARD.”

✘ THREAT LEVEL HIGH. PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION...

WARNING: CHILD ABUSE, RAPE, INCEST, ANIMAL ABUSE, MENTAL HEALTH

[ BACKGROUND... ]

Jongsuk is nine the first time that his mother climbs into his bed. It’s summertime and he’s on break from school. His day was spent playing outside with his younger siblings, chasing his little brothers around the yard and climbing trees to escape his sisters. His belly aches from eating too much watermelon before bed and he thinks that his mother has come to soothe his stomach ache so that he can finally get some sleep. She rubs his belly just like she does his baby sister’s when she gets fussy after eating, but his mother’s hand moves lower, between his legs. Jongsuk’s face twists, but her voice is soothing against his ear, hushing him. She takes his hand in hers and guides it to cup her breast. “Won’t you help mommy feel good?”

He’s fourteen before social services picks him up.

His first foster home is a different kind of nightmare. Jongsuk is separated from his brothers and sisters and sent to live with a middle-aged couple in Busan. They live in a two-story house with their two biological sons. Their yard is perfectly manicured and their doormat reads “Bless this home with love and laughter”. Neither await Jongsuk once he steps through their door, though.

His bedroom, if you’d call it that, is a rickety cot crammed beneath the basement stairs. There’s a bookshelf nearby that can be shoved in front of his bed any time child services comes by to check in on him, hiding it neatly from sight. Upstairs, there is a bed that Jongsuk has never slept in inside of a room that he’s only seen glimpses of, a stage set for those CPS visits when he must recite the script given to him by the couple. He chose to be homeschooled because of the bullying he received from his classmates for being in foster care. His favorite subject is history. He hates science and peas. He loves playing basketball with his foster brothers.

When Jongsuk stumbles over an answer or hesitates a beat too long for the couple’s liking, he’s punished the moment that CPS leaves the driveway.

There is an old deep freezer in the far corner of the basement. It’s been unplugged for years judging by the smell of it. Even though it’s been emptied of food, the stench of rot remains, strong enough that the first time Jongsuk is forced to climb inside of it he immediately curls over the edge and empties his stomach onto the floor. Before he is done heaving, his head snaps to the side from the force of the backhanding he gets for his mistake. He isn’t given a chance to catch his bearings before he is forced onto his back. The heavy freezer door is slammed shut above him, throwing him into complete darkness, and the drag of a chain tightening around the handle barely audible over Jongsuk’s screams.

He spends two days in that freezer. Two days without food or water, two days lying in his own piss, two days straining his ears for the sound of footsteps on creaky stairs.

It isn’t the old man that finally grants him his freedom, but the oldest of his two brothers. The first sliver of light is almost a worse torture than his imprisonment itself. Jongsuk is too weak to shield his eyes from it, but the other boy seems to have anticipated as much and is quick to click off his flashlight. He holds a finger to Jongsuk’s lips to hush him. The contact startles Jongsuk so much that he cracks his head against the freezer door, but the boy ignores it and shoves a bottle of water into his hands. The crinkle of a rapper seems too loud to Jongsuk’s ears. It doesn’t stop him from fumbling the cap of the bottle open and gulping down its contents so quickly that he chokes on the water, or from snatching the triangle gimbap from his foster brother’s hands to devour it just as quickly. Jongsuk’s stomach churns, rebelling against the nourishment it so desperately needs but is too sensitive to handle, but by some miracle he keeps his meager meal down.

Just as quickly, the empty bottle is snatched from his hands. It disappears down the other boy’s shirt along with the wrapper from the gimbap. “I’m sorry, I have to lock you back up,” he whispers, voice strained as he places a hand on Jongsuk’s head and begins to push. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Jongsuk does not return to his prison without a fight. He lashes out against the boy, flailing and clawing in his desperate attempt to escape, but his body’s too weak. He sobs as the freezer door falls shut. Even with the small bit of food in his belly, Jongsuk barely has the strength to pound his fists against the lid as the chain rattles back into place. Promises fall from Jongsuk’s lips in a desperate tangle as he begs the boy to free him, swearing to behave, to be quiet, to be whatever it is these people want him to be–

But he is left in darkness once more.

Jongsuk never sees the boy again after that night. Sometimes he hears his voice floating down the stairs, and the couple speaks of him whenever CPS drops by. The new script that Jongsuk memorized says that Yoojung left to study abroad in the states. His parents never learned of the night that he helped Jongsuk. It is one secret that Jongsuk is willing to keep.

He spends three years living with the Jungs. During that time, Jongsuk spends many nights locked in that freezer– but it doesn’t break him. He no longer screams himself raw begging to be freed from that rancid prison. He doesn’t plead for food or water when days pass where he has been denied of both. He doesn’t tear his nails from their beds clawing at the steadfast freezer door. No, Jongsuk knows that hope is truly a useless thing.

He just wishes he’d learned the same about love a little earlier on.

There’s a window high above the storage shelf in the basement. It’s a tiny thing that is too dirty to allow any light through, and it’s barely big enough for Jongsuk to reach a hand out. Though it doesn’t happen often, on days that the house is empty, he climbs up on that rickety shelf and stretches his hand through the open window until he can feel blades of grass against his fingertips. It’s the only glimpse of the outside world that Jongsuk has been allowed since he was taken from his mother.

One day, Jongsuk is sitting perched on the storage shelf, hand outstretched and eyes closed in content as sunlight warms his fingertips, when he feels something bump his hand. At first, he startles, banging his wrist smartly against the window frame in his haste to withdraw his hand, but then he hears a tiny meow come from above. Transfixed, he rises to his knees to peek outside.

He’s met with a tiny, furry little face and another squeak of a meow.

The kitten is small enough that it slips through the window with ease, chasing Jongsuk’s hand. It’s far too little to be out wandering on its own and is desperate for a bit of affection. The kitten tumbles into Jongsuk’s lap, narrowly missing the shelf altogether, and the instant that the helpless little thing looks up at him and squeaks again, Jongsuk is smitten.

It’s tricky keeping the kitten hidden from the old man. His foster mom doesn’t bother to visit Jongsuk down in the basement, and for once he’s glad for it– if only because that’s one less person to hide his new friend from. He manages to keep the kitten a secret by tucking her away in a beaten up armoire that he cleans out. He fashions her a bed from his spare shirt and shares what food and water he does get with her. Jongsuk feels guilty because he knows that the little kitten needs more than he can give her, but he does the best that he can with the promise that once she’s a little older, he’ll slip her back through the window so that she can have a real chance.

Almost two weeks pass before the old man finds her.

For the first time in three years, Jongsuk gets down on his knees and begs his foster father for mercy. He pleads the old man not to harm the kitten, to just release her back outside and swears that he’ll never bring another animal inside again. He claws at the man’s arm, tears streaming down his cheeks unchecked as he reaches for the kitten dangling from the old man’s grip. His voice cracks beneath the force of his pleas.

It isn’t enough.

Jongsuk watches helplessly as the old man breaks the kitten’s neck. His scream of outrage, of despair, is cut short by the swift blow he receives to his face. Jongsuk curls in on himself to brace for the first kick to his side, and then the second. He hears one of his ribs crack with the third blow, but he doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel any of the hits that he takes that night.

The old man leaves his body broken and bloody on the floor once he’s finally done with him.

As an afterthought, he drops the dead kitten beside Jongsuk’s head.

“Look at what you did, boy,” the man sneers in parting.

That night the last shred of humanity Kim Jongsuk holds onto slips through his fingers.

The next time that the old man visits him, Jongsuk is ready.

He’s unscrewed the light bulb above the stairs so that when the old man comes to fill Jongsuk’s bowl with his daily slop, he’s met with darkness– the same darkness that he’s subjected the boy to for years. Jongsuk waits in the shadows as the man stumbles down the first three steps. He sees how the old man grips the stair railing tightly for balance, listens as he shouts back to his wife to find a spare bulb so he can replace the burnt out one above the stairs… and he waits.

When his foster father stretches for the bulb he hasn’t yet realized is missing, Jongsuk springs.

The tumble down the stairs breaks the old man’s neck. It doesn’t kill him, Jongsuk is pleased to find. He crouches beside his foster father and watches as he gasps for breath, struggling to force his broken body to move without a bit of success. Jongsuk smiles at the sight.

“How does it feel?” he asks, genuinely curious. “Can you still feel your fingers?”

Jongsuk reaches out and presses the jagged edge of the broken light bulb to pad of the man’s ring finger. His eyes are drawn to the blood that wells where glass meets flesh. The old man’s groan forces Jongsuk to reluctantly tear his gaze away from the shock of crimson and focus on his tormentor’s face instead.

A smile pulls at Jongsuk’s lips. “I guess that’s a yes.”

He leaves the couple in pieces.

The first thing Jongsuk does with his freedom is to return home.  There he finds his mother waiting for him with open arms and open legs, and finally, finally, Jongsuk feels at peace. Or– to be more precise– Jongsuk doesn’t feel anything. He feels nothing as he sinks into his mother’s familiar warmth one last time. He doesn’t feel anything as he uses the old man’s switchblade to slit her throat, either.

He does, perhaps, feel a twinge of fondness once he’s finishing up with dinner. It’s the first one of its kind that he can remember having, with everyone seated properly at the table as a family. His mother sits at the head of the table directly across from him, and Jongsuk’s siblings all fill the remaining chairs between them. No one seems to have much of an appetite, though. Their plates remain untouched.

Jongsuk is happy to eat their share. He hasn’t been fed a proper meal in ages.

When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with a napkin and moves around the table to press a kiss to his mother’s temple.

“Thanks for dinner, ma. It was perfect.”

He waves to his siblings, gaze hanging just a moment on the little boy with the thick brows and full lips, before swiping a coat from the front closet and making his exit.

He leaves behind the picture-perfect family he’s always dreamt of, sitting around a table full of food with matching smiles slashed across their necks.

Jongsuk has little choice but to take to the streets after that. There, he falls into sorts with Vanguard and begins working for them in exchange for their help creating a new identity. They train him as a soldier; then, as a hitman. They teach him what it means to be part of an actual family. He becomes fiercely loyal to them and follows orders without question. Because of this, he’s able to rise through their ranks until he ultimately assumes the role of Lee Sooman’s second in command. He now uses his connections as a reporter to control the flow of news to Vanguard’s advantage, altering stories or redirecting attention whenever necessary.

[ BEHAVIOR... ]

While not quite a textbook sociopath, there is no denying that Jongsuk has sociopathic tendencies. Since killing his family, he’s assumed a new identity that allows him to live freely– but this new life relies solely on his ability to sell a lie. There can be no connection between Lee Jongsuk and the pathetic, abused little boy of his past. As luck would have it, there’s very little of that boy to wipe from the records, and so any threads that might tie him to his past have been long buried.

Jongsuk works as a news reporter. He’s known for his ruthlessness and lack of remorse when pursuing a story, and as much as his bosses might hate him for all the laws he breaks on their dime, they can’t deny that his methods get results. He’s earned the title as one of the most progressive and volatile reporters on the scene. So long as there’s a story to be had, Jongsuk doesn’t give a damn whose necks he puts on the line to get it. He’s exposed cops, mobsters, corrupt city councilmen. He has no allegiance. He has no moral code that drives him.

Or so it would seem. In reality, every move that Jongsuk makes is in Vanguard’s favor. His manipulative personality makes it possible for him to live a double life with ease, fooling those at the broadcasting station with a charming smile and a cocky wink while using his sources to feed information directly to Lee Sooman himself.

[knbscribbles-blog]

Top Rated Commercial Zero Turn Mowers

Let’s talk about commercial lawn mowers!

COommercial mowers really are a unique type of grass cutter that is, “a cut above” the rest. Yes, yes I know it’s corny but hey ... this is my blog!

As they saying goes:

“Time is money.”

As a commercial lawn care specialist I know this more than most. 

When it comes to cutting grass, the faster your machine is, the more cash you can make. 

Some commercial zero turn mowers sell a lot better than many others simply because they get the job done faster but are they really better than the alternatives or do they fall short in other areas?

What's the secret to a great commercial mower? 

The answer is clear-cut and three-pronged:

Quality of cut

Cost effective running 

Easy-operation

Commercial mowers have to perform much better than other mowers and have to take a lot more abuse. So, whether you are looking at commercial push mowers, riding mowers or stand on mowers, before purchasing one, it is critical that you consider two things that are fundamental.

1. The Engine.

Commercial mower engines need to be powerful. 

Riding mowers are big and bulky, as are stand on mowers, so they need powerful engines to shift all that weight.

Power will empower you to cut yards in record time. The more powerful the engine the faster you will get the job done. But don’t comprise quality for power - they must be equal.

The sooner you can finish a job, the sooner you are able to move to a different job but the job must be well done or you won’t be cutting that particular yard again!

As a rule of thumb though more power translates to more jobs. More jobs translate to more cash.

Listed below are a number of the commercial mowers that are top as far as speed can be involved. They are riding mowers but be sure to look at some stand on mowers as well.

i. The Cub Cadet Zero-Turn Rider 365L

This mower has an 18 Horse Power engine. 

The power of this engine is enough to move its massive 750-pound weight at seven miles per hour.

ii. The Snapper Yard Cruiser

The snapper is a more economical option to the Rider 365L. 

Like (i) above, the snapper additionally has an 18 hp engine. 

It weighs 575 pounds and can reach top speeds of up to 5.8 miles per hour.

iii. Husqvarna 967324301

This mower is equipped with 26 hp Kohler 7000 engine that was massive. 

The mower also some added features that are nice.

 With an incorporated headlamp and a back engine guard this machine is among my most favored. 

The lights mean you can work well into the night time.

iv. Z-Beast FX850V

This is a creature really, as the name implies. It boasts of over 31 hp which will drive the 62-inches mammoth at 12 miles per hour. This mower is just what a demanding job needs. The rig is really powerful it comes along with seatbelts. Prior to becoming crazy on the Creature buckle up.

2. The Mowing Deck

The size of the mowing deck is directly proportional to cutting height. 

The best commercial mowers should manage over 3.5 Inch cutting depths. You also ought to look for slopping-front decks. 

The fronts push up the grass for consistent cutting.

Below are the finest mowers with regards to cutting height.

i. Sears Craftsman EZT Lawn Tractor

This mower has a 40-inches deck. It can cut grass for heights of up to 4 inches. 

In addition, it comes along with a powerful 15.5 Horse Power engine. 

This level of engine power is fairly a feat when you consider the engine is a single cylinder.

ii. Ariens EZ Rider 915 Series

Ariens additionally has a 40-inches deck as well as a cutting depth of up to 4 inches. 

It, unfortunately, costs a lot more than the Craftsman EZT. 

The excess dollar purchase translates into additional Horse Power. The engine gives off considerably less noise than the Sears Craftsman and is 16 hp.

[nrdynarwhal-blog]

Our stretch of Abandonment ... (Entry 2)

We woke up to a changed landscape on Monday morning.  

Someone, probably a teenager looking to fill the slot of our deceased neighbor and take over the market, spray painted “Cory” in bright gold on one of the out-buildings behind the mess of wildness growing to the left of our yard.  However, given the flamboyance with which the letters were drawn, I mostly think it was some bored middle schoolers. I noticed this graffiti as I sipped my morning coffee yesterday and waited for Gemma to get done sniffing every fence post and picking a perfect spot to shit (in my garden – of course). Today, with the gloomy day and the grass just green enough to reflect the yellow-ness of its dead compatriots, the gold spray paint goes well with the tattered bits of caution tape fluttering in the wind, caught in jaggers growing along the alley.  

It’s weird to think that the house adjacent to ours burned out, killing the residents – it’s weird how a fire can strike so suddenly and end one’s life. It’s also weird that he – I don’t even know his name – was our only friendly neighbor; sitting on his front stoop with his white pitbull smoking a long brown cigarillo – that always smelled “funny.” It’s weird that I do not know his name, but I know he bred pitbulls and that he liked to smoke on his porch and that he lived with his mom and his sister and her baby and that he believed a tablespoon of bleach in his dog’s water would cure heart worm and tape worm and whatever ails dogs. I know all this simply from walking by. Walking to and from the bus stop mostly, but also walking Gemma, from the countless times I jogged up and down Woodward to try to lose weight, from walking Tristen around and walking up to grab a pizza from Mama Lena’s or bread from Mancini’s.  He would always be outside, huddled in the doorway if it was cold or raining, but if it was nice he would be sitting on the stoop, blunt in between his fingers and dog between his legs.  And now some of his story is in our little stretch of abandonment.  I watch the tired yellow plastic wave for a few more moments and feel the first large drops of rain hit my shoulders.

I keep walking – taking a full tour of the grounds before the rain gets heavy and the ground gets marshy. Our section of abandonment is shapped like the letter U with our yard in the center cavity – a long narrow yard connected to a side lot on the left and another yard on the right with a section across the alley and the burned out house making the bottom of the U.  Stepping off the sidewalk and walking passed the trash – McDonalds bags, Giant Eagle bags, Aldi brand yogurt containers, news papers, a Barbie doll bicycle pouch, a green water bottle, Old English cans, a child’s wagon tire – it’s a reflection of our neighborhood, an ecology of McKees Rocks, preserved in the trash caught in brittle brown tangles. I  walk about forty paces, through the grass tufts and the two foot high brown twigs that are all that was left of some kind of native vegetation, passed the remains of a clothes line along our fence to the garage. I have to stay about 6 feet away from its cement brick walls because the ground is flooded.  The slop of the lot comes to a conclusion at the garage wall causing about a foot of water to gather there. Along the pool’s edge is the first of the barbeque grills. This one is small and mostly gone to rust. Beyond the garage and its pool is the stretch of grass and the second barbeque grill – this one is almost new – then the barn, The barn is surrounded by more thicket (vines and jaggers) and piles of old tires and broken televisions. Shards of glass and plastic litter the grass, spilling out into the alley.  The feral cats live here. Them and the rats.  I step over a large liquor bottle with no label filled with brown liquid and face our yard.  The graffiti shines through the tangled mess of azaleas, wild strawberry vine, grape vine and mystery weeds that grow in front of it and fills the yard of the abandoned house to our right.  My cardinals and robins nest in there in the spring.  But the old owner’s built a cat box in the center of the brier so the cats own that part too. 

Today I am bearing carrots. A friend of ours gave us a large bag of pretty beat up carrots, too old to eat, and asked if we could use them. I said no, but the groundhogs might enjoy them. So here I am – trying to beat the rain and not sink in the marsh, clutching the baby monitor –  delivering carrots to an obese groundhog. He or she (I’ve taken to calling it a he) lives down by the garage.  Actually, he probably lives under our house.  I spotted a furrow in the dirt that leads under our fence, curiously close to our storage crawl space.  

Regardless, I am traipsing out to bring him a snack.  I toss the carrots in between tufts of grass and let them roll under brittle thickets of brown vegetation.  I make sure to get them close to our fence and the long, muddy furrow that leads under our crawl space, knowing something will find them – maybe the family of skunks, the solo opossum or our pair of obese raccoons. Someone will appreciate these no-effort calories on this brisk January day.

[andykoons]

CHAPTER 7 - LOST IN THE MAIZE (part 2)

The ground ahead of us dropped down. There was a small creek with wide, muddy banks. The water was crystal clear and you could see small fish swimming around, completely unaware of humanity’s situation above the surface.

I took the first step into the mud. It was knee-deep.

“We should probably hold onto each other while we cross so we don’t get stuck.” I said.

Addy locked her fingers around my forearm and did the same with Sammy behind her.

The mud had the consistency of cookie dough and held tight to our legs as we slowly drudged on. The vacuumous sound of air being rapidly sucked into the slop was constant.

The line stopped. I turned back and saw Sammy struggling to pull his foot out of the mud.

“You stuck?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He answered. “Can’t get—“

His leg became free but attached to it was a long tentacle, browned by the mud where it had been before.

“Whoa!” I said. Sammy looked back and saw the thing grabbing his boot. His face went white.

It was an arm. A human arm.

“One of those things are in the mud!” I said as a zombie pulled itself up into the sunlight. It slowly drew Sammy’s leg closer to it’s black mouth.

As far as I could tell it was naked. The outer layer of skin  had rotted away long ago, exposing bright white tendons and the green fibers of it’s rotten muscle.

“Use Sentõ!” I yelled.

“What?” He asked in panic.

“Use the goddamn sword!” Addy yelled.

Sammy pulled the blade from the scabbard on his back and hacked away at the arm until it was detached. He fell forward and  lost his footing. The mud was at his waist level.

The creature dug it’s other arm into the mud and pulled hard at itself. It’s bottom half was still cemented in the wet earth-slush.

CRACK!

The zombie’s torso flung forward as it’s spine snapped in two. Sammy had a death grip on the arm that held his foot, desperately trying to break it’s grasp. The arm muscles flexed greasily and the half-zombie slid atop the mud bank with ease. It’s teeth careening for the soft tissue it held before it.

Sammy released my arm and used it to push against the zombie’s head, trying to keep it away. He was either going to get bitten and become a zombie or drown in the mud.

Fuck that. I reached for Sentõ and slid it out of the scabbard.

“Move your arm!” I yelled. Sammy turned his head and saw my intention. He pulled his arm close to his chest and I split the zombie’s head down the middle with a downward slice.

The tension in the rotting muscle fibers released and Sammy was able to yank it off. We slowly made it through the mud on both banks, the other side being easier since it was a smaller bank and the fucking dirt wasn’t trying to eat us.

We took a break on the other side of the creek. We sat down. No words were spoken. Sammy looked down at the ground beneath him and he watched the frequency of tears falling from his eyes grew. The boy had been through a lot of bad shit in the last couple years, but just the day before, he lost his hero, and hadn’t really had time to process it. It hadn’t been calm enough to think about it. Hell, less than a week before my wife and children, Addy’s sister and nephews, rode off in a truck into the dark wilderness. None of us have had time to let that sink in.

Still, without words, the three of us began to weep, allowing the weight of the loss that we were feeling to crush us into a sad, useless pulp. We needed to remember why we were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a billion ways to die.

We earned it.

I don’t know how much time elapsed while we sat on the edge of that muddy creek. Sammy was the first to stand up, then Addy, then me.

We climbed out of the small canyon the creek had carved over the last hundred years or so it existed. The long blades of grass aided us in our ascension. Sammy peaked over the edge.

“We’re good. C’mon up.” He said.

The kid was telling the truth. It was an empty field. No corn, no monkey fuck-dungeons, I was thrilled. Mostly because at the other end of that field was a recognizable tree line that runs alongside the old highway that splits Athens in half.

“Not much longer, guys.” I said with a sprite of encouragement, not realizing I was talking to two people who grew up here and knew the general area we were headed. Fuck it, I thought it helped.

The tree line grew closer and closer until we eventually broke through. We were about a mile north of the intersection where the road we were on met the road we came from. We basically  cut a huge corner by almost dying several times.

We walked north on the old highway. The asphalt wasn’t really asphalt. It was the kind of pavement you found in the country. Every year they would spray the road with tar and lay a fresh layer of fine gravel and called it an improvement. The cars would smash the gravel into the tar and the end result was about as smooth as…

As smooth as a…

I feel like there’s a Michael Jackson joke here that I’m just not putting together.

Smooth as a non-criminal?

No. That’s Carlos Mencia level bad.

I’m getting sidetracked worse than usual.

Michigan roads are really shitty is what I’m trying to say.

We were about a mile south of Athens. Technically we were in the Athens township, but it’s all farmland out there so it doesn’t count to me.

The twin lines of tall trees provided a bit of shade from the afternoon sun. It was probably four or five P.M. An old, faded red sedan sat in the ditch a hundred or so yards ahead. Even from that distance, we could make out vaguely human shapes inside.

As we crept closer, we could see more clearly the passengers in the car. One in the driver seat, one in the passenger. Closer and closer. The car was at an odd angle. It looked as if it had been run off the road, or there was some sort of other emergency.

The windows had a border of dusty mold, giving each a dirty vignette. From end to end, the vehicle was filled with death. We were passing it, but I couldn’t ignore it’s contents. I felt drawn to discover the story held within.

The passenger window had a single bullet hole with veiny fractures painting a spider web across the window. The red paint of the exterior was so old that running your finger across the surface would cover your fingertips with that very fine, white powder that only old jalopies can produce.

Three bodies sat in the car. A driver, a passenger in the front seat, and a dead toddler in the back. 

“I wonder if it’s even alive.” I whispered as I gently tapped on the glass. The beast slowly awoke and bit at the air. It’s eyes were so badly decomposed that they were virtually useless now.

“Yup.” I told myself.

“Milo!” Addy barked. It startled me.

“What?” I asked. She flapped her arms angrily in disbelief.

“You’ve been staring at that fucking car for, like, an hour! Can we go now?” She said as she gestured toward Athens.

“Yeah, man. We need to go. I think it’s going to rain soon.” Sammy added.

“Sorry guys.” I said as I trotted ahead to catch up and watched the sky slowly turn grey.

[vivianbates]

Dog Mountain in Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area

It isn’t pack mentality that makes Dog Mountain one of the most popular hikes on the Washington side of the Columbia River Gorge. The grassy slopes near the summit put on a winning display of spring wildflowers, enhancing year-round views over the gorge’s beautiful surroundings. Dog Mountain Trail is steep and largely forested, ascending 2,825 feet in 3 /13 miles. Two viewpoints along the trail provide motivation to reach the top. Rather than simply trekking up and back (6 2/3 miles round trip), you can incorporate Augspurger Trail for a 7.4-mile loop that explores more of Dog Mountain.

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Seeing wildflowers: Visit around the month of May to cross a yellow carpet of balsamroot blooming on the high meadows of Dog Mountain. Other floral standouts include Columbia kittentails, slender woodland star, and fairy slipper orchids (as well as lupines, oaks toothwort, penatemon and phlox).

Start from the Dog Mountain Trailhead, which is located along Washington 14 west of White Salmon. The parking area fills up early on weekends. A shuttle increases trail access during the busy season from mid-April to mid-June. Leave from the east side of the trailhead, passing a self-service pay station and a picnic table. Augspurger Trail rises to the left toward Augspurger Mountain and can be used to connect to Dog Mountain Trail for the loop. Past Augspurger Trail, come to the signed start of Dog Mountain Trail, which proceeds straight ahead and rises to the east above Washington 14.

Dog Mountain Trailhead

While you won’t find bathrooms at the trailhead, you will pass a vault toilet a hundred yards up the trail. Switchbacks then twist up the side of the gorge. The light pink pedals of slender woodland star bloom in the sunnier sections of the slope, while ferns thrive in the shade. Partial views of the Columbia River appear as well, offering a small taste of the bigger sights above.

After 2/3 of a mile, the grade briefly relents as you come to a trail split. Avoid the Old Trail angling to the left and turn right on Dog Mountain Scenic Trail, which goes past Lower Viewpoint, a stellar perch above the Columbia.

The trail narrows and curves to the right, passing through a forest of tall firs. After another half mile of steady climbing on longer switchbacks, the trail level out and actually goes slight downhill as it curves to the left. You won’t have too long the catch your breath before the ascent resumes.

Proceed up the wooded trail, gaining more elevation. To reward the effort, the trail pops out of the forest to cross a small grassy opening. Arrive at Lower Viewpoint, 1.85 miles from the trailhead where you can drop off the right side of the trail to a bench with a grand view of Columbia River Gorge. Pause and enjoy a lovely look west down the river, over 1,500 feet below. Turning around, you can look farther up Dog Mountain toward the wildflower paradise above.

Lower Viewpoint

Leave Lower Viewpoint and slip back into the forest on Dog Mountain Trail. The shaded ascent angles north toward a second junction with the Old Trail. Stay to the right past the top of Old Trail, 2.4 miles from the trailhead. A bench offers a place to linger in the forest.

Hike through a pair of long switchbacks to rise out of the forest onto grassy slopes that host colorful wildflowers and dramatic views. Cross the mountainside for a tenth of a mile up to a sharp left turn in the trail. At the outside of this bend, find a vistapoint called Puppy Dog Lookout. Having gained 2,400 feet over 2.85 miles of hiking, it’s now time to take a break and enjoy a sweeping look across the Columbia River Gorge.

Puppy Dog Lookout

Dog Mountain Trail below Puppy Dog Lookout

Significantly higher than the Lower Viewpoint, Puppy Dog Lookout presents a broader panorama with views looking east up the Columbia River as well. Gaze across the wide river toward mountains in Oregon.

If the ground has turned from green to yellow, it means that the balsamroot is in bloom. This sunflower-like ground cover thrives on the sunny south-facing slopes of Dog Mountain.

Balsamroot along Dog Mountain Trail

Proceed up the final half-mile of Dog Mountain Trail, which crosses the spine of a ridge before rising to the top of Dog Mountain. Leave Puppy Dog Lookout and pass through flower-laden grasses with spectacular views west down the Columbia River. Wind Mountain rises prominently in front of a bend in the flow.

Dog Mountain Trail rises toward the summit

Balsamroot and a view of the gorge

The trail rises around the west side of the mountain, passing through rock outcroppings. While your eyes will be drawn to the left, gazing down the gorge, looking up the trail yields its own reward. The snowy white top of Mount Saint Helens rises above the conifers to the north.

Come to a marked junction with a trail to the left that connects to Augspurger Trail. You can use this trail to form a loop on the descent. For now, stay to the right and climb the final 0.15 miles to the top of Dog Mountain.

If funky-looking purple flowers start replacing the balsamroot, you’re looking at Columbia kittentails, which seem to love the highest slopes of Dog Mountain.

Columbia kittentails along Dog Mountain Trail

The top of Mount Hood pops out over the mountains to the south as you approach the top. Turn left just below the summit toward a landing on the edge of the forest at the top of Dog Mountain. You are likely to find a crowd gathered at Dog Mountain’s summit, gazing out down Columbia River Gorge. After an ascent of 2,825 feet in 3 /13 miles, you’ve certainly earned the right to take a break and enjoy a picnic lunch.

Dog Mountain Summit

What to do next? You can return the way you came or incorporate Augspurger Trail on the descent, extending the hike by 3/4 of a mile. Making the hike into a loop adds more views of Mount Saint Helens and gives you a more gradual descent through a shaded forest where fairy slipper orchids may add delightful pops of color.

Hikers on the connector trail to Augspurger Trail

Dog Mountain Loop Descend 0.15 miles from the summit and turn right toward Augspurger Trail. The top of the new trail crosses more grassy slopes with chances to admire Mount Saint Helens, surrounding wildflowers, and views down Columbia River Gorge. After about 0.4 miles, the trail dips into the trees and reduces your views. Enjoy a mostly shaded descent through the forest. Go through a couple switchbacks and make your way down the spine of a wooded ridge, 2/3 of a mile from the junction.

Mount Saint Helens from Dog Mountain

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Descend for another third of a mile to a junction with Augspurger Trail. Unless you’ve got the energy for a long ascent of Augspurger Mountain (the summit is 4.7 miles away), turn left toward Dog Mountain Trailhead (2.95 miles below).

Augspurger Trail descends to the south, doubling back in the direction you came from. Take switchbacks down a bulge in the terrain where the curious purple creations known as fairy slipper orchids can be spotted on the ground along the trail during the late-winter and spring.

A fairy slipper orchid along the trail

The dense forest is interrupted a couple times in the fifth mile of the loop as you cross slopping terrain covered in fallen volcanic rocks. These openings in the forest offer glimpses down the Columbia River. The forest thins as you enter the sixth mile of the loop, bestowing greater views toward Wind Mountain and the Columbia River.

Augspurger Trail

Slender woodland star reappear in sunny areas along Augspurger Trail toward the bottom of the descent. Come to the loop’s final junction, where it should be obvious to stay to the right past the diminutive Old Loggers Trail that rises to the left.

Looking down on Washington 14 along the Columbia River

Proceed around Dog Mountain, looking down on a pond alongside Washington 14. The trail curves to the left and heads east for a long half mile, gradually descending back to the east side of Dog Mountain Trailhead where the loop began.

The basic directions for this loop are:

Begin up Dog Mountain Trail

Turn right to stay on Dog Mountain Scenic Trail past the bottom of the old trail (0.7 miles)

Pass Lower Viewpoint (1.85 miles)

Stay to the right past the top of the old trail (2.4 miles)

Reach Puppy Dog Lookout and turn left to continue the ascent (2.85 miles)

Bear right past a connector to Augspurger Trail (3.18 miles)

Turn left just below the top of Dog Mountain (3.28 miles)

Reach the summit of Dog Mountain (3.33 miles)

Hike 0.15 miles back down the trail and turn right, following the sign for Augspurger Trail (3.48)

Turn left down Augspurger Trail (4.45 miles)

Stay to the right past Old Loggers Trail (6.7 miles)

Return to Dog Mountain Trailhead (7.4 miles)

Looking across the Columbia River from Augspurger Trail

True to its name, Dog Mountain Trail welcomes hiker-accompanied dogs. Mountain bikes are also permitted but do not appear to regularly use the trail. A $5 day use fee is required to park at the trailhead in Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area (price as of 2017). A Northwest Forest Pass or America the Beautiful public lands pass can be used in place of the day use fee. From mid-April to mid-June, a shuttle bus provides access to the early-to-fill trailhead. No permit is needed to hike up Dog Mountain, so get out and enjoy!

To get to the trailhead: From the intersection of Interstate 205 and Interstate 84 in Northeast Portland, take Interstate 84 east for 35 miles to exit 44 for Cascade Locks. The offramp leads into Route 30 (Cascade Locks Highway). Make the first right, following signs for Bridge of the Gods. Go around a sweeping bend, pay the toll, and cross Bridge of the Gods into the state of Washington. Across the bridge, turn right on Highway 14. Drive east for 12 miles and turn left into the large parking area for Dog Mountain Trailhead.

Trailhead address: Dog Mountain Trail #147, Washington 14, Stevenson, WA 98648 Trailhead coordinates: 45.6992, -121.7080 (45° 41′ 57.1″N 121° 42′ 28.8″W)

from hikespeak.com https://www.hikespeak.com/trails/dog-mountain-hike-columbia-river-gorge-washington/

[twolefteyes-blog1]

Top Rated Commercial Zero Turn Mowers

Commercial mowers are a special breed of grass cutter; “a cut above the rest” as the saying goes (excuse the pun).

Like every other business, time is money in the commercial landscaping arena. The quicker your grass cutting machine is, the more money you make. 

But speed isn’t everything. 

Not all commercial mowers are created equal

Some commercial zero turn mowers sell better than others.

What's their secret? 

The answer is straightforward, performance.

Commercial mowers, like stand on mowers, have to perform better than other mowers. 

Before buying one, it's crucial that you consider two essential things.

What Makes A Good Commercial Zero Turn Mower? 

1. The Engine.

Mower engines should be strong. 

Power will empower you to cut lawns in record time.

The earlier you can complete a job, the earlier you can move to another job. 

More power, therefore, translates to more jobs. 

More jobs translate to more money.

Here are a number of the best commercial mowers as far as speed is concerned.

i. The Cub Cadet Zero-Turn Rider 365L

This mower has an 18 Horse Poer engine. 

The power of this engine is sufficient to move its massive 750 lb weight at seven mph.

ii. The Snapper Yard Cruiser

The snapper is a cheaper alternative to the Rider 365L. Like (i) above, the snapper also has an 18 hp engine. 

It weighs 575 lb and may attain top speeds of up to 5.8 mph.

iii. Husqvarna 967324301

This mower is armed with a monstrous 26 hp Kohler 7000 engine. 

The mower also some nice additional features. 

A rear engine guard and integrated headlamp are my favored. 

The lights mean you could work into the night.

iv. Z-Beast FX850V

As the name suggests, this is a beast indeed. It boasts of over 31 hp that may drive the 62-inches mammoth at 12 mph. 

This mower is exactly what a tough job needs. 

The rig is so strong it comes along with seatbelts. 

Buckle up prior to getting wild on the Beast (see video below).

2. The Mowing Deck

The size of the mowing deck is directly proportional to cutting height. 

The best commercial riding and stand on mowers should afford over 3.5 Inch cutting depths. You should also look for slopping-front decks. The fronts push the grass up for consistent cutting.

Below are the best mowers with regards to cutting height.

i. Sears Craftsman EZT Lawn Tractor

This mower has a 40-inches deck. It can cut grass for heights of up to 4 inches. 

It also comes along with a strong 15.5 Horse Power engine. 

This amount of engine power is quite a feat considering the engine is single-cylinder.

ii. Ariens EZ Rider 915 Series

Ariens also has a 40-inches deck and a cutting depth of up to 4 inches. It, however, costs slightly more than the Craftsman EZT. 

The extra bucks buy you extra Horse Power. 

The engine is 16 hp and gives off substantially less noise than the Sears Craftsman.

Z-Beast FX850V Video

[tyler-sure-is-cool-blog]

Top Rated Commercial Zero Turn Mowers

COMMERCIAL MOWERS

Commercial mowers are a special breed of grass cutters. Time is money. The faster your machine is, the more money you make. Some commercial zero turn mowers sell better than others. 

What is their secret? 

The answer is simple, performance.

Commercial l awn mowers have to perform better than other mowers. Before buying one, it is crucial that you consider two important things.

Commercial Zero Turn

********** What Makes A Good Commercial Zero Turn Mower? ************

1. The Engine. Mower engines should be powerful. Power will enable you to cut lawns in record time.

The sooner you can complete a job, the sooner you can move to another job. More power, therefore, translates to more jobs. More jobs translate to more money. Below are some of the best commercial mowers as far as speed is concerned.

i. The Cub Cadet Zero-Turn Rider 365L This mower has an 18 Horse Poer engine. The power of this engine is enough to move its massive 750 lb weight at seven mph.

ii. The Snapper Yard Cruiser The snapper is a cheaper alternative to the Rider 365L. Like (i) above, the snapper also has an 18 hp engine. It weighs 575 lb and can attain top speeds of up to 5.8 mph.

iii. Husqvarna 967324301 This mower is armed with a monstrous 26 hp Kohler 7000 engine. The mower also some nice additional features. A rear engine guard and integrated headlights are my favorite. The lights mean you can work into the night.

iv. Z-Beast FX850V As the name suggests, this is a beast indeed. It boasts of over 31 hp that can drive the 62-inch mammoth at 12 mph. This mower is exactly what a tough job needs. The rig is so powerful it comes with seatbelts. Buckle up before getting wild on the Beast.

2. The Mowing Deck

The size of the mowing deck is directly proportional to cutting height. The best commercial

zero turn

mowers should afford over 3.5 Inch cutting depths. You should also look for slopping-front decks. The fronts push the grass up for consistent cutting.

Here are the best mowers when it comes to cutting height.

i. Sears Craftsman EZT Lawn Tractor

This mower has a 40-inch deck. It can cut grass for heights of up to 4 inches. It also comes with a powerful 15.5 Horse Power engine. 

This amount of engine power is quite a feat considering the engine is single-cylinder.

ii. Ariens EZ Rider 915 Series Ariens also has a 40-inch deck and a cutting depth of up to 4 inches. It, however, costs slightly more than the Craftsman EZT. The extra bucks buy you extra Horse Power. 

The engine is 16 hp and gives off substantially less noise than the Sears Craftsman.