#two silly geese for the price of one let’s go

[bottomvalerius]

was actually thinking of the Sam shenanigans that would ensue if Donna was disguised as Lucio and he didn’t immediately notice (Sam CAN pick up on their magical girl aura though so it wouldn’t take long—plus he’s a weirdo and knows their scent too LMAOO) because despite him being both of their doms, their dynamics are not that similar tbh LMAO

With Lucio, Sam is sickly sweet and patronizing and doting. Lucio’s his precious little silly goose who’s too dumb and little and silly to make his own choices, and sometimes daddy just really needs to hammer in his lessons because he loves him so much and what an awful daddy he would be if he didn’t teach him a lesson 🥺🥺

With Donna, they’re both brawling, they’re kicking and screaming, he’s mean about it and mean about how much they’re loving him being mean to them lmao Donna more so weaponizes calling Sam daddy to fuck around and find out LMAO so it would short circuit their brain if they were just thrown into that dynamic and not 2 impact scenes in and bound and gagged lmfao

[ellanainthetardis]

Could you do a fix where Effie is at a friends party or something and she gets more drunk than intended and because she's staying at the penthouse, someone calls haymitch to come and get her because she's absolutely out of it

Here you go! [x]

A Friendly Gathering

Poker night wasn’t usuallytaking place at the penthouse for the good reason that his friends always endedup complaining about Haymitch’s escort – either because she was commenting onhow much they were drinking or because she had joined the game and was fleecingthem – but that night Effie was out by herself, off to whatever party her modelfriends were throwing, and Haymitch had offered Twelve’s floor for the nightsince not everyone was lucky enough to be escort-free. The Games had beendragging for days and everyone wasstarting to get a little edgy about it.

“Nobody can tell Mags aboutthis.” Finnick warned, watching Blight pull the pile of chips toward him with amournful expression.

“Don’t worry, kiddo.” Seven’smentor laughed. “Your secret’s safe with us.”

“How do you suck so much at poker?”Haymitch snorted,dealing new cards.

He wasn’t being particularlylucky that night, not like Blight who was on a winning streak, but he had adecent pile of chips and a ridiculous looking silver bracelet with snowflakeshe would sell at the Hob for an absurdly low price – something someone hadgifted Finnick with, apparently.

“Lucky for you Trinket’s nothere.” Chaff agreed with a snort of his own, taking a sip of his whiskey.“She’d have you down to your underwear by now.” Eleven’s victor paused and thenshrugged, a smile tugging at his lips and his dark eyes twinkling withamusement. “Not that you would mind that toomuch, right?”

Haymitch gritted his teeth andtook a sip of his own drink even though the ice had long melt and made thewhiskey barely palatable – he made a point of being sober as long as possiblewhen they were playing for money. Finnick, little shit that he was, only grinned that wolfish grin of his in answer,wriggling his eyebrows in a telling way.

He was about to remind everyonethat this was a serious game and that they should all focus and stop talkingnonsense when the phone started ringing in the living-room.

For a long second, nobody moved.

Eventually Haymitch let out agroan. “Now, you’ve done it. That woman’s got antennas, I swear. Say her nameand she appears.” Still, he stood up and placed his glass over his cards. “Nocheating.”

It could only be Effie. Thereweren’t so many people who called the penthouse. Mostly, it was either hosts orjournalists trying to set up interviews or Gamemakers with special requests orinstructions, but all of that would fall under Twelve’s escort’s supervisionand, since this was the Capitol, whatever standard operator was in charge ofdispatching calls within the Center was probably aware his escort had left thebuilding. It might have been another mentor, but most of the people who wouldcall him and who were out of the Games at this point were already there, so itleft only Effie.

“Yeah.” he said, almost as soonas he picked up, waiting for the inevitable reminder that it wasn’t how youanswered a phone. He wasn’t expecting the long string of giggles at the otherend of the line. Several different giggles. It made him frown. “Who’s there?”

He hoped it wasn’t wayward fanswho had somehow gotten a hold on thepenthouse’s number. It had happened before. Some people in the Capitol werecrazy when it came to victors. The hype had died down in his case but ifFinnick’s admirers had learned he was spending the night on Twelve’s floor…

“Is this Haymitch?” a womanwhose voice he really didn’t recognize asked.

“Who’s asking?” he retorted.

He had meant to be curt but ittriggered more giggles and whispered conversations on the other side.

“Myname is Calliope.”  the woman said.

“I’m sorry for you.” he mocked.More high-pitched giggles as well as a few murmured words about how rude andcouth and so funny because he really waslike on TV. “Look, lady, I don’t know how you got this number…”

But he was going to call theGames Headquarters’ Peacekeepers station as soon as he had hung up and signalthis because…

“Effie gave it to me.” Calliope informed him. “She is… Ah… Shall we say… Indisposed?”

He frowned. “What’s wrong withher?”

Not that he was worried. Notreally. Not at all. He didn’t careabout her. Not one bit. So what if they were sleeping together sometimes… Ofcourse, a few years earlier, it had been the kind of things they had had nocontrol over, accidents that happened as the result of a too heated fight… Nowit was more… Well, it was more every time the fancy struck them and the otherwas in a mood to humor them but…

He didn’t care about her and he wasn’tworried.

“She’storched!” another woman screamed in thephone.

He wasn’t sure how many of themthere were but they all laughed as if it was the best joke and he had to takethe phone away from his ear. They sounded like a gaggle of geese.

He thought he heard his escort’svoice in the distance muttering about how they shouldn’t tell him that but they were making such a racket hecouldn’t be sure. The concept of Effie being drunk outside of the penthouse wasa foreign one. When they were out at parties, she was always the sober one. Sherefused to drink when he was drinking so one of them would be able to representTwelve properly – whatever that meant – and he had long suspected she wasn’t ina habit to actually get drunk in public. She had gotten drunk with him a few memorable times on long bitternights after their tributes had died but always in the privacy of thepenthouse.

“What do you want me to do aboutit?” he grumbled, not quite at ease with the thought of a drunk Effie out therewhere anything could happen to her. He found he didn’t like the thought of her defenseless, mainly because she never was. She was always so fierce and…Yeah, dangerous when she wanted to be– maybe not like a victor would be but she had her own set of weapons – thatthe idea of her being vulnerable… “Just put her back in the car and send itover.”

Surely, she wasn’t that drunk that she couldn’t make it tothe Headquarters’ main doors? She would have to do a small walk of shame infront of the people who always massed in front of the Center in hope ofglimpsing a victor but that was her problem. From the main doors it was prettystraightforward: cross the lobby, get in an elevator and up to the last floor.He was pretty sure a Peacekeeper would help her if she wasn’t able to do it byherself – they did it often enough for him.

“Ido not think there is a car.” Calliopeanswered. “This is a private gatheringand… Well, I suppose she wanted to be incognito. She does not remember how she came over. Minty thinks she drove.”

He didn’t know what he wanted tobe more puzzled about: that there was a woman called ‘Minty’ or that Effie could drive. He had never seen herbehind a wheel before but, now that he thought about it, he figured that itwasn’t impossible she owned a car. Probably pink and monstrous.

“Don’t let her drive.” hedemanded immediately because he didn’t trust those geese to have enoughpresence of mind to stop her from killing herself.

“Ofcourse not.” Calliope huffed. “Who do you take us for? We are all very,very drunk, not stupid.”

He forced himself to keep his mouth shut, mainly because the safety ofhis escort seemed to be in that woman’s hands. He glanced at the clock, liftinghis eyebrows when he realized it really wasn’tthat late by Capitol standards. It was barely past eleven, for most people thenight was barely starting.

“Can I talk to her?” herequested, rubbing his forehead.

“Hey, buddy, what’s going on?”Chaff asked, his good arm propped on the living-room’s doorframe.

He rolled his eyes, as much atthe question as at the furious whispered conversation on the other end of theline. “Effie’s wasted and she didn’t take a driver.”

Chaff’s eyebrows shot up and helet out a low whistle. “Didn’t think she had it in her.” His friend pushedhimself off the doorframe to walk to the liquor cart. He fixed them two drinks.“Does that mean we get the penthouse for the whole night?”

He shrugged his ignorance.

“Shedoes not want to talk to you.” Calliopefinally declared after a couple of seconds.

“What?” he scoffed.

“Shesays you will make fun of her.” the womanexplained and she sounded as annoyed with this as Haymitch himself felt. “She is being very silly. She insisted we called you.”

A tipsy Effie was a very funnyEffie but a drunk Effie usually ended up being an upset Effie, he had learnedthat lesson in the last six years of working together. If she was reallythrashed enough that she needed help getting back to the penthouse, he wasready to bet she wasn’t fun to be around right then.

“Fine.” he grumbled. “Give meyour address, I will send a car over.”

Which meant he would need to request a car first. It had been years since he had been forced to dothat, before Effie had taken over his last escort and had made his life mucheasier by handling all that stuff.

“Ido not give my address to just anyone.” Calliope huffed. “I am quite famous, I willhave you know.”

He was getting fed up now. Whyhad Effie asked them to call him at all? She didn’t want to talk to him, theydidn’t want to tell him where they were…

“Alright, then let her sleep itoff on your couch.” he snapped.

“Areyou insane? It is alpaca wool andshe claims she is feeling sick!” Hewas certain the woman was wrinkling her nose. “Odelie already made a messof my bathroom.”

“What kind of party are youhaving, lady?” he snorted. “Sounds fun.”

“Party?” Chaff repeated withopen interest, crossing the short distance to hand him his drink beforeretreating to grab his own. “How many women?”

“Whois that?” Calliope asked.

“It’s just Chaff.” he muttered.“Look, here’s the thing, I don’t really care about your whatever couch.” Whoeven had a woolen couch? “Either I send a car to pick her up or she sleeps atyour place. That’s all I’ve got to offer.”

“Ido not want to stay.” He heard Effie whine. Not that anyone seemed to listento her, there were a lot of whispers again. “Please,tell him I feel horrible and I need him to rescue me.”

Haymitch couldn’t help it. Hesnorted. “Rescue you, Princess? Must be reallybad.”

“Whoelse is there with you apart from Chaff?” Calliope asked, suddenlysounding a lot sweeter.

“What’s it to you?” he frowned,suspicious.

“What’s the matter?” Chaffasked, taking a generous sip of whiskey. Realizing he had yet to touch his,Haymitch swallowed some, hoping it might help him stay calm because thoseCapitol women were really starting to irritate him. Eleven’s victor seemedirritated too, probably because the poker game had been on hold for more thanten minutes. “Look, if she’s thatwasted and we need to go get her, let’s go. Maybe it’s a fun party. Finnick’stired of losing anyway.”

Calliope had clearly not lost aword of this because…

“FinnickOdair?” she screeched, so loud Haymitch winced and took the phone away from hisear again, unfortunately too late not to hear the ridiculous guffaws.

“Thanks for that.” he scorned inhis best friend’s direction.

Eleven’s victor didn’t seemchastised at all. He downed his drink and placed it on a nearby table beforesnatching the phone from Haymitch’s hand, waving his stump in a way thatprobably meant Twelve’s victor was supposed to watch and learn. “Hello, love.”Haymitch rolled his eyes because he could almost hear the giggles rising again. “Yeah, it’s Chaff. You’ve got to excusemy friend, he’s got no manners. Now… How many of you? Models, you say?” Chaffwas turning on the charm alright and Haymitch finished his drink, watching butnot learning. He had seen his friend pull that act for years. Chaff was noddingvery seriously at whatever Calliope was saying. “Of course.” Suddenly, hecovered the speaker with his hand and raised his voice. “Kid, what do you thinkabout going to a party full of wasted models?”

It wasn’t long before Finnickand Blight left the dinning-room to join them, probably very curious about whatthe holdup was about.

“Sure.” Finnick shrugged with acarelessness that didn’t really suit a seventeen year-old boy when it was aboutdrunk models who would probably only be too happy to let him sleep with them.Then again, Finnick probably had his shares of Capitols to contend with as itwas.

“Blight, you’re in?” Chaffasked.

Blight seemed amused but shookhis head. “No, man. If my wife learns about it, I’m dead.”

Haymitch sincerely doubted thatbecause as far as he knew, Blight had never given anyone cause to doubt hisfaithfulness but he understood perfectly why he wanted to avoid the trouble.

“Alright.” Chaff said, speakingin the phone again. “Finnick is on board. So… Let me note that down…” He wedgedthe phone between his ear and his shoulder and clicked his fingers untilFinnick tossed a notepad over. It belonged to Effie and Haymitch doubted shewould appreciate the fact that Eleven’s victor had scribbled over hercolor-coded schedule but it was her fault for putting them in this mess in thefirst place. “See you in a bit.”

Haymitch wasn’t sure if it was agood thing or a bad thing that he was reduced to the rank of being anyone while the magic prospect ofhaving Finnick Odair over opened every door.

It took a little while torequest a car and settle the poker’s debts but they were in front of Calliope’sapartment within the hour. She didn’t live thatfar from Effie’s and he really didn’t get why none of those women couldjust walk her back…

At least until one of themopened the door, so obviously tipsy it was almost funny.

Four women jumped on them assoon as the first one had ushered them in and they were all very clearly wellinto their drinks – not quite drunkthough, so he didn’t feel really guilty to abandon them to Chaff’s andFinnick’s flirtation to push deeper in the apartment. He wasn’t interested in around of introductions.

He found Effie sitting on aplushy pink armchair – and vaguely wondered if that too was made of theprecious alpaca wool – looking pale under her make-up. There were beads ofperspiration on her forehead and her eyes were glassy.

It hadn’t really been a party –not in the sense the Capitol used the word. Calliope had said gathering earlier and he supposed it hadbeen closer to that. There were bottles of vodka as well as various fruitjuices to go with, two bottles of liquor were empty, but, there were also photoalbums scattered around the mostly untouched trays of food. He glimpsed whatlooked like a younger Effie on one of the pictures. It had been a privatesetting, which was probably why she had let herself get drunk.

The gaze his escort shot up athim was both chastised and pleading.

“Odelie made a mess of thebathroom and she passed out.” she informed him very defensively. “I did not.”

“And you want a medal?” heretorted.

She pouted, her blue eyesfilling with tears. “Don’t shout at me, please. I feel terrible and I didn’t doit on purpose. Vodka is the devil.”

Most of the words were slurredtogether and he sighed at how pathetic she looked. He didn’t think she wouldlast long before throwing up everything she had drunk that night. “Alright.Fine. Ain’t my job to shout at you anyway. Come on, let’s go home.”

He hadn’t meant to say it likethat because the penthouse definitely wasn’thome but… Well, the penthouse was theirs,he guessed, and…

He was about to correct himselfwhen he noticed how perky she had become at the word despite how close topuking she seemed to be. He wasn’t sure why it stopped him but it did, even ifhe pretended it was the gaggle dragging his friends back to the living-room atthat exact moment.

“Oh, you found Effie. Good.” oneof the women said – the one who had opened the door. She had a forest green wigstyled in curls on top of her head. He supposed that was Calliope. “Would youcare for a drink?”

A quick glance was enough toconfirm all of them were models, indeed. They might have been wearing too muchmake-up and parrot clothes but they all had the body that went along withstrutting down a catwalk. And they were all clearly interested in entertaining victors, no matter the Districts. He hadnever seen any of them before though and most really famous models were amongst the sponsors.

He figured they weren’t that famous but thirsty for it enoughthat they would go for Eleven or Twelve if they couldn’t get Four. An easy lay,he and Chaff hardly ever passed on.

Although, he supposed in hiscase it had been a while since…

“Weren’t you picking me up?”Effie frowned, eyeing the other victors with open confusion. “Why did you bringthem?”

“They wanted to party with us.”another woman answered, pouring Finnick some champagne. He wondered if that onewas Minty. They all looked ridiculous enough to be called Minty.

One with a purple wig clearlyhad her eyes on Chaff and his friend was not oblivious. He didn’t give it halfan hour before Eleven’s victor had secured the catch. As for Finnick… He didn’tseem to mind Maybe-Mindy. Which left two tipsy women battling their fake eyelashesat him.

“Oh…” Effie breathed out slowly.“But I want to go home.”

“Let Haymitch have a glassfirst, darling.” Calliope dismissed with a radiant smile. “What do you drink,Haymitch? I have a little of everything. Anythingyou want.”

He eyed her up and down, alittle tempted. Long legs, breasts that didn’t look full of plastic, slenderneck… She was gorgeous.

Lessthan Effie though.

He wasn’t sure where the thoughthad come from and he chased it away. He wasn’tgoing to start comparing all women to his escort. He wasn’t. Simply because they would all come short.

“But I don’t feel well and hecame for me.” Effie arguedpetulantly. Her blue eyes were wide and sad when they met his. “You said  you were coming for me.”

“I came. Stop being difficult.”he scolded, outstretching a hand to help her to her feet. “We’re going.”

“So soon?” Calliope pouted. “Butyou just got here… It is a littlerude to not stay for at least one drink.”

“I ain’t a particularly politeperson, sweetheart.” he snorted, seeking Chaff’s gaze. His friend was very busycharming Purple-Wig though so he turned to Finnick. “You’re coming back with usor staying?”

“Minty wants to show me somepictures.” Finnick shook his head with a small genuine smile. “I’m good.”

“Alright.” he accepted with ashrug. “I’m gonna send the car back once we’re at the Center so you don’t getstranded. Should help with the walk of shame in the morning.”

If either of them understood thetaunt, they didn’t let on and, with a disappointed roll of his eyes, he wrappedan arm around Effie’s waist and helped her back to the car. She looked evenworse standing up than she did sitting. She couldn’t take two steps withoutstumbling on her heels.

It wasn’t better once in thecar. She curled up on the seat and, after some grumbling on his part, cushionedher head on his lap. She closed her eyes tight and gripped the fabric of hispants even tighter. He figured she was fighting really hard against the nausea.

He sighed and placed a hand on hershoulder, his thumb drawing silly comforting patterns on her skin. He wasn’treally aware of what he was doing, truth be told.

“I did not know who else tocall.” she confessed at some point, not sounding really coherent.

He just hoped she would last thecar trip before being sick.

“It’s alright.” he muttered.

“I ruined your night.” sheinsisted.  

“We were playing poker and I waslosing all my money anyway.” he lied.

“Oh.” she hummed. “It is not sobad, then.”

“Nah, sweetheart.” he snorted,brushing his knuckles all the way up to her neck and back to her shoulder,studying her familiar features, the weight of her head light on his thigh. “Itain’t so bad at all…”

[opheliagardinier]

grape expectations

Heyo, here’s my fic of a side RP with Wyatt. This fic is the prequel to my challenge two point five fic which I should have done soon.

Anyway, thank you so much to Ester @wyattschreave for the wonderful RP- it was a wild ride. But I had a great time!

Word count: 3032

I'll be there with the sulfuric acid. Don't forget the body.

Wyatt Schreave was a difficult man to find. After looking nearly everywhere I could think of I ended up sending a note to his room, asking him to meet me in the stables. I wasn’t sure whether or not he’d come but I hoped he’d set a little bit of time aside for some random girl he’d never met.

After a quick stop in the kitchens, I made my way to the stables, showing up right on time. I clicked my tongue at the horses as I entered.

“Hello, babies.” I cooed at them, not seeing any sign of Wyatt.

Unexpectedly his head poked out of one of the stalls. Thankfully it didn’t startle me the way it normally would have.

“Well, hello to you too.”

“That wasn't meant for you.” I laughed slightly, giving him a curtsy. Wyatt was definitely Ben’s brother. “But hello, Prince Wyatt.”

Wyatt walked a little closer to the entrance of the stall that way he could see me better. His hands brushed against his pants before he reached up to pet the horse.

“Are you Lady Ophelia or another Selected I’m bumping into?”

“I'm Fee.” I nodded, getting close enough that I was in the shadow of the horse. “But sorry to inform you that I may have forgotten the body.”

“May I?”

Wyatt looked between the two of us as if he were debating whether or not to say yes.

“What do you say, Altivo?” He pet the horse's neck. “Want to let our guest pet you?”

Altivo moved his nose near to Wyatt’s head and exhaled loudly. Wyatt tsked at the horse, rolling up one of his sleeves, before disappearing for a moment.

“How about now?” Wyatt asked, coming back with an apple.

Without hesitating, Altivo took the apple and gobbled it up. Wyatt to rolled his eyes at the horse then gave me the go ahead. With a chuckle, I reached up and began stroking Altivo.

“Hey there, you're quite the handsome boy, aren't you?” I clicked my tongue at him.

Altivo continued munching on his apple as I pet him. When he had finished he began sniffing around Wyatt, who pushed his snout away. Wyatt explained to Altivo there were no more apples.

“Hey!” Wyatt exclaimed as Altivo tapped his head with his snout. He let out a grunt but then retrieved another.

“We should walk off before he asks for more,” Wyatt told me, shoving his hands into his pockets after he’d given Altivo the second apple.

“All right.” I nodded, giving him a smile. Before following Wyatt out of the stall I reached into my dress pocket and pulled a few grapes out to feed to Altivo.

“You carry those with you all the time??” Wyatt’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the grapes.

I looked at Wyatt like he was insane, but realised it must have looked funny to him.

“No, who does that?” I shook my head with a chuckle. “I knew I was coming to the stables so I came prepared.”

He momentarily gave me a look of surprise but then let out a sigh of relief, telling me he’d been worried for a second. Wyatt spun on his heels, heading out of the stall.

“As much as Ben loves grapes, I’d be creeped out if you were that obsessed with them.” He pretended to whisper over his shoulder.

I mean I was obsessed with grapes. My entire life had kind of revolved around them up until the Selection.

“I'm pretty sure everyone loves grapes,” I replied, following him. “But don't worry, the only mammals I enjoy feeding them to is horses- and guinea pigs... Fine any animal that'll eat them.”

His eyebrows went up as he repeated the word “mammals” back to me.

“Yes, mammals.” I rolled my eyes, causing Wyatt to scoff.

“Alright. If I may ask now, why did you request to meet me? And why here? You sure we're not hiding a body?”

“Like I said, I had trouble acquiring the body, but I asked to meet here because it was the only place I could think of where we might not run into your brother.” I looked around as if to make sure Ben wasn’t with us. “I need your help with getting back at your brother.”

“Really, is that so?” Wyatt asked, looking intrigued.

“Okay so "get make at him" might be taking it too far. But the other day he scared me and I want to scare him back.” I smiled, nodding at him. “And your mother may have told me you could help.”

“My mom suggested you come to me?” Wyatt asked, with a grin spreading across his face.

Queen Isobel had been the one to give me my idea surprisingly. I’d told her about how Ben had scared me in the wine cellar a few nights previously and she’d unexpectedly revealed that like me her son also scared easily.

“She did,” I smirked. “Although she said there may be a price for your help.”

Wyatt removed his hands from his pockets to adjust his cuffs. With a smirk, he told me he was listening. It sort of felt a bit like a business proposal- only we were in the stables rather than an office somewhere.

“I'm thinking pigeons,” I told him- then expectantly waited for his reaction.

“Care to elaborate?” Wyatt asked, raising his eyebrows.

I could see the shared family traits between him and his brother. Both boys seemed perpetually in a good mood between their smirks, chuckles, and senses of humour.

“So your brother hates birds- somehow more than I do- And I was hoping that there could somehow be about a dozen or so pigeons in the garden while he happens to be there one day. With lots of bread of course.” I explained, giving Wyatt a sweet smile, as I continued following him.

“His hatred of birds...yeah,” Wyatt said with a smug grin.

He stopped walking as we made our way out of the stables. One of his arms crossed over his chest while he positioned his elbow on top of his forearm in a way that he was able to reach up and pensively rub his chin with his hand.

“Any particular reason you want to go with pigeons? Is it a gag I’m not getting?”

“His hatred is justified.” I shuddered. “But I figured pigeons because they're fairly common and who's to say they couldn't wander into the garden on their own?”

Wyatt thoughtfully tapped his chin another moment.

“Good thinking. This is what I ask in return. When you finally reveal yourself, you must act surprised by all the pigeons and say “Look at all those chickens!” There was a shift in his tone as his voice went higher to capture the essence of what he wanted me to say.

Wyatt dramatically pointed to a spot in the garden before turning back to me with an aura of seriousness. “Can you do that?”

Well shit. This was like a negotiation. Of course what he wanted me to say wasn’t too ridiculous but it also wasn’t something I was especially keen on. To “get back” at Ben I was willing to say some silly line about chickens, but I couldn’t let Wyatt know that right off the bat. He had to work for it a little at least and convince me to say yes.

“I'm fairly certain your sister would do this without that little addition.” I narrowed my eyes at Wyatt, slightly biting my lip. “What do you get out of having me say that?”

“But Hazel isn't here right now offering help, is she?” He smirked. “And I get the pleasure of knowing vines are being spread as they should be. Plus, it'll be hilarious.”

“I asked you for help, remember. And who's to say your sister wouldn't help me- minus the condition you have?” I tilted my head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

It was true that I would likely be able to get his sister to help me, but if she was anywhere near as hard to track down as Wyatt that would be problematic. There was also the added issue of another person knowing my plan, which was much more important than the risk I ran of not finding Hazel.

“But you must agree my condition will make it a much better experience,” Wyatt argued.

“Better for which party?”

“Uh…?” He said, before adding with some reluctance. “Both?”

He had a point there, I’d give him that. In the chaos of what I planned me yelling about chickens would only add to the fun. But I couldn’t concede yet.

“And you're determined to have me scream about "chickens"?” I asked, making air quotes with my fingers.

“Yes! The pigeons are the chickens.” He exclaimed, before narrowing his eyes at me. “Wait, do you not know what I'm referencing?”

“I do in fact know what you're talking about, but I'm just asking if you're really sure out entire arrangement should be dependent on me making a reference.” I sighed, then shook my head. “And just for the record, I'm pretty sure those are geese in the video.”

A look of disgust crossed my face at the mention of geese. I couldn’t stand the creatures with their chasing and hissing and general bitchiness as an animal. Besides, I was more partial towards mammals- and marsupials- basically anything that didn’t honk and have a name that rhymed with moose.

“They were geese, but we agreed on pigeons already.” Wyatt reminded me as he seemed to notice my reaction. “We could make them geese, but it doesn't look like you're too fond of them.”

“No geese!” I blurted out, before continuing in a more level tone. “Anyway, fine, I agree.”

I held out my hand but he didn’t take it.

“Oh no, now I want to know the geese trauma story.” Wyatt grinned.

“They hiss and they're angry and mean.” I told him, waving my hand around a bit because I just wanted him to agree “So do we have a deal?”

Wyatt raised an eyebrow at my vague explanation as he glanced down at my hand. Sensing that I wouldn’t tell him more he sighed and took my hand.

“Fine, don't tell me.” He said, with a mischevious glint in his eyes. “I know where to get the pigeons.”

Excellent! I smiled at him. Those had been the exact words I’d been waiting to hear. Things were coming along nicely.

“So I'll leave the pigeons up to you. But I think I'll need your help getting Jam into the garden without him getting suspicious”

“Why would he get suspicious?” Wyatt inquired, tilting his head. “I mean, in theory, you asking to meet him wouldn't be that weird. Unlike asking me when we hadn't even met.”

“And yet... You still came.” I smirked. “What's that about? Shouldn't you have been more suspicious?”

With a chuckle, he began walking again. Why does he keep walking away? Doesn’t he know I have shorter legs and it’s not exactly easy to keep up with him, especially in these shoes?

“Why? I doubted I was going to be the buried body. “ He glanced at me in amusement. “Besides, what was I supposed to say?”

How about no? No is a relatively simple word. Hell, even a toddler can say it.

“'Oh so deeply sorry Lady Ophelia, but you're being creepy so no thank you. I will not meet you at the stables.’” Wyatt said in a dramatic English accent, taking a bow. He then cleared his throat and switched back to his regular voice. “And yes, I turned into a British Prince to make it sound somewhat nice. That wouldn't have translated well on paper though.”

“Well, you know what they say.” I shook my head at him. “Curiosity killed the cat. And if you weren't going to be the buried body then do I even want to ask what lucky person was going to get to play that role?”

“I don't know, you were the one who sent such a vague note first. And the full sentence is actually: 'curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back'.” He paused awkwardly. “That's the satisfaction of figuring out what made him curious in the first place of course.”

“I'm pretty sure "satisfaction" wouldn't have brought you back if I had murdered you in the stables…” I squinted at Wyatt. “Just saying.”

“Are you confessing to plotting against the monarchy?” He asked, giving me a falsely serious look.

“Sureeeeee,” I told him in a sarcastic tone, rolling my eyes. “Of course. I won't even kill a bug, but clearly, I'm only I'm the Selection it strategically off each one of the Schreaves.”

“Have you never killed a mosquito?.”

I shook my head. Killing bugs wasn’t exactly my style. I was more of a catch and release person. Bugs were important parts of the ecosystem, and besides, why should it have to die because someone found its very existence offensive?

“I've never intentionally killed anything.”

“Wait, wait, you're seriously telling me if a mosquito stands right on your arm, sucking blood out of you, you just watch her do that and let her be?” Wyatt chuckled.

I uncomfortably rubbed my arm at the thought. I liked mosquito bites about just as much as the next person.

“Well no,” I answered. “I'd try and brush her off.”

“She'd...probably keep trying though.” He shook his head in disapproval. “Anyway, we got sidetracked. Getting Ben to the gardens. I think you can be in charge of that.”

“Yes, well- it's not her fault she drinks blood, is it?” I told him with a tilt of my head, before nodding. “But you're right. I'll find a way to get him to the gardens and you deal with the pigeons. Will they be on standby or do you need advance warning?”

Wyatt went silent for a moment as he considered. He turned away from me to look around the garden.

“This might be complicated…” He said.

Eventually, he turned back around to face me. He pointed off into the distance and asked if I saw an oak tree. I nodded in response, telling him I knew which tree he meant. Wyatt looked back towards the tree.

“I can't believe I'm doing this…” He mumbled under his breath, turning to face me once more. I'll need you to bring him under that tree. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Why that tree in particular?” I asked, giving him a curious look.

His gaze returned to the tree, only this time he seemed to look at it with an expression of fondness.

“Nothing really, but I'm pretty used to climbing it…” Wyatt sighed. “And I know without a doubt that the leaves hide you well. Ben won't even notice I'm there waiting.”

“Oh, so you'll be there?” I smirked.

Of course, he would be. Why on earth wouldn’t he want to witness all his hard work first hand?

“Oh, I’m sorry, if you want this to be a private encounter....” Wyatt chuckled, teasingly raising his eyebrows at me, before adding. “It’s fine if it is. I don’t have to be there. I can figure something else out. If there’s something I’ve got when it comes to this stuff, it’s creativity.”

“How is it that you turned something so innocent into something so dirty sounding?” I laughed, shaking my head.

“I mean,” He began, with the raise of his eyebrows, lifting his hands in fake surrender. “It was just a question.”

“Don't worry, I think it will be very G-rated, so no need for the privacy.” I rolled my eyes.

The most risque it had gotten with Ben was me holding onto his arm. Wyatt had absolutely nothing to be worried about.

“If you say so…” Wyatt smiled, looking back to the tree. “Then we’ve got a plan.”

“It seems we do.” I laughed softly, thinking of his unfounded worry. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Wyatt nodded and looked back at me.

“And remember, I’ll be there.” He pointed to the foliage of the tree. “Hidden between a bunch of tree branches. I expect you to keep your end of the bargain.”

“Got it. I'll do my best.” I nodded, then giggled slightly. “But if I forget it's probably because I'm caught in the moment.”

“Of course.” He let out a laugh with a huff. “I'll consider forgiving you if that happens. Anything else you need me for?”

“Forgiveness is all a girl could ask for.” I winked at him and clicked my tongue, then looked back towards the stables. “Unless you want to give some horses grapes then I think that was everything.”

I wasn’t sure if he knew, but I’d actually been going to the stables the past few days. Being around all the horses made me feel a bit more comfortable than relaxing in the Women’s Room or being cooped up alone in my bedroom. Being outdoors reminded me of home.

“I should actually get those pigeons ready.” His head cocked to the side as he looked towards the stables and cracked a smile. “But don't give Altivo more food. I kind of already spoil him enough.”

“That sounds like a good plan.” I beamed at him. “Don't worry, there are other horses I can spoil with grapes. I'll just spoil yours with petting.”

“I... guess that's fair.” Wyatt nodded with some reluctance. “I'll send you a note so we can agree on a date for our pigeon fest later this week.”

I already had an idea which day would be perfect for our little operation. What better way to spend my birthday than watching Ben freak out over pigeons? It was like a little gift from me to me.

“Sounds good. Thanks for trusting me.” I smirked. “I'll see you later.”

I turned and walked back towards the stables. I was proud of me- proud of us. If everything went according to plan this could very well be one of the greatest things I’d ever witness.

[toddlazarski]

Last Suppers Vol. 5

Shepherd Express

“In this past I long for, I don’t remember how even then I longed for the past.”

— Denis Johnson

In the El Tsunami parking lot in mid-January snow turns tumor-black and gets pushed, in some unholy unseen hour, into jagged triangle wedges up against the brick building, clearing space for the subsequent gray slush and glut of cars and those cars’ passengers, all trying to avoid ice-flecked black puddles and questions of why any of us would live in such an environment so threatening to dry socks. My daughter somehow eschews usually prominent stranger danger notions to cheerily, proactively, greet the panhandler just outside the door, leveling the playing field, at once, for all three of us, erasing discomfiture in smiling unexpectedness, seemingly validating good vibes therein. Inside, nursing a sportscar-red michelada, in a frosty mug of the size and depth and seriousness of an extra in that scene from Indiana Jones, the rim coated by a grainy quilt of spicy salt rendering the straw a silly suggestion, there is a pulse, well aside from the bumping telenovelas on all the TVs. It almost feels like there is a no-sitting rule for children, as they bounce around, between tables, blurring the distinctions between families, pirouetting by waitress trays, skipping and skirting and flaunting even pre-pandemic social graces. Parents look appropriately tired, waitresses overwhelmed, the end-of-week Saturday reward day is aglow, salsa-amped and horchata sugar-lit, even before a wandering mariachi duo wanders in, seemingly at random, as if they were traversing South 13th in the 30-degree day in cowboy hats, with classical guitar and accordion. By the time the oompa of alternating bass line balladry and emotively stretched squeezebox reeds mix—table to table they go, for a palmful or two of cash—with the svelty green table sauce, the ceviche dip, the warm chips, fierce, charcoal-kissed carbon tacos, or greasy smoky housemade chorizo, or oily flaky fish, it is easy and instant to forget what life resembled back in the parking lot. We’ve all, communally, arm-in-arm, with collective vision, forged the perfect escape plan.

At Vanguard, when it’s summer, or spring, or any time when the Packers are not on and it’s not a wrestling night or Halloween, when there’s room for small chat and the usual backdrop—Soul Train, maybe an O.J. Simpson workout video—there is no better feel than happy hour with exactly one open swivel black chair near the end of the bar. Even though the bartenders render me not cool enough, probably too old, far from properly bearded, I will stake a claim, rope off my spot with a hoodie on the back of the seat, like delineating property lines, as close to Manifest Destiny as I might get, sticking out elbows just a bit in subtle “don’t tread on me” histrionics. You can hover, sure, go ahead and take my drink menu, yes, food menu too, fine, oogle away at my curds and beer stein aioli all bloodied with house hot sauce, you can even talk close and ask for suggestions and pat me on the back when you lean over the shoulder to catch the barkeep’s eye. Just let me sit in the middle, in the beating heart, like the front row at a boxing match where part of the excitement is getting hit by a little sweat, like the Stubhub offerings we click just to see, front rows price tags to voyeuristically consider, to think what if? While I’m in, while the place fills to capacity—only now a nightmarish notion—-behind me, I slow-sip and savor a hungry evening bustle and a draft Manhattan, I delay gratification with menu pondering, possibility appreciating, before inevitably tackling a chilli cheese dog, a Velveeta-blanketed and appropriately-named “Durty Burger,” the whole thing a silly gesture of why not gluttonous indulgence, barely leaving room for the IPA I’m always about to order—like some kind of metaphor for the stuffed barroom itself.

These will be my first stops, when we’re all back, fully rubbing elbows, finding space in standing room only occasions. When we can be, what I’ve heard more than a few service industry folks refer to, “nuts to butts.” If and when the unidentifiable health metrics in my heart all check green, these are my buzzing Milwaukee mind spots, of food poetry yammering, of context being an ingredient, of flavor deriving as much from the atmosphere, as much from the flutter of a true peak social experience. I think of an Istanbul market, the group teem, the contrasting currents of crowds lending pick-pocket anxiety, general personal space ruffling, some dangerous enticement to the prevalent smell of roasting, rotating meat; a pizzeria in Naples, needing to engage in mosh pit antics for a spot on the list; Steny’s, for an Eastern Conference Finals Bucks game. The times to eschew ease, embrace struggle, deal with an annoyance for this will be worth it. When all is well, again, when I can cruise the city streets, casually pop in for a taco or four, stop for a beer or beers, such spots are where I might set my aims. Once so small-town, so simple-minded, now the idea of someone handing me a menu is a memory seed I treat and water like the notion of the one that got away. Here are the daydreams I’m afraid to risk, but keep tucked away in some kind of hope chest of sights to get back toward, one day, comfortably, normally, the good food times that come as much from the setting, from the moment, the people.  

And I don’t even really like people.

Another thing I’m not crazy about—outside. And yet, here I am, often these days, and not just because the weather has turned friendly, ironically, as the country seems to burn, standing in my backyard, staring at the stars or the clouds, or the military-hued helicopters, sometimes, waiting for my gut, or my meat thermometer, to tell me it’s time to turn back to the Weber, flip the sausages, burgers. Always aggressively testing the tongs, grabbing at ghosts as they waft, I wistfully wonder how the maestros at Vanguard always avoid the flare-ups, the drying-out, nearly always get it all so right, the snap, one order after another, without looking like they are trying, cool in backwards hat insouciance, even when confronted by an endless stream of hungry scenesters.  

Here I am, too, with makeshift picnics of Foxfire takeout fare, of taco truck tlayudas, cautiously staking a blanket claim or bench at Sheridan Park, its meandering jogging path and sweeping lake vistas leaving space for grass-tabled meals. Or at Humboldt Park, by the grimey pond that might as well be Walden’s, for the existential dread I’ve brought to it these past three months. It seems like a sanctuary of sorts, emblematic of anywhere there is space, really, from headlines, and health metrics, enough of it for nobody to be near enough to be afraid of. But of course there is no one to say gracias to after a salsa refill. There is fresh air, yes. And there is also the fending off of the geese, the dancing around of the geese poop, the chasing of napkins— inherent that any picnic venture provide at least this bit of Charlie Chaplin skit performance—and, inevitably, the throwing out of napkins because they probably touched some geese poop.  

Still, with a double patty Foxfire burger, coated and buffed in salt and love and oozing American goo cheese, or with some foiled-taco steam, anywhere I might end up, today, isn’t so bad. And also, before wasn’t always good. The past is only painted in technicolor ideals in our minds, and especially now. Vanguard was many times just far too crowded, and sometimes, too many times, they forgot to toast my bun. And it felt too loud to even mention. Tsunami, despite my perpetual best efforts and bad dietary habits, has never cared I’m there, that I keep coming back, that I talk about it and write about it and bloviate. Every time I hit the door they almost always collectively look at me as if I’m lost or am about to ask to use the bathroom and then leave. In general, how many restaurant tables are too dirty? How much service is too slow? How many menus are so alike? Oh wow, look, a Southwestern Burger! How many bartenders have that attitude that this next shake of the shaker—no, this one, above the head!—could be the one to cure cancer, and how dare I interrupt or not be appropriately captivated?

The now, at least, has options. Such as, when it’s rainy, or too cold, or suddenly, too hot, we can sit in the car. The radio sounds better from in there anyways, the wind can’t steal and confetti-toss all the napkins like a cruel game of keepaway. We can think of ourselves as trying new things, embracing fresh thoughts, getting stains on our pants and shirts in different places, from different sit-and-eat situations. This month brings a new Bob Dylan album. It certainly won’t be Blonde on Blonde. It won’t even be Love and Theft. But there will be something you’ve never heard. Likewise tomorrow will bring something new, another distraction tactic, another approach, another appetite, and, if we’re lucky, another way to satisfy it.

Meanwhile, so much of the future seems to be being written for us, by unseen authors with little writing experience, the lot of them banging away on outlines behind scenes, on drafts where they can’t even fully commit to a genre. Post apocalypse-ism mixes with an economic playbook, fantasy meets self-help meets realism. Throughout, uncertainty seems to blend with malfeasance, announcements are unmade or surprise-made, or made and reversed, or misunderstood or ignored. Restaurants are not open, but tomorrow, at precisely 2pm, they can be and we will all be safe. Go ahead. Our reality, our way forward, seems tenuous, a bit dreadful, a venture out still coming with constant subconscious risk assessment, a survey of an unpredictable and maybe cataclysmic thunderstorm before a bike ride, the checks and balances on fun and need. Skipping headlines for more than a few hours seems to be willful ignorance. But maybe it’s more simple: if I can’t safely see my restaurant servers face, this situation is probably not quite right.

In our bubbles, in our political allegiances, it was easy to know where to stand, especially gauged by the actions and virally-spread photos of a bunch of boneheads at a bar Platteville, when the Supreme Court struck down caution and reason to make Wisconsin, again, a national laughing stock of unawareness. It seemed a slap in the face, the wake-up kind, a dose of belligerent selfishness. Yet, maybe history will see it all differently. Perhaps they, us, are all simply, naturally, hellbent on togetherness. On connection. With the country seemingly schisming more by the day, with fractures leading to offshoot fractures, maybe we actually just need something, somebody, each other. We invented taco trucks, and then, eventually, taco truck parks, as if even our restaurants should socialize with each other. We came up with small plates so that the same table could legitimately hold, say, at La Merenda, goat cheese curds alongside Jamaican goat curry next to seared Sockeye salmon. And they could all become friends. Cheers has always been so popular, held up, not just because it is pretty funny, but it represents an ideal, of comfortable cahoots, of escape from the real world. We can see, hope ourselves, there, all of us being our self-deprecating and whimsical best, with buds and brews and wisdom found. It represents a coming together, in the face of our absurd existence. A mariachi duo, or far too much to eat and drink, can show that our time is still now, that we—me, and you over there, at the same spot, in the same moment!—deserve something, sometimes.    

These days I think often of a long-shuttered Bay View corner tap I used to freely and proudly proclaim to anybody listening as my Cheers. It was a strange, dim nook of the world I drank and wedged my way into, forging a musical and lyrical brand of late-night conspiracy. By the time I became a regular, my bartenders, my Sam and my Woody, would occasionally let me stay after hours, would pour me a shot of Bulleit at 2:30, would joke about me having my “shift drink,” would not kick me out until I kicked myself out. We would bitch, complain, jostle, josh, give each other hurried TED Talks in the sporadic crowd lulls. I knew the names of their siblings, the health statuses of their dogs, they were invited to my wedding. All those nights, eventually, I would stumble out the door, solo stagger home, bleary-eyed but content, untouchable to Monday, knowing, simply, far from sober but assuredly, somebody got me. In the hullabaloo existence of parking lots, indifferent masses, I had a spot. I don’t know when, I don’t know who will tell me it’s time, I don’t even know where, but I know I need to get back to that place.