#who needs a riot/start a howl: bless

[familylightfox]

@reflections-of-mobius asked:

There was a soft glance between emerald and hazel, a moment of doubt solidified only in that the two would be approaching this together. They breathed in, a collective soft inhale as they turned their attention towards the door of the inn. The sun's rays were high overhead, illuminating the world in bright hues.

But the two mobians couldn't help but be nervous- they had up and disappeared months ago, the only warning they'd given that they'd be back in due time... But it had been so long. Cautiously, each reached out a hand- the usual sight failing to bring chuckles to the tired couple's muzzles, this time. They jointly knocked on the inn door, waiting for it to open as soft smiles finally, finally dawned on their faces.

"Been a while!...sorry about that, guys.." Bless chuckled quietly, scratching at the back of his head with an apologetic smile. He couldn't hide his tail that had slowly begun to wag back and forth. Call him hopeful, but he'd missed the two a lot- and even seeing their faces after so much work made it all worth it.

"...hope you don't mind we dropped by?" Node tilted their head slightly, an ear flicking slightly back. "How've you guys been?" They weren't sure what to expect- and that made them just a hint nervous (who were they kidding, they were a bundle of nerves).

The two had already agreed that, if this went well... They'd have to find some way to make it up to the hybrid and his daughter- but that would be a hurdle for the future. Right now... They just wanted to reconnect, after so much time away. However the two hybrids reacted... The couple would accept it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was always an odd look given to the door whenever someone knocked. The Inn was always open to anyone and almost everyone that came to the village knew to just walk right in, but the knock was familiar. So was the energy behind it.

Volt knew that energy by heart, held it within his heart if one looked close enough, and quickly came around the counter in order to open the double doors. The instant his eyes looked upon those familiar faces, his arms were spread and both of them were pulled in for a tight hug. He took turns on who was getting the bulk of his cheek rubbing against theirs and also snuck a few kisses where he could while they spoke.

"As if I would ever be mad 'bout you comin' t' visit." Words were so easily muddled by the deep rumbling purr that had settled into his throat, but what might not have been conveyed in words, certainly were in his actions. A small gathering of tears had formed in the corner of his eyes upon being reunited with the two Mobians who held his heart.

"Bless! Node!" Harmony's call came from behind the pair, having been just making her way home from picking up supplies in the market. While she wasn't willing to dump the packages in her arms, a pep in her step allowed the teen to close the space and set it all onto the porch first.

A moment later and Volt laughed as his daughter lifted all three adults into the air to give her own hugs.

"Daddy and I missed ya so much! Where ya been? Ya gotta tell us all about whatcha been up t'!" Already her thoughts were going a mile a minute, needing to be tapped on the arm by her father's fingers to pause long enough for him to get a word in edgewise.

"Pumpkin... I'm sure they'll be more than happy t'... On their feet."

"Huh?" Emerald eyes blinked, pink suddenly crossing the powder blue muzzle. "Ooops..."

Harmony set them down, backing up with a wag of her tail while also scratching at the back of her neck. It was easy to see that she would have been more than willing to dive right back in for hugs the second she was given a chance.

[loser-writings]

Could you write omega!fatgum???? And maybe omega!Tokoyami?

Of Course! Omega Tokoyami is a blessing tbh. Might just fuck around and write more for him.

Reminder! Requests are open!

Fumikage Tokoyami

Tokoyami has always had a thing for nesting. He can’t tell if that is because he is an Omega, or if it's the bird in him. Either way, He sighs softly as he moves to light a few candles. All of his supplies were neatly put into a pile on his desk and he was preparing himself for the long day ahead of him. Since class had been canceled due to rain, he thought this was the perfect time to make a nest in his dorm room, but he also knew that once he started, nobody could stop him.

He moved to the corner of the dorm room where his desk had been just moments before and shut his eyes, feeling his omega purr with contentment at the sight. Good enough for him. He moved to grab a few oversized pillows before laying them down on the ground delicately. His nests were all a matter of layers. Pillows, then blankets, then pillows, more blankets, then a few stuffed animals and clothes on top. 

He slowly built it up, layer by layer, before sitting down to neatly put everything where he wanted it to be. His omega was purring loudly at the sight of the nest before there was a knock on his door. He huffed softly and decided his nest was acceptable before moving to see who was outside. 

He was surprised to see you holding a bag in your hands. “Hey Toko, You mind if I come in for a sec? I saw something that made me think of you so I had to get it for you.” His eyes widened but he slowly nodded. “Uh...I guess that’s fine.” He moved out of the way before letting you inside, suddenly feeling anxious that an alpha was in the same room as his nest. Let alone the Alpha he had been crushing on for a while now.

“You not wearing your choker?” You asked as you looked back at him. His hand instantly went around his own neck before realizing he had taken it off. “It’s okay. I just noticed that it smelled like apples in here, and I didn’t think you had come out of your room to get one.” You smiled a bit and stood awkwardly in the center of his room. Once he realized that you were waiting for permission to sit, he shook his head slightly and sighed. “You can sit on the floor or on my bed. I really don’t mind. Just...not the nest. I finished it right before you came in.”

He saw your face fall slightly before it perked back up again. “I knew I should’ve stopped by the second class got canceled.” You said before carefully sitting down on his bed. He couldn’t help but appreciate how gentle you were being in his room since it was his safe space. 

“Anyway, come here! Open the bag!” You said and held it out for him to take. He huffed softly before sitting beside you, Omega purring when his hands touched yours before he moved to slowly pull everything out. 

LED lights, two thin blankets with a tarot sun and moon card printed on them, and a few candles were inside the bag. He hadn’t noticed it yet, but his omega was purring loudly at the thoughtful gifts, already wanting them to go near his nest, but your voice broke him out of his trance. “I saw them and thought of you when we were out shopping. That’s why I asked if you could go see what Jiro and Denki were up to.” He huffed as he moved to hold the soft blankets in his hands. “These are amazing...Thank you so much.” he bowed his head, omega still purring and scent stronger than ever.

Your alpha howled at the thought of him accepting the courting gifts, but you stopped for a moment to reach over and grab the LED lights. “I know that lights might seem weird, especially cause I know you like the darkness, but I saw that you could change how intense the light could be and that you could turn them purple.” His eyes widened. “Wait really?” You nodded and smiled. “Can I show you?” He instantly nodded, watching happily as you handed him the remote and showed him how the lights work.

When you handed them to him, he just smiled as he stared down at the light. “This is amazing. Seriously, thank you so much.” He moved to sit them down before carefully opening one of the blankets. He stared at the design for a moment, debating on if he should listen to his omega and take a chance, or just hand them up. 

After a moment, he looks at you before handing you the blanket. “Would you please scent this for me?” If he could blush, he would be as red as can be. He glanced up only to see your shocked expression before he started to panic. Once you noticed this, your eyes widened again and you quickly grabbed the fabric. “Of course Tokoyami!” You bowed as you took the fabric, starting to rub it against your neck to transfer your scent onto the material. The loud purring from Tokoyamis’ Omega made him bashful, but he could hear you croon was just as loud and reassured him that you were happy. Once you felt as if you scented it good enough, you handed it back to make sure he was content with it. 

Tokoyami took in the scent before standing up, quickly hopping into his nest to attempt to hang it, but sadly he was only 5’2”. “Omega,” He stood straight and shivered a bit hearing you say that out loud. “Y-Yes?” “Why don’t you ask Dark Shadow to hang everything up for you?” He stopped before sighing. “That...would help a bit, huh?” He smiled a little and you nodded, reaching over to grab the other blanket as Tokoyami handed the fabric to Dark Shadow. “Want me to scent this too?” He instantly nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind.” You shook your head and started scenting it as Tokoyami and Dark shadow began hanging everything. 

By the time Tokoyami finished, everything you had given him had been scented and he sat happily in the center of his nest. You grinned from his bed and watched him, happy that he was so content with your gifts. It wasn’t until Tokoyami looked up at you when he realized that you were still on the bed. He huffed softly and crawled to the edge of his nest before holding out a hand. “Want to join me?” 

He watched as you slowly took his hand and crawled into his nest with him. When you laid down against the soft pillows, you were surprised when Tokoyami curled up beside you, under your arm and against your chest. Soft purrs came from him as the smell of apple mixed with your own scent, calming the omega even more. He yawned softly before pressing his beak against your neck softly, humming as he took in your scent. 

“Hey birdy?” He cooed at the nickname before opening his eyes a little. “Hm?” “Will you be mine?” His omega purred loudly once again before snuggling into you more. “Only if you become mine as well…” You chuckled and kissed his head. “Silly bird...Of course.”

Taishiro Toyomitsu

NOBODY expects him to be an Omega due to the fact that he is 8’2” and that he is constantly eating. Alphas are known for having quite an appetite, so mix height with hunger and you get Taishiro. He actually isn’t that insecure about being an omega, but also never will mention it. Most villains won’t know at a first glance, and his reputation alone makes many think he is an Alpha.

He doesn’t get that many courting gifts or requests for dates, and if he does they are from Omegas. It’s not that he wouldn’t have a relationship, actually he would court anybody, but nobody really peaks his interest, so he just decides to stick with being single until he finds the right person.

Well the right person just so happened to open up a bakery/candy store and holy shit it was heaven. He would stop by every time he passed just to get some of the amazing food or candy, hell when he first had Tamaki and Kirishima, this was one of the first places he showed them since he loved it so much. 

Little did he know that his omega would fall hard for you that day. There was no crime at that moment, so the three of them politely asked if they could watch you make your candy after finding out you could make hard candy sculptures. You agreed happily and asked what they wanted. Kirishima wanted a dog, Tamaki bashfully asked for a goldfish, and Tai asked for a frog. 

They watched in awe as you managed to take chunks of the candy and cut them into beautiful sculptures, painting them one by one and handing them to each boy. Kirishima was in awe and instantly wanted to tell his friends, Tamaki was resisting the urge to cry, and Tai was completely awestruck. They all thanked you as you finished up and Tai gave quite the tip for your incredible work.

After that, Kirishima brought almost all of class 1A to watch you, Tamaki brought Mirio and Nejire, and Tai would always just watch you work for hours. If the store was empty, you would chat with him while you worked. That’s when he found out that you weren’t an omega, but an Alpha who adored sweets. His omega jumped around happily even at the thought.

He walked in one day only to find you and your team working on a series of hard candies. Large sticks laid on the tables behind the counters and many were chopping away to break them into tiny pieces. It was a sound that made him happy, the tink tink tink of the candy breaking over and over, but it couldn’t even hold a candle to your voice. 

“Hey! Tai! Come here, I need you to taste test something for me.” The man happily walked over to you and grinned, seeing you holding a bag out for him. “You sure this much is fine?” He asked only to see you smile bright and nod. “Check inside!” He carefully picked out one of the small candies only to see that it was black and 2 capital red Rs that were back to back. “Is this Red Riot?” He asked before popping it in his mouth smiling at the taste. “Black Cherry.” 

You nodded and clapped. “Yes! Try another!” He pulled out a blue one that had a sun symbol. “Suneater?” You nod as he hummed from the flavor. “Blue raspberry.” You nod again. “Last one! You should be able to figure it out.” He grabbed an orange one before laughing, seeing the FGF that was on his hoodie on the candy. “It's me. I love it.” he smiled and ate it only to grin even bigger. “Maple...Did I tell you that was my favorite?” You clearly were pleased as you jumped happily. “I thought so! But it was really just a good guess!” You chirped happily before clapping a bit. ‘I was going to add hero themed candy, so I decided to add my favorite three first!” 

His heart melted and his Omega was so pleased. He looked down at the bag in his hand before smiling once again at you. “I would be honored. You really don’t have to-” “Tai I want to!” You were so happy with yourself and he just chuckled. “Okay okay...One condition though.” You tilted your head to the side and he grinned. “After work today, you let me help make some.” Your eyes sparkled and you nodded. “Of course!

That night you had Tai come over, sit and eat dinner, before suiting him up to make the candies. You taught him how to pull the sugar and why it turned white when you did. Then, you taught him how to layer the candy to make each symbol. How to pull them into small sticks, and then how to break them into tiny pieces. 

As you bagged up everything, Tai sat happily snacking on the various candies you had made. His omega was purring happily, watching you dart back and forth to put everything together. “Can I ask you somethin?” Tai spoke as you hummed to let him know that you were listening. “Do you have an Omega? I’ve noticed you don’t have a mark or a ring.” 

You hummed and shook your head. “Nah, Not many Omegas are fond of an Alpha that works so close to other Omegas.” He instantly huffed and rolled his eyes. “I mean, I know my opinion doesn’t mean much, but I think your job is amazing and you work with everybody. Doesn’t matter if they are an alpha, beta, or omega.” You smiled and nodded while sitting the basket of treats on the counter next to him. “Well, I appreciate the fact you understand that I don’t care.” He smiled and shrugged. “That's why I do the same with the people I work with. Alpha hero, Omega hero, Beta hero, it doesn’t matter. You just want somebody who can get the job done.” 

You nodded, sitting in front of him before reaching over to hold his hand with pink cheeks. “Exactly~” He instantly took your hand back and grinned. “I actually have a question too, Tai.” He hummed before you smiled. “Can I take you on a proper courting date? Like...This was fun, but I think a date outside of work would be nice.” 

His omega purred loudly and nodded before smiling. “Yeah! That would be nice!” He squeezed your hand before looking at the clock, noticing how dark it was. “How about tomorrow? I have the day off.” You perked up more and nodded. “Yeah! That would be amazing!” 

You both get ready to leave for the night, planning for the date when you realized something. “Hey! Tai come down here for a moment!” You opened your arms up to hug him and the man obeyed by sitting on the ground for a proper hug. You instantly held him tight and started snuggling into his neck, scenting him happily. Tai instantly laughed, scenting you back before pulling away.

“We need to go to sleep! It’s late and we have a date to go on tomorrow.” You chuckled and continued to hold him. “I know but you seriously give the best hugs! I could just sleep with you like this.” You realized what you said and pulled away. “I-I mean..” He chuckled and pecked your head. “Wanna come to my place? I think I’d like to have you sleep in my nest.” You grinned before nodding, holding his hands. “Of course! Lets go!”

[oldgodspod]

#AnotherWorldOctober Day 1: Full Moon Vibes

The spooky season is upon us! As you may have seen announced previously, throughout the month of October, I (Cam) will be participating in the #AnotherWorldOctober creative challenge. I'll be posting my work here daily.

This is day 1: Full Moon Vibes. We'll start out with a special treat: Steve read it and decided it must be narrated.

Featuring "If the Beasts Should Hunt Us" by Lonesome Wyatt and Rachel  Brooke, used with permission.

Transcript, for those who like to have them:

October comes to Appalachia with chill, damp mornings and mostly balmy afternoons sliced through with a crisp breeze and the rustling of leaves. She sets the woods ablaze with a riot of russet color — reds and oranges and yellows and browns of every shade — and blows the sweet aroma of woodsmoke through the hollers of an evening. This October comes with a Harvest Moon, hanging full and swollen and bright over Appalachia, shining her light into every holler and branch. The full moon sings in the blood of the very Green itself, and of course, those touched by it.

In Esau County, Virginia, it finds young Deeley Hubbard in her family home in Boggs Holler. She’s in the yard out back of the cozy house left to her by her mamaw, Glory Ann Boggs, setting out Mason jars full of fresh, clean spring water on an old stump in the yard. From a branch of the twisty old apple tree, she hangs a little charm she’s made for a young couple in town who, despite their most enthusiastic efforts, have found themselves unable to conceive a child. 

Deeley hasn’t lived in Esau County long, and though many of the older folks seem hesitant to rely on her just yet — which just makes good sense; she’s still learning the healer’s craft, after all, studying the books and notes her mamaw left behind — those closer to her age have been more willing, and she’s found a pretty warm welcome overall. Her daddy’s cousins, the Bledsoes, have been particularly kind, driving out to introduce themselves as soon as the word was out that she’d come to live in Boggs Holler, and regaling her with funny stories about her daddy growing up. She feels a sense of home — of roots — here that she’s never felt before.

It’s a cool night — the first real cool night of the season — but Deeley doesn’t mind the chill. She smiles as she gazes up at the glowing orb in the clear, velvety dark sky. Despite the late hour, she’s wide awake and full of vigor — she’s still a young girl, after all — and when the moon calls, she answers, leaving the yard behind to run into the familiar woods that surround the Boggs property. She need not fear the woods here — this is home, and this patch of Green watches over its own.

A ways south, a dozen or so miles outside Baker’s Gap, Tennessee, Marcie and Ellie Walker have made similar preparations, restocking the contents of a particular cupboard in the big kitchen pantry of the imposing log house known officially as Pleasant Evenings Enterprises, and locally as simply The Walker House. The various tools of their work set out to soak up the blessings of the Hunter’s Moon, the two sisters sit in rocking chairs on the back porch of the Walker House, and they listen. 

From a few miles off, up in the woods, they hear it: the singing of wolves. Marcie and Ellie listen intently for a moment, neither speaking, ears attentive to every howl and yip, every nuance and tone of that feral chorus… and then they relax. The voices of wolves are sonorous, and tend to echo — it’s hard to know for sure what direction they’re coming from — but the Walker sisters have kept a watchful eye on this situation for a good many years, and they’ve learned the trick of it. The song they hear isn’t coming from the abandoned, overgrown holler known as the Clutch, nor does it sound like the hunting song — the blood song — they’d once learned to dread. It’s a song of kinship. Somebody’s found a shape that feels like home — and a family to share that with — and that’s always cause to celebrate. They’re just kicking their heels up a little bit is all. And good for them. 

And speaking of kicking up their heels — “It’s an awful nice night, Ellie,” Marcie says. “I think I might pour myself a little sip of that apple wine Miz Lunsford traded us for the eggs last week. Fancy a glass?” 

Her sister smiles, stretches her legs and props her heels up on the porch rail. “I think I might have a drop or two, yes,” Ellie says, reaching into her coat pocket for her pipe and tobacco. “It is a damn fine night.”

Marcie returns from the kitchen a few minutes later, holding two jelly jars about half filled with their neighbor’s tasty home brewed apple wine between two fingers. She’s draped two quilts over the other arm — fine night or no, it’s a bit chilly out on the porch — and hands one of each to Ellie. Cozy and content, the sisters settle in to enjoy the night, and the moon, and the chorus of eerie and beautiful lupine voices.

And in the hills and hollers around Bakers Gap, the wolves run, full tilt and full of joy — the joy of the hunt, the joy of the pack, the joy of the moon-called Green.

[shelli-gator]

Maurice and Clover’s reaction to Julien and Pancho dating would be hilarious 🤣

WHEEZE, honestly it would be! I wanted to make a little comic for it, but I figured this would convey it a bit better, if you feel like reading it :D <3 it just makes me soft.

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“Are you havin’ a laugh?!”

Maurice had braced himself for that, and yet the sheer volume of Clover’s voice over the headset is enough to make him flinch, curling in on himself. Fumbling with the microphone he throws a frantic glance over his shoulder, lifting the headset away to keep one of his ears pricked for signs he’s been overheard.

But the rest of the plane is blissfully silent, at least for now, and he brings the mic close to his mouth, murmuring carefully, “You really think I would joke about this?”

There’s the unmistakable sound of growling on the other end, followed by the indistinct sound of Sage’s mellow voice somewhere in the background, undoubtedly leveling her with some obscure metaphor about the all consuming flame of her anger, but the Queen of the mountain lemurs continues regardless, barking into his ears.

“One month, Maurice-”

“Clover, I know-”

“I’ve been gone for all of one month,” She seethes, and Maurice pinches the bridge of his nose, grimacing, “I’m coming over. Now. Sage, get your hawk!”

“Wait wait wait!”  The Aye-Aye almost jumps right out of his fur, almost dropping the mic again in his panic, “Is that really necessary?”

“What?!”

He pauses at that, his thoughts catching up with his racing mouth. He brings a paw up to rub at his brow, bushy brows arched high, “Believe it or not, they’re… actually doing pretty okay! From what I can tell, at least.”

“Are we talking about the same Pancho? You know, the felon.”

Maurice winces at the word, as if it could carry into the next room. Knowing his luck, it would, and they’d both never hear the end of it “Please, please don’t remind me. Yes, that Pancho. But.”

“But?”

“I mean,” Maurice rubs the back of his neck, mulling over his choice of words, “You gotta admit, the guy really pulls through, even if his methods are… er, dubious at best.”

“Dubious. Heh. Yeah, that’s one way of putting it, yeah. Not exactly the word I’d use, but it’ll do.”

Before he can attempt any more assurances, there’s a shout of exasperation from the other room, and the royal advisor bristles, teeth gritted

“Pancho, come on man!”

“What?!”

“What was that?” Clover demands on the other end, and Maurice covers the mic with a paw, peeking his head out from behind the curtains of the flight attendants cubicle he hides in to look around the corner.

At this time of night the plane should be shrouded in darkness, but numerous candles and the light of the full moon outside is enough to light up the rows of seats leading to the back. And thus it’s easy enough to spot King Julien the 13th and Pancho nearby, the latter sprawled out in a show of relaxation on one of the seats, chin propped up on the heel of his paw. Julien glares at him from around his canvas, and from here Maurice can make out what he can only assume is some Lovecraftian horror that’s only vaguely depicted in Pancho’s likeness, neither lounging nor in a seat.

Oy vey.

“You’re a terrible muse! I can’t work under these conditions!” the King accuses him, gesticulating wildly with his paintbrush. It sends splatterings of orange paint flying, but neither seems to notice, “Stop moving!”

“Aw, don’t be like that babe, my leg’s starting to cramp!” Pancho whines in shrill protest, grimacing as he attempts to gingerly shift his weight off his hip.

“A… AH! You’re doing it again!” Julien waves his paws at him in frustration and indignance, before deliberately flicking a sizable blob of oil paint at him, splattering his creamy belly with black. The crowned lemur yelps in shock, gaping down at the blotches in his fur.

“Hey, watch it! That paint wasn’t easy to pinch you know!”

“Maurice?!” Clover yells far too loudly in his ear, and the advisor is quickly reminded of what he was actually doing, darting back behind the curtains again.

“Clover, please, not right into the mic? Anyway, everything’s fine!” He assures her, offering her a strained but amicable smile that he hopes she can hear in his voice, "We're on the same page, remember? I wouldn't sugar coat it."

“Right…” She muses cautiously, and not for the first time Maurice marvels at how far she’s come from the woman that would have sooner broken the radio than listened to him, "We are, yeah?"

“Of course we are. I know you have his best interest at heart but… we can let him have this, right? And besides, you know them. This sort of thing doesn't really tend to last long for either of them. And I say that in the kindest way."

Clover actually giggles, "You have a point there. It's like a flash in the Pancho, as Ted would say." She snorts with laughter at that, her tone quickly turning giddy at her own quip, "Get it? Pan-cho? Flash in the pan? Hooo that was a good one, I liked that."

"Uh-huh, you're a riot,” Maurice remarks dryly, but his eyes soften with fondness, his tone warm.

“And you’re okay, then? With everything?” She presses earnestly, and he gives a quiet chuckle at that, rolling his shoulders upwards.

“For the most part.Tired, but alright. They give me the run around, but that’s not different than any other day.”

True to form, there’s a familiar high pitched shriek from the other room, and Maurice pokes his head around the corner again, eyebrows high on his forehead. Just in time to watch Pancho leap from his chair to bodily tackle the King mid caterwaul, his paintbrush extended like a dangerous weapon. The former convict is covered from head to toe in splotches and splashes of paint, but if the wild grin on his face is anything to go by, he isn’t all that fussed about that.

The two go sprawling onto the carpet that lines the aisle, and Julien’s cries quickly turn to raucous laughter as he’s suddenly tickled. The King squirms and thrashes beneath the other male as Pancho straddles him, holding him down with his weight as his fingers dance along the ring-tails sensitive sides. Every press and brush of his nimble fingers makes him wriggle and buck, and soon the paintbrush goes flying, bouncing down the aisle and past Maurice into the throne room behind him.

“Menace!” Pancho teases him playfully between his own breathless chortles, fighting to keep Julien pinned beneath him, “Menace!”

“Stop it!” Julien howls in protest between his laughter. It’s with very little conviction however, his squirming a lot less desperate than it could be beneath Pancho’s tickling paws. He throws his head back, face splitting with his own wild grin as he slaps and grabs at his mate’s wrists, “Monster! Maniac! AH! I’ll bite you, I swear to Frank I’ll bite you!”

“Oh, now those sound like fighting words!” Pancho grins wickedly, eyes alight with feral glee, and just like that he makes a playful show of taking in a large, dramatic breath. Cheeks puffed up and eyes comically wide, he dives down and in, pressing his snout into the curve of Julien’s exposed throat to blow a raspberry into his fur, and King’s laughter swiftly increases in volume and shrillness, his arms coming up and around to loop around Pancho’s shoulders, body tensing and curling inwards beneath him with mirth.

Warmth blossoms in Maurice’s chest at the sight, his heart full to bursting with affection for his friend. It’s always a joy to see him smile and laugh, despite the chaos that often ensued with it.

“Maurice? Hello? Maurice!”

The advisor gives a little hop of surprise on the spot, clapping a paw over his mouth to stifle his yelp. Luckily for him the pair don’t pick it up over their laughter, and Maurice half retreats behind the curtain, covering his mouth and the microphone with his paw, “Sorry, I er… I’m still here.”

“Right. I asked you if he’s happy.”

“Say what now?”

“Julien, is he happy?”

Maurice blinks hard at that, and from where he’s standing he watches Julien bury his smiling face into the fur of Pancho’s crown, who nuzzles his face more vehemently into his neck, grinning from ear to ear. Their fur matted and covered in smears of paint, the pair absently twine their tails together behind them, a tangle of burgundy and rings of black and white.

“Yeah, he is.” Maurice affirms, and he retreats back into the cubicle to give the pair their privacy, his cheeks hurting with the broad smile that tugs at the corners of his lips,“It’s actually kinda cute, believe it or not.”

“Then that’s all that matters, yeah?” Clover titters with an air of quiet bemusement, “Well, I suppose stranger things have happened with you lot. I’m actually impressed it’s not worse.”

“Harsh, but fair,” Maurice concedes, “There’s never a dull moment, as much as I could do with one.”

Clover lets out an almost whimsical sigh on the other end, “Ah, I miss that. Being a queen and all, you know it’s pretty good. But I… well I miss you guys.”

Maurice’s heart swells up in his chest all over again, the Aye-Aye leaning his head against his paw as he smiles up at the ceiling, “Aw, Clo-Clo,” he coos gently, his voice quickly thickening with emotion, “We miss you too. The kingdom doesn’t go a day without missing you.”

She fawns softly at that, quickly becoming emotional herself, “Ooh I- oh that just warms my heart, it does.” She hesitates a moment, mulling over her words, “You know, even if things aren’t exactly, well- falling apart without me over there, it couldn’t hurt for me to come pay a little visit, right?”

The awkward hopefulness in her voice makes the advisor roll his eyes playfully, “Do you even have to ask? You’re always welcome here! This will always be your home, you know that. I don’t think I need Julien’s blessing to say any of that, he’s said it as much himself.”

“Then I’ll come tomorrow!” Clover enthuses eagerly, and he can practically hear the beaming smile in her voice, “Oh, this is so exciting! My first diplomatic mission! Haha!”

“I’ll get the royal guest hut ready for you. That’s really going to make the King’s day, I’ll tell you that. Come to think of it, it’s not often that we’ve gotten the chance to entertain other royal guests- ”

“And this way, I can tell Pancho to his face that if he breaks Julien’s heart, I’ll eviscerate him personally!” she chirps happily, far too giddy at the thought threats and violence, and Maurice splutters hopelessly for a moment, his train of thought thoroughly derailed.

“Oh boy, yeah I’m a lot less enthused about that part.”

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[scuzmunkie]

Run, Little Rabbit, Run: Chapter 6

A/N: Oh my precious, darling, little pumpkins!! You are all so amazing!! I look forward to all of your comments and I cherish each and every one of them!! I can’t tell you how much they mean to me!! Every heart, reblog and comment are so dear to me as are each of you! I absolutely love all of you and can’t thank you enough for the support you all continue to show me!! As always, please lmk if there are any mistakes and if you’d like to be added to the tag list!! And now I give you chapter 6, enjoy! Smooches!! Baron Corbin x OFC Word Count: 3000+ (I got a little carried away) Warnings: Language, y’all if terminal illness and thametic elements. Summary: Run, Addie, the Constable is coming for you..... +++ Baron watched Addie as she stared at her phone, poking her pasta. Cole’s words ringing in his ears, ‘She’s your luna.’ He couldn’t get them out of his head. His wolf all but howled at the revelation. It had been almost two months since that night, leaving him with seven months at best to make a decision. ‘She is ours!’ His wolf growled out, interrupting Baron’s thoughts. ‘She’s dying. She’s not going to survive long enough to be our luna.’ Baron reminded his wolf. ‘But WE can save her, you stubborn asshole!’ He screamed causing Baron to wince. ‘BUT WHAT IF I KILL HER?!’ Baron gasped and felt his heart clench at his admission. ‘What if I get my hopes up and she dies. No... it’s better to just keep my distance than allow myself to get close to her and lose her.’ His wolf understood Baron’s fears and pain. It was rare for a wolf to have a mate nowadays. Soulmates were a fairy tale anymore, something their ancestors had. Modern wolves simply fall in love like humans do. The fact that Baron was given a mate that was not only human but dying as well was a cruel, sick joke from the moon goddess. ‘But what if we save her? What if she lives? We could watch her change, watch her take her first run as a wolf and watch her belly grow with our little ones.’ His wolf pleaded with Baron. Just as Baron was about to answer, his attention was stolen by the sound of Addie’s laughter. Looking in her direction, he saw Dolph had joined her. Allowing his anger to get the better of him, Baron bent his fork in half. It seemed that anywhere Addie went, Dolph was right there. Even if Baron wanted to get close to her, Dolph found ways to sabotage that. Word had spread to a few that Addie found out about the existence of the supernatural. Dolph was one of the few who found out and used that to his advantage. Baron saw just how far Dolph would go to ruin any chances he had with Addie a week and a half ago. —- Baron was quietly talking with Ruby Riot, one of his trusted pack members, when an infuriated Addie stormed up to them. “Who the hell do you think you are?!” She yelled at him, turning to Ruby, “I’m so sorry Ru-Ru, could I talk to Baron a minute?” She asked with so much kindness that Baron couldn’t believe that this same woman just screamed in his face. Ruby looked at Baron, trying her hardest not to laugh. She could tell that he was in deep shit and wanted nothing more than to stay and watch him get reamed. Ruby quickly pecked Addie on the cheek and walked away, but not before mouthing ‘you’re screwed’ to Baron behind Addie’s back. Once she was gone Baron turned his attention to the seething makeup artist. “Ok, you wanna tell me-“ “NO! You don’t get to speak! I think I’ve been pretty compliant with your wishes, I haven’t said anything to anyone and I’ve steered clear of the woods!! Would you agree?!” By now she was toe to toe with Baron, who simply nodded. “Then imagine my surprise when I got to the parking garage and found my back tire completely flat because of four CLAW marks! What gives you the right?!” She yelled, pushing him with all her might only to have him barely budge. He was so confused. Baron would never do that to her, so why think it was him? “I almost missed a very important doc-“ she quickly cleared her throat, “meeting! Had it not been for Dolph I would’ve missed it completely! Even he thought that they looked like claw marks!” And there was his answer. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Dolph was the one who slashed her tire in hopes of being her knight in shining armor. He also led Addie to believe that Baron was the culprit because he used all four of his claws instead of just one in hopes to incriminate Baron. He could feel his wolf getting angry at the thought of Dolph moving in on his mate. “Look, I’m sorry about your tire, I really am, but I didn’t do it.” “Oh really? Hmmm. Let me think.” She said sarcastically as she tapped her chin, “Who else here a) hates me and b) is a werewolf? Any guesses, Fido?” She said, looking him deadass in the eyes. Baron had to admit that she looked damn hot when she was pissed, his wolf loving her fiery glare. He started to fill Baron’s head with all the ways he could ‘tame’ her earning him a ‘not now, asshole’. Sighing, he decided to pop her little world. “First of all, I don’t hate you.” She scoffed at his confession. “Second, little rabbit, there are more of us here than you think and not just werewolves.” He smirked at Addie’s visible and audible gulp. “Third, stay away from Dolph, he’s bad news.” “Please, he’s a better man than you. At least he doesn’t treat me like some inconvenience.” She mumbled the last part. Groaning, Baron rubbed the back of his neck. It seemed that Dolph already had his hooks in her. “Listen, I just need you to promise me you’ll be careful, especially around Dolph.” He outstretched his hand, “Give me your phone.” “Uh, why?” Addie stared at him bewilderedly. “Please? I swear no funny business.” Hesitantly, Addie placed her unlocked phone in Baron’s open palm. She watched as he quickly typed away. Satisfied, he gave it back to her. “There, you have my number now. I need you to promise me you’ll call me if there’s anything out of the ordinary.” She just stared at him. “Adelina, promise me!” “Ok, ok! I promise. Why do you care tho?” She asked, making Baron inwardly wince. “Just be safe.” Annoyed at his lack of an answer, Addie curtly nodded and walked away, leaving a pining werewolf in her wake. “You can come out now.” Baron said, looking at a dark corner. “Sorry, I just really wanted to see her rip you a new one.” Ruby said, stifling her laughter. “Now, how the hell did she find out about us?” Huffing, Baron gave her the shortened version of what happened. “Wow, careless much?” She said, taking joy in Baron’s predicament. “Watch it!” He growled out, his wolf taking over at her disrespect. “Sorry alpha.” She quickly said, not wanting him to lose his shit. “Good.” He nudged her head with his, “I need you to do me a favor. I need you to keep an eye on Addie especially when Dolph’s around. I don’t want him pulling the same old shit he always does.” —- Addie sat with Dolph, laughing at his ridiculous stories, when she noticed Baron storming out of catering. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt a pull towards him, stronger than some silly crush. “You with me, cutie?” Dolph asked, gently placing his hand on hers. “Y-Yeah, sorry. Just a lot in my mind.” She smiled. “So, I was wondering if you wanna go for a walk ‪tomorrow night? It’s supposed to be a lunar eclipse. I was thinking we could bring a blanket, find a nice spot and watch it together? What do you say?” He asked, placing his hand on hers. “Um, sure. That sounds like fun!” Dolph pulled her hand towards his lips but was interrupted by someone putting their plate right between them, forcing Dolph to release Addie’s hand. “Hey guys! Mind if I sit?” Ruby asked as she plopped down between them. Irritated, Dolph stood, glaring at Ruby, who was sporting a shit eating grin on her face. No doubt Baron had told her to watch over Addie. She seemed to pop up whenever Dolph got a little close for comfort. Before leaving he turned to Addie. “See you ‪tomorrow night‬, cutie.” He said, winking at her then walked away. “So, you two seem to be getting kinda close.” Ruby blurted out while popping a strawberry in her mouth. “Oh, I mean I guess. He’s been nice, a little much at times, but...” Addie trailed off. “But he’s no Baron.” Paige blurted out as she joined them, sporting a pair of dark sunglasses with a sliver hydro flask in her hands. “Geez! Say it louder, why don’t you, for those who didn’t hear you!” Addie whisper yelled. “Ok, ok, sorry love!” Paige said, although her smirk said otherwise. “What’re you doing here, babe?” Addie asked Paige, who was usually on Smackdown. “Oh, creative wanted to film a segment between Baron and I but decided last minute to nix it, so now I’m here with you lovelies!” She explained, watching as Ruby cuddled into Addie’s side. Addie had begun to notice as of late that Ruby had become more physical than usual. Constantly hugging her, increased kisses on her cheeks, forehead and nose, or snuggling up to her if they sat next to each other. Addie didn’t mind tho. Growing up an only child, she never had the joy of siblings. Bless Ruby tho, she tried to contain herself, she really did, but itt was difficult for her. She could feel Baron’s unacknowledged love for Addie through the pack bond which in turn made Ruby feel so much affection for her as well. Unbeknownst to the outside world, the love a pack has for their luna is extremely strong and is stronger than their love for their alpha. She is the mother of their pack, the heart. The only thing that can calm down an angry alpha with just a simple touch. Any pack member would gladly die for their luna and alpha. Clearing her throat, Ruby looked at Addie, she couldn’t get that strange scent outta her mind. Leaning closer, Ruby pressed her nose into Addie’s neck, inhaling deeply. Had she been a lesser wolf, like say a rogue, she would’ve missed it completely.  “Hey” Addie giggled, “what are you doing?” Playfully pushing Ruby away. By now Nia, Alexa, Alicia and Nattie had joined them, all laughing at Ruby’s strange behavior. That was, until she sat up straight, tears brimming her eyes. “Ru-Ru, what’s wro-“ “You’re sick.” Was all she said. Everything fell dead silent. Addie felt her heart drop as she stared at Ruby, confused to high hell at how she found out. “What are you talking ab-“ she tried to play it off but Ruby was having none of that. “You’re. Sick.” She repeated, this time with a little force as a bastard tear slid down her cheek. “H-How did you find-“ but before she could finish her sentence, Ruby’s eyes flashed a brilliant gold. Sighing, Addie looked down, remembering Baron telling her that there were more wolves and supernatural creatures out there. “You’re a werewolf too, huh?” Addie asked. She looked around the table at the faces of her friends. None of them seemed surprised by Ruby’s small transformation which could only mean one thing; they were of the supernatural world as well. “Are you all werewolves?” She whispered. “I am. I belong to Baron’s pack.” Nia said proudly. Addie had no idea that Baron was the alpha!! “Ew, no.” Alexa said, a ‘disgusted’ playful look on her face. “I’m a pixie!” Removing her sunglasses, Paige revealed blood red eyes and a dazzling smile complete with two razor sharp fangs. “Vampire, m’love! My eyes are only red when I’m feeding.” She said, jiggling her flask, snickering as Addie tried her hardest not to grimace. “This may not come as a surprise, given my love for cats and all, but I am a werecat.” Nattie announced. “I’m a witch! I belong to Aleister’s coven. I’m sure that doesn’t shock you one bit’ him being a warlock. I mean his name is pretty fitting ‘Aleister Black’. It only makes sense! He also happens to be my husband. We don’t tell many people outside of the coven, but don’t tell anyone or I’ll have to turn you into a toad!!!” Alicia giggled as Addie’s jaw dropped. “I’m just kidding.” The girls giggled at Addie’s reaction, loving that she was trying to keep a calm expression on her face. Then reality set in. They all stared at Addie with forlorn faces. “I’m so sorry, Addie! I didn’t mean to blurt that out.... twice.” Ruby said as tears fell from her eyes. Not being able to explain the pull she felt towards her, Addie immediately engulfed Ruby into her arms, cradling her to her chest. She gently ran her fingers through her ebony hair. Little did she know that her luna instincts were slowly kicking in, something that was extremely rare for a human to possess. “It’s ok. Don’t cry.” She softly cooed, trying to calm her down until she was able to sit up on her own. “Truth be told, I’m actually sort of relieved you all know.” “What do you have?” Nia asked, never being one to beat around the bush. “Leukemia.” “And, how are treatments going?” Nattie piped in. “Um, they’re not.” Addie whispered. “What do you mean?!” Paige demanded. “Treatments are pointless.” Addie admitted, smiling sadly. “How,” Alexa could feel her bottom lip trembling, “how long do you have until...” she couldn’t bring herself to finish her question. “Best case scenario, seven months.” Nobody moved, no utterance of a single word, one could swear that there wasn’t even a breath inhaled or exhaled. Addie lovingly smiled at the beautiful women who sat around her. “No.” Alicia sobbed out, “that’s not right! It isn’t fair.” “It’s ok, I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve lived a great life! I got to travel the world and meet all of you! Let’s not dwell on the sadness of it all. I just want these last few months to be the best ever and I want you all to be a part of it!” “Then the best damn months these will be!!” Alicia exclaimed, the other girls cheering in agreement. Addie couldn’t help the tears of joy that threatened to spill over at the love she felt from her friends. —- “This must be eating you alive.” Dolph said with a cruel laugh. “The hell you talkin about?” Baron could feel the anger crawling up his body as he stared at the rogue. “Knowing that Adelina would rather spend time with a lowly rogue than an all mighty alpha.” He mocked. What Dolph should’ve done was walk away at that point, but he didn’t. “In no time I’ll have her writhing underneath me, begging me for more and screaming my name! Oh yeah, she’ll be the sweetest victory yet.” Without thinking, Baron grabbed Dolph by the collar of his shirt and threw him into the nearest object. Never one to back down from a fight, Dolph got up and charged Baron, slamming him into the wall, leaving behind a huge crack in the hard surface. The sound of fabric ripping and horrible growls filled the air as both men began to shift into their wolves. However Baron, being the stronger of the two, shifted into his wolf twice as fast, leaving Dolph extremely vulnerable. Baron’s wolf stood tall with an unquenchable thirst for blood... Dolph’s blood. Snapping his teeth at Dolph, Baron crouched on his haunches, preparing to lunge, his teeth ready to rip into Dolph’s throat. “Baron, STOP!!” Before Baron could attack, Addie ran between the two of them. Her chest heaving, hands shaking as the adrenaline pumped through her body. The commotion could be heard all the way in catering. Smelling her scent, Dolph had quickly returned to his human form before Addie could reach them, keeping his secret... for now. “The both of you fighting like children! Baron, you could’ve killed Dolph!” She scolded them, angry at their behavior. Baron snapped his teeth again at Dolph, but Addie thought it was directed at her. Mustering up all her courage, she walked closer to Baron and wrapped her hands around his snout, glaring at the giant wolf. “Do not snap your teeth at me, pup!!” She grit out, releasing his jaw. Everyone watching stared in shock. Addie should be dead, torn into ribbons, but in this case, her touch calmed the beast. Baron bowed his head, his ears flattened against his head. “Look around you,” She said calmly, “Not only have you caused tons of damage but you could’ve killed anyone walking by.” “You’re right, Addie, I’m-“ “Don’t even try it, Dolph. You’re just as much to blame!” Baron snickered at Dolph’s defeated look. “The next time you two decide to have a dick measuring contest, make sure you do it in a place where no one can ge-“ She was cut off by a coughing spell, her body getting too excited by her emotions. Addie covered her mouth as she violently coughed, trying desperately to catch her breath. Once it passed she looked back at the two culprits in front of her. She then noticed the uneasy expression on everyone’s face as they stared at Addie. “Addie, sweetie.” The soft voice of Stephanie McMahon brought Addie out of her thoughts, a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I think you need to sit down.” Baron quickly shifted back into his human form, pulling on a pair of sweat pants Corey threw at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to step out of line.” She stuttered out as a very concerned Hunter joined his wife. “It’s not that honey,” his deep voice reassured her, “um, your hands.” Worried, Addie looked at her hands and gasped in horror as she stared at the blood in her palms. It was only then that she recognized the metallic taste in her mouth. Grabbing a handkerchief from Hunter’s jacket, Stephanie went to help Addie but was beaten by Baron. 

Snatching a piece of his torn shirt off the ground, he gently pulled Addie into his arms, turning away from the crowd, shielding her from prying eyes, protecting her from the world. He softly wiped the blood from her mouth and chin, her hands following after. Without thinking, he placed gentle kisses on each knuckle. With a quivering lip, she hung her head and whispered; “It’s spreading faster than predicted.” Feeling eyes burrowing into her, she quietly thanked Baron and ran from the area. Baron went to follow her, his wolf wanting to comfort his luna, but was stopped by Stephanie. “Let her be. She needs to be alone.” the water witch said as a tear slipped down her cheek as Hunter pulled her into his arms, trying to comfort his wife. 

Hunter being an older werewolf, once an alpha himself, was able to hear Addie’s talk of something ‘spreading faster’. Concentrating, he picked up the scent of cancer in her body. He had to whisper to Stephanie of his discovery.

It was no secret that Addie held the hearts of many in the WWE. She was always so happy and bubbly, she genuinely cared about everyone she met and was deemed the ‘mother hen’ backstage. She had this innate ability to see into the eyes of all she came into contact with and could always tell when someone was down, ready with a warm hug and a listening ear. The fact that she was slowly being ripped away from them felt like a knife slowly being twisted in their guts. Walking into the nearest bathroom, she splashed her face with cold water. She was so confused by Baron’s actions, him being so hot and cold. She was trying to let go of her feelings for him, but this just made them grow even stronger. Now that she was alone, she allowed herself to breakdown. She sank to the floor, pulling her knees close to her chest as she sobbed into her arms. Through this entire ordeal she convinced herself that she had come to terms with her fate. She was wrong. She cried bitter tears for the husband she’ll never love, the babies she’ll never hold and the life that she’ll never live. Never waking up every morning next to the love of her life or hearing precious little voices call her ‘mama’. Gasping, Addie was startled by the feeling of something rubbing against her leg. Looking down, there was a beautiful orange cat purring. “N-Nattie?” Addie whispered. Sitting up, the cat nodded. Letting out a small whimper, Addie scooped her up into her arms and cradled Nattie to her chest as she cried into her soft fur, Nattie licking away her tears. Finally being able to calm down, Addie wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. She smiled at the orange feline in her arms, petting her back. “Thank you Nattie.” She said as she put her back on the floor. Walking out of the bathroom, Addie felt a strong hand on her shoulder. Turning around smiling, but it slightly faltered when she saw the man in front of her. “Hey cutie, you alright?” Dolph asked as he pulled her into a hug. “No, but I will be.” She answered truthfully. “You wanna reschedule ‪tomorrow night?” He watched as she bit her bottom lip, mulling things over. “No, I wanna watch the stars still. Is that ok with you?” She asked, her eyes closed as she rested her head on his chest. “Of course! I’ll stop by your hotel room ‪around 9 tomorrow night‬, ok cutie?” Not having the energy to speak, she simply nodded. Dolph’s lips curled into a cruel smile. ‘Oh sweet, naive Addie,’ Dolph thought to himself, ‘if only you knew what I have planned.’

+++

Darling little pumpkins:

@haven-raven012591 @hanaslay @melinatedmuse @empress-with-the-crown @kittysilver86 @wrestlingfae @neversatisfiedgirl @calwitch @lost-in-the-stories @feathers-and-flesh-and-wrestling @captainwinterwriter @imagine-all-the-fandoms @hardyfangirl3 @yndaree @belsoleleann @briqueenofthenorth @finnbalorsbabygirl @nonnirenea @team-elias @houndsofjxstice @scarlettquinn

[vide0-nasties]

hi there! you're a darling, eustacia is a babe. how about 2, 3, 11, 17, 21 questions for the ask thingy? (ps. your answer to 20 question was something. i didn't know i need this imagery, god bless you *furiously fans self*)

i'm blushing irl because you called eustacia a babe, i've seriously never lived before today!!! ALSO, real talk? i'm probably going to make that into a longer standalone bc holy shit it was fun to write

asra angst at the top bc i love dying.

3. How would your apprentice handle being so close tosomething that they desperately want, only to have it ripped away? What was it?

It comes back—all ofher, she comes back. Asra’s done it—he’s done the impossible, he’s given her back to her. Only moments ago, hewas a complete, but friendly stranger, and now—now—

“Asra,” she sobs,reaching for him. He looks so relieved, tears spilling from his eyes, and hebreaks down himself, hacking up his own sob, “Eustacia, oh, shit, fuck, thank god! Thank all of them—”

He tries to bury his face in her chest, her stomach, but shedoesn’t let him. No, she drags him up and kisses him so hard they will bothsurely wear bruises.

Everything. She remembers everything. Every little detail.His hand lies flat on her chest, over the heartbeat he so excruciatingly loves,and they cry against each other’s mouths. It’s been so long, too long. Neveragain. They’ll never be apart again. She won’t let it happen.

She’ll tear apart the fucking heavens with her bare hands before he’s made to hurt again.

“The Count?” she asks, between kisses. “He’s dead?”

“Lucio’s dead,” he promises her. “He’s dead, and he’s never coming back.”

Another sob rips from her, and she’s made even stupider andmore boneless by relief. “Nadia lives?”

“Nadi lives. She’s alive, I think she’s safe.”

Eustacia draws him back against her mouth, mistaking the wetfrom her nose and the sting in her eyes as tears. But when her body begins tojerk, disobeying her will, and something trickles from her ears, and her mouthfills with the unmistakable tang of blood…

NO, she wants toscream, but she is frozen in place. Her body stands rigid as her expressiondrops and goes hollow, blank, even wrapped around Asra.

NO! NO-NO-NO! WE HAVESUFFERED ENOUGH. HE HAS SUFFEREDENOUGH. NOT AGAIN, NOT THIS, NOT ASRA. NOTASRA. NOTASRANOTASRANOTASRANOTASRA—

“Eustacia? Eustacia?!Wh-what happened, you’re—why are you bleeding? Eustacia? You…can you hear me?! No, no-no-no, PLEASE,” hepanics, and his panic turns to anger, despair, heartbreak. All of it, writtenplainly on his face, and she can do nothing but watch and scream silentscreams. Agony so intense, it might’ve shattered her beyond repair, if Asradidn’t take it back.

#’s 2 (nsfw), 11, 17, and 21 under the cut!

2. Does your apprentice get flustered over anything? Whatmake them flustered? Do they turn red? Stumble over words?

To give herself some credit—not the overblown, clownishly arrogant kind of credit a person thatthinks poorly of themselves uses to make cover for their self-loathing—Eustaciais usually the one to throw someone off-balance.

But, then Doctor Julian ‘I’m Actually Taller Than You And,Also, Look At My Lovely Red Hair, Dashing Eyepatch, And Big Pretty Hands’Devorak breaks into her shop, and ever since that moment she’s hasn’t knownpeace.

What a fucking suckershe is.

The Rowdy Raven is in rare form tonight, packed to therafters and so loud you’d be lucky to hear a thought in the confines of yourown head. The fugitive and the witch are hardly worthy of note, tucked into a far-backbooth as they are. But they’re having their own party. The masquerade is soon,and everything is up in the air, down to the wire, and all to sea.

It’s a shame Eustacia’s never had a knack for divination,otherwise she would’ve foreseen Julian’s very pleasant, and handsy mood.

The absolute filthhe whispers in her ear. It would make a seasoned brothel girl blush. But, toher credit, it takes Julian slipping his hand down the front of her pants toreally begin to undo her. She remains tucked into his side—nose-to-nose, hisarm around her shoulders—wheezing jagged, nervous laughter. Even with his gloveon, his fingers feel amazing circlingher clit.

She has to be an obscene red from her navel to her chin, andshe knows she keeps trying to bunch up like a dead spider—crossing her legs, duckingher head, hugging her middle, or tryingto. Julian’s making such good arguments.

Her laughter rises to a wild pitch, one of her hands flyingup to cover her mouth when he removes his hand and sucks her slick off hisfingers. She knots a hand in his shirt and thinks her howling laughter willrattle her apart when he kisses her and purrs, “You are the best thing I have evertasted. I really think I might die if I don’t get to hear how you laugh whenyou cum.”

11. Talk about how your apprentice deals with emotions. Boththe ones they like to feel, and what they don’t like to feel.

Unfortunately, especially for Asra, Eustacia knows she isthe sort of person that either feels everythingat the height of their extremes, or she plays numb to cover what she does notwish to display.

Her elevated moods, the good and the manic, make her brassy,brazen. Difficult to stomach for long periods unless you’ve trained yourself towithstand them. In these states she’s loud. Overwhelming. Her energy isfrantic, and she’s too lost to it to remember things like volume control, ormonitoring her mouth, or keeping her hands from being destructive when shetalks with them.

Everything is exciting, and everything needs done right now, right this instant.

Sadness, fear, anxiety—they all become anger. Her teeth andher muscles clench like her fists. Her voice bottoms out and her eyes weighheavy and unforgiving on any and all that cross her path. She stops walking,and ends up stalking, prowling. She watches empty air and waits for a fight tocome to her. When it doesn’t, she wants to look for one.

She doesn’t remember her old life, what kind of historycould happen to produce a person like she is, but she wonders how often shegave into the urge. She wonders if she ever tried to smother the impulse, killthis ugly beast with her hands breaking its neck, like she tries to do now.

When she is overtaken by anger, or clued into the vulgarityof her good moods, she pulls away from herself, putting her mental reins underan iron hand. Her incorporeal self takes a step away from her physical body,needing time and space to right herself, and her expression slips into a coolmask. Her body quiets, starting with her hands.

Only once she has made herself as placid as unbroken glassdoes she return.

17. Can they bear pain? How much pain can they bear? Do theyhate it or do they like it ala our good Doctor?

There’s something mean inside her, something ugly, and itfeels good to feed it.

This is a bar she’s never been to, and never will again. Shepours a beer in the lap of a man she’s never met, and never will again.

Her head snaps to the side when his fist connects. Laughterpipes up her throat, and a crimson bubble of blood on her lips breaks apartwhen it exits. The world blurs when the brawl starts. Eustacia splits herknuckles open on whatever they catch, throws her elbows, crushes feet with herheels, launches her knees.

Starbursts of pain make fireworks explode behind her eyes.Her nose gets broken, her brow split, her jaw rocked. Her cackle is howlingwhen she feels a rib grind together—broken. She rears her head up, catchingsight of Asra’s white hair weaving through the violence. He wades inthoughtlessly, as if he’s done this more times than he can count, a dance thathe knows by heart.

His expression is almost as murder as hers is, but itblanches to rabbit-hearted terror when she wipes her mouth on her sleeve,pushed by the crush of bodies out the door, bar brawl turning street riot likelightning.

It feels like the ocean is sliding off her body, and shestands straighter, taller, broader, as dark as an ocean trench’s bed.

She spits her blood in the face of a man that floors her,his hand eclipsing her head to slam it into the coarse pavers. The side of herhead shreds, pebbling with blood. Asra finds her again, hands glowing dangerously.He grabs the man by the nape, and Eustacia is bombarded by the stench of burnthair, laughing when her attacker screeches and wheels away.

“Get up,” Asra wheezes, taking her wrists. “You have to getup. The guards are coming—get up!”

He’s able to haul her away, her arm flung over his shouldersand her steps sometimes catching. Her head’s fogged, and she’s a littleconfused.

“I was gone for fiveminutes,” he barks. “Five minutes, and you start a riot. What were you evendoing?! What if you got stabbed?! Youcould’ve died, Eustacia—you could’ve died—!Do you know what that would do tome?!”

“Felt good,” she croaks, trying to wipe at her mouth, endingup hitting her nose and sending sparks into her vision. “Felt so good, getting—gettingthe pressure off. Don’t feel so badnow. Always feel so bad, like I’msick. It never stops.”

21. What’s their relationship history look like? What weretheir previous datemates like? Do they have a type?

At thirteen, she had her first kiss, and ever since thatmoment she was ruined. Completely andforever, in fact! When the girl that kissed her immediately stood up and left,scrubbing her mouth on her shirt and retching melodramatically, Eustacia was tooheartbroken to understand this was the beginning of a trend.

Through the rest of her teens, she would find herself drowning in romances—incredibly powerful,painfully short romances. The actualperson mattered very little, she went for all types if they spared a kind wordor a sweet touch on her.

There was a green-eyed woodcutter’s son that wooed herrelentlessly for weeks, and left her minutes after they finished fucking in hismother’s woodshed. A fellow witch in the Sisters that only met her in the dark,who went around calling Eustacia pathetic and creepy behind her back. A poetwith long, silky hair that introduced her husband to Eustacia the way wardensreleased hounds on escaped prisoners.

Her last ‘real’ romance, if you could’ve called a single onereal, was an opera singer. Renaldo Sarintoni, a man twice her age with a tenoras sweet as church bells. She’d gone to two of his shows, and after one of themhand-delivered a bouquet of roses to his door.

She’d scraped and scraped to afford those roses, and she thoughtshe might burst into tears when he ran his fingers over the petals and calledthem beautiful. What a sonorous voice you have, he marveled, do you sing?

Not much—she knew three arias and countless pub tunes—but,for Renaldo, she cleared her throat and sang a piece of a love song for him—libiamo, libiamo ne’lieti calici che labelleza infiora. The sparkle in his eyes was incredible.

That was probably her most intense love. He’d swept her offher feet, dressed her in fine things, wasted money on her to the point of embarrassment,took her to beautiful restaurants. They talked endlessly, for hours, abouteverything. She never wanted children, but might’ve had his.

Three months of otherworldly loving, until they woke up onemorning and he said, “I’m sorry. But…”

As badly as she wanted her heart to scar over and feelnothing, it didn’t happen. Left and right, she continued to fall in love, butno longer did she allow herself to wander into a place where her misshapen littleheart could get broken again. There was little to it left, and she wanted it toherself.

For a time, she fought herself, her nature, her ways. Shesnapped at suitors, laughed off ladies, and heaped scorn upon romantics that sniffedher out like bloodhounds.

And then, Asra found her.

She will end up wishing she hadn’t fought that love so hard.

[junker-town]

The Ticket

Sinners, Scalpers and the Search for God: One man’s descent into the underworld of sports

This story is being published in partnership with Epic Magazine. Names have been changed throughout.

2014 World Cup - Porto Alegre, Brazil

I ducked behind a food stand, checked my burner phone, and stashed $20,000 in my money belt. The churrasco smoke made for good cover.

A drunken choir of Dutchmen poured into the stadium chanting their national anthem. They howled over the shoulders of the riot policemen guarding the gates, the orange lions on their replica jerseys waving in the wind. The louder the Dutchmen sang, the tighter the Brazilian security forces gripped the muzzles of their automatic weapons.

The Australian fanatics were next, draped in Southern Cross flags and kangaroo swag. Soon their own inebriated chant rang through the air: Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oy! Oy! Oy!

The fans who needed tickets stood out. We called them “straights” because they stand straight up in a crowd protecting the cash they’re unused to carrying, hands stuck in their pockets, and you could make a few thousand dollars in a couple of hours if you knew how to spot them. The game was to sell your tickets for as much cash as the straights could cough up.

I had 30 tickets left with 20 minutes to kickoff. If I didn’t sell them they’d be worthless — deadwood. But with undercovers swarming the stadium, the risk of arrest swelled with every sale. Ticket scalping in Brazil carried a multi-year prison sentence, and I couldn’t speak Portuguese, so I had to be careful. Avoiding capture meant closing deals quickly and moving every five minutes. These were techniques my mentors taught me on street corners, outside the track at the Kentucky Derby, in the parking lots bordering the Masters, the hotel lobbies by the Super Bowl.

I slipped behind a well-dressed straight and whispered, “Tickets? Entradas?” He answered in the affirmative. I nodded my head toward the nearest barbeque stand. I was always surprised when people followed me, a complete stranger.

My clean-cut Mormon looks usually closed the deal, but there were also critical soft skills — a smile, counting money slowly, a somber nod — that eliminated doubt if the straights were hesitant.

I was down to 20 tickets when I spotted a repeat customer. I went over to him and nodded. He knew the drill. I slipped him two tickets. He passed me the money. We shook hands.

My clean-cut Mormon looks usually closed the deal, but there were also critical soft skills — a smile, counting money slowly, a somber nod — that eliminated doubt if the straights were hesitant.

Then someone grabbed my arm.

“Cambista!” he hissed.

The guy had jet-black hair, a leather coat, and sunglasses. I didn’t know if he was a cop, a competitor, or a disgruntled customer.

“Don’t touch me,” I said calmly.

He pulled me close and flashed his handgun. Behind him, the Brazilians working the barbeque stand motioned for me to run. I was in trouble. A cop.

The man with a gun shoved me onto a bench and unzipped my bag of tickets. His face spread with a smile.

“Cambista,” he whispered.

My repeat customer slumped on the bench beside me, hanging his head. Clearly, he’d ratted me out. In plain view, the detectives in the parking lot started divvying up my tickets. Another man reached in the front pocket of my jeans and pulled out the ball of Reals from my last 10 sales. My money belt was still hidden.

A tall man opened the back door of an unmarked car and shoved me inside. We drove along a river overhung with lush tropical trees. A cross hung from the rearview. I watched it bounce to the rhythm of potholes. Houses splashed with graffiti hugged the river trails. I doggedly fought the idea that an undercover would kill me over a few grand as we drove past kids between cars begging for money.

As the stadium shrank in the haze behind us, I wondered about Brazilian prison conditions. I wondered about extradition treaties. But mostly, I wondered what my dad would think.

1997 Final Four - Indianapolis, Indiana

When I was 12, I made a deal with my father. If I beat him in one-on-one basketball, he’d take me to a Final Four game. It was the second biggest deal I’d made that year. The first was with the Mormon church.

Twelve is an important age for a Mormon. That’s when, if you promise to obey the church’s commandments, you’re given a distinction called the Aaronic priesthood, which bestows the authority to prepare, bless, and pass the sacrament in church on Sundays.

It’s basically the beginning of a bargain: If you do what the church tells you to do, they promise you’ll get into heaven. At least, that’s how I understood it at the time. But as a lunatic sports fan, I had a very different idea of paradise.

Growing up, my father inhabited the world of my dreams: Super Bowls, Final Fours, National Championship Games. He was athletic director, and blockbuster events were networking meccas for men with entry-level jobs in college athletic departments. When he would come home, he’d unzip his luggage and hand out shirts, highlight DVDs, and Nerf balls with team insignias. Then he’d whisper with my mom about which universities had openings in their athletic departments.

Dad was good at networking. As a result, by the time I turned 12 we’d moved five times to four different states — and I eventually won the bet I’d made with him as a newly-minted priest, and he kept his word. I guess he thought that at 14 years old I was ready to see a world beyond church.

We couldn’t afford a hotel room in Indianapolis, so we split one with Dad’s friends. When we got to the Holiday Inn, his buddies Darryl and Cliff towered over a bed staring at what appeared to be piles of cash. Before I could get a closer look, my dad pulled me away. One of the men noticed.

“Probably didn’t think you and your boy would be sharing a hotel room with the Kentucky Six, did you, Pete?” Darryl said.

My dad laughed.

“Who else is in the Six?” he asked.

“Well, me and Cliff,” Darryl said. “Then there’s another guy in Lexington we work with named Pain, my two cousins, Jerry and Frank. And Redd. We’re the best ticket scalpers in the country.”

My dad laughed again. I’d never seen him laugh like that at church or around the house. I wasn’t sure what a scalper was, but Darryl and Cliff were already the most interesting men I’d ever met. And my dad didn’t dismiss them or tell me not to pay them any attention like he did when I hung out with non-Mormon kids. He was just as interested in The Kentucky Six as I was.

We woke up early the next morning. My dad put on a three-piece suit and we packed into a taxi. The cab stopped at a nice hotel in downtown Indianapolis and Dad opened the door. I wasn’t invited.

“You might have better luck getting autographs on your own,” he said. “What do you think?”

I was a gawky kid with acne. Leaving Dad to roam the city on my own sounded terrifying and perfect.

“We can watch out for him,” Darryl offered, nodding in my direction.

Dad looked briefly pained, then handed me a wad of twenties. “Alright then,” he said. “Be safe.”

Seconds after he took off, Darryl and Jerry produced a dozen bundles of Final Four tickets wrapped in rubber bands. Cliff started counting out thousands of dollars on his lap. Darryl noticed me staring, cracked a big smile, and said to Cliff, “You know what? We might be able to put this kid to work.”

Darryl noticed me staring, cracked a big smile, and said to Cliff, “You know what? We might be able to put this kid to work.”

Five minutes later, we pulled up to the RCA Dome. The University of Kentucky’s Big Blue Nation marching band was parading the streets and fans had camped out overnight to buy tickets.

“You ready for some action?” Darryl asked.

He flung the taxi door open and launched into the crowd. “Who needs tickets?” he shouted. Cliff jumped out right behind him. “Who has tickets?” he barked. Redd and Jerry followed, each hollering, “Tickets!” I ran to keep up.

The Big Blue Nation horde grew denser as we neared the ticket window, pressing in from all sides. I felt a tug on my sleeve. It was Darryl. He’d cut in line. The poor guy he leapfrogged had waited all night for his spot, but Darryl was bigger, a former high school point guard with a dangerous quickness to him.

“Here’s the situation,” Darryl said, handing me an inch-thick brick of bills. “That’s four grand.” He pointed towards the ticket windows. “I want you to get in there and buy lowers, the best available.”

I’d never seen that much money in my life.

“Like lower bowl?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Darryl said. “They’ll have a map at the window. Get half-court.”

Moments later, the blinds over the ticket windows snapped open and I slipped toward the head of the line. Then I was standing in front of a window, looking at a middle-aged woman.

“I need lower-bowl half-courts,” I said.

“That’s $1,100 for two,” she said with concern. “Those are the expensive ones. You probably want something cheaper … ?”

I counted out the money.

A sign beside the window read, “Limit 2 Tickets per Person.” But I figured Darryl had given me four thousand for a reason. In a shy Kentucky drawl, I asked, “Can I get two more? For my mom and brother?”

She gave me a kind look and slid me two more tickets.

Redd materialized and grabbed them from me. “Holy shit, you got four together on mid-court,” he said, rubber-banding them to his own stack.

Darryl appeared. “What are you doing with my tickets?”

“The kid’s selling them to me. How much, son?” Redd asked.

Darryl didn’t back down. “So you’re telling me if a kid buys tickets with my money, I have to give you the tickets?”

“He just gave me the tickets.” Redd said. “Besides, you owe me. Remember that four-pack I delivered at the Marriott? What about that, you sonofabitch?”

“Do I need to put you down?” he shot back. “Because I will destroy you.”

Redd peeled four tickets off his two-inch stack and tossed them at him, disgusted. It wasn’t an admission of wrongdoing. “I gotta pay my bills, asshole.”

Darryl didn’t bat an eye. He turned to me and held out the tickets. “This what you bought?”

I nodded.

Without a word, Darryl stormed back into the crowd. I walked down the street to a hotel restaurant and sat at a table. I still had $1,800 in my pocket.

In Sunday School, we were encouraged to imagine ourselves in different situations and ask: What would Jesus do? What would Jesus do if he saw someone stranded on the road? What if he saw someone crying alone? What if he were 14 years old and a guy as big and mean and exciting as Darryl slipped him $4,000 to buy half-court seats to sell illegally?

The waitress came over and asked me what I wanted. I’d never been to a restaurant by myself before. I grinned and ordered a Coke.

2006 World Cup - Frankfurt, Germany

For the faithful, Mormonism is much more than a Sunday pastime. The church gifts its followers detailed blueprints for a lifetime of prefab happiness, seven days a week. With a divine script to follow, there can be no doubt, no sleepless nights. And for my first 18 years, I upheld my end of the bargain, primed to accept the blessings the lord would hand down one by one over decades of obedience.

After all, Mormons like to say, it works. I watched my peers who left the fold: suicide attempts, overdoses, family estrangement. By their fruits ye shall know them. Leaving the church was unthinkable. But as I approached the grown-up milestone of serving a mission, the pressure mounted. Sunday school hypotheticals were one thing, but those who questioned the tenets of the church — or even some of the more arbitrary rules — faced severe social disapproval, ostracism, and the threat of losing precious spiritual blessings.

I questioned. And I watched with mounting distress as my peers donned short-sleeve dress shirts and headed to Paris, Plano, Siberia, Sao Paulo. In Europe, you’d be lucky to convert one Catholic, but South American missions were more like pool parties. Entire neighborhoods went into the baptismal front, one after the other. I tried to at least look forward to learning a foreign language.

But my body couldn’t take it. I’d gone to church, studied the bible every day before school, prayed, expelled hate from my heart, repented, taken the sacrament, passed the sacrament, blessed the sacrament, tithed, been baptized, gone to the temple, fulfilled my priesthood duties, and abstained from alcohol. Still, I questioned. As I approached 19, I developed Crohn’s disease, and lost my faith in God. Heartbroken, sick and alone, I decided to enroll in college and delay committing to a mission for one more year.

That’s when I met Alexis. I had staples in my stomach from having a big chunk of my intestine removed, but I walked happily walked up four flights of stairs to a friend’s apartment to get to know her. She was French. Her sacraments were wine, olive oil, art, nudity, and poetry — and I was her hopeless initiate. She’d just dropped out of fashion work in Europe. I’d just dropped out of religion. Our meeting felt preordained.

We drove up to Alaska to work on a salmon boat in Juneau. I worshipped Alexis as she laughed with lifelong fishermen, operated a hydraulic crane in a storm, and shoveled ice on the aft deck in the sun. We talked about moving to Europe. Traveling. When the season was over, we moved back to Salt Lake City and took weekend trips to Nevada to gamble away our fishing proceeds.

My parents knew none of this — just that I was living in sin, haunting casinos, and writing bad poetry. My dad arranged a lunch with Darryl at a steak place in Provo. It was an intervention, and his tool, as always, was sports.

I hadn’t seen Darryl since I was 14. He looked the same, but I looked wild, sporting a big bushy beard and shoulder-length hair.

“Looking scruffy there, sailor,” Darryl said.

“I’ve been running salmon from Juneau to Sitka,” I said.

“That’s hard work,” he said, smiling.

“How’s the ticket game?” I asked.

“We went international,” he said. “Killed it in France at the ‘98 World Cup. Did two and a half million in four weeks.”

I was impressed. It seemed a big step up from the operation I’d been briefly a part of eight years earlier.

“We’re putting together a new team for the World Cup in Germany. You interested? Or are you a fisherman now?”

Ticket scalping in Germany sounded safer than risking my life at sea — or worse, becoming a poet. My dad had given his blessing. So had Alexis. I didn’t hesitate.

“I’m in.”

Three months later, I landed in Frankfurt-Au-Main carrying a backpack stuffed with $30,000 in cash. Darryl had given me my instructions a week earlier.

“Keep the money in one bag,” he’d said. “Don’t put 10 grand here and 10 grand there, that’s just more ways of getting caught. Put it all in the one bag and don’t get it seized.”

Right. Don’t get it seized.

“And get a haircut. Lose the beard. And wear a collared shirt.”

Travelers could bring $10,000 into Europe without declaring the money. I was bringing in triple that. But I had also swapped my flannel and beard for the crisp suit and Eisenhower-era haircut of a Mormon missionary. I smiled as the beret-wearing customs agent waved me through the “Nothing to Declare” line. One cab ride later, I stood in front of a gothic apartment building that looked like it had survived both World Wars.

Darryl buzzed me in to the stash house. I followed him to a room on the fourth floor where two missionaries counted money on separate couches. A World Cup game played on a flatscreen in the background. More interesting to me was the desk with a half-million worth of tickets stacked in piles two-feet high. Darryl took a seat and pulled the cash out of my backpack. I thought he was going to count it. Instead, he dropped it into a suitcase on the floor beside him.

“First rule,” he said. “You don’t tell anyone how this business works.”

He leaned forward and glared at me.

“Ever.”

“You gotta be careful,” Darryl warned me. “A ticket hustler — unless he has heard of you, or knows who you work for — will rip you off. Don’t ever trust anyone. That’s rule number two.”

Darryl didn’t need to worry: I had no idea what was happening. I learned what I could between frenzied phone calls and chaotic bursts of activity. Sometimes we had to move product as fast as possible. Sometimes we’d hand-deliver to the straights. Sometimes we’d stuff tickets in FedEx envelopes. Mostly, we whittled down the piles by selling stacks to other ticket scalpers for cash. How the tickets landed on Darryl’s desk in the first place was a mystery.

I worked as a doorman, escorting guests from the street to the stash room. I greeted hustlers from Texas, New York, Tennessee, California, and England — listening as they argued over busted orders, chargebacks, flip-its, consignments, the board, blinks, and blowouts. Cliff, who had the build of a collegiate fullback, sat next to the desk of tickets, ready to pounce on anyone who made a false move. This was serious business.

“You gotta be careful,” Darryl warned me. “A ticket hustler — unless he has heard of you, or knows who you work for — will rip you off. Don’t ever trust anyone. That’s rule number two.”

On the third day, Darryl handed me 20 tickets for Mexico vs. Iran in an envelope scrawled with the name of a hotel and the name of a straight.

“I need you to take these to this hotel in Nuremberg,” he said.

“Where’s Nuremberg?”

“Do I look German?” he snapped. “Look at a map.”

I went to the Hauptbahnhof train station. Two hours later, I got off in Nuremberg, showed a taxi driver the name of the hotel, and phoned the client from the lobby. There was a mariachi band playing; Mexican fans were passing around bottles of tequila. As Darryl instructed, I asked to see a photo ID and had him sign a receipt. First delivery, done.

Satisfied, Darryl began sending me all over the country: Munich, Gelsenkirchen, Kaiserslautern, Berlin. I would leave the stash room in Frankfurt with a satchel of tickets and return with more than $100,000 in cash. On the train rides, I learned to authenticate tickets. Scalpers have a word for counterfeits: blinks. To avoid getting blinked, I studied the weight, feel, and shine of Darryl’s genuine World Cup ticket as the train rolled through blooming fields of hops.

Between deliveries, I listened to the small talk between Darryl, Cliff, and the crew. When other hustlers found out we were Mormon and didn’t smoke, drink, or curse, they trusted us. Trust helped cash deals operate smoothly. Being Mormon advanced the business, but it also made for a genuinely warm dynamic in the stash room. Cliff and Darryl asked after my dad, mom, brothers. They spoke about their own kids ruefully, lovingly. We talked basketball. They told stories from their missions in Europe and South America.

Then, after nearly two weeks, Darryl got off a phone call and noticed me sitting on the couch, waiting for my next delivery. Normally, he’d just hand me an envelope and tell me to hurry up. Now, he stared at me.

“Imagine this was your company,” he said, waving around the room. “What would you do?”

The World Cup was heading into quarterfinal play. Brazil was facing off against France in a re-match of the ‘98 final. It was a hot ticket. Face value was about 185 euros for a Category 1 seat. Darryl had buyers at 3,000 euros each.

“I’d try to pick up Brazil-France,” I said.

He reached into a suitcase and pulled out three bundles of 10,000 euros.

“Good idea,” he said. “Find some guys who are off the pulse.”

“Off the pulse” was how Darryl referred to hustlers who didn’t know the market and couldn’t track the surges in supply and demand. I took the metro into the city center and set up next to a strip of bustling bars with a cardboard sign that said “I Need Tickets” in English, French, and German.

Crowds of sweaty men chanted old songs at the beer gardens, flags around their necks like capes. Groups of women, shrouded in face paint, looked miserable as it dripped down their cheeks in the heat. I was wearing a polo shirt, khakis, and tennis shoes. We all wore tennis shoes in case we had to run.

I spotted four shirtless guys holding signs that read “Tickets” in French and English. They catcalled women who walked by, and their pants sagged. One had a mermaid tattoo. I was pretty sure these guys were off the pulse.

“Tickets?” I asked. “What do you got?”

Mermaid Tattoo smiled and flashed a half-inch stack. I handed them a list of tickets and rates devised by Darryl: 50 percent below market. Mermaid’s colleague pulled out a pen and crossed off all the prices, penning in numbers closer to street value. He knew what he was doing. But there was one game he didn’t cross off: Brazil-France, 2,000 euros each. I pointed. “Four.”

“Oui,” said my mark, nodding seriously. I inspected the tickets, smudging them with my sweaty thumb. The ink didn’t run: legit. I suppressed a smile as I counted out 8000 euros and handed it across the table. We shook hands, and the trio melted into the crowd.

I may as well have skipped back to the stash house. My first-ever ticket deal was set to make the company 4,000 euros. Bursting with pride, I tossed the tickets to Darryl and waited for a handshake. But I wasn’t going to get one.

“What the hell are these?” he shouted. “Come here and read this to me!”

I took the tickets back and he stabbed them with his finger. The words “Obstructed View” were printed across the middle.

“You know what that means? It means there’s a fucking pole right in front of them. Nobody’ll buy them. They’re deadwood.”

“You know what that means? It means there’s a fucking pole right in front of them. Nobody’ll buy them. They’re deadwood.”

I stood there silently, crushed. My first ticket deal, and I’d been played.

“Are you worth $10,000 to me?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Then get out of my office,” he said.

Darryl was still in a foul mood the next day. Cliff had been arrested in Cologne and the Polizei had seized all of his tickets. By the time he bailed his brother out of jail, I had prepared myself for the inevitable tongue lashing. Instead, he wanted to talk about home.

“You know, most people find God when they have a disease,” he said.

My dad had told him about my Crohn’s. My eyes welled up, and it took all of my strength not to sob in the stash room. Watching me shake, Darryl softened.

“Look, I get it. Sometimes I doubt the church and I go every Sunday. But at some point you got to give something back to your parents. My dad thought me and Cliff were losers until we hit a big lick in France. Call that rule number three. If you want to make it in the ticket game, you need to grind out enough money to earn your father’s respect.”

I was silent.

“Those French hustlers played you yesterday because you were wrapped up in the romance of the game,” he said. “I told you not to trust anyone.”

Three days later the World Cup ended and I flew home to Utah.

2010 Winter Olympics - Vancouver, Canada

Cliff and Darryl hired me full time. They could trust me with a bag of money and that was enough to overlook a five-figure mistake. For four years I worked street corners, hotel lobbies, parking lots. I darted in and out of lines at ticket windows. I was finally going to all of the events I’d dreamt of as a kid.

The danger made it all the more enticing. Every ticket I sold gave me a clearer understanding of the things people will do to fuck you over for money. There were petty tricks — blinks, fake money, bad credit cards, lying about seat locations — that could cost you thousands if you weren’t careful. Big mistakes could cost more. A busted order could cost your reputation.

Ahead of the 2010 Olympics, Cliff invited me on a trip to do market research and smuggle cash into Canada. We carried the money on behalf of our new partner, “Brent Fish”, a self-ordained concierge to the super wealthy. Fish ran an office-style brokerage in Texas offering international ticket packages through a network of country clubs. Now he needed a street presence in Vancouver. Fish agreed to cover our expenses, put up a retainer fee, and give us a backend on the profits. In return, we’d help him navigate the market, handle deliveries, and fill orders for tickets he’d already sold.

Our hotel was in downtown Vancouver. Minutes after check-in, we were circling the Olympic venues, eyeing the ticket windows. I read aloud from the Vancouver Sun as we walked: projected attendance, demand, pricing.

It was still three months before the opening ceremonies and we didn’t see any hustlers in Vancouver. Rink events — hockey, speed skating, curling — were hosted in the city but the snow events would be at the Whistler ski resort. Cliff called Darryl who said he’d call around and find out who was on the mountain.

Networking with other scalpers was an important aspect of the business. Most couldn’t resist gossiping about prices and contacts. Talking and swapping stories with them kept us on the pulse and helped us find what we were really looking for: Olympic officials selling tickets under the table.

Whistler was still open for recreation. Skiers carrying gear over their shoulders walked the iced-over cobblestone paths to the lifts. At the Olympic Village, we finally bumped into two hustlers we knew: Jessie West and Gene Hammet.

Jessie had started his career as a ball boy for the Orlando Magic — scalping tickets he got from Shaquille O’Neal — and never looked back. Gene had made a name for himself at the 2008 Olympics in Beijing by partnering with the Bunevacz family who had official Olympic ties through a hospitality company in Eastern Europe. Through the Bunevaczes, Gene procured thousands of tickets from the “vault” — a hotel room with boxes of tickets for IOC insiders only. Brokers believed he could repeat the trick in Vancouver. So Gene started taking orders — selling tickets he didn’t have yet — months in advance of the opening ceremony. He was set to make a killing.

In the spirit of camaraderie, Gene doled out burners and took us to the bank with the most generous exchange rate. Workers were stringing blue lights in the trees over the icy streets, and there was a wet snow falling on the mountains like rain. For a minute, it seemed like everything would be perfect.

It wouldn’t last. A week later, Gene’s rental car was found abandoned at the Vancouver International Airport. He’d presold three and a half million dollars’ worth of tickets to the biggest ticket brokerages in the world. But his connection to “the vault” had gone bust. When it came time to deliver, he fled, his reputation ruined and his career over for good.

That I had shook hands with Gene back on the mountain scared the hell out of me. Darryl was right. I couldn’t trust anyone.

“This baby is heating up,” Fish said.

He looked out the window of our high-rise condo. Fish had flown in from Texas with two Tupperware bins full of tickets from his concierge contacts. Prices had spiked by a few hundred percent since the news of Gene’s disappearing act broke — and having tickets in hand gave us a leg up on the hustlers who’d hitched their wagons to a man who fled the country.

We weren’t totally insulated, though. Fish had ordered about $80,000 worth of tickets from Gene and most were for the Alpine skiing downhill race — the first event. We didn’t have many options for handling refunds. Deputized to run the show, I took a wad of cash and a few pairs of emergency tickets up to Whistler to reconcile the mess Gene had put us in.

“Those customers are pissed,” Fish said as I walked out the door. “It’s going to be ugly.”

“Those customers are pissed,” Fish said as I walked out the door. “It’s going to be ugly.”

He was right. The first few clients I met at the Fairmont Hotel were pleasant young married couples, all wearing the same pairs of red Olympic mittens. Other than that, it was chaos. Brokers were promising to deliver tickets by helicopter and mothers of Olympic athletes who’d purchased tickets from Fish months in advance were promising to call the papers if their orders weren’t filled. I had to move fast. Fish’s company was recognized as an official hospitality company so I commandeered a Chevrolet Tahoe with Olympic insignia on the side and a security pass on the dashboard to finish delivering refunds to clients. Parking the rig on the curbs of the hotels, I noticed all the valets wore the same red mittens, too.

Around midnight before the event, I called the folks I hadn’t found yet and begged them to accept cash refunds or a morning delivery. These were millionaire businessmen who owned their own companies — or in layman’s terms, complete assholes. When I delivered their busted ticket orders, they spit on me, threw wine at my feet, and jabbed at my chest with their fingers. “Cash? You think I want cash? I gave you cash because I needed fucking tickets!”

But I had spotted the trends. The Olympic mittens I’d seen everyone wearing had sold out in department stores. Between events, I bought a couple hundred pairs. The day before the closing ceremony I stuffed my suitcase with red Olympic mittens, knowing I could double my investment flipping them online. And there, engulfed in the smell of unworn fresh-woven cotton and with Gene in the wind, I realized I’d finally seen the dark side of the business.

2012 Masters - Augusta, Georgia

I was running down a highway ramp with $4,000 worth of tickets in my mouth. Golf fans stuck in traffic gawked. A police helicopter swooped low against the tree line. “YOU’RE EVADING ARREST!” a megaphone blared from overhead.

It was Wednesday, the day of the Par 3 tournament — the most sought-after single-day-ticket in golf. It’s when the players relax, chat with the crowd, and let their wives and children carry their bags before the main event begins on Thursday. You could make $30K to $40K in four hours if you knew what you were doing.

But this morning, business was slow. Hustlers working corners beside ours hung their heads and smoked cigarettes. Cliff made calls, trying to find a spot with some action.

“No one’s picked up anything inside the course either,” Cliff said.

“What’s the move?” I asked.

“You want to work the ramp?”

“Sure.”

“They’ll grab you if they see you.”

“I know,” I said.

Traffic was heavy and the Georgia sunrise was bubbling pink above the highway. Face value for Wednesday passes was $50 and we could flip them on the highway for $400. But when you sold more than two passes the straights took forever to count the cash — and cars started honking. Ten deals in, I was set to make a killing when the police helicopter pegged me from above the canopy.

I chomped down on the tickets and leapt over a highway barricade into the Georgia pines. As I made for the forest, the rotor downdraft swirled the grass on the side of the road and puffed up my shirt. With the chopper blasting the treetops and cops fanning out, I dove under a fallen tree and covered myself in moss and dirt.

I chomped down on the tickets and leapt over a highway barricade into the Georgia pines. As I made for the forest, the rotor downdraft swirled the grass on the side of the road and puffed up my shirt. With the chopper blasting the treetops and cops fanning out, I dove under a fallen tree and covered myself in moss and dirt.

The sun filtered through ash trees. I heard the crunch of boots in the underbrush. Georgia had just upped the penalty for scalping. They could charge me with resisting arrest, public endangerment, money laundering — and that was before they tacked on any ticket charges. I could go to prison.

Moses received the Ten Commandments on a mountain, but I met God in a forest. As far as I was concerned, the woods were a great place to reflect. I closed my eyes. I was scared. Not scared enough to go back to church, but enough to ask for an assist.

“Help get me out of this, if you’re listening,” I said under my breath.

The whir of the helicopter receded. The boots trudged away. After 15 minutes, I peeked over my log. All clear. I jumped up, dusted myself off, and looked at the tickets. Some teeth marks, but otherwise still worth a decent amount. I exhaled and returned a call from Jessie West.

I stayed in touch with Jessie after Vancouver, and he’d recently offered to connect me with one of his contacts in London. The biggest ticketing company in Europe had an opening for a managerial position. The ticket game was changing. Kids with degrees were taking the business from street corners to computer servers while police in Augusta chased me through the woods. If I kept working with Darryl and Cliff, I’d never rise beyond consigliere. A good hustler knows when to walk away — and my days of selling by the side of the road were done.

Rolling Stones 50th Anniversary Show, Nov. 29, 2012 - O2 Arena, London

My final job interview was at a tapas bar in East London.

“Hi, Candice,” I said.

“Call me Candy.” She smiled. “White wine okay?”

She had green eyes and dyed blonde hair. Here in East London, she was “fit.”

“Essentially, your job would be taking brokers out and convincing them to put tickets on our site. You’d have a staff of three, and you’d be running your own department. You’re sure you could handle that?” she asked.

“Candy,” I said, “I might be the most qualified candidate in the world.”

She swirled her wine. Then she hired me on the spot to dress up the business I’d learned holding a sign on the highway.

Tickets International was the biggest player in Europe, one of the pioneers in connecting buyers and sellers online without ever physically possessing tickets. To start the “Last-Minute Sales” department, I was given a staff of three “supply executives”, a group of women in their 20s.

Julie was from Marseilles and had worked at the UN. Her je ne sais quoi inspired confidence. Faye was from Liverpool and armed with street-corner jokes. I was concerned about Rosie, who was from Brighton and had the look of an adorable scamp who could do no wrong. But then it hit me: In our Mormon garb, Cliff, Darryl, and I smuggled money past customs agents and outwitted police with ease. With her unassuming good looks, Rosie was actually perfect. And I had just the job for her.

Ahead of the Rolling Stones 50th anniversary show in London, I secured Tickets International a lease on a cocktail bar inside the O2 Arena. Entertainment giant AEG owned the O2 and we were illegally operating on their turf. If anything went wrong, I was fired. The night of the show, our company was hosting investors and journalists from around the world to showcase the new Last-Minute Sales department.

I took the tube to the arena with Rosie and Faye. The Underground was choked with Brits in leather jackets and gold chains. Lithographed red lips and tongues adorned white T-shirts. Mick Jagger was on the cover of every paper in the city. Last-minute ticket requests came in from all over: Tel Aviv, Stockholm, Moscow, Tokyo. I had an American phone, a European phone, a Secret Service-style earpiece connected to our bar security, and a few thousand pounds inside my black wool coat.

“Where’s Julie again?” Rosie asked.

“On a food truck,” I shouted — the tube under East London was so loud you had to yell to be heard.

“I beg your pardon?” Faye asked.

“Yeah, she’s coming into the O2 with the Stones tickets on a food truck. We’re going to sneak the tickets up the food service elevator.”

Faye and Rosie smirked.

We got off at North Greenwich and walked into a cold and foggy night. Security greeted us at the entrance to the O2, checked our bags, and waved us in. My UK phone buzzed. Julie had texted me a picture of her smiling and smartly dressed — boxes of tickets right behind her on the cocktail bar.

Reselling soccer tickets in England is considered a felony to this day.

London was a notoriously tough place to do business. In the 1980s, law enforcement had officially blamed scalpers for the rampant violence that was occurring in England’s soccer stadiums. They outlawed the trade under the logic that soccer hooligans wouldn’t be in the stadiums were it not for the men selling tickets on the corner. Reselling soccer tickets in England is considered a felony to this day.

In response, London touts bunkered operations in back offices. On my visits to these lairs, well-spoken gentlemen offered me tea. I listened to them tell stories of relatives who’d been famous bank robbers and then I’d convince them they could make more money by selling tickets online. I loved learning the market from London touts, but I hated automating the game. It ate at me. But Candy kept me too busy to think about it much.

One day she grabbed me outside a conference room. “Your department is doing quite well,” she said. “We’re going to need you to scale across Europe.”

Soon Rosie, Julie, and Faye were collecting stuffed envelopes at cocktail bars in European capitals. We smuggled boxes of tickets down Las Ramblas in Barcelona ahead of El Clásico. We operated pickups and stash rooms in hotels in Milan and Madrid for Champions League soccer matches. We ran satellite operations in Sydney for the Australian Open, in Hong Kong for the Sevens International Rugby Tournament, and in Singapore for the F1. As the girls learned the ropes, our take-home increased. Between pickups I encouraged them to buy watches and handbags to camouflage our operations at customs. Our department grew by 300 percent.

My parents had never been happier. They mentioned me at family functions again.

2013 Wimbledon - Victoria, London

“Charlatans!” an elderly British lady shouted.

Rosie and Julie fluttered around the champagne bar offering drinks, excuses, and refunds. I’d rented a high-end spot near Buckingham Palace as a pickup point for our Wimbledon clientele. But delivery had been delayed; our usually calm, courteous customers morphed into a pack of spoiled monsters. I worried we might be evicted when a waiter in a tuxedo told me I had a phone call. It was the head of the Wimbledon box office.

“We have a customer here of yours with an invalid ticket,” he said in a clipped British accent. “We needn’t remind you that what you’re doing is illegal.”

I saw clients screaming across the lobby. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

“There must have been a mistake,” I said. “I’ll send Rosie right over.”

Hours later, as the last clients left the champagne bar, Rosie rang me in a panic.

“They have me! I’m stuck in the box office, what should I do?”

“What do you mean, they have you?”

“I’m in the Wimbledon ticketing office. Security has me, and they’re calling the police. What should I do?”

“Run!”

A good hustler always runs.

Rosie got away. To reward her for her daring escape, I took her to the Men’s Wimbledon Finals. Touts we knew waved hello from their corners as we approached the grounds. Chalkboards outside all the pubs advertised Sunday roast and champagne specials. I had on a blue summer sport coat I’d bought in Paris and Rosie was wearing a white floral dress and heels.

“Hope they don’t recognize me,” she said, smiling as we entered the grounds of the oldest tennis tournament in the world.

I grabbed a couple half-bottles of champagne and two plastic flutes from a green stand between the empty grass courts. Bushy green ivy swam up the walls at the gates of the centre court stadium and we were given pins with purple ribbons to wear to show we were guests of the All England Club. I watched the eyes of the ticket takers and security guards to see if any of them recognized Rosie while we held hands and walked under the concourse.

From our seats we saw English legends, football stars, fashion designers, and old actors chit-chatting with princes and princesses inside the royal box. The ryegrass of the court was worn behind the end lines, but freshly watered. The players danced lightly on their feet, loosening their long athletic strides, warming up their swings, and judging the bounce of the ball before the first serve.

“C’mon, Andy!” Rosie shouted.

In anticipation of witnessing a proud day in their history — the first British-born tennis player to win at Wimbledon in 40 years — something spiritual welled up inside the stadium. The umpire hushed the whistling chants and the crack first serve echoed throughout the stadium. He won the first set, and then the second. Rosie clenched her fists between tie breaks. The spirit was growing and more members began to believe.

Andy won three straight sets and the teary-eyed Brits gave a standing ovation. Flags waved. With the ball boys and line judges standing in attention at the net, Andy hoisted the trophy in the air and the spirit-filled crowd burst with joy — vindicating the millions of pounds spent to see the game.

Henman Hill overlooked the Wimbledon grounds and Brits wanting to keep the party going found refuge there. I grabbed a few more half-bottles and a bowl of strawberries with cream. Plump, sunburnt tennis fanatics kicked off their shoes and twirled flags in bare feet. From where we sat on the crest of the hill, you could see the ticket office. Rosie pointed out the escape route she’d taken a few days earlier. The sun lowered over the skyline and the heat from the grass courts rose in a misty haze.

Two weeks later Candy fired me for drinking on the job. Without a company to work for, I became a hustler for hire. And hired guns had to take chances. Sometimes crazy ones.

2014 Winter Olympics - Sochi, Russia

Sochi had the feel of the communist beach town it once was. Palm trees arched over broken cement. Reagan-era, Russian-made cars were parked under blockish apartment buildings with unopposed views of the Black Sea. At night, the streets were empty apart from roaming packs of Russian policemen walking their dogs. They patrolled past Lenin statues casting angular shadows in the moonlight. It felt like if you made the wrong move you could disappear forever.

Fish thought he could make a $1M in Russia. Since Vancouver, he’d assembled contacts on the Olympic committees of corrupt countries. Estonia, Philippines, and Angola were all willing to sell under the table. Fish was also dabbling in the hotel game. He’d rented rooms on a cruise ship parked in the Sochi port and had plans to mark them up in Olympic travel packages.

We flew from JFK to Moscow with Tupperware bins full of Olympic tickets stashed in the carry-on compartments. The Aeroflot food was inedible; I drank five or six vodkas to believe Fish knew what he was doing. If our stash house got raided, Fish was my only hope of posting bail. None of my old Kentucky Six colleagues were making the trip to the former Soviet Union.

With reports of Chechnyan terrorists bannering news channels, American hustlers had decided that working the Games wasn’t worth it. Cliff scoffed at our plan. Darryl didn’t like it, either. But they helped me secure my deal with Fish: expenses plus 30 percent on any tickets I sold in the street. Cliff reminded me to try and make money on the side and look out for myself. I teased him for being scared to work in Russia.

“You can say what you want,” Cliff said. “But there is a color over there, and when you see the Russian Police wearing it, you’ll understand you made a mistake.”

“But there is a color over there, and when you see the Russian Police wearing it, you’ll understand you made a mistake.”

“A color?” I asked, slightly alarmed at Cliff admitting to fear.

“Yeah,” Cliff said. “If you see cops wearing snow camouflage — run.”

Because they’d decided to host the Winter Olympics in a beach town, the Russian Olympic Committee had to build a 28-mile road up the Caucasus Mountains for snow events. Esquire reported that the ROC could’ve saved money if they’d paved the road with caviar — provided that caviar was not also procured through layers of oligarchic kickbacks. If the corruption wasn’t enough to deter potential clients, Sochi had gone into military lockdown two weeks ahead of the Opening Ceremony as the KGB hunted for an Islamic terrorist named the “White Widow” who supposedly wanted to blow up train stations.

Once we landed in Sochi, I took a taxi to see an Israeli broker I’d done business with in London. He was staying at Zhemchuzhina Hotel, the only five-star joint in town. Workers were laying tile in the lobby.

“I don’t think you understand. The entire event is at stake here. You might not be able to sell these at all,” the broker said, flipping through my consignments.

“C’mon,” I said.

“This is supposed to be the classiest hotel in Sochi? My contacts tell me Putin is staying here, and they’re still laying tile and hanging lights in the lobby? Now? A few days before the Opening Ceremony? Look around you. They might not have built the seats in the stadium.”

Stray dogs roamed the parking lot outside of the Zhemchuzhina, where I waited for a cab. The hopes of finding high-rolling Russian clientele looked grim. I was staying with Fish at a hotel outside Sochi, where we had 40 extra rooms. The following morning, Fish opened the Tupperware bins on his hotel bed — facing the horror of losing $1M if the tickets went unsold.

On my first night out, I met two women who were performing in the Opening Ceremonies and could speak English. I hired them as translators. To drum up business, I took them to the boardwalk along the Black Sea and we passed out business cards that had the word “tickets” printed in Russian and English with a burner phone number on the back. Fish hired local kids to answer the phones. We had a small-scale Russian-speaking boiler room up and running within 48 hours.

Each morning, I stashed the previous night’s profits under hotel furniture in my room, took a shower, had a glass of champagne, and dressed in Russian regalia to blend in with the crowds outside the stadium. Around 8 or 9 a.m., I would visit Fish’s hotel room, collect the day’s unsold tickets, arrange them in envelopes according to venue, and take a train to the Olympic Village. It wasn’t until about a week in that I first saw soldiers wearing Cliff’s color of terror.

In an act of corporate sabotage, one of Fish’s contacts started double-selling tickets on the Olympic secondary exchange without telling us. These sales voided the physical tickets we’d already purchased from him. Suddenly, the tickets I was selling outside of Olympic stadiums were invalid. I only found out when a Russian client tackled me in front of the Olympic flame.

One of the Russian oligarchs embedded in the ROC had somehow won a contract that allowed him to burn off excess natural gas via the Olympic flame. It sounded like an industrial blowtorch. While the enraged customer was rubbing my face in the sidewalk, I looked up and saw a battalion of Russian soldiers in snow camouflage holding AKs with silencers.

The battalion was slowly making their way towards the commotion. The client was dragging me towards the battalion. Before the trap closed, I jumped to my feet, counted out 10,000 rubles, slapped the bills in my client’s hand, and ran.

The battalion was slowly making their way towards the commotion. The client was dragging me towards the battalion. Before the trap closed, I jumped to my feet, counted out 10,000 rubles, slapped the bills in my client’s hand, and ran.

I fled to the Adler train station — a midway point between the Sochi and mountain venues — and caught up on emails. In the midst of sending a furious missive to Fish for supplying me with voided tickets, I saw an urgent note from my mom. My grandma had died.

Grandma grew up taking horse-drawn winter sleds to church on Sundays in Idaho. All six of her children played musical instruments and served two-year missions. I was the first relative on her side of the family not to attend Brigham Young University since it was founded. All of the values she lived for were lost on me. I walked down to the shore of the Black Sea, took off my shoes, walked into the water and cried. It was time to go home. In the business lobby of the Radisson, I booked my flight at the same public computer as a band of hustlers from Liverpool.

“Tough work this, wasn’t it lad? Beats working for wages though, doesn’t it, Trav?”

I nodded and told them it might be the last time I’d see them, because there were good chances of my flight blowing up. Russia had just invaded the Ukraine, and the only flights out of town were through Kiev.

“It’s alright though,” they said. “If it blows up, ye can scalp limbs, can’t ye? Arms? Who needs arms? Legs? Ye need a leg?”

They cackled.

On my way home, I called my dad to tell him what I’d gotten myself into. I told him about working in Sochi, the bad tickets, the brushes with the police and riot dogs, and the changing nature of the game that put my career at risk. The more I told him, the more he laughed. And then he did something unexpected. He encouraged me.

He said if I wasn’t scared to sell tickets outside of stadiums in Russia, then I shouldn’t be scared to sell tickets anywhere. If I understood the ticket business, I could start my own sports company. He wasn’t an advocate of backroom deals in foreign countries, but he’d found humor in what I’d become — and opportunity.

2014 World Cup - Porto Alegre, Brazil

The unmarked car came to a stop. The taller of the undercovers threw open my door, pulled out his pistol, and re-checked the safety. An abandoned building loomed over police headquarters. Slowly, I got out of the car.

No one spoke English inside the police station. Heavy-looking undercovers stood in a corner, barricaded with assault rifles. A uniformed cop grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down the hallway into detention. There were separate rooms — divided by glass walls — for recording statements. Trying to wiggle free from the cop I saw some hustlers I knew from Liverpool and Holland. They winked and smiled. I overheard a female detective interrogating a Liverpudlian tout in a neighboring office.

“How did you get here?”

“I fuckin’ hitchhiked,” he said.

We were more than the Brazilian police force could handle. The cop tossed me onto a chair in an interrogating office while the rest of the undercovers watched the Australia-Netherlands match on a small television above some filing cabinets.

The cop tossed me onto a chair in an interrogating office while the rest of the undercovers watched the Australia-Netherlands match on a small television above some filing cabinets.

The broadcast echoed in my interrogation room. I closed my eyes and imagined the view from mid-field. I sold a pair of tickets to a Brazilian girl with long dark hair. I could smell the fresh watered grass on the stadium floor and hear the Dutch trombonists playing behind us.

A detective began peppering me with questions in broken English. I told her, in worse Spanish, that I was a fan and not a scalper. I projected the nervousness of a straight and the innocence of a kid who attended church every Sunday.

A couple hours later, I had them convinced. I had to sign a statement written in Portuguese, and they gave me back my money in a white envelope. An undercover offered to drive me back to the hotel.

When I got to my room, I took off my money belt. It was humid so I opened a window and took off my shirt. I took two tiny bottles of whiskey from the mini-fridge and poured them into a glass with shaved ice. Burner phones buzzed on the dresser. I ignored them.

I looked up “cambista.” The direct translation was “money changer.” In 2008, during the banking crisis, a bunch of traders from Wall Street showed up in Latin America with duffel bags of U.S. bills and traded down multiple Latin American currencies by hand. I looked in the mirror and tried to understand how I was in league with the types of men I promised myself I’d never become.

Summer 2017 - Sitka, Alaska

Four clients found me holding a sign and handed me their tickets. Cold mist from the Pacific Ocean hung low over the tree line of the fjords. Mountains collided along a choppy coastline. Glacier current lipped at the docks of the cruise ship terminal. I took their tickets and we shook hands. The massive crowds emptying from the ship, walking up the boat ramp in front of us weren’t chanting a country’s name, or singing, or cursing rival fans. They were whispering and snapping pictures of bald eagles.

“What are we fishing for today?” the clients asked.

In the years following the World Cup in Brazil, ticket offices around the world shut down shop. Ticket International’s London office was raided under suspicion of corporate fraud. FIFA executives faced prison time on racketeering charges. The Live Nation/Ticketmaster merger was proving to be a monopoly, and the automation of the street corner forced ticket guys to find new work or get mauled on thin margins. So I used the hospitality skills I’d learned to get back into the woods.

“The fishing is good right now. The salmon are in,” I said.

“I sure would like to catch some honkers today,” said an overweight Texan as I knelt down to tie his river boots for him.

We hopped back in the truck armed with nets, 7-weight fly rods, and freshly punched fishing licenses. Clusters of Sitka spruce towered over us, covering the sky. Brushing back the low-hanging hemlock branches, I walked the clients onto a stone washout below the bank of the Sitka river. The dorsal fins of the salmon skated on the surface of the deep pools in the bend.

“My GAWD, boy, this is where you work?” another Texan gasped, trying to catch his breath from having walked a few hundred yards.

I lined up the clients and showed them how to cast, swing, and strip their fly through the school of salmon. They hooked trees in their back-casts, and popped off flies when they hooked up, not knowing how to fight fish. One of the Texans made small talk while I re-tied a fly to his tippet.

“Now what do we do if we see a bear?”

“There’s only one rule if you see a brown bear: Don’t run.”

After the clients returned to the cruise ship I broke down the fly rods, rinsed waders and boots, and hung them on a wooden railing outside of the fly shop. I walked down the street and sat on a bench overlooking the Old Sitka harbor. Seine fishermen mended their nets on the dock, charter captains unloaded their catch in coolers, and deckhands hosed away fish blood while deck bosses smoked cigarettes and cursed the sounds of roaming sea lions.

I was counting a wad of twenties when my phone rang.

“Cliff.”

“How’s Alaska?”

“Catching salmon.”

“So you’re a fisherman now?” he asked.

“Cruise ship clients think so. I’ve already broken an Alaskan state record,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve dunked 15 clients this season.”

“Dunked?”

“You know, fell in the water and flooded their waders. I’m baptizing ‘em up here.”

“So if I go on a trip with you I’m more likely to get wet than catch a salmon?”

“It’s 50-50.”

“How are the bears?”

“I see signs of them every day.”

“Signs? What would you do if you saw a bear?”

“I have a gun.”

“If I found out you were the one in charge of aiming the gun, I’d request a different guide.”

In the face of automation, Cliff had found a new market. At the Trump Inauguration in Washington D.C., he’d gotten in with one of Kellyanne Conway’s aides, buying reserved seats at a grand and flipping them out at a nickel apiece. He did the deals in the Capitol building, and after he’d finished with Conway’s aide, he popped his head in other senate offices to see if they had inauguration tickets, too — scalping the halls of Congress.

I walked along the water to the Pioneer Bar, 1,000 miles from nowhere and one of the only places left in America where you can still smoke inside. You could see killer whales spouting in the back of the bay, hunting underwater. It reminded me of Cliff and Darryl counting money in the early morning — their shadows on hotel room walls — the work of an underworld never seen by the fans outside stadiums.

Inside the bar were long-lining captains, bush pilots, and all manner of bickering, violent alcoholics. There were smoke-stained photos of old boats from the trolling fleet and a giant golden bell with a rope swing that fishermen fresh from sea would ring to buy a round of drinks at the bar.

There was also an old deckhand named Chaz I’d worked with when I first came up to Alaska. He’d smuggled rum in and out of Puerto Rico in the ‘50s and ‘60s, and he’d sailed in and out of the Caribbean Islands before they had electricity. He’d talk about what it was like to pull up to port in a boat plugged with illegal rum by candlelight. His hands were rope-worn and weathered. And somehow, there, amid stories of risks taken and fish that had slipped through their nets, I found God’s love in the dusty light pouring through the windows. I found it in the faces of the deckhands, sleeplessness leaving their faces at the thought of their first drink. I counted out my dollar bills onto the bar, and let myself disappear. The cigarette smoke made for good cover.

[dustbunny105]

Title:  Full Offense Fandom: Lost Light Pairing: Anolug Rating: PG Word count: 1805 Summary: Lug finds herself in the midst of Anode’s nonsense yet again, but this time she’s got the wrong idea of it. A/N: I’ve been sitting on this for weeks because I didn’t want to post another fic without a title when the last fic I posted still doesn’t have a title but. Eh. I kinda really wanted to queue this before I read the new issue.

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"What we need," said Anode as she stared across the bar at a map to their latest objective, "is a diversion."

"What we need," said Lug as she stared across the bar at the heavily-armed-- and multi-armed-- behemoth of an organic who was currently in possession of the map to their latest objective, "is a new job. In a nice, quiet part of town on some nice, quiet planet."

Anode scoffed as she always did when Lug suggested settling down and threw back a swallow of her drink, face screwing up when she failed to get all of it past her tongue and directly into her throat. She gagged a little but kept it all down, leaning heavily on the table. Lug frowned at her, concerned but without sympathy. Still sputtering, Anode leaned heavy across the table and demanded, "Name one job that would fulfill us the way this one does."

Lug leaned back and crossed her arms, suggesting, "One that keeps fuel in our tanks and doesn't get us nearly killed on alternate weekends, is what I was thinking."

"We'd both be bored into stasis within a week, and who would feed us then?" Anode asked, practically crawling onto the tabletop to make up for the distance Lug had put between them. She shot a look back at their mark, who seemed to be haggling with a potential buyer, before settling her attention back upon Lug. "Listen, we've discussed this-- this job will keep us in energon for weeks, and that's after we've fixed our ship's engines-- or at least one of them. Or at least most of one of them. But not if we don't get our hands on that map!"

Making a disgusted noise, Lug leaned back even further and threw her hands up in the air, clutching for patience she didn't have. For the umpteenth time, she kicked herself for not grilling Anode about the job before going along with it. She was prepared to go into the umpteenth, "Then you shouldn't have taken the job!" lecture in lieu of having done the smart thing the first time, but cut herself off with a start when one hand collided with warm metal behind her.

Craning her neck around and then up, Lug flinched to find a glare cast down on her from a heavy-duty mech who looked as though he’d at least doubled his already substantial weight in additional armaments.

"Sorry," she sputtered, trying to scoot her chair forward and away from him but not making much headway with her feet so high off the ground, "I didn't--"

"Watch it, runt," the large mech snapped, shoving Lug so hard that she felt her back plating buckle under his hand at the same time her chest got dinged up on the table edge.

Anode's reaction seemed to happen in slow motion. She knocked back the rest of her drink without so much as a wince and tossed the glass aside to land where it may. In one smooth, fluid motion, she stood, took up her chair by its back and swung it over Lug's head. Lug didn't turn quickly enough to see it connect, but she did see the stranger stumble and fall to a knee, clutching at the new dent in his lip and pulling his fingers away pink.

Staring down at him, Lug couldn't help the thought, The furniture here sure is sturdy. Still in shock, she also couldn't help a short squawk of laughter, loud in the suddenly quiet bar.

As if she'd given a command, time sped back up. The stranger snarled, mostly engine, and lunged at Anode. The rest of the bar dissolved into chaos as though all they'd been waiting for was for someone else to strike the first blow. Lug hit the ground, careful not to look Anode's way lest her concern distract her, and hurried on her hands and knees. It was a good time to be so small, as she easily made her way between and around the feet of the other bar patrons towards the booth where their mark had been positioned.

Said mark was standing proud in the midst of the fight, two fists pounding their chest and two more holding aloft their struggling buyer while yet two more that Lug hadn't even seen punched said buyer in the head. Lug supposed that their negotiations hadn't gone well. In any case, she was far more concerned with the datapad still resting on the tabletop behind them, containing the map which Anode had started what was shaping up to be a full scale riot to secure. Trying not to pay too much attention to which pained grunts and shouts behind her sounded like Anode's, Lug risked getting her feet under her and, when the mark howled up at the ceiling in what she took to be glee, dashed forward and around them to snatch the datapad off the table.

If she'd realized they had eyes in the back of their head, she'd have been more cautious. As it was, she glanced around just in time to see those eyes narrow at her before they turned their head one hundred and eighty degrees and glared with their primary eyes.

"Excuse me," she blurted, scrambling back into the protection of the brawl.

Behind her, they roared, and the next thing she knew, the would-be buyer was sailing over her head to crash at her feet, stopping her short. Plating pulled so tight that it didn't rattle even as she shook from her engine outward, Lug half-turned to see the mark coming at her. Time seemed to slow down again, their every motion clear, but she was moving just as slow, she was too slow--

"Lug!"

And just like that, just like earlier, time sped up again. A green blur darted at her out of the crowd and then she was airborne, tucking the map away in her chest compartment and transforming on instinct. She bounced off Anode's back, systems hiccuping, before settling in properly and winding her straps tight around Anode's shoulders. She didn't have a good view of what happened next, but she sure felt it when Anode threw herself into a backflip and she felt the impact of Anode's heels on what she assumed from the grunt she heard to be the organic's chin. The world spun around her as Anode followed through, momentum not so much as hitched by the blow.

Then they were running, dodging around and jumping over the other combatants. The exhaust-thick air of outside was a blessing as the door slammed heavy behind them and they kept running. Anode twisted through back alleys and over fences with no apparent destination in mind. When at last she came to a stop, she skidded through trash and ducked into a shadow, tugging at one of Lug's straps to indicate she should get off.

"Did we lose them?" Lug gasped as she found her feet under her once again. "Did they follow us?"

"Where'd you run off to?" Anode spoke right over her, grabbing her close and looking over her for injuries. "You just disappeared-- in the middle of that mess! And you call me reckless!"

Lug gaped, then shook Anode off, indignant. "What do you mean, where'd I run off to? I was making good use of your diversion, wasn't I?" As if to prove herself, she pulled the map out and waved it under Anode's nose. As an afterthought, she added, "And you are reckless!"

"You got it?" Anode's eyes went bright and she snatched the datapad, switching it on and flipping through its contents to confirm. "This is what you ran off for?" Her smile went sly as she looked over it at Lug. "There's the adventurer in you!"

Lug's jaw worked around her bewilderment and she wondered if maybe she'd suffered some processor damage without realizing. More likely, she decided, it was Anode whose processor was on the fritz, after that brawl. She demanded, "What are you talking about? Wasn't I meant to get it?"

Anode's optics blinked through a reset and puzzlement lined her face, like it was Lug who wasn't making sense. There was no visible damage to her head, but then Lug could only see half of it and she'd always said Anode was hard-headed anyway.

"When you swung your chair at that jerk," Lug said slowly. "When you started the fight-- our diversion?"

"Diversion?" Anode muttered, then realization lit up over her. "Oh, right, our diversion!" She paid too much attention to turning the datapad off again before handing it back, stood too quickly and didn't look at Lug. "Right, of course, that’s what I did. Good teamwork back--"

"Hold it," said Lug, who was no fool despite what the company she kept-- and what that company talked her into doing-- suggested. She tucked the datapad away and put her hands on her hips. "If that wasn't meant to be our diversion, just what did you think you were playing at?"

"Well--"

"It hasn't been that long since you got into a fight," Lug insisted, "and you're not drunk--"

"He shoved you," Anode cut in, plating rippling even as her voice went hard. Her hands drifted back to Lug's chest, fingers skimming over the fresh ding and then walking around her sides and finding the newest dent in her back by touch. She leaned forward, tucking Lug against her chest, to peer at it over her shoulder. Quiet, intimate in their dirty little hiding place, she said against Lug's audial, "He dented you. You can't think I'd let him get away with that."

Unsure what to say, Lug wrapped her arms around Anode in turn, nuzzling reassurance against her shoulder. She felt Anode's fingertips open at her back, medical instruments assessing the damage. She could tell for herself that it wasn't that bad-- she just needed the dents popped out, really-- but still Anode's engine growled the low note of a predator. Lug tightened the embrace, silently imploring Anode not to dash back and finish what she'd started, before pulling away and shaking her off again.

"Come on," she said, taking Anode's hands in hers, the retreating instruments tickling her palms, and urging Anode to her feet. "Let's go to work."

Anode nodded and rolled her shoulders, casting a glare back in what Lug supposed was the general direction of the bar before twining her fingers in Lug's and heading off in what Lug hoped was the general direction of their ship. The fight they'd left behind echoed in the air, or maybe it was just that bad of a neighborhood.

"For what it's worth, if someone had struck you," said Lug, grinning at the eye ridge Anode quirked at her, "I'd've cheered you on so hard while you beat them silly."

[terencehawkins]

STONE COMMUTATION, PORTLAND: THINGS ARE GOING WEIMAR

The recent commutation of Roger Stones’ s sentence triggered the usual fruitless speculation about the “strategy” behind it. Generally, the current incumbent of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is no more capable of thinking beyond today than an Adderall-crazed lab rat desperate for another food pellet. But there is something behind this, and it’s not what the commentariat generally thinks.

LOYALTY? HA!

The immediate, and most obvious, explanation for this politically risky move was that Trump was paying back his loyal consigliere for years of service and, more importantly, keeping his pie-hole shut. Nonsense. On the first point, Trump is famously incapable of loyalty, gratitude, or any other emotion that doesn’t result in cash or an erection. As to the second, Paul Manafort was similarly laconic, yet remains in Federal custody, albeit now on home release.

Hmm. Why the distiction?

THE DIRTY TRICKSTER

Roger Stone has built his latter-day career as a self-professed “dirty trickster.” One stops for a moment to ask why he says so out loud—do spies put “spy” on their business cards?

But leave that aside. Let’s turn for a moment to Stone’s arc. He started out in politics as a Nixon campaign intern—he famously has Tricky Dick tattooed on his back, which no doubt would have proven a point of interest, if not a spooge target, in the showers had he actually begun his sentence—where he carried out some amusing low-grade antics in Nixon’s service. He parlayed that into a career as a K Street lobbyist in the 80’s, where his partner was—what? Paul Manafort. Despite the appeal of these nesting Ukrainian dolls, let’s take a look at the irrelevant, albeit extremely entertaining, interruption in his political career.

in 1996, Stone was a consultant with GOP Senator Robert Dole’s Presidential campaign. That hit a tabloid wall when it was discovered that Stone and his second wife had taken out space in a swingers’ magazine looking for an “exceptional well hung in shape men” for threesomes.

To be clear, Stone was advertising for men to fuck his wife while he watched. While Trump’s GOP may be cool with that, Dole’s wasn’t. Despite frantic deployment of the Trumpian tactic of blame-shifting—Stone claimed that the usual “disgruntled employee” with a “drug problem” had somehow coopered all this up—-his conservative political career appeared to be done. (He finally admitted the truth in 2008.)

Despite his ouster from mainstream politics, Stone’s public malice continued unabated. For example, he organized the celebrated Brooks Brothers Riot that disprupted the 2000 Florida recounts; has been accused of forging the 2004 Killian Memos that called into question W’s military service but, when proved fake, ended Dan Rather’s career; and was involved in the prostitution scandal that ended the political life of New York Governor Elliot Spitzer. And all the while cultivating a public persona as Best Dressed Man of 1939.

GET ME ROGER STONE

Stone’s bizarre and squalid career was famously documented in a 2016 Netflix film, “Get Me Roger Stone.” The burden of the title was, in part, that Stone wanted to be the guy you called when things were totally sideways and the only way out was to stick some dead male escorts in your opponent’s bed. A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for, right?

And that—in part, maybe—is what the commutation signifies. Or so argued GMRS producer Dylan Blank in a recent NYT op-ed.

See, even though he rages and kicks at his campaign staff like Henry VIII in a neurosyphilis seizure, whatever rational part is left of Trump’s brain recognizes that he is in very deep electoral shit. Which shit exposes him not only to the ultimate narcissistic injury of a landslide loss, but worse, the existential threat of post-Presidential prosecution for himself and his family. He just can’t afford to lose. Thus he reasons that in order to prevail in this battle of all against all, he needs the help of the dirtiest dirty trickster he can get—Roger Stone.

Hence the commutation. Trump needs Stone’s help.

But is that all?

BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE: THE PROUD BOYS

Trump’s reliance on this Homburged freak may be based on something else as well. Since 2016 Stone has cultivated an association with the Proud Boys, a ”Western Chauvinist”—i.e, white nationalist Islamophobe fascist—network of street fighters founded by Gavin McInnes, who in a move whose reasons defy inquiry, sought to refute claims of homophobia by sticking a dildo up his ass in a TV interview. (Click here for images you will not be able to unsee.) The Boys’ initiation includes getting the shit beaten out of them while reciting pop culture trivia and taking a pledge to limit masturbation to once a month—particularly burdensome in view of the rudimentary social lives of most alt.right bros. In addition to these entertainments, the Proud Boys have engaged in a lengthy campaign of public violence and intimidation, including an appearance with their fellow very fine people at Charlottesville in 2017.

Stone’s engagement with the Boys is not merely casual. He is, in fact, an affiliate member, having sworn the Boys’ oath not to apologize for creating modern civilization. (I am not making this up.) In return for the sheen of “respectability” Stone has lent them, the Boys have served as bodyguards, escorting him to and from his frequent judicial hearings and proclaiming his innocence from the courthouse steps. In chorus.

Is it a coincidence that Trump sprang a right wing thug with a following of street-fighting fascists? Incidentally, note the fellow on Stone’s left, in the buttoned-up polo? That black-and-gold shirt is the PB’s unofficial uniform.

CONNECTING THE DOTS

So let’s see. We’ve ruled out gratitude or loyalty as motives for the commutation. What does Trump need from Roger Stone that he can’t get someplace else? His expertise in the political black arts doesn’t pass muster—he’s not the only asshole in Washington, or these days, nor even the biggest. And let’s not forget that Trump is more than willing to recruit aid from shithole countries happy to remake America in their own image. So no, there’s nothing about Stone’s skill set that makes him indispensable. So what does he bring to the table that Trump wants?

Just this weekend, Trump tipped his hand. Deploying masked, anonymous federal troops in unmarked vans to Portland, with the blessing of his lovable roly-poly Interior Minister Barr—who’d previously okayed the use of tear gas against peaceful protesters so Trump could waddle across the street for a photo op— was the warmup for his election day ace in the hole: full on street violence. Weimar style.

Voter suppression has been the centerpiece of GOP election strategy for decades. It’s unavoidable—as "The Wire’s Baltimore mayoral candidate Tommy Carcetti noted, his hopes were slim because “I wake up white in a city that ain’t.” A party of old white men in an increasingly brown country faces an obvious, existential challenge. One it will ultimately lose, of course, but until then, it can eke out a few more good cycles, with their resultant Federalist Society judges, regulatory rollbacks, and hedge funder tax cuts. But only by making damn sure that minorities don’t vote. Especially in swing states.

Previously, the GOP had played what now seems like softball—gerrymandering, closing polling stations in minority districts, sowing confusion as to the election date. But that won’t work this time. Trump’s response to plague and racial crisis and his plummeting polls has thus far been to flounder and howl like a manatee chopped up in the prop. But in the clutch, unconstrained by any respect for norms, terrified by the prospect of post-presidential prosecution, he’s going to toss the GOP playbook and move with the Nazi.

The Brownshirts, or SA, were Hitler’s paramilitary before his 1933 seizure of power. They were beerhall bullies whose job was “security,” ostensibly protected the Nazi leadership at their public events, in reality intimidating its leftist opponents. It played a critical role in the elections of 1928, 1930, and 1932, showing up at the polls to fight Communist supporters and blocking access to voters in left-leaning districts. And of course, after Hitler was securely Fuhrer, they were the principal executors of the Kristallnacht pogrom.

So here’s what’s going to happen. On Election Day, in urban polling places in swing states, Proud Boys are going to show up as “pollwatchers.” And as soon as black and brown people start showing up in numbers, they’re going to start kicking ass. It doesn’t have to happen a lot. It doesn’t have to happen everywhere. But it will do a lot of damage to turnout. And the thing about Election Day is that it’s just one day, and no do-overs, full stop. So whatever damage is done can’t be undone, ever. So a second term secured by street violence can be reversed only by impeachment. And we know how that went.

Think it can’t happen? See below. Especially the last line: “You still think you can control them?”

[familylightfox]

@reflections-of-mobius asked:

“Am I the only one out of all of us who doesn’t get floofier when certain criteria are met?” It was a random question- suddenly voiced as it struck the fox. Volt could enter his feral or monstrous states (both of which Node considered ‘extra floof’ modes), Bless became a werehog at night…and them?- Nadda. “…n’ no, I’m not countin’ shampoo.” They nuzzled between their two partners with a quiet groan. “…least fluffy…” A small pout formed on their muzzle. They weren’t genuinely concerned about it- more playfully disappointed.

While not exactly a statement that Volt was expecting, he had to chuckle at the soft grumbles from his partner that followed. There were still a few hours in the day left before the sunset, and so he considered things for a moment before slipping one arm around Node where they were sitting.

Of course, the arm hadn't remained its normal size.

Fur darkened and grew, or maybe that was just the muscles underneath it. The soft chuckle deepened ever so slightly as the hybrid shifted to be better positioned to scoop them up and draw them into the fluffy barrel chest.

"Guess this means I'll just have t' share some o' my fluff with ya."

[jodyedgarus]

25 Years Of Super Bowl Halftime Show Lineups, Ranked

On Sunday, tens of thousands of rabid football fans will descend upon Atlanta for Super Bowl LIII. They will consume lots of alcohol. They will paint their faces. They will scream and howl as the Patriots and Rams engage in brutal 22-man warfare with the highest possible stakes. Oh, and about two hours into this, they will all pause everything to watch a 12-minute Maroon 5 concert.

The Super Bowl halftime show has become the spectacle within the spectacle. It used to be filler entertainment while the players hydrated and tended to their wounds. Now it serves a higher purpose. It is about world peace, joy, introspection and even grief. It’s also sometimes about giant metallic lion puppets and dancing sharks.

How are we to interpret these hopelessly silly, desperately hopeful rituals? By ranking them, of course. At FiveThirtyEight, we don’t have the technology to make slideshows, but we do have math and a history of applying convoluted methodologies to questions that don’t really need answers. So let’s get started.

Methodology

First, we need to manage expectations: We are not ranking halftime performances, rather the sheer star power that the NFL assembled on stage each year. We’ll talk about how the shows went, but only in relation to their artists’ success on the Billboard Hot 100 chart before the Super Bowl. Our methodology favors shows with many artists because they’re more likely to excite an audience diverse in age and musical interests. Purists may have enjoyed the simplicity of seeing The Who perform without any interlopers in 2010, but anyone who wasn’t excited by a few 60-something British rockers playing their decades-old hits was left with bupkis.

We chose Michael Jackson’s 1993 halftime appearance as the starting point for our analysis. His performance — widely considered one of the best — is the beginning of the modern halftime show. Viewer ratings for the 1993 show exceeded ratings for the actual game, and a blueprint was formed for years ahead. To get a sense of how MJ changed the game, note that the previous year’s show included a salute to the 1992 Winter Olympics and a bunch of kids performing a rap arrangement of “Frosty the Snowman.”

To measure the success of the featured artists — excluding cameos from the likes of Jessica Simpson, who kicked off the 2004 show by asking the audience to “choose to party” — we created a metric called Performer Points. Our methodology for calculating these points is simple:

Artists are assigned points for each of their songs to make the Billboard Hot 100 list since the list began in August 1958.

A song appearing at No. 1 is worth 100 points.

A song at No. 100 is worth 1 point.

We count each week separately, so songs rack up points for staying on the chart.

Performers listed as the main artist on a track get full credit.

Featured artists or guest vocalists get only one-third of the song’s points.1

Performers get one-third of the points from their former band’s hits. That means Paul McCartney gets only a small boost from hits by the Beatles. The weights compound, so if an artist’s former band was merely featured on a song, the artist gets one-ninth of the song’s points.2

If any of that seems confusing, let’s look at an example featuring one of this year’s performers, Atlanta rapper Big Boi.

When we add up all the points, we can see how successful the artists were for every Super Bowl. Here’s what that looks like for the 2019 halftime performers.

Super Bowl LIII nets a respectable 65,065 total Performer Points. That’s seventh on our list of best Super Bowl lineups since 1993. We’ll see whether that translates to a memorable show on Sunday, but the past five years could give us a sense of whether our methodology has any predictive power.

  Rankings

It’s easy to dunk on the Black Eyed Peas, and their uninspiring halftime show in 2011 didn’t make it any harder. Fergie, will.i.am, Taboo (!) and apl.de.ap (!!) closed out their headlining set with “Where Is the Love?” on a giant stage shaped like, you guessed it, the word “Love.” The only problem was that part of the letter “v” was literally missing. Now at least we have some data to back up what everyone was thinking the next day: Usher should have headlined. By 2011, he had already reached Billboard’s top 103 with 14 tracks, including classics such as “My Boo” and “U Remind Me.” Usher went into the halftime show with almost twice as many Performer Points as the Peas, and though he performed one of his weaker hits, “OMG,” he still managed to hit every cue, leaping over will.i.am’s head and into our hearts.

I have a confession: I’ve always thought of the 2012 halftime show as “the one with Nicki Minaj.” Looking at the chart, it’s clear there’s recency bias at work — Minaj has become unavoidable since 2012. But at the time of the Super Bowl, her only top 10 hit4 was “Super Bass.” Madonna, on the other hand, stands on top of our individual power rankings with more than 59,000 Performer Points, thanks to her trove of hits dating back to the 1980s. Credit to Madge for almost single-handedly dragging this riot of grecian beefcakes and vogueing into the top five — Katy Perry and Lady Gaga could never.

I’m glad to see our formula isn’t totally set on picking shows from the past 10 years. The “Salute to Motown’s 40th Anniversary” in 1998 had all the intergenerational appeal that Madonna’s show was supposed to capture. The choreography seems a little hokey by today’s standards, but I could listen to this medley all day. Queen Latifah brings it, The Temptations sound fantastic, Boyz II Men gets a solid ballad in, Smokey covers all the old bases and Martha Reeves is so harmlessly, indescribably awful that you can’t help but smile knowing that social media didn’t exist back then.5

Super Bowl L — er, 50 — was billed as Coldplay’s performance, but the NFL let halftime show veterans Beyoncé and Bruno Mars “crash” it. This was a blessing for anyone not named Chris Martin. Both guest stars had more Performer Points than Coldplay, and they stomped away with the show. Beyoncé, dressed in a black leather homage to the Black Panthers, debuted6 “Formation” right there on the field and reminded us of just how powerful this 12-minute musical interlude can be.

We didn’t tweak the weights to get Nipplegate this high up, I promise. You can see on the chart why it’s such a good show. Janet Jackson was an appropriate headline pick, both in length of career and volume of hits. Nelly and P. Diddy were established emissaries from the rap genre, which the Super Bowl has rarely invited on stage. Justin Timberlake had teenybopper loyalty from his *NSYNC days and a new, prurient edge as a solo artist. And Kid Rock was … also there. Of course, nobody remembers anything about this show other than the words “wardrobe malfunction,” and I don’t think any chart could change that, so let’s leave things there.

You may be wondering where your favorite halftime show falls on the list. As we mentioned above, it’s a rough measure of the excitement people might have felt before the show began — Prince may be the best performer ever to take the halftime stage, but if you weren’t a fan, then there wasn’t much to anticipate. On the chart below, you can see how all the artists compare.

All the data we scraped also allows us to answer one final question: Which artists should the Super Bowl reach out to for the 2020 show? Assuming the league is aiming to please a range of viewers, we can grab the top 10 artists by Performer Points for each decade since 1990, as well as from the past two years for the Gen Z audience.

Drafting a Super Bowl halftime show fantasy lineup

Artists with the most Performer Points, by decade

1990-1999 2000-2009 2010-present 2017-present 1 Mariah Carey Nelly Drake Drake 2 Madonna Beyonce Rihanna Post Malone 3 Boyz II Men Ludacris Nicki Minaj Cardi B 4 Whitney Houston Kanye West Taylor Swift Kendrick Lamar 5 Janet Jackson P!nk Bruno Mars Khalid 6 Celine Dion Usher Maroon 5 Ed Sheeran 7 R. Kelly Rihanna Katy Perry Migos 8 TLC 50 Cent Chris Brown Imagine Dragons 9 Elton John Nickelback Lil Wayne Bruno Mars 10 Toni Braxton Alicia Keys Justin Bieber Halsey

Gray text indicates that the artist has already performed at a halftime show, that the artist has died or that a member of the group has died.

Unlike in the rest of the analysis, points earned as a member of a musical group do not count toward an artist’s individual points.

Source: Billboard

Drake would be the biggest get here for the NFL. Starting in May 2009, Drizzy held a spot somewhere on the Hot 100 for 430 weeks straight. Since 2010, he’s amassed 83,898 Performer Points. The closest runner-up in that table is Rihanna, who collected 48,153 points during the same period. If halftime producers haven’t already approached Drake, they’re sleeping on him.

It’s impossible to know who on our list has talked with the NFL. Stars are rarely as open about Super Bowl negotiations as Cardi B was this year, when one of her representatives told Page 6 that “she was not particularly interested in participating because of how she feels about Colin Kaepernick and the whole movement.” (Rihanna also reportedly declined to perform because of her support of Kaepernick.) Taylor Swift, for instance, seems like an obvious candidate. But she has shilled for Coca-Cola — a relationship that could be at risk if she were to perform in the halftime show that Pepsi has sponsored for seven years running.

Whomever the NFL picks next year, the pressure is on. Asking Maroon 5 to headline a show in Atlanta, a city abounding in talented rappers (Big Boi is the only homegrown artist on the bill), resulted in a social media backlash, and a petition with more than 100,000 signatures has urged the band to drop out to demonstrate solidarity with Kaepernick. USA Today even went so far as to publish an obituary for the halftime show as a cultural institution.

That seems a little premature to me. The Super Bowl has evolved before and could do it again. What used to be a variety show writ large, with inscrutable themes,7 Elvis impersonators and card tricks eventually embraced the market-certified success of singers like Michael Jackson and *NSYNC. The collective shrugs following picks like Coldplay, Justin Timberlake and Maroon 5, which has the second most Performer Points of any artist on our list, may herald the end of that era.8 The league has clearly taken note of this year’s controversy, announcing that the pregame press conference with Maroon 5 would not take place so that the artists could focus on their performance. What might come next for the halftime show is anybody’s guess, but one thing’s for certain: Everyone will be watching.

All images courtesy of Getty.

from News About Sports https://fivethirtyeight.com/features/25-years-of-super-bowl-halftime-show-lineups-ranked/

[familylightfox]

Just a cute little something for @reflections-of-mobius of Volt being sneaky with his partner Node. And the resulting revenge from both his partners that night~

Slowly but surely, I have been testing new brushes and canvas sizes to find the perfect ones that help me not feel overwhelmed and stressed about drawing.

Free to Reblog/Do NOT Repost

Node & Bless belongs to @reflections-of-mobius/@toshinoris-spouse Volt belongs to me

[familylightfox]

@reflections-of-mobius asked:

The darkness was deep, but not altogether unwelcome, tonight. As the three mobians laid in bed, little more than a tangled mess of fur and limbs, Volt might find himself receiving a small nip to the ear. There was no pain intended behind it- not enough force to hurt, just the gentle drag of teeth along the edge from Node, followed by Bless humming as he kissed the hybrid's cheek. Not a word had been exchanged between the two when they began- and there was little intent to stop in either's soft ministrations. His neck, his ears, his cheeks...anywhere that was near them, the two were content to peck and 'nibble', soft purrs rumbling in either throat. What better way to end a long day, than with soft cuddles between loved ones?...even if a few of those little pecks and nibbles had a bit of a deeper intent behind them. There was a faint murmured 'love you', caught somewhere in the air between gentle affections. Had Bless and Node asked Volt to be the center of the fur-sandwich tonight on purpose...? Yes. Yes they had.

A small part of him knew that this was going to happen. After the stunt pulled earlier that day with Node and the occasional teasing he did to Bless. It was only a matter of time before his partners would get revenge.

It just so happened that it was when they had laid down that night.

The soft breath against his ear had been enough to get a shiver, and the red tipped appendage quivered against Node's lips. He'd barely had a moment to glance in their direction when the kiss came to his cheek.

Now he understood why they had asked him to be in the middle tonight. Another shuddering breath escaped from his parted lips as Bless moved along his jaw and neck. That teasing tongue slid along his pulse. Between the two of them, it was no wonder his muzzle was flushed red as quickly as it was. One hand gripped Node around their back, claws accidentally tearing the fabric of their shirt as the other buried itself within the werehog's quills.

As if he could somehow pull either of them closer to him. Their muffled words of affirmation against his fur earned soft calls of their names from his parted lips. His eyes went from one beloved to the other, trying to reciprocate the affections where he could.

But if one thing was clear. They planned to make a right mess of him that night. And he was perfectly okay with that.

[familylightfox]

@reflections-of-mobius asked:

Harmony had definitely started off Christmas with a bang- Bless and Node couldn't have been more overjoyed about the mugs they received- but of course, the two still had presents of their own to offer Volt and Harmony- after all, they'd been waiting quite some time for this. "I promise, I stayed in this universe this time..." Node grinned slightly. "But it was temptin'...." They pulled their gifts for Volt and Harmony from behind their back (given the lack of space there, one could only assume they'd teleported the gifts). One nearly appeared like a giant tootsie roll, the tag reading 'for the Power Duo'. The other two- stacked on top of one another- were relatively small boxes. "The big one's from both Bless n' I..." "And don't think I didn't get you guys gifts, either!" Bless disappeared for a moment- a soft breeze blowing from where he'd been standing. He returned in nearly no time at all- grinning. There was the briefest flicker of nausea in his eyes, but it was gone in a moment. "--maybe that was a few too many turns, yet...still...!" He breathed out. Two boxes were offered- a rather small one to Volt, and a slightly bigger one to Harmony. The 'Power Duo' roll, when unwrapped, was revealed to be two scarves- one purple, and one a fluctuation between shades of blue. The purple scarf ended on either end in small, lighter-purple (nearly pink) lightning bolts, twisting into the fringes at the very bottom. The shaded blue scarf nearly seemed to start bright at the center, darkening gradually, before fading to near-black at either end- with matching crescent moons surrounded by faint stars. "...we figured we could all go out some time...y'know---...in all the scarves n' whatnot." Node smiled lightly. "...had t'request these t'be made, since Bless n' I..." "Let's just say I'm not nearly as good with a needle as I am with chisels or gouges..." One of Bless' ears flicked. "But it'd be really fun to learn!...then I could actually make you guys scarves, next year." And it'd be a way to spend time together- the thought of which made his tail wag. "Oh yeah- open it!" Bless was by Volt's side when the hybrid went to open the small box he'd given. Inside...was a bracelet, carved from petrified wood- with a rather smaller 'watch face'...on which was a carving in the wood- the impression- of two hybrids, a hedgehog, and a fox. "....your powers knock out most tech, and I figured my regular stuff would burn...so...I spent some of my downtime practicing with petrified wood. That way, you could have something of us- no matter what happens." "...I know Bless n' Harmony go t' the mines together every now n' again, so I thought... 'Why not a rock tumbler'?" Node chuckled quietly as Harmony opened her gift from them. "Though thanks to you, I have an idea for what to get you for your birthday next Halloween, Harms." They grinned good-naturedly. "Annnnd I couldn't stop myself." Bless hummed as Harmony opened her next present. Like Volt, she'd received another carving- this one made of varying types of wood- a dark espresso for the back, black and antique cherry wood making up a small clearing in the 'woods', with country pine for a sky up above...it was a carved image of the woods that everyone had camped in half a year past. "You know me- can't help but carve...well. When I'm on a running diet, anyway." The small box for Volt contained two stones- one that was a swirling mixture of brown and red, the other, a fuchsia shade. Node's tail moved back and forth on the couch. They couldn't resist for a moment, leaning over to nuzzle Volt's cheek while Harmony and Bless were busy in what seemed to be a battle of who could hug harder. It wouldn't surprise Node if the two tried to turn it into a match of some sort. "...I saw them while we were out shopping one day, n'...well. They reminded me of you." Node chuckled quietly. Underneath the stones was a single, small piece of paper. [Thank you for being part of our lives, Funke.] [Merry (belated) Crisis (or Happy Holidays!)]

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

[OOC: And A Merry Yule to you as well]

Despite having been dating for a while now, Volt still was occasionally surprised by his partner's ability to teleport items like that. Seeing them suddenly appear had raised his eyebrows, but his smile matched that of his daughters as they took them and set them carefully on their laps.

Father and daughter took to opening the one for both of them first, eyeing the scarves before taking them in hand. The craftsmanship was familiar and he looked up with a smirk. "What did ya bribe my mum with for these?"

It was a tease, knowing full well that Node had only needed to mention who they were for and Heidi would have gladly put down her projects to work on them. Anything to spoil her adopted son and granddaughter. Harmony had already wrapped hers around her neck and was snuggling the soft yarn with a wag of her tail.

"They're perfect. And this means we can go out later and get dinner at the longhouse." That sounded like a perfect way to break in their new gifts. Bless with his scarf and Node with their new jacket she had seen her father get them. But now she moved on to watching her father open his gifts. Violet eyes looked over the bracelet as his fingers gently moved over the engraved 'watch face'.

Since the hedgehog was right beside him, it was easy to turn his head and place a soft kiss to the tan cheek. "I love it."

And he proved that by carefully getting the bracelet over his bare organic wrist. The added bonus of giving him something to fiddle with on days when he was dealing with the lost feeling of no longer wearing his regulators. As he opened the small box, his arm looped around Node when they joined him on the couch. A quick little cuddle in thanks for the stones.

"They're beautiful love." He nudged their nose together. "But I think I should be thankin' you 'n Bless for lettin' us into your lives."

With her father distracted by his partner, Harmony took to opening her gifts. The rock tumbler was going to be getting plenty of use. So much sea glass and smooth gemstones could be made into jewelry with it. Already her mind running rampant with ideas of what to make. But it was Bless' gift that had her eyes widen.

Who could forget the awesome camping trip they all took together. It looked so amazing and the teen already had the perfect spot in her room to put it so it would be safe and she could look at it whenever she so chose.

"Thank you so much!" The teen set the gift to the side, to make sure it wouldn't be damaged before she pounced on her pa in a hug. Volt had managed to stifle a small snort at the sight, mainly when she picked Bless off the ground to win the hugging match.

[familylightfox]

@reflections-of-mobius asked:

Both the mobians awoke with a start, hearing Volt's scream right before the night light in the room flickered and died. They didn't even look at each other as they rushed from the bedroom, making their ways downstairs towards the currently-electrified hedgefox, tiredness replaced with concern and worry.

"Volt??" Node took a step closer- keeping just enough away to avoid getting zapped.

"Did something happen?" Bless' inquiry came second. "....are you okay?" He had noticed the electricity, one of the few sources of light in the now-darkened inn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He hadn't meant to wake them. They had been so busy in their own Zone for so long that Volt wanted them to be able to have the time to relax and recover. He should have known that an outburst like that would draw their attention.

Red tipped ears flicked at the approaching steps and the hybrid's gaze rose to look at his partners. The moment Node had taken a step, one hand was raised as if to ask them to stop, then quickly returned to what would possibly be seen as hugging himself.

As if that would somehow contain the sparks that continued to arc along his fur.

"I-I'm okay. Just..." A breath was taken to calm himself, softly glowing violet eyes moved from Node to Bless before he continued. "I'm okay.. Just had a disagreement... Kinesis is.. a bit unstable... I'll be fine...

"Jus'... Don't touch me right now."

[familylightfox]

@reflections-of-mobius asked:

"...I...think I've got a day setup?....I tried t'be careful about distance, since I don't know how well I'll be able t' teleport after..." Had it consumed a good chunk of their day, sorting it out?... A little, yes. Node had also taken care to look up everything they could do after- and it seemed they wouldn't be able to do much- not for two weeks after, anyway. But...they'd feel better about themself. "Seriously,...thank you, Funke." Node nuzzled Volt's arm. "...I'd probably have t'wait several months, if not for you n' Augustus..." "Chicken's nearly done....so, what's the time?" Bless glanced over from the oven. There was also a bloodied chicken breast on the counter- lightly seasoned, but not all that cooked. "...'bout two, in the afternoon. I'll head there probably at one,...or noon...or...earlier..." Node trailed off with a small grin. When given a time frame, Node tended to either forget entirely,...or arrive hours ahead of time.

"....you guys know me." A hand pressed to either's back, trying to pull the two close and give them both a side-hug. "...love you two..."

Volt had wondered where their partner had been for most of the day, but it had been answered enough when they returned to the living room that evening. Even Harmony had picked her head up from where she had been using her father as a pillow to smile. Of course, she'd been filled in on what was happening and had already made plans with her friends to tag along as moral support.

"I was plannin' on usin' my Warp Ring t' get us there and back. Long as Dad can give it a charge before we left." Emerald eyes glanced at the transformed hybrid and smiled when he nodded. As Node approached, she moved so he could also get in a good cuddle with them.

"Anytime... Liebe~" He licked their cheek and ran a hand through their bangs. The smell of the chicken on the counter had drawn his attention earlier, but now it was on his partners as they set up a plan for the day in question.

Some part of him wanted to tag along, but his current state probably wasn't the best idea to take out in public.

Another playful lick was given in affection as they hugged him, shifting to a gruff sounding laugh as Harmony proceeded to lift all three of them off the ground for a hug of her own.