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duskyashe · 1 year

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NaNoWriMo Day #24

[masterlist]

Prompt found here, thanks to @mewzaque and @stealingyourbones

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Dani couldn't stop giggling, no matter how hard she tried. The memory of the last time Joker had tried terrorizing people was a great one, and she'd never not laugh at the thought of that clown getting pied in the face, but she really loved getting one over on Red Hood. There was just something about the guy that made her feel confident enough to really let her prankster side out. She didn't want to put a name to it, though, so she shook the thought aside and got back to work.

This was going to be her masterpiece, nothing was going to top this, and best of all? She wouldn't be making life all that difficult for him, considering he can and does swing all over the place every single night. A little more swinging to find a few misplaced (but guarded, she wasn't stupid, she didn't want to lose them lose them, just hide them for a bit) tires wouldn't hurt the guy. Now, if she could just stop giggling for a few seconds, she'd be able to get this tire off and Hood's bike would be—

"This has to be karma. This has to be, there's literally no other explanation for this," came a man's voice from the mouth of the ally, startling Dani into nearly dropping her tire iron. She looked up and found herself meeting the covered eyes of Gotham's resident antihero. "Hey kid, you got a plan for those tires, or d'ya got some kind of beef with me?"

She was so shocked, her mouth kind of just... flapped uselessly for a few moments. How—what—wasn't she invisible?! A quick glance at her hands showed that, nope, she apparently was very visible. At least she was "dressed down" and not all ghostly, she still had a chance to talk her way out of this looking human. Though, in order to talk her way out of this, she kind of had to actually do some talking.

Red Hood sized her up briefly before taking a knee. "Hey, if it's something against me, you can take it up with me, you don't have to jack my tires to get a message across. If you need the tires for something else, then tell me, and I'll help you find a different way of getting it, one that doesn't have you jacking tires in the middle of the night. Sound good?"

... a guy that big and threatening should not be able to sound that soft and safe. Jack Fenton was never soft, he was loud and brash, or he was louder and brasher, but if he was quiet, it wasn't a soft quiet. It wasn't a good quiet. Vlad was never safe, even when she thought he cared about her. Clockwork was manipulative, and while he cared about both her and Danny, he... Didn't have the same perspective on things as they did. In her experience, tall, physically imposing men were not soft, and were not safe. The fact that everything in her screamed Red Hood was capable of being both of those things, was being both of them right now, on top of the unnamed thing that made her confident enough to even try half the things she'd done since "meeting" him a few months ago? It scared her. It scared and worried her. She'd only ever felt this way about someone once, and there'd been a very good, very logical reason for that one. She was Danny's clone, she was as close to a perfect clone of him as anyone was going to get at this point, of course she'd feel safe around him after she stopped trying to kill him! Red Hood... There shouldn't be a reason for her to feel so comfortable and safe and understood and welcome—

Slack hands lost grip on the tire iron as something wet trailed down her face. She felt welcomed here; in Gotham, sure, but in Red Hood's presence, especially so. That... Danny felt like that. Danny and Jazz, and eventually Sam and Tucker, but mostly Danny.

Arms wrapped gently around her, lightly tugging her closer but not demanding. She followed. "Hey now, shhh, it's gonna be alright. I'll help you, whatever you need, alright?"

Dani couldn't help but laugh slightly hysterically at that. "Can you take down an abusive, corrupt billionaire who isn't entirely human? Can you dismantle an illegal, government sanctioned lab? Cuz life would be much better if you could." If I could...

"Kid, who do you think I am?" Red Hood said with a thin veneer of amusement barely covering his concern and anger. "If I can't do it on my own, I've got connections who can. You give me the slightest bit of proof for either of those things, I'll give you a status update in a few days and results in a few months, at most." He rubbed her back soothingly. "But neither of those two things would be solved by jacking my tires, and there're better ways to get my attention, as well," he said lightly, tone implying he'd be giving her a look if he could.

Dani flushed in embarrassment. "I was... kind of... trying to play a prank on you," she muttered into his warm leather jacket.

Red Hood was motionless for a long moment, causing Dani to start tensing, before his shoulders started shaking. It started small, and honestly she probably wouldn't have noticed if she weren't still being held like a little kid, but soon she could hear him stifling his laughter. "Oh gosh, this is karma. I can't—hey kid, you got somewhere safe to stay tonight? I've got some friends who'd love to meet you."

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HAPPY (belated) TURKEY DAY!!! Have some Dani and Jason fluff! Don't mind the light sprinkle of angst sauce, it's just a garnish, it's nothing too vital (⁠ ⁠´⁠◡⁠‿⁠ゝ⁠◡⁠`⁠) at least, not yet ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

I successfully managed to get through all of today without a single breakdown! I did take a two hour nap after the big meal, but everyone ended up waiting almost that long before having dessert, anyway, so I didn't really miss anything too important (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠) food was good today, company was, too. I hope y'all had a good day, whether you celebrate Turkey Day or not (^⁠‿⁠^⁠)

I don't have much to say about this ficlet, except for the fact I might continue this at some point 乁⁠(⁠ ⁠•⁠_⁠•⁠ ⁠)⁠ㄏ no clue, but I do see a lot of potential for this!

Have a good morning/day/night!

#danny phantom #batman #fanfic #dc x dp #dp x dc #dp crossover #dp au #fanfiction #nanowrimo 2022 #NaNoWriMo Day 24 #Dani is lonely and didn't realize it #but Jason is in a good place with Bruce and himself now #and he wants to adopt this little black haired blue eyed punk of a girl who tried to jack his bike tires as a prank #so he's going to pull a Bruce lol

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mythgirlimagines · 3 years

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Come on down to the Animal Care Emporium, and meet this week’s talentswapped Myth! This is Myth, the Former Ultimate Breeder! ———-—��—————————————

BACKSTORY AND TALENT

Myth lived a lonely childhood with hardly any friends and a family that hardly gives her the time of day. However, Myth found solace in the stray animals that she regularly meets in her backyard and grew to love their loyalty and humbleness, something that many people in her life never even gave to her. Unfortunately, the lives of her pets were fleeting, and they regularly died, leaving the animal-loving girl heartbroken. This prompted Myth to find out all she can about animals, in order to help them. After school, she’d volunteer at animal shelters and veterinarian offices to learn all there is to know about animals, their behaviors, and their needs. Her growing expertise on animals reached its peak when Myth blew her employers out of the water with her care in handling and breeding animals to become stronger and longer-lived, and eventually opened a hybrid vet’s office and pet adoption center. This is what caused Myth to become the Ultimate Animal Breeder, although she’d much rather be called the Ultimate Animal Expert. Let’s just say that Myth encounters quite the odd number of customers during her workdays.

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RELATIONSHIPS

Wyre Anon, Graduated Reserve Course Student

Wyre was Myth’s first (and for a good portion of her life, only) human friend, also sharing an interest in animals (particularly dogs and lizards), much like the animal breeder. In fact, Wyre even kept the pet Blue Tounged Skink (which they named Blue, after the famous velociraptor) that Myth gave to them, as a sort of present for passing their Reserve Course exams. Unlike their talented friend, Wyre ended up going into Hope’s Peak as part of the Reserve Course, and ended up graduating in order to become a paleontologist. Even as young adults, the two girls’ friendship is still as strong as ever. In fact, Wyre loves to volunteer at Myth‘s animal center in her offtime, and Myth appreciates the extra pair of hands.

Outfit: Eyeglasses, a brown blazer over a messily-buttoned white dress shirt, brown pants, black shoes and socks, a paw-print necklace that Myth gave her.

Anon Scar, Ultimate Nurse

Scar is one of the most prolific nurses in the local hospital, despite her age, and for good reasons. Scar graduated from a prestigious medical school with honors, and made national headlines, because of her sheer intellect and sheer skill at all things medical. Her “Demon of Life” routine makes her a massive hit with sick and injured children. But that natural intellect came with a downside, for she was prone to stress attacks and sleep deprivation, during many parts of her career. After one too many, her employers suggested animal therapy, and this was how Scar ended up at the animal center and ended up adopting a black and wild-haired guinea pig that she named “Francois, Soldier of Life”.

Outfit: The mask, gloves, scarf and boots from her original design, hair cut to her shoulders, a long black overcoat over a purple sweater and matching pants, has a stethoscope around his neck.

Fusion Anon, Ultimate Gymnast

Unlike what his bony and gigantic frame would suggest, Fusion is famous for his skill in gymnastics and parkour, making him a several-gold-medal champion, that was even chosen to represent his country in the Olympics. Fusion always wanted a pet, but couldn’t get one for two reasons: because of the terrible financial situation of his family, and his intimidating and looming frame (and his unnatural stances he performs regularly) just scares off any potential pets. No matter how hard the breeder and gymnast tried, all of the animals just cower away at the sight of Fusion. That was until Fusion happened upon a fellow flexible outcast in a red-eyed albino ferret, that he eventually named Slinky.

Outfit: Bandages on his nose and arms, a blue and yellow sleeveless hoodie, red and black fingerless gloves, red and blue sweatpants, red, blue, and white sneakers, glasses from his original design.

Fusion Anon II, Ultimate Traditional Dancer

As the only child to a heavily-traditional family, Fusion II is very skilled in the art of traditional dance, and seems keen on reviving an otherwise dead mode of entertainment. Despite living in a very traditional family and her classy and feminine appearance, her snarky attitude and her love of modern internet culture, makes her far from your typical Yamato Nadeshiko. Just like the similarly named Fusion, Fusion II eventually adopted a younger albino ferret, that she named Kamaitachi (after the famous weasel from folklore), and she regularly slung Kamaitachi over her shoulders and strutted around with pride. But much to the dancer’s confusion and anger, the ferret seems to respond better to Slinky Jr..

Outfit: Hair in two small braids with a red flower accessory, a blue and silver kimono with a pink obi, white socks and tall geta sandals.

Just Anon, Ultimate Photographer

In spite of his sporadic and sparse uploading schedule, Janon is well-known for his scenic and downright photography that brings tears in the eyes to anyone gazing upon them. When he is not trekking the globe looking for places to photograph, you would mostly find him lying in bed or, if he’s not in bed and is far away from it, resting in whatever convenient spot he can find. Janon originally crashed at Myth’s animal center purely to sleep on a comfortable bench, but all of that changed, when a bunny scurried up to the lazy photographer and snuggled up next to him. And that was how Janon ended up with a new travel companion, named Lil’ Shizzdoodle.

Outfit: Same as the original, but with a Polaroid around his neck and the hair tied out of his eyes.

Sparkle Anon, Former Ultimate Swordswoman

With a bedazzled suit of armor she wears on the daily combined with a loud and boisterous tone of voice and a love for the histrionics, it’s very hard to not miss the presence of Sparkle Anon, who is revered amongst many circles for her expertise in only the most brutal of swordfighting tournaments. Needless to say, even Myth was a bit scared off by the suit of armor proclaiming in a loud and booming voice that she needs an animal companion that‘s as spectacular as she is. The only animals that were attracted by her suit of armor happened to be an animal the complete opposite of her aesthetic: a crow, that the swordfighter eventually adopted and named “Galahad”.

Outfit: A blue sparkly suit of armor with the cape from her original design, and a steel scabbard that houses her prized sword.

Egg Anon, Former Ultimate Yakuza, and Wet Sock Anon, Former Ultimate Mechanic

Considering what family they come from, and their generally fearsome and cursed personalities, it would make sense not to cross them, for Egg has expertise in all kinds of weapons and torture methods, and Wet Sock can lift an entire car and has quite the attachment to and collection of knives. For some reason, Egg fashions themselves as a sort of “mother hen” to the tens of hundreds of birds in the animal center and they all just flock to them, while their twin is the opposite, in which the animals of the center simply detest the mechanic. Myth is really confused as to how the yakuza can have control over all the birds, but Myth simply views as a conversation starter with them.

Egg’s Outfit: Hair shaved on the right side, a green pinstripe suit over a white dress shirt and a yellow and red striped tie.

Wet Sock’s Outfit: Hair shaved on the left side and brown goggles on their head, a black t-shirt over blue overalls, boots and gloves that match their t-shirt.

Curious Anon, Jr. Ultimate Musician

Famous for playing rock music for individuals of only the highest of classes, Curious has a dignified yet punk air surrounding them, which makes sense considering both their personality and the type of music that they play: this odd mix of classical and punk rock. Although they specialize in the electric violin, they can also play the guitar and keyboard. Surprisingly, despite their rough appearance and music, animals simply flock to them, whenever they play, and Curious is simply all too happy to let the animals fall and land on top of them. They eventually ended up getting a Rose-Breasted Cockatoo imprinted on them, that they named Amadeus, based on group consensus.

Outfit: Long and wild mid-back length hair with strips of hair dyed random colors, a red and black overcoat with long coattails over a white dress shirt and a fluffy white cravat with an emerald in the center, white gloves, a black cummerbund, white pants and tall black boots.

Anon Nerd, Former Ultimate Team Manager

Because of his loud and harsh demeanor, coaching only the most professional of athletes is right down Nerd’s alley. Unfortunately, years of coaching defiant and lazy athletes would definitely wear thin on anyone’s patience, and that is definitely the case with Nerd, who is now hot-tempered and foul-mouthed from spending so much time around said defiant and lazy athletes, often taking all his pent-up rage on anyone who even slightly inconveniences him. Because of these experiences, Nerd prefers loyal and obedient animals compared to humans, and got particularly close to a fast and loyal greyhound. But he’d die before admitting that, and especially to the irksome yet adorable animal breeder.

Outfit: A red and black tracksuit with grey stripes and matching shoes, scouter from the original design.

Eldritch Anon, Ultimate Lucky Student

Despite being given the title of “Ultimate Lucky Student”, Eldritch considers himself far from lucky. Ever since Eldritch was little, he’s been haunted by extreme luck on both the good and bad ends. Because of all the traumatic events that are a result from his bad luck, Eldritch adopted a skittish, paranoid, pessimistic and very superstitious nature, and collects and hoards luck-bringing items and wears them everywhere that he goes. Eldritch seems to have the opposite problem as Fusion, for animals love him, but he’s very afraid of them, and wants to avoid them at all costs. Well, every animal apart from a two-legged, one-eyed, fertile, male calico cat, that he named “Hopespot”.

Outfit: A green hoodie over a black sweater, ragged white leggings with black spots, brown boots with white fluff, has good-luck charms and bandages on every part of his body.

Dream Anon, Ultimate Animator

Famous for being the big name behind just about every big sports anime in recent memory, such as “Volleybros” and “Dance Journey” (which were inspired by two of her favorite physical activities, volleyball and dancing respectively), Dream is a master animator famous for her fast drawing and animating speed and her ability to draw gripping action scenes and write only the most lovable of athletic high schoolers. Dream’s energetic and cheery demeanor means that she needed a pet to match that, and she eventually settled on a fluffy and energetic little Syrian Hamster that she named Wilson. Some people noted the similarity in appearance and demeanor between the owner and pet.

Outfit: A grey ski cap, a blue and orange vest with several patches on it over a pink sweater, black artist gloves, orange shorts and red, blue and grey sneakers.

Iris Anon, Ultimate Chef

In spite of being merely a middle schooler (and a pretty clumsy one at that), Iris is the star and beacon of warmth and positivity of her parents’ family diner (known as the Shooting Star Family Diner) and is revered as a great chef by anyone lucky to try her signature dishes, particularly the “Star-Steak” and the “Galaxy-Curry”. Unlike the rest of the regulars at the animal center, who come to the adoption center, Iris frequently goes to Myth‘s veterinary clinic with her pet dog, Roxie, in case the dog gets hurt or sick. The two girl‘s bonded over their energetic and earnest demeanors and their shared love of dogs. In fact, Iris is currently trying to make pet food to give to the animals at the center.

Outfit: A white chef’s outfit with a galaxy-patterned bandana around her neck, and a blue apron with the logo of her diner on the front.

Purple Anon, Ultimate Gamer

Despite what her polite demeanor and heavily formal and outdated vocabulary would suggest, Purple is actually an online gamer who tops the charts of any game that she happens upon, particularly fantasy-themed turn-based RPGs. The timid attitude and busy schedule of the gamer meant that she needed a quiet, low maintenance, and normally placid animal, and a purple betta fish managed to catch the gamer’s eye. She chose only the finest glass fish tank that her influential parents could afford, and named the brightly-colored fish “Iridescent”. Myth may have trouble understanding the gamer, but she’s happy that she satisfied both the animal and the customer.

Outfit: Hair that reaches her tailbone, a black ski cap, purple headphones, a black hoodie over a white dress shirt and a red and purple tie, a skirt that matches her tie, black stockings and purple and white Converses.

In this AU, as opposed to the Kibo-Con, the Anons all meet up at Myth’s animal center, and Myth helps them find the perfect animal companion for them!

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PERSONALITY

In order to compensate for her lonely childhood, Myth adopted the outgoing and cheery personality of the world travelers, animal experts and animal rescuers that she watches on TV all the time. These eccentricities of her’s don’t stop her from being a practical expert in all things animal, and she is a respected researcher in the world of zoology. Because of her isolated childhood, Breeder!Myth is rather naïve when it comes to subjects of conversation apart from animals. Breeder!Myth has an inhumanly high empathy, which makes it hard for her to eat meat without thinking of slaughterhouses and inhuman torture. This means Breeder!Myth is a vegetarian, an avid animal rights activist, and someone who has a real connection with animals and what ever they need, showing empathy for even the weakest and most hopeless little whelps in the shelter. Nicknames for Breeder!Myth include “Modern Dr. Doolittle”, “The Beast-tamer”, and “The Pet Whisperer”.

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APPEARANCE

Breeder!Myth wears her brown hair down and wears a cerulean hat with cat ears and yellow dots for eyes. Breeder!Myth wears a green jacket with brown pawprint designs over a brown dress shirt and a bi flag bandana around her neck. Her short overalls are a darker green compared to her jacket, her socks match her jacket and her shoes are white with pink cat paws on the bottom.

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I hope you like this talentswap! I’d love to hear your opinions on them! In the meantime, stay safe and stay tuned for more content!

-Fusion Anon

#cute lol #submission #anon #fusion anon #talentswap tuesday #art #not my art #anon kg #fusion anon ii #iris anon #just anon #curious anon #sparkling anon #eldritch anon #purple anon #dream anon #anon nerd #anon scar #my evil twin

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atamascolily · 4 years

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lilyliveblogs “terminator 2″ for the first time, part 2

When we last left off, I was a pile of shipper goo, so time to get back to the movie.

(Part one here)

Someone -- the female doctor we saw before who looks kinda like Sarah? -- watching the video, smoking. I think I can see how Sarah is going to escape now. Oh, wait, it's Sarah, with Dr. Silbermann, watching herself on screen. The two asshole guards are in the background. Her hair's combed. She's subdued. Silbermann is still a jerk.

She wants to see her son. Silbermann's not going to let her, is he? Asshole. She denies crushing a Terminator, their existence, claiming Cyberdyne covered up the evidence. Cut to '90s computer nerds in their cubes, doing experiments that are probably going to trigger Judgment Day. Like you do.

They're doing experiments on "it," and new employee wants to know where "it" came from, so Dyson the manager can tell the audience. "Don't ask," is the answer. Everyone's wearing clean suits, which can't be good. There's a door with two keys that needs two people to open it. Yeah, this really can't be good.

Showdown at the Cyberdyne factory with whatever Terminator goes rogue in here??

Cyberdyne has built a safe for that one little fragment they got from the original Terminator... maybe there are more in different jars; it's a really big vault. Yup, there's the arm. The manager stares at it, and you can see the muscles in his cheek twitch as he contemplates it. He's probably going to die by strangulation at the hands of the Terminator if this movie keeps up with its dramatic ironies.

Of course Silbermann won't let Sarah see her son, so she tries to strangle him with his own tie.

Arnold on a motorcycle spies John Connor on a motorcycle, and the game is on!!

I'm like... 90% certain that's the Los Angeles River that John Connor is cycling down... because it's channeled and running through LA and barely has any water in it and everybody LOVES to film there... going to wiki that later...

Fake police officer asking girls for info about John. They're also delightfully '90s. John is an the arcade, delighting in his ill-gotten funds.

Terminator has disguised his gun as a... box of roses? Did I see that right?

John is playing a fighter simulation that is SO MUCH A CALLBACK TO THE OPENING SCENE WITH ALL THE SHIPS TRYING TO KILL THE HUMANS.

The police dude ASKS THE PUNK FRIEND shows him John's photograph, and the friend says "Nah, I don't know him," BECAUSE HE KNOWS BETTER THAN TO TRUST THE COP. Of course this gets John's attention and they run. And then the friend tries to point the cop in the other direction, but the cop just shoves him aside.

(I'll say this much for the punk friend: he tried. He was a good friend.)

LOL, the fact that John Connor knows better than to trust cops is what saves him. Otherwise, he'd've been a sitting duck. Except he runs right into Arnold...

Arnold flips over the rose box, revealing the gun, and it looks like all hope is lost as the cop comes around the corner... and Arnold tells John to get down and shoots at the cops. His first line in the movie.

When this movie first came out, I bet the audience FLIPPED THEIR SHIT at this twist, but I was a) kinda tangentially aware of it from pop cultural osmosis and also b) that fake cop guy was HELLA SUSPICIOUS, so I'm just like... yeah!!! Because the only way to top being hunted by Arnold was to either a) BE HUNTED BY MULTIPLE ARNOLDS, or b) HAVE ARNOLD ON YOUR SIDE, and of course they went with the latter, because WHY NOT?

the cop's hit but gets back up, John is freaked out, and we the audience realize SOMETHING'S UP. A poor bystander gets murdered as the Terminator uses himself as a human shield to save John, who is screaming...

Arnold busts him into the voltage room out of the way and we have a Terminator on Terminator shoot-out, which is kinda incredible, except that Arnold has a bigger gun, so he gets to keep shooting while the police dude tries to recover from the impact.

That moment where the bullet holes are all silver-y as the police guy re-heals himself, and the CGI is obviously early '90s, but still quite effective and horrifying. And then he gets back up and they start grappling and going through walls AND NOW THEY'RE IN THE '90S MALL, OH MY GOD.

John Connor, not surprisingly, gets the fuck OUT. I wonder if Sarah told him what the Terminator looks like, and if he's surprised to see it defend him?

THE LIQUID METAL TERMINATOR LOOKING AT THE SILVERY-SKINNED MANNEQUINS IN THE MALL DISPLAY OH MY GOD.

LOL random dude snapping photos with his SLR he just happens to be carrying around.

John's motorcycle won't start for reasons of DRAMA, lol.

God, this new Terminator can run freakishly fast, it's inhuman.

Of course no one is going to question a cop chasing anyone, sigh...

(I feel like this movie works eerily well for social commentary in 2019 on SO MANY LEVELS.)

The running terminator runs up to a moving truck and tosses out the driver and keeps driving... wow.

ok, this is all great, but I really want more Sarah, where is Sarah in all this, will she ever talk to another woman in this movie PROBABLY NOT. How about more Kyle Reese flashbacks/dream sequences, can we have those? I am but a simple soul.

Okay NOW there's a chase scene in the Los Angeles riverbed.... that little tiny rivulet in the midst of all that concrete is the river. SOB.

Well, I gotta hand it to the human resistance for sending a Terminator after another Terminator, but it also works because JOHN CONNOR LIVED THROUGH THE EXPERIENCE AND REMEMBERS WHAT THE HELL HIS FUTURE SELF DID... timey-wimey paradox ball...

OH MY GOD THAT LEAP AS ARNOLD'S MOTORCYCLE LEAPS INTO THE RIVERBED. No wonder this movie is so frikkin' famous.

John Connor's bike getting run over by the truck is SO a callback to that tiny little toy truck getting run over by the Terminator in T1...

I like how the police Terminator is so focused on John Connor to the exclusion of ignoring the other Terminator unless he's actively in the way. The intensity in his blue-eyed stare is FANATICAL and inhuman and I love it because it's so gosh darn creepy.

Arnold shoots out the truck's tires, and it catches on FIRE. i love how arnold is prepared to shoot anything that comes out of the flames, but they've bought themselves at least a little time. Of course the CGI silver man comes out of the flames as soon as they leave and melts back to normal. He looks like the frikkin' Oscars statue, only silver.

Even his clothes regenerate back on, which raises interesting and troubling questions as to WHY since he couldn't just re-generate his clothes back on when he came out of the sphere, he had to steal them. I have no clue why this is.

Of course, Arnold and John stop in an alleyway to have their conversation. JOHN KNOWS THIS IS A TERMINATOR, OH MY GOD. (Do you think he feels bad for bad-mouthing Sarah earlier now??)

I think Arnold's talked more in this scene than he did in the entirety of T1, lol. The irony of him being John's father-figure now is just priceless, really.

John handles this much better than Sarah in T1, precisely because this is pretty much EXACTLY WHAT HIS MOM'S BEING TELLING HIM FOR AGES, so at least he has a FRAMEWORK for weird shit like this.

John Connor fighting alongside his own father and re-programming a Terminator to BE HIS OWN ADOPTED FATHER FIGURE OH MY GOD. No wonder he's so fucked up.

Arnold: "The T-1000 would definitely try to re-acquire you there." John: "You sure?" Arnold: "I would."

BAM. That's cold. I love it.

They go to a phone booth, and John doesn't have any quarters because he used them all at the arcade. He's going to try to warn his foster parents because he's not a complete asshole, but I... don't think the T-1000 is interested in killing them? Like, they already cooperated with this dude because he was in uniform. John doesn't seem to GET that not everybody responds to police the way he does.

Arnold slamming the machine to get more quarters is AMAZING and the look on John's face is PRICELESS. Also, parallels to his robbing the ATM earlier...

John's foster parents have a German shepherd that won't stop barking, oh this isn't good... the foster dad doesn't like the dog, which is further proof he's an asshole.Oh, wait, it’s John’s dog, this is probably the same dog we saw with Sarah at the end of T1 or its successor, ahhhhhhhh.

I really feel for Janelle. I feel like she's stuck in a relationship with this asshole Todd, and she deserves better and she's probably going to die, and I'm gonna feel bad about it.

Then we hear a gun cock, and she sticks her arm out, and we realize that holy shit, it's the Terminator mimicking Janelle's face as well as her voice, just like the Terminator did with Sarah's mother in T1, and we realize THAT's why she's being so OOC to John over the phone...

Arnold takes over the call and starts mimicking John's voice. John just stares. I think he's starting to get it.

The T1000 doesn't know the name of the dog. Arnold hangs up and tells John his foster parents are dead. Well, fuck. At least Janelle is dead. Too much to hope that the T1000 didn't just tie her up in the spare bedroom and Todd will find her later after "Janelle" goes to look for John? Sigh.

Nope. No luck. Todd is dead and the T1000 has shifted its arm to be a FRIGGIN' SWORD. Fuck, I didn't know they could do that.

This is supposed to be played as black comedy, but it's just horrific, really, even if the dude was an asshole.

Okay, I get it, the T1000 didn't steal the original cop outfit, he just mimicked it? along with the appearance? That's why he only took the gun. Only the earlier models needed to actually steal clothes.

Oh, good, we cut to Arnold explaining all this to John. Thanks, Cameron!

Oh, and now the T1000's going to kill the dog, right? Because it can. Sigh. And the dog's name is on the collar, so it knows that John knows that it wasn't really Janelle on the phone OR it was talking to a Terminator instead. Clever. Poor doggie. IT WAS TRYING SO HARD. IT DESERVED BETTER.

Sarah is being shown photos of the original Terminator from T1 from the security footage at the police station. Apparently, they saw him on mall footage, too. The police are mad that Sarah has no reaction and I'm like... you spent years telling her she was crazy, and NOW you want stuff from her?? Sigh. Is this the drugs that are responsible for her apathy or is it something else? I think she's contemplating her next move...

Silbermann being an ASSHOLE about it...

Honestly, not sure I blame Sarah for not cooperating given how she's been treated thus far... she knows from experience that even the most well-meaning officers are functionally useless against a Terminator because they don't really GET IT.

But she gets a paper clip. And knowing Sarah, that's all she needs to pick a lock and GTFO.

John says he grew up in Nicaragua as Sarah studied from paramilitary officers throughout Central and South America. He uses the word "shack up," which implies Sarah traded lessons for sex, but I hope... she found some sort of comfort there? It's clear from her hallucination she still desperately loves Kyle. SOB.

John realizes he's been an asshole about Sarah all this time because she WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG. The whole theme of this series is that pretty much everyone except for Kyle TOTALLY BELIEVED SARAH WAS CRAZY, so it's nice to see John finally back on track again. He's younger, so he hasn't been indoctrinated into the patriarchy quite as hard as everyone else in this movie.

of course they're going to go try to bust her out, but she might be out on her own by the time they get there...

But of course the T1000 is going to try to get her so he can copy her and he's going to kill her after that, because that's standard operating procedure. I'm not sure how a T101 would necessarily know that, but maybe he ran into some in the future before he was sent back? Whatever, it sounds plausible.

"Fuck you! She's a priority to me!" YEAH, JOHN, YOU TELL 'EM!!

I like how all these random muscle dudes are all coming over to investigate when John starts shouting about being kidnapped... only to be so confused when he blows them off. I'm sure the T1000 will be around to question them later, of course.

Oh, T101 is programmed to obey John Connor... even the younger version. LOLOLOLOL.

John is such a little shit. YOU CALLED THOSE PUNKS OVER TO HELP YOU, WHY ARE YOU BEING SUCH AN ASS NOW? All you had to do was say "Look, sorry, just a misunderstanding, we're good," and MOVE ON instead of this Macho power trip.

(I take back what I said about John and the patriarchy, btw.)

Oh my god, the random dude who tried to help his friend gets SHOT, WTF JOHN, THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT, YOU STARTED THIS!!!

In which John Connor learns that Terminators are NOT toys. DAMN STRAIGHT YOU LITTLE PUNK.

Of course the police can get into the state mental hospital without question. The guard doesn't even check ID or ask questions, just waves him through. (It probably saves his life, though.)

AAAAAHHHH, the creepy guard is assaulting Sarah when she's strapped down eww gross please no. I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't anything more graphic than him licking her face. She can't react because she's got the paper clip in her mouth.

(Kyle Reese would be so proud of her right now.)

Ahh, it's night, but everything's so brightly lit. This is going to be freakin' beautiful action scene.

Sarah ties her hair back! This is a symbolic gesture, of course, and a practical one, but also a huge question for me: what is she using for a hair tie? No way they gave her one... what is she improvising with?

AHHHH THE T1000 IS IN THE FLOOR HOLY FUCK THAT'S CREEPY. And that's how he acquired the guard when the guard walked over him. WOW.

So the gun on his hip when he originally shifts is a fake? It's part of him- because the T1000 can't make weapons. So he has to take the guard's gun. I think that's what happened?

It's going to be really hard for me to mourn when that asshole orderly that's assaulted Sarah gets what's coming to him. The only question is whether Sarah's going to get him first.

GOD SARAH CONNOR KICKING ASS IS SO SATISFYING. First the dude who assaulted her, and then Silbermann. Karma's such a bitch, isn't it?

John in his naivete order the T101 not to kill anybody, so he just shoots the guard in the legs instead. John, you'd better be more careful with your wording there....

Oh, goody, another underground parking garage...

Sarah comes face to face with the T101... awkward. She runs away before she sees John, only to get tackled. But the T101 comes to her rescue.

The female guard is the only one to bother him by knocking his shades off, lol.

AAHHHHHH THE TERMINATOR TELLS HER WHAT KYLE REESE SAID TO HER BECAUSE ADULT JOHN CONNOR TOLD HIM IT WAS THE ONLY WAY TO GET HER TO TRUST HIM (and also a freakin' great callback!!!)

Silbermann is watching the whole thing go down, he's probably going to spill it all to the T1000, of course...

Of course the T1000 just walks through the bars. Holy shit Silbermann is never going to get over the fact that Sarah was right all along. This is going to totally break him. Either that, or he'll double down on it.to save face. The only reason he survives is because he stays close to the wall and nobody cares enough to stop and deal with him.

AHHH, THE CGI WHEN HIS HEAD SPLITS OPEN IS BOTH TOTALLY FAKE AND ALSO HELLA CREEPY AND SILBERMANN IS WATCHING ALL OF IT, THEY'RE TOTALLY GOING TO LOCK HIM UP AFTER THIS OH MY GOD, KARMA.

Like, the uncanny valley of '90s CGI totally WORKS here, because it's just so fucking creepy. But it's also another sign that this is action and not horror, because action is less focused on blood and guts and gore--the reality and effects of violence.

Oh, good, they steal a car, because they weren't all going to fit on the motorcycle.

The T1000 has given up all subtlety now, and is just a giant silver amorphous human now. Oh, wait, now they ran out of money and he's human again.

LOLOLOLOL Sarah and T101 making John reload in the back seat because OF COURSE HE KNOWS HOW TO DO THAT, HE'S SARAH'S KID.

Sarah Connor is in her friggin' ELEMENT NOW, boys and girls.

god, it's like crossing the Terminator with Freddie Krueger or something (I almost typed "Freddie Mercury," and that's an interesting slip, given how much like mercury the silver goo reminds me of...)

Ahhh, Sarah hugs John and then lectures him for being stupid and reckless, and John just wants love and support... awwwww, he's trying so hard. I love Sarah, and she loves her son, but they don't always connect...

John doesn't want his mom or the T101 to see him crying, because patriarchy. Sigh.

The T101 sewing Sarah up is such a delicious callback to T1 on so many levels. And then she sews HIM up, oh my god.

BRAIN SURGERY ON A TERMINATOR, WOW.

The CPU of a Terminator is what's in the lab at Cyberdyne that they're experimenting on... which is going to become the core of Skynet... NO WONDER IT TRIES TO KILL EVERYONE, IT'S A FUCKING TERMINATOR AT HEART, IT'S ONLY DOING WHAT IT WAS PROGRAMMED TO DO!!!!

(this explains SO MUCH, honestly)

I wish John asserting his independence was NOT another example of a man telling Sarah Connor what to do, thank you very much. And I hate how she's literally relegated to the back seat, ugh. This is a great example of how horror tropes are more feminist-friendly than action.

John deigning to give his mother money is the most obnoxious thing ever, good for Sarah snatching it out of his hand, counting it, and handing him back a handful. We're supposed to find him endearing and relatable and I just keep wanting to smack him for his sexist bullshit.

Children playing with fake guns at the gas station, like that isn't symbolic of anything. John's seen too much now to take it lightly. Compare the children playing on the playground earlier in the movie with this.

wow, I’m still only halfway through the movie, who knew this was so deep

#Movie Reviews #terminator 2 #terminator

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liesandlibations · 4 years

Text

Fear and Loathing in Los Santos

*tape recorder clicks on*

"It was never easy for me. I was born a poor black child..."

Laughter, cough, cough, spit. Cursing.

No, no, goddammit. That is the intro to Steve Martin's "The Jerk" you asshole, what the fuck are you doing man? Don't come at these people with this kind of weirdness right out of the gate, Jesus Christ. Fuck. Start over.

*tape recorder clicks off*

*tape recorder clicks on, high-pitch rewind squeal*

"Okay, okay, I've got it now, okay. Second take."

Deep breath.

"Tonight on assholes interviewing themselves in the mirror, some fat douchebag failed writer turned clichéd alcoholic talks about himself for hours."

Laughter.

"Fuck. Okay, okay, everything is fine. It's fine. Just get into it already."

So, hey, about me. Uh. I'm a Leo, an INTJ, a Fire Rooster, I've got an IQ that is just shy of about one-sixty depending on how fucked up I am when I take the test, and my favorite color is, believe it or not, Seafoam Green. Not that any of that matters, of course. Is it cool if I have another drink? Thanks. Yes, I realize that was a frightening amount of alcohol but you want to talk about my past, right? That's what it takes then, and here it is.

I was born to an unwed drug-addicted teenage mother in the bad part of the South in about 1980. Before she gave me up, though, she scribbled my name on the birth certificate.

"Memphis."

No idea what she meant by that. Was I conceived there, was she from there? Dunno, to this day the answer eludes me but whatever, the name stuck. I was put up for adoption immediately and really I can't blame her, shit, who could? Stuffed into the state orphanage system as an infant and shuffled around from place to place for a while. Never really stuck anywhere for long, as I was riddled with physical illness and undiagnosed mental problems and generally considered too difficult. One family, according to the records which I unearthed years later, reported me as "possibly demon-possessed" at the tender age of three. Life in the Southern Baptist South, right? Whatever. I bounced from foster home to foster home until I finally just ran from the whole system at about the age of fourteen. Spent some time on the streets and a lot of time on other people's couches. I was too smart for my own good by then, angry at everything, hated the world, and in the very beginnings of a life of mental and emotional issues.

That was when I met the Professor.

I'd made it to Memphis, Tennessee. City of my namesake. The home of Elvis, the Blues, the birthplace of Rock and Roll, and the final stop for Dr. Martin Luther King. A place almost as fucked up as I was at the time. I was broke and homeless when I stumbled into a coffee shop somewhere in the art district, hungry and hoping for a handout.

I saw him for the first time, sitting in the back at a table with a chess board full of pieces laid upon it, wisps of grey hair catching sunlight through the dirty windows, staring at me over thick-rimmed black glasses. He introduced himself, "My name's Robert, but everyone just calls me the Professor," he said. Bought me a sandwich and a cup of java. He had a kind voice and an easy demeanor, was keen to know where I was from and where I was going. I, of course, young and impressionable, consumed both the sandwich and the attention with equal gusto. We talked through the day and into the night, and when he found out I was homeless he offered me a place to crash for a while. We walked down the worn sidewalks of the Midtown neighborhood past homes gently lit from within, on a warm evening, and it felt like things were going to be okay.

When we got back to his house, I was introduced for the first time to methamphetamine and sodomy, both with a startling swiftness.

I stayed with him for three years.

I hated it but what else could I do? No hope, no friends, no prospects. The meth almost made it worth it, but not really. It's an old story but at least I had a place to sleep and regular food, and I think he did care about me in his own fucked up way. His house was full of books, floor to ceiling, and I devoured every word I could get my hands on. All the greats, man: Keats, Hemingway, Bukowski, Thoreau, Kerouac, and finally the king, Hunter S. Thompson. I even started writing a bit, here and there, which the Professor was super critical of, naturally. But I found an outlet in some of the anarchist 'zines from the coffee shop and for the first time I got to experience that totally orgasmic feel that a writer has when he sees his words in black and white print. Seemed some other folks liked those words too, so I struck up a friendship with the local punks and anarchs, which he did not approve of either. Yeah.

Eventually this led to me taking a bunch of his shit and moving out of his place in the middle of the night, into a communal house owned by a punk band who liked my writings. He showed up pounding on the door and demanding to see me, saying he'd ruin me, turn me in to the cops, out me as some kind of whore, the whole nine yards worth of emotional manipulation, sure. But I'd begun to emulate my heroes of the Word by then, so I opened the door and pressed both barrels of a sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun to his head and told him that if he ever tried to talk to me again I would turn his skull into a fucking canoe.

When I clicked the hammer back, he got the point, and that was the end of that chapter, yes."

Shit. Okay. Need another drink after that. Yes. That's better, it burns going down, right? Where were we?

"So anyway, I started writing in earnest. Throwing words at paper as if my life depended on it, and maybe it did. I had a pretty serious meth problem by that time and the Words helped to keep the wolf from the door. Luckily the anarchists I'd fallen in with were all straight edge, which I have to admit was annoying as fuck but honestly had it not been for them I might not have made it. They were good kids, at the end of the day, and I am forever grateful for their support. This ragtag group of weirdoes with Mohawks and piercings was probably the best family I'd ever had. Good times in the commune, too, writing and reading, crazy concerts every weekend, just thrashing and bashing and letting the anger out. I even had a girlfriend, for a time, and she, being much better organized than myself, managed to get me to a GED and then enrolled at a local college in some writing courses, specifically Journalism. The girlfriend didn't last, of course, I was still pretty much a mess as a human, but the journalism thing stuck with me and I actually accidentally graduated with honors and a metric fuckton of student loan debt. I was writing more and better than ever before and it was glorious, but I needed credit within the industry, and this led to the next, unfortunately darker chapter.

Jesus Cinnamon-Titties Christ, I need another drink.

*tape recorder clicks off*

*tape recorder clicks on*

"HEY THERE BOYS AND GIRLS IT'S TIME FOR WHIPPY THE SQUIRREL!"

Goddammit. I still hate that voice. It's sort of what you would get if you let the Chipmunks smoke crack and then stuffed them in a blender.

Sometimes we do things we regret when we are young, I guess. I was in my early twenties when I snagged my first legal job, a bullshit internship at a local TV Station. Jesus. I showed up all bright-eyed for my four in the AM shift and was handed a threadbare squirrel costume, complete with giant horrifying cartoon head. It reeked of booze and ass. "Morning kids show mascot," they said, "Whippy the Squirrel, beloved icon of local marketable children everywhere," they said, "Learn how to do the voice or you're fired." they said, and that last bit was the important bit. So I spent three hours in a cramped video closet watching reruns of the previous holder of the title, trying to get it right.

Twenty years that poor bastard was the furred whipping boy for this station, and over the time lapse of the video tapes you could see his spirit wither away, slowly crushed by the awful mundanity of his chosen occupation. I found out later he'd showed up to work one morning, taken a little break to go to the dressing room, put the barrel of a .357 revolver in his mouth, and fucking BLAMMO. Cut to "Technical Difficulties" slate, call the cleaning crew, so it goes.

But I really needed the job and the industry credit, so I lit a joint, got really fucking high, nailed the voice, and became the ultimate personification of local televised capitalism and commercial broadcasting. It wasn't really hard. Put on the giant stinking head, trot out in front of a bunch of bored children, try to get them excited about the next magician, clown, or Hannah-Barbara cartoon rerun. It didn't take long for me to fall into the bad habits again, smoking out and drinking heavily every shift just to get through it.

The morning anchor's name was Jane Childes. A forty-something former beauty queen she was, with an older doctor husband, a very expensive set of fake breasts, and a predilection for cocaine. Before the news she would spend thirty minutes on her hair alone and then spend commercials doing bumps off the news desk. During the break between Sunrise News and Morning News, she'd do, well...

Me.

You ever hoover coke off a magnificent pair of middle-aged titties and have hot, sweaty, furry, squirrel sex in a video closet? And then have to go in front of thirty children and their parents and introduce a bunch of goddamned bullshit while reeking of pussy and weed? Of course not, and it went downhill really quickly.

This whole horrible debacle led to a breakdown on television and a general brawl that got me fired. You wouldn't think eight-year-olds could throw down like that, but those little bastards will swarm you. They will climb right up your furry legs and punch you in the balls with all the skill and anger a disgruntled Taekwondo yellow-belt can muster.

I was, of course, quickly and obviously fired. Barely avoided charges on that one, but luckily Mr. and Mrs. Childes were eager to stay away from any sort of public scandal and paid to have the whole thing hushed up. I suppose you could say that was my first introduction to real Old Southern Politics, where everything was about who you knew and how many people were related to you and little else in the way of reason. So it went.

I got a letter in the mail from the Liberty City Courier the very next day, the third most popular newspaper in a crime-ridden city the majority of people hadn't heard of outside of the late night news. Seems they loved my work and wanted to make me an offer. So I sold all of my shit and bought a bus ticket.

"Time for the big time," I thought.

Goddamn, I was naive.

Let's have another drink, shall we? I'm not drunk, you're drunk, shut up. I'm telling this story, you goddamned reflection. Why don't you lose some weight, too? Fat bitch, I hate you. No, no, I didn't mean that. Finish the story and we can both go to bed.

Okay, bottoms up and here we go.

Oh fuck, oh fuck I have the hiccups, shit. OMG I HATE FUCKING HICCUPS. Okay, okay, wait... I'm good. Whew.

Liberty City in the early 'ought's, right?

Fuck.

I would call it a den of sin and iniquity but that wouldn't do it justice. I rolled into the Greyhound station ragged and jittery, too many days off the drugs and hard up for the next thing to prove myself. I grabbed my bag, walked outside, and saw a car fly through the air. It flipped upside down, murdered two pedestrians, hit a traffic light, righted itself, and sailed off into the night with about a hundred cop cars, lights a-flashing, trailing behind. Nobody called an ambulance for the poor smashed unfortunates, either, they just laid there as my taxi pulled up to take me to the low-rent apartments that the paper was paying for.

I was, at the time, unprepared for that kind of mental clusterfuck and had a bit of a breakdown in the car. My cabbie, who I think was some kind of Russian from his accent, laughed.

"Welcome to Liberty City, my friend," he said, as he wove in and out of traffic at a terrifying pace. I got to the apartment, locked the locks with a trembling hand, and called in to the paper. They wanted me to report at six in the AM. Fortunately I'd had my new cabbie friend stop off at a local liquor store and the fifth of Jack Daniels I'd procured got me through that night.

It wasn't easy, but nothing was easy.

Except maybe dying, in Liberty City.

I started at the Courier the next day. Covering the crime beat and believe me I made waves right out the door, just by having the audacity to actually talk to the criminals and ask them for their viewpoint. Up until me, I guess the Liberty City Courier was most pro-police-law-and-order and then here I come with my anarchist bullshit, the fucking audacious idea that we examine the society that had led to criminals, consider them as people instead of the usual big bad villains. Having the sheer gall to suggest that the cops might be the bad guys too. The old dogs in the bullpen hated me and I don't blame them. Some dumbass kid from the South with a weird haircut and the wrong clothes rolling up in their turf questioning the very fabric of the very normal kind of journalism they practiced? Very much an asshole, no doubt.

But when I broke that story about corruption in the LCPD, and it went national, no one could deny me.

The public, oh the ignorant and so easily distracted public, they ate it up. Bear in mind this was the late nineties, right? Anti-heroes were in full effect and my kind of crude yet poetic narrative was having its day. Sure. I got invited to the best parties by criminals and celebrities, vast displays of decadence on yachts and in underground clubs everywhere. I was a hot ticket, for a minute. I even managed to get a new girlfriend, yeah, a lovely, uh, a perfect, a...

A goddamned angel, and no mistake.

Shut up, shut up. It's okay. Moving on.

Anyhow. I got in pretty good with some local heavies. Not as difficult as you would think, nobody loves to talk about themselves more than criminals. What's the point of being smarter and harder than anyone if you can't somehow tell everyone that you are? All I had to do was listen and write the words I heard, at the end of the day. Sure, a little embellishment, maybe a punch-up here and there. Change the names to protect the innocent (not that anyone was, of course), and then BLAM you have a newspaper article, then a column, and then a book, and then it all kind of went wrong in the worst way.

Shit. Okay, wait. I just need another drink. It's okay, just, ahem, it's okay.

*tape recorder clicks off*

*tape recorder clicks on*

Heavy sigh.

Okay, let's get into it.

I published my collected articles with a major publishing house and we titled it, "Fear and Loathing in Liberty City."

It went to the top three on the NYT Top Ten Publishing list immediately and stood there proudly for two weeks.

Nobody remembers that now, of course, and there is no reason they should. I wish it hadn't gone as far as it had.

See, it seems that some crime lords, arrogant and narcissistic fucks that they are, don't appreciate it when you publish a book in which they feature heavily (even if names are changed), and they are described in a less than favorable light and maybe with words like: "weak-ass Nancy-boys", "useless mentally-challenged fucknuts", or "punk-ass exploitative shit pimp beta fucks".

Well, sure, they get a bit pissed-off at you. Some of them. Well, okay, one in particular.

Sergio Antoine.

Eh.

So there was this mostly-unheard of gang of criminals on the Southside, right? Second-hand punks, mostly, pseudo-bikers. Garbage white-trash meth-heads, low-level drug dealers, pimps, and so forth. Called themselves the "Southside Desperadoes" and owned a three-story warehouse they'd converted into a sketchy strip club named "The Platinum Pony", which was basically a front for their meth and prostitution rackets. Their leader was an ugly bastard that fancied himself as some kind of made man with the local Mafia (none of which, mind you, knew who the fuck he was). Sergio Antoine. He wore expensive clothes and watches, drove Italian sports cars, and wore ridiculous hair pieces.

I swear to God, every time I saw him he had a new look. Short hair, long hair, dreadlocks, shaggy bush, high and tight, loosey-goosey, everything. Couldn't really make up his mind and he ran his gang about the same way. They were drug-lords one week, pimps the next, an MC biker club the week after. Pure chaos. But I managed to ingratiate myself just enough to get access to the inner circle and after that it was a real awakening as to the ways and means of the Liberty City underground crime scene. That formed the basis of "Fear and Loathing" and most of my articles thereafter. I told the club what I was doing, of course, transparency in journalism and all that, but when the book hit, well, they took exception.

Especially Sergio.

Look, I will acknowledge that I didn't exactly describe him in flattering terms, okay, but everything I said was a hundred percent accurate. That probably made it worse. Don't poke the ego-driven narcissistic bear, right? But look here; these people were not good people, they were psychopaths almost to a man, exploiters of everything around them, murderers when they found it convenient and just overall terrible, terrible shitlord human beings. Bad as it was, every single word I wrote about them was true. I just wish it hadn't...

Well, I mean I should have known it would...

I...

Fuck.

I need another drink. Standby.

*tape recorder clicks off*

*tape recorder clicks on*

Her name was Sarah.

Yeah. Before all this really hit its stride, I'd gotten just well enough known at the Courier that I'd been assigned an assistant. Some young, plucky, college intern, much like I'd been once upon a time. We hit it off, she was amazingly competent at all the things I was not and for my part I was a hopeless wreck of a human being. We bonded over drinks and a predilection for old punk bands and one thing led to another and then my book hit (which never would have happened without her help) and we got engaged and the local press made a big deal of it and we were in love and that should have been the part of the story where the fucking narrator says, "they lived happily ever after" and the end of it.

*extended silence*

Goddammit.

*cough*

Sorry, sorry. We were walking out of a trendy downtown restaurant when a car rolled up on us and gunfire erupted from the windows. I found out later that Sergio had ordered the hit because he felt I'd made him look weak in the book. I took one bullet in the shoulder and one in the knee. Sarah took three in the chest.

I held her, um, hmm. Sorry.

I held her while she died.

Um. I need a minute, okay?

*tape recorder clicks off*

...

*tape recorder clicks on*

So, yeah. Okay.

When I got out of the hospital I went on a bit of a bender.

I mean, like, some epic Greek-hero level shit. Total blackout. I dropped a ton of money on coke, meth, booze, pills, everything. Whatever I could shove into my stupid brain to make it forget the pain, right? Still don't remember anything, and that's probably for the best because I woke up in a cornfield in Iowa three weeks later, wearing a powder-blue dress and one sock. Drug my hungover ass out of the field and down the road until I could hitch-hike into the nearest town, get some breakfast and check the feeds. Iowa locals don't even blink about this shit, too many years in the middle of America and everybody's cousin has a meth problem. Your weirdness doesn't even make a dent.

But it seemed the Platinum Pony had mysteriously burned to the ground in the time I'd been out. Multiple dead, all members of the gang. Sergio himself had been found in the back, in a safe room, almost untouched except for a hole in his head the size of a train tunnel. What survivors there were reported an attack by a demon, a figure dressed in a squirrel costume with a high-pitched voice that terrified them as it hunted them one by one, relentlessly murdering everything it encountered with a sawn-off shotgun.

I've no memory of any of that time, of course.

But I did wonder.

So I got my shit together, such as it was, and sold it off to pay for my ticket home. Went back to the Tennessee hills and got me a little cabin up on the top of an Appalachian mountain. Spent my time collecting royalty checks from book sales, drinking moonshine, smoking meth, and hitting on local moonshiner's nubile daughters who might have read one of my books on the down low. I had my reasons, of course, I'd promised my publisher two more books and they'd already tried lawyers to no avail. I feared they would try hitmen next, ditto for the gang scene in Liberty City, who have large egos and long memories.

So I went to ground, grubbing it out on the top of a mountain. No contact with the outside world, just me and the booze and the meth and the occasional young lady with a passion for literature.

It was not the best life, but it was good enough for me at the time, yes.

Fast forward to now, though.

Two things happened, really, that got me off that mountain. Firstly, I couldn't write. It's fucked up, but too much clean air, too much sunshine, trees, grass, squirrels and whatever the fuck, it broke me. It was too easy goddammit. My brain could not deal, and thus no words. I was hamstrung by bliss, I think. Secondly, the money ran out. Surprisingly enough, moonshiners and meth heads don't give credit. So I drug my dumb blissful ass off the mountain and down to the city, made some phone calls to some contacts in the newspaper world, checked the feeds, and found out that Los Santos was the newest hottest criminal hotspot in the world. I felt it too, that vibe, when I stepped off the bus. That feeling that you could die at any time, strike sparks anywhere, and hammer the fiery words of the gods onto paper.

Los Santos smells like gunpowder, diesel fumes, and blood.

And somewhere in my soul, the old Muse stirs.

I'm here to write words. I'm older now, the reflexes aren't what they used to be, but I think I still have some stories left in me. This is the last ride for this old dog journalist, and I aim to make it count, to leave a legacy, whatever it may be, written in the stars of the universe and hopefully at least two books worth of shit because the publishing house is still after my ass for that contract. It's okay though, I know this music and I remember the steps to the dance. The next chapter of chapters starts here, and words are coming easy in Los Santos.

But if I've learned anything, it's that nothing is ever easy.

*tape recorder clicks off*

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