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stuckinapatriarchalbullshitland · 3 years

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Hi guys! As promised to that Anon, I wrote the timelines. I decided to write only the key points though because these are things we already know, and then, I’m sure there are more than a thousand proofs around and people who have already spoken about it. Enjoy.

Drum roll, please 🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁

Let’s start with the first competitor: Tyrone William Griffin, aka Typical Dish Snacked Ty Dolla $ign 04/13/1982, the man who liked to tweet things like “I’m the curator of lesbians”.

PRen Tyren: As I already mentioned in the post “There is a light at the end of the tunnel”, it all started on the evening of November 15, 2016, when 5H went to the Epic party. Due to Laucy’s picture of the wedding and the ‘official’ coming out then occurred a few days later, on November 18, 2016, Lauren needed a boyfriend. That same night at the party, Typecast accepted the management’s proposal.

Typo tweeted “LMJ” on January 4, 2017, and then immediately deleted it. First move to create speculation since, presumably, Lauren ‘was’ still with Ludicrous. Shortly thereafter, a blind item about L who was having an affair with a married man came out. On January 10, 2017, Nicole Cartolano posted that picture of Laucy in the snow with a piñata. After wishing her a happy birthday, as we already know, luBYE. On February 13, 2017, there were the first PRren pictures at the Grammy after-party, so that people would start believing the blind item, BUT, making it clear that he wasn’t a married man, but a taken one, and yes, MAN, since Tyred is 14 years older than her, and therefore inculcating the idea that L was really cheating on Luggage. On March 9, 2017, Tymbal posted a picture of them together, coincidentally, the day after he advertised his upcoming album ‘Beach House 3’.

On March 22, 2017, we had ‘Bare With Me’ and Nicole Cartolano’s interview with MTV News. On the 23rd, we had, still very coincidentally and totally unplanned, “no I hate it because it’s invasive, scary, delusional, disrespectful to us both and was never real…Ever”, because, because, SHE DECIDES. NOT US. PERIOD. (sorry, I had to 😂. This is another of L’s tweets dating back to July 2, 2017: “I decide. Not you. Period.”) Joking apart, because she was single and she certainly couldn’t let the fans have hope for her and C, so she tried to kill the Camren ship for the umpteenth time. “Hey, hey, Lo, how’d it go? That bad, eh?” “Let me try again in 2020.” “Laur, babe, I’ll tell you what. I’m from the future, okay? It didn’t work, honey. And I don’t think it’s gonna work either in, I don’t know, in 2030.”

Back to the program.

The day before Nicole’s MTV article and eight days later, Twix posted a series of tweets (21: “Lo” - 30: “You look better on me 👀”, Cuban flag, and “I think she like me 😍”) [👈🏼 ‘Great grammar’ said in Lauren’s voice] which he then of course deleted to make everything more and more mysterious, and thus making people connect and figure out who was that ‘LMJ’ tweeted in January. On April 14, 2017, we had a picture of L with TyPod and his family dating back the night before when they celebrated Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’s birthday, followed by the blurred picture of the 15th of them together at Coachella. On April 18, 2017, Alycia Bella, Tinky Winky’s ex, tweeted “when you get cheated on w a 5th harmony member & all you can do is laugh.”, and then immediately deleted it, thus giving even more confirmation to people that both had cheated, despite Teletubbies denied and defended himself: “been moved on :) no cheating. Keep it Taylor’d. gang gang 🤘🏽🤘🏽”. The same Alycia who complained of being cheated on by Telly for ‘another girl’ during the reality show ‘The Platinum Life’ which aired on October 15, 2017 and that was recorded MONTHS BEFORE.

There were other tweets that Tyronic continued to tweet and then delete (April 1: “I think about you all the time” - April 3: “You my favorite” and “I don’t know what I did to deserve you” - April 7: “Really like what you’ve done to me”), Insta-stories and posts by both, and other public appearances together to increase the public’s curiosity. Such as: 1) Mani’s birthday. 2) August 16, 2017, when 5H did that famous and messy phone interview with The Sun for Dan Wooton’s podcast, one of Salmoned Cow’s well-known puppies friends, during which Dan asked Lauren about his relationship with Twinkly and she replied that they were just vibing. 3) Lauren’s birthday. 4) On September 11, 2017, Lauren posted pictures about the FentyxPuma party, and in one of those posts with pictures of her and Troglodyte, she put the caption with three hearts emojis, thus confirming to people that she and Tipsy were together.

February 2017 was the chosen month for Pukeren to ‘become’ official, confirmed by Typed in an interview at the Power 105.1 FM morning show The Breakfast Club on October 31, 2017, though, so a long time later and when the waters had already calmed down. By saying February, Tyring confirmed the cheatings exactly as it was planned. In another interview with BigBoyTV made on November 2, 2017, Typology showed the interviewees how even the background of his phone was a picture of Lauren. Picture that, by the way, Lauren herself posted 21 days before that by wearing Tijuana’s merchandise sweatshirt, so not even a personal picture that you’d normally expect to see from a real boyfriend.

Blah blah blah, Lauren never needed to defend a person so much in her life, blah blah blah, weed and booze and parties, blah blah blah, dogs (and fake allergies when convenient), blah blah blah, #Laurenthegroupie, blah blah blah, Tara and social media don’t get along very well, blah blah blah, #freepoorTweed ⛓️👮🏼 who was just having some fun with his friends, blah blah blah. We know the rest of the farce, and moving on to two years later, and therefore at the end of the PR, on April 15, 2019, Tic Tac tweeted a broken heart before zeroing his social media and Lauren a post on her social media, both implying the end of their oh so real ‘relationship’.

🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁

Let’s move on to competitor number two: Maturely Hushed Matthew Hussey, 06/19/1987. The scammer par excellence (since 2012). The salesman who pretends to be a life coach/dating advice expert by deluding poor women who fall into his bullshit. The charlatan who has an infinity of fraud charges and even a restraining order for stalking and harassment by a woman named Samantha C. of San Diego. [this woman continually talked about the situation on her Instagram account, cheating_matthewhussey. Even Chelsea Briggs liked a picture.]

Ewmila Mattmila: The skit was supposed to start a lot sooner in reality. They ‘met’ for the first time on September 29, 2017, on the set of NBC’s Today show (performance that C dedicated to the Dreamers), but nobody has heard much about it, right? There was only a single Billboard article that did that. Following that meeting, it was supposed to start in October 2017, when they also started to follow each other on IG, but everything was postponed because C’s album was postponed. The album was released on the 12th, and by pure coincidence, on January 11th, 2018, during the interview with Elvis Duran, and COMPLETELY OUT OF THE BLUE, C mentioned Matilda for the first time by saying she was a fan of his. The same Mattress (10 years older than her) who coincidentally was there that day, so a setup for the public to make believe that they’d met that day.

The next day, at the release of the album ‘Camila’, C performed at Good Morning America, and Macaque, again by pure coincidence, had a small slot in the same program. On January 15, 2018, during the interview with Zane Lowe, when he asked if she had someone special in her life at that time, she replied with “maybe”, which was a big yes when she read “I can’t say your name without smiling” just before from her phone notes. On January 22, 2018, on Zach Sang Show, C said that she’s a private person and that she doesn’t like the ‘public thing’ since the Austin fiasco. Another bullshit said to make the public believe that it was the truth and take advantage of the events that would happen shortly thereafter, since, literally 18 days later, on February 9, E! News exclusively posted the first Burpmila pictures on vacation on a beach in Cabo, Mexico.

Blah blah blah, we know, blah blah blah, they lived in airports to get papped, blah blah blah, they even paid fans to do it, blah blah blah, “He’s great”, blah blah blah, “She’s great”, blah blah blah, #They'reGREAT!, blah blah blah, let’s kiss in a children’s playground #Sinu #needyCamila #someonepleaseteachStMatteohowtoholdagirl #SofiwasdecidingwhethertoreturntotheSagradaFamiliaorgoontheswingratherthanwitnessthatugliness, blah blah blah, let’s get to the first oh so real oh so important obstacle in their story.

On August 12, 2019, a Dutch singer named Elieve did an interview in which she confessed that she and Camila were dating the same guy (Matchbox) at the same time. Elieve was in London from the beginning of January to the beginning of February 2018 and Matzo was in London from January 14 to 19, so they met on one of those days.

Blah blah blah, let’s pretend we’ve overcome this obstacle, blah blah blah, let’s pretend we’re a super happy couple, blah blah blah, Disneyworld, blah blah blah, let’s go skiing, blah blah blah, trip to Italy, blah blah blah, Shawn’s entry, blah bl- wait… Oh yeah, it’s the second PR’s turn. Goodbye Ew! ‘Thank you very much for nothing. Bye-bye!!’ said in Lauren’s voice. End of ‘story’ on May 11, 2019, that is, the last time they were photographed together, news confirmed on June 25, 2019, only 4 days after the release of Señorita.

🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁

Even if it wasn’t part of the request, this is a bonus of mine just because.

Señorita + Shitmila Showmila Shawmila: On January 27, 2018, Camila, Shaky, and Andrew, Shavable’s manager, were papped in a restaurant eating pizza before the Pre-Grammy Gala in New York City. That meeting took place to propose the idea of the PR to C to help increase both Shallow’s music sales and his image. Camila was uncertain. 2017 had been a great year for her as a first time as a solo artist, and she knew that she would’ve to play her cards even better during 2018; plus, the PR with Matryoshka hadn’t even officially started and had already been postponed for a few months because the release of her album ‘Camila’ had been postponed.

Andrew explained to her that the PR with Chauffeur wasn’t going to be done right away at all, also because as C would have her PR relationship with EatchEW, Shanty would have that kind of PR relationship/not relationship with Hailey Baldwin (now Bieber) that only served to make people speculate and maintain the idea that Shazam wasn’t gay. Andrew also explained to her that their future PR relationship would benefit both of their careers because there would be a collaboration, a number 1 hit, which they would look for and use as a launchpad for the narrative. #friendswhothenfallinlove #RomeoandJulietbullshit

This perfect duet, went first to knock on Camila’s door, and then to Shuttle’s one in April 2018 in the form of Andrew Watt who already knew everything about the charade. Watt (he also worked on Havana and 7 songs for Romance including Señorita) co-wrote the song in April 2018, shortly before contacting Shitto, along with Jack Patterson, Ali Tamposi (she also worked on Havana, Consequences, and 6 songs for Romance including Señorita), and Charli XCX. [The same Charli who did an interview on October 21, 2019, in which she gave the true version of the story without even remotely mentioning Scab: “This Latin Pop flare just wasn’t right for who I am because I am not a part of that culture, I’m not from there. Whereas Camila has that in her blood, so when we wrote the song we thought about her and sent it to her.”]

Now that they had found the perfect song, and with the addition of Benny Blanco and Cashmere Cat in the production, all they had to do was convince Camila and her team. Charli XCX and C were the opening acts for Taylor Swift’s Reputation Tour from May 8 to October 6, 2018, during which Charli tried to persuade her to do the song by explaining how perfect it was for her. And who knows, maybe even since then they started working on it together since Camila, as she used to do, rewrote almost completely the lyrics to make it more her own. Ask that also to ‘Care About Me’ who turned into ‘The Boy’.

On August 4, still during the Reputation Tour, Shampoo went to the concert date in Toronto, and Taylor posted an Insta-story in which she put make-up and glitter on Shank’s eyelids. Sweaty regretted giving Taylor permission to post the video because people have always thought he was gay for years, and on November 26, 2018, the RollingStone interview was released in which he admitted that he felt the need to be photographed and seen with a girl to prove he isn’t gay. This was a great leverage they used with Camila since she could understand and help a friend in need. The work of persuasion lasted for about 9/10 months, from January 27, 2018, to the end of November/beginning of December 2018. Indeed, on December 5, 2018, both posted a picture taken on the 4th in the backstage of KISS 108’s Jingle Ball 2018 in Boston. Thanks to those pictures and C’s comment, word of their possible future collaboration began to spread. The plan was by then in place.

P.S. remember what happens to Romeo and Juliet, don’t you? Yeah. They die. And like Romeo and Juliet, they’re gonna (metaphorically speaking, of course) die too. Be patient, my babies, be patient.

🎉the🎊end🍾

I want comments now, guys. Which of these competitors you can’t stand the most and why, I’m curious. Put this 🐙 for Tissue, this 🐽 for Matte, and this �� for Shrunken accompanied by the motivation. Let’s have some fun. 🥂

🖕🏼 this is mine for all of them, by the way.

As always, thanks, Mari. 🥰 Bye guys, I love you. Always with love, F. ❤️

#submission #f anon #mattmila tyren showmila timeline #so funny #anon #ask #how many names on this post #thanks you too much faby

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slashscowboyboots · 3 years

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The Stars Are a Part of Us: Different Speeds (Part 4)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Tag list @izzysdenimjacket @warrendemachokeme @awrestlinggirlwholoves80sbands @smokeandmirrorz @sodalitefully @roger-taylors-car @lost-in-the-80s @whisperess33 @shawolat @80snikki @rumoured-whispers

Warnings: Underage sex, drug use, drinking, implied violence. 18+ ONLY

Notes: Track #2 is by the sadly underrated Cowboy Junkies. It was released in '93, and I wondered if I should include in a fic set in 1987, but then I realized this is fiction and there's no rules! Yayyy! It's such a killer song I had to add it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajtnaiLaJNQ

Checkout was at the ungodly hour of 11, and of course none of the band was anywhere to be found, just Karen perched on a chair in the lobby, still reading her book. Love’s Surrender was the title of it, and Izzy snorted through his nose. Surrendering was probably the last thing this uptight broad ever did.

“Fun night?” she asked, her eyes not leaving her page.

He shrugged. “‘S’all right.”

She lowered her book. “Heard you met Kasey.”

Izzy blinked. “Uh, um, yeah.”

She rolled her eyes, exasperation pulling down her mouth. “Oh, of course you don’t know her name,” she snapped.

“She didn’t know mine either,” he retorted. “She thought I was Axl.”

Karen sighed. “She blew him too.”

“Huh. I thought he was with Velvet.”

Her eyes met his. “Velvet insisted on it.”

Izzy furrowed his eyebrows.

“Hazing ritual. She made Kasey suck him off in front of everyone, then he announced that Velvet was better at it. Velvet always does the local talent dirty.”

Izzy closed his eyes. “Fuck,” he breathed, “you bitches don’t take any prisoners.”

She gave him a hard look. “You’re the wildest band in LA. Did you expect angelic whores?”

Izzy frowned, then said, “You’re not just here because of us, are you? You protect her from the other girls too.”

“No. She’s everyone’s little sister, although I’d kill one of them for doing something to her.” She narrowed her eyes at him again. “I’m here because I think I need to be. Cause if I didn’t, I’d be sitting this shindig out. This is definitely my last rodeo.”

“This is your third tour, isn’t it? You were with Def Leppard too.”

Her eyes widened, and Izzy nearly licked his lips in glee. “Steve is Steve Clark. I found out some dirt about you,” he smirked.

“Choose your next words very carefully,” she said in a low voice.

“You were a groupie. Were you running naked through the hallways too?”

She stiffened, eyes widening and her face going pale, and for a second Izzy thought she was going to slap his face. “No, I was trying to keep him from killing himself, you fucking asshole,” she gritted, then slumped down. “I thought a blow job would put you in a better mood. Guess you’re just a dick 24/7.”

“Sissy!” Celestia cried, flopping down on Karen’s lap.

“Hi, Sis. You and your beau doing all right?”

“Yeah,” Celestia answered, centering herself on Karen’s legs. She was taller than Karen, and was nearly crushing her. “Did I tell you he has an anaconda?”

Karen made a face. “Celestia, I don’t need to hear about that.”

Celestia giggled. “No, he has a snake! His name is Clyde. He has some bearded dragons too.”

Karen shifted in her chair. “That’s lovely, Sis. Who’s taking care of them?”

Celestia hung onto Karen’s shoulders. “Uh, he says someone named Yvonne.”

Karen took a deep breath. “Is that his girlfriend?” she asked gently.

“His ex.”

“Uh huh. And she still has custody of his pets?”

Celestia nodded.

“Then she’s not an ex. An ex would’ve poisoned them.”

“You think he still has a girlfriend?” Celestia gasped.

Karen shot another look at Izzy. “I think they all do. Probably a few kids they don’t know about too.”

Celestia leaped off Karen’s lap. “Omigosh! Slaa-ash! Do you have any kids?”

Slash took a sip from a styrofoam cup and pulled his top hat down over his eyes. “I don’t think so,” he muttered, throwing an arm around Celestia.

Izzy shook his head. “You have a really cynical view of the world, don’t you?”

Karen snorted. “I’m never wrong.”

Izzy took a drag from a cigarette. “Actually, you are.”

“Is he still seeing Yvonne?”

“Hell if I know. But I don’t have a girlfriend. Mine got married. And not to me.”

Karen looked down. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. You write a song about a woman, and she dumps yer ass when you’re drying out.”

“Was it ‘Sweet Child of Mine?’”

He shook his head. “I co-wrote the music on that, but no. I wrote ‘Patience’ for her.”

Karen’s eyes widened in amazement. “You wrote ‘Patience?’”

He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Yeah. And you’re wrong about something else too. I’m not a dick 24/7, although you’ll never find that out.”

Izzy leaned over his seat on the bus and looked down at Karen, still engrossed in her book.

“What do you do for fun on the road?” he asked her.

She didn’t look up. “I’m having a love affair with my vibrator.”

“Oh, ha ha, smartass.”

She turned a page. “You think I’m joking. It’s Japanese and has different speeds. I’ll never need a man again.”

Izzy didn’t say anything, but he could feel his eyes getting bigger. Guess you’re not the prude I thought you were.

“Wow, that shut you up,” she chuckled, looking up at him. “Are you bored on the road already?”

He nodded. “I don’t get fucked up anymore, and that took up a lot of time, y’know. I’m not scoring or getting drunk and now I have just…...time.”

“Yeah. Well, I like to read, and being with my sisters. Sometimes, I like to see the towns we’re in, get out of the hotel a little. I like shooting pool. I really like karaoke but I doubt if they have a lot of that here. I’ve seen your itinerary and it wasn’t promising, they’ve got you out in Bumfuck most of the time.” She knitted her eyebrows. “You’re a guitarist, why don’t you play guitar?”

“That’s what I did last night. I don’t know if I can do that every night.”

She cleared her throat. “I’m sure there’s a Kasey in every town. I doubt you’ll be bored for long.”

He shrugged. “That does it for you? Reading all the time?”

She looked up at him. “I rather enjoy being bored. There were many times I was on the verge of a heart attack, and I longed to be bored.”

“Steve kept you hopping, huh?”

She held his eyes for a long time, furious, then dropped her head. “Yeah, he did.” She looked up. “Is that what you want, me to talk about him? Fine. I was in love, he wasn’t, end of story.”

He saw the pain etched in her face, and he let it drop. He lit a cigarette and asked, “You’ve seen our itinerary?”

“Yeah. The record company doesn't have a lot of faith in you, do they?”

He shook his head. “They think we’ll be dead by the end of this week.”

“Those seem like good odds. Where’s your record at?”

“At?”

“The top 100.”

“I dunno, 101 I guess.”

“Is it moving up?”

Izzy blinked.

She sighed. “Okay, how big was your record deal?”

“Two hundred fifty grand.”

She sucked air between her teeth. “You know you have to recoup your costs, right? I’m guessing you have a slew of lawyers and a bunch of court fees too.”

Silence.

“Izzy. Have you talked to MTV?”

He shook his head. “They won’t play our video.”

“You made a video? For how much?”

“$75,000. With Nigel Dick.”

“Ooh, you used a name.”

“That’s bad?”

“Yeah, cause he’s the only one who made money from it.” She lit a cigarette. “Izzy, are you aware you guys are broke?”

“We're getting a per diem.”

“You’re in the hole is what you are. Who are you signed with?”

“Uh, Geffen.”

“Huh. So just one man owns your ass.”

“So what you’re saying is that we’re in debt to the record company?”

“Yeah, big time. I mean, Hoss, if your album tanks, you could be sued.”

He exhaled. “How do you know all this?”

“Because I paid attention when the suits showed up. I knew there had to be a reason for a record exec to leave his wife and kids to hump it all the way out to BFE to talk to the band.” She lit another cigarette. “”Pyromania’ started moving up the charts, and the suits came more and more frequently.”

“Def Leppard are millionaires. I mean, their music sucks, but they made a shitload of money off of it.”

“It took them awhile to make it, though. They had to pay back Mercury, plus they used Marilyn Monroe’s image in the ‘Photograph’ video and it cost them a bundle.” She shook her head. “Your attorney fees will keep you in the red for a while. Especially if you keep playing these podunk towns.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Karen took a drag. “Well, maybe the record company is looking out for you. They probably figure you can’t kill yourselves out here in the boonies.”

“IZZY!” Steven shrieked, slapping him on the back. “Howya doin’, brother?”

Izzy smiled. “I’m all right, man. How are you?”

Steven was nearly hopping up and down in his dingy white hi tops. “I’m so excited, man, we’ve got a gig tonight. We’re gonna ROCK Canada, aren’t we, Izz?”

“You bet your ass, Stevie.”

“You!” Steven shouted to Karen. “You, what’s your name? Donna?”

“Karen.”

“Yeaah, Karen. You really should fuck Izzy, girl! He’s cool. Like the coolest brother you could ever have.”

Izzy smirked. “She says she doesn’t need a man, she got a device with different speeds.”

Steven looked horrified, then he grinned. “Well, let him use it on you.”

Karen blinked, and Izzy cleared his throat. “Dude, she’s not into that,” he said.

“Too bad. Fuck, that girl I’m with is insane, man. She ate that girl Kasey out last night for like an hour, man. Then they sucked me off at the same time! I’m living the dream, Izz. I don’t want this tour to ever end.” He hugged Izzy, then went back to his seat and snuggled up to a sleeping Absinthe.

Izzy raised an ornery eyebrow at Karen. “So, different speeds, huh?”

“Absolutely not. And you can’t borrow it either.” Her eyes slid to Steven’s seat. “Coke always make him like that?”

“Yeah, he takes a while to come down. He’s pretty hyper to begin with.”

“Well, you should have a high energy set then.”

Izzy rested his arms on the top of the seat. “You’ve seen us play. What do you think?”

Karen fought a smile. “You don’t suck.”

“Says the woman who traveled with Def Leppard.”

She gave him the middle finger. “Keep it up, Hoss, and I’ll ram my Japanese precious where the sun don’t shine.”

Izzy puckered his lips and made obnoxious kissing noises, then said, “Promises, promises,” and flopped down in his seat.

#hello to all 5 of you reading this #i love you more than you will ever know #izzy stradlin x ofc #izzy stradlin fanfiction #guns n roses x ofc #guns n roses fanfic

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thearkhound · 3 years

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Why are Konami’s MSX games fun? Interview from Beep #35 (1987/09)

We Asked Konami’s Development Division

Text by TAKE ON!

Photographs by: Keita Iwagami

While there are many gaming software for the MSX, there’s something special about Konami’s MSX titles that makes them stand out. Rather than just doing simple ports from other platforms, their titles have a unique charm to them that titles from other developers might lack. To find out how they do it, we tried asking Konami directly.

Just as Expected

“Hey, I knew it! It’s just like I predicted.” As I saw the results of this issue’s survey, I raised my voiced and shouted “Did you see this? Konami was voted the number 1 software maker for the MSX!” However, my voice was simply absorbed by the editing room, with no even a simple “yes” or “I see”-type of response. While I was happy that my favorite company Konami took the no. 1 spot, the editors around me didn’t seem very impressed by that. Perhaps they were exhausted by all the hard work they were doing everyday.

“Why are you guys not impressed? Maybe Konami being No. 1 was too predictable, but it’s still outstanding. Perhaps our readers might want to find out why their games are so interesting. I think such an article will probably be invaluable for this issue’s special MSX coverage...” After trying to argue with the editors in a way that made no sense, I went to Konami’s branch office at Tokyo to interview them.

Overwhelmed by the Company’s Policy

“Uhh, my name is Take On, I’m a writer for Beep magazine.” Like a country bumpkin, I went there without a business card stating who I was, so I had to spent time explaining myself away to the receptionist. After somehow managing to explain who I was and why I came there, Ms. [Akemi] Kamio, Konami’s spokeswoman, led me to what seems to be the reception room.

Before I knew it, I was sitting absent-mindedly at the reception room. “Where am I? Who am I? Ah! Ms. Kamio is such a beauty, that I almost lost my memory. I’m not so used to that. By the way, what was I going to talk about...”

While desperately trying to remember what kind of questions I had in mind, I noticed there was some kind of writing on the wall.

Company’s Policy:

Brilliance Begins With People

Cosmic Pondering

Earnest Action

Release the Fountain of Sensitivity

And Continue Sending Waves of Creativity

Into The Future

Huh. It has a very creative feeling to it, but I have no idea what it means by just reading it. What sort of company policy or philosophy was this? And what the heck was a “cosmic pondering”?

While I was thinking about this, Ms. Kamio guided me, or rather lured me to the “great developer”, so I automatically switched to interview mode. But I still didn’t know what was going to be my first question, so I ended up fumbling a bit.

Cosmic Pondering

Take On!: Uh-hello! I came here today to ask about the MSX and its “cosmic pondering”?

Akihiko Nagata: Uh, pardon me!?

T: (Crap! I fumbled my way so suddenly. Come to think of it, I did brought a notepad with me with the questions I had in mind. How silly of me.) Sorry about that! What I meant to say was that I came here to ask about why Konami’s MSX games are so popular. I would be glad if you could start by talking about Konami’s development department no. 1, the group you belong to.

Nagata: Our company’s development team is divided by three sections: Arcade, Famicom and PC. As you see, my department focuses on PC gaming development, even though most of our games are for the MSX. The company’s plan of action is to have the three sections assembled to work on the same level.

T: Does that mean that titles such as Ganbare Goemon and Akumajo Dracula [Vampire Killer], which were ported from Famicom games, have their own staffs for the MSX versions?

Nagata: That’s right. When it comes to porting a game from one platform to another, other companies tend to have the same team involved with the port. We could do that too, since it’s very efficient, but our company has a structure which allows the MSX team to independently research and develop its own ports. As a result, we hardly release any port that is just the same game with a few minor changes. In other words, because we feel the class of users for the Famicom and MSX, as well as the market, are different, we’re doing a full-time service for each, In that sense, each software is basically its own original product.

The Inside Story of the Gradius Development

T: (I see. With such a logic, you won’t have an identical product.) Speaking of which, the MSX version of Gradius [Nemesis] was very different compared to the arcade and Famicom versions when it came to aspects like the difficulty level and the additional stages.

Nagata: That’s right. When I saw the development of the Famicom version of Gradius I felt a sense of “I really want to do this”. When it comes to developing a port, we set milestones with the condition that “if we can’t complete this, then we must cancel the development.” In the case of Gradius, making the laser long was such a condition, so the first thing we ended up doing was the programming for the laser itself. If we could accomplish that, then we can surely port the game.

T: (He really knows how players feel.) That’s why I was glad when it had new area and the hidden extra stages.

Nagata: Originally we were set to develop the game on a 32 kilobyte cartridge, but that was not sufficient to fit everything we wanted, so it was increased to 1-Megabit. Because there weren’t that many Megarom cartridges back then, we worked hard to make the best of it. We ended up with excess space, so we added a new regular stage to make use of it, but that was still not enough content to fill the extra space, so we added the hidden extra stages, as well as title screen that took 8-kilobyte.

T: (I see. But still, doing your best to make full use of the game’s given memory is pretty amazing.) I had the chance to play Gradius 2 [Nemesis 2] a while ago. It’s a superb game with all new stages and inclusion of a sound source that seems like it was developed specifically for the Megarom cartridge format. Particularly with its opening story sequence that made me teary-eyed.

Nagata: That story was something that its lead designer was particularly fixated with. (laughs) The original arcade version of Gradius didn’t have much of a story other than “the Bacterions are coming, deploy the Vic Viper”, but that wasn’t enough for the manual, so we had to go back and write a new story.

T: And then Gradius 2 added a sound source to the software.

Nagata: The music is all new and composed by the same person who did the music for the original arcade version of Gradius. This time we were able to employ audio waveforms in addition to the standard 3 PSG channels. All in all, you could say it has 8 ports or 8 chords. Simple calculations are also increased by 2.8 times. The programming is already like a puzzle. As for the music itself, you might not be able to tell the difference when compared to a recent game, but when compared to the first Gradius, you’ll see that the sound itself was considerably improved.

A Gathering of Little Ideas

T: Lately Gradius 2 has served as the centerpiece of the MSX1, but where does that leave Metal Gear in regards to the MSX2? I was very impressed by the innovative direction it took.

Nagata: I’m glad that the game was well-received by your staff. (laughs) I was concerned whether or not the game would be well-received by players or not. But it seems like we’re off to a good start. The world of Metal Gear was also something that its designer was particularly fixated with. When it comes to directing, or rather structuring a game, there are ways to create it after deciding on its main ideas, but sometimes it’s better to mix up a lot of little ideas like a crossword. You’ll know the game’s overall balance when it’s finished.

T: That’s why all Konami games have subtle little touches or shine with their presentation. Are there any particular problems when it comes to developing an MSX game?

Nagata: Sincerely, while the world of graphics have expanded since the introduction of the MSX2, it is very difficult in terms of processing. The MSX was designed to be used on a home television set [as opposed to a computer monitor], so even if you make the graphics more detailed, it still won’t look very pretty on a TV screen.

And then there’s the scrolling. If you’ve seen TwinBee or Hinotori, you’ll understand. The machine is capable of vertical-scrolling, but not horizontal. That’s why you won’t see anything like points on-screen.

The LSI concept for the MSX’s image processing was designed with scalability in mind, but it wasn’t compatible with the kind of LSI employed by the Famicom, so that gave us a lot of problem.

T: You done a great job! Finally, I would be glad if you could tell us what’s Konami’s outlook for the future of the MSX.

Nagata: We’ve been allowed to make a living off the MSX, so we’ll continue to do our best when it comes to both, the MSX1 and MSX2.

When it comes to genre, our company has been basically making only action games up to this point, but we plan on adding more cerebral and adventure elements to future titles. The way users are viewing games are changing, so we want to grow while gradually attracting their needs.

Our MSX games have changed a lot content-wise since we started making them, but I don’t think they would changed that much in such a short time if we were doing only MSX games. There’s a sense of rivalry among Famicom and other PC users. We’re also going to do our best to compete with the arcade and Famicom sections anyway we can, so please continue to support us.

T: As an MSX user myself, I’m looking forward to Konami’s future games for the platform. I know it’s a lot of work, especially when it comes to the MSX1, but for the one million users out there please keep up the good work. Thank you for your time.

I was worried about what was going to happen at one point, but the interviewed ended in a hour without a hitch. If I get the opportunity, next time I’ll ask about what exactly a “cosmic pondering” is. Until then, see you again in “my own forum!” (Editor’s note: “Hey! Don’t advertise your own serial!”

Source

Beep Vol. 3 No. 9 - September 1987 issue (Softbank Publishing)

#Konami #MSX #Gradius #Metal Gear #Castlevania #Mystical Ninja #Akihiko Nagata

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365days365movies · 3 years

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February 11, 2021: The Bridges of Madison County (1995)(Part 1)

Y’know, if you were going to tell me that one of the most famous American romances of all time was directed by this guy...

I would be very surprised. And surprised I am, because The Bridges of Madison County is indeed directed by Clint Eastwood, who also acts as one of its leads alongside one of the most famous actresses of the time. That, of course, would be Meryl Streep, who’s going to get yet another Best Actress nomination for this role. Believe it or not, this is going to be her 8th for BA, and 10th nomination overall, with only 2 wins included (one for Actress and one for Supporting Actress).

Finally, this is another period piece, also taking place in the 1960s. I guess historical romances were real popular in the 90s to 2000s. Go figure! This will probably be the last, as I have a hankering to move onto another subgenre. So, shall we? SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap

At a home in what I can only assume is Madison County, Iowa, siblings Carolyn (Annie Corley) and Michael Johnson (Victor Slezak) arrive at their now deceased mother’s home for the execution of her will. They learn that she has wished to be cremated, and for her ashes to be scattered over a local bridge, which they are...NOT happy about, goddamn! Respect your mother’s wishes, guys, dear Lord!

They uncover an envelope containing photos from 1965 that they’ve never seen, all of which show her posing near various The Bridges of Madison County. Upon looking at them, Carolyn has a realization, and asks Michael to come along. They ask the lawyer and Michael’s wife to leave them, and they go through it in private.

The letters

See, they’ve found letters to their mother from Robert Kincaid, a photographer for the magazine National Geographic, seemingly confessing to an illicit secret love affair. However, he’s also dead, and has asked for his ashes to be scattered off of the same bridge. Michael (whom I REALLY don’t like, by the way, he’s an ABSOLUTE dick) believes that he influenced her to do the same, but Carolyn’s not sure. Also amongst the letters is a key.

The key opens a chest, within which is a camera and a collection of other items, as well as a letter addressed to them both. Written in 1987, it’s addressed to Carolyn because she knew that Michael would be a little pissbaby about it (look, I REALLY don’t like him, he’s being an ass). In the letter to them, she confesses to them the affair, which took place when Robert Kincaid went there to photograph The Bridges of Madison County. The entire affair is documented in three notebooks, which they begin reading.

1965! Italian immigrant Francesca Johnson (Meryl Streep) is cooking dinner for her husband Richard (Jim Haynie) and her two teenaged kids, all of whom are on the way to the Illinois State Fair to exhibit Carolyn’s prize steer. The marriage is passionless, and the kids aren’t exactly opened up to her mother.

It doesn’t seem like a bad life, but it is kind of a dull one. Or, y’know, complacent and stable because not every relationship has to be a sequence of whirlwind passion and glory, and one shouldn’t abandon a good loving situation for a WEEKEND-LONG FLING GODDAMN IT I AM SICK AND TIRED OF INFIDELITY IN THESE GODDAMN MOVIES HOLY SHIT EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THE LAST FOUR FILMS HAS FEATURED IT AND I AM SICK OF IT

For the record, I’ve never been cheated on, nor have I cheated on anyone, but this trend in romance movies...troubles me. Seriously, I get that the last few, especially In the Mood for Love, have looked at infidelity as a serious issue, but...just one. Just one great romance movie that doesn’t require infidelity for its main couple to get together. Please? I mean, if you include the never seen Rosaline or betrothed Paris in Romeo + Juliet, that movie also had infidelity in it, meaning the only ones WITHOUT ANY FORM of infidelity in 11 DAYS have been Dirty Dancing and Pretty Woman. Guys. C’mon.

Yeah, yeah, OK, moving on. Sorry, that rant’s been building for a bit.

Anyway, the kids and Richard take off, leaving Francesca by herself at the house. As she’s doing chores, who should pull up but photographer Robert Kincaid (Clint Eastwood), who’s looking for Roseman Covered Bridge to photograph it. But, he’s lost, and he asks Francesca for directions.

However, the directions there are pretty complicated, and even Francesca seems to get them mixed up. She agrees to show him there in person, and the two take off in his car.

In the car together

The two get to know each other a bit over the course of the drive. Robert notes that he’s been to her hometown in Italy, having been there once because he considered it pretty. She’s fascinated by the decision, but I’m not sure if its because she thinks he’s crazy, or because she thinks he’s intriguing

They make it to Roseman Bridge, where Robert takes some preparatory photographs and Francesca walks along the bridge itself. I will say, I live in a place with some covered bridges, and is it weird that I feel like visiting a nearby one tomorrow? Honestly, I think that’s exactly what I’ll do. Maybe do some birdwatching nearby, contribute to the Great Backyard Bird Count, something, y’know?

youtube

Out of appreciation for her help, he picks her some flowers, which she claims are poisonous. The two bond over this, and he drives her back home. And that SHOULD be it, as the two part and introduce each other by first name. But, she offers him some iced tea, and he accepts. HERE we go.

In the house, the two continue to bond, and Francesca begins to reveal some frustration with her home life, as well as her life in Iowa as compared to what she had dreamed of. To that, Robert says the following, which he claimed he wrote one day on the road.

The old dreams were good dreams. They didn’t work out, but I’m glad I had them.

That is...that is a nice line WAIT. Am I buying into this coupling? ALREADY?

So, here’s the thing thus far about this month. Some couples have had great chemistry, and some haven’t been perfect. On the top for me so far are Richard and Vivian from Pretty Woman, Johnny and Baby from Dirty Dancing, Emma and George from Emma, Yuri and Lara from Doctor Zhivago, and the highest being Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan from In the Mood for Love (although, that one amounts to wishful thinking). But all of those took a little bit to build up. so HOW IS IT that I’m already shipping these two (despite the infidelity, of course)?

Francesca seems to agree with me as she watches Robert wash up outside, after having invited him to stay for dinner. He helps her prepare dinner, then charms her (and me, incidentally) with charming stories and dinner jokes. Real talk, I like Robert, he’s a charming guy.

After dinner, she notes that she was once a schoolteacher, but her kids and husband didn’t approve of her working. 1960s, after all. She brushed this off, and asks the location of the most exciting place he’s ever...been...shit, this is an example of excitement being introduced into a boring life, huh?

That trope is one of the most annoying to me in these movies. The Notebook had a bit of that, and I wasn’t a fan, but this is the first time that it’s a straight-up example of that trope. And...I’m buying it? WHY AM I BUYING THIS

Francesca becomes a bit conflicted at this point, and the two share some brandy together. But we’re shot back into the present day, where Michael (UUUUUGH) accuses Robert of trying to get her drunk to take advantage of her. However, Carolyn sympathizes with them both, citing her own currently faltering marriage.

Back in 1965, the two have a slight disagreement about how they live their lives. Robert leaves for the night, and they surprisingly don’t do anything untoward. However, I’m ore than willing to bet that Francesca’s now thinking about it. She gets a phone call from Richard in Illinois, but begins to tear up as Robert leaves. She steps outside in a bathrobe and flashes the wind.

That night, she writes a message to Robert, and drives out to the bridge, where she leaves it for him. She tells him to give her a call, inviting him over the following day. The next morning, he sees the note while taking a picture of the bridge, then calls her afterwards and accepts the invitation. He also invites her to come along with him to take pictures of the bridges, which she accepts in turn.

OK, let’s go for a Part 2! See you there!

#the bridges of madison county #clint eastwood #meryl streep #annie corley #victor slezak #romance february #user365 #365 movie challenge #365 movies 365 days #365 Days 365 Movies #365 movies a year #historical romance #trapstr #fuckyesmerylstreep #meryl*

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iandeleonwrites · 3 years

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Ian’s Case: A Personal Statement for Grad School Admission

Personal Statement, Ian Deleón

“He felt something strike his chest, and that his body was being thrown swiftly through the air, on and on, immeasurably far and fast, while his limbs were gently relaxed.”

It was more than a decade ago when I first read those words. Written by the American author Willa Cather, Paul’s Case: A Study in Temperament has always felt to me like an intimate account of my own life penned by a woman one hundred years in the past.

That is a feeling which makes me proud; that my personal whims, fears, and desires, could find their echo long ago in a story about a young man and his pursuit of a meaningful life. Because of it, I felt a pleasing sense of historicity at a time when I was struggling so much with my own.

I grew up in Miami Beach. Literally not more than a block away from water for most of my life. My father had emigrated from Cuba with his family in 1980. My mother had come on a work visa from Brazil a few years later. They met on the beach, had an affair, and I came into the world in May of 1987.

My life was marked with in betweenness from the very beginning. My parents’ relationship did not last long, so I grew up traveling between houses. I had two families. I was American, but I was also Cuban and Brazilian. I even have a Brazilian passport. I spoke three languages fluently, but I couldn’t dance salsa or samba. I felt at home with the working class immigrants and people of color in my neighborhoods, but I often had to work hard to prove I wasn’t just some gringo with a knack for foreign tongues.

[A quick note on Paul’s Case––If it happens that the reader is not familiar with the short story, let me briefly summarize it here: A disenchanted youth in turn of the century Pittsburgh feels increasingly alienated from his schoolmates, his teachers and his family. His only comfort is his position as an usher at Carnegie Hall, where he loses himself in the glamour of the art life. Having no drive or desire to become an artist, however, the dandy Paul makes a spur of the moment criminal decision and elopes to New York City. There, he is able to live out his fantasies in a financial masquerade for about a week’s time, until the authorities back home finger him for monetary theft. Learning that his father is en route to the city to collect him, Paul travels to the countryside and flings himself in front of a speeding train, musing about the elegant brevity of winter flowers.]

When I first encountered Cather’s short story I was blown away by the parallels I saw between my own life and Paul’s. In 2005, fresh out of high school, I was living mostly with my father as my mother had relocated to faraway West Palm Beach. I was an usher at the local concert hall, a job I cherished enough to volunteer my time for free. I became entranced by the world of classical music, opera, theater, and spectacle––often showing up for work early and roaming the performance spaces, probing high and low like some kind of millenial phantom.

In school, however, I had no direction, no plan. I had good enough grades, but no real motivation, and worst of all, I thought, no discernible talent. I probably resented my father for not being cultured enough to teach me about music, theater, and the arts. No one in my family had ever even been to a museum, or sat before a chamber orchestra. And it didn’t seem to matter to them either, they could somehow live blissfully without it.

Well I couldn’t. I began to mimic the fervor with which Paul immersed himself in that world, while also exhibiting the same panic at the thought of not being able to sustain my treasured experiences without a marketable contribution to them. But here is where Paul and I take divergent paths.

I was attending the Miami Dade Honors College, breezing my way towards an associate’s degree. I took classes in Oceanography, Sociology, Creative Writing, Acting and African Drumming. I was experimenting and falling in love with everything.

But it was my Creative Writing professor, Michael Hettich, who really encouraged the development of my nascent writing talent. Up until that point my ideas only found their expression through class assignments, particularly book reports and essays on historical events. My sister had always felt I had a way with words, but I just attributed this to growing up in a multicultural environment amongst a diversity of native languages.

As a result of that encouragement I began to write poetry, little songs and treatments for film ideas based on the short stories we were talking about in class. Somehow, thanks to those lines of poetry and a few amateur photographic self portraits, I was admitted to the Massachusetts College of Art & Design for my BFA program.

There, I attended classes in Printmaking, Paper Making, Performance Art, Video Editing, and Glass Blowing. I was immersed in culture, attending lectures and workshops, adding new words to my vocabulary: “New Media” and “gestalt”. I saw my first snowfall. I had the dubious honor of appearing at once not Hispanic and yet different enough. I was overwhelmed. I felt increasingly disenchanted and out of place in New England, yet my work flourished and grew stronger.

It was during this time that I developed a passion for live performance and engagement with an audience. I also worked with multi-channel video and sculptural installations. Always, I commented on my family history, grappling with it, the emigrations and immigrations. I even returned to those early short stories from Miami Dade, one time doing an interpretive movement piece based on The Yellow Wallpaper. Most often I talked about my father. He was even in a few of my projects. He was a good sport, though we still had the occasional heated political disagreement. We never held any grudges, and made up again rather quickly. It would always be that way, intense periods of warming and cooling. A tropical temperament, I suppose.

I continued to take film-related classes in Boston, but my interests gradually became highly abstracted, subtle, and decidedly avant-garde. I had no desire to work in a coherently narrative medium. This would eventually change, but for now, I let my ambitions and aspirations take me where they would.

I returned home to Miami for a spell after graduation. I traveled the world for five months after that. I moved back to Boston for another couple of years, because it was comfortable I suppose, though I was fed up with the weather.

Finally, I wound up in NYC. Classic story: I followed a charming young woman, another performance artist as luck would have it, a writer too, and a bit of an outsider. We were quickly engaged and on the first anniversary of our meet cute we were married on a gorgeous piece of land in upstate new york, owned by an older performance-loving couple from the city. Piece of land doesn’t quite do it justice, we’re talking massive tracts, hidden acres of forest, sudden lakes, fertile fields, and precocious wildlife. As they say in the movies, it really is all about location, location, location.

Nearly all of our significant personal and professional achievements in the subsequent years have centered around this bucolic homestead. After meeting, courting, researching and eventually getting married there, we soon decided we would stage our most ambitious project to date in this magical space––we would shoot...a movie.

We hit upon the curious story of an eighteenth century woman in England called Mary Toft. Dear Mary became famous for a months-long ruse that involved her supposed birthing of rabbits, and sometimes cats. The small town hoax ballooned into a national controversy when it was eventually exposed by some of the king’s physicians. My wife and I were completely enthralled by this story and its contemporary implications. Was Mary wholly complicit in the mischievous acts, or was she herself a sort of duped victim...of systematic abuse at the hands of her family, her husband, her country?

We soon found a way to adapt and give this tale a modern twist that recast Mary as a woman of color alone in the woods navigating a host of creepy men, a miscarriage, and a supernatural rabbit.

Over the course of nine months, our idea gestated and began taking the form of a short film screenplay. This was something neither of us had done or been adequately trained to do before. But we knew we wanted it to be special, it was our passion project. We knew we didn’t want it to look amateurish––we were too old for that. So we took out a loan, hired an amazing camera crew, and in three consecutive days in the summer of 2017 we filmed our story, Velvet Cry. It was the most difficult thing either of us had undertaken...including planning our nuptial ceremony around our difficult families.

It was an incredible experience––intoxicating––also quite maddening and stressful. But it was all worth it. Because of our work schedules, it took us another year to finish post production on the film, but throughout that process, I knew I had found my calling. I would be a writer, and I would be a Director.

Perhaps I had been too afraid to dream the big dream before. Perhaps I had lacked the confidence, or simply, the life experience to tackle the complexity of human emotions, narratives, and interactions––but no longer. This is what I wanted to do and I had to find a way to get better at doing it.

In the intervening months, I have set myself on a course to develop my writing abilities as quickly as I could in anticipation of this application process. I know I have some latent talent, but it has been a long time since I’ve been in an academic setting, and in any case, I have never really attempted to craft drama on this scale before.

I’ve read many books, listened to countless interviews, attended online classes, and most importantly, written my heart out since relocating down the coast to the small college town of Gainesville in Central Florida with my wife in June of 2018. It was through a trip to her alma mater of Hollins University that we learned about the co-ed graduate program in screenwriting a few months ago. After all the debt I accrued in New England, I didn’t think I would ever go back to college, though I greatly enjoyed the experience. But what we learned about the program filled me with confidence and a desire to share in the wonderful legacy of this school that my wife is always gushing about.

Our Skype conversation with Tim Albaugh proved to be the deciding factor. I knew instantly that I wanted to be a part of anything that he was involved with, and I had the feeling that my ideas would truly be nurtured and harnessed into a craft––something tangible I could be proud of and use to propel my career.

I continue to mine my childhood and adolescence in Miami for critical stories and characters, situations that shed light on my own personal experience of life. I’ve found myself coming back to Paul’s Case. No longer caught up in the character’s stagnant, brooding longings for a grander life, I’m now able to revisit the story, appreciating the young man’s anxieties while evaluating how it all went so fatally wrong for Paul. There was no reason to despair, no cause for lost hope. I would take the necessary steps to become the artist I already know myself to be. The screenplay I am submitting as my writing sample is a new adaptation of this story, making Paul my own, and giving him a little bit of that South Florida flavor.

I will close by reiterating how I have visited Hollins, and heard many a positive review from the powerful women I know who have attended college there. As a graduate student, I know Hollins can help me to become a screenwriter, to become a filmmaker. This is the only graduate program to which I am applying––I have a very good feeling about all this.

I want to be a Hollins girl.

#college essay #paul's case #queer writing #hollins university

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trulymadlysydney · 5 years

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Somewhere In Time: One

“Time is the most undefinable yet paradoxical of things; the past is gone, the future is not come, and the present becomes the past even while we attempt to define it, and, like the flash of lightning, at once exists and expires.”

-- Charles Caleb Colton.

**Please do not repost without permission***

4:37pm, December 31st, 1999

“Thank you so much for coming in, and happy new year!”

The bells above the door of the book shop jingle as the last of the day’s customers exit, simultaneously allowing a gust of cold wind to fill the front of the small building. Twenty-six year old Roni Elliot smiles cheerfully until the customer has disappeared out of sight, at which point she lets out a long, labored sigh. “That’s the last of ‘em, Eileen.”

An older woman appears from around the corner of a row of bookshelves, carrying a stack of books in her arms that she had been in the process of returning to their rightful spots. “Finally. Thought they’d never leave. It’s New Years Eve, for heaven’s sake, what are they doing here?” The look on her face makes Roni giggle, but Eileen means every word that comes out of her mouth.

Roni knows the closing routine well, and immediately goes to lock up the shop without even being asked. “We could ask ourselves the same question, you know.”

Eileen scoffs, scanning the title of the top book in her arms and placing it on a shelf. She doesn’t say anything, but the smile on her face informs Roni that she’s not as grumpy as she seems. She never is really, and at this point, Roni is used to her moods.

Roni adores Eileen. Her bark is worse than her bite, and Roni has become well acquainted with said bark. But Eileen loves Roni just as much, and although she struggles to express it, Roni knows Eileen would do anything for her.

The quiet doesn’t last long, as Roni knew it wouldn’t. Eileen is immediately launching into a story about her younger sister and how careless she is. Roni offers what little advice she can give on the situation while she sits and sorts through the box of used book donations, piling them all into different categories so they’ll be easier to place on the shelves.

“I’ve told her several times, ‘you can’t keep putting this off, Debby’ but she never listens to me. And I said to her, ‘Debby,’ I said, ‘what are you going to do when Richard passes?’ But she insists she’s too young to think about that just yet.” Eileen laughs. “I’m sixty-nine years old but at least I’ve got this store to my name. And what does Debby have?”

“You’re sixty-nine?” Roni teases. “Eileen, why didn’t you tell me? You don’t look a day over thirty.”

“Oh stop that. I’m being genuine, Veronica.”

Roni loves working in the bookshop. She finds comfort among the used books; the smell of old pages strangely familiar and welcoming. She’s been at this job since 1995, and she can’t seem to pull herself away from it all these years later. She’s grown too attached to Eileen, to the old books with the ripped spines and the dog-eared pages. It’s a family owned shop, opened in 1920 by Eileen’s grandmother, Louise. Eileen had grown up in this shop, eventually taking it over when her own mother passed, and in a way Roni feels as though she also grew up here.

Yellowing photographs cover the walls, some dating all the way back to the shop’s opening. Pictures of Louise with early patrons, pictures of past employees, and even a few family pictures that have nothing to do with the shop are all lined along the walls, yellowing with age and curling at the corners. Louise was a beautiful woman, and some of her photos look eerily like young photos of Eileen. Roni often finds herself scanning the pictures on the walls, asking Eileen to tell her about some of the people photographed. But Roni’s favorite picture is one that hangs in the back corner of the shop.

The photo is dated 1965, and features a freckle-faced little twelve year old girl with pigtails, standing beside her bicycle--the basket of said bicycle filled to the brim with science books. The little girl was none other than Roni’s own mother, Tanya, and Roni gets a pang of both joy and sadness every time she looks at it. According to Eileen, who was thirty-five at the time of the photograph, Tanya used to ride her bike to the shop every Friday-- because Friday was when she got her weekly allowance-- and purchase as many books as she could carry. It’s a story Roni’s heard thousands of times, but one she never gets tired of hearing.

“And of course her children will never come in here to see me.” Roni is only half-heartedly listening to Eileen, who is still ranting about Debby. “I helped her raise those kids when Richard was away and, and for what? They’re all grown now and all they care about are those darn computers.”

Eileen had never had children of her own, but she’d grown fond of Tanya and her frequent visits. She was one of the first to hear about Tanya’s pregnancy with Roni, and one of the first to offer up help when Roni’s father left without a word. When Tanya had passed, Roni had gone to live with her own grandmother, but she’d always considered Eileen a grandmother as well. It was an unspoken bond between the two of them; one that even Roni sometimes struggled finding the words to explain.

“It’s a shame,” Eileen’s voice brings Roni out of her own head once again, and she feels bad for zoning out. “Nowadays the young folks just don’t appreciate books like they used to.”

Roni sighs, feeling an almost pang of guilt at Eileen’s words. It’s a conversation they’ve had multiple times, and no matter what, Roni is never quite sure how to respond. She speaks up, placing a donated book into the “romance” pile. “There are still kids out there who love books.”

“Have you seen one person in here under the age of 30 today, Veronica?”

Eileen makes a point, but Roni is nothing if she isn’t positive. “They’re just busy preparing for their New Years Eve parties tonight.”

“And then after the parties, where will they be?”

Roni smirks, thumbing mindlessly through an autobiography before throwing it into its own pile. “Hungover.”

Eileen shakes her head, but Roni’s words coax a smile onto her face. “I don’t know, honey. It just doesn’t seem promising.”

Roni halts her movements, glancing over to where Eileen sits. Eiileen looks sad, and it weighs heavy on Roni’s heart. So roni sighs, offering a warm smile. “Heyyy,” she says softly. “You’ll see. 2000 is going to be a good year. I’ll make sure of it. I have plans for this place!”

“I’ve had plans for this place since I was six years old!. But everything keeps changing, and kids don’t care.”

“You’ve got to work on being more positive, girl.” Roni rises to her feet and gathers the pile of romance books. “Maybe this Y2K nonsense will only wipe out all the kids obsessed with technology. And then the only people left will be all the young people with old souls like you and me.”

Eileen laughs again. “Ohh stop that,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Speaking of all that, shouldn’t you be home getting ready? I’m sure you’ve got some exciting plans tonight.”

Roni raises her voice to be heard better, now speaking from the back corner of the shop where the romance section is located. “Oliver and I are having a party. Couple of friends. Nothing special.”

“Oliver,” Eileen repeats, as if trying to jog her memory as to who Oliver is. “That boyfriend of yours still treating you well?”

Roni has been with Oliver since she was sixteen years old, ten years ago, and in the entire five years she’s worked here, Eileen has asked that same question at least once a week. “Yeah, he’s totally great. We’re still like, really happy.”

“Well, good. You make sure he puts a ring on your finger before any funny business though. You don’t want any babies you aren’t ready for.”

Roni snorts quietly to herself. “Don’t worry, Eileen. There won’t be any of that any time soon.”

“See to it that there isn’t.”

It’s quiet for the next few moments, with Eileen closing down the cash register and Roni placing books back on their shelves. She glances up at the pictures that she’s grown so familiar with on the walls. Sometimes she likes to make up stories for each, imagining their entire family line, what they do for work, where they’re from.

There’s the larger woman in the picture dated 1987, smiling and laughing with her eyes closed beside a man with a thick gray mustache. There’s the picture of the boy in the newsboy cap, dated 1924, standing beside a stack of books that’s taller than him, grinning at the camera with a dimpled smirk. And then there’s a picture of Roni and Eileen, dated 1996- just one year after Roni started working here. Eileen is giving Roni a stern yet amused look, with a hint of a smile tugging on her cheeks, while Roni is giving the camera a goofy, mid-laugh smile. It’s one of Roni’s favorite pictures ever, and one of these days she swears she’ll get a copy of her own to frame.

“Veronica, dear.” Roni doesn’t know how much time has passed when Eileen catches her attention once more. “Why don’t you go on ahead and get out of here? I can finish this up.”

“What? No, I’m not gonna leave you--”

“Oh, honey. You know I can handle this on my own. You go on home, get your party all set up for tonight. Don’t worry about me.”

Roni appears from around the shelves, subconsciously playing with the rings on her fingers. “But don’t you need to get out of here, too? You’ve gotta have some party plans tonight.”

Eileen laughs “The only plans I’ve got for tonight are to go home, cook myself some dinner, go to bed, and wake up in a brand new millennium.”

“If we make it that long!” Roni teases, eyes widening in a jokingly scared face. “You know Y2K is gonna take us all out.”

“Oh Veronica,” Eileen scoffs, “stop with that nonsense.” She swats at Roni’s behind as she passes, and Roni giggles. “You and I both know we’re going to wake up tomorrow and everything is going to be completely normal. We’re going to get one day to relax and then it’s back to work. Within a week no one will even remember any of this.”

Roni glances down at the mood ring on her finger, chewing absentmindedly at her chapped lips. She knows Eileen is probably right, but there’s a part of her that hopes she isn’t.

Still, this is not the time or the place to get into all of that. So she brushes it aside with a giggle. “How can you be so sure?”

“I’ve been around sixty-nine years, dear. They’ve predicted this more times than I can count on all my fingers and toes. If the world is going to end, I just hope she gets on with it. I’m tired.”

This time Roni laughs out loud. “Word,” she replies, beginning her final go-round of the little shop, making sure each aisle is neat and tidy. “But really, you sure you’re gonna be okay alone here?”

Roni hardly hears Eileen’s answer when she stops in the sci-fi section. She scans the book titles briefly before finding exactly what she’s looking for; the over-used copy of Black Holes and Time Warps: Einstein’s Outrageous Legacy by Kip S. Thorne.

With slow fingers, Roni gently slides the book from the shelf and runs her hand over the cover. She’s borrowed this book countless times, read it cover to cover so many times she could potentially recite it, and filled at least a hundred pages in her journal with notes not only from this novel, but several others as well. Some part of her mind tells her that it’s pointless to borrow this book yet again, as if she’s going to find something she hasn’t already seen. But the other part of her mind, the much louder and more prominent part, tells her to read it just one more time.

Just in case.

Roni takes a deep breath and walks up to where Eileen still stands closing the register. “Hey, Eileen?”

“Hm?” Eileen hardly even glances up at Roni from over her glasses.

“Would it be okay if I borrowed this book?”

This time, Eileen does look up, squinting over her glasses to read the title of the book before shooting Roni an incredulous look. “Again?”

“It’s my favorite!” It’s only partly a lie. “I just find it like, super fascinating, you know?”

“What exactly are you expecting to get from reading it hundreds of times?”

Roni bites her tongue, not daring to allow herself to tell Eileen what she really wants. “I’m not… expecting anything,” she lies. “I just think it’s dope.”

“Dope,” Eileen mocks, shaking her head with a laugh. She eyes Roni carefully, then lets out a sigh. “Alright, love, of course you can take it.”

Roni beams, surprisingly relieved although she’d known the entire time that Eileen would say yes. Eileen continues speaking as Roni heads towards the back room. “And stop using those slang words on me, Veronica, you know I don’t understand them.” Despite her words, she smiles, nodding her head towards the ‘Employees Only’ door. “Go on and get out of here, now. You’ve got a party to set up.”

“Eileen, you’re the bomb.” Now Roni’s just teasing her, and she blows Eileen a kiss that has her giggling.

It’s about ten minutes later when Roni is waving her final goodbye to Eileen and slipping out the door. It is windier than usual outside, and she pulls her jacket tightly around her shoulders, not at all looking forward to walking home in this cold. She glances up at the cloudy sky, which looks like it could snow at any moment, and lets out a sigh. As much as she loves her friends, she really hopes they don’t all get snowed in at her and Oliver’s house tonight.

Roni is so distracted by the sky and her own thoughts that she shrieks when she feels herself bump straight into another person. She blinks as she regains her balance, trying to make out the person in front of her.

It’s an old man she’s seen before on this street. Roni has never been sure if he’s homeless or crazy, but he’s always out here holding his signs and shouting about ‘the inevitable doom that will come if you don’t repent!” His current sign reads “Y2K: The End Is Near” in dripping red paint made to look-- very inaccurately-- like blood.

Roni lets out a sigh once her initial shock wears off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“The end is near!” The man shouts in Roni’s face, getting so close she can practically smell his breath. “We have hours to go, do you have a plan?”

Roni grimaces before sliding past the man to continue on her walk home. “Sorry, dude. My plan is to get shitfaced and fall asleep with my friends. Good luck with the protesting though.”

Although he makes no effort to chase after her, he continues yelling; the further Roni gets away the louder he becomes. “You’ll be sorry! When the world comes to complete and utter chaos and you’ve got nowhere to go, see if I help you!! The end is nearer than you think, and you will suffer the consequences, do you hear me?”

He continues yelling for what feels like an eternity, and when Roni is finally out of earshot she rolls her eyes. “Fuckin’ weirdo,” she mutters under her breath. With that, she walks a little bit faster, tucking her house key between her pointer and middle finger in order to feel a bit more safe.

----------

9:31pm, December 31st, 1924

“Styles! Get over here.”

Twenty-five year old Harry Styles groans, wiping his hands on the rag hanging from the back of his pants. He brushes his sweaty brow with the back of his wrist as he walks towards his supervisor, Frank Milton. “Sir?”

“What is this?” Frank shoves a leather shoe into Harry’s chest, and Harry has to take a moment to readjust himself so as to not fall over.

He glances down at the shoe, trying his hardest to find a problem with it. He sees his own reflection, a bit distorted in the shiny leather of the shoe. He flips it around to look at the sole-- perfectly in tact, and finally gives up, shrugging. “It’s a shoe.”

Frank scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head. “You’re joking. You’re absolutely joking.”

Harry glances around the factory. A few of his friends are keeping an eye on the situation, but for the most part, no one is paying much attention to him. He clears his throat. “It’s proper to my eyes, sir.”

“Proper.” Frank scoffs again, suddenly yanking the shoe from Harry’s hand and shoving it in his face. “Does this seem proper to you, Styles?”

The shoe almost hits Harry’s nose, and he can smell the fresh leather from how close Frank is holding it to his face. Harry squints, tilting his head back a bit so he can try and get a better idea as to what Frank could possibly be referring to. He scans the shoe once more, shaking his head slowly when he once again comes up short handed. “I don’t--”

“The throat line!” Frank throws the shoe with all of his might this time, and it lands harshly against Harry’s chest before plopping to the ground with a dull “plap” noise. Harry wants to reach up and rub at the spot on his chest that the shoe impacted, but now Frank has nearly everyone’s attention, and Harry doesn’t so much as dare to move. Frank takes a step closer to Harry, shoving his finger against the center of his chest. He’s so close now that Harry can feel his spit when he talks. “How many times have I told you to watch what you’re doing, Styles? Hm? How many?”

Harry can’t think of a proper answer, and he’s not sure whether or not this is a rhetorical question. More than anything, he wants to shove Frank’s finger off of his chest and show him exactly what he thinks of him. He could tell Frank off right here and now, in front of everyone, once and for all. Too many times has Frank gotten in Harry’s face over the most minuscule and trivial things. Too many times has Frank gotten too big for his britches and abused the power he had over these men in this factory. It drives Harry to near insanity, especially knowing that he could easily flip Frank over his shoulder and send him crashing to the ground (likely knocking him unconscious considering the concrete floor), without so much as breaking a sweat.

But Harry is one late bill away from having the power in his apartment completely shut off. Harry is one blanket short of being completely warm in his bed at night, especially come this time of year. And Harry only has about one meal left in his fridge to get him through till next payday. Which means he can’t afford to give Frank a piece of his mind.

So Harry clears his throat and gives him an answer. “Several.”

“Several times, Styles, and for what? For the throat line of our shoes to look like this?!” Frank gestures angrily at the shoe, now lying abandoned on the floor. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Huh? How do we get it through your skull to watch what the fuck you’re doing?”

Harry won’t meet Frank’s eyes, and he’s certain that if he did he’d lose all control. The fact that every pair of eyes in the factory is on him has become painfully obvious, and Harry can feel the tips of his ears turning red. With every ounce of courage Harry can muster, he swallows his pride and bends down to retrieve the shoe. “I’m sorry, sir. If you’ll just give me another chance--”

Frank cuts him off with a jab of his knee into Harry’s side, successfully knocking off Harry’s balance and sending him to the ground. “Does the integrity of this brand mean nothing to you? Do deadlines just not matter in your world?”

On the one hand, Harry wants one of his mates to stand up for him. But on the other, he hates that they’re all there watching this happen. “Mr. Milton, I--”

“I have given you more than enough chances, Styles. And this?” He kicks the shoe towards Harry. “This is the way you repay me?”

“Mr. Milton--”

“I’ve had it, Styles. You’re finished here.”

The entire factory seems to fall silent at Frank’s words, and Harry lets out all of his breath in disbelief. The silence feels stuffy and hot, and Harry scans the entire room before glancing back up at Frank. Everything moves in slow motion, and not a single person in the room knows how to react.

Finally, Harry scoffs, shaking his head, and a bitter smile teases at the corners of his lips. Harry isn’t one to beg, especially not when he’s down on the ground like this, and as desperate as he is for money, there’s a small part of him that’s relieved. Harry closes his mouth, opens it again, glances around the room once more, and then smile’s a tongue-in-cheek smile up at Frank. “I don’t… know what to say, sir.”

“Get your things. I have nothing more to say to you.”

All eyes are on Harry when he lets out a long nasally sigh. He nods his head slowly before rising to his feet, taking the previously discarded shoe in his hand. Frank turns to walk away, but stops dead in his tracks when he hears Harry’s voice.

“I’m sure you don’t, Frank.”

Harry doesn’t move. He soaks up every ounce of the thickness in the room and uses it to fuel himself even more. When Frank finally does turn around on his heels, the look on his beet red face is almost enough to send Harry into a fit of laughter.

Almost, but not quite.

Frank takes a step towards Harry, intended to make him back down. Instead he only grins, causing Frank to raise his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well,” Harry says, nonchalantly turning the shoe in his hands, “Frank. It’s unfortunate you feel that way.” He glances up from under his lashes, completely unable to contain the smirk on his face. “Because I’ve got an awful lot to say to you.”

Harry steps forward, shoving the shoe right back into Frank’s chest before walking completely past him. He walks further into the factory, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “You think I’m going to lose any sleep over quitting this fuckin’ dump?”

“You watch your mouth, Styles.”

“The way you watch yours?” Harry raises his eyebrows challengingly, continuing his walk around the room. “The way you treat me--the way you’ve treated every single one of us for the last two years warrants no amount of respect from me, sir.”

Harry arrives at the machine of a coworker and pats him on the back. “Eddie, how long have you been here?”

Eddie hesitates, eyes darting nervously between Frank and Harry. “Uh,” he stammers. “Three… three years…”

Harry gasps, feigning shock. “Three years, huh? And in the amount of time that ol’ Frank has been in charge of this place, have you been acknowledged for your efforts and your devotion to this company? Even once?”

Eddie glances back at Frank, completely frozen and unsure of how to go about this situation. “Harry--”

Frank takes a step forward. “Mr. Styles, I will ask you one last time--”

“And you!” Harry walks over to another coworker, James, and nods his head at him. “Mr. Harrison, is your wife not, what, eight months pregnant?”

James clears his throat. “Nine.”

“Nine! Nine months pregnant! Well, congrats, old man. And over the last nine months, how many times has Frank allowed you to go home and be with your wife as she’s about to pop?”

“Styles, that is enough!” Frank’s voice is raised now, and Harry swears he sees steam rising from the old man’s bald head.

“It isn’t enough!” Harry shouts back. “It will never be enough, Frank, until you understand that what you’re doing is wrong. It’s slave labor, and its cruel. Have you offered Bill over there any compensation for the time he nearly sliced his finger clean off?”

“Harry--”

“Do you know why that happened? It’s because you had him here at four in the morning after you’d worked him till eleven at night the night before. It’s because you see your employees as money makers, not as people. It’s because Mr. Frank fucking Milton doesn’t have a single bone of compassion in his old, tired body. And everyone here knows I’m right.”

Frank now stands a few mere inches in front of Harry, but Harry doesn’t budge. He only grins. “And if you think that I’m not going to the proper authorities to report your sorry ass now that I don’t work for you anymore, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Frank lunges for Harry then, wrapping his arms around his torso and sending both of them toppling to the ground. He swings punches left and right with no proper aim, and although he does get a few good jabs in, Harry is stronger.

Harry grunts, rolling over so that Frank is the one on the ground. Frank is quick, however, blocking a few of Harry’s punches to his face. He’s spewing curse words that Harry’s not even sure he’s heard before, and the blind rage inside of Harry takes over his body completely. A year of being treated this poorly has done him in, he thinks, and he swears he could kill Frank if given the chance.

Harry hardly notices the complete chaos taking place around them as he and Frank rise to their feet to continue their brawl. Some of the men are cheering, others are trying to pull the men apart. Harry receives a solid sock to the eye that has him stumbling backwards, which he retaliates with a swift knee to Frank’s stomach. Frank groans, hunching over briefly, and Harry swears he’s got him now. He lunges forward, sending them both to the ground once again, and just begins swinging.

Harry feels he’s just getting warmed up, when he feels two pairs of arms grab him from behind to pull him away.

Harry tastes blood, and he reaches up to wipe at his now swollen eye, that he’s sure is going to be black and blue come morning. His absolute rage still hasn’t died down yet, although he’s fighting a losing battle now He kicks and wiggles, but his captors are stronger than him, dragging him towards the exit doors.

The last thing Harry sees before reaching the doors are a few of the men helping Frank stand upright. “Fuck you!” Harry spits. “And fuck this place! You’ll all be sorry, this place is going to crash and burn and I’ll be laughing while it happens! You’ll be begging me to come back, and--”

He’s cut off when he’s practically thrown out the front door. The two men responsible shake their heads with disapproving glares. “Good luck with that attitude in the real world, Styles,” one of them laughs before slamming the door.

But Harry isn’t finished. “Yeah, fuck you, too actually! I quit!”

Harry is met only with the sound of the wind, which feels surprisingly good against his hot body. He reaches up to wipe at mouth, cursing when he sees the amount of blood on his hands. He glances around him at the almost empty streets of New York, admittedly thankful that of the small handful of people around, not one really seems to acknowledge him.

“Bloody New York,” he mumbles under his breath before rising to his feet.

He lets out a somewhat injured sniff, wiping at his throbbing nose. His head hurts, and more than anything all he wants right now is to crawl into his bed and sleep for the next three days. He knows he can’t, however, because the bills are going to need to get paid one way or another. And he’s got to start job hunting the moment his eyes open in the morning.

However, he figures he’s allowed to feel a bit sorry for himself for the time being.

Harry wraps his coat further around himself, shivering when another gust of wind comes his way. Damn this cold. Damn winter. Damn the bills. Damn New York.

Up ahead, Harry makes out a figure. He assumes it’s a woman or a child, because the figure is much smaller than he is, but it’s stumbling around as if it’s had far too much to drink. Harry squints against the dim light, trying to make out what’s going on.

The figure seems to be walking in his direction, and Harry slows his steps ever so slightly until he can figure out the appropriate course of action. Most likely it’s a drunk-- this area is swimming with them, especially around this time of night-- and he hopes he’ll be able to pass by without any sort of hassle. Sometimes drunk men try to heckle him, or drunk women twice his age try to seduce him. He always politely declines, but it’s awkward nonetheless.

But when Harry gets a bit closer, he realizes that the figure is neither of those things.

It’s a young woman, yes, and she is stumbling, but it isn’t the stumble of a drunkard. It’s the stumble of someone who’s lost, dazed, or even perhaps sick. Harry stops in his tracks.

“Miss, are you alright?”

Harry’s voice seems to fall on deaf ears. Although very few people are around, no one acknowledges the girl, and she stumbles again, nearly slamming herself into the brick building.

Why is no one helping her? Harry takes a step forward, then stops himself again when she glances around, as if she can hardly see two feet in front of her.

“Miss?” He calls again, softer, as if afraid to startle her.

This time she does acknowledge him, taking a shaky step towards him and nearly toppling over once again. Harry wastes no time in rushing over to her, slightly annoyed that he’s the only one who seems to even realize this is going on. She stumbles towards him and he lengthens his strides so as to close the distance between them as quickly as possible.

He reaches her just in time, and the moment he’s close enough to get a decent look at her face, she collapses in his arms. “Miss!”

She blinks sleepily up at him with furrowed brow and open mouth. Her breathing is heavy, and Harry struggles to keep her somewhat upright as he watches her.

“Are you alright?” He asks, breathless. He shakes her a bit, trying to get her to come to. “Hey, look at me. What’s going on? Are you alright?”

The girl in his arms struggles to keep her eyes opened, but she gulps in a breath of air and reaches up for Harrys’ face with a shaky hand. She runs a weak finger across his cheekbone, down his cheek, and to his jaw, as if she’s trying to recognize him. Harry doesn’t understand, but something tells him he needs to hold still in this moment. So he holds his breath as she traces his features.

“Miss,” he says slowly, “what happened to you?”

Finally dropping her hand, she continues to blink sleepily up at him, confusion never once leaving her face. She looks like she’s struggling to speak, and Harry shakes her again ever so slightly to keep her conscious.

Her mouth opens and closes a few times, and Harry waits with bated breath for her to be able to get a clear thought out. But when she does, it takes him completely by surprise.

“Mom?”

Harry scoffs. He doesn’t mean to, but it comes out the second she says it. “Well, how do you like that,” he says to himself. “Save a damsel in distress and she thinks you’re her damn mother.”

But Harry doesn’t get the snarky response he’s expecting. When he glances back down at her, her eyes are almost fully fluttered closed, and her head finally lulls to the side in complete relaxation. She's passed out in his arms now, and he has absolutely no idea what to do in this situation.

“Shit,” he says quietly, shaking her a bit more in an attempt to wake her. “Please wake up, I didn’t mean it.”

She’s completely unresponsive now, and Harry is not fully convinced she’s even alive anymore. He reaches up to run a hand through his sweaty hair, contemplating how on earth he’s supposed to go about dealing with this. Should he call the police? Should he take her to a hospital? What happens if they blame him? The black eye certainly isn’t going to bode well for him.

He uses his hand to fan her face, even going so far to blow a little as if that’s going to do any good. The panic is setting in, and it’s almost far too much for him to take when she stirs ever so slightly.

“Yes! Yes, wake up, there’s a good girl…” Harry brushes a bit of her hair off of her forehead, shifting her a bit more so that she’s propped up. When she opens her eyes, he beams, even though she looks just as confused as before-- if not more.

“Hello!” Harry says quickly, “Good evening! Yes, hi, I think you may have just passed away in my arms and then risen from the dead, and I want to help you but I’m genuinely not even sure where to begin so please stay awake and tell me what happened to you because--

“Wait,” she says slowly, lifting her head a bit to look around. As confused as she still seems, this is the most cognizant she’s been this entire time. Harry waits impatiently for her to say something, slowly becoming aware of the fact that he’s still holding her in his arms.

Finally, she looks up at him with an unreadable expression. She’s not particularly concerned, not scared and not excited-- but something tells Harry that the question she asks is urgent.

“What year is it?”

#i don't know why im so nervous but here she is #this story has been swimming in my head for like.... the majority of this year #this is my pride and joy and im so excited to share the rest with you guys #Harry Styles #Harry #One Direction #Harry Styles fanfiction #Harry fanfiction #One Direction fanfiction #fanfiction #Harry Styles AU #Harry AU #One Direction AU #AU

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qqueenofhades · 4 years

Note

"And when he comes home years later, she cries again because he’s more like Asher than ever, scars littering his body and shadows behind his eyes, a soldier and a man and everything she didn’t want for him." (I'm too lazy to write it but since we're all up in our Feelings tonight...)

Paris, France

August 30, 1997

There have been sirens droning for hours outside, on and on and on, as Maria Tompkins Flynn’s hand shakes where she tries to hold her drafting pencil, to put the final touches on the mechanical engineering plans she is putting together for her guest lectures at the Sorbonne. She tries to concentrate, but she can’t, and finally she throws it down, gets to her feet, and walks out into the dim living room. Picks up the remote and switches on the TV, as if there might be some explanation for all the ruckus outside, just in time to see an aerial photograph of a crumpled black car, a sea of flashing lights, motorcycles and cameras, and a scrolling news ticker. LA PRINCESSE DIANA DANS IN UN ACCIDENT DE VOITURE, the screen reads. CONDITION INCONNUE.

At that, Maria’s breath goes out of her a little, and she has to sit down hard. She hopes the poor woman’s all right – it’s not fair what that family has done to her, driving her out of her homeland and her life like this, hounded at every waking instant, and Maria, who knows a little of being forced into exile, losing everything, unable to go back, cannot help but sympathize. She glances out through the fluttering gauze curtains, then looks down at her shaking hands – she is not that elderly, she is only fifty-two, but age seems to have nothing to do with it. She has been living here since her adopted homeland crumbled into factionalism and war six years ago, and took her son’s heart with it. I have to do this, Mama, he insisted, during the rage and desperation of their fighting, as she gave everything she had trying (and failing) to convince her fifteen-year-old son not to enlist in the army. I have to go. Dad would have wanted it.

(How dare he use his father against her like that, Maria thinks, twisting the wedding ring that has worn a groove into her pale, fragile finger, the ring she has not taken off for ten years. It is a decade so close to the day – September 14, 1987, five days after Garcia’s twelfth birthday – when she kissed her husband for the last time. Asher said that this would be a brief mission, he should be home by Sunday, and then vanished into the ether. The KOS, the Yugoslavian intelligence service – there is no more Yugoslavia, but there are all of its secrets – is still so heavily classified that Maria has never been able to find out where he was sent, what he was doing, or how he met his fate. She and Asher agreed that he would tell their son what his job really was when Garcia was sixteen. Instead, she has been left in limbo, and he still does not know the truth.)

Maria sits down, gets up, wonders if she should turn the television on yet, if Princess Diana is doing better. They must have taken her to the hospital, truly? Her poor sons. They are teenagers, they are not ready to lose their mother. William is fifteen years old, isn’t he? The thought gives Maria a jolt. That is too young, too young to lose a mother, too young to fight, too young to go to war, and it is how old her own son was, when she lost him, in some demented reverse, some funhouse mirror, down the rabbit hole, gone and gone and gone. She has not heard from him in almost six years, since he enlisted in the HV, then sent a jumbled letter about going onto Bosnia. As if one war was not enough, he must find another? He survived one, he runs headlong into the next, and –

The knock, when it comes, almost makes Maria spill her tea. She was not expecting visitors tonight, and she wonders if it is her neighbor, Helene, asking if she has seen the TV. She is not sure whether to answer it, but it seems uncharitable not to, and she makes her way into the front hall, unchaining the deadbolt. The walls and floors in old Paris apartments are very thin; she can often hear every sound from down the hall, and tries to walk quietly. She opens the door an inch. “Oui? Comment vous – ?”

And then, she stops. Because she cannot be seeing right, she is afraid to believe, some part of her thinks it must be a ghost, on this night that feels so thick with bad omens already. Because he’s standing there in the corridor, in a pullover sweater and battered blue jeans, his hair thick and dark and unruly and badly in need of a trim, a healing scrape of some kind on his face and the slightest hint of silver by his temples. He is ten days away from his twenty-second birthday. He looks at her – looks well down, he has his father’s height and bearing and nose and eyes, and for a moment Maria’s heart stopped for an altogether different reason, that faint and foolish hope forever that her lover will come home to her – and says, “Hello, Mama.”

Maria stares at him, stares at her son, her living, breathing son, and discovers that her own breath is shriveled in her throat. She makes only a wheezing sound as if her wind has been knocked out. “Garcia?”

He ducks his head, almost abashed. It’s a boy’s gesture, but nothing else about him looks like a boy, no matter how young he is in years. He carries a dirty duffel bag and his knuckles are battered. He says, “Can I come in?”

Maria steps aside by reflex to admit him into the apartment, too dazed to protest. He moves as if he’s uncomfortable in an enclosed space, glancing up sharply when lights cross the wall as if it might be a sniper’s sight. If he is aware of Princess Diana’s accident, he does not say so. He perches on the couch, Maria goes to make another cup of tea on the stunned thought that one should do that when one’s son appears out of the clear blue sky, returns and hands it to him. Garcia nods his thanks and takes it, sipping tersely. She stands there, staring at him, his bent head, his careful motionlessness. At last she says, “Sarajevo.”

He looks up at her, hearing the recrimination. The decision he made to go to Bosnia even when the war in Croatia was done, rather than come back here, to safety, or even stay in the new republic the people had carved out. He looks apologetic, but not guilty. “I needed to,” he says simply. “It was not over.”

Maria looks at him, that thousand-yard stare in his young eyes, the way his index finger on his right hand curls as if around the ghost of a trigger. To look at your son and know beyond all doubt that he has killed people, possibly more than he can count, makes her want to fall like a leaf on the wind, to curl up, to crumple. Since he was so injudicious as to use Asher against her when he enlisted, she is almost tempted to do it again now. Asher was a very proud Croat, he never forgot that. Yet he was – at least while Tito lived – fiercely loyal to the Yugoslavian experiment, the ideal of a unified Slav utopia, a better country for all the people, no matter their race or religion or ethnicity. But after Tito died in 1980, the economy began to crumble, and the country slowly splintered, Asher grew increasingly disillusioned with the Serb-dominated leadership, became more and more sympathetic to the idea of Croatian independence. Maria cannot think he would ever have agreed to send his teenage son to war, would have done everything to forestall it. But Asher himself joined the KOS at the age of nineteen. She is afraid there is too much wildness in their blood, these beautiful, haunted, passionate Flynn boys who can never stay blind to injustice for long. She is too afraid that her beloved husband would not, if Garcia had insisted upon it, have ultimately said no.

Garcia sips his tea a few moments more. Maria moves to sit next to him, as the sirens and lights continue to go by outside, and she sees a muscle move in his cheek. “Sarajevo,” he says, as if continuing their earlier conversation. “There are rumors that Kosovo is going next.”

At that, Maria feels the tiny bloom of hope that opened inside her begin to crumble into dust. She knows what that means, even as she was somehow clinging to the foolish idea that he had come back to give up the war, to stay. It means he is going back. It means that is the next battle, and he means to be there. What is this? Some brief visit to ensure she sees his face one last time before he runs back like Asher, if he disappears as well, if he –

“You could stay,” Maria says nonetheless. “Here.”

Garcia shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Three wars, then? Three? You’ve already had the one! That was for your – for our home, and you won it! Then Sarajevo, now Kosovo! Those aren’t even yours! Garcia, you don’t – ”

“Dad would have,” Garcia says stubbornly. “Dad would have understood.”

“Don’t you dare speak about your father like that to me.” Maria’s blood burns hotly in her cheeks, her heart close to smashing. Asher would never have supported the brutalities of the JNA, the Serbian atrocities, even in the name of holding together a Yugoslavia already lost, but she cannot stand to admit to Garcia that he is right. “How dare you even – ”

And with that, before they have ever even said hello to each other, before there has been any recompense for those six lost years, her grief and her frustration and her heartache burns through Maria like a poison, and she does something she instantly regrets, would give anything to take back. She raises her hand and slaps her son, her sweet boy, her child, across the face.

For a moment, Garcia looks stunned, and then as if he might rage. But what he does instead is even worse. His face slowly crumples, his head falls, and his eyes well up with tears. He must have taken all manner of worse punishment in the war, in the wars, and stood them without flinching, but at that, he breaks. He clenches his jaw, as if trying to stop the sob rising out of him, but he fails. His chin quavers, and he lets out a sound that Maria would burn down the whole world never to have heard him make, to never have been the cause of it. “My baby,” she whispers, horrified, thinking he will shove her away, but instead he falls into her arms, his face buried in her shoulder. “Sweetheart, Garcia, Garcia, my baby, no. No, no, no. Sweetheart, no.”

Garcia cries silently for almost five minutes, all the tears he has not shed before, for all the mortar shells and blasted buildings, the dead friends and the butchered civilians, the horrors that have aged him a hundred years already. It shakes and shakes out of him and Maria cries and coos and rocks him in her arms, though he is still twice the size that she is. She kisses his tumbled hair, like she did when he was very small and still prone to climb into his parents’ bed when he had a nightmare, sometimes when his father was there and more often when he was not. Maria rubs his back and cradles his head and kisses his face all over, as he clings to her arm and keeps sobbing in a way he can never do before the others, and she tries to sing him a lullaby, but her own throat is too choked up to manage. Her tears fall thick and fast into his hair. She feels as she did when the officer came to the door and told her in stilted English that he was very sorry, her husband would not be coming home. She wants to fall down and let her bones melt to dust and become one with the earth and sky.

Garcia cries until he is spent, as Maria notes a whitish scar braided on the back of his shoulder and does not ask, as her sore heart hurts even more. Then he rests there without a sound, limp and heavy, a toddler asking to be carried back to bed, and she gets him up – her hands do not shake at all this time – and guides him back to her room and puts him on her bed, and sits by him until he falls asleep, which takes only moments. She looks at the lights of Paris on the face of her sleeping child, the one thing left in the world that she loves, having lost two husbands and a son and two homelands, and wonders if you ever find the way out of it, this huge dark echoing place, this breathless grief. She smoothes a faint furrow out from between his brows. He does not wake.

(Garcia goes to Kosovo.)

(Princess Diana dies.)

#timeless #timeless ff #i apologize in advance #garcia flynn #asher x maria #i'm real hurt about everything right now sO #my babies #this fic brought to you by my welcome to sarajevo feelings spiral #extasiswings #ask

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madamsixx · 4 years

Text

Beyond The Leather Chapter 57: Hell On High Heels

Warning: Violence

August 19th, 1987

Iman had her photoshoot today. When she walked in the photographer freaked out after seeing her bruised swollen lip. He ordered for the glam team to put more makeup on her lip. But it wasn't working out.

"I'll put my hand over my mouth. How about this." Iman said as she lifted her hand to cover the side of her lip.

"Perfect." The photographer said.

"When we get back we'll have to put another ice pack on your lip k." Jess said with worry.

After Iman found her hotel room destroyed she canceled out her room and started staying with Jess. She also had to go shopping for more clothes because she realized that her clothes from her suit case were all cut up. Plus some of her heels were missing. Chances are it was Vanity that did it.

Nikki and Iman haven't spoken to each other. She also decided it was best to stay away from his band mates and there girlfriends and wives as well. She ran into them a couple of times and just greeted them but didn't say much to them.

It was Motley Crues day off today and tonight Nikki wanted to go out. He was stressed dealing with the situation that was going on with him and Iman. Vanity wasn't making things easier for him either. They were doing more drugs together and he found himself shooting up more and more. She kept on acting crazy which was driving him nuts. The past few days when he had seen Iman in the hotel restaurant he wanted to talk to her and tell her how sorry he was. But Vanity kept antagonizing Iman. She would throw stuff at her and call her a whore. Iman chose to take the high rode rather than argue with a drug addict and a crazy Vanity. It would cause Nikki and Vanity to argue and end up with both of them telling each other to fuck off.

Tonight Iman and Jess were going out dancing. She had a day off and wanted to enjoy her self. Jess thought that it would take her mind off of things going on between her and Nikki as well.

"Ok so I found a nice dancing club that we can go to it's very classy, lots of decent guys, and good music. It's called Ace." Jess said.

"Ok sounds like fun. I'm just going to go downstairs to see if I can get alittle snack." Iman said as she got up and left Jess's room. She came out of the elevator and walked towards the hotel restaurant. She grabbed a bagel and jam and started heading back towards the elevator.

"Iman."

She turned and saw Heather coming into the hotel carrying a shopping bag.

"Hey girl." Iman smiled.

"Hey, I just went shopping. Got some nice kinky stuff for Tommy." She giggled.

"Oh I'm sure he'll like that." Iman laughed humorously.

The girls got into the elevator and talked some more. "So what are your plans for tonight?" Heather asked.

"Me and Jess are going out dancing to this club called Ace."

"Oh I heard of that place it's very nice." Heather smiled. "So I was wondering... now I don't think it's me but I just wanted to ask anyways. Do you have a problem with me?" She frowned. The elevator opened up on Iman's floor and she dried gulped not knowing what to say. She stepped out of the elevator and Heather held onto the door.

"I don't Heather, I really like you. But there's so much problems I have with Nikki and I just want to stay away." Iman said sadly.

Heather sighed and nodded her head. "I think me and you can become great friends. Were from the same social standings, were hot, rich, and I need girls like that to be around me. Not Vanity or Sharise. I have to put up with them cause of Tommy. Vanity's always screaming and talking a mile a minute and Sharise is a mud wrestler. Like ew." She snorted.

Iman laughed and shook her head. "Wow a mud wrestler." She raised her brows.

"Yes." She said with wide eyes laughing hysterically.

"Why don't you come out with us tonight. I think you'll have lots of fun." Iman smiled.

Heather accepted the invitation and the girls met in the lobby and headed out to the club Ace. The girls were having a great time. Heather was drinking with Jess while Iman was being twirled around by a very handsome man In a white suit. He looked like a younger version of Lionel Richie and she felt like she was in heaven.

The door then swung open reaveling the one and only Nikki, Tommy, Vince, Sharise, Vanity, and Fred Saunders. They walked into the dance club and stood at the door looking around at all the people in the club. This wasn't the type of place for a rock band or people who dressed like rockers. Many of the people who were in the club stopped and stared at them wondering what they were doing here.

"Oh God Tommy's here." Heather sighed.

Jess looked towards the door and noticed them all walking in. "Heather you didn't." Jess looked at Heather with disappointment.

"He asked where I was going and I told him because I didn't think he would actually come here ugh." Heather snorted.

Tommy went prancing over to Heather. He gave her a big hug and peppered her face with kisses. "Tommy girls night out, what does that mean?"

"Sorry I told Nikki you were going out with Jess and Iman and he wanted to come here. And then Vanity over heard and told Sharise, then Sharise wanted to come so she told Vince. And Fred saw us leaving so he just came along. Now were all here. Dude I need a drink." Tommy laughed signaling the bartender over.

Heather looked at Jess shrugging and smiling. Jess frowned and looked towards Iman to make sure she was ok. She eyed Nikki and the rest of them as they sat down in a booth. Her main goal was to keep Nikki away from Iman.

"Alright are we drinking or what?" Vanity said with excitment. Vanity started hollering and making noise in the booth.

Vince rolled his eyes and turned to talk to Sharise not wanting to listen to her annoying voice.

"I'll get some drinks." Fred said as he patted Nikki on the back. He got up and ordered bottles for them. As he did he looked over and saw Jess sitting on the stool. He smirked to himself and brought the drinks back to the booth and made his way back to the bar to get his mack on with Jess.

Vince, Nikki, Sharise, and Vanity started downing there drinks. Nikki turned to look at Iman dancing with this guy in the white suit. He was clenching his jaw with rage having to watch this man dance with his girl. He didn't care if him and Iman weren't on good terms. Iman belonged to him and him only. And hell would freeze over before he let anybody else have her.

Iman whispred to the white suit guy that she's going to get a drink. She got off the dance floor and headed over to Jess. She looked at Heather furrowing her brows wondering why Tommy was here.

"Heather told him." Jess shrugged.

Iman rolled her eyes noticing Nikki was sitting in the booth with Vanity, Vince, and Sharise. Nikki was shooting daggers at her. She sat down on the stool and turned her chair so that her back was facing him.

"You ok?" Jess asked.

"I feel great Jess." She smiled.

"You gonna ask if I'm ok?"

Both girls looked to the side as Fred leaned up against the bar staring Jess up and down as he bit his lip.

"I'm sorry you are?" Jess asked.

"A man who would love to take you to bed. But first we need to dance." He said while twirling his whiskey around in the cup he was holding.

Jess scoffed and looked back at Iman and then at him. "You can't handle a woman like me." She says as she downed her whiskey.

He leaned close to her ear and started talking dirty to her. Iman raised a brow as she watched Jess's cheeks turn bright red and her legs start to tense up.

"U..um..Iman give us a moment will you." Jess breathed out as Fred turned Jess's body to face him picking her off of the bar stool and moving towards the face floor.

"No problem." Iman giggled. She turned back around and grabbed Heather's hand pulling her away from Tommy who was kissing her and bringing her to the dance floor. Sharise then pushed Vince letting him know that she wanted to get up and dance. Vince let her out and she joined Heather and Iman on the dance floor. Tommy made his way back to the boys and they sat there drinking and watching their lady's dance.

Vanity looked at Nikki who was looking at Iman. He sipped his whiskey as his eyes moved up and down her body. He grabbed his crotch underneath the table feeling himself get hard just by looking at her shake her ass.

"You fucking peice of trash." Vanity gritted her teeth while shoving Nikki making him spill his drink on himself.

"What the fuck is your problem!?" He raised his voice looking at Vanity with disgust.

Vince and Tommy both looked at each other and started smirking. Vanity shoved him again before getting out of the booth and making her way onto the dance floor. She dropped down and opened her legs and started dancing seductively. The guys in the club started whistling at her as she took off her jacket revealing her tight black dress that hugged her curves just right. But Nikki wasn't paying attention to Vanity his eyes were fixiated on Iman who was dancing with the white suit guy again. And it was pissing him off.

Vanity clenched her jaw and looked at Iman who was minding her own business and enjoying herself. Iman then went to the bar to get her self a cranberry juice. She sat down drinking for a bit and turned her attention to Vanity who sat beside her.

"A martini please." Vanity said to the bartender. She looked over at Iman and started smirking at her. "You think you're cute don't you?" She said with venom in her voice.

Iman ignored her and just kept drinking her drink. The bartender handed Vanity her drink and she squeezed the cup tightly hating everything about Iman. She knew how Nikki felt about Iman after she saw his expression in the lobby when they all met, she heard Nikki express to Mick how much he cared for her and wanted to apologize to her, she heard Tommy and Nikki talking about knowing Iman since 1984 and wanting to be with her. She knew it wasn't Iman's fault with the situation that was going on between Nikki, Iman, and herself. But still, she hated her because Nikki wanted her. And she was going to make it her mission to be cruel to her.

"What's your problem!" Iman raised her voice wiping her face due to Vanity splashing her drink in her face. She shoved Vanity, making Vanity kiss her teeth and get up than walk back on the dance floor smiling.

Iman felt like lunging herself at Vanity but she didn't want to do that. She wasn't going to stoop down to her level. Instead she made her way to the dirty washrooms to grab paper towel and clean her self up. Iman heard the door open and close behind her. She looked up to see Nikki standing by the door.

"Having trouble staying dry?" He smirked at Iman and started walking towards her.

No response.

"Why are you dancing with that guy?" Nikki asked with agitation in his tone.

Iman ignored Nikki making him get angry. She threw her tissue in the garbage, washed her hands, and headed for the door. Nikki grabbed her and shoved her against the wall. Iman yelled and struggled for Nikki to let her go. He pinned her arms over her head. And used his other hand to grab her face forcing her to look at him. She smelt the alcohol on his breath and knew that he was drunk.

"Nikki let go!" She raised her voice.

"Stop yelling and listen to me then!" He raised his voice.

"Let go!" She screamed and started struggling again.

"No!" He shouted making Iman stop struggling.

Both of them looked at each other with their chests heaving up and down. Iman's jaw was clenched as Nikki started to give her his signature smirk. He moved his hand down from her face to the hem of her dress and slowly started lifting it up.

"I don't want you." She said as she gritted her teeth.

His smirk turned into a full on Cheshire grin plastered on his face. He moved her panties to the side and slowly pushed his middle finger up making her moan.

"I thought you didn't want me." He breathlessly whispered on her lips as he pressed small kisses on them.

He pumped his finger in and out of her pussy making her moan as she tried to close her legs. She hated the fact that Nikki was making her feel like this and she wasn't going to let him do this to her.

"Ow you fucking cunt!" Nikki shouted as Iman kneed him in the balls. He fell to the ground squirming and groaning in pain while Iman looked down at him.

"Don't ever touch me again Nikki. I am done with you." She stepped over him with her 10 inch stilettos and exited the washoom.

She walked out into the crowd and found her white suit Lionel Richie looking guy and started grinding on him. She smiled to herself knowing that she got the upper hand. Nikki came bursting out of the washroom holding his dick looking around the dance floor for Iman. He spotted her grinding up against the white suit guy again. He was fuming with jealousy, he was angry, he was drunk, he was high, and he was in pain.

"Nikki what's wrong?" Vanity asked him.

"Fuck off Vanity!" Nikki yelled.

He charged towards the guy balled up his fist and punched white suit guy in the face making him fall to the ground.

"Nikki what the hell!" Iman screamed.

He got up and punched Nikki back. The boys started punching and thrashing each other all over the place. White suits friends got up and charged towards Nikki, two of the guys held onto Nikki's arms while white suit punched him in the stomach. Tommy and Vince got up and tackled white suits friends to try and help Nikki. Vanity went charging and grabbed Iman by her hair and started scratching her and punching her. "You fucking bitch you're trying to steal Nikki!" She screamed over and over again as she fought with Iman. Iman swung her fists punching Vanity in the face to defend herself. It turned into an all out brawl, where random people started fighting each other for no reason other than the fact that the Motley boys were fighting. Heather and Sharise ran to the corner to get Jess and Fred's attention and to stay out of the way of the fighting men. Fred came charging over to help Nikki, Vince, and Tommy fight back the other guys.

"Vanity leave her alone!" Nikki yelled as he watched Vanity and Iman fight.

Jess charged over grabbing Vanity and pulling her away from Iman while Nikki came pushing through the crowd of people with force to get to Iman. He finally got to Iman and grabbed her throwing her over his shoulders and taking her outside of the club to keep her safe. "Put me down Nikki!" Iman cried and shouted while hitting and kicking her legs to be put down. "Ok relax!" Nikki raised his voice and put her down but held her close. "Let me go where's Jess!" She cried as she kept trying to get out of Nikki's grip. She pushed him and tried pulling her arms away from him non stop. She wanted to be anywhere or with anyone but him. "Mani stop fighting me I'm going to take you back to the hotel ok." Nikki said with a calm voice holding on to her as she struggled to get away from him. "Just leave me alone Nikki!" She shouted. "Fuck this!" He raised his voice and threw her over his shoulder again with her kicking and screaming. He walked and found the limo that he, Tommy, Vanity, Vince, Fred, and Sharise came in. He didn't care how the rest of them would get back to the hotel he just cared about making sure Iman was ok.

"Ok get in." Nikki says as he puts her down and holds onto her. "Nikki just leave me please!" Iman raised her voice as she sobbed. Nikki was frustrated and tired he wanted to get out of this place so he picked her up bridal style, threw her into the car, got in and slammed the door. "You jerk! You pig!" Mani shouted as she repeatedly kept shoving him on the shoulder. "Fucking stop! I'm trying to fucking help you!" He shouted in frustration at her. "Don't shout me!" She screamed back at him. She turned and faced the other way sobbing into her hands. "I'm sorry princess I didn't mean to shout at you." Sacha Nikki's limo driver and New York drug dealer turned around giving Nikki a smirk, "having trouble with the ladies Sixx?" "Just fucking drive Sacha!" Nikki raised his voice. Sacha took off taking them back to the hotel. Nikki took off his leather jacket and placed it around his princess as she sobbed in the car beside him.

Once at the hotel, Nikki tried to help Iman out of the car only for her to shove his hand away and shoot him a don't touch me look. He backed off as she climbed out of the limo her self and walked in. They got into the elevator and he stared at Iman pushing his floor letting her know that she wasn't going any where else but with him. Being in the light he was able to see the damage that Vanity had done. Her already swollen lip was bust open, she had scratch marks on her face, and her beautiful flowy hair looked like she had just woken up from a nightmare. Nikki didn't look to good either he had red marks on his face from being punched, his lip was busted, and his left eye where he was punched was turning purple.

They both got out and walked over to Nikki's door. He opened it up and the dirty smell of his unclean room hit Iman's nose. There were dirty dishes on the floor, clothes every where, the curtains were closed together like he was some sort of vampire hiding away, and there was white powder left on the table. She took off his jacket and handed it to him then walked and sat down on the couch. He placed his jacket down on the arm rest of the couch and rubbed his face.

"I'm gonna grab paper towel and wet it for your lip ok."

He walked over to the washroom as Iman sat on the couch hating every minute of being with Nikki. He came back out and crouched down in front her. He lifted his hand up to put the paper towel on her lip to clean the blood and she slapped his hand away. "Mani stop." He calmly spoke to her. But she was angry. He lifted his hand again to wipe her lip and she slapped his hand away again. Her chest was heaving up and down with furrowed brows and a clenched jaw. He sighed and looked down but then looked back up at her. Nikki knew she was very angry and she had every right to be, but he didn't want to see her lip bleeding out like it is and not do anything to help her. He lifted his hand for the third time making her shove him backwards, "dont touch me." She aggressively said to him as fell on his ass. He grabbed the paper towel scrunched it up and threw it in her face in frustration, he then stood up to walk away.

She got up off the couch and shoved him in the back. "Mani stop." Nikki warned her as he turned around pointing his finger in her face. She looked at him as her eyes started tearing up. He turned to walk away and she shoved his back again in anger. "Mani I said stop!" Nikki says as he raises his voice alittle louder getting agitated at what's she's doing. She then slapped him across the face. "I hate you." She muttered with a shakey breath. Nikki sighed and moved closer to her and she slapped him across the face again. Nikki clenched his jaw and balled up his fists, he was getting angry and didn't know how to control his emotions at the moment right now."Mani s-" he didn't get to finsh his sentence as she slapped him again this time making Nikki grab her hand. She kept trying to punch him and hurt him she wanted to do anything to make him feel how she was feeling. He held on to both her wrists as she cried and tried hitting him. He knew that she was hurting and it was his fault. He pulled her close to him and wrapped his arms around her as she sobbed and tried to push him away. But he wouldnt let her go, he kept one hand on her head so it was resting on his chest and the other behind her back. She gripped his shirt tightly and cried and cried wondering why he did this to her. Nikki knew that he deserved the emotional beating he was receiving from from Iman. He hated himself for what he did. And he would do anything to make things right again with her.

When she finally settled down he moved his hand from behind her head and put it under her chin to lift her head up. He looked into her red puffy eyes and used his thumb to brush the tears from her cheeks. He kissed her forehead then moved down her nose and leaned in to kiss her lips. Iman sniffled and looked at Nikki leaning in to kiss her. Not wanting to get lost in his eyes, his touch, and his kiss, she turned her head making him lean his forehead against her cheek. "I'm sorry." He whispered into her ear.

The two were interrupted when someone banged on the door. Nikki sighed and pulled away from Iman walking towards the door to open the repeated banging.

"What the fuck Sixx!" Fred shouted. "You just take the fucking limo and leave the rest of us stranded to hail for a fucking taxi! Wheres the girl?" Fred says shoving Nikki to the side and coming into his room. He sighed and looked at Iman then at Nikki. "Jess wants-"

"Where is she?" Jess says as she busts through the door. "You fucker!" She charges at Nikki and Fred gets in between her and Nikki. "Woah sweetheart now calm down." He grabs ahold of Jess pushing her back. "He got her here safe ok." She stares at Fred and sighs knowing that Iman was safe with Nikki. Even though she hated Nikki's guts and didn't want Iman anywhere near him.

"Ok. Iman let's go."

"K." She softly replies to Jess.

"Can I check on her later to make sure she's ok?" Nikki asks with desperation in his voice. Hoping that he could just see her again maybe even hold her.

"Go check on your wife Frankie." Jess snorted and walked out the door with her arms wrapped securely around Iman. _____

Thursday, August 20th, 1987

Nikki's POV

Flashback

"Hey Sixx didn't you invite Mani?" Tommy says as I finished throwing up on the side.

"Fuck I feel like shit." I spat on ground then looked up at T-bone. "Yeah I did why?"

"Uh well look who's here." He pointed at the door and I looked over and saw Vanity walking in.

"What the fuck!" I shouted in agitation.

"Holy shit Sixx you're in trouble." Tommy chuckled.

"Fuck!" I shouted again. She walked towards me and peppered my face with kisses.

"You look like fucking shit." She sneered at me. "Well Tommy aren't you gonna get me a drink?" She said turning towards him.

"Uh yeah sure." He smiled and looked at me.

"Go with T-bone to get a drink I need to do something really quick." I grinned at her.

"Your do something better not involve you talking to any of these strippers." She warned me giving me a death glare.

"Yeah what ever." I scoffed.

"Come on Tommy." She grabbed his arm and they walked over to the bar.

I ran over to where the security was letting people in. It was her or Mani. And right now I couldn't kick her out so I had to get rid of Mani. Plus Jess was coming with her so you can imagine what would happen if Mani and Jess found out about my little secret. "Hey Tim." I said as I slapped the security guard on the arm. "Hey Sixx what's up?" I rubbed my face knowing that I felt like a complete ass hole doing this. "Listen a girl name Iman Darligton is going to come here with another girl name Jess. What ever you do, do not let them in here ok!" I warned.

"Oh isn't she the model?" He smiled.

"Tim do not fucking let her in here ok. This is a life and death situation. If she comes in here I will fucking make sure you have no job here tomorrow and the rest of your life!" I raised my voice.

"Alright Sixx gotcha." He nodded.

We took a couple pictures and partied on with alot of people who came to support the album. Vanity started yelling at me and just being so fucking annoying as usual. I tuned her out when I heard shouting coming from the front. I walked over there and poked my head out of the window. It was Iman and Jess yelling at at Tim. He called over other security guards to come and remove them from the line.

"Hey Sixx...oh shit is that them?" Tommy asked standing beside me.

"Yeah fuck I feel bad but I had to do it Y'know." I moved from the window and took a shot of whiskey.

"You think she'll be pissed?" He asked.

"Yeah...but I'll just go there after the party and apologize. Iman isn't the problem Jess is." I said with agitation in my voice.

Flashback ended

I sighed in sadness as I looked up at the ceiling thinking about that day at the body shop. I made a huge mistake. It should have been the other way around. Last night's fight was my wake up call. The fact that she was dancing with that fucking freshy really pissed me off, not to mention Vanity picking a fight with Iman, or my shameless behaviour when I walked into the washroom and tried to finger her. I was drunk and high that's for sure, but fuck. That whole night was just shit and I feel like I'm digging my grave more and more. I'm in the deep end with our relationship and I know I'm about to sink.

I turned to my side watching Vanity sleep. Her hair is all over the pillow, her skin like milk chocolate against the white sheets and goose down pillows. You'd think she was a gift from the Gods. We were like fire and ice, oil and vinegar and mostly it's painful because we argue a lot. I need to stop this, she's not a bad person and I know she had a fucked up childhood like me. But her struggle with cocaine and God is making her go crazy and it's driving me insane. I need to just end this, we don't belong together.

I got out of the bed and made a line on the table and snorted it up. I put my shoes on and left the room. I walked into the elevator and pushed the button then got out. I walked down to Iman's door and paced around for while. I don't know if I should knock. I wanted to see her so bad and apologize for everything. That's all I have been doing lately is just apologizing for my bullshit behaviour. How I even managed to get a girl like her is beyond me. I'm a junkie fucked up rock star chasing a girl who shouldn't have even given me the time of day. But eventually she did, and now I'm fucking things up.

I inhaled deeply and knocked on the door. I waited for someone to open up, I have no clue what it is that I want to say but I know sorry wouldn't cut it. I knocked a couple more times but there was no answer. I decided on heading down to the lobby to grab something to eat. I know... I didn't shower or brush my teeth but in depressed times like this, for me cleanliness is not on my mind. I reached downstairs and walked into the hotel restaurant. My face softened when I saw Iman sitting at the table reading and eating fruits. I walked back out and leaned against the wall and let out a shakey breath.

"Fuck Nikki just calm your nerves." I murmured to myself.

I took a deep breath then walked back in. I walked towards the fruits and grabbed a bowl and slowly made my way to her table. She was so into the book that she was reading that she didn't even notice me creep up beside her. I inhaled deeply then exhaled, it was talk or runaway. And Nikki Sixx doesn't runaway so I had to talk.

"H...how's your lip?" I mumbled.

She looked up startled not realizing that I was standing there. Her lip was a bit swollen but definitely better than yesterday. She just stared at me then looked back down at her book not saying a word. My heart was pounding and I wanted to run but couldn't. I pulled the chair out and sat down in front of her. She kept her face in her book, I'm sure she wasn't really reading it because she was staring at the same page for a while. She's just as nervous as me, but more so me.

"Princess."

She let out a shakey breath than looked up at me. I couldn't read her expression and right now all I wanted to do was know what she was thinking.

"Last night-"

"What the fuck Nikki!" I heard Vanity yell. Just my fucking luck. "You bitch." She snarled at Iman. The guests in the room started staring at us and I knew Iman felt embarrassed. She scratched the back of her neck and closed her book. She got up and picked her fruit bowl and turned to throw them in the garbage. "Yeah that's right whore walk the fuck away!" She raised her voice again.

"Stop calling her that." I warned Vanity

"Whore! whore! whore!" Vanity yelled as Iman walked passed her. I got up and grabbed Vanity's arm forcefully making her face me. "Call her that again and see what I'll fucking do to you." I gritted my teeth and pointed at her face in anger. She shoved my arm off of hers and walked to the table to get food. I sat back down hating myself for putting me in this position. But worse for putting Iman in this position. I hope tonight Bob Timmons will come I want to talk to him about trying to get clean when the tour is over. I won't live to see next year if I don't. "Fuck Nikki." I mumbled.

Hours later.....

Iman's POV

It was evening time and Jess was out at a meeting. I couldn't wait for this week to be over so I could get back to LA and get away from Nikki and Vanity. Actually more so get back to Canada so I would never have to see him again.

Speaking of Vanity I'm paying Nikki's room a visit. She stole a couple of my designer heels that were customly made for me when my room was thrashed by her. Last I saw Nikki and Vanity they were getting ready to head out for their show at Madison Square Garden.

"Thank you." I said to the cleaning lady as she opened Nikki's door for me. I walked in and locked the door behind me. This room is so gross, I don't know how the both of them could live in here like this. I searched around the room and found my 3 pairs of designer stilettos.

"I just need to grab a few things!" I heard Vanity yell.

I panicked and ran towards the washroom and closed the door hating myself for putting me in this position. Iman you are really dumb. I heard the door bust opened on the other side and close. I heard rummaging around the room and I quietly opened the door and peeked through the crack to see what she was doing. She was sitting by the Vanity making lines on the table and snorting it up. She then brought out something that looked like a pipe; she had a spoon in her hand as well and I started wondering what she was doing. After a couple of minutes watching her do this about 4 times. She got up and started dancing and singing to her self. She was acting crazy.

"God is my saviour." She laughed as she opened her legs and dropped down to the ground and came back up. "He's the only one that can save us. I gotta look good for Prince. Vanity you gotta look good for Prince." She said as she was spinning around and dancing. "I gotta kill that bitch Iman. Fuck I forgot to do my art at home." She laughed hysterically as she danced around the room.

It was time to put a stop to this crack head.

"Vanity!" I raised my voice startling her as I bust the door open.

"What the fuck are you doing in my room!?" She yelled.

"You tried to steal my heels." I smiled and raised my brows holding onto my heels.

"You're not leaving this room with those heels. And you're not getting Nikki." She gritted her teeth and put her hands on her hips.

"I don't want to fight you, especially over Nikki. But I will fight you for my stilettos." I calmly spoke. "You don't steal custom made heels from another woman."

"Fuck you!" She yelled back at me picking up the remote and throwing it at me. I dodged it making it slam against the wall and break. "I'm going to fucking CHOKE YOU BITCH!" She screamed as she charged for me.

I dropped all but one heel and swung my arm to the side, then mashed the side of her head with the side of my heel so hard that she smashed into the lamp on the side of the table. She fell on the ground and was out cold.

"I'm done with this girl." I said with frustration as I picked up my heels and headed for the door. _____

Friday, August 21st, 1987

Nikki's POV

Last night was one of the best shows we've played. We tore the place up, it was a great night and we celebrated with whiskey and champagne.

I didn't really argue with Vanity much. I think she freebased in the hotel room yesterday and fell down and knocked her head on the lamp and table. She had a bruise close to her temple. When I asked her about it she told me to fuck off. And so I did.

I paced the room back and forth rubbing my face with anger. I wanted to get high, I needed to drink, and most importantly I needed my sweet love. Heroin. But I was trying to control myself. I set out today with the intentions of trying to talk to Mani and get things sorted out with her. Yesterday was not how I wanted it to go, I'm so fucking mad and I want to know if she's willing to try again. I'm leaving today and I don't have time. I grabbed my note book and headed for the door. But first, I have to make a stop to Fred's room to make sure that Jess was being handled. I knocked on his door a couple times until he finally opened up.

"Yes Sixx what can I do you for?" He asked out of breath.

"You're already doing it." I smirked.

"Get your grimy ass outta here." He growled and slammed the door shut.

I made my way down to Mani's room and sat down on the ground in front of her door and began writing.

Did you mean what you said. About me being a motherless, fatherless rejected person?

I slipped the paper underneath her door waiting and hoping that she would write me back. I waited a few seconds then smiled when she slipped the paper back underneath the door. I picked up the paper a read it.

No I was just mad.

I sighed out with relief that she didn't mean that. I began writing again.

I'm sorry for all the things I have said to you. I didn't mean any of it.

Slide

If you say so.

Slide

Do you hate me?

Slide

Yes and No.

Slide

What can I do to make things right?

Slide

There's nothing you can do. I would prefer you to just leave me alone.

Slide

What if I can't?

Slide

Then I don't know.

Slide

I messed up and I really want to make things right. Despite what you think I do care about you. Theres no excuse for me fucking around on you. I just wish I didn't fuck up everything.

Slide

You always say that but you do the same thing over and over again.

Slide

I know and I'm sorry, there's something going on in my head and I can't seem to get out of it. One minute I'm happy then the next I'm miserable. I'm mostly happy when I'm with you.

Slide

You need to speak to someone.

Slide

I need you.

Slide

If you were me, would you give your self another chance?

Slide

My heart started racing when I read the note. I gripped my hair tight and sighed in frustration.

No.

Slide

I sat there anxiously waiting for the next note. God just please let her write down that we could work it out. I picked up the paper after she slid it under the door and read it.

Goodbye Nikki.

#Nikki Sixx #Vince Neil #Tommy Lee #MIck Mars #Chanel Iman #Motley Crue #Model The Dirt #80s 90s interracial

4 notes · View notes

babbushka · 5 years

Text

Blue Moon (8/10)

New York, 1987. The air was filled with smog and the streets were ridden with crime. Just another day in paradise. Your quiet life turns upside down when a striking man moves in across from you. You’re falling, fast, into a love that could never, ever, happen…or could it?

(Could be interpreted as modern!au Kylo Ren/Reader for those who don’t know who Pale is, but really this is Pale from Burn This!)

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: Angst lol (i’m sorry this is the last one i promise)

—————

You were shocked. That was the only real word for all of it, shock.

Pale had collapsed in your arms, had fallen down and took you with him. You were both half on the couch, half on the floor, and you were shocked.

Your heart ached for Pale, ached for him and the way he had sobbed and cried and yelled. God he had screamed so loud, he was out of it, too far gone, too much to drink – who knows. You wish he had called you, had told you he needed you sooner.

It was moot, because he was here now, and he was blacked out, and you needed to figure out what to do with him.

The couch was too small for him, that was for sure. He was too tall, his legs too long. There wouldn’t be enough room for the both of yous, and you didn’t want to leave him alone, didn’t want to be so far away in the bedroom in case he woke up, scared and angry and confused.

“Okay Pale,” You said, mostly to yourself, “I’m gonna try and move you to the bed.”

He was out cold, smelled like shit – no, like booze. It made you wrinkle your nose as you tried to gather up this huge fuckin man in your arms.

“Okay – come on – ” You pushed and pulled him enough to get him somewhat into your arms, but you weren’t nearly strong enough to make it more than a few feet. “Shit!”

His dead weight was too much and you dropped him, wincing with the way he hit the floor.

“Shit, I’m sorry honey.” You whispered, waiting to see if he had woken up.

Thankfully it looked like he was still out.

“I don’t think I can make it all the way to the bed with you.” You sighed, running a hand down your face.

You were exhausted, working the double had really done a number on your patience. Your feet were aching and your back was all pinched up in knots, and you hadn’t even eaten yet. You were reheating soup when Pale had burst into the apartment like some great tornado of leather and tears.

You almost debated calling someone to help you bring him down to a doctor, who had he mentioned, Kenny? Maybe he could help. You didn’t know.

You checked the time, it was three in the morning. No one would be open, you thought with a sigh, and crossed your arms thoughtfully, trying to figure out what to do.

“If I can’t bring you to the bed, I’ll bring the bed to you.” You decided, leaving for your room for just a second, yanking all the shit off the mattress and carrying it in your arms to the living room.

You grabbed the sheet and the big comforter and all the pillows, even took the throw blanket and an extra one you had in the closet. You dumped it all onto the floor and began spreading out the sheets and blankets and pillows underneath him, arranging a makeshift bed that was more comfortable than the concrete floor.

You rolled him over onto his side in case he got sick and started peeling the clothes away from him. He had said he always ran hot, and you knew that from being next to him so long, you didn’t want him uncomfortable.

It was then that you noticed his bloodied hands sticking to everything as you tried to remove his shirt.

“Jesus, Pale.” You hissed with concern, immediately getting off the floor to go to your bathroom.

Your first aid kit wasn’t nearly as impressive as the one he had at his apartment, you knew that. You only had a couple normal sized bandaids and some alcohol wipes, but you knew he was going to need more than that, his knuckles were too busted. And he had just started to get them healed from when he was beating up Marty.

Sighing, you grabbed the kit and wet a soft washcloth with soap and water, and carried everything to the living room to tend to him.

“I might have to go to your apartment.” You told him, “Gotta go raid your medicine cabinet.”

You wiped up the blood off his hands, frowned at the way it kept slowly oozing out of the cuts from where he busted his fucking knuckles open. You wrapped the cloth around his hands, tied it tight so that it hopefully wouldn’t go anywhere, and started fishing around in his clothes for the keys to his apartment.

You found them in his back jeans pocket, and leaned down to kiss him real soft. He just snored.

“I’m gonna be right back, okay?” You got up again, tugged on your coat and slipped into your shoes, “Don’t move.” You told his sleeping form, before heading out the door.

—————

It was bitter cold outside, and still damp from the rain. You didn’t like it when it was this kind of rain, when the cold froze the water on the ground and you had to be careful not to slip on the ice. You were glad you only had to go across the street, gad you only slipped once on the way. Black ice was a bitch, you thought.

The elevator ride to Pale’s floor was quiet, far too quiet for your liking. You had grown so accustomed to his never-ending monologues, it was eerie almost to be without him and in such silence. Maybe the city did sleep after all.

You got to his door in no time at all, and made a bee-line for the bathroom.

You hadn’t been in there the one time you’d visited with him, and you were unsure of where he kept his shit. The bathroom was huge, way bigger than yours.

You started searching through the medicine cabinet, finding not very much aside from Aspirin, condoms and coke, which made you huff out a little laugh. There was a small closet in the bathroom, and when you opened that up you were faced with all sorts of boxes of bandages and gauze, antibacterials and the like.

“Bingo!” You smiled as you started shoveling packages of gauze and tape and ointment into your coat pockets.

Geez, it looked like he had raided a fucking doctor’s office or something, you thought. He must have grabbed everything from one of his visits to Kenny. You wondered if he went to the doctor often, if Kenny was just a friend or maybe family. Pale didn’t talk a lot about his family.

That was okay though, you knew he had his reasons.

Leaving the bathroom you almost went straight to the front door, but when you were about to pass his bedroom, you slowed.

“Might as well grab him fresh clothes.” You decided. He had been soaking wet and smelled of blood and alcohol when he burst into your apartment. You figured if you were already in his place, might as well pick up some clean and warm comfortable clothing.

You flipped the light switch, bypassed the bed – even though it did look stupidly comfortable – and went to the closet.

How was his closet even this big? Or maybe your apartment really was just that small, you couldn’t help but sigh to yourself.

“Do you own anything not overly expensive?” You hummed, trailing your hand over the fine silk shirts and pressed pants. Past the suits and looking through the drawers of ties, you were getting close to giving up. Didn’t he own comfortable Sunday clothes at the very least?

You found them finally, in another drawer in the closet. You grabbed one of his black tank tops and a pair of black sweatpants, some clean underwear and socks.

You had a bit of trouble closing the drawer, and were getting frustrated with it.

“God, come on, fucking close – ” You grunted, eventually just yanking the drawer open all the way to see what was caught.

Right in the back of the drawer was a small box, barely the size of a shoebox, stashed behind the socks.

You knew you shouldn’t look inside it. You knew that. You should shuffle it around so the drawer would close properly, leave his apartment, and go back to your own to tend to Pale. His knuckles were bleeding right that very moment, you should leave.

You took the box out, went to the bed and sat down on it.

You weren’t really sure what you were expecting to be inside, but this…was not it.

Letters in envelopes and old black and white photographs mostly.

It was Pale, that you could tell. A young Pale, but definitely Pale. You smiled at how his ears stuck out the way he did. He was with an even younger boy, the two of them were hugging in the front lawn of presumably their childhood home. You flipped the photograph over – Jimmy & Robbie 1966.

Your heart clenched, holding the photograph up to your face so you could get a better read on it. Pale had to be about fifteen here, Robbie only two or three. You weren’t entirely sure of the ages, you were never good at being able to tell that sort of thing. But they looked happy, like they were having a lot of fun.

You put it down, picked up the next one.

This one was of Pale and Robbie, but a few years older. They were outside some sort of building, but there weren’t any identifying marks on it. Robbie was wearing black tights and a black shirt, Pale was in a tank top and pants that were high on his hips. You smiled, his ears still stuck out. Flipping it over, Jimmy dropping off Robbie for dance! 1968

There were so many of them.

Pale sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by sheet music, his younger brother coloring on it with crayon – Robbie helping Jimmy write 1969

Pale and his younger brother at a stand on Coney Island, chocolate all over his face – Jimmy and Robbie getting milkshakes 1969

Pale giving his brother a piggy back ride, Pale and his brother playing tag, the two of them riding horses and cutting vegetables and laughing and smiling at one another.

1969 is where the photos all seemed to be taken place, you wondered if that was a particularly good year. You wondered what happened when 1970 rolled around.

Oh – that’s right, married.

You put the photographs down.

“Oh what the hell.” You sighed, picking up one of the envelopes. You had already invaded his privacy, might as well go for it.

Jim,

I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of being here – tired of you. Things were great but I’m bored, and I’m afraid of you. I don’t like the way you get so angry, a temper like that is bound to be trouble. I wish I didn’t wait so long to realize it.

I need some time, some space I think. Don’t be mad at me. I’ve taken the kids down to Miami, we’re going to stay with my parents for a while. I don’t want them around you, I don’t want them thinking your behavior is okay.

You probably saw this coming. I didn’t want to say anything in person because I didn’t want a fight. I hope you understand.

Don’t bother calling, I’ll reach out when the time is right.

It wasn’t even signed.

You didn’t know what made you feel worse, the fact that she had left that for Pale, or the fact that the letter looked so worn and crumpled up, like he had thrown it away and then fished it out of the trash, read it over and over again before folding it up and putting it back in its envelope.

The other envelopes were just holiday cards from the kids.

For whatever reason you decided to open up another drawer, found nothing but stacks and stacks of sheet music. There were ink blotches all over them, some had notes scribbled on the ledger lines, others just had notes written in hand-writing you couldn’t read.

Nothing was labeled of course, why would it be?

The rain started up again outside.

—————

Back in your apartment, Pale was still out. The washcloth had turned pink, but it didn’t look like it was still bleeding, which made you sigh with relief.

You pulled the rest of his clothes off, shimmied the sweatpants up his long fucking legs, tugged the tank top over his head and gently pulled his arms through.

The knuckles were your first priority, and you tended to them quickly and efficiently, your hands only shaking a little.

He stirred just a bit when the alcohol pad swiped across the cuts, but you powered through it, applying the ointments and then carefully laying down gauze, wrapping the stuff around his hand and taping it securely. It wasn’t the best, but it would have to do.

Your stomach growled, you still hadn’t eaten. You weren’t entirely in the mood for soup, didn’t want to take the time to eat a whole bowl of it, so you just pulled off a piece of baguette that you had and smeared butter across it.

You brought your makeshift dinner back to the living room, pulled off all your clothes, turned off all the lights and ate the bread and butter on the floor. You didn’t even care about the crumbs, just pushed them away when they fell. You’d sweep them up in the morning, when things weren’t so raw. Right now all you wanted was to be back in his arms.

“(Y/N)?” It was like magic, like he could read minds, you thought as he groggily called your name.

You shoved the rest of the bread and butter into your mouth, and shuffled yourself to lay down on the floor in the big cocoon of blankets and pillows with him.

“Yeah Pale, I’m here.” You said, and like he didn’t have to think about it at all, he immediately wrapped his arms around you. He was sweating, overheated, not that that was something new.

“Where am I?” He mumbled, his eyes still closed but pinching shut tighter. You wondered if the moonlight was somehow too bright for him.

You pulled back enough just to look at him, his face that looked like it was filled with unease, with suffering. You couldn’t tell if it was emotional turmoil, or the physical suffering of being so fucked up. Nonetheless, you pushed the hair out of his face and away from his forehead, combed your fingers through the sweaty greasy waves.

“You’re at my apartment.” You explained, trying to keep your voice soft and steady. You couldn’t help the wobble in it, still too unsure and panicked to really be calm. “We’re on the floor.”

“Okay.” Pale said.

His arms tightened around you even more, crushing you to him a little bit. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, you were wondering if he even could, or if he was feeling so out of it that his eyelids were too heavy.

“You okay?” You asked, wiping the sweat away from his neck with your hand. The pulse there thumped wildly, despite him being relatively still. It made you nervous.

“No.” He shook his head, and you had that same chest clenching feeling as you did when you were in his apartment.

“Can I help?” You asked, tried to keep the lump out of your throat.

“Let me hold you?” He asked, and you laughed just a little despite all the nerves and fear – he didn’t even realize he had you in a vice grip.

“Always, honey.” You nodded, smoothed down his hair.

—————

He went back to sleep, or maybe you thought he did. You couldn’t tell. He was so sad, it hurt you. You couldn’t stop reading the letter over and over in your mind.

I’m afraid of you. I don’t like the way you get so angry, a temper like that is bound to be trouble.

Pale wasn’t dangerous. Sure he had a temper, but it was always justified. He ain’t never done anything to you that would make you afraid of him. Even that time he had yelled, all that time ago, he was scared that you were going to be hurt, that something could happen to you.

Even that time, it had been because he cared about you.

“I’m not afraid of you.” You whispered to him.

He didn’t respond, but that was okay. It was all okay.

—————

The rain really came down hard outside.

It clanged on the fire escape something fierce, sounded like someone was dropping rocks on the metal grates. You thought off-handedly that you were glad you didn’t have any plants outside, like some of your neighbors. One of the people on the fourth floor kept damn near a whole garden on her fire escape, you wondered how the plants were faring in this weather.

You thought about what life would be like with Pale in the Spring. You wondered how he would dress in the warmer weather. Smiling, you tried to imagine him in shorts, or a t-shirt. You didn’t really see it happening in real life, but it was fun to pretend.

Pale in his shorts and a t-shirt, maybe even loafers for once, instead of those fancy lizard-skin boots. Maybe he’d help put on sunscreen all over your back and shoulders before going for a walk in Central Park. Maybe he’d wear a baseball cap at a Spring Training game.

You wondered who he rooted for, Mets or Yankees? You hoped it was the Mets.

You could see that now, the two of you getting really good seats, Pale probably knew a guy. Didn’t he know a guy for everything? You smiled, thinking about the way you’d share a soft pretzel, maybe a hot-dog. He could sip a beer and you’d drink a soda, and you’d jump out of your seat when someone would hit a home-run.

Pale wouldn’t cheer, but he might whistle, stick his fingers in his mouth and whistle in the way you’ve always wanted to learn how to do but could never get the hang of.

You sighed, brought out of your daydream by an insistent tapping on your back.

Blinking at Pale, you smiled just a little.

“What are you doing?” You asked, thinking he needed something.

“I’m playin’ your song.” He mumbled instead, making your cheeks heat right away.

“I have a song?” You wished he would open his eyes, wish he were sober. Just so that he could make some sense, just a little more sense.

He did crack an eye open at that, looked mildly offended. You smiled a little bigger, that was the Pale you knew.

“O’course you have a fhuckin’ song. Don’t be ridiculous.” He scoffed, slurred his words. Still a little drunk then, drunk enough to not just wave off whatever…this was.

“How does it go?” You didn’t know if you were pushing your luck, if he’d shut down and get all closed off in the way he sometimes did. You knew not to pry, but this had you so curious.

“Like this.” He said, gong back to tapping on your back.

It was slow, but insistent. Like a build-up of intensity over time. You wished you knew which instruments, if it was just piano, or if there were other things too. You wondered which instruments he liked the best, which ones he knew how to play. You took piano lessons an eon ago, weren’t very good at it. But he already knew that.

He used both his hands, they were so big, splayed out across your back like the keys of that grand piano he kept in his apartment. He could probably reach half the keys all at once, you thought.

The tapping on your back moved faster and faster, up and down like he was chasing something, up and up and up your spine until finally his fingers flitted all the way back down, an impossible rhythm to figure out.

And then he slowed, and things felt softer in a way. His fingers like water over your shoulder blades, dancing notes onto the freckles on your skin.

“This part here, that’s when I finally got you back in my fucking arms again after Miami.” He whispered, and you were so taken aback by that, that you almost didn’t know what to say.

It was overwhelming in the best possible way. It was like he was pressing I missed you into your skin over and over again, fingertips digging into your flesh with a different kind of passion.

Part of you wondered if this was even real, or if he were just so out of his mind that he was making it up as he went.

But he kept going and going and going and you thought no, this had to be real. This was too filled with determination, he knew exactly which keys he was pressing, exactly which notes he was bringing to life as his hands slipped along your back.

You let yourself close your eyes for the first time in what must have been hours, what felt like days, enjoying the feeling of the playing. You tried to envision it in your head, what he might be thinking, what he might be playing. You wished you knew, had some frame of reference for what it might sound like. All it felt like was morse code to you.

“Is it a happy song?” You asked when he finished, when his hands finally stilled and your back tickled with the phantom feeling of all the little taps and pokes.

“I don’t know.” He replied right away, making you frown just a little, making your stomach do those nervous flips.

This wasn’t the part of your story where he told you he hated you…was it?

“What do you mean?” You had to know, but he shrugged, only making your stomach knot up tighter.

“Well, it don’t got any real meaning to it or anything. There’s no story. It’s just feeling, you know? How you make me feel.” He said.

“How do I make you feel?”

“Like I’m dyin’.”

You blinked at that, your heart sinking.

“That doesn’t sound very happy.” You whispered, and he must have started to sober up enough to realize, immediately shaking his head and shifting the both of yous around so that you were tucked so close to him, held so lovingly against him that all he could do was kiss your temple over and over again.

“No, that’s not – ” He started, cutting himself off and pausing for a moment to try and figure out what he wanted to say.

“I don’t know what to do with you. I keep fuckin’ waiting for something bad to happen and it never comes. I’m on the edge of my fuckin’ seat all the time, wonderin’ when you’re gonna finally have enough. I can’t take it sometimes, you’re too sweet to me, too good and nice. My heart feels like it’s gonna burst when I look at you, like I gotta rip it right out of my fuckin’ throat. I don’t got the words, you know? I don’t know the words to describe it other than that.”

“I love you, you know that?” You blurted out.

It felt like the rain stilled.

Like all the traffic outside stopped. There were no sirens, no barking dogs in small apartments, there were no death and disease and AIDs and boat crashes and shitty wives.

All there was, was you and Pale in your shitty apartment with the leaky tub and you loved him.

“How’s that?” He asked, sounding so sober that you wondered if shock had the power to do that, to dispel all the coke and the alcohol and the sadness and rage you knew was tucked into your lover.

Because that’s what he was. He was your man, your lover. He was the person you spent all your time thinking about, all your energy caring about. And he cared about you too. You knew he did. You had heard him.

He didn’t know, didn’t think that you did, but you did. You heard it every night, when you pretended to be asleep against his chest, when you pretended to snore just to maybe get a glimpse at the inside of his heart.

You didn’t blame him, for being so guarded with it. You didn’t blame him – how could you? How could you be mad or upset with him, considering the way he had been treated the last time? Been treated for so long?

“I love you.” You said it again. “I think I’ve loved you for a long time. I know I love you. You don’t have to say it back, if it’s hard. You don’t have to. I know.” You knew, you knew you knew you knew it was hard, it had to be hard for him.

“You do?” He asked, and you couldn’t tell if he was referring to the love, or the hardship, or all of it, or none of it.

“I do. I found the box, in your closet.” You said, apropos of nothing, like how he had dropped the information that he had kids out of nowhere. You couldn’t think of an organic way to work it into whatever this was – was it a conversation? Or was it an exchange of admissions?

“Oh.” He said, and you didn’t know.

“We don’t have to talk about it. I just didn’t feel right not telling you. ” You were honest, always wanted to be honest with him. You loved him, and he deserved honesty.

If nothing else, he deserved honesty.

—————

He was quiet for a long time.

The rain softened for a couple minutes, but revved back up again. Thunder and lightning cracked outside. You had never seen this much rain in your whole life, you thought. Not so soon after New Year’s, anyway. You wondered if it was all that smog, all the bullshit pollution being ferried up into the atmosphere. Maybe it was fucking with the weather.

Pale was quiet until he wasn’t, asking, “What did you think?”

“I thought you had the cutest ears I’ve ever seen.” You replied right away, making him laugh.

It was the first time he had ever laughed so unguarded.

“That’s funny.” He said, redundantly.

“I like the name Jimmy.” You smiled.

He shook his head, but thankfully he didn’t seem too mad, didn’t seem angry or anything. He kept smiling, just the slightest little thing, just the prick up of his lips in the corner of his mouth – but it was enough to show off those dimples of his, and your heart soared. You loved when he smiled.

You loved him.

“That’s what my wife calls me.” He grimaced, before laughing again. You wondered what was going on in his head.

“I wasn’t gonna change to it, I just thought you should know that I like it. I like Pale too.” You hummed, and he kissed your temple again.

“Y’know how I got that name?” He asked, his words fuzzy and slurred still.

“No.” You shook your head on his chest.

“Fifteen fucking years ago maybe, I’m sitting in this bar. Minding my own business, I ask the bartender if he’s got any brandy. He says, ‘of course I got fuckin’ brandy, what do I look like?’ So I says, ‘okay but do you got any top shelf shit?’ – Because you know me, I don’t drink nothin’ cheap. And I say, ‘any V.S.O.P?’ Very Special Old Pale. V.S.O.P. And the guy’s eyes fuckin’ light up. Guess he hadn’t had someone ask for something that nice in a long time. So he pours me some, and I pay the tab and I leave.”

“Mhm.” You encouraged, letting your eyes close again, letting the rumble of his chest lull you.

“Well he’s a real nice fuckin’ fella, so I go back the next night. Who do I got to go home to, my fucking wife who already hates me? A screaming two year old she won’t let me take care of? Nah. So I go back to the fuckin’ bar, and I do a couple lines with the bartender, and I ask for more of that V.S.O.P.”

Thunder cracked outside, lightning illuminating the room for a split second. You could see the light even with your eyes closed. Pale kinda felt like that, you thought.

Seeing even with your eyes closed.

“So after a week or two of pullin’ this shit, he don’t even ask anymore, just slides me a glass of Pale. And I get known as Pale. I ain’t ever introduced myself otherwise ever since.” He concluded his story.

“That’s a funny story.” You said with a smile.

“How’s that?” He asked, a smile in his own voice too.

“What if you had ordered something else?” You mused, propping your chin up on his chest to look at him.

He went all hazy cross-eyed to try and get a glimpse of you at the angle he was, lifted his head just a little. You smiled at the way he got a bunch of chins when he did that, you stretched your neck up to kiss them, press little smooches there, making him shy away from being too ticklish.

“Instead of brandy, what if you ordered a glass of wine? Then you might be known as Cabernet. Cab.” You laughed.

“Like a fuckin’ taxi cab?” Pale laughed too, and you laughed again.

Thunder cracked and the rain panged down, but you loved him and you laughed.

“Yeah. Pale’s much better.” You chuckled, winding down again but still humming, amused.

“You really love me?” He looked at you with real clear eyes, and you nodded.

“I really do.” You said.

He held his hand up, looked at it in the near pitch-black room.

“I chucked my ring, right off the fuckin’ pier. It’s at the bottom of the ocean. Hope no dolphin or nothing eats it. I ain’t ever felt so light, without it on like this.” He said, and ah, that’s where it had gone.

You thought he maybe would have kept it in a box, maybe stuck it along with the letter and photographs. Memories that might be too painful to deal with, but too important to throw out.

Something about the fact that he had really just tossed it in the ocean felt monumental to you. Like maybe he was yours, maybe he would stick around with you and you were his to keep too.

“You have a tan line there.” You held his hand right up to your face, squinted at the finger. Sure enough there was a little band of lighter skin. You kissed it, noticed the tremor that was running through his hands.

“Yeah, only took the fuckin’ thing off maybe twice the whole time I had it. You believe that? Twice. Once to get it polished on our ten year fuckin’ anniversary, and then to toss it. She wasn’t even wearing hers, when I saw her. I wonder if she pawned it off or just stuck it in a drawer somewhere. It was expensive, you know?” He sighed.

You kissed the palm of his hand, he smoothed it over your face, cupped your cheek with it. He liked to grab at your face, you noticed. Like to hold it in his hands, cradle it. You smiled.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” You pointed out.

“I’d buy you expensive shit, if you wanted it.” Pale pointed out too.

“I don’t need anything – ” You started, but he interrupted you real quick.

“I know you don’t. Boggles my fuckin’ mind. I want to spend money on you, you know? Who the fuck else am I gonna spend it on? I know you don’t need nothing. I want you to have nice shit. I already buy you nice shit. Got a whole fuckin’ closet filled with nice shit I’ve picked up for you over the past few fuckin’ months.” He sighed, his eyes closed again.

“Really?” You asked, frowning. How come he had never said anything? What the hell had he bought you?

“Really. I’m always too afraid to give it to you, too afraid you’re gonna say you don’t want it – that you don’t want me. I know you don’t need this shit, I know. I know you ain’t helpless. You’re a big girl, you can take care of yourself. But…I want to take care of you, you know? I want to make sure you ain’t got nothing to want for. I don’t give shit to you because I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m like a fuckin’ sugar daddy or nothing, that I only want you for sex or nothing. Not that the sex ain’t great, I fuckin’ love the sex, I’m just – I don’t know – I – ” He was losing it again, and you shushed him gently.

“I know.” You said, placing your hand over his, the one on your cheek. He was shaking, poor thing couldn’t stop shaking. “I know, me too.”

You closed your eyes and he closed his.

The rain went on and on, and you were exhausted, and he was still so drunk but you felt good.

It felt good to get it out in the open, that you loved him.

He didn’t need to say it back. You knew he did. You could tell, just by looking at him – just by virtue that he was there, that he called your place home.

He wasn’t going to say it, and that was okay, you loved him anyway.

—————

Tagging some pals, as always please let me know if you’d like to be added or taken off the tag list! @fullofbees@spinebarrel@dreamboatdriver@thecurlycaptain@bourbonboredom @driverficarchive@aweirdlookingtree@rosalynbair @redhairedfeistynerd@adamsnackdriver@glitzescape @adamsnacc-kler @kyloxfem @fallin-for-youreyes @kylo-renne@attorneyl

#reader insert #pale x reader #pale #burn this #burn this broadway #my writing #blue moon #chapter 8 #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader

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angrylizardjacket · 5 years

Text

in the footsteps of giants

Anon asked: I know you briefly mentioned Ash meeting Motley Crue in the 80s but does she ever meet Lola?? If so, like how does that go down???

A/N: RTP and AYDTD have always taken place in the same universe in my mind. So this is just a little thing i wrote today in rehearsals on my phone abt a potential way that Ash and Lola meet, plus a little bit of a hint at what ash does when she’s and roger split in the late 70s/early 80s ;) (also just so you know, once ash and queen reconnect after the release of A Night At The Opera, Ash asks freddie if she can take his last name because she doesn’t want to be associated with the family that ostracised her; Ash Mercury is what she goes by in her day to day/non-professional life, after 1975) (Established Nikki/Lola & Ash/Roger)

{Ash | AYDTD} | {Lola | RTP}

Early 1987. Los Angeles.

“Hey do you know if the photographer Vince likes is around in the next few weeks?” Lola barges into Doc’s office, disregarding his assistant’s squawk of protest. Doc looks surprised, looks mildly annoyed, holding his jacket and standing just beyond the door. Behind him is a woman with hair as red as a flame, standing a few inches shorter than Lola herself.

“I’m about to go to lunch,” Doc tells Lola, voice flat, “can we discuss this when I get back?” The woman behind him is pulling on a dark jacket with yellow floral detailing that’s a little too big for her, watching Lola with an intense, green eyed stare.

“Who’s this?” Lola asks instead, completely ignoring Doc, who sighed and pulled on his jacket.

“Lola, this is Rocket; Rocket, this is Lola Gone, she’s Motley’s,” he turned the thought over in his mind, frowning a little. The woman, Rocket, raised her eyebrows, and Lola’s expression already soured; “who was that little fella Reid had with Queen for the day to day?”

“Oh, she’s their Paul,” realisation dawned on Rocket’s face, speaking for the first time with an unexpectedly thick accent, and Lola frowned, not exactly sure who she was being compared to. After a beat, the ginger frowned at Lola, and Lola frowned right back, “Paul was a rotten little bastard.”

Doc laughs.

“Fuck you.” Lola spits, and Rocket smiles, all sharp teeth. “Fuck both of you.”

“Lola, don’t get your knickers in a twist; which is the photographer Vince likes?” Doc heads down the hallway with both Lola and Rocket a few steps behind him, Lola holding a sketchbook.

“The one that Nikki didn’t yell at last time,” Lola groaned, her face scrunching up, “Barry something? Vince is convinced he always catches his good side.”

“And why do you need him so soon?” Doc presses the elevator button and Lola sighs.

“Nikki wants to put together some draft cover designs for the single and he wants a photo of the band for it.”

“If I give you Barry’s number can you set it up?” Doc asks, his voice condescending, and Lola stands up straighter, expression darkening.

“Give me some fucking cred-”

“Just answer the question.”

Lola narrows her eyes, her gaze locked with Doc’s as he raises his eyebrows at her.

“Fucking obviously.”

Rocket watches her as the doors of the elevator close, wearing a strange little Mona Lisa smile, setting Lola on edge.

“What the fuck kind of name is Rocket?!” Lola groans, draping herself over Nikki in the studio, handing back his sketchbook. Nikki, who was spread across the sofa chatting about lyrics with Tommy and Vince.

“Did you get the good photographer?” Nikki asked, shifting to get more comfortable with her on top of him.

“Doc’s gonna give me his number after his date,” she sighs.

“Who’s Rocket?” Tommy asks, just as Vince snorts.

“Doc’s on a date? Yeah fucking right.”

Lola doesn’t know much about the woman apart from the fact that she’s got hair like fire and she seems like an asshole.

“She said I was a rotten little bastard!” Lola crowed, her whole face wrinkling with irritation, though Nikki laughed loudly, pulling her close.

“Lo, you are a rotten little bastard,” he told her fondly, smirking.

“You’re an asshole too;” though her voice was soft as she propped her chin on his chest, scowling at him, “you’re lucky I love you.”

“I only know about one Rocket even mildly attached to Doc - maybe -” Mick interjects, his arms crossed as he twists in a spinning chair, “and there’s no way she’s getting romantic with him.”

“Well you don’t even know if we’re talking about the same person,” Lola responds loftily.

“Red hair? Kind of an asshole? In town same time as Queen, and she knows Doc? Girlie, I’m pretty sure we’re talking about the same Rocket.” And he’s smug with good reason, because almost an hour later, Doc makes his way into the studio while Mick is redoing his solo for the third time. Rocket comes too, watching with bright eyes and hands clasped behind her back. Lola hadn’t gotten a good look at her before, but now, with the floral jacket folded in the woman’s arms, she sees Rocket’s impeccably tailored pastel blue silk shirt tucked into acid washed denim cutoffs, and the powder blue converse; the outfit looks so couture and summery, and Lola feels like a mismatched child in her vicinity.

Tommy is giving her the most starry-eyed look, whilst also turning bright red.

“Ash Mercury.”

That’s enough to get Rocket’s attention, and she turns with raised eyebrows away from where she was watching Mick.

“Motley Crue, this is Rocket; she’s a designer, she requested to meet you all.”

“No fucking way did Ash Mercury ask to meet us.” Tommy’s acting like a starstruck fool, like he did when he met Nikki, eyes bright, tapping excitedly against the sound desk with his drumsticks, much to the sound engineer’s chagrin.

“Who in the fuck is Ash Mercury?” Lola finally asks. Nikki’s not paying much attention to the situation, in his own little world with his bass, and Mick hadn’t realised they had company, but Tommy and Vince were watching the newcomers with interest.

“I am.” Rocket smiles toothily at Lola, “though, granted I hadn’t assumed that’s how you’d know me.”

“Tommy saw your tits at a very formative time in his life,” Vince snickered, “of course he remembers you.” Tommy threw a drumstick at Vince’s head, but the blonde can’t help but cackle. Ash at least has the decency to blush.

“I was seventeen, you make me sound like I was twelve!” But he turned to Ash with what he hopes is a winning smile, “I’m not- I mean, I wasn’t twelve then and I’m not seventeen now. I’m Tommy.” And he actually stands, walks over to her and holds out her hand. Ash’s handshake is surprisingly firm, and his enthusiasm seems to be endearing her rather than putting her off.

“Good to meet you, Tommy; you’re the drummer, right?” She smiled when he nodded, standing back and trying to be subtle where he’s all but preening under her gaze. She knows who he is! He looks like he’s about to cream himself. “You remind me of my favourite client,” she says, something gentle about her words.

“Who even are you?!” Lola half laughs, though she’s more confused than before.

“Hey dickhead, Ash Mercury’s here.” Vince throws the drumstick that was just lobbed at him at Nikki, which at the very least gets the bassists attention.

“Yeah right,” Nikki snorts, looking over at the ginger, who looked mildly bemused, “what would she be doing here? She’s in fuckin’ England isn’t she? Is Bowie in town?”

“Jesus Christ you lot are a bunch of perverts,” Doc sighed, but Ash smiled brightly.

“I’m Scottish actually, but close enough I suppose,” she paused, “and I haven’t seen Bowie in a few years; I do have a life outside of him ah,” she turns a little red, “those photoshoots I did for and with him,” she can’t be quite sure which they’re referring to, but both make her a little self conscious, “but if it’s enough to convince you;” she untucks her shirt, lifting it up to expose her ribs, and the worn tattoo that sat just below her breast.

An orange, about the size of a quarter, with a little green leaf. Lola recognised that tattoo, and could feel herself starting to heat up with embarrassment.

“It’s a clementine, I got it right after Queen released A Night At the Opera,” she clarified, and Tommy makes a noise of understanding.

“You must be a big fan of theirs, what with the tattoo and the name and the-” Tommy was cut off by Doc, who held his head in his hands.

“Do you really not know about Rocket apart from that Rolling Stones shoot she did with Bowie?” Doc asked. Ash was tucking her shirt back into her shorts, since the rest of them seemed satisfied that she was the real deal.

“She also did that shoot for him,” Tommy adds, very pointedly, and with maybe a little too much confidence. Ash’s smile is a little too bright as she refuses to acknowledge that particular career move of hers.

“I’m actually a costume designer, you see, and I just wanted to stop in and tell you I love your look; I appreciate your theatricality. The Bark at the Moon tour looks were,” she mused, gaze a little far away, “oh they were something else.”

“Is that a good thing?” Nikki asked, typing his head to the side as his tone betrayed his amusement.

“Absolutely.” Ash grinned in return. “Well I just wanted to stop in and say hi.” She shrugged, “I should be getting back, Rog is taking me out for dinner.” She told Doc, who nodded sagely, and though she left, he didn’t.

“You chucklefucks sure know how to embarrass yourselves in front of one of the most sought after designers and fabricators in the industry,” Doc sighed, but the rest of them were preoccupied by Lola hurling everything within arms reach at Tommy.

“You had that centrefold of her and Bowie on your bedroom fucking wall!”

“I know!” Tommy snorted, easily deflecting the empty cans thrown his way, “how did you not recognise her?”

“Because it’s been years since I saw the poster and on it she had sparklers covering her nipples; I wasn’t exactly paying attention to her face!” Lola cried, before falling back into the sofa, covering her face at the sound of Vince and Nikki crowing with laughter.

“Don’t think you’re getting let off so easily, Tommy, you’re just as dense as Lola;” Doc snaps, which shuts everyone up, Tommy most of all, wearing a wide-eyed, confused state, “’you must be a big fan of theirs’” Doc parroted mockingly back to the drummer, before cuffing him over the back of the head, “she’s engaged to Roger Taylor.”

Tommy’s look of dawning horror was enough to set everyone off and laughing again. His despair was almost palpable.

“And I asked her if she was a fan of Queen.”

“She still seems like a bit of an asshole,” Lola finally announced, and Nikki snickered.

“Isn’t that a bit ’pot-meet-kettle’?” He asked, and Lola gave an small smile, rolling her eyes. It’s Doc, however, who interjects.

“She’s allowed to be an asshole sometimes, she’s damn good at her job.”

#motley crue #vince neil #tommy lee #nikki sixx #mick mars #nikki x lola #the dirt #aydtd #the angry lizard writes

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theyearoftheking · 4 years

Text

Book Twenty-Five: Misery

Informal survey... what’s a worse idea at this point, reading Misery while in quarantine, or The Shining?

Discuss.

Personally, I think The Shining has a slight edge over Misery. And as a writer (go buy Her Dangerous Secret today! Free on Kindle Unlimited!); that’s saying something.

I’ve never read Misery before, and I’ve never (gasp!) seen the movie. I know, sacrilegious for a woman who claims to be a pretty major Steve fan. I knew the basic story, and Kathy Bates as Annie Wilkes is legit terrifying. I really didn’t expect to get anything new out of the book. But I was mistaken.

Misery is the story of famous writer Paul Sheldon, who wakes up from a drugged sleep with broken legs, a shattered pelvis, and very few memories of how it happened. He’s being “cared for” by Annie Wilkes, his number one fan. I’d also classify her as his biggest fan, because Annie is a large, intimidating woman. Annie claims she was driving home from Sidewinder (yes, Sidewinder where The Overlook Hotel was located), and saw Paul’s car in a ditch. She “rescued” him and is in the process of nursing him back to health. She’s quasi-qualified to do this, because she used to be a nurse... but people in her care kept mysteriously falling dead. Gulp.

While she’s keeping him drugged on pain pills which she has scattered all over her house like candy (NOT FDA approved, just FYI), she’s also reading his most recent novel, Misery’s Child. She adores all his Misery books; which is ironic since Paul killed Misery Chastain off in Misery’s Child, and was celebrating the fact he could move onto new and interesting characters.

Let’s take a brief sidebar... Steve puts on his pharmacist/pain specialist hat in this book. In the intro, he says, “There is, of course, no such drug as Novril, but there are several codeine-based drugs similar to it, and unfortunately, hospital pharmacies and medical practice dispensaries are sometimes lax in keeping such drugs under tight lock and close inventory...”

Codeine? How quaint. Welcome to the age of Purdue pharma, and now keeping oxy samples in a safe. My day job is working in pharmaceuticals... particularly selling a drug that helps with opioid induced constipation (my job is literally shit, people). Anyone who has taken oxy or vicodin for a knee or shoulder surgery knows how real constipation is. So, when Steve delved into that topic, I had to snort. Literally. My post-it note reads, “Snort”.

Anyway, Annie finishes Misery’s Child, and is NOT happy. So unhappy, she basically holds Paul hostage, and forces him to write another Misery book on a clunky typewriter missing the letter “n”.

Guys... this is the moment you realize Steve isn’t just a paperback writing hack. He’s got talent. The typewriter is a metaphor for Paul. It’s a little used up, it’s missing a few keys, but it can still write. And when it does write, Paul claims it sounds like a gunslinger. Boom. As Paul’s time in captivity wears on, more letters fall off the typewriter (kinda like Paul’s foot and finger... spoiler!); and it’s ultimately the tool used to bring Annie down. This is more than a story about a writer being held hostage by his number one fan, it’s downright literary. It almost makes up for the shit show that was Christine.

Come to find out, Annie has a history of killing people, and a scrapbook documenting it all. To quote Paul, “...Annie Wilkes was totally off the beam...” She even killed a photographer on his way to The Overlook to get some shots of the charred remains. Paul finds the scrapbook and realizes he’s in sixteen different kinds of trouble. He knows his only hope is police officers finding his car abandoned on the side of the road. Hopefully they’ll ask questions, they’ll remember Annie’s murderous ways, and they’ll come question her.

That’s exactly what happens!

And then Annie (literally) mows the cop down with her riding lawnmower. It reminded me so much of the end of Cujo... the suspense was so taut, and they were so close to freedom... but so far away.

Fucking Annie.

Paul finishes his newest Misery book, and admits it’s the best thing he’s ever written. Too bad he needs to start it on fire in order to escape Annie. It was fitting when he was shoving the ashes of the burned manuscript down her throat, yelling, “Here’s your book, Annie!”

Goddamn, that’s some good writing.

Paul escapes, the cops show up in time, and Annie is dead. Paul lives to write another day.

You might notice I left out some of the more graphic bits of this book. That happened on purpose. I read those scenes, winced, and had no desire to read them, or think about them again. Once again, the mark of a talented horror writer. Misery was first published in 1987, and it’s still as terrifying as it was then. This is my twenty-fifth book in this reading challenge, and my favorite one so far. The writing was crisp, the metaphors thoughtful, and the terror aplenty. Well done, Steve.

Total Wisconsin Mentions: 16

Total Dark Tower References: 21

Book Grade: A+

Rebecca’s Definitive Ranking of Stephen King Books

The Talisman: A+

Misery: A+

Different Seasons: A+

It: A+

The Shining: A-

The Stand: A-

Skeleton Crew: B+

The Dead Zone: B+

‘Salem’s Lot: B+

Carrie: B+

Creepshow: B+

Cycle of the Werewolf: B-

Danse Macabre: B-

The Running Man: C+

Thinner: C+

The Eyes of the Dragon: C+

The Long Walk: C+

The Gunslinger: C+

Pet Sematary: C+

Firestarter: C+

Rage: C

Cujo: C-

Nightshift: C-

Roadwork: D

Christine: D

Next up is The Drawing of the Three, one of my favorite in the Dark Tower series. This is book twenty-five; and even with my increased Coronavirus reading speed, I haven’t even really put a dent in Steve’s collected works. But much like Roland’s journey to the Dark Tower, it’s the journey and not the final destination.

Until next time, Long Days & Pleasant Nights, Rebecca

#misery #stephen king #constant readers #dark tower #kathy bates

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alwayysmichael · 5 years

Text

Michael Jackson and me.

I was a boy in Michael Jackson’s life, and nothing of what he’s being accused of in this documentary happened...

I wanted to write and post this before Leaving Neverland premiered at Sundance last Friday. After all, I had a close relationship with Michael Jackson growing up and nothing of what he continues to be accused of has ever happened to me. I decided to wait because I was curious to see if the film would get any wings considering Wade Robson’s volatile and unsuccessful claims against Michael Jackson in the past. Sure, let him tell his story again. Truth and justice will prevail as they have. Soon after it premiered, I quickly Googled “leaving neverland” to discover news articles stating that the four-hour documentary received a standing ovation. In disbelief, I searched the hashtag on Instagram to see Story footage from the theater and there they were — Wade Robson, James Safechuck and the film’s director Dan Reed — on stage in front of an applauding audience at their feet. I’m not sure if the audience was doing so because they were perceived as survivors making a public appearance, or if the film was actually good in their eyes, or both; but all I could think about was that their strategy, unfortunately, worked.

Raising awareness about child abuse and providing a safe community for others to speak their truth is vital, but using Michael Jackson as a vehicle to do so is simply wrong. In order for any story to be valid, there has to be an element of trust and I do not trust the people associated with this film. Let’s be clear: Michael Jackson showed up. He faced public interviews, he answered difficult-to-stomach questions, he agreed to interrogative documentaries, he withstood a 10-year FBI investigation, and he appeared in an eighteen-month criminal trial until he was acquitted having been found not guilty on all fourteen child molestation and abuse-related accounts. The fact that twelve years of criminal investigations and government legal proceedings can be completely overruled by the media due to a manipulation of the same stories once told before by a select few, especially by those who were initially on the defense, is deeply concerning. Maybe even horrifying.

I haven’t seen the documentary, but it “focuses on two men… who allege they were sexually abused by the pop star Michael Jackson as children” (Wikipedia). Everyone is entitled to his/her/their story and I believe that each story should be told in truth to the best of his/her/their ability, but my issue with Leaving Neverland is the heavy reliance on one side, especially when that one side is comprised of only two people. On top of it all, those two people happen to know each other. So what we have is a product comprised of two acquaintances’ stories who were in Michael’s life as boys that has been glorified in a 236-minute documentary. Remember that the film would mark Robson’s second attempt to tell his story. He told the same, truncated version of his story publicly in 2013 and simultaneously filed suit against the Michael Jackson Estate, which the court later dismissed. This was eight years after he testified twice under oath explicitly stating that Michael did nothing wrong during a criminal trial in which the jury delivered a verdict of not guilty. It’s clear that this film’s intention is to position Michael as a child predator, but I find that the entire Leaving Neverland saga is really, in turn, a predation on a man of power and wealth now almost 10 years dead and thereby defenseless.

I was part of Michael’s life from the day I was born in 1987 until 2001. The last time I was literally close to him was backstage at the Staples Center when his casket wheeled past me. I knew him well because my mother, Janet Zeitoun, his sole hairstylist during the time, knew him even better. One could say that they might as well have been siblings. In fact, my mother was one of the few non-family members invited to the private memorial service at the cemetery hours before the public one in Downtown LA. Michael felt so comfortable with my mother because she made him laugh unlike anyone else, let alone the fact that she’s incredible at her craft. Michael even said in writing that she’s the “Michelangelo of hair.”

From the 80s, 90s and early 2000s, my mother has been around the globe with Michael. She’s been by his side doing his hair on sets, in dressing rooms, backstage at his concerts, at his home, on planes, in hotel rooms, in cars, and yes, even at Neverland. When my mom was pregnant with me in ‘86, Michael told her that she’d be having a boy; and on the day of my birth, Michael sent a limo to our home filled with gifts. And from then on, my single, hard-working mother who wanted to spend as much time with me as she could often brought me to work with her. So I grew up on the sets of Michael’s music videos, I played with my toys on the floor of his dressing rooms, and he sometimes came over to our house to get his hair done. As I got a bit older and could walk on my own two feet, I became the boy responsible for making sure Michael got candy in between some of his concert rehearsal sets. Michael would make everyone stop and patiently wait for me to wobble my way on stage to him. I even remember singing “I Just Can’t Wait to be King” to him in his trailer (so embarrassing!) but he gave me his undivided attention and smiled. I went to Neverland, several times of which Michael was there and he gave us the full tour of his home. I remember my favorite golf cart to get around had a Peter Pan emblem on it. I remember his movie theater concession stand being filled with candy that you could go behind the counter and take to watch whatever movie you wanted. I remember riding the big steam engine train that would take you from one end of the ranch to the other. I remember a big pot-bellied pig named Petunia and that I could name a newborn deer and rabbit. I chose Cuddie and Thumper, respectively; original, I know, but Michael loved the names.

Unlike Robson or Safechuck, I wasn’t in the public eye with Michael. The only sort of public thing that happened was him publishing a photo of us in the centerfold of his 1995 tour book. Fourteen years later, the caretaker of his children recognized me backstage at the Staples Center during his memorial service and told me that the photograph was one of Michael’s favorites, and at the time in 2009 was still framed on his grand piano in Neverland.I remember leaving Neverland a happy kid who couldn’t wait to go back.

I remember telling my mom that I wanted to have another birthday party there or that I wanted to hang out with Michael again at the ranch. The bulk of my experience with Michael was during the 90s right when the FBI investigation began on account of child molestation allegations. Knowing that this was happening and that these charges were set against him, I don’t think my protective and well-aware mother would’ve allowed me to continue hanging around Michael or head up to Neverland had she not trusted him.

I firmly believe Michael did no wrong. You don’t have to take my word for it, though; know that his truth was proven in a court of law. The stories being presented in Leaving Neverland are incredibly one-sided. This film is merely the Wade Robson & James Safechuck Story because I, too, remember leaving Neverland, as does my mother, and as do many people in his life who’d be glad to have a say in a film so generically titled; now wrongfully entitled to depict Michael’s life and his misunderstood relationship with children. Any credible director of a documentary seeking truth on the matter would do his/her/their due diligence and present the full story from a carefully chosen and meaningful variety of sources. With four hours of film time to spare, I’m sure there could have been room. This is why I’m deeply disappointed in HBO and Channel 4 UK for picking it up with plans to air it later this spring. The networks snagged a falsity and will be responsible for disseminating a poorly researched film based on the highly skewed opinions of a select few that many of its subscribers will conclude as true.

Leaving Neverland is connecting because Robson and Safechuck’s well-acted stories are similar to those of true survivors watching the film. It’s a smart, yet corrupt way to capitalize on an entire community’s vulnerabilities. It’s also connecting because their stories are bolstered with a compelling medium to tell them as well as an accredited establishment like Sundance to premiere it. It’s riding the wave of an important #MeToo and #TimesUp movement, and it poorly validates a shortsighted equation that many people think they already have the answer to: Michael Jackson plus always being around children must equal child molester. The result? A byproduct of lies smeared with a thin layer of credibility intended to enrage the general media and side with self-proclaimed victims. And because the people behind these forms of media have a following (or not), perhaps they’re employed by some “greater” masthead and their information is muffled with journalists who actually seek the truth, the general population slowly becomes convinced, valuing information by ease of access which has really been served to them by algorithms designed to showcase what individuals only want to see. This is where destruction escalates. This is where the snowball gains its mass. This is why I’m stepping in with my story now.

I urge you to make it your undying responsibility to seek truth and acknowledge all sides in your consumption of how Michael is being depicted in this film. The capitalization of circumstance, divisive use of content and manipulation of media — all combined with rising false senses of entitlement — can quickly nullify a verdict and forever challenge truth to favor the other. This is the loophole with our digital ecosystem that actually determines one’s fate and this is the precise mechanism Leaving Neverland is using, especially when money is at stake. It will ultimately destroy his family, defame his legacy and eradicate his artistry. If you think this little loophole won’t take it that far, well, for starters: it’s already killed Michael Jackson.

Michael signed a letter to me on Neverland letterhead once. It read: “from your protective and older brother, Michael Jackson.” Now I find it my turn to protect him by telling my story because I solemnly swear that this kind-hearted, genius-of-a-man is innocent. I probably would have known otherwise. - Talun Zeitoun

#michael jackson #talun zeitoun #if u dont read all read what i grifed ♥#this is the most beautiful thing #♥#thank u for the truth #mj #mjj #*#im in tears #rares #personal

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theromancewatcher100 · 5 years

Text

Michael Jackson: The Facts

Alright y’all the Leaving Neverland documentary controversy was really starting to get to me. It’s so difficult knowing what to believe so I decided to do some research of my own, something I suggest everyone does before making a judgment based on one documentary. It doesn’t matter what I think but I believe the facts here speak for themselves so I’ve collated a big list of all the current evidence that’s been going around recently. Read it and then make up your mind. Feel free to add anything if you like. Thanks.

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Action to sue James Safechuck SNR for almost $1 million was filed on the 26th April 2013. Stephanie Safechuck had shares. James Safechuck Snr was served on the 14th of May 2013. Wade Robson appeared on the Today show on the 16th May 2013. James Safechuck Jnr sees it and realizes he also had been abused.

Michael Jackson was not living in California when the abuse supposedly took place.

Wade Robson had to ask his mother over twenty questions about his first few nights with Michael Jackson because he couldn’t remember

For the court case in 2005, a psychological profile was performed on Michael Jackson. A forensic psychologist from the University of Cincinnati named Michael Borack evaluated many pedophiles and said that Michael did not fit the profile. Borack stated, ‘His eccentric behavior is not typical of most offenders’. He went on to say, ‘most offenders are normal people who could be your neighbours’, not anyone we would consider weird. He also stated that ‘most paedophiles will keep toys or other such appealing items around to lure children, but they do not usually play with the items themselves’. Michael thoroughly partook in playing and enjoying games and toys surrounding him for his own personal enjoyment.

Safechuck’s mother says in 2009 she danced when Michael Jackson died because she knew he’d never hurt another child, even though her son didn’t realise he was abused until 2013.

Wade Robson says they visited Neverland hundreds of times. But he had said in court that they only went to Neverland 14 times. Michael was there 4 times out of the 14.

Safechuck in his lawsuit claimed he was abused by Jackson in New York in 1989 after he performed at the Grammy’s. But the Grammy’s were in Los Angeles that year and Jackson didn’t perform at the Grammy’s in 1989.

Safechuck said in 1987 he spent Thanksgiving with Jackson at his home. But Jackson was in Australia doing the Bad tour at the time

Prior to his death Michael Jackson was investigated by the FBI for 13 years and found nothing. 72 officers and 50 FBI agents

Found innocent at 2 trials

Michael’s bodyguard, Bill Whitfield has defended him stating, ‘everyone that knows me knows that if I believed or knew MJ would harm a child I would not have worked for him. As his personal security, I would have known if something wasn’t cool and trust me I would’ve kicked his ass myself! As I protected him in life I will protect his honour in death #igotyourbacksir’.

James stated that ‘Michael didn’t want us spending any time with women and cut contact with me after puberty’. Photographic evidence exists of James, Michael and his then current wife Lisa Marie Presley with James holding an umbrella for Michael

Wade stated that ‘I was molested by Michael between ages 7 and 14’. Wade is now 36 so the abuse happened between 1989 and 1996. So, the abuse happened during the Jordie Chandler investigation and during Michael’s marriage to Lisa Marie Presley - with the FBI finding nothing.

Manipulated footage of Michael exists. Michael was being honoured at the Regent hotel and supposedly recorded a message for Wade wishing him a Happy Birthday with Michael saying, ‘hello Wade, today is your birthday’. The video at the Regent Hotel was recorded on the 20th February 1990 while Wade’s birthday is on the 7th of September with the original video being intended for Elizabeth Taylor.

Wade defended Michael 3 times: 1993, 2003 and 2009

Wade has changed his story 4 times. During the first, he stated that Michael threatened and manipulated him that they’ll go to jail if he said anything. The second was that Wade didn’t realise he’d been abused. The third was that Wade felt shame. And the fourth was that Wade always knew what Michael did but didn’t realise it was bad.

James also has changed his story twice. He said that Michael and his people were threatening him to keep quiet and James refused to testify but he and his mum knew he had been abused. The second time he said that he didn’t realise he had been abused until 2014.

Wade had also maintained a relationship with Michael Jackson’s niece, which wasn’t mentioned in the documentary, Brandi Jackson and cheated on her with Britney Spears to get ahead in the fame game.

Mike Smallcombe who wrote the 2016 book Making Michael: Inside the Career of Michael Jackson has accused James Safechuck of lying about his involvement in the 2005 trial. In the documentary, Safechuck said he refused to testify. However, Smallcombe stated that ‘in the documentary, Safechuck claims Jackson called him ‘near the end of the trial’ and asked him to testify on his behalf once again as he had done in 1993. Safechuck said he refused and that Jackson then got ‘really angry’ and threatened him. He repeated this claim under oath, in his ongoing lawsuit against the Jackson estate. However, it simply can’t be true. Very early on in the trial, the judge ruled that he would allow the jury to hear about five boys whom the prosecution claimed were sexually abused by Jackson’. Smallcombe claimed that Jordan Chandler, Brett Barnes, Jason Francia, and Macaulay Culkin were among the boys asked to testify in court, adding that the judge presiding over the case had said Safechuck’s evidence would not be permitted. ‘The judge came to this decision because nobody had ever claimed they had seen Safechuck being abused’. This meant Jackson could not have asked him to testify at any point, but particularly not months after he had been ruled out as a witness when the trial was near its end. Smallcombe also claimed that both Robson and Safechuck are in debt to Jackson’s estate after they tried to bring lawsuits against it in 2013 and 2014 respectively, both of which were thrown out. ‘Robson owes the estate almost $70,000 million dollars in court costs, and Safechuck owes the estate several thousand dollars as well. Both Robson and Safechuck should have been questioned about their motives for trying to get hundreds of millions of dollars in damages from the estate. These things should have been put to them in the documentary, or by journalists in their television interviews. We still need to challenge, especially when there are credibility issues’

In 2005 he was found not guilty in regards to allegations of sexual abuse of another 13-year-old Gavin Arvizo.

Wade Robson’s allegations of child sex abuse against Michael Jackson have reportedly been disproved by his own mother in historic court documents. Mike Smallcombe, a Michael Jackson biographer claims a testimony from Joy in 1993 shows some of Wade’s allegations in the documentary cannot be true. Wade claimed the abuse started when his family went to the Grand Canyon and he stayed behind with Jackson. But Smallcombe claims his mother Joy told a court in 1993 that Wade did not join them on the trip. He argues that Joy’s testimony under oath is proof that Wade has lied. Smallcombe said, ‘in the documentary, Wade Robson described how he and his then 10-year-old sister stayed in Jackson’s bedroom the first two nights they were ever at Neverland in January in 1990. Wade the claimed that his family left to go to the Grand Canyon, while he stayed behind with Jackson alone at Neverland for the next five days. Wade claimed it was then when he was first abused by Jackson, going into graphic detail about what had allegedly happened over the course of several nights. His mother, Joy Robson testified under oath in a deposition in 1993/ 1994 in relation to the Jordie Chandler case that Wade had actually gone with them on that trip to the Grand Canyon before the entire family returned to Neverland for the second time the following weekend. Joy Robson had no reason to lie about this; she openly admitted that Wade stayed with Jackson alone on other occasions. She could have said, ‘Wade stayed behind with Michael when we went away to the Grand Canyon between weekends’, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Her words in that deposition were ‘we went to the ranch for the first weekend, and then we left and went to the Grand Canyon and we toured. We came back to the ranch for the following weekend’. She was asked to elaborate on who had gone to the Grand Canyon, and she said ‘my family’. There was no mention of Wade staying behind. To confirm this, later on, revealed that the first time Wade stayed alone with Jackson at the ranch without her was actually in 1993. She said, ‘my son has never been to the ranch without me up until this year (1993)’. Smallcombe said that when testifying in defence of Jackson in 2005, more than a decade after his mother’s deposition, Wade also testified that the only time he had been at Neverland without his mother was sometime in 1992 or 1993 when Macaulay Culkin and Jordie Chandler was also there. Smallcombe said, ‘when giving evidence and asked if his sister had stayed in the bed with him ‘the entire them’ they were at Neverland on that first trip, Wade answered ‘yes’. Meaning he never stayed alone with Jackson during that trip. HIs mum corroborated that when giving evidence the following day’. Smallcombe said that Wade admitted that he ‘did not know’ whether what happened that night ‘came from (his) own recollection of it was told to (him) by someone else’. In one email his mother, he also asked her scores of questions about what had happened that first weekend at Neverland. That was when Wade was drafting a book about the alleged abuse, having to get the Cirque du Soleil job with the estate. All of this shows that Wade’s story about being abused for the first time, while the rest of his family had supposedly left the ranch to go the Grand Canyon, is false. Of course, while this doesn’t categorically rule out that Jackson abused Wade Robson, it does make you wonder if this extremely detailed and key story in the documentary has been fabricated’

#leaving neverland #michael jackson #wade robson #james safechuck #evidence #allegations #facts #documentary #controversy

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