This is Love (Chapter Eight): Whispers of Wolves

Notes: Heyo, since A) I took a break and B) it’s friday the thirteenth, as it was when I posted the first chapter of this is love back in January, I decided to go ahead and post chapter 8 today. Chapter 9 is already done and I’ll be beginning work on chapter 10 soon, as this is my current hyper fixation. I hope you all enjoy. 

Word Count: 8671

Chapter Warnings: Oh boy we got some shit today my dudes! Stories/Reference of Past Child Abuse, Animal Death In the Context of Hunting, Homphobic Slurs/Homphobia towards lesbians, and referenced past anti-Semitism. Less important but there’s a pov change and like three different quotes in this chapter, from the Book of Joseph, and two different songs, which is probably a lot but I ain’t editing this shit anymore

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here

Pain cracks through Joseph’s skull late that night, shooting across from each temple, seeming to split his head apart. He sits on the edge of his small bed, a modest bedroom in the back of his church. He knows what it means, he’s grown accustomed to the sharp ringing pain, visions always come with it. They’ve started to come more frequently since The Lamb arrived.

He grabs at his head, as if he could press hard enough to keep his skull together as pain racks him, an instinctual reaction. Pain strikes through and breaks the reality of the world around him, closed eyes starting to see visions of what could be, images of what may await him.

A world anew surrounds him; one changed by the Collapse and washed of sins. Lush and natural, even more beautiful than the world that came before it. Vibrant pink flowers decorate the earth, thick green moss covering trees. A soft pink flowered apple tree stands at the center of the compound, white buildings replaced with hand made little houses.

Men and women are all around, working around New Eden. Parents playing with their children, carrying their babies; loyal followers allowed to pass through the gates and grow their family. Some members bring back hunted animals to be prepared for meals and others tending to gardens.

And then he sees his brothers and sister.

A fact that changes time and time again as his visions come to him in waves. He’s seen New Eden with and without them. He’s seen each of his siblings die time and time again, old and young, premonitions of what will be or what could be.

In this version, this vision, he’s been allowed his siblings. Faith, Jacob, and John talk at a distance where Joseph can’t quite hear the words, only taken in the moment. Jacob and John’s ages showing more clearly in the gray just starting to pepper their hair.

A voice rises above all others, cutting through the mumbled conversation through the compound, and Joseph knows it’s calling towards him. The soft voice calls him a name similar in meaning to his title, but it cuts to his heart so differently.

“Papa!”

Through the eyes of his older self, he can only watch and take in what happens, no control as he turns to see the source.  A young boy of about five comes running towards Joseph, bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. Joseph’s body moves of it’s own volition reaching out to hug his son, his son, but before he can feel the embrace of his child the world cracks apart again.

Pain splinters through the world and rips him from the moment, when he opens his eyes again he’s back in his room. And his hands itch to hold his son who’s yet to exist, instead he rubs at his temples, fingers knotting in his own hair as he attempts to soothe the agony within his own head. The only respite being what he hopes is a new promise from his creator. A chance for his family to not only walk with him to New Eden, but the chance to expand it.

He’ll have a son. The very idea soothes his pain and is like a salve to frayed nerves. Becoming an internal mantra as he eases himself back to sleep that night.

 Sweat coats Dahlia’s skin as she does another push up, her muscles aching at the workout. She shifts to lay on her back on the living room floor, t-shirt riding up her sweaty stomach. Her second day of no work has turned into an impromptu work out, push up and using doorways for chin-ups. She uses her shirt to wipe sweat off her forehead before grabbing her phone to check the time. Dahlia must have gotten her way through the day, it has to be late by now.

“Fucking hell.”

It’s noon, it’s only fucking noon.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” She screams into a pillow, how the fuck is it only noon? Dahlia looks at the mess of her coffee table, trying to consider what to do just to eat at her time, she could draw again. But her hand is still cramping. She read somewhere you’re suppose to do warm up for drawing, she’ll have to start doing that.

Then she sees the Book of Joseph, her drawing still sticking out of it. She’s burned through her backlog of manga on her phone and fuck, it’s something to do. Joseph seemed like a genuinely sweet man, maybe he has something interesting to say.  Music still blasting, because everything in her life requires a soundtrack, she opens the book.

 “Bless the name of those who have dealt you blows.

Be grateful to those who have caused you harm.

For it is these sufferings that have led you to me.”

 The first sermon in the book, she chews her lip, it’s not that much different from things Joseph told her yesterday, that he’s thankful her past led her to him. But, something rubs her wrong about the idea of being grateful for her abuse. Not for her, she plans on dying mad about it. She reads onward, an illustration of a flaming capital building surrounded by waves with someone drowning in the foreground. That’s…dramatic.

“If a person had been walking down the poorly maintained road out front of the Seed’s house on that afternoon in June and felt the strange urge to glance over, they would have witnessed a bizarre sight.

They would have seen a man dress in black pants and a white undershirt, frothing with anger, brandishing a comic book in one hand and a bible in the other at his son, a child of about ten. But no one had been down this in the poor suburb of Rome, Georgia, in a long time. Not ice cream trucks, not social service cars, not even police patrols.”

Dahlia stops almost three pages in as Joseph begins to write about a dying widow who once gave him and Jacob cakes before she grew sick. The picture he’s painted is far too clear and hits too close to home for her to continue, at least for the moment. A belligerent bible thumping drunk of a father who derided Joseph for loving Spiderman comics and beat Jacob’s back for the younger brother’s supposed misgivings.

Father Monroe, her stepfather, wasn’t quite the ruddy faced sloppy drunk that Old Man Seed was. But when Joseph describes Jacob offering his back up for a beating, she nearly feels the bite of leather against her own. Stripes for the backs of fools, is all she hears.

She wants to talk to Joseph, she realizes, thinking of both the beginning sermon passage and how their own pasts match up. Does he really bless the man who hurt him? Is he grateful for Old Man Seed? Maybe that kind of forgiveness and peace with it comes with age or is it just him? Ruth has a similar story as well, a little older than Dahlia, and she holds on to the same anger Dahlia does. Has Joseph managed to let it go? Does he still like Spiderman? Did his father beat the passion for comic books out of him or does he still enjoy them? Its hard to imagine, the intense Joseph Seed casually reading a comic book.

Less than three pages is a pathetic excuse for reading and didn’t pass much time, but it’s intense for her. So, she’d rather just…stare at the wall for a bit until she’s ready to tackle it again.

It’s Saturday night, Pratt and Hudson won’t be going to The Spread Eagle tonight, because no work. Meaning a rather mundane day with no interruptions. Other than a short walk, Dahlia spends the rest of it fucking around on her phone and watching shitty tv; passing out after downing an unevenly heated microwave meal.

Sunday morning rolls around, spent much like the last, Dahlia using her down time and excess energy to work out. It’s important to stay on top of exercising and staying in shape, given her profession, she makes a mental note to order some weights online. There’s not really a proper gym in the county and she doesn’t want to lose muscle.

She’s in the middle of another round of pushups when there’s a knock at her door; she jumps up from her position, skin still slick with sweat as she rushes towards the door. Finally, something to disrupt the monotony.

It’s Pratt standing on her porch, hazel eyes looking her over. She’s expecting a shitty comment on her appearance, dressed in shorts and a baggy shirt, hair mussed with sweat.

“You need something?” She asks him, slightly out of breath. Dahlia lifts the bottom of her shirt, using it to wipe sweat from her face, breeze skimming the bare skin of her stomach.

“What the hell has you sweating, Rook?” The older deputy chews his lip, avoiding eye contact for a moment.

“I was working out.”

“With a head injury? Seriously?”

“The fuck else am I suppose to do?”

“Figured you’d be bored out of your mind, reason I’m here,” he grins, “throw some clothes on and we can head out.”

“You mind if I shower first?” She asks, while she’s not sure where he plans on dragging her but she’d rather not stink like sweat while she’s there.

“Uh, yeah, sure that’s fine.”

“You wanna wait in here?”

He nods and Dahlia steps aside to let Pratt into her trailer, it’s not the most tidy of place because, well, she’s not the most tidy of people. She can feel the judgement starting to build up as Pratt looks around her messy living room. A pillow and blanket haphazardly on the couch; her duffle bag on the ground with clothes falling out of it. Her table has her sketchbook, thankfully closed, and the Book of Joseph is tucked under it. It’s a messy little nest, but it’s hers.

“Are you sleeping on your couch?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s just, I prefer it,” she explains with a shrug, not really sure how to elaborate on her weird feeling about sleeping in a bed.

“You have a bed, right?”

“Yes, I have a bed, I just, shut up. I don’t barge into your house and start judging how you live,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, “just sit down, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Dahlia grabs a change of clothes, hearing the couch springs creak as Pratt sits down. It’s weird seeing someone in her trailer. The closest she’s had to visitors have stayed on her porch. Pratt is the first person to be in her actual trailer, he looks immensely out of place and judging by his eyes glancing around, he seems to feel that way too. She tries not to think too hard about it, making a beeline to her bathroom.

She tries to keep her shower short, not wanting to make Pratt wait too long and not wanting him to snoop while he’s left alone. That doesn’t stop her from playing music as she showers, just limiting herself to two songs before she jumps out. A quick dry off and she tugs on her clothes, towel still on her damp hair as she walks back out to her living room.

Pratt, sure enough, has found something to snoop through. Dahlia grimaces at the sight of him picking through her little jewelry box of photos. Was he rifling through her dufflebag? She clears her throat, smirking when he jumps up.

“I was just-”

“Snooping,” she cuts him off, ruffling the towel over her hair.

“It fell out of your bag.”

“No it didn’t.”

“It did...after I kicked it a little, but it did fall out.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she snatches the little wooden box off the table, Lloyd and Caroline’s photo booklet was on top, so at least she probably avoided him seeing baby photos.

“You, uh, don’t look much like your parents. You adopted or something?”

She can’t help but chuckle as she puts it away; she can’t blame him for thinking Lloyd and Caroline must be her parents. The pair are both about Whitehorse’s age and why else would she have so many photos with a couple that age. But, the couple absolutely look nothing like her. Both fairer skinned and blue eyed; Lloyd with dark strawberry blonde hair and Caroline with light honey blonde locks. Short of some shenanigans the chance of them producing an olive skinned, brown eyed brunette is slim. And while the couple have their share of adopted children; Dahlia isn’t one of them.

“No.”

“Oh, uh…” She can nearly see the gears turning in Pratt’s head,  her usual one word style of answering has put Caroline’s devotion in question and Dahlia won’t have that.

“They’re not my parents; legally or biologically.”

“Oh, you just hang out with old couples?”

“Maybe, maybe not, ain’t really any of your business,” she shrugs, “more importantly, where the hell are we supposed to be going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t trust your surprises.”

“Would you rather sit here and twiddle your thumbs all day?”

“Fuck  no.”

“That’s what I thought, you ready to go then?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she throws the damp towel onto her laundry chair before shoving her feet into her boots, “lets get going.”

She locks up behind Pratt then follows him out to his car. Compared to the last time she was in his car, this is infinitely more relaxing. She hums along to the radio, resisting the urge to sing along. He probably already heard her yelling along to her music in the shower, she doesn’t need to blast his eardrums at close range. After one song ends and another shittier one begins she starts to fiddle with the radio setting.

“The driver is supposed to pick the music,” Pratt tells her as she flips through stations, trying to find a station playing something other than country.

“The driver needs to worry about the road, while I find something worth listening to.”

“Yeah, ‘cause your taste in music is so good.”

“I have excellent taste in music,” she turns to one station and it sounds like a choir.

Help me, Faith

Help me, Faith

Shield me from sorrow

From fear of tomorrow

“Turn that crap off, right now.”

“The hell is that?” It’s not a bad song like technically speaking, but it’s definitely a bit much.

“Peggie station, it's all crap, Eden’s Gate runs it. It’s all their choir music and sermons.”

“Gross, but the song ain’t that bad.”

“You might wanna have your head checked again.”

“Piss off.”

She finds something better, even if she doesn’t necessarily mind Eden’s Gate music, she’d rather listen to something without fear of a sermon coming up after. At the very least, Pratt doesn’t complain about her choice, a few more songs playing before they cross into Holland Valley.

“How’s your impromptu vacation been going?”

“Boring.”

“That’s what I thought,” he laughs, “figured you’d be going stir crazy by now.”

“So, you decided to come end my boredom?”

“No need to sound so excited,” Pratt rolls his eyes, not appreciating her lackluster response.

“Sorry, I, uh, do appreciate it,” she admits, looking out the windows, cheeks warming at it. It’s embarrassing to say that she is genuinely thankful. Hell she nearly jumped up and ran to the door like a dog when he knocked. Boredom is hell.

“Oh, it’s fine, I was bored too.”

They pull into the police station parking lot and she raises an eyebrow at him as he parks. He’s taken her to work? What on earth is he planning?

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re gonna enjoy this, c’mon.”

She follows him out and around the building to the helipad she noticed before, a black police grade helicopter on it.  He doesn’t hesitate to climb into the pilot's seat, telling her to get in. She listens, climbing into the seat next to him. It looks like a mess of buttons and controls to her, none of them making sense. But Pratt confidently starts turning switches, lights coming to life in front of her.  They’re going for a helicopter ride, holy shit.

“Pffft,” Pratt huffs out a laugh, “we’re not even in the air yet and you’re already grinning.”

“This is okay, right? Like, no one will mind.”

“I’m the only person at the station who can fly, so if they needed it, they’d be calling me anyway. Don’t worry.”

“I’m fine, I just wanted to know I can enjoy this guilt free.”

“And lift off,” Pratt says as he brings the chopper up off of the ground. The station grows smaller and smaller as they ascend up into the air.

“Wow…” Is all as can seem to say at first as the chopper kisses the sky.

They’re surrounded by a bright blue sky and puffy white clouds as Pratt flies across the county. Lush green forests and farms beneath them, mountains along the edges of the county. A top down view of animals running through, specks in their vision. She oohs and awes, unable to help acting like an excited child over the view. They fly along the county, Pratt is kind enough to answer her stupid questions about flying, what buttons and switches mean. She’s certain to a seasoned pilot her naïve question must be frustrating, but he grins with every answer. Before she knows it the sky around them has shifted to an awash of pinks and purples, the sun setting, before a midnight sky takes it place. Brilliant stars twinkling around them, feeling so close, like she could reach out and touch Andromeda.

Once it gets too late, Pratt lands back at the station, her cheeks ache from all the time smiling. He drives her back to the trailer park, the pair in comfortable silence as she hums along to the radio.  Her thoughts drifting off as they are so quick to do. Pratt and her butted heads a bit when they first met, but he’s quickly become her closest friend in the county. Their light-hearted bickering and shenanigans have become her favorite part of her days in Hope County.

He walks with her to her trailer, shoulders brushing occasionally as they move. She turns to look at him when they reach her door. Dahlia clenches and unclenches her hands searching for what she wants to say.

“Thanks, a lot, really.”

“You like flying that much?”

“Not just for that, not to be all mushy and crap, but coming out here, keeping me from going nuts, being my friend. It, uh, means a lot, seriously.”

“Eh,” he scratches at the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes, “just watching out for you, probie.”

“Well, I appreciate it, I, uh, know I’m not the easiest person to get along with.”

“No one in this county is.”

“Good to know I fit in, I guess.”

“Uhh, you’re getting there, once you start stinking like beer all day and have a house full of deer heads, we’ll call it good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she grins, “night.”

“Night.” She waves Pratt off before going back to her trailer to settle in for the night.

Monday is spent showing up to the station just to play with Petunia behind the building; just laying on the ground while the fluffy opossum crawls on her. She scratches along the marsupial’s back as they nuzzle into her neck.

“Aren’t you supposed to be home relaxing or something?” Beau asks and Dahlia shifts her head back to look at him.

“I am relaxing, what are you doing?”

“Well, everyone asked me to go see what that weirdo deputy was doing, so here I am.”

“Oh no, you hear that Petunia,” she looks at her opossum friend, “people think I’m weird.”

“Yeah, talk to the ‘possum, that’ll really show ‘em.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and he just rolls his eyes, leaving her alone for the moment. Pratt and Hudson invite her out to The Spread Eagle once the sun starts to set, but a steady throbbing ache has built in her head, she skipped pain meds. And the idea of the jukebox booming in her skull makes her turn it down for the night, once she’s back to work she’ll treat them to a meal there, she decides on the quiet ride home.

Dahlia wakes up the next day and decides to finally take that hike, wanting to explore some of the mountains and woods that surround the county. The brunt of the trails seem to be within the Whitetail Mountain area up north, the mountains in the Henbane are mostly around that statue and as much as she likes Joseph more than before; the statue is still creepy.

She tucks her sketchpad, pencils, water, and her pain meds in the storage under her motorcycle seat before she drives up to the mountains; the north section of the county is colder, a chill from the air as she rides up. She stops in at an Old Sun Outfitters, buying a little black backpack to carry her stuff in when she hikes.

The woods around her get thicker and thicker as rides further into the mountains, land growing steeper with every minute, civilization sparser and sparser; buildings harder to find, just peeks of wood or cement through trees. The trees clear on her right as a turn of the road leads her to a large parking lot with little hutch and a sign that says, ‘rest area’. The hutch says Valley View Overlook. It’s built at the top of a plateaued piece of land, not as towering as the mountains in the distance, but higher than the meager hills of the valley or river. She parks her motorcycle and packs the bag before taking in the view.

A small navel high fence, she imagines waist high for others, keep animals or children from just running off the side of the mountain. It’s a beautiful sight; she can see why the lot is named after it. She takes a deep breath of fresh mountain air looking out at the soft blue sky that meets the mountains in the horizon; the deep green forests further down. Air so clean and refreshing, but for some reason she finds herself pulling out a cigarette, to fill her lungs with smoke. Too much good needs a bad, she supposes. She watches the white clouds and birds flying through, as she lets smoke settle heavy in her lungs, only parting from the sight when her cigarette threatens to burn her fingers.

She follows along a little beaten trail through the woods, kicking up rocks and crushing grass underfoot as she lets the trees surround her. Grass rustles around where animals sneak through; deer running through, other hikers crossing her path, and hunters packing bucks back home with dogs sniffing along after them.

It doesn’t take long for her to go off the path, just walking in any direction that catches her interest. Deeper and deeper into the woods, following divots and drop offs, walking along the occasional stream of water that passes through the area.  Her feet and head start to ache as hours pass, the cool air no longer able to chill her body as exertion coats her skin in sweat.

A hunting stand, one of many, is within the woods. Gray metal built around a tree with a ladder leading up. It’s empty, but if a hunter really needs it, she’ll move along. She climbs up curling her legs under her on the stand as she pulls off her back pack and red flannel, the sleeves now sweaty after her walk. Dahlia ties it around her waist, feeling the cool air on her skin as she takes a deep breath.

She takes a deep swig of water and one of the pain killers. There’s a crush of grass and she looks up to see a group of deer a short distance from the stand. A fawn and what may be younger deer, with a buck among them. The buck’s fur grayer in color than the richer warmer brown of the others. Dahlia gets out her sketchpad and pencils, balancing them on her knee as she takes the drawing the creatures. A calm energy and flow falls over her as she draws, the only sound the animals rustling within the woods. She’s better at drawing people than animals, she realizes, when she can’t quite get the right slope of the buck’s muzzle, but she doesn’t stress herself over it. No one will ever see her wonky deer. She looks up; the buck has gotten much closer, shuffling near the stand.

Dahlia puts her sketchbook aside, half finished wonky deer abandoned, as she moves to lay on her belly over the edge of the hunter’s stand. She stretches her hand out, his antlers high enough for her fingers to just brush the velvety texture. But that’s not what she’s after, wanting to pet the stags head. Dahlia shifts to a knee and a foot, she forces the fingers of one hand into the grating to keep a solid grip on the stand. She leverages herself to lean further and further out, stretching a hand out and nearly hanging completely off the stand. Her fingers just centimeters away from touching the stag’s head.

The fuzz of fur brushes across her fingers and the soft brown eyes looking up at her go blank; blood spraying from the side of the buck’s head as it’s body goes limp to the ground. She can’t help but jump back and fall on her ass; gasping at the now dead deer in front of the stand, the rest of them have scattered at the sight.

Maybe she should have expected it, being in hunter territory, but the closeness of it still startles her. There’s a heavy thud of boots, steady consistent footfalls crushing branches and grass beneath them. Ginger hair with shaved down sides and an army jacket; Jacob Seed.

This is likely the only time she’ll ever be taller than him, watching him from the stand as he shifts a bright red rifle from his hands to on his back. It seems so vivid and ostentatious compared to his utilitarian style of dress.  There’s a childish urge to jump on his back and scare him. But, they don’t know each other well and he’s a veteran, so she can’t know how he’d react to the sort of thing. Maybe a boo would be okay, just something small?

“You enjoying the show, honey?”

Dahlia jolts, taken aback by the sudden acknowledgment. She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear and chews her lip watching as he starts to gather up the slain deer; then he looks up at her, blue eyes sharp and harsh. All the masculine Seeds have blue eyes and intense stares; but Jacob’s gaze is colder than Joseph’s and more steady than John’s. Something almost predatory to it. 

“I was drawing him,” she says after a moment, looking down at the stag. 

“And I was hunting him.” 

“Still would have appreciated another minute or two,” she says as she grabs her bag, throwing the sketchbook back inside before she jumps off the stand. 

“So, you could flail around and try to pet him for another five minutes.” 

“Hey,” she pouts, she was caught hanging from a hunting stand like the child she is, but, “wait, you saw me?”

He gives a vague grumble of agreeance, more preoccupied with tying up the hooves of his latest hunt to make it easier to carry. 

“And you still shot? You could have shot my hand off.” Has this man never taken a gun safety course, she catches a glimpse of the scope on his rifle, there’s no way he didn’t see how close his shot was to her hand. He chuckles, dry and deep, mocking her. 

“Relax, if I wanted to shoot you, you’d be dead by now.” 

“Wow, that’s not comforting.” 

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, standing up and packing the giant deer over his shoulder, like it’s nothing.  

Dahlia reaches out to touch it, fingers brushing through soft fur, no warmth beneath it. She might as well be petting a rug. Jacob starts to walk off and she doesn’t know why, but she follows him. Hands clasped behind her back and walking heel to toe after him. Maybe it’s just because she’s curious about him. He’s the only one of the Seeds not to take a strange interest in her for whatever reason. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, allowing her to follow along after him. Leaves and grass crush under foot as she follows along behind him, curious as to where he’s going or doing. She’s not sure what she expects, but it’s something to do if nothing else. 

“You got somewhere to be?” 

“Not really, no.” She tries to crane her head around, trying to get a better look at his face to gauge his reaction, but their height difference is too big to truly do so. The man has to be around a foot and a half taller than her; he seems even taller than the sheriff.

“Well, I do, so get out of here.” Her smirk drops, she was hoping to see him get more agitated like the youngest Seed brother, but his voice doesn’t rise. Staying the same steady deep timbre.

“Where are you going?” 

“Nowhere you need to be, sweetheart.”

“The nicknames aren’t really necessary.” She can’t help but say, wrinkling her nose in annoyance, the condescending way he calls her sweetheart and honey make her nauseous.

 “Neither is following me like a lost puppy dog; but here you are.” 

“I’m bored.”

“Not my problem.”

“You killed my only entertainment, so it is now.”

He comes to a sudden stop and Dahlia has to stop herself from running into his back; she doesn’t particularly want deer corpse on her face. He turns to face her; expression still the same stern look he usually carries, and she misses his grin when he was talking to kids at the barbecue.

“Look here, deputy, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and irritating me isn’t a habit you want to form. Get out of here.”

“Oh no,” she rolls her eyes, “I’m really scared.”

“Keep pushing, sweetheart, won’t get you anywhere.”

“God, you’re no fun.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

“Jacob is something wrong,” a voice cuts through their conversation, rough and masculine. And Dahlia see the long-haired man and short haired girl from the barbecue; the ones who shot her dirty looks when she talked back to Jacob.

“Nothing you need to concern yourselves with.”

“What are you doing here?” The woman asks Dahlia directly.

“Standing.”

“Fallon,” Jacob says the woman’s name, stern tone making her posture snap straighter, “I said it’s none of your concern. Let’s go.”

The three of them start to leave down a path; Fallon and the long-haired man have heavy bucks they pack as well. A hunting trip for Jacob and his…friends? Are they friends? That didn’t seem like friendship, but Dahlia is far from an expert on the matter. She offers a goodbye wave; but Fallon just rolls her eyes. Their steady footfalls leaving the deputy behind.

Well, it staved off the boredom for a while she supposes.

Dahlia lets out a huffy sigh, blowing loose strands of hair from her face as she begins back down the path she came. The sun is setting by the time she’s back to the parking lot and climbing on top of her bike.

Her stomach is growling by the time she’s driving down a main road, she sees the sign for The Grill Steak as she reaches the intersection. Dahlia pulls in, letting her stomach guide her actions, as she’s one to do.

It’s a small restaurant packed with groups of people from friends to families; she can feel the heat of the grill radiating through, the smell of her making her stomach growl. She settles into a booth by herself, when she reads through it the menu is full of gamey meat burgers and steaks. No signs of beef or pork; it’s all bison and deer. She wonders if the cook hunts everything himself, it wouldn’t surprise her, given what she’s seen of the county. He can hear the cook yelling something she can’t understand from the kitchen. Dahlia settles on ordering a cola and a deer burger; thinking about the hunted stag she saw Jacob kill.  

As she waits on her food, the chatter of a group catches her ear. They’re not from Hope County; the different cadences of how they speak mingled with fancy latin technical terms tells her as much. Trying to be discreet; she glances at them over her shoulder. A group of four; two women and two men all around the same age. Dahlia’s not the brightest bulb in the pack by her own admission, but when she hears the words corvids and lupine, she realizes they’re talking about animals. It doesn’t shock her, given the abundance of wildlife in the county, certainly people would come to research them. 

The door to the restaurant swings open and a man comes walking in, shoulders back and footfalls confident. It reminds her clearly of Jacob, the walk of a soldier, though this man isn’t quite as intimidating a figure. Older than Dahlia, though most people are, with a full dark beard and long scraggly dark hair. He doesn’t bother to take a seat at a booth or look at a menu, only giving a single wave to the cook in the back as he makes a beeline to the group. Dahlia shifts a little further down into her booth, not that anyone could truly tell she’s eavesdropping, but it gives a little more secrecy to it. 

 “You the conservationists?” 

 “Yeah, we’re studying the wildlife here… And you are?” 

“Eli, not here to ‘cause trouble or anything like that, just wanted to give some friendly advice.” 

“Friendly advice?” 

“You need to watch yourselves out in those woods.”

“Pffft.” 

“We’re well aware of how dangerous the wildlife out here can be. You-” 

“No, you aren’t. There’s wolves-”

“And bears and mountain lions, oh my,” one of them jokes, “look, we know what we’re doing.” 

“You’re not listening, they’re not regular wolves. They’ve been trained to kill and hunt people down on sight. Even if you avoid ‘em, you get on the cult’s bad side and they’ll send ‘em after you. You gotta be careful out here.” 

“Okay, sure,” the eyeroll is nearly audible, “we’ll keep an eye out for killer cult wolves, don’t worry.” 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, alright.” 

The man, Eli walks away, and Dahlia considers stopping him. Admitting her nosiness and ask him some of the million questions going through her mind. Surely by cult, he means Eden’s Gate, right? Dahlia can’t imagine who else he could mean. They’re small and close knit, but they’re not a cult, right? Cults imply something more out there or intense; they’re just a little Christian church. Joseph may have his own book, but they still follow Christian ideas of sins and scripture.

And wolves? How could they possibly be training wolves? It’s all so ridiculous and asinine, making gears spin and churn in her head until they overheat, but it was said with such conviction. By the time she brings herself to make a noise, Eli has already left, and it’s probably for the best. It’s too crazy to be true. Maybe he’s a tinfoil hat wearing type of guy, a conspiracy theorist like the Zip guy who leaves a newsletter in every damn corner of the county, screaming about chemtrails and baby farms.

She fills her stomach, deciding to leave that as it is, finally returning to her trailer late that night. A restless night of sleep with images of wolves and deer creeping around through her brain, nothing concrete enough to latch onto, but enough to unsettle.

A boring morning leads into a boring afternoon, time blurring before the sun has set and Dahlia’s finding herself pulling up to The Spread Eagle to catch her coworkers after their shift. She’s popped enough pain killers that the throb of music and noise is welcomed instead of irritating. A smile already gracing her lips when she catches Pratt and Hudson shooting the shit in the bar’s lowlight. As she sneaks up closer to them, their conversation starts to be audible over the tunes playing through the bar.

“I bet you break before then,” Hudson says, a teasing grin directed at Pratt.

“Hey, it’s only six months.”

“Please, you’re weak and you know it.”

“How much you wanna bet?”

Dahlia strikes, throwing her arms over Pratt’s shoulders, effectively hugging him from behind and leaning her weight into him. He’s warm and Dahlia can’t fight the impulse to squeeze him a little tighter. She breathes in the faint smell of coffee and cologne that still cling to him; comforting after so much time spent around him.

“Jesus fuck, when’d you get here?” Pratt blusters and at this close of a range Dahlia can see his cheeks pinkening under the scruff of his beard. Does this bother him?

“Right now.”

“You decided to come hang out again?” Hudson asks, grinning at the flustered Pratt.

“Mmhmm,” Dahlia hums into Pratt’s shoulder, pressing her face into him, “bored.”

“Get off me,” he grumbles and reaches back to swat at her hip.

“Ugh, buzzkill,” she bitches as she detaches from Pratt and climbs onto a bar stool, “so what the hell are you guys making bets about?”

Pratt coughs, trying to dislodge something from his throat, and Hudson laughs, “yeah, Pratt why don’t you tell her about our bet?”

“Don’t worry about it, Rook.”

“We still need to set an amount.”

“Fifty,” Pratt suggests and Dahlia wants to know even more what the hell they’re making bets about.

“Mmm, hundred.”

“Fine, if you’re comfortable losing that much.”

“Anyone gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“Nope.”

“Well, that’s gonna drive me crazy now, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and orders food, stuffing her face as she listens to her coworkers fill her in on anything of interest she’s missed during her off time. It’s not much, as usual, the workload in Hope County is pretty low stakes. Hunting violations, speeding tickets, and the like. Seems like her assault is about the most interesting case in a while. Dahlia’s tempted to ask if they know anything about wolf attacks but bites her tongue before she does. Hope County is filled with wildlife, wolf attacks have no doubt occurred to some degree and if she mentions the idea of trained cult wolves, they might start to think she’s buying into the conspiracy shit.

“Stop,” Pratt says suddenly, putting hand on Dahlia’s knee, “you’re shaking the whole damn bar.”

Her leg she realizes has been bouncing the whole time, the hike helped, workouts help, but she’s still breaming with pent up energy. There’s a rustle of movement and Dahlia is drawn to the open floor near the jukebox, she’s seen a few people dance here and there, a couple now and again swaying to softer tunes while she’s been here. But, it’s more crowded tonight, people laughing and dancing together.

“People are dancing,” she states the obvious.

“It’s ladies’ night, women drink free, so everyone’s extra, uh, energetic tonight,” Hudson tells her.

An upbeat song starts and Dahlia’s up in the next breath, she needs to move, burn off excess energy. And while her favorite club in Lake Charles isn’t exactly available to her anymore, she’ll jump at the chance to lose herself in a song.

You should be wilder, you're no fun at all.

Dahlia’s singing along as she sways and shifts through the crowd, body moving instinctually to the beat. There’s a woman about Dahlia’s age, long blonde hair and brown eyes, dancing as well and the deputy finds herself gravitating towards her.

Yeah, thanks for the input.

Thanks for the call.

She asks low into the woman’s ear, so she can be heard over the music, if she can dance with her. The response is a smile, lighting up the girl’s face, a nod of her head and then she’s pulling Dahlia in by the hips.

With dull knives and white hands

The blood of a stone

Cold to the touch, right

Right down to the bone

And then she loses herself in it. In the music that fills the bar, the feeling of a stranger touching her, the slide of her feet as she moves,  the way hips knock together, the scratch in her throat as she sings lyrics in the woman’s ear, their grins as they laugh and bump noses together. It’s fun and it’s silly, a reason to move and forget life for a moment.

Cause you give me the electric twist and it kicks and it kicks like a pony.

And true, you might run away with it, it's a risk it's a risk yeah.

Because it kicks yeah.

It really kicks yeah.

Dahlia spins the woman with a laugh, before pulling the woman close against her again, wide smiles and bright eyes as their foreheads touch. There’s sweat sticking to their skin as the song winds down. Panted breaths ghosting over each other’s faces as they come down from exertion.

And the touch of your lips it's a shock not a kiss

It's electric twist, it's electric twist

“How much I gotta pay to see you kiss?!” A loud voice booms out, making Dahlia and her dance partner of the night separate. There’s a man, couldn’t be older than his mid twenties, sitting at the bar with his legs sprawled open drinking a beer at the table between the bar and the dance area. His eyes linger and look over both women’s bodies

“Can I help you?” Dahlia asks and furrows her brows, glowering at the man as she draws closer.

“Oh just enjoying the show, sweetheart.”

“Not your sweetheart and I’m not a damn show.”

“Pfff, don’t get your panties in a twist,” he turns back to his table and rolls his eyes, as if Dahlia’s the problem, “fucking dykes.”

The junior deputy grits her teeth and she sees from her peripheral the woman rubbing the back of her neck, letting her bangs fall into her face looking like she’d rather disappear.

“The fuck did you call us?” She can’t stop herself from speaking, barely managing to reign her anger in enough not do something worse.

“You heard me.”

“Fuck you!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Pratt’s voice cuts through as the man starts to turn to retort, the warmth of her coworker’s hand wraps around the clenched fist she didn’t realize she had raised.

“Is something wrong?” Mary May calls out, starting to walk out from behind the bar.

“Everything’s fine,” Pratt responds before Dahlia can say anything and when she starts to speak, he looks at her to whisper, “you’re barely three weeks into your job, you really wanna be getting into bar fights?”

“He ca-”

“I heard what he said, Rook, but it ain’t worth your job.”

“You’re right,” she gnaws on her lip and looks down on the ground, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I get it, I just don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

“I need some fresh air.”

Dahlia leaves The Spread Eagle, noticing the woman she danced with has already vanished, unwilling to deal with the bullshit. A cool breezes ghosts over her sweaty skin as she sits down on the porch steps at the front of the bar; running her hands through her hair as she fights to ease her nerves. She digs a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket

There’s a crush of footsteps as she lights one, bringing it to her lips, shiny black leather boots entering her vision.

“Dep-yoo-tee.”

“You Seeds can just smell when I’m sad, can’t you?” She teases looking up to see John, the neon bar sign setting his face aglow in the night as he chuckles at her.

“Not my intention, but if you’re in need of a talk, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“You weren’t coming out here to harass Mary May again, were you?”

“Deputy,” he puts his hand to his chest cartoonishly dramatic in his hurt, “h-harassment? That’s ridiculous. am I not allowed to visit with Ms. Fairgrave and just discuss our difference of opinions.”

His voice is ramping up in pitch as he defends himself and Dahlia can’t help but smile, appreciating the distraction from her own troubles.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Mary May would have a different of opinion about that one. We still gotta talk about members stealing booze.”

“Our members would do no such thing; and I assure you, if there’s any harassment here, we’re the victims. We’ve been insulted, had our sermons interrupted, our practices mocked, Mary May herself once showed up our church simply to cause trouble.”

“Okay, okay, it’s a two-way street, I get it. Sit, we can chat for a bit,” she pats the section of porch step beside her and reluctantly after a beat of silence, he sits down, “so, Mary May caused trouble for you guys?”

“Yes, yes, she has and she’s not the only one; the people of this county have persecuted me and my family since we’ve been here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, no one should mistreat you that way,” she looks him in the eye as she speaks, “and if it ever happens again, I want you to call down to the station, ask for me, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Well, it’s certainly nice to know you’re on our side.”

“Ah, ah, I’m on everyone’s side. Mary May is owed the same respect as you and your family; and if you cause issues for her, I won’t hesitate to intervene for her sake as well. I’m here to keep everyone safe. Got to treat everyone like you wanna be treated, the whole spiel.”

“I know you’re not preaching biblical principles to me, dep-yoo-tee.”

“Not biblical, just a little maturity.”

“Are you implying I’m immature.“

“You’re a grown man spatting with a woman ten or more years younger than you; throwing a tantrum and pointing fingers when you’re told to behave.”

“First of all, I’m not that old,” Dahlia raises an eyebrow at him, “don’t look at me like that, I’m 32. Secondly, I am not a child. Mary May has-“

“And if she does something again, now that I’m here, let me know and I will help. But her actions don’t justify yours.”

“Fine, I’ll be sure to hold you to that promise, then.”

“I mean it’s less a promise and more so doing my job, but alright.”

She breathes out a plume of smoke, making sure to aim away from John’s face, his blue eyes track the movement and the nicotine fumes that escape into the air. An ex-smoker, she deems as she watches him staring at her lips and the cigarette between her fingers.

“You want a smoke?” She asks, offering her pack of cigarettes.

“Smoking is forbidden in Eden’s Gate.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Tattooed fingers pick out a cigarette and she lights it for him with a grin, watching him take a deep inhale and blowing out the smoke that fills his lungs. The soft rise of his chest and the gray clouds that billow out from parted lips. She notices for the first time the freckles on his neck and chest, shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose them. There’s thin fresh scratches along his hands and forearms, too superficial and fresh to match the deeper worn in scars, they look like cat scratches. And yeah, he seems like a cat guy.

“So, now that you’ve berated and tempted me, deputy,” he speaks after an exhale of smoke, “why were you out here pouting?”

“BREH!” She plops her back down on the porch with a vague animal long groan and throws her arms over her eyes, cigarette still between two fingers, must he remind of her own issues.

“Well that certainly wasn’t immature or dramatic.”

And she laughs, because he’s right, she can preach maturity all she wants to him. But, she’s still a brat herself. She’d justify herself with their massive age difference, because no way he’s thirty-two, but that feels flimsy at best. They’re both just two temper tantrum throwing children, hell they’re even both fibbing about their ages. Though, she suspects his own much more severe than the few months she adds to her own.

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“You know,” he lays back on the porch, matching her position, “I take the confessions for our church, if there’s anything you need to get off your chest, I’m the man to talk to.”

“Not much to say; guy called me a slur, I nearly throttled him.”

“Someone else’s actions don’t justify your own,” he parrots her words back to her.

“Yeah, someday I’ll follow my own advice.”

“Has that happened before?”

The gears in her brain churn, she’s been called many a thing, but her sexuality has been one of the less insulted facets of who she is.

Her stepfather, as religious as he was, was adamant on his hatred of gay people. But her own disinterest in exploring her sexuality or romance saved her from his scorn in that area, his focus more on the other various things he found deplorable about her.

Her mother’s side is Ashkenazi Jewish, and Dahlia remembers the few people of her stepfather’s church who despite her mother converting were disgusted their preacher would marry a Jewish woman. A handful leaving the church, a few sticking by just to call Dahlia and her mother slurs when their backs were turned.

The nightclub she favored in Louisiana was considered a gay bar, though not exclusive to LGBT folks. Women dancing with women, men dancing with men, men and women dancing; and a healthy amount of people who didn’t quite fit either label. Only one-night sticks out, a car speeding past the line outside the bar just to scream a slur out the window.  

Maybe what bothered her most was the boldness. This wasn’t someone whispering when they thought Dahlia couldn’t hear, and this wasn’t a man just screaming out at the public as he speeds away. Just a man emboldened and willing to hurt her in front of a bar filled with people.

“We’re blocking the door.”Everything else died on her lips; unable to spill her guts.

“And we weren’t while you were lecturing me?”

Her phone buzzes in her jacket as she brings her cigarette back into her mouth, unwilling to justify her evasiveness to a man she barely knows, she answers a number she doesn’t know at all.

“Hello?” She says around her smoke.

“H-hello, is this a deputy?” A soft broken voice, she remembers from the diner,  asks her and Dahlia sits up, tension pricking at the back of her neck.

“That’s me, Cassie?”

“You remember me…”

“What’s going on, are you okay?”

“Yeah, uh, I…” a beat of silence and a choked sob comes next, “no, I’m sorry, I’m, I’m not okay, I-“

“Where are you?” Dahlia’s on her feet, heartbeat in her throat as she waves off John’s furrowed brows and concern, running to her bike.

“I’m at the diner. I didn’t know where else to go…”

“I’m headed your way now, Cassie, are you safe?”

“I…I don’t know…I…”

Her voice breaks out into sobs again as Dahlia starts her engine, slams on her helmet, and switches her phone to the speaker in her helmet. The girl’s cries echoing around her as her wheels kick gravel across the parking lot, speeding out of Falls End.

Survey #338

“i can’t decide if you’re wearing me out, or wearing me well”

Are you a fan of techno? I've gotten more into it lately, actually. I've never minded it. Who’s your favorite horror movie villain/monster? Pyramid Head, though he's called Red Pyramid Thing in the movies. Do you have a favorite muscle car? Nah. I'm not big into cars. What would be a total deal-breaker for you, relationship-wise? You so much as lift your hand at me, bye, motherfucker. Would you consider yourself to be accepting of others? Yes, but not as much as I used to be. There are certain opinions I just don't tolerate in people anymore; I feel like by staying associated with people whose views invalidate or in any way harm others (racism, homophobia, transphobia, etc.), you're on the side of evil as well, even if indirectly. However, I genuinely do feel I have a wide range of viewpoints I'm willing to accept in others, even if I don't agree with them. Are you flirtatious? No. I think I'm only capable of flirting with someone I'm already with and very comfortable around. I'd feel way too shy and awkward otherwise. Have you ever just felt "drawn" to someone, but you didn’t know why? "Didn't know why," no. I've felt drawn to people with good reason, like if I was romantically interested in them. Is there anyone you currently want to reach out to? There's a number, honestly. Especially with the aid of therapy, I'm being motivated to strengthen bonds with old friends and/or acquaintances via Facebook. Freddy or Jason? I think Jason is scarier. Freddy tends to come across as cheesy for me. Have stickers or gems on your cell phone? Nah. Ever teased your hair? Bitch I damn well tried in high school because I wanted the ~ l e g i t ~ emo hair, but mine was just too heavy to hold, at least with the hairspray my sister had. Have any friends with benefits? Nah, that's never been my thing. Ever lost of bunch of valuable information? Ummm I don't believe so. I've lost massive RP posts before, but I can't really call those "valuable information." What drinks or food make you hyper? None, really. Most expensive thing you ever bought? With my own money, my snake. She's a champagne morph ball python. What type of toothpaste do you use? Crest. How much time to spend putting on makeup daily? Zero. When listening to a song, what do you listen for (lyrics, bass, beat, ect)? The beat, more than anything else. What is the color of your toothbrush? It's a white electric one. What is your favorite color(s) of eye-makeup? Black. Just black. Are you sexually active? I'm not. Do you have sensitive skin? Very. Are you attracted to several guys atm? I'm actually not attracted to any guys in my personal life atm. How many toilets are in your house? Two. Do you have an older sister? Excluding the one I don't know, I have three older sisters. Favorite song by Owl City? Probably "Hot Air Balloon," but I don't know many at all. What color is your mum’s car? White. Do you truly understand the (LDS) Mormon religion? I don't know what "LDS" means, but as my former best friend developed into a Mormon, I learned some stuff from her in her self-discovery. I don't remember a lot of it, not that I knew all that much in the first place. Where do you keep your kitty litter box? Ugh, Mom's unmovable about it being in my fucking room for some reason. And we have an extra goddamn room no one uses yet. Roman's shit STINKS, like we think something might actually be wrong, but nope, it has to stay in here. e_e It would literally inconvenience nobody if we moved it in the spare room. Are you a lighter complexion than your father? MUCH lighter. He's very tan. Do you like apricots? No. Solid soap bar or liquid body wash? 100% body wash. Bar soap slips so easily, and as someone who lives with another person, I'm not rubbing my body with the same bar my mother uses, no offense to her. Sharing it's just gross. Where do you live (country or state)? Shitty 'ole North Carolina. Do you use plastic, wooden, or wire hangers? I think we have a mix of them, actually. What is your favorite shade of yellow? I only like pastel yellow. Otherwise, it's one of my least favorite colors. Are there any shades of blue that you don’t like? If so, which ones? Ehhh not really. What is something you want to accomplish before you turn 30? God, can I please have a stable career by then. Who has the best decorated house in your town? I don't know. We live in a cul de sac community thing where it's just houses next to houses, so there's a lot to choose from. I don't pay attention to them. What is your favorite part of Halloween? The decorations. Do you feel a connection to the moon? "As above, so below," as the saying goes. What does your heart long for? Peace and contentness with myself. Did you decorate a pumpkin this year? Last year, I didn't. I do want to this year, though, if I can just think of a really good idea. I have to be motivated. What are some fall activities you would do with your kids? I'm not having kids, but I'll follow along, hypothetically. With how much joy Halloween brought me as a kid, I'd want to do SO much as a family with them. Homemade decorations, carving or painting pumpkins together, and hell yeah I'd be taking them trick-or-treating once I felt they were ready and they wanted to. I'd be one of those parents that probably spends too much on whatever costumes they want, haha... Oh, and then besides Halloween, I'd certainly rake leaf piles together for them to jump and play in. This question has brought to mind like ONE thing I could enjoy as a parent, haha. Have you ever seen a fox? I have; besides in a zoo setting, I've seen one or two in the wild run out of sight, and I also found one poor fellow as roadkill that had been disemboweled by I'm assuming vultures. With my whole roadkill photography thing, I literally almost kneeled into a strand of intestines I didn't see at first. :x What color are the squirrels where you live? We only have brown ones. Is there anything about Halloween you find offensive? lol no What do the trees look like where you live? Lots, and lots, and LOTS of pine trees... There are others, but I'm not well-informed on tree species and such. Oh, then of course there are dogwoods (our "state tree"), which are unmistakable because they smell like fucking manure. What is your dream vacation? Maybe the mountains on the western side of NC during the fall... ugh, that would be breathtaking. We actually have an abandoned The Wizard of Oz-themed park around there that allows tours at certain times of the year, and I'd love to visit and photograph there. As well, western NC has the zoo, which would be spectacular to visit with autumn weather and, once again, load up on photos. Did you like field trips when you were a kid? I LOVED field trips. Do you find museums boring or interesting? Very interesting! Would you ever wear a shirt with your country’s flag on it? No. I'm not patriotic enough at all for that. What’s a medicine that makes you sleepy? Historically, larger doses of Klonopin can knock me the fuck out. Do you like bath bombs? Never used one, because I don't do baths. Who are your favorite small YouTubers? I'm going to guesstimate you mean less than 1M subs as "small," because I really don't know what you consider to fit that description. I watch a lot of people with less than 1M, so it's hard to say, but lately it's probably been a let's player John Wolfe. He's really funny. Then there's some tarantula YouTubers, along with the animal educator Emzotic... and really just many others. I think most of the people I watch actually have sub-1M, but more than 500k. Who are your favorite big YouTubers? Markiplier is absolutely, positively #1. I also really enjoy Snake Discovery, GameGrumps, Jeffree Star (don't judge me ok, he's a fuckin hoot), and while I haven't watched them in years, Good Mythical Morning will ALWAYS be deeply, deeeeply embedded in my heart. What was your favorite girl group when you were growing up? Ummm probably the Spice Girls? Have you ever used an outhouse? Ugh, yes, at old childhood sports games. What was the last good cause you donated towards? When I cut off like 8+ inches of hair to accomplish the style I have now, I donated it to Children With Hair Loss. My hair has always been mega-thick and healthy, so why in the world waste it? One of my most cherished items is the certificate I got in return many months later that my donation had been used. Have any of your exes gotten married or had kids since your breakup? I haven't had contact with Juan in many years, don't know what Tyler's up to either, and I haven't spoken to Jason since 2017, so. I'm very doubtful he's married or has kids yet, though, just knowing him and how "I need to be fully prepared for this" he is with big life stuff like that. Does it bother you when people get super emotional? Not at all. I'll do my all to comfort them. Have you ever worked in a restaurant? No. Do you get a lot of thunderstorms where you live? Depends on the time of year. Summertime? Brief but super intense thunderstorms every late afternoon. What was the last drive-thru you went through? Taco Bell w/ Mom. Do you know anyone who claims they can see/feel spirits or other supernatural ‘things?’ No. Do either of your parents have a mental illness? My mom has depression, and Mom is also convinced Dad has either depression masked as anger and/or bipolarity, but following the divorce, I don't see it in him at all. He's never seen a doctor in that field to be diagnosed with any mental illness. What fun things are there to do where you live? Jackshit. Do you know anyone with a really poorly-trained dog? Mother of fucking god, yes. My little sister lives with her best friend, and said friend has a colossal black lab named Hudson that is absolutely uncontrollable because she neglects the shit out of him. Won't listen to you even if it saved his life. He jumps on you, barks endlessly, and if he escapes the house? Good fucking luck getting him inside. She has absolutely no right to own a dog with how shitty of an owner she honestly is. When you were growing up, did your family rent or own your home? They owned it. The idiots who were moving in after us accidentally burnt the place to a fucking crisp, and my parents were SO not happy to lose that house because people were dumb enough to place boxes atop the goddamn stove. Do you do meal-prepping? No. Do you know anyone who got preggo less than a year into their relationship? Multiple people, not that that's my business. What did you dream about last night? I don't remember it clearly, other than I was with Jason and his mother was also present. What's the biggest age difference you've ever had in a relationship? That would have been with Juan, but I don't remember exactly how old he was. I just know I was a freshman and him a senior that got held back a year or so in HS. If you could save one animal from ever becoming extinct, what animal would you pick? Probably bees, given how vital they are. Name the coolest thing about one of your grandparents. My maternal grandmother worked at Disney World. I can't remember what her position was, though. Do you ever eat peanut butter straight from the jar? If I want a healthy snack, sometimes I'll have a scoop. Do you prefer your clothes loose or close fitting? They need to be loose. Favorite thing you’ve ever painted? This big painting of meerkats grooming on burlap I did in high school. Do you always wear a bra? I question the self-love of anyone who can sleep with a bra on. ;__; Do you normally finish one book before starting another? Oh yes, I can't read more than one at a time. Do you prefer reading books, comic books, manga/graphic novels, magazines, or the newspaper? The normal book. Do you know how to play chess? I don't. Are you watching anything? No, but I do have Manson's "Third Day of a Seven Day Binge" on in another tab. What is your blood type? A-. Has anyone ever borrowed something from you and never returned it? Yes. Do you twitch when you're falling asleep? Dude, I more than "twitch." I can just suddenly spaz out and look like I'm seizing for a moment. Another side effect of my nightmare suppressant medication. Are any of your pets “overweight”? No. Has anyone ever bought you a ring? My mom has bought me a few, and Jason gave me one for one of our anniversaries. Where was the last place you took a bath/shower, other than your own house? My sister's place. What first attracted you to the last person you kissed? Just how unique and happy that way she is. And her pretty much undying loyalty. Has someone ever taken a pic of you while you were making out with someone? No, considering I wouldn't go that far with someone unless we were alone. Had a crush on someone you thought shared your sexuality, turns out didn’t? Yes. What’s your favorite color to wear? Black. Does it gross you out if a guy has hair on his chest? I personally don't find an excess of it attractive, but it doesn't "gross me out." If they bathe themselves just like everyone else, why should it? Do you think sexuality is a choice or not? It is absolutely not a choice. If it was, I'd assume most people would choose to be straight, given phobias, hatecrimes, etc... I could write an essay on this. Do you like industrial piercings? Yeah. Do you think stretched ears are disgusting? "Disgusting" is, once again, the wrong word. Gauges don't really gross me out - hell, I want tiny ones -, but they can reach a size that, to me, is not visually appealing. Did you watch animated Barbie movies when you were little? I do remember loving Princess and the Pauper as well as the Rapunzel one; my sister was addicted to them. Oh yeah! Then there was the Swan Lake one that she adored, too. We usually watched movies together. Do you like fruit in your cereal? Big No. Do you like raw vegetables? Ugh, no. Do you listen to A Day to Remember? I do! They're on my list of faves. Do you like funnel cake? I actually don't. Have you ever been with someone while they were getting a tattoo? Yuh.

Ok but literally all the cyberpunk oc questions? LETS GO CHOOM!!! -thosetwistedtales

Bet you didn’t think I’d actually do it >:3 Okay well I technically didn’t, I did skip some of them cause I couldn’t think of anything, I’d already answered it, or the answer was just “no”.

Without further ado I present, All The Questions about Tess, answered under the cut!

— BASICS

full name: Tess Valere

birthday: She has no idea, and for most of her life she didn’t even know birthdays were a thing

gender and pronouns: Female, she/her

nicknames or aliases: V (obviously), her surrogate brother called her Tessa

sexuality: a big ol bisexual

ethnicity: a big ol white girl

affiliations [corporation/gang/themselves/etc]: she grew up on the streets of Heywood, so certain Valentinos would help her out now and again. She’s nowhere near loyal to them, but she’ll try to avoid killing them during jobs

what languages do they speak?: English, conversational Spanish, and she knows a handful of Japanese words

— PERSONALITY

alignment: Chaotic Good, but she dabbles in Chaotic Neutral

color(s) you associate with them: cyan and black and after Johnny comes into her life, red

theme song: Unbreakable by Fireflight

what heavenly virtue would you assign them? Humility

what deadly sin would you assign them? Wrath

what is their biggest strength? Sheer fucking perseverence, mostly fueled by spite

what is their biggest fear? Losing the people she loves, because throughout her life those have been few and far between and she’s lost a good number of them

what is their biggest weakness? Again, the people she loves

are they confident in their abilities? Oh you bet your ass she is, so confident that she stormed Arasaka Tower with nothing but her revolver and her cyberdeck

what is their opinion on cybernetics? They’re a necessary evil. Her brother dealt with cyberpsychosis so in a way she resents cybernetics, but she also knows that you won’t get far as a merc in Night City without a few implants

do they have a good sense of humor? Yes, very dry and sarcastic

how do they cry? When she cries it’s either from rage or panic, very little in between

how do they laugh? Quite subdued, usually the most you’ll get out of her is a hearty chuckle. Very rarely does she go into a full laughing fit

do they smoke? She started smoking after Johnny popped up in her head cause she felt bad for his situation (after she stopped hating him anyway) and figured she could give him this one thing. And now she smokes like a chimney.

do they drink? She’s been dealing with alcohol dependence and borderline alcoholism for half of her life

what kind of drunk are they? As she drinks more it progresses from pretty chill, then VERY affectionate, and then Fightey

do they take any drugs? She knows how she is with alcohol so she avoids drugs like the plague

— COMBAT

preferred weapon: For close/mid-range, a nice beefy revolver (Overture) or Johnny’s Malorian. Long range, a sniper rifle.

combat style [stealth/melee/brute force/etc] Depending on the environment, it’s either stealth with a silenced pistol and lots of quickhacks, a John Wick style headshots-galore shootout, or sniping from a distance

primary stats [ex: intellect] Intelligence and Reflexes

biggest weakness in combat: She sometimes forgets to watch her back, and tends to ignore injuries and see the fight through when retreating would probably be the best course of action

threaten or charm? Depends on the target, she’s great at both

lethal or non-lethal? For corpos, the more malicious gangs (Tygers, Animals, 6th Street), or anyone who has hurt innocents, full lethal. If she’s just infiltrating a warehouse full of workers, non-lethal

leave quietly or send a message? She sends a message WHILE leaving quietly

strategy or improvise? Improvise

— APPEARANCE

hair style and color [is it natural? do they change it a lot?] She has synthhair so she can change the style and color at will (I have no idea if that’s how it actually works but I say it is) but she usually sticks to come kind of short sideshave/undercut in some shade of blue.

eye color: Natural eye color is green, but she usually has black scleras with a red circle

height: I had her at 5’8 until yesterday when I realized ya know what, I want a tall girl. So she’s 6 feet.

describe their body type: Skinny, small tiddies, but still fairly curvy

describe their style: Dark colors, leather jackets, lots of boots (also Johnny’s tank top and aviators)

do they wear makeup? Very smudgey eyeliner. Her upper lip is tattooed black and she usually leaves the bottom one bare

tattoos? any significant ones? Lots of tattoos that I haven’t figured out yet, except fir a modified version of the Valentinos neck tattoo, the V being to honor her brother Ven (she took on the name V to honor him too)

scars? Random ones here and there from random gunshots, stabbings, and other work-related injuries

piercings? A bunch that I can’t remember off the top of my head

cybernetics? Gorilla arms, the charge jump ankle ones, eventually she gets synth lungs as a preventative measure cause of the whole smoking thing

— FAVORITES

favorite place in night city: The streets of Heywood because they’re home to her, despite all the awful memories growing up. After Johnny comes along, she starts to like high places, and she loves to hang out on the patio outside Kerry’s house

favorite tv show and/or movie: She loves horror movies, except ghost one cause she doesn’t believe in ghosts so she just finds them dumb

favorite vehicle. do they prefer cars or motorcycles? Vastly prefers motorcycles, she hasn’t really driven a car much since she was a teenager. Her favorite is Jackie’s Arch.

favorite food: She sees food solely as a source of fuel, she will eat whatever is easiest

favorite drink: Tequila

favorite song: Black Dog :3

favorite type of weather: She LOVES the rain (but the water kind, not the acid kind)

favorite radio station: Vexelstrom, and then Morro Rock cause Samurai :3

favorite pastime: Working out, shooting ranges, Jackie and Vik got her into occasional boxing

— RELATIONSHIPS

what are their parents like? what kind of relationship do they have with your character? She had no memory of her parents and assumes they’re both dead

do they have any other family members? what kind of relationship do they have? She has a “brother”, who she knew only as Vendetta (or V). He found her on the streets and took her in when she was 10, and raised her from then on until he “died” 12 years later. Their relationship was great, despite the fact that he was not a very nice person to everyone else but her. 

who is their closest friend? Of course Jackie, and then Kerry (and Johnny ofc)

who are their other friends if they have them? Nope! :D

what are their exes like? any significant ones? She’s never really had a serious relationship, mostly just flings and acquaintances-with-benefits

are they in a relationship? with who and how is it going? Johnny! And it’s uh. Well, ya know.

who are their enemies? She has a passionate hatred for whichever corpo makes cyberpsychosis medication, and for Max Tac cause she sees them as responsible for the loss of her brother. And of course Arasaka.

have they ever lost anyone important to them? Her brother, Jackie, Johnny

would they betray their own morals for their loved ones? Abso-fucking-lutely

have they ever sacrificed something for someone they care about? if so, what? In one of my two canons for her, she gives Johnny her body

— BACKGROUND

where did they grow up in night city? if not from night city, where are they from? The streets of Heywood, then in a shitty apartment in Heywood

how would you describe their childhood? Miserable

were they well-off, poor or somewhere in between when growing up? After Ven took her in, they did have an apartment but because he needed monthly baloperidol (cyberpsycho meds) injections, they were quite poor

what kind of education did they receive? The only real education she ever got was “how to shoot a gun”

what is the biggest lesson they learned growing up? Everything and everyone in the world is going to try its best to destroy you. Destroy it first.

what is their happiest memory? A few weeks after Ven took her in and and it finally hit her, this was real, she had a home, someone that cared for her, and she never had to go hungry again,

what is their most painful memory? Watching her brother, in the middle of a psychotic break, being gunned down. After that it would be saying goodbye to Johnny (in the canon where that happens)

have they kept any meaningful mementos from their past? One of the revolvers she owns was given to her by her brother, and all of her piercings and a couple of her tattoos were done by him so they’re mementos, in a way

is there anything they would change about their past? She would do anything to save her brother.

“John Doe,” Queen/Bohemian Rhapsody Fan Fiction--Poly!Queen Week Day One

Summary: Intrigued by a lonely patient, Nurse John sets out to help him.  

Rating T: For some disturbing themes and imagery

Words: 2964

Pairing: John Deacon/Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor

TW: for suicide attempt mention

Also on Ao3 

-0-0-0-

"How is he today?"

John took the chart from the nightshift nurse and thumbed through the last few hours of data. He was tall and trim in his white uniform, with long wavy brown hair and green almost grey eyes. The words on the page confirmed what his co-worker would say next.

"No change. Won't eat, barely speaks.”  The other nurse shrugged and shook her head. Her eyes were ringed and bloodshot in the harsh fluorescent light. "I'm going home," she said tiredly, turning for the elevator. She waited there, rubbing her neck and shoulders until the elevator settled on the floor and she stepped inside.

The psychiatric ward at one of London’s busiest hospitals was not the easiest place to work, but John liked it. His last assignment, Labor and Delivery, was not all that different from what he did now. When you've had a (thankfully) empty bedpan thrown at your head by a spitting, foaming, mother-to-be in the throes of labor pains, a few death wishes and a couple of personality disorders seem to pale in comparison.

John perused John Doe’s file a bit further. No calls. No visitors. It had been two days since his admittance.  He was brought in on a suicide attempt, but that was all he knew.

He knocked experimentally at the door and waited. Nothing. While he didn't have to knock, he often found that it made patients feel more at ease.

“May I come in?" Silence answered, so he eased the door open anyway. His shoes squeaked on the polished floor, abrupt and vulgar in the empty room. It was cavernous within, and quiet. A muted television flashed garish images over the hump of covers in the bed, bathing him in strobing, artificial light.  The man lay on his side facing the wall and did not move. Aside from the patient, there was no other evidence that anyone had been there. No coat over a chair, no stale cup of coffee, no wilting daisies. It was as stark as a tomb.

"Well," John said good-naturedly, "I see you’ve slept some. That's good." When he made no effort to acknowledge him, John crossed and turned on the light over the bed. "But you still haven't eaten," he continued to his captive audience, "we're going to have to do something to change that today, okay?"

The man squinted a bit at the light's assault, raising his arm to shield his eyes. A thick white bandage around his wrist and halfway up his arm bloomed a crimson Rorschach at the sudden movement. It did not go unnoticed. "Let me get that changed for you," John remarked calmly, and set to work.

John performed his ministrations in silence. The man remained mute and limp, allowing him to move and dress his arm with no resistance. If tending the deep slashes in the man's wrist caused him any pain at all, he gave no indication. The striking man stared purposefully at the ceiling, a dispassionate mask firmly in place, refusing to look at the nurse.

John finished his other duties and recorded the data. "Ok, that'll do it then," he said pleasantly. He was careful to not be overtly cheery. "Is there anything you need?"  John waited in the silence.  “You wanna tell me your name?  Would make this a whole lot easier.” 

A curious shadow seemed to pass over the man’s face as he actually turned and regarded John, dark curls framing his face. Beautiful hazel eyes, pupils black and distant, seemed to consider the question. John waited. "Turn off the TV," he said at last.

The therapist had left it on, John was sure, in order for the patient to stay connected to the outside world. There was no bedside control, either. It was standard operating procedure and was therefore supposed to stay on. However, this was the first time the man had spoken to John, so he decided to extend the olive branch a little further and comply.

He reached up and turned it off. The very thin, very sad man with the large, wet eyes looked as though he would say more, so much more, but remained silent. John left him there in the room with the light now extinguished without another word.

---

John’s keys jingled in the lock as he opened the door to his shared flat. He was met by his boyfriend Roger who slipped an arm around his waist and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. 

“I missed you doll,” Roger said, a sweet smile on his face. 

When John didn’t say anything at first, Roger frowned.  “Rough day?” 

John hung his head.  “Sort of, yeah.  Where’s Freddie?” 

“In here darling!  We’re having Spaghetti Pomodoro tonight.  I hope that’s ok.” 

John toed off his shoes, leaving them by the door.  “That’s perfect,” he sighed as Roger led him to the couch.  He looked up at him sheepishly.  “Rog, can I have the magic fingers?” 

Roger grinned mischievously, waggling his fingers in the air.  “Ooh, you want these magic fingers, do you?” 

John looked up at him hopefully, his green eyes flashing.  “Please?  My shoulders are killing me.” 

Roger descended upon John’s knotted muscles, digging into the flesh with smooth, kneading motions. 

John moaned in pure pleasure, his head lolling. 

“What are you two getting up to over there?” Freddie called from the kitchen.  “I feel like I’m missing out.” 

 “John wanted the magic fingers,” Roger said between giggles.  “And he’s going to pay me back, aren’t you my love?” 

John reached up to squeeze his hand.  “I always do, don’t I?”

Roger smiled, digging into his shoulder with the pads of his thumb.  “Mmm, you do.  So are you going to tell us about your shitty day?”

John pressed his lips together.  “There’s this patient.” 

Roger kissed the top of his head, his massage finished, and walked around the couch to nuzzle into John’s side.  Freddie had lowered the heat on the pasta sauce, and was now approaching the couch, too. 

“Go on love,” he said as he settled on John’s other side. 

John passed a hand over his face.  “Just one of the suicides.  He doesn’t have anyone, apparently.  But there’s something about him.” 

“What do you think it is?”  Roger inquired, his blue eyes alight with interest. 

“I don’t really know,” John said, shaking his head in frustration.  “But I want to help him.  More than I’ve ever wanted to help anyone.” 

---

John arrived at work earlier than usual, anxious to check on Brian.  He caught up on the nightshift’s report, a deep frown on his face. 

“He tried to take out his iv? 

The nurse at the nurse’s station nodded.  “Panic attack.  The doctor put him under heavy sedation.  He should be up by now, though.  Oh, and he’s in soft restraints.” 

John put a hand on his hip, a headache already starting to form.  He set his lunchbag on the counter, stashing the rest of his stuff behind the desk.  “Hand me his chart; I’ll start with him.” 

John knocked softly, and when he got no response, eased his way inside the room. 

It was so dark.  He could just make out the graceful outline of the man’s body, the billowy gown that swallowed him up, and those generous curls that formed a corona around his head as he reclined in bed.  The sickly glow from the iv pump cast his face in a ghostly pallor, and if John squinted he could just make out his deceptively peaceful features…dark lashes cresting the gentle slope of his cheeks.

John soundlessly made his way to the bed, and only then did he notice the restraints.  Without a word, he reached up and turned on the overhead light, flooding the bed in a fluorescent glow. 

Two hazel eyes blinked at the intrusion, his face a little softer than the day before.  He had a thin, beautiful face, delicate in its own way. 

John smiled.  “Good morning, you.  It’s good to see those eyes open.”

“Brian,” he croaked out, his voice hoarse from disuse.  “Call me Brian.” His voice was unexpectedly soft, yet elegant, and John found he liked it very much.  

John stood, his arms folded around his chart and a big smile on his face.  “Well, Brian it is then.  And I’m John.  It’s really nice to meet you.” 

Brian said nothing, but reached a hand up to scratch his nose, only to find them stubbornly bound in the Velcro restraints.  John noticed immediately. 

“You need some help with that?  I’m a professional nose scratcher, among other things.” 

Brian’s mouth quirked in what could be called a smile, and John thrilled inwardly at the victory.  He scratched Brian’s nose for him, and the man sighed in relief. 

John then poured him a glass of water and held it up to his lips for him to drink, which he took a few sip of before John proceeded to check his iv fluids and the rest of his vital signs. 

Then John pulled up that empty chair and leaned in conspiratorially.  “I brought you something today,” he whispered needlessly.  “Lunch.  One of my boyfriends made Spaghetti Pomodoro last night and I thought you might enjoy some.” 

Brian’s eyebrows raised.  “One of your boyfriends?” 

John blushed.  “Yeah, well I have two.” 

“You have two boyfriends and you work in a psychiatric ward.  You must like chaos.” 

John couldn’t hold back his laughter.  “You’re funny, Brian.  Tell you what.  You have lunch with me today, and you can tell me some more jokes.  I’ll even remove those restraints so you can hold your own fork.” 

Brian pursed his lips, and then gave him a genuine little smile.  “Ok,” he said. 

---

When Freddie found out that Brian had liked his cooking, he insisted on visiting him himself…with flowers and a basket of blueberry muffins. 

John was over his head in paperwork when he saw his boyfriend breeze by the nurse’s station, a sunny arrangement of lilies and roses in his arms. 

“Freddie!  Darling, what are you doing here?” 

“Oh! Hello my love!”  He greeted John with a quick kiss, smelling so perfectly of spice and perfume and home that it made John ache. 

When John’s question went unanswered, he gestured to the picnic basket. 

“I thought I would visit your patient, seeing as he hasn’t had any visitors and he already likes my cooking,” he said sweetly.

John could have cried.  This is why he loved the men he did. 

“That’s…that’s so lovely Freddie.  I’m sure Brian will be happy to see you.”

Freddie thrilled.  “I hope so.  Let’s find out.  Point me to his room?”

John did, asking Freddie if he wanted him to go in with him. 

“No darling, I want to go in by myself.  I’m a visitor, not a nurse.  No needles from me, just treats!” 

John wondered briefly what all he had in that basket. 

Freddie knocked on the door and received a hesitant “come in” in reply.

Brian was sat up in bed.  His restraints were off and a pitcher of water was beside him on the table.  Nothing else was in the room. 

“Um, hi darling.  My name is Freddie.  I’ve been making your lunches.  I thought maybe I might visit you for a bit?” 

Brian’s eyes lit as though he already knew him. “A visitor,” he exclaimed, and his eyes misted over.  “Please, come sit down Freddie.”

Freddie crossed to the table and pushed the water pitcher over to make room for the flowers.  “These are for you love,” he said softly.  “They really brighten up the place, I think.” 

Brian swallowed.  “They’re really beautiful,” Brian said almost to himself.  “I don’t know how to thank you.” 

Freddie lay the picnic basket on the edge of the bed.  “Well I do!  Have one of these muffins.  I made them just for you.  We can eat and have a chat!”

Brian’s eyes lit at the muffins, still warm from the oven.  He took one gingerly in his hand and held it to his nose.

“Go on,” Freddie encouraged, “take a bite.” 

“Mmm,” Brian hummed around a mouthful of muffin.  “Can I have another after this one?” 

Freddie laughed.  “The whole basket is yours darling.  Plus I brought you some other things,” and Freddie began pulling out slippers, pajamas, candy and puzzle books. 

Brian frowned.  “They won’t let me have a pen or pencil,” he said, a little embarrassed. 

Freddie waved it off.  “Next time I’ll bring crayons.” 

“You’re coming back?” 

Freddie smiled.  “Of course I am.” 

---

“He’s into astronomy,” Freddie replied excitedly.  “He’s studying astrophysics in school. Very bright.  He loves music too.”

Roger spoke around a mouthful of food.  “Do you have any idea why he uh…you know.” 

“We don’t ask,” John said matter-of-factly.  “We leave that to the therapists.” 

“I know,” Roger said.  “I’m just curious.” 

Freddie cocked his head.  “Well…he told me he came out to his parents and they rejected him.  That couldn’t have helped.”

Groans reverberated all around the table. 

“He literally has no one, John,” Freddie said gravely, “and he’s just lovely.” 

Roger chased his food around his plate with his fork.  “I’m going to see him then,” Roger said finally.  “Take him some things.  Give him someone else to look at besides Freddie.” 

Freddie stuck his tongue out at him and they all laughed. 

---

Roger arrived at Brian’s door with a stack of books in his hand.  He knocked quietly and received the same hesitant “come in,” that Freddie did, so he pushed his way inside. 

Brian was standing at the window wearing the pajamas Freddie had bought him.  They had all guessed at the size using John’s observations, but they were still a little short on him.  Roger cleared his throat. 

“Hey Brian, I’m Roger.  John and Freddie’s boyfriend?  I’ve heard so much about you that I thought I’d like to meet you…maybe spend some time with you if that’s ok.”

Brian huffed a little laugh, an odd look on his face.  “You guys just keep getting better looking,” and smiled when Roger actually blushed. 

Freddie made sure the flowers stayed fresh, so there were freesias this week and the room smelled divine.  Roger placed his stack of books on the table and kept his hand there, nervously tapping his fingers. 

Roger really hadn’t expected Brian to be so tall and well, handsome. 

“I brought you some books and magazines,” he began.  “Freddie told us you like astronomy and music, so I picked carefully.  I hope you like them.” 

Brian began to thumb through his choices, smiling broadly.  “What kind of music do you like?”

---

“He doesn’t have anywhere to go after he gets out,” Roger stated flatly as they sat watching the telly.  “His parents have abandoned him and his flatmate kicked him out.  All because he’s gay.  Unbelievable.” 

John shook his head.  “It’s not really.  We’re just really lucky.  A lot of people think that way.” 

Freddie frowned.  “It’s fucking disgusting.” 

“Well what’s going to happen to Brian?” Roger continued. 

John pursed his lips.  “Why can’t he stay with us for a while?  Just until he gets on his feet?”

Freddie clapped his hands.  “Oh, that’s a marvelous idea dear.  We have the spare room.”

Roger nodded.  “Freddie and I will get to work getting it ready.  When is he released?” 

John thought for a moment.  “Next week I believe.  That should be plenty of time.” 

John kissed both of his boyfriends.  This situation was turning out better than he’d hoped. 

---

The next day Roger and Freddie showed up at the hospital so all three could go in and ask Brian about their plans.  When the time came, they went in to find Brian sitting up in one of the chairs reading a book.  He smiled at them.

“All three of you?  This is a surprise.”  He eyed John.  “Is this official nurse business or just a visit?” 

John smiled.  “Just a visit this time.” 

“We actually had a question we wanted to ask you,” Freddie said.  “You’ll be released soon, and we wondered where you might go.”

Brian blinked, looking down.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I haven’t given it much thought.”

John spoke up.  “Would you consider coming home with us?  You know, just until you get things figured out?” 

A bright smile lit Brian’s face, then disappeared just as quickly.  “I can’t let you do that, John.  I’ve been too much of an imposition already.” 

Roger piped up.  “No you haven’t!  We enjoy your company, Brian.  We want you to stay with us.  Don’t we?”

“Absolutely,” Freddie agreed. 

“Yes,” John added.  “Would you please consider coming home with us?  Your room is all ready.  All you have to do is say yes.” 

 Brian swallowed, but there was a longing in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “I’ll consider it,” he said.

“Good darling,” Freddie said as they turned to leave.  “No more muffins until you say yes,” he said with a wink.

---

Brian said nothing more about his decision until it was time for his discharge from the hospital.  John quietly got the paperwork ready, helped him put his meager belongings in a bag, and put him in a wheelchair per hospital policy.  John knelt in front of him, eyes imploring. 

“So, Brian…where are you off too today?” 

Brian sat for a moment.  “I think I’m ready to go home,” he said thoughtfully. 

It took John by surprise.  “Really.” 

“Yeah,” Brian said with a slow smile lighting his face.  “It’s Tuesday, and Freddie makes Spaghetti Pomodoro on Tuesday.” 

John reached out to ruffle the man’s dark curls, noticing how he leaned into the touch.  “Indeed he does, Brian.  Let’s go home then.” 

-0-0-0-

85.

5000 Question Survey Pt. 22

2001. Can you believe that we have only gotten through two fifths of this survey so far? i believe it 2002. What is your opinion of Dave Coulier? i have no idea who that is 2003. If you were to a write a Choose Your Own Adventure book, what would it be about? horror 2004. What was your best find from a flea market, garage sale, ebay or thrift store? huh? 2005. What do you not have enough money for right now? a new car

2006. Do you believe that Teras for Fears were right when they said, “Everybody wants to rule the world?” eh 2007. What is the design on your beach towel? i don’t have a beach towel 2008. What stirs something deep and animalistic inside you? mean fucking people 2009. Have you ever cross dressed (even as a joke)? no 2010. Do you own anything with a rainbow on it? yes lol my boyfriends mom buys pj pants for everyone on christmas and this year she got me rainbow pants with minions on them....... i’ve NEVER even seen despicable me 2011. What would be the worst object for a child to take on a long car ride with you? a loud handheld game 2012. What’s the Best Beatles song in your opinion? help 2013. Why do you suppose that diary sites are more popular with females than males? idk 2014. What do these color combinations remind you of: orange and pink: ice cream pink and green: fruit green and gold: nature purple and gold: idk gold and red: royalty red and white: america blue and grey: the beach 2015. What is one selfish thing you tend to do? let people buy me stuff 2016. When do you think technology will catch up with the Jetson’s? idk 2017. What made you laugh today? my lab partners 2018. Do you ever stick your entries in any of the diary circles? no. 2019. Can you freestyle rap? i could try but it wouldn’t be that good 2020. Are you: stylish? somewhat shiek? huh? smart? i think so 2021. Do you find you self only buying brand name products? i do not care about name brands 2022. Would you ever want to buy an article of clothing or an accessory because you saw a celebrity wear it? i don’t pay attention to celebrities enough 2023. What song do you feel the sexiest dancing to? buttons by pussycat dolls 2024. Who do you know who looks silly when they dance? my dad 2025. Sweaty sex or clean sex? a lil bit of both honestly 2026. Which is more important to you: being kind or being right? i mean both honestly. 2027. Can you do any special dances like swing, tap, or ballroom? i used to do tap 2028. Are you scared of monsters? nada 2029. Who would you like to remind people of? idc 2030. Do you walk to school or do you bring your lunch? neither???? 2031. Rate your skills from one to ten (10 = you are the best at it): socializing: 5 making friends: 5 working with computers: 5 arts: 7 crafts: 7 dancing: 2 skating: 6 talking other people into things: 8 writing: 9 living life to the fullest each day: 5 cooking: 3 gardening: 2 cleaning up after yourself: 9 playing poker: 1 surviving in the woods: 3 managing your time: 8 attracting the opposite sex (or same sex if you prefer)? 4 2032. Have you ever been to an indian reservation? nope 2033. What is going to happen tomorrow that you can celebrate, even if it’s a little thing? idk 2034. Do you save things for special occasions or is everyday a special occasion? i save things. 2035. What is one thing you are terrible at: saving money 2036. What’s your favorite: rap song: love the way you lie country song: we danced industrial song: idk. cover song: cant help falling in love with you punk song: idk odd song: cotton eye joe 2037. What do you get your teacher or your boss for the holidays? not a thing lol 2038. Do you like to read books by Virgina Wolfe? never read any. 2039. What is your favorite tv show from when you were a kid? spongebob 2040. What is now proved was once only imagined. - William Blake. What do you imagine? the future. 2041. What has been passed down through at least two generations to you? nothing 2042. Do we live in a particularly bad age for romance? i don’t think so 2043. Have you ever cheated on someone? nope Do you believe that once someone is a cheater they can never be trusted? yes 2044. Have you ever gone: christmas caroling? nope pumpkin picking? yeah on a hay wagon ride? yes on a romantic valentine’s day date? yeah to a new year’s eve party? a couple times to a memorial day parade? yeah to the Macy’s thanksgiving day parade? maybe in the past to search for gold coins on st patrick’s day? no. 2045. Have you ever done any modeling? nope 2046. Would you consider yourself to be psychologically damaged? not that i can think of 2047. How aware are you of the reasons behind your actions and words? very aware 2048. What is the sickest you ever drank or drugged yourself? i haven’t had any really bad experiences tbh. it’s always a shitty time when i’ve thrown up from alcohol but i’ve never blacked out. 2049. Would you prefer it if clothing was optional? no lol. 2050. What is one interesting fact about you: i collect shot glasses 2051. Are more people depressed because they are alone, or are more people alone because they are depressed? they’re more depressed bc they’re alone probably but there are way more complicated reasons as to why people are depressed 2052. Have you ever gotten a mug, t-shirt, key chain, etc. that was personalized with your picture? no lol 2053. What was the last thing that you experienced for the first time? i don’t know 2054. If you were going to die tomorrow and you were leaving a postcard for someone to read after you were gone what would it say? i dunno. 2055. If you were about to be executed what would your last request be? tell my family that i love them 2056. What kinds of people do you find intimidating? too many people lol 2057. How much conviction do you have in your feelings and beliefs? quite a bit. 2058. In your house where is the: crazy glue? in the junk drawer flashlight? above the snack cabinet 2059. Out of everyone you know who has the most personality? there’s plenty of people lol 2060. If you could go back in time to experience a musical movement or era, which one would you choose to live through? none 2061. Do you suffocate people with your love? sometimes 2062. Do you feel your life is charmed? no. 2063. What character do you identify the most with from Winnie the Pooh? piglet 2064. When do you do your best thinking? in the shower or on the toilet 2065. What motivates you? food 2066. Look back at all the people you’ve dated. Has there been a pattern? not that i can think of 2067. Things change but what will always remain the same for you? i don’t know 2068. Is divorce something you would ever consider or do you feel that marriage is permanantly binding? i would preferably not get divorced. 2069. What’s the strangest movie you ever saw? the abc’s of death 2070. If you could go into virtual reality and set up your life there to be perfect and it would seem real but not be real would you trade your life now for the virtual life? it’d be cool but no 2071. Does it seem like life is more difficult for you than for anyone else? nope 2072. What are you grateful for? everything i have. 2073. What was a choice that you didn’t want to make but you had to? idk. 2074. Have you ever had dental surgery? no. 2075. At what point exactly are you grown up? when you  have bills and you feel like you’re drowning 2076. If there was a weight loss procedure that would destroy your ability to taste food so you wouldn’t be tempted by junk food, would you have it done? absolutely not 2077. What is one thing that happened that you never expected? finding someone i love who actually loves me back 2078. If you called one of your friends and they said “It’s nothing personal but I don’t want to talk to anyone right now,” would you take it personally? nah, i’ve had moments like that too so i can understand 2079. What is your favorite girl’s name? i don’t really have one 2080. Do you ever feel guilty for being more fortunate than others? not really. 2081. If you had to wear a shirt with one word on it for a year, what word would you choose? kok 2082. What is evian spelled backwards? naive 2083. You drop 10 pounds of feathers and a ten pound bowling ball off the top of the same building. Which will hit the ground first? they both weigh the same, sooo both 2084. Even though you may never get what you want, are you happy because you’re trying? yes 2085. If you started a petition what would it be about? idk. 2086. When was the last time you asked someone to do something and they said no? everytime i ask jack to do something he says no but does it anyways 2087. Do bad things happen to you on friday the 13th? not that i know of. 2088. What’s your favorite: Madonna song? - John Lennon song? - Michael Jackson song? billy jean Doors song? - Rolling Stones song? - David Bowie song?- Elvis song? cant help falling in love with you 2089. If you had started a relationship with someone and they said that it would be best if no one knew about it just to see how it goes, would you be offended? it depends ig but id feel like they just wanted to hide me 2090. Do you know any self defense? not really How about CPR? i know the concept of it but ive never really practiced or anything 2091. If you had to look into a mirror and see your naked soul stripped of all delusions and pretenses (Never ending Story style)could you handle it? maybe 2092. Are you a genius? no. 2093. How did you find out that Santa Clause wasn’t real? i got a letter from ‘him’ and the handwriting was the same as my dads 2094. Which is your favorite tarot card? i dont do that shit 2095. Does the internet separate people or connect them? both. 2096. Have you ever written a letter to a soldier? my brother and my sister and some of my friends when they were all in the military 2097. Does pain and fear make you feel alive? to a a certain degree 2098. Are you: good looking? yeah thin? no. happy? yes successful? not yet confident? for the most part 2099. Are you decisive or wishy washy? in between. 2100. Do you feel pop stars should be morally responsible to set a good example for their fans? it’s nice but they shouldn’t be obliged to.

A Look Back at the 70th Berlinale (2020)

Was this year’s Berlinale a mistake? Should it have taken place? Did we all needlessly endanger and expose ourselves to a growing pandemic for the sake of cinema? Perhaps. Do I regret it? Not yet.

This was my first Berlinale as an accredited member of the press (thanks Cinematic Berlin!), so I certainly would’ve been heartbroken had it been cancelled. Even then, the flu was on everyone’s mind. People were finding ways to get past doors without actually touching them, ears finely tuned to pick up any hint of a nearby cough. Even in those waning days of February, which feels like a year ago, I was diligently washing my hands between every film and trying to grab the same seat in the last row at the back of the Berlinale Palast for every Competition screening. Today, I’m still not sure if I’m corona-free. But what I am sure of, as the festival glow dissipates, is that I saw a lot of good to great movies, and very few duds.

Of course, my luck being what it is, I saw around thirty movies and failed to see both the Golden Bear winner (Mohammad Rasoulof’s THERE IS NO EVIL) and the Silver Bear for Best Screenplay (The D'Innocenzo Brothers’ FAVOLACCE). However, I want to start this off by mentioning one award-winner that I did catch. In fact, it was the very first pre-festival screening I went to: Alexandre Rockwell’s SWEET THING, which deservedly won the Crystal Bear for best film in the Generation Kplus section.

Like certain American cinephiles of my age, I have deep admiration for Rockwell’s 1992 film, IN THE SOUP, featuring a cinematic duo for the ages, Steve Buscemi and Seymour Cassell. It’s an utterly charming lo-fi black & white movie about a would-be filmmaker and his aging gangster producer. What is absolutely astounding is that, from the very first frames of SWEET THING, Rockwell’s signature aesthetic transports you right back to 1992, as if the past thirty years of mega-plexes and shitty 3D screenings were but a nightmarish fever dream. There’s the same softly glowing back & white 16mm frames, the same deliberate editing and pacing… I couldn’t have asked for a better first screening as it rekindled a deep affection for cinema that has been stifled from time to time over the years.

SWEET THING is continuing Rockwell’s DIY, family-affair filmmaking of late, casting his teenage kids as the main characters and enlisting friends to fill out the cast. This one features Will Patton as the kids’ well-meaning but severely alcoholic dad. When Patton gets locked up, the kids are forced to live with their mom and her predatory boyfriend. It all sounds rather tragic, but Rockwell handles it with gentle grace. The kids refuse to be victims and end up runaways with a street-smart friend, played by the remarkably charismatic Jabari Watkins. Without spoiling anything, it is feel-good cinema at its charming best.

Since I failed to cover SWEET THING during the festival, I can now segue into an assemblage of my dispatches for Cinematic Berlin, along with some stray thoughts and final impressions…

Berlinale 70 — CB Dispatch I (First Cow, The Intruder, Hidden Away, The Salt of Tears, Undine)

The 70th edition of the Internationale Filmfestspiele Berlin, better known around the world as Berlinale, has begun. At this time every year, Postdammer Platz turns into a buzzing, glittering, highly-caffeinated hub for a ravenous collection of film fanatics. I’m sure I’m not alone in considering these eleven days in mid-to-late February something of a high holiday for the cinematically devout.

This year had some added levels of anticipation since it marks the beginning of new leadership, with Mariette Rissenbeek and Carlo Chatrian taking over from Dieter Kosslick, who’d been at the helm of the festival since 2002. Rissenbeek and Chatrian should already be commended for the fact that it still feels like the same Berlinale, in a good way. It’s still a festival that is extremely accessible to the general public and offers people a chance to see some of the world’s best cinema in some amazing kinos.

The most noticeable changes have been around the program sections, particularly the Competition section, which has been rearranged, so that there’s no longer the awkward situation of having Competition titles being classified as “out of competition.” Instead, we have the new Encounters section, with it’s own three-person jury. The Panorama section continues to highlight bold and personal world cinema, and the Forum is still a vital showcase for more experimental and aesthetically adventurous filmmaking.

As far as the official Competition titles go, I’ve been able to catch five of the six that have screened so far. The best of these, by a significant margin, has been Kelly Reichardt’s FIRST COW, a gently heartbreaking tale of two men (John Magaro and Orion Lee) who live on the outskirts of a fort in nineteenth century Oregon. When a new cow enters the community, the two budding entrepreneurs hatch an idea that involves secretly using the cow’s milk to bake and sell goods, which will hopefully earn them enough money to get to San Francisco.

It’s been nearly fifteen years since her breakout film, OLD JOY, but Reichardt continues to prove herself masterful at revealing the subtle dynamics of male relationships. And not unlike her 2008 film, WENDY & LUCY, she also continues to show that she can kill you softly with her love for characters that have the odds stacked squarely against them.

I also found director Natalia Meta’s EL PRÓFUGO (THE INTRUDER) to be a surprisingly fun psychological thriller. If you’re a fan of David Cronenberg’s work, and miss the skewed sensibility he brings to genre films, you may find that EL PROFUGO does a fine job of scratching that itch. The movie stars Érica Rivas as a singer and voice-over artist who may or may not be dealing with extradimensional “intruders” that enter our world through dreams and infect our bodies. Rivas’s captivating performance is reason enough to catch this one. Plus, the ending is a helluva kicker.

Less captivating was Giorgio Diritti’s VOLEVO NASCONDERMI (HIDDEN AWAY), which gives us a look at the life of early twentieth century artist Antonio Ligabue, who settled in Italy after being exiled from Switzerland due to mental illness. The movie is beautifully shot, and we could use more movies about outsider artists, but this one never really finds much to say about art or mental illness.

In the role of the volatile Ligabue, Elio Germano’s acting is turned up to 11 at all times, making it all rather exhausting (yet appealing to the jury, who awarded Germano the Silver Bear for Best Actor) even though the film never really takes us anywhere. Yet I’ll take HIDDEN AWAY over LE SEL DES LARMES (THE SALT OF TEARS), the latest from director Philippe Garrel. If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like if Truffaut had directed a feature length perfume ad, look no further. I honestly don’t know why this movie exists, other than as a chance for Garrel to film gratuitous (yet black & white, so, arty!) shots of young women taking showers or stepping out of bathtubs. The premise, of a ridiculously handsome man caught between three ridiculously pretty women, is literally laughable — in that one significant dramatic development was so obvious and unoriginal that it elicited a hearty round of guffaws.

But mostly this movie just made me angry. Even the impeccable black & white cinematography felt phoney, and as a story it is exceedingly stiff and boring. There is one moment when the movie tries to come alive with a bit of choreographed dance, but this is also painfully strained and far too little too late. It doesn’t help that the dance sequence is immediately followed up by a back-alley attempt at relevance that is so hamfisted it bypasses laughable and goes straight to depressing. When critics complain about pretentious bourgeois drivel, THE SALT OF TEARS is what they’re talking about. What purpose this movie could serve is beyond me.

Far more successful is the much anticipated new film from Christian Petzold, UNDINE. This one is, perhaps unsurprisingly, another twisty and enigmatic story from Petzold, whose last two films, PHOENIX and TRANSIT, have positioned him as both an heir to Hitchcock and an international sensation with the critics. UNDINE doesn’t disappoint. It’s refreshingly unpredictable and leaves you with an intricately rendered puzzle to play with, even though its pleasures are perhaps less immediate than Petzold’s previous two.

The story is of the tragic romance variety, between the historian Undine (Paula Beer, winner of the Silver Bear for Best Actress), who lectures on Berlin’s architectural and city-planning history, and an industrial diver Christoph (Franz Rogowski), who repairs the city’s underwater infrastructure. Early on, Christoph takes Undine for a dive in the river and shows us that her name is written on an old wall, perhaps put there a hundred years ago. There are many questions about the mysterious Undine and very little in the way of definitive answers. Nevertheless, as timeless love stories go, this one is pretty satisfying and it is fun to come up with your own theories on Undine’s backstory. My guess is that UNDINE will continue to deepen and reveal itself with repeat viewings.

Berlinale 70 — CB Dispatch II (Siberia, My Little Sister, Hope, Berlin Alexanderplatz, The Woman Who Ran)

There’s only a couple of days left for premiers in the Competition section, while in just the last few days nine films have been screened for critics. I haven’t yet had a chance to catch all of them (there are other sections that demand attention, after all), but I’ll share some thoughts on what I have seen.

Let’s start with one of the more divisive films of the competition, Abel Ferrara’s SIBERIA. The movie starts with Ferrara’s go-to leading man of the past decade, Willem Dafoe, tending bar out in the middle of some snowy wilderness. (His isolated tavern makes Minnie’s Haberdashery look like Cheers.) But we soon realize that nothing in SIBERIA should be taken too literally. What we’re really witnessing is Dafoe’s character, Clint, navigating his way through an emotional Siberia. The basement of the tavern contains nightmarish visions, a biter alter ego, and a bottomless pit of despair. So Clint sets out on his dog sled and begins to confront memories of his father, mother, ex-wife and his own childhood. It’s a heady trip, to say the least, but I found it to be rather fascinating and, at times, disarmingly funny -- not to mention beautifully shot.

I wasn’t expecting Ferrara to suddenly come out with his ERASERHEAD at this stage in his long and storied career, but I'll celebrate it as a minor miracle that this oddity managed to be made and released. One critic has dismissed it as “commercially irresponsible,” to which I say, Amen! Ferrara appears to be exercising his own demons in SIBERIA and I take it as a positive sign that something so personal, artistic, and in defiance of current trends, is being screened at Berlinale -- in the Competition section no less! Long live cinema.

Meanwhile, two more German films have premiered: SCHWESTERLEIN (MY LITTLE SISTER), by Stephanie Chaut and Veronique Reymond, and a new take on BERLIN ALEXANDERPLATZ by director Burhan Qurbani. SCHWESTERLEIN features two of Germany’s brightest stars: Nina Hoss (a regular in Christian Petzold’s films) and Lars Eidinger (who can be seen in “Babylon Berlin” and some of Oliver Assayas’s recent films). Both of the leads offer strong performances, playing twins who are coping with the fact that Eidinger’s Sven has cancer and may not have long to live.

Unfortunately, SCHWESTERLEIN doesn’t offer much more than a few choice scenes for the actors to dig into. The film's shortcomings are especially apparent since this year’s Berlinale also features a Norwegian cancer drama HÅP (HOPE), playing in the Panorama section, that digs much deeper into the relationship and familial challenges that come with receiving a cancer diagnosis. As good as Hoss and Eidinger are, I preferred the more complex dynamics between HÅP’s unmarried couple, brilliantly played by Andrea Bræin Hovig and Stellan Skarsgård.

Far more surprising is Burhan Qurbani’s BERLIN ALEXANDERPLATZ, which revises the original 1929 story to the modern day, making the central character a refugee, instead of a German man emerging from a long jail sentence. Cinephiliacs will likely be familiar with Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s monumental 15-plus hour television epic, and Günter Lamprecht’s central performance as Franz Biberkopf. This time we have Francis (Welket Bungue), a West African refugee, who gets roped into selling drugs in a Berlin park by the low-level criminal Reinhold (Albrecht Schuh). Eventually, Reinhold does rechristen Francis as a proper German with a proper German name, Franz.

Despite the unenviable task of being compared to one of Fassbinder’s major works, this three-hour modern retelling is bold, ambitious, well-written, well-acted and visually interesting. Schuh’s version of Reinhold starts off distractingly indebted to Joaquin Phoenix (à la THE MASTER) but he manages to make the character his own and practically steal the show by the time it's over. It’s not exactly an easy movie to get through but it does feel vital and alive. There is no shortage of Berlin-based movies, but few capture the city the way this one does.

Finally, I’ll briefly mention a charming highlight of the Competition section: Hong Sangsoo’s DOMANGCHIN YEOJA (THE WOMAN WHO RAN). Fans of Sangsoo will know to expect a film that leans heavily on dialog and character development. But this one is an especially clever script that breaks the minimal-to-non-existent plot down to a few conversations between Kim Minhee’s character, Gamhee, and three other women that she encounters while on a rare break from her husband. In each conversation we gradually learn about these modern Korean women and their relationships with the men in their lives.

So far, Hong Sangsoo’s film is the only one to elicit a spontaneous round of applause from the audience. And it had to do with a particularly hilarious conversation about cats, and one of Sangsoo’s choice uses of a camera zoom in the film. Indeed, a truly memorable highlight of this year’s festival.

Berlinale 70 — CB Dispatch III (Irradiates, Sow the Wind, The Assistant, The Roads Not Taken)

The 70th edition of the Berlinale film festival wraps up this weekend, and as it always does, it ends with Sunday’s “Publikumstag,” where many of the best films from the different sections will get a final screening at venues across the city. Even after catching over twenty films this year, I’ll be trying to fill in some gaps on Saturday and Sunday as well. So I’ll offer some suggestions in the form of films I can personally vouch for, as well as a few buzz-worthy ones that I haven’t seen.

Of course, the Golden Bear for best film is being awarded on Saturday. I’m terrible at gambling, but if I had to guess which film would take the top honor, I’d go with IRRADIES (IRRADIATES), the latest art-film/documentary from Cambodian filmmaker Rithy Panh. The movie is a devastating and unflinching look at the atrocities of war in the twentieth century, specifically the mass killings that took place in Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge regime, the Holocaust of WWII, and the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

It goes without saying that this is a challenging film, but Panh is a masterful filmmaker and artist, so this isn’t your ordinary talking-head documentary. For much of the time the screen is split into a horizontal triptych -- three symmetrical sections that add to the power of the images and help draw the connections between Japan, Cambodia and Europe. There is also a haunting score and poetic voiceover work from a man and woman who sometimes seem to be communicating with one another, and other times seem to be the voice of Panh, speaking directly to the audience. This is definitely a cinematic experience you won’t soon forget, and likely a film people will be talking about for years to come.

If you’re after something less overwhelming, I also enjoyed the Italian film, SEMINA IL VENTO (SOW THE WIND), from the Panorama section. The movie, by director Danilo Caputo, is about a young woman, Nica (Yile Yara Vianello), who returns home from her studies as an agronomist, only to find that the family’s long-held olive trees are at risk of being destroyed. The problem is, an invasive insect is killing olive trees throughout the area. And while Nica’s father wants to accept government subsidy to have the trees removed, Nica wants to save the trees by finding and introducing the bug’s natural predator.

One of the most impressive things about SOW THE WIND is its sound design, particularly the very special way in which it captures the sounds of trees. There is a deep undercurrent of rural folklore and the spirit world running through the film, and it causes the softly groaning sounds of swaying trees take on new meaning. Plus, there is a very talented black bird in the film (who may or may not be the spirit of Nica’s dead grandmother) that challenges the cat in THE WOMAN WHO RAN for the festival’s best animal performance.

Also in the Panorama section is THE ASSISTANT, a film that is very much attuned to the #MeToo movement in its depiction of the everyday traumas experienced by a female assistant working at a film production company. It captures a single day in the life of Jane (Julia Garner, who you may recognize from the Netflix show “Ozarks”), as she tries to endure an increasing amount of humiliations that are sometimes subtle, and sometimes not. The film, by Kitty Green (UKRAINE IS NOT A BROTHEL), is all about the details, and there is a scene between Jane and a human resources guy that is among the more heartbreaking moments of the festival.

THE ASSISTANT was one of the films to enter Berlinale with a considerable amount of buzz from this year’s Sundance -- as was NEVER RARELY SOMETIMES ALWAYS, which is another film competing for the Golden Bear that I will finally catch up with this weekend. This one, by director Eliza Hittman (BEACH RATS), is about two teenage girls traveling from Pennsylvania to New York in order to get an abortion. From what I’ve heard, this is a powerful character study with a couple of amazing performances at its center.

Over the past week, critics have consistently mentioned NEVER RARELY SOMETIMES ALWAYS as being a favorite. But DAU. NATASHA, on the other hand, has both its champions and detractors -- yet it’s been getting enough buzz that it seems to be another top contender for the Golden Bear. This is, by all accounts, a boldly provocative work that deals with the Soviet brand of totalitarianism, its secret ambitions, and its pervasive, lingering effects. What’s more, this just happens to be one part of a project that includes the nearly six-hour art film DAU. DEGENERATSIA, which is also having its final screenings this weekend.

Finally, if you’re looking for something more mainstream (perhaps something to take mom or dad to), I enjoyed Sally Potter’s latest, THE ROADS NOT TAKEN. This stars Javier Bardem as an author in the grips of dementia, and Elle Fanning as the daughter he left behind when she was just a child. In trying to look after her ailing father, Fanning is caring for and maybe bonding with a man her mother has long written off. What’s interesting is that we’re also uncovering a mystery in Bardem’s past as his character flashes back to a couple of different points in his life, some of which cleverly parallels bits of Homer’s “Odyssey.” Ultimately, this is a brief movie that’s over in less than 90 minutes, but I found the central relationship to be rather touching (I may be a sucker for movies about kids trying to connect with their messed-up dads), and I was also impressed with Potter’s own jazzy score for the film.

Berlinale 70 — Final Thoughts (DAU. Natasha, Never Rarely Sometimes Always, Delete History, Shirley, The Trouble With Being Born)

While I didn’t catch up with all the movies I would have liked to, I did pack a significant amount into the last few days of the festival. The highlight was perhaps Effacer EFFACER L’HISTORIQUE (DELETE HISTORY), a brilliantly anarchic French comedy by Benoît Delépine and Gustave Kervern. I suppose Berlinale has a reputation for being light on comedy. Without a doubt, this year seemed especially heavyhearted — perhaps for good reason — so it is a testament to DELETE HISTORY that it crammed about four movies worth of laughs into one, and yet is also socially conscious enough to fit right in with the rest of the Competition titles.

DELETE HISTORY is almost like an old ZAZ movie (AIRPLANE!, TOP SECRET!) in that it is brazenly anti-realist and goes non-stop in its pursuit of jokes and visual gags. The slim storyline is that we’re following three people as their lives fall apart in the age of surveillance capitalism and the gig economy. Eventually they decide to track down a hacker (who lives in a wind turbine) to help them fight the power, but things of course don’t go as planned.

Yes, the film is absurd, but we are living in a completely absurd time. Throughout Berlinale I was at press screenings filled with people who found it seemingly impossible to spend 90 minutes away from their devices. These people drove me nuts, but rather than mock these people, DELETE HISTORY sympathizes with those who know they’re being trapped, exploited and dehumanized, and finally decide to opt out. At one point, one of the characters dives her car into the middle of a roundabout, climbs on top of it and screams. In fact, the whole film feels like a much needed primal scream in the face of our current absurd reality. As an added bonus the soundtrack to the film is like a greatest hits collection of Daniel Johnston songs. Yes, this movie is fucking punk rock.

There was also some dark humor to be had in SHIRLEY, a fine, bitter pill of a biopic on Shirley Jackson, the author of such macabre books as The Haunting of Hill House. SHIRLEY follows the current trend of such biopics as 3 DAYS IN QUIBERON, SEBERG and JACKIE, by wisely focusing on one particular time in the life of its subject, rather than attempting the old cradle-to-grave approach. Here it’s the time leading up to Jackson’s 1951 book Hangsaman, when the author was living in the college town of Bennington, Vermont, and was inspired by the recent disappearance of a female student.

More than anything else, SHIRLEY plays out like a riff on WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOLF, which involves a young couple getting sucked into the psychosexual dramas of a bitter middle-aged college professor and his boozy wife. This is exactly what happens here, with Jackson (a perfectly cast Elisabeth Moss) and her professor husband (Michael Shulberg) playing host to a young couple newly arrived to town. While this movie doesn’t come anywhere near Mike Nichols’s directorial debut, it' does add some interesting wrinkles about the creative process and the role codependency can play within it. Director Josephine Decker (MADELINE’S MADELINE) continues to show keen insight into the messier aspects of human creativity, and I’m hopeful this one will provide her with more opportunities to further explore these themes.

One of the films to come away with a Special Jury Award was THE TROUBLE WITH BEING BORN, which was in the new Encounters section. Directed by Sandra Wollner, this German film is indeed troubling on many levels. Expanding upon premises that have shown up in the Kubrick/Spielberg mix-up A.I., the recent “Westworld” TV show, EX MACHINA, BLADE RUNNER, and others I’m probably forgetting, THE TROUBLE WITH BEING BORN takes a disturbing look at what might happen if we replaced our lost loved ones with robots. In particular, it asks, what if the person was a dad who lost a daughter and had some seriously messed up ways of coping?

Eventually, our robot protagonist parts ways with her “dad” and finds a new home filling in for a different lost love. But, like some of the robots in “Westworld,” the robot is plagued with nagging bits of data from their past life. This is all interesting enough on paper — what was truly bugging me was that the narrative of the story was chopped and shuffled for reasons that weren’t enlightening or helpful at all. I understand that this may have been in an effort to reflect the disjointed memory of the robot, but really it just made everything needlessly muddled.

But perhaps more frustrating was the dim cinematography — which is especially befuddling since others have praised the camerawork. All I found was one dim, flatly lit scene after another. Particularly head-scratching (or eye-squinting) was a scene at dusk (or dawn?) of our pedo dad searching for his robot, and while we linger on his face all we can make out are a couple of vague shadows of a head and some tree branches. Maybe the featureless face was supposed to mean something but all I could think of is why couldn’t we get someone with a reflector board to bounce some light up into that face? There’s an ongoing problem in German cinema with movies looking like TV shows (see: SCHWESTERLEIN), and with the current trend of American TV shows being dimly lit in a mistaken effort to create “mood,” the accolades being given to THE TROUBLE BEING BORN don’t bode well.

Fortunately, the final weekend also featured two impressive and deeply impactful movies. First was DAU. NATASHA, which didn’t fail to live up to its controversial reputation. It is indeed a difficult movie to sit through, as we spend a lot of time with drunk people yelling at each other, deliberately pushing each other’s buttons, and on one occasion engage in graphic sloppy sex. This is all before the disturbing prison interrogation sequence.

Like SIBERIA and IRRADIATES, this one had a fair amount of walkouts, with one woman turning around on her way to the exit to shout, “This should be happening to him! This is 2020!” It’s an understandable statement, but one that also misses the point, I believe. Another critic complained that the movie felt like intellectual wankery — suggesting that the filmmakers knew nothing of the history of Russian prisons. But to me, it felt all too real. In my limited knowledge on the subject of Stalin-era prison interrogations, what goes down in DAU. NATASHA is relatively tame, yet accurate. To paraphrase the narrator in IRRADIATES, this is some terrible shit that happened quite recently in our history, and we shouldn’t forget about it because it’s all too likely that it could happen again (if it isn’t already).

A month after the fact, I’m still not sure if I would recommend DAU. NATASHA to anyone, but I am deeply impressed with it as a cinematic art project. In fact, I’m sad that I didn’t find the time for the six-hour DAU. DEGENERATION, which sounded like it was more outrageous and less upsetting.

My last movie at the 70th Berlinale was NEVER RARELY SOMETIMES ALWAYS, a beautiful movie that deserves every bit of praise it has been receiving (it took home this year’s Silver Bear Grand Jury Prize). With amazing performances from the two main actors Sidney Flanigan and Talia Ryder, this is realist cinema at its finest and for a good cause. It follows a high schooler, Autumn (Flanigan) and her cousin Skylar (Ryder) as they travel from small town Pennsylvania to big city New York in order to get Autumn’s unwanted pregnancy terminated.

While NRSA handles the subject matter with admirable sensitivity, it also looks at a young female friendship and life in rural America in a way few movies have. Generally speaking, I’m a bit tired of the usual brand of realism that gets shown on film, as it is often focused on familiar relationship dramas between people of a certain relatable age and income bracket. And, when these movies try to sound like “real people” talking, it’s often obnoxious or boring as hell (in its own extreme way, DAU. NATASHA revels in the tedium of realist dialog). NRSA avoids many of these pitfalls by observing people that are often dismissed and focusing more on what isn’t being said than on what’s coming out of the characters’ mouths. It’s a credit to the acting and the directing that so much of the experience of NRSA is in the silent gestures and in the heads of these characters — and there’s a lot going on there.

Until next year (fingers crossed)…

If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading! I’ll try to get some reviews up for the few Berlinale films that went unmentioned here (like the amazing BLOODY NOSE, EMPTY POCKETS), and for recent press screenings for films that are now caught in limbo. On the bright side, my productivity seems to have benefitted from this strangeness.

Music and Politics Rant

This is a long one. If you're looking for the TL;DR version, sorry oh denizens of Short Attention Span Theatre, there isn't one. This is cross-posted from my other blog. My oldest (Thing 1) and I recently had a debate over the relative musical merits of Kate Bush: I think she has merit, Thing 1 thinks she does not. It was one of those debates and ultimate disagreements that reasonable, educated people have that, far from being destructive, add the sort of spice to life to keep it from being an unrelieved death march. I'm not a fanboy for anyone, including Kate Bush. I long ago started thinking of her as the Charles Ives of pop music: a pile of interesting ideas that often deliver something significant but at least as often get in each other's way. Like Ives, people tend to either love her or hate her and have legitimate reasons for both positions, but tend to simply entrench for "reasons." And this sort of "debating" got me thinking (a dangerous prospect). The whole discussion with Thing 1 started when I watched a 2014 BBC documentary on Kate Bush. I thought it was pretty well done. It showed a number of intelligent, talented people who find merit in Bush's work. It interviewed Lindsay Kemp, who still had four years left in the tank at that point, and showed his influence on art rock at the time (basically everybody from Bowie on) (It also showed a couple of other things, perhaps without meaning to. It showed through Kemp's gestures the extent of mime vocabulary's influence on what might be characterized as "gay mannerisms", Kemp being a dancer and choreographer with heavy mime influence, having studied with Marcel Marceau. It also shows the difference between European artists and intellectuals and US pseudos. In the interviews, several people casually remark on having seen Kemp's "Flowers", based on Jean Genet's "Notre Dame des Fleurs". You would be hard-pressed to find any in the US to this day, outside of core LGBTQ+ culture, who have heard of Kemp, "Flowers", or even Jean Genet other than by reference.). And then toward the end it shows why rock critics as a group are ignorant, vicious little parasites. More on that below the fold, wherever the Hell that might be. Once upon a time I was in newspapers, and one of the things I did was write music reviews. It was a paycheck, and as I’ve noted elsewhere, I’ve always been closely involved with music. I wrote by two rules: 1) Be consistent, and 2) make it about the music on its own terms. On the first point, it doesn’t matter if the readers agree with you; they just need to know what to expect from you. If they know you don’t like a particular artist or a particular type of music, they can read you through the appropriate filter. The second point breaks in two. First, it’s about the music, not the people. I did not savage Van Halen because they were pricks who brutalized the little people who had to service their every whim. I went after Eddie Van Halen (who let’s face it was the real core of the band) who went shredding up and down the fretboard at random with no regard for chordal or modal structures (In fairness to Mr. Van Halen, he no longer plays like that and is a far superior musician than when every blockhead with a K-Mart electric six-string thought Eddie was God and gave us a generation of speed monkeys with zero musicianship.) (The speed monkey syndrome unfortunately spread to other instruments. It was the overwhelming norm among the Celtic fiddlers who followed Bonnie Rideout to Ann Arbor and insisted on playing faster than their talents, compensating by dropping notes out at random, and then blaming all the rest of us for all the ensemble issues. To all of you, I give an eternal, “Fuck you and the banshee of an instrument you tuck under your hiply stubbled chins and rape with your bows.”). Second, you have to put it in the music’s own frame of reference. It makes no sense to pan a Metropolitan Opera performance of Cosi fan Tutte because it isn’t a Black Sabbath concert. I realized early on that almost no rock music critics could grasp either of my rules (From this point on, you may assume that “Robert Christgau is a wanker” is flashing subliminally in the background.). From the beginning of such things, Rolling Stone has been the center of rock criticism (I just damned near wrote “crock recidivism”. I’m not a nice person.). It has also been the center of what is wrong with rock criticism for just as long. These guys were groupies. They were wannabes who couldn’t cut it, so they hung out with the guys who could, basking in the limelight. The reviews weren’t reviews, they were hagiographies. “The music must be great because I party with these guys.” “They must be significant because I party with these guys.” Everything was on a chummy, first-name-only basis (“Mick and Keith were really rockin’ it Thursday night.”) that became the norm for roughly forever (Cam Crowe slipped a screamingly funny joke about The Rocket’s review style in his movie Singles.). As tastes changed and their substance-abuse buddies died, faded away, or became arena bands (and now nostalgia bands playing the Peppermill in Wendover), Rolling Stone found itself unsuccessfully playing catch-up, jumping on every bandwagon that rolled down the street in a desperate attempt to get in front of The Next Big Thing and failing miserably. If it weren’t for Matt Taibbi, that rag would have no reason to exist. In the 70s other rags stepped into the breach, but they took the Stone’s style sheet and were all clones of one another. They couldn’t comprehend my rules, either. I remember one of these rags (probably Circus, but who honestly gives a shit at this point, they were fungible) going after every Harry Chapin recording because it “wasn’t rock.” Well no shit, Sherlock. Chapin wasn’t a rocker, he was a folkie, self-proclaimed, and condemning him for not being what he wasn’t was…well…not even wrong. Congratulations, rock critics, you just earned Stephen Frys’s second-greatest insult, right after “I almost care.” There was one exception to the Clone Wars: Creem. But that didn’t make it good, just different. Admittedly, Creem was covering a lot of things no one else was, including the early days of punk and all that was happening over at CBGB. But my gods the pretension. Memo to Lester Bangs: Just because you covered something doesn’t mean you invented it. Just because you came up with the label “punk rock” doesn’t mean you created punk rock. Punk rock was created by garage bands (US) and pub bands (UK) (I always envied the UK guys because no matter how, frankly, BAD you were, there was someone willing to book you. Here in the US? Not so much. Although you could always get homecoming and prom gigs if you were just another shitty cover band.) (Punk was spawned by my half-generation, the Late Boomers. The reason was simple: We were fucking sick and tired of the hypocrisy of the Early Boomers, our big brothers and sisters. They were the 60s Children, the Flower People, and they were still peddling that bullshit even though the wheels had fallen off the wagon and there was a global recession. They accused us of being self-centered for not “working for change” like them while they busily leveraged the huge advantage of having sucked up everything before we ever got on the scene. They took their 60s, corporatized, commoditized, packaged, and slapped a smiley face on them, and expected us to swallow it all without question. The problem was that we just didn’t believe hard enough in the dream. Meanwhile we were saying, “The fuck? Our dreams hit the wall at 110 per in Fall ’73! The wreckage is everywhere, but you dicks and everybody else is just stepping over it like it isn’t there!” We wanted to wave our private parts at them, so we did. Which is a long way of telling you Millennials that, if you lump the Early and Late Boomers together, your ignorance is showing. Yeah, there are plenty of Late Boomers who sold out [You hear me, Barry Obama? You sold us all out, but history will always remember you fondly because you landed between the Texas Turd Tornado and Hitler 2.0.], but we were the first ones to face the New Normal you folks are now dealing with. You need old wise men and women for your villages? Trust me, we’re available in hordes.) As yet another aside, there were garage bands, and there were garage bands. None of us were very good, but most of us wanted to improve to something resembling competency. The early punkers simply didn’t care (Hell, a lot of them, such as the New York Dolls, were so bad they made The Kingsmen sound like conservatory virtuosos. And the Noo Yuck critics, apparently on permanent bad acid trips from frequent visits to Andy Whore-wall’s Fucktory, kept rubbing out one after another for them all. “Daringly campy!” “A raw, animal sound!” Shit-shoveling by rapidly deteriorating white guys desperate to continue being perceived as bleeding edge.). Fortunately, this only lasted a few years before a lot of the punkers decided it maybe would not be so inauthentic if they actually learned how to play their instruments. I don’t care what John Lydon continues to blow out his ass, Black Flag was never boring. But I really can’t leave the topic of pretension without a mention of The Village Voice, the self-proclaimed font of all things cool and hip for over six decades and running. In reality The Village has been overrun with gentrifying yuppie scum straight off the set of Thirtynothing since before Rudy Giuliani parked his malignancy in the Mayor’s Office, and The Voice has followed suit. And Robert Christgau was at the center of it all. It has never ceased to amaze me how someone so admittedly ignorant could be such an expert on everything. He admits he is “not at all well-schooled” (understatement) in 50s and 60s jazz, yet he has reviewed jazz artists such as Miles Davis, Ornette Coleman, and Sonny Rollins without any of that context and has declared Frank Sinatra the greatest singer of the 20th Century (A meaningless statement. How can you compare Sinatra and, say, Pavarotti? You can’t, and anyone with a lick of humility and two brain cells to rub together doesn’t even try.) while apparently ignorant of Nelson Riddle’s role in creating Sinatra’s best albums. He was an early promoter of punk, right through all the “authentic vs. poseur” wars, blissfully unaware that this was not a rebellion unique to punk but rather was a recurring fight in music, most recently before that in the “this is jazz/this is not jazz” that started with the rise of bebop after the Second World War, that caused a butt-ton of damage to the genre, and that Miles Davis was a pivotal player in until he finally got over it and put on that shiny red leather suit and released Bitches Brew, which Christgau unironically nominated to Jazz & Pop as jazz album of the year in 1970. He considers the New York Dolls one of the five greatest artists of all time. Please. The Dolls were influential, true, and for two reasons: 1) Their show was cheap and entertaining and so readily copiable and copied, and 2) their musicianship was so crude a half-trained baboon could cover it. Not exactly reasons to put them in GOAT contention. Finally, Christgau doesn’t like and is nearly completely ignorant of classical music. This tells me so many things, but two bubble immediately to the surface: 1) He has neither the music history nor the music theory to hold 90% (at least) of the opinions he’s been paid for over the last half-century, and 2) he’s a shallow little shit who needs to sit in a corner and STFU. And believe it or not, all that was just a warm-up to get around to John Harris. Toward the end of the Kate Bush documentary is a roundtable discussion of her latest album (Aerial) by several UK rock critics, including Harris. Harris makes the remark that the music sounds like something you’d hear in a department store and that it’s obvious Bush hadn’t been in a studio for 12 years. I’ll start with the statements themselves and then turn to their wider ramifications. Department store music? I’d like to know where Harris hangs out that this is the ambient Muzak. Let’s chalk this one up to hyperbole and move on to the “12 years” remark. He doesn’t really elaborate on this (not entirely his fault, given the roundtable format) so we can only speculate on his actual point. Do her pipes sound rusty? Not really. Does the technology sound dated? No (And trust me, I keep up. It’s not like I sit around listening to Sergeant Pepper’s going, “Oh wow, they played those tapes backwards!”), and even if it did, that would be one to lay on the producer and the engineer. Is the music dated? An ambiguous word, “dated”, but I’m afraid we’ve finally reached what Harris was driving at. By “dated” do we mean it doesn’t sound like other music being produced now? First, when has Kate Bush ever sounded like anyone else, and second when did sounding like everyone else become a standard of musical quality? It hasn’t and it shouldn’t, but I’m afraid this is the point Harris is trying to make. Perhaps, though, he meant this sounds like her old material. Saying that an artist is repeating themself is a helpful criticism, especially if you explain why you think so. Frankly that’s a point I can agree with; I find a certain sameness in her work since Hounds of Love. But that isn’t even remotely what Harris says. He says she sounds old-fashioned, which is never a useful comment, merely a pejorative one, and worse, a pejorative aimed not just at the artist but at the listener. You are listening to old-fashioned music. You are old-fashioned. You are outdated. Catch up! Under the best of circumstances, this is unmitigated bullshit. Coming from Harris, it is unmitigated bullshit that is part of a career full of it. Harris’s cred as a “serious person” essentially rests on his 2003 book The Last Party: Britpop, Blair and the Demise of English Rock (repackaged in 2004 as Britpop: Cool Britannia and the Spectacular Demise of English Rock) and the follow-up BBC Four 2005 documentary The Britpop Story. His thesis is that 90s Britpop was the last great shining moment for UK pop. No, really. At this point, let facts be placed before a candid world. The UK has been a popular music powerhouse for quite awhile, and by “powerhouse” I mean a global influence. Let’s start arbitrarily with Gilbert & Sullivan, pass the baton to Ivor Novello, and then to Noel Coward. The Second World War made hash of it all, and the post-war generation found that the US had stolen the baton, but rather than going gentle into that not-so-good night, both the rockers and the mods invaded the US and stole much of the thunder back. This continued into the 70s, whether you’re talking about arena bands, metal, prog rock, or punk, and on into the 80s, again whether you’re talking about power pop, synthpop, or New Wave. Big influences that can still be heard around the world. Compare Britpop. The whole point of Britpop was to be a calculated foil for Grunge and as safe and marketable as possible, the perfect theme music for the Tony Blair years. It has so little edge it couldn’t leave a mark on a piece of talc. Its influence has been negligible except as a template for profitable pap. In 1997 the whole sham came unraveled as Oasis released the bloated disappointment Be Here Now and Blur abandoned the field to join the US “lo-fi” movement. Their lasting influence is Coldplay, and let’s be honest, if Coldplay is your gold standard, I’m afraid you actually have a pyrite mine. But Harris thinks Britpop was the shining end of UK rock. There are a number of holes in this assertion; two are glaring. First, there are still plenty of new bands in the UK churning out good stuff (That Harris seems blissfully ignorant of these bands makes me wonder just who is out-dated and needs to catch up.). Look them up yourselves; I’m not falling into the trap of naming a few here. Suffice it to say they’re diverse, and you’re likely to hit on several you consider acceptable regardless of your musical tastes. They’ve even been having an influence in the EU, but we’ll see what Brexit brings (Influence in the US? Not so much since we have reached a level of insularity here that rules out anything beyond our borders having merit, in spite of having access to it all on The Interwebz.). And these bands have a Hell of a lot more to offer than the Britpop slag did. Which brings us to glaring hole two. As noted previously, Britpop didn’t really have an impact. None outside of the UK, and damned little in the UK on any time scale longer than the life of a mayfly. Britpop was a nothingburger with a side of flies and a So? Duh! Harris, though, raises this localized, ephemeral phenomenon and turns it into the last scion of the UK pop tradition. This should just be considered a bad case of the sillies, except that Harris’s new schtick is political commentary, especially for The Grauniad. In keeping with The Graun’s policies, his position is “Support Remain but maintain that ‘both sides have merit’.” Which raises his Britpop position from silly to ironic, because Harris’s thinking on Britpop (“It was important in the UK, ergo it was IMPORTANT!”) is just the sort of insular, UK=World mentality that made Brexit possible. Brexit happened, for the most part, because of a bunch of people who believed that, whatever the puzzle was, the UK was the only piece that mattered. Harris’s elevation of Britpop on so high a pedestal rests on the same belief, even though he’s a Remainer. So it’s unintentionally ironic. It’s symptomatic of a malignant mindset. And it’s still silly. And so I give you Christgau and Harris, Exhibits 1 and 2 in my case for the beyond-uselessness of rock critics. And the former is still being allowed to write revisionist histories of the music of the last half-century while the latter is still being allowed to…well…write. What a world.

“Work # 965: Him & Me”

HIM: What’s up Butchie? ME: Up and at all day and now I’m off to bed . . . alone :-( . . . HIM: I know what that's like far too well. ME: It's a bugger the single life. HIM: I’ve been single for 20 yrs. I’m reaching out for friendship, boys, men, and of course subs ‘n slaves. I know I don't want to be single anymore. I’m tired of it. ME: I was with a guy for years and we got married on out 25th anniversary . . . and then cancer decided to pay a visit. I’ve been single now since 2004. HIM: I’ve been single since I was 24, I’ve been since 1996. I was with an 18 yr old. He was lovely; he hooked up with an older mature guy, stable and money. HIM: Sorry for your loss. ME: Thanks, I’m over it now (sort of) I guess. HIM: That's good. It’s good to share. ME: It is. I’m Bruce btw. HIM: Hi Bruce. Marty here. ME: Hiya Marty, I’m in Toronto, you're at which lake? Ontario has a lot of them. HIM: Ontario is blessed with lakes and water. I’m at the height of the Ontario watershed, I’m on Lake Temagami. It’s an artist’s paradise. I also hold my own art shows and invite guests. ME: Do you curate as well? HIM: I have thought of doing that, I also looked at a grant for that I saw a grant for $50 to $70,000 for that. Wufff. ME: You'd have a good chance of getting it too because of your location. I’d not applied for arts funding for years and years but I’m going to submit to the Ontario Arts Council this year in the Senior Artist category. What kind of work do you do Marty? HIM: I paint but won’t claim it’s my forte not even for a millisecond. I create in cloth, leather and use fur as well.im also mixed race Native and White. So a lot of my work has a Native influence. I bead as well. Make simple jewelry. I do leather craft, and my fave works are with quills and bark. I also make touristy things like organic dream-catchers, drums and the like. HIM: Do you have a big cock? ME: Being mixed-race gives you a leg up in the arts grant department and I have a average sized cock (cut) and you? HIM: I can work the First Nations angle till death. I’m above thickness with average length. HIM: Cut. ME: That sounds tasty! If you check out the O.A.C. site they explicitly say priority is given to aboriginal artists. My grandmother's grandmother was Cree, but I wouldn't dare . . . HIM: LOL ME: Could I see some more pics? HIM: I have a status card if that helps, I live on rez too. HIM: Did you see my pics in the profile??? If so that all I have. HIM: Do you know the Asspig site? ME: I’m just a standard member so I can't access anything but the most public pics. I know that site yes. The status card and rez would be helpful indeed. HIM: Here’s a few. HIM: Many people come to the rez to buy arts and crafts and I help them spend their money. ME: Nice looking fella . . . . HIM: Thanks. ME::-) I’m going for a walk now – I’ve got to get out of the house. Talk to you later Marty . . . HIM: Later. ME: Back . . . but I’m going out for the evening (nothing exciting). HIM: That's OK I'm at a dinner meeting. ME: My evening turned into a dud -- I went to a screening and it was sold out! HIM: Ahhh shitty. Hate that shit. ME: I know, but it got me out of the house for a bit and I had a nice chat with the filmmaker who's sort of a friend so at least he knows I tried to see his work. There may be a future screening so all's not lost. HIM: That's good to hear, do you have contact info for him or the screening, can u reserve a seat??? ME: It's the Images Festival and its all first come first serve :-( HIM: Ah SHITTY. ME: It's no big deal. How’s your week going Marty? HIM: Busy, busy, busy, and I love it, making a few extra bucks for hydro bill. ME: Same on this end -- I'm chained to the computer for the next few days (and not in the good way) to plow through a whole lot of stuff -- I’d prefer to sit in my back yard and watch the flowers grow, but . . . . HIM: I’m looking at the ice surrounding my island, wishing for hot weather, time to start boating, lovely break up, countless ice crystals clinking on the shore line, the loons haunting cries, the eagles, the moose the bear etc... love it. ME: Sounds fantastic (except for the ice) I’ve got a nice big garden and everything is starting to pop up now. HIM: I’m about 500 km north of you. ME: I’m beginning to hate the city – if I didn't have a back garden I think I’d go nuts. HIM: I hated the city a long time ago. I love living on the lake. ME: I’ve never learned to drive, so moving to the country would be a problem. HIM: Well I know how to drive, I have driven around the island, although it’s kind of not legal. I’ll take keys off people if they had a few drinks. ME: Why is it not legal? Good that you're the designated driver though. HIM: I don't have a driver license. ME::-) I can see how that could get you into a bit of trouble . . . HIM: True. ME: Have you ever been caught? I hope not. HIM: I was pulled over by the police more than 20 years ago as a DD without a license. He didn't even ask for a drivers permit. ME::-) My dad got stopped by the cops once because he was driving too slowly – they thought he was drunk. He was just looking at the farms and scenery . . . :-) HIM: Shitty but it’s nice to see the countryside. ME: Yes, I grew up in the country north of Toronto. HIM: Very nice, what area? ME: Newmarket – it was a tiny town when we moved there, my dad was born there but moved away, now it's huge and not so great. But when I was there I wanted out, there was nothing there for a gay kid. HIM: I guess not, yeah that area really developed. ME: It's pretty awful now. HIM: It’s a shame the lands around Toronto are built up, it’s the best farmland in Canada. The first 400 km with in distance of the CN Tower is the best farmland in Canada. Sprawled up ugly fucking houses. ME: hopefully the green belt has stopped that. HIM: It’s too bad Toronto and surrounding area didn't build up first and then out. I hate those houses especially in the Maple area near Wonderland. Fucking ugly houses with all those foreigners living in them. ME: Toronto is very sprawling, it's a result of not being hemmed in by geography – but the lessons have been learned and the city is now becoming more intensified and vertical (which in itself causes other problems. I lived in NYC for many years and HATED IT there, but as far as livable cities go Toronto is up near the top. Off for my daily walk now . . . HIM: Yes Toronto is one of the world, this I already know. I lived there for 7 years. ME: How long ago were you living here -- I moved in 1978 and came back in 2001. HIM: I was there 1996 to 2003. ME: We could have crossed paths. HIM: Probably. You are familiar looking, by chance did you ever have a boyfriend named Allan and he worked at Bubs Subs, Church and Wellesley. ME: No -- I’d come back to Toronto with my man John in 2001 and we were together until he died in 2004. HIM: Sorry to hear of your partner’s death. ME: It was quick -- he was sick for only six months. HIM: Wow. Sorry to hear that nonetheless. HIM: BTW you have nice pits. ME: Thank you very much! HIM: I love pit hair.... especially thick, burly belly and chest hair. HIM: What are you into sexually? ME: Actually I’m sort of vanilla. HIM: Oh sorry. I’m anything but vanilla. ME: What are you into? HIM: Leather, rough, all left black, navy, red, yellow, grey. ME: I understand all the colours except grey. HIM: Bondage. ME: That's right, now I remember. HIM: I’m into more than that. Love nasty raunch, too. ME: I’m mostly a kisser and cocksucker, boring I know. HIM: They can be good too. ME::-) You're too kind. HIM: I love guys who suck and swallow. Wooffff. ME: I do both. HIM: Nothing like a good service pig to suck a nice cock and bring him to completion. ME: I also like 69ing and then mixing the cum together on our tongues. HIM: I loveeeeee 69. I can get sucked off for hours without cumming but I tend to blow quickly if I 69. ME: And cum eating? HIM: I’ve only eaten cum once from another guy. ME: Mine tastes very good. HIM: That's nice...... I really don't get much action round here, but I do crave to suck cock and fuck. I would suck yours and swallow it. I know I wanna suck. I wasn't much into sucking when I was younger. ME: I’d let you suck my cock anytime :-) HIM: LOL I’m sure. You shooting neg or poz loads? ME: I’m clean, negative. HIM: I hate the line, I’m clean. It’s like anyone else who has been infected in some shape or form is dirty. Its dehumanizing really. I’m poz. Wanted you to know that. ME: Sorry my mistake – you're right. I’m not one of those idiots that run for the hills when they hear poz. HIM: That's good. ME: I lived through the darkest days of the epidemic in the 80s and 90s when I was in NYC. HIM: Wow. That’s very impressive and sad at the same time. ME: It was absolutely horrible, HIM: You made it though and yuu are strong for that. I think it was created in a lab and used to depopulate. ME: That's crossed my mind and the minds of many others as well. HIM: Sure it’s just a branch in the plan to depopulate the world. ME: There was an overt attempt to stigmatize gay men in the '80s and '90s and I’m not entirely sure that that has not gone away, it's just less hostile and aggressive. HIM: Well the ‘80s was harsh as a teen and the ‘90s were pretty gay. ME: That whole period was really hard for me, especially because I was living in a place that I hated, it got better when I came back to Canada but then was almost immediately followed by tragedy. It’s good now though. HIM: Yikes. ME: I came back to Canada in 2001 and in 2003 both my mother and my partner were in the same hospital at the same time. HIM: I’m sure it feels a bit of relief to share the grief. But sometimes you gotta think does the person need or are able to hear it, how will they feel afterwards. I don't wanna hear any more depressing energy from you. ME: Fine, my life is good now. HIM: That's good. ME: Yes it is, except for not enough money and no boyfriend, it's perfect. HIM: LOL I hear you. ME: Such is modern life, I think. HIM: I ain’t a fan of modern. ME: 21st century then. HIM: I love my life in the bush. ME: I like my back garden – it's facing away from the city, it's quiet, relaxing. HIM: That's always nice. I had a shitty apartment and no garden or yard in the city.... I miss my friends, music, men and the convenience of food. My yard is now Lake Temagami, have a look-see. ME: That's fantastic. HIM: I’m so blessed to be here and love it so much. Although there’s no gay community here, I’m wanting love and have considered moving, I’m thinking south-west New Mexico or Palm Springs, California. ME: Are there any larger small towns nearby that may have a fledgling community? HIM: The nearest bigger center is North Bay. HIM: Really funny I connected with a slave last night from North Bay. ME: How far is that away from you? HIM: A little over an hour away. ME: That's not too bad at all -- I’d imagine North Bay has some sort of gay community, or am I wrong to assume that? HIM: It’s closeted, its small and although there is a rainbow church. ME: Sounds old fashioned but it's better than nothing -- in a lot of ways Toronto is kind of closeted too. HIM: I’m a Satanist now. ME: Oh? HIM: yes it’s been about 5 months of the dark side for me, I love it. ME: That may narrow the community a bit. HIM: I don't care. Since my change it’s been hotter, already had a boy visit me and more on the way. Its working for me 100 fold already. Today is the 50 year anniversary of the church of SATAN . . . HS. I rejoice in the darkness. ME: What does it offer that you can't get elsewhere? HIM: I don't need to explain it to you. ME: OK. HIM: That's good. ME::-) HIM: Butchie . . . pick a subject, fetish or kink. ME: Fetish. HIM: What’s the hottest fetish out there? What’s fetish mean to you? ME: I just got in and I’m sort of drunk -- I’ll think about this. HIM: LOL where did u go??? ME: I spent many hours at The Black Eagle . . . fetish-wise I sort of have a thing for muscle worship. HIM: AHHH LOVED THE BLACK EAGLE. DOES IT STILL HAVE THAT RANK ODOUR TO IT? ME: They've installed a dance floor . . . a dance floor!!!!!! HIM: Wow. ME: Yes, I was shocked. HIM: Wow. ME: It’s just like any ordinary bar now. HIM: I heard they even allow females. ME: There were none there yesterday and I don't think there's a female washroom, so I’m not sure. HIM: I had heard awhile back females were allowed. ME: Apparently 1/3 of Woody's customers are now women. HIM: When I left the city, the scene was still somewhat sacred. ME: I haven't been to Church Street in years. Sunday night was the first time in forever, and it was pretty ridiculous. HIM: LLLOOOLLL. ME::-) The Eagle has a dance floor!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HIM: Yes you told me earlier, I still can’t believe it. Wow. ME: Neither can I, I just keep repeating to myself inside my head -- a dance floor? a dance floor! a dance floor? a dance floor! . . . HIM: OK we both know it, now we can both accept the sacrilege. ME: I will never darken their door again  HIM: LOL ME::-) morning . . . HIM: morning Butchie. ME: I’m out in the garden all day today. HIM: Good for you. ME: Did a lot of veggie planting and then I had a nap. HIM: That's a good days work. ME: And it's going to be warm from now on plus rainy – I have more to put in but the stock isn't in yet. I like gardening, it's relaxing. HIM: Of course it is, gardening is amazing. ME: My back is so sore now though. HIM: Good. ME: YEAH? Then give me a massage. HIM: It means you’re alive. ME::-) I’ll finish the rest of the planting today. HIM: Don't ever complain to me when your white and male and living in North America..... you could be a nigger starving in Africa. Or a woman in the Middle East with one arm because her other hand was chopped off for stealing a loaf of bread because she was hungry and trying to feed her babies. ME: I’m not complaining about anything and the rant is uncalled for. HIM: Frankly, I don't care about your gardening when this is a sex kink site. Have a nice life Butchie. Don’t message me again.

April 17-May 6 2016

MURDER BALLAD 24 - GUN FURY ACT I “Fair is foul and foul is fair” chirp the witches in the introduction to Macbeth, an opening that invites the audience to dig below the surface of the story, because as the floor stickies in old Bill’s tale of betrayal and murder, we learn that all is not as it first seems.

Scout Niblett is an English singer, songwriter and musician. Her murder ballad “Gun” is a sinister song about a plan for vengeance wrought by a troubled mind. Scout is a stage name - Niblett named herself after the tomboy child in Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird”. In the novel, Scout is a feisty and outspoken child who expresses herself simply and directly with language unencumbered by the barriers of acculturation that shackle the adult world. Scout is stubborn. Her adolescent single-mindedness makes empathy a challenge for her. Still, she is the overlooked hero of the book, and the author hints that she has great potential, but, like America itself, she is still struggling, still forming.

In Scout Niblett’s song the narrator has been done wrong. Her lover has lied to her and is with another woman.

Now, accounts of break-ups and the accompanying grief and sadness are de rigueur in pop music. Roy Orbison’s break up left him “Crying’”. Smokey Robinson’s admits in “Tracks of my Tears” that his smile was “only there to fool the public” and in Billy Bragg’s version of “Walk Away Renee” when his love starts seeing “Mr. Potato Head” he tells us he “went home and thought about the two of them together until the bath water went cold around me”.

But of course, break up songs aren’t always about men sharing their vulnerability. When betrayal knocks on the door it is often answered by anger, and revenge. “Tell me why everything turned around” cries Lindsay Buckingham as he shares his confusion and anger about his failed relationship with Stevie Nicks in “Go Your Own Way”. And much to Stevie’s chagrin he lets her and the world know “packing up, shacking up’s all you want to do”. HIS revenge was to write a hit song about her commitment issues and get her to sing it with him every single night they go on stage. When they perform it live, the song seems to be a cathartic “cri de coeur” for Lindsay, while Stevie looks like she would rather crawl under a rock. But “Go your Own Way” shows signs of acceptance, or at least resignation amidst the ache and anger.

“I HATE YOU SO MUCH RIGHT NOW!” screams Kelis in “Caught Out There” - angrily adding “So sick of your games, I’ll set your truck to flames”. Nancy Sinatra’s revenge was letting her man know that her boots were made for walking when she finds out “You’ve been messin’ where you shouldn’t have been messin’”

Scout Niblett’s “Gun” also tells a tale of betrayal and revenge. But In “Gun” Scout Niblett lets us know she isn’t into screaming or walking, she’s into killing. The song opens with a vocal delivery of an unemotional and practical plan, while her guitar growls and seethes, like a revving motorcycle at a traffic light, or someone grinding their teeth.

“I think I’m gonna buy me a gun, A nice little silver one And in a crowd someday you won’t see it coming anyway”

Not only does she plan to kill him, it’s going to be an ambush.

And she goes on to share her withering scorn for the other woman:

“Maybe you’ll be holding her hand, Or watching her shitty band”

Scout has lost her love, and insists that she is “thankful everyday”. But as these lines are repeated obsessively they suggest rancour rather than acceptance. Denial, anger, and a desperate need for control - overwhelm any acceptance. Like Lady Macbeth in her determination to be Queen, Scout seems to be in a state of unhealthy fixation. Macbeth was never a story about one man’s hunger for power, it’s a murderous codependent love story.

You see, Macbeth was bullied into killing by his wife. She wanted to become Queen, and so the King was the first body that hit the floor. That’s murder, treason AND insurrection - and it’s 3 strikes you’re out at Macbeth’s ball game. The guilt over his actions cause him to lose his faculties. He starts hallucinating. Lady Macbeth has profound mental health issues soon after, but this is not out of any sense of guilt, as she is utterly without compassion. Her deterioration begins after Macbeth goes off to war and leaves her on her own. Without a King to manipulate and control, she festers with her own oppressive thoughts and begins to unravel. Haunted by a fantasy of blood stains on her hands she compulsively washes them. This is old Bill’s way of revealing an unconscious attempt to rid herself of her moral stains, of her own soul’s uncleanliness. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth pay the price for their crimes with their sanity. As the disco witches Barry, Robin and Maurice Gibb once falsetto’ed “When you lose control and you’ve got no soul it’s tragedy”. Lady Macbeth is in denial and develops an unhealthy coping mechanism, an early example of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Poignantly, Donald Trump has an obsession with germs. Trump doesn’t really like shaking hands, especially those of teachers. According to Trump “teachers have 17,000 germs per square inch on their desks….ten times the germ rate of other professions” He is also said to avoid pressing the “G” button in elevators because it is the button he believes to be most infested with germs. The Donald has claimed that he is “borderline” OCD, and has said “I feel much better after I thoroughly wash my hands, which I do as much as possible.”

“and nobody, not even the rain has such small hands”

e.e.cummings

But of course, e.e. cummings poem is about love, and Donald Trump’s presidency has nothing to do with love.

ACT II

Scout has acknowledged the mixture of strength and vulnerability in Courtney Love’s songs were an influence on her work, and she has also claimed that it was after hearing Kurt Cobain that she decided to pick up a guitar. Scout however, tends to work solo and her sparse guitar playing reminds this listener not of Courtney or Nirvana but of the bluesmen of the Mississippi Delta. Her guitar sounds like Cobain’s, but her plain, stark guitar style is more like John Lee Hooker’s “Tupelo Blues”, or “Bring me my Shotgun” by the Texas bluesman Lightnin Hopkins.

Niblett has crafted a musical persona. She plays a character who is in touch with her darker emotions, but she doesn’t understand them or control them, her stormy emotions seem to control her. Scout plays songs that simmer with restless tension, where love and pain seem to be two sides of the same coin. Her oeuvre tends towards alienation, but she is not alienated from her emotions. Scout Niblett sings the blues…the blues of pain and heartache and wishful thinking, the blues of unanswered questions, the blues of wishing for a second chance, the blues of being rejected and discarded. Her stories tell of an unconsummated desire or, the object of desire removing itself. Her songs don’t describe abusive relationships, but they do hint at them. Her songs don’t carry the hope or the whimsical observations of a Joni Mitchell. She is more like a female Raymond Carver, a writer for whom all relationships eventually unravel into confusion, destruction and unspoken pain. But unlike much of Raymond Carver there is a tenderness in her stories, the pain and the tenderness of a broken heart. And Scout clings desperately to her bitterness, melancholy and broken heart like a security blanket, because after all, there is a masochistic “comfort” in repeated trauma. It may not be healthy, but it is familiar.

Now, despite being a strong independent woman with a flair for writing songs about difficult relationships and emotions, Scout Niblett doesn’t view herself as a feminist. She claims “I don’t really respond to gender issues. I respond more to human emotion…I’m more in touch with things that affect people on a humanistic level rather than a gender level.” Yep, that old chestnut “I’m a humanist not a feminist.” Even today the feminist movement still seems to frighten, threaten or put off a lot of people who would seem to be natural allies. Andrea Dworkin has said of this “many women, I think resist feminism because it is an agony to be fully conscious of the brutal misogyny which permeates culture, society, and all personal relationships.”

Nancy Sinatra, Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain have all declared that they are proud feminists. Kelis, however, like Scout, does not identify as a feminist. Kelis is willing to acknowledge the historical importance of feminism, and she links it to the civil rights movement, but she seems to believe that now America and the world is a big meritocracy and you don’t need these kinds of movements anymore because all you have to do is work hard and you will be rewarded. In Kelis’ world there are are no longer colour or gender barriers. Kelis believes that she is an example of this - she is a successful black woman and so it must be true. But it is also true that many rich and successful people feel this way. Benjamin Franklin and Donald Trump both wrote books on how to be successful, and they attribute their success to hard work and getting by on very little sleep. But both Benjamin and Donald and a great many others have a tendency to overlook the role that luck and money have played in their situations. This blindness to their own privilege is a form of denial, it seems to work as a defence or coping mechanism and is perhaps no less an issue of mental health than imagining blood stains on your hands.

ACT III

At last the video. The video for this track is a flip side to the song. Where the song achieves a mounting tension, the video is light hearted…Niblett dresses up as Snow White and goes to a fairground where she rides a ferris wheel, poses for pictures, and eats ice cream.

Snow White is an interesting choice for Scout. The story of Snow White begins with her pregnant mother, a seamstress who pricks her finger on a spinning wheel. The red blood, the snow outside her window, and her black spinning wheel become details in her wish to have a beautiful daughter, with skin white as snow, cheeks the colour of blood and hair as black as the ebony frame. She gets the wish at a high cost - she dies in child birth. Her husband the King then marries a wicked woman consumed by vanity, and murderously jealous of Snow White’s beauty. She tries to kill Snow White a number of times. Snow White has no mother. Her father is virtually absent from the story, and in any case he is useless at protecting her from her abusive, murderous step-mother. The other men in her life are all weak and inadequate as father surrogates. There is a hunter who leaves her abandoned in the forest. The 7 dwarves she meets allow her to live with them, but they are all flawed, to the extent that they are each named after their flaws. She becomes their subordinate and does their cooking and cleaning. They leave Snow White alone and unprotected despite repeated attempts on her life. Snow White is a victim of repeated trauma - she is hunted, neglected, abandoned and suffers several attempted murders. She is young and immature, unable to express emotion, or make good decisions to protect herself. The adults are absent or adversaries, she has no role models who would help her develop towards maturity. Beneath the simplicity of the story of Snow White is a character who lacks the support to grow emotionally, to individuate. She is saved purely by luck…a prince comes along and kisses her (without consent) while she is unconscious, which miraculously saves her from death. She sees him upon awakening, and falls in love without ever having spoken a word to him. This is not the basis for a healthy relationship. Snow White is NOT a feminist fairy tale.

The last shot of the video shows Scout Niblett discarding the empty ice cream cone in the dirt, as if she has chosen to abandon the sweet and good natured playfulness of childhood for the violent adult world of the town in the distance. For the first time we notice she has a purse. What's in the purse? Where is she going? Is she going to . . . ?

(In Macbeth, most of the murders happen offstage. Ol' Bill knew this added to the tension)

CURTAINS

Survey #478

“i get pretty just to fuck my face up”

If you were dying who would you say goodbye to first out of everyone? My mom. Are you someone who actually likes to babysit children? NO. Do you find any of your friends’ parents creepy or really mean? No. Do you have things on your mind right now? My weight is very, very much on my mind. I dared to weigh myself yesterday and I'm the heaviest I've ever been. So that's comforting. Are you at all stressed right now? ^^^^^^^ hunny I wanna pull all my hair out What was the last stuffed animal you bought? I don't know. What’s the last new good song that you discovered? "The Devil's Rejects" by Rob Zombie. I've been really into him lately. Felicity, Fiona, or Flavia? (with the “v” pronounced like a “w”–it’s Latin) "Felicity" is beautiful. I love the word in general. Which biblical name do you prefer: Naomi, Esther, Rachel, or Joanna? I love the name Naomi. Do you own a cowboy hat? No. Have you ever unfriended a sibling on social media? No; she unfriended me. Has someone let you down recently? My goddamn self. What are you looking forward to? Mom to get better so we can force ourselves back into the gym. Also Girt's mom to get better so we can see each other. For the weather to actually feel fall-ish. What’s your favorite Lady Gaga song? "Bad Romance." Skeletons or scarecrows? Skelly boiz What type of tree is the most common where you live? Oh, absolutely pine trees. Where did your last kiss take place? My living room. Name of your pet? Venus and Roman. How was your summer? Shitty. I hate summer. Do you miss anyone right now? I really miss Girt. Covid's gotta go. What size is your shirt? *feral hissing noises* Who was the last person you held hands with? Girt. Do you get out of bed on the left side or right side? Left, because I sleep mostly to the left. Do you like to be closer or farther back to the wheel when driving? Neither, I think? I haven't driven in so long that I'm not sure, but I'm quite sure I position myself pretty ideally. When eating dinner, do you eat foods in order or just inhale it? It's usually kind of in order, but occasionally I'll mix it up. When you lose your phone, where is the first general place you look? My bed. Do you fall asleep with your mouth open or closed? Usually closed. I tend to breathe through my nose unless I'm stuffy. What was the last bug you killed? An ant. Do you keep items in your front or back pants’ pocket? Front. What was the last item or location you cleaned? My glasses. Do you own a pet spider? No, but I REALLY want a number of tarantulas. :( The more time that passes, the more I want some, ha ha. I'd also love a jumping spider or two, but Mom won't allow even that. Have you ever gone on a cruise? No. Is there a rocking chair in your house? No. Have you ever been stood up? No. Do you like elevators or escalators? I'm scared of both. I'm afraid of getting stuck in an elevator, or falling down an escalator/tripping on one. Which do you prefer: M&M’s, Skittles, or Reese’s Pieces? Reese's Pieces, yum. If you could be the sidekick of a superhero which superhero would you pick? Uhhhh maybe Spider-Man, if I could web-sling too? lol Where on your body would you never get a tattoo? ... Can/do people get genitalia tattoos? Because I would fuckin never- Do you think that you could ever win a food eating contest? Hell no. I would puke. Honestly, have you ever thrown garbage out of the window of a car? Absolutely not. Never. What is the first song that comes to mind when I say: Michael Jackson? "Billie Jean." Which would you find more menacing: dinosaurs or dragons? Dragons are just dinos that can fly and breathe fire, so... you tell me which is more dangerous. I'd still try to befriend one tho lmao. Can you say “hello” in another language? Yeah; German is easy. It's just "hallo." Do you like licorice? NO omg Did anybody ever read bedtime stories to you when you were younger? Mom did. Do you have a favorite Johnny Depp movie? What is it? I really like his roles in Alice in Wonderland and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Were you ever force-fed as a child? My parents tried to enforce always finishing our plates. My mom is very against that now, considering the issues it can cause. Should kidneys or other organs be able to be bought and sold? No????? That's some black market bullshit for a reason. What is one of your most important rules when going on a date? Especially if it's your first date with a person, watch for red flags. Will children today have better or worse lives than their parents, and why? Well, it'll probably go in both ways depending on the topic. The environment is dying, the economy is horrific, but I'm sure there will be things like medical advancements. What's the most ironic thing you've seen happen? I dunno. Would you rather go ice skating or roller skating? Roller skating. The blades on ice skates scare me. How many different types of guns have you shot? (water, Nerf, real, etc) Uhhh just water and Nerf, I think? Which of the three meals a day are you most likely to skip? It's very unlikely you'll see me miss a meal... I don't handle the feeling of hunger well. What's something lots of people are afraid of, but you aren't? Snakes, some spiders, I don't THINK I'm scared of deep water, the dark... Do you know anyone who is tolerant of some on the LGBT spectrum but not all? Yes. Do open casket wakes freak you out? I've only been to one, as a child, when I didn't have a full grasp on death, so it was... oddly more fascinating to me, as weird as that sounds? I think going to one now, especially if it was someone close to me, it would make the wake more upsetting. When's the last time you slept in your parents' bed? No clue. What's something that will always be in fashion? Skinny jeans, checkered Vans... What "old person things" do you do? I regularly say "back in the day," lol. And I can go to sleep very early, like 7, but that's uncommon. I complain about soreness in my back and stuff. Do you live in the same hometown as where you were born? No. Did you dorm at college or commute from home? I commuted from home. Do you prefer the thin blue and white masks, or decorative ones? Well, who wouldn't prefer decorative ones? They're more personal to your interests and stuff and I feel is more encouraging to make people wear them. I however don't want to spend money on a mask, so I'm chill with just the blue surgical ones. Have you ever witnessed someone have a seizure before? My dog, yes. Have you ever rode on the back of a shopping cart, or a Home Depot dolly? Yeah, as a kid. Does everything you buy have to be organic? No. I don't buy the groceries, but I also don't care much about that. Do you support more small businesses or chain restaurants/stores? Habitually, chain ones. I wish I paid more attention to small businesses. Have you ever been crowned king or queen at a school dance? No. How old were you when you first started wearing a bra? Am I supposed to remember that? Are you more invested in computer games or video games? I don't care what the game is on; I can be equally invested in either. I prefer to play console games, though. Are you a fan of pumpkin spice everything? Noooo. I'm not a massive fan of it, actually. Is there any holiday that you don't decorate your house for? We only really decorate for occasionally Halloween and always Christmas. Mom may put up some Thanksgiving stuff. Tell me something your parents don't know about. They don't know certain places I've done sexual things at/on. What's the last table food you fed your pet? Roman doesn't get human food. He learned at a young age that's a no-no. Have you ever peed in the water at the beach? Ew, no. Even if it's incredibly vast, people still swim in that. Have you ever scored a winning goal for a team you played for? I doubt it. Have you ever participated in LARPing? No. Have you ever gotten a divorce? Never been married. Do you prefer "regular kissing" or French kissing? I mean that depends on the place and the mood. Are you more likely to give a hickey to someone else or get one? I haven't done that in many years, and when it happened, I don't think one of us did it more than the other. Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream? I HATE sprinkles. Have you been in more car accidents as a passenger or a driver? I've only ever been in an accident as a passenger. Have you ever been wrongfully convicted of a crime? No. Was any of the cafeteria food at your school actually any good? I actually didn't mind a good number of things. Have you ever wanted to become a lifeguard? No. What's the highest fever you've ever had? I'm unsure, but over 100. Have you ever kissed a dog on the mouth? Well, dogs have kissed ME on the mouth. al;sdkfjalksdjkf so gross When you were born was the umbilical cord wrapped around your neck? Uh, I don't believe so. I feel like I would know that if I was. Would you enter a burning building to save a kitten? I feel like I would, I think. My intense love of animals would probably force me to kick into action. Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John? Haaaa, I have a bias for "Mark," of course... but if we're talking which name I find most appealing, it's probably John. Or Luke. Have you ever been told that you talk too much? As a child, yes. Do you like to clean? Does ANYBODY enjoy it? Do you know of anyone who went into labor at the baby shower? Uh yikes. No. When's the last time you did a hand game with someone? (ie: Mary Mack) Probably not since I was little. Do you know anyone who was not born in a hospital, unexpectedly? No. Does anyone you know have dual citizenship to live in multiple countries? Possibly? Do you still have a landline phone/phone number? No. Name a fad that was popular when you were growing up, that you miss. Oh, I KNOW there's some things, but I don't recall right now. Have you ever gotten to milk a cow or a goat? No. I'm not sure I'd want to.