From 1986 to 2006

When’s the last time anyone heard anything about [JIM HOPPER]? Old friends remember them as [DRY + CARING] but also [CYNICAL + STUBBORN], no wonder they’re still known as [FAT RAMBO] around town. Today, in 2006, they are [65] and some people say they remind them of [A GREASY AMERICAN BREAKFAST WITH DRIP COFFEE, A WIDE-BRIMMED TAN HAT, MUSTY CABIN WOOD, AND THE DEAFENING CRACK OF A SMITH & WESTON 66].

Full name: James "Jim" Hopper

Nicknames: Hop, Hopper, Fat Rambo I guess (RIP Alexi!!!!)

Birthday: September 12th, 1949

Age: 65

Education: Ex Military Education, War Trauma etc.

Occupational Experience: Former Police Chief. Brawn for Watcher investigations.

TW: Alcoholism, death.

POST 1986

When life hurts you, because it will, remember the hurt – Oh, does Jim remember the hurt. There was no shortage of it after Eleven and Will’s funerals. As one would expect, he lived in a long fog after the loss of his second daughter. He struggled to reel himself into stability, spending many evenings by the side-by-tombstones. The man tried to keep himself busy and settled back into a workflow at Hawkins PD, but no amount of Whiskey or puttering helped him escape the ache of grief. He had to face it. Joyce was an incredible anchor for him during this time. To this day he’s not sure how she managed to be so strong – dealing with the aftermath of Will’s death, taking care of the community, and tending to his own rut. She was truly a light in the dark times. Consequently, the pair grew inseparable after their collective losses – mostly knowing that they weren’t alone in the pain. Rumours abounded about a potential romance between the pair, but a relationship never officialized for them between the years of 1986 to 2006. They were happy in friendship and that was simply enough for both.

Jim’s reluctant retirement from the Hawkins Police force came in the Spring of 1999. Most of the department was sad to see him go (others unified with a collective sigh of relief), but it was time to take a step back and slow down (according to Joyce). She tried looping him into activities around town, get him involved in community, help with some gardening in the backyard but it wasn’t long until the boredom set in. Thankfully Murray saved him from the misery of retired life with a proposition to take on some work with The Watcher. It renewed a needed sense of purpose in Jim’s life. He threw himself (and his fists) into whatever investigations required a little elbow grease. It was a good way to keep himself busy. Jim did what was needed of him without question, driving out of town to be the unassuming muscle behind whatever lead was being sleuthed on … Probably executed with a lot more force than he’d ever admit to either Murray or Nancy, but neither of them would ever have to know! This chunk of his life was packed with sleepless nights in questionable motel beds, bustling from gas station to gas station in true gritty americana fashion. The years and wrinkles piled on quicker this way. So did his grumpiness.

Jim managed to take Joyce out for one last dinner at Enzo’s before her final emergency surgery. That night was the last time either of them had a conversation outside the confines of her hospital room. The proposition was initially met with resistance by her medical team. It took some convincing but enough careful planning eventually swayed them all (specifically Jonathan) to let him roll Joyce and her oxygen tank out of the oncology unit without much fuss. Jim pulled out his finest button down and slacks for the occasion. It was an evening filled with greasy bread baskets and occasional tears as they reminisced over a candlelit dining table. Time slipped away from the pair that night. If either of them squinted hard enough, they were back in 1962 – both puffing on cigarettes in the Hawkins High parking lot, contemplating what the fuck their lives would look like after graduation. It certainly didn’t look anything like this …  and like all good things in Jim’s life, their flicker of joy at Enzo’s had to end too.

The drinking started to get out of hand after Joyce’s passing. As much as he’s been encouraged to remember the good times and work his way through the first foot stones of grief, the loss of his best (and community pillar) came with an emptiness that only cigars and Whiskey seemed to fill. Joyce had told him to keep it together, to try and live out his days happy & fulfilled – maybe even find a hobby besides beating people up for The Watcher. It simply wasn’t in the cards for poor old Jim. He found himself pulling away from those around him, fully shutting himself into his reclusive cabin on the edge of town. And while he’s managed to remain relatively stable for Jonathan and Murray, there’s no denying that a bottle or flask is never far from reach after the cabin door closes behind him. Jim’s only allowed his vulnerability to slip up on a handful of occasions. Jonathan himself has received a handful of 2am calls from bar owners asking him to pick up the washed-up police chief passed out on their bar. The little taxi rescue routine has been kept on the downlow between them – it’s become a quiet understanding of their mutual grief and, honestly, a sadness that neither of them are fully prepared to acknowledge.

These days Jim doesn’t leave the confines of his musty cabin often except to grab necessities and slide the pizza man a tip. There’s truly not much that can faze Jim Hopper these days. The sorrow itself manifests differently depending on the time of day – or whether you’ve caught him before or after his morning coffee (and bourbon). He’s generally more irritable and a true party pooper, though it isn’t new for anyone who knows a lick about him around town!

Time Capsule:

In 1986 Jim left an empty box of Eggo Waffles in the time capsule on behalf of El Hopper. There’s a note for the kiddo slipped inside.

Playlist

Pinterest

if you think about it, and it’s not a big brain think, the whole “good guys with guns will stop bad guys with guns” is the absolute weakest argument. The algorithmic probability that the gun men will spawn in the same location as a ‘good guy’ with a gun is in the randomized factor.

“But a good guy with a gun has always shot the mass shooter in the school”

sure. But you still have casualties you stupid, gas huffing, son of a boggart. One dead child, one injured teacher, one shot by a death machine, is far too many. One is far too many. One casualty should not exist.

And then we have to factor that the police showed up in cosplay to “FOLLOW ORDERS”. What a fuking cop-out. What a drowned and soggy excuse. Waited around for orders, because some disinterested bastard with his head in the clouds, dismissed the man in a school with an assault rifle as a NONTHREAT.

A fucking joke. A laughing stock. Said that on national television. The damn super visor, the forsaken manager of texas guns and more Kmart, dismissed an armed gunman as a NONTHREAT. DISMISSED HIM AND TOLD HIS HOME BOYS TO WAIT FOR BACKUP.

What sort of backup? JESUS FUCKING CHRIST? NOAH. CAIN? GOD HIMSELF TO DESCEND AND SAY, “THOU SHAL NOT KILL.” 

Blatant proof that texas has propped up the most irrelevant, shallow, pointless slabs of soured meat as their decision makers. The citizens are barely allowed the right to vote, let alone autonomy over their own bodies. For zero fuks sake.

The police know the laws, THESE SLAUGHTER EVENTS ARE NOT BRAND FUKING NEW. WHAT DID HE HONEST TO FUCK THINK A MAN WITH AN ASSUALT RIFLE WAS DOING IN A SCHOOL FULL OF CHILDREN?! CONDUCTING A REASLISTIC DRILL?! They fucking thought there would be negotiations, demands? That he was there to make a scene, SHOOT SOME KIDS, and then after killing some babies and teachers he would SURRENDER? IS THAT WHAT THEY WERE WAITING ON? THE GUNMAN TO SURRENDER?

Typically, that is where the massacre ends. A surrender, and then arrest. Local El Paso man is still in El Paso after he blew apart a Walmart.

There are no “Good guys” with guns here to save the day. There will never be “good guys” with guns, because the fact of the matter is, the “Good guy” with a gun only exist to maybe preserve their own life from getting shot to bits during a slaughter event. But that factor is astronomically low, because a mass shooter with an assault rifle does not need to be accurate or trained to blow people to pieces. He just needs to pull the trigger, and by the time the bullet spray has finished shredding flesh, the “good guy” with a gun might already be dead or bleeding out.

And by the time the execution has ended, casualties are piled and accounted for. One person cut down is one too many. The states allowing people to own an assault rifle is permission for some hateful bastard to purchase that weapon, and cull out a grocery store or a school. There is nothing else to it. The republicans validate these people by providing them with weapons. You’re not going to argue, “for collectors” or “a citizens rights”. The only rights they preserve and protect are those to anyone with the urge to take a gun and cull a school. That is the bottom line. 

No one turned into a Rambo and rushed the school. The parents were tazed or peppered sprayed by wannabe cops. Some of those ‘brave’ law enforcement were even allowed to breach the school to get THEIR OWN CHILDREN OUT, because they KNEW. THEY KNEW WHERE THE GUNMAN WAS. They left him trapped in a room with children. They condemned the children for a goddamn janitors key hidden in a Resident Evil style puzzle errand.

greg abbott victim to the trees was correct. It could have been much worse. The gunmen could have been a mobile shooter, doing a Terminator sweep of the school, going classroom to classroom. But he didn’t. He got locked in with a classroom of children. The children called 911 begging for help while the killer squatted with them and their dead peers, and the police hung around outside in full cosplay trying to figure out school locks.

But somehow, knowing the gunmen was dismissed as a nonthreat and was in a classroom of still living children, while they called for help, aches some painful injustice and nefarious botched situation planning. The gunmen wasn’t neutralized, he was decided to be a nonthreat, while children begged 911 to send the police. They were scared. They were unarmed. They were better trained, more courageous, than those shit stain grownass adults who live in one of the most pro-gun states in the entire universe. Its like the police force woke up and realized, “assault rifle exists?”

How fucking stupid. How embarrassing. How inconceivably horrendous to condemn those children because cops in cosplay couldn’t figure out a door.

I have been seeing those posts about ep 40 jon being injured and sleep deprived in the archives interviewing the others. Jon probably hasn’t come down from that getting wormed fear/adrenaline.. maybe he’s about to have a breakdown.. but tims there. Or martin or both. Also thank you for all the good content this year :)

Thank you for the lovely message! Had fun with this one, though I think I made it a tad more angsty than I planned to. Hope you enjoy otherwise, and happy holidays!

“...It’s just pain.”

Pain. That’s all. He can work through that, he’s done it before. The pills are wearing off, his entire body throbbing and wrestling with the feeling of hundreds of frantic, wriggling worms burrowing in and feasting- no, best not to think about that. He’s got to stay in control.

Control. Control is standing in his own office, leaning against his file cabinet surrounded by the corpses of worms with his boss sitting in front of him. His boss who is currently giving him an unimpressed stare, demanding that he go home. But it’s alright, he can do this.

It’s just pain.

Elias recounts what happened when Sasha came up to his office, alerting him to Prentiss’s attack. His voice is measured and controlled, but his face betrays a level of disgust that they all feel, the living reminder of which sits in front of him, bleeding and fidgeting as he tries to stay upright, squirming not unlike the-no. Stop.

He wishes he had the tape, but Sasha lost it in the confusion. This second-hand retelling is stale and hard to swallow. Elias sounds perfectly reasonable, as always, apologizing to Jon for taking too long with the CO2 to which Jon only replies “It’s fine. We’re alive.”

Just barely.

But then he talks about the scream. And Jon hears it all over again, that impossible sound of agony and rage that sung out as his world faded to black. And then Elias talks about how he stumbled upon them, compared them to fucking swiss cheese and he’s got to stop him, raising a trembling, still-bleeding hand. He doesn’t need to be reminded of that. No, Prentiss is gone. What he needs to focus on now is Gertrude- how she died, who killed her. If the person who did it was sitting in this very room. If he’s going to be next.

He imagines his body, lying forgotten in the tunnels as Gertrude’s did all those months. No one looking for him, no one caring. He’ll never get his answers, he’ll just lie there and rot like all those worms-

Elias gives no more useful information, repeating the story as if Jon’s being irrational and urges him to go home. You can barely stand. It’s true. But if he sits, he’ll have to look Elias in the eye instead of standing over him, grasping what little high ground he can. 

“Martin finding her body in the tunnels is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

Is it? 

He sighs, succumbing to exhaustion and sinking to his seat.

“Can you send in Tim?”

________

Tim’s voice is strange and detached. He sounds...traumatized, which is of course to be expected. 

He’s probably still high, too. 

It’s odd, how these things affect them. It’s sharpened all of Jon’s edges to an untenable degree, every movement a sharp agony of tangled nerves that sends his mind spiraling. But it dulled Tim, left him foggy and so unlike himself. He stares blankly somewhere to the left of Jon, as if meeting his eyes and seeing his own injuries laid out before him like a warped funhouse mirror would be too much, would undo this strange facsimile of a workday that Jon’s tried to conjure. Just the two of them in his office, discussing a case. Pay no mind to the dead worms or the blood coating the ground and the desk and his arm and his leg and-

“...I mean, I went full Gas-Rambo.” Tim. That sounds like Tim. His voice may be wrong but the words are there, teasing and familiar. He comes back, clears his throat and nods. But then Tim keeps going, slides back into his memories and makes them lucid for Jon.

“You know that worm smell? That earthy, rotten smell?”

Oh, yes. 

It’s still there, cloying and wretched reminder that it is. Elias told him to leave the basement, told him that he and Tim needed fresh air. But Jon wouldn’t listen, he never listens. And that’s why they’re in this mess.

But the why is bigger than that, too. He needs to know why Gertrude was in the tunnels, why she was killed, why these statements disturb him so and why the Archives feel wrong, like an intruder’s in their midst. He thinks he knows where he can find the answers. 

“Could you...describe the tunnels?” Tim sighs, but Jon presses on. Perhaps through someone else’s eyes he’ll find the one detail he missed, the one thing that explains it all and gives him peace of mind.

It’s quite the opposite. 

Because the worms down there, in that room Tim found, weren’t trying to attack anyone. They were crawling, wrapping around each other to form a ring- no, a doorway. Jon’s mind fixates on the word and Tim stares resolutely ahead, looking weary and drained. He has to hold it together, just two more interviews and he can go home and rest (and think and weep and scream). He clears his throat, lowers his voice to the register he finds most authoritative and tells Tim to go home and get some sleep. Tim rolls his eyes at the action, but gets to his feet, slow and pained.

“Yeah. Sure.”

He starts to shuffle towards the door but something twitches out of the corner of Jon’s eye, a tiny, jumping movement like...like a worm. He lets out a whimper as his mind shuts down, starts tearing at his arms, ripping at the bandages because something’s still there, burrowing deeper into his skin and soon it’s going to hit bone and where’s the corkscrew, where’s Martin’s steady hands and strong grip, he needs help-

“Whoa, there!” Tim’s coming back but he shouldn’t be, not when there’s worms all over his desk, crawling and jumping and devouring.

“She’s- she’s still here, can’t you see?” Jon’s tripping over words, stumbling out of his seat as he tries to avoid the writhing mass he sees below him. “Get h-help, we need- Martin! Martin, are you there?” It’s hard to walk, hard to move but he does it anyway, grabbing at the wall for balance as Tim backs away- good, go, get out, get help-

 Rapid footsteps sound and Martin appears in the doorway, his eyebrows knit in concern. “What’s- oh Jon, you’ve ripped your bandages, let me-”

Jon doesn’t care about that right now. Not when he can hear their song, not when Gertrude was rotting in the walls for so long and he didn’t know, he didn’t know. She became a mystery and he will too, it’s just a matter of time. He grabs onto Martin’s arm, clawing at his jumper with desperate hands.

“She’s-she’s-”

“There’s no one here, Jon. She’s gone. The ECDC took care of it,” Martin’s just trying to placate him, he can see the pity in his eyes. Maybe he needs it. But if Prentiss is gone, that doesn’t mean the danger is. Even if he can tell himself there are no worms, it’s all in his mind, there’s still that nagging voice in the back of his head- you’re next. 

So he holds on tighter, dragging Martin down to his level with a movement that makes him flush. “You- you saw her, Martin. Gertrude. How did she die?”

“Jon, please, just sit down-”

He pulls harder, raises his voice. “How did she die?”

“Jon-”

“How?” 

“She was shot! Three times to the chest. Th-That’s what I saw.” Martin’s eyes widen, as if the words were torn from him involuntarily.

Shot. Shot. The words echo somehow in this small, cluttered room and Jon can’t wrap his mind around them. She wasn’t attacked by Prentiss, killed by some unknowable enemy. She was shot. With a gun. A gun wielded by someone who had a reason to take the Archivist out. Someone who might still have that reason. 

He staggers back, releasing Martin and collapsing with what might be a sigh or a wail- he can’t hear what’s coming out of his mouth. He dimly registers a hand on his shoulder, gentle and warm but it feels like a threat because something’s wrong here, something’s after him and maybe it’s Martin, who found the corpse. Maybe it’s Tim, collapsed silently in the chair. Maybe it’s Elias, telling him to go home where he’s alone and vulnerable and easy to get. So he scrambles back against his desk, breathing heavily with his arms thrown out in front of him.

Martin was right, there are no worms here. Prentiss is gone. And something worse, and perhaps much more human is waiting in the shadows.

“..just needs sleep and some painkillers. I can take him back, call us a cab-”

“-both full of holes, for Christ’s sake. Jon’s scratching at himself! I’m not going to leave you on your own.”

“This isn’t some fun archives sleepover, Martin, you aren’t missing out on anything, I promise-”

“Shut up!” Martin’s voice breaks through the fog, loud and commanding in a way it usually isn’t. Jon hazards a glance up to see him standing at full height and even Tim looks shocked, leaning back in his chair as much as it allows. Martin goes red, taking a deep breath and lowering his voice. “That’s not what this is about, just...just let me do this. Let me make sure you’re alright. Please.”

Tim pauses, but gives in with a sigh. “Fine. I drove in, bad day for it. You fine with driving us back, or should we take a cab? I need to sleep.”

Jon raises his voice, tired of being talked about as if he weren’t in the room and can’t make decisions for himself. “N-No. I’m not going back with either of you-”

“Quit it, Jon.” Tim gingerly rises to his feet, shooting a tired look at his hunched form. “Nobody’s out to get you, you just need to get some fucking sleep and you’ll feel better. Now get up, or we’re leaving without you.” He clearly doesn’t mean it, because he pauses and waits for them in the doorway, watching as Martin bends down to offer his hand.

Jon’s hand automatically reaches out to grab his, but he stops himself. Maybe it’s his best shot- if it’s one of them, they may not make a move if the other one’s present. If it’s someone outside of their group, their odds are better for fighting them off. But if it’s Tim and Martin, well.

Jon takes his hand. because what other choice does he have? Only bad ones, it would seem. Martin helps him to his feet. “Are you sure you can walk? I can-”

“I’m fine.” If he’s going to die, he’d rather do it on his two feet and spare himself the indignity of holding onto his killer. He lets Martin keep a hand on his back, though- he can’t walk without it.

Every slow step is agony; he ignores Sasha smirk on the way out and eventually finds himself bundled in the backseat of Tim’s beat up silver sedan. He considers asking for the passenger seat as his nausea might get the best of him back here, but thinks better of it. Better to be back here and alone.

But then he isn’t alone, because Tim hesitates and moves to the back, wincing as he sits beside him. Why would he do that? What does he want? Jon wraps his arms around himself and scoots as far as he can to the side, trying to focus on Martin fiddling with the car and not the presence beside him. The radio blasts as soon as the engine roars to life and Jon flinches back, fingers burrowing deeper into his arms.

Martin begins to drive, not saying a word as he pulls out into traffic; he knows where they’re going, but Jon doesn’t. Tim must see his confusion.

“Were you not listening? We’re going back to mine.”

Jon casts his eyes to the floor. “I-I don’t want to-”

“Do you have unexpired food at your flat, Jon?” His face heats up- he’d been living on leftovers in the Archives, so that’s a no. “Will you actually rest if you go back on your own? Will you-” There’s a hand on Jon’s own, gentle but firm as Tim pulls it away from his arm and forces it down to the seat. “-stop picking.”

“Sorry,” he whispers, but Tim doesn’t let go, just holds his hand in his and leans his head against the window, staring out at the road. Jon doesn’t pull back, no matter how much he wants to. He just looks down, staring at the larger hand on his own and wonders how easy it would be for Tim to break it. Just one good, hard squeeze and a crush of bone but no, Tim just absentmindedly runs his thumb over Jon’s knuckles and somehow this hurts more.

They must make an odd couple, he and Tim bandaged like mummies staggering up the steps with Martin at the helm. He’s been here a few times and he has to fight against the instinctive ease he feels upon walking through the threshold. Martin’s talking and Tim’s barking out short answers, dropping his belongings as he limps towards the bedroom and makes a dismissive gesture at Martin. Jon feels strangely outside of his body, looking in on a bastardized scene of domesticity through a foggy haze of pain and unreality. With a start he comes back to himself, and suddenly he’s on Tim’s couch; time must have passed for he’s wrapped in a blanket with a steaming cup of tea in his hands and a lump in his throat. And he’s talking, watching as Martin fixes his bandage with a careful hand. 

“...tapes are gone, Martin. Sasha said she lost them but I don’t understand-”

“Prentiss practically destroyed the Archives, Jon, I’m surprised more aren’t missing. Look, Tim’s already asleep, you should do the same-”

Sleep? How can I sleep when- “Someone killed Gertrude,” he whispers and his hands shake, tea dripping down the side of his mug and scalding his skin. “And they’re going to get me next. Can’t you see?”

Two hands wrap around his own- big, like Tim’s but softer and unscarred. Kind, but still capable. Of what, Jon doesn’t know. He lifts his eyes towards Martin and sees it- Martin’s scared too, doesn’t know what to do with Jon’s ramblings and doesn’t know how to comfort him or make it better.

“Drink your tea.” There’s an edge of hysteria in his voice, a naked plea that Jon finds unnerving. “And I’ll keep watch. You’ve- you’ve got us, Jon.” It’s so sincere. 

Jon wants to believe it. “I do?”

“Yes.”

He drinks his tea and feels the fogginess from painkillers he doesn’t remember taking slip over him, quieting the voice in his head to a barely audible whisper. The pain’s gone but the memory of it doesn’t fade; he stifles a manic giggle as a childish tune pops into his head. The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out!

His eyes drift shut as the cup is pried out of his grip, a gentle hand pushing him to lay down on the sofa. He hears the dull murmur of comforting words and a sniffle- he’s going to go to sleep soon, Martin will be the only one awake, and Jon doesn’t know what he’ll do or what he’s capable of. But he’s so, so tired. And he may not trust Martin, but he wants him to stay.

He wakes only once during the night to see the outline of Martin sitting in a chair, scribbling something in a notebook. It’s so innocuous he can’t help the tiny noise of relief that slips out of his mouth. 

Martin doesn’t even look over, just quietly tells him to go back to sleep as if he’s hushed him a few times already. Maybe he has. The normalcy of it is like a peek into some universe he’s not yet privy to; Jon knows he shouldn’t trust the comfort of it. And yet. 

He goes back to sleep.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252950

“You and I” John Winchester x F!Reader

Summary:  Set before the boys raid the vampire nest to get the colt, John visits you to get insight on which vamps have it. Owning a bar, you are a highway of information for the supernatural and an “old friend” of johns. How will he react around you while his sons meet you for the first time?

Word Count: 3753

Warning: Swearing, Alcohol, lil steamy moment

Song I Wrote To: “You and I” by Lady Gaga

Note: This is a bit canon divergence but I liked the concept. I’ve mentioned before that I don’t write smut, but I hope this lil steamy moment was okay. I don’t see enough John fics on here or ao3 so I wanted to do something. I wish we would have gotten more of his character. Tho i think that’s just cause I love JDM so much. 

-------

In the dark of a lone American road, a 67’ Impala rolled along the rain-slicked street. 

“You have that look on your face again,” Dean Winchester said, looking over at his brother. Sam turned to him, confused. 

“What look?” he asked. 

“The look that says you want to either punch Dad or punch him twice,” Dean said with a knowing glance. 

“I just don’t get why he won’t tell us where we’re going,” Sam said with a deep sigh as he stared at the taillights of their father’s truck ahead of them. “He just has to make everything so damn mysterious.” Dean laughed as his thumbs drummed on the steering wheel. 

“You’re just realizing that now, Sammy? Dad has always been like this, but he knows what he’s doing. Always does.” 

“I’m not so sure about that,” Sam grumbled and Dean rolled his eyes. In their search for the colt, they had gotten word that the break-in was perpetrated by a nest of vampires. The problem was, they weren’t sure where to start when it came to the bloodsuckers. Then, John had mentioned he knew someone who could give them a hand. That was all he said before jumping in his truck and telling his boys to follow him. Sam and Dean had done what they were told and revved the Impala’s engine, but now, Sam was getting restless. 

----

John Winchester drove with an eagerness.

He knew where he was going.  He had the route memorized no matter which direction he was coming from. You were the kind of woman that he couldn’t forget even if he tried. There was something about the way you didn’t take any bullshit when it came to anyone. Then there was the fact that you handled a sawed-off shotgun as well as any hunter he had ever met. John always liked keeping you to himself, his own personal getaway when things were getting a bit too dark for his tastes. 

However, unfortunately, this visit would not be a social one. He needed your help and he was running out of options to find the colt. If anyone knew where to find a vamp nest with a desire for a mystical gun, it would be you.

John hit the gas and sped down the road, keeping Sam and Dean in his rearview mirror. He was actually nervous for once. There was so much of his life that he kept private from his sons. Dean knew a bit more than Sam, but they didn’t know about you. They didn’t know about how you had saved his life twice or that you had asked him to stay with you on multiple occasions, but he couldn’t. You always understood that he had a mission to complete. Not just for Mary, but for his boys as well and you respected that even when all you wanted was a bit more time with the man, just as he did with you. 

Turning off the highway, John rolled into a town that seemed like coming home. Dean followed him through the winding streets as John drove straight for your bar. You had owned “The Iron Outpost” since before you had met the eldest Winchester. The entire building was lined with pure iron to keep unwanted spirits at bay. Not to mention the devil’s traps at both entrances and holy water you added to all the drinks.

You were pretty lenient with most supernaturals such as wolves, witches, even the odd vampire on occasion, but demons was where you drew the line. They never got past the door and if they tried, they would be met by you or your business partner, Dawn, who was also a hunter. The two of you had become an information highway for everything going on in the supernatural world and that was why the Winchesters were now at your doorstep. 

Parking in front of the Outpost, John got out of his truck just as his sons pulled in. Sam still looked annoyed as he got out of the Impala, but Dean just looked confused. “Alright, Dad,” Dean said, “what’s going on? Who is this secret contact of yours.”

“Never said she was a secret, Dean,” John said, “I just said you had never met her.” 

“She?” Sam asked. 

“She’s a hunter,” John said, nodding towards the front door. “Sort of.” 

Sam and Dean exchanged a look before following John into the bar. It was pretty crowded for a Tuesday night. The low hum of conversation rolled throughout the room as drinks were poured and food was served. Dean immediately spotted the odd charms that hung around the main entrance, as well as the warding symbols carved into the door frame.

There were two levels in the place and people milled about on both floors, smiling and drinking their fill. It was a typical place to find hunters and Dean immediately loved it. Sam was still a bit skeptical but remained optimistic that this place would offer answers. 

John searched the floor for you, but could only spot Dawn as she worked behind the bar, smiling at patrons. Moving further into the bar, John kept his eyes peeled for you. “Is she meeting us here?” Sam asked. 

“She owns the bar,” John said, turning to his youngest. “She should be around here somewhere…”

“Closer than you think, Winchester,” a voice came from above and John visibly relaxed as your voice reached him. Looking up at the balcony on the second floor, he finally spotted you. Grinning, you turned and jogged down the stairs. John’s eyes followed you as you approached him and the boys. 

“(Y/N),” he greeted with a smile. 

“Heya, Handsome,” you said as you walked up to him. “I’ve missed you,” you whispered as you leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. John smiled down at you, taking in your face as if he was trying to memorize it. “And I see you’ve brought guests,” you said, peering over his shoulder. Though, it didn’t take long for the pieces to fit together in your mind. “Or should I say, family.”

“(Y/N),” John said, “these are my boys, Sam and Dean,” he introduced, gesturing to each of his sons. You shook both of their hands, smiling. 

“Wow, John, you never mentioned how tall they were,” you said, looking at Sam with amusement in your eyes. The youngest Winchester chewed on the inside of his lip, awkwardly. Turning back to John, you sat into a single hip, crossing your arms. “What are you doin’ back in my neck of the woods?” you asked. 

“Need your help on something, (Y/N),” he said and you recognized his tone of voice immediately. This wasn’t going to be one of your more...entertaining visits. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked, giving him your full attention. 

“We may need a bit more privacy for this conversation,” he said, glancing around and you instantly understood. 

“That kind of ‘something’, huh?” John nodded, “Alright, boys. Why don’t you grab a seat and I’ll start closin’ up early. I’ll send Dawn over with a bottle,” you said. John reached out and squeezed your arm. 

“Thanks,” he said. You sent him a wink and then disappeared to start clearing out customers. John led his sons over to the table he always sat at when he came to visit. Shrugging out of his coat, he leaned back and watched as you spoke to Dawn across the bar, gesturing to the three men in the corner. 

“Dad?” Dean said, gaining John’s attention. “How exactly do you know her?” John sighed, running a hand over his face.

“I met her a few years ago,” John began, “I was on a hunt not too far from here. Some large-scale haunting and I hadn’t realized there was more than one ghost. These were nasty spirits. Salt slowed them down, but every time I turned around, three more would show up. I was being cornered by at least four of them and I was out of rounds when (Y/N) showed up and showered them in salt,” John chuckled slightly at the memory. “Woman was like Rambo with a salt grenade and then she hauled my ass out of there.” 

“So you got your ass handed to you by a chick?” Dean asked, amused. John shrugged. 

“Twice actually,” he continued. “She came with me to salt and burn the bones when a vamp came out of nowhere. Freshly turned one too. I’ve never seen anyone move that fast with a machete.”

“But I thought you said she wasn’t a hunter,” Sam said. 

“I said she was sort of a hunter,” John corrected. “(Y/N) hunts when she can. Mostly local things to keep her town safe, but she has other...talents. (Y/N) is connected in the world of the supernatural. She always knows what is going on within the monster world.”

“What? Like having Wolfman on speed dial?” Dean asked and Sam kicked him under the table. Dean threw a glare at his little brother, annoyed. 

“Kind of,” John said, “it’s complicated.” Dean pursed his lips but didn’t press the issue as Dawn arrived with a bottle of bourbon and four glasses. She dropped them on the table. “Thanks, Dawn,” John said. Dawn grinned at him. 

“Good to see you, John,” she said. “Things have been a bit boring around here since you left.” 

“You know me, D, gotta keep moving,” he said and she rolled her eyes. 

“Right,” she said with a knowing look. “Alright, you guys have a good night, I’m heading out.” Dawn nodded to the boys and then gripped John’s shoulder as she headed for the back, ready to have an early night. Dean poured the drinks and handed them out, pouring an extra one for you as you finished up sending people home. 

John sipped from his glass as he watched as you dragged a very drunk psychic from the bar. “It helps me see better!” the woman complained, trying to stay on her feet. 

“Then go buy a bottle at the liquor store, Shay,” you said, hauling her to the door. “I got shit to do!”

“You are going to have a hard life, (Y/N),” Shay said, pointing her finger at your face. Then, the psychic fell over, trying to reach the door. 

“Bet you didn’t see that coming,” you quipped as she stumbled out the door. With a final dismissal of the staff, the Outpost was finally quiet. After locking up, you joined the Winchesters, gratefully accepting the drink John handed you. “Alright, fill me in.”

“Wait,” Sam said before John could begin, “how do we know we can trust her?” Dean rolled his eyes and John narrowed his at his youngest. You, however, had expected this. 

“Something tells me you have questions, Sam Winchester,” you said, downing the bourbon. “Ask away.”

“How do you get your information about the supernaturals?” Sam asked. You reached for the bottle again and poured yourself another drink as you spoke. 

“I have my sources,” you explained. “Not all ‘monsters’ are bad, boys. There are wolves that eat cow hearts from the butcher and vamps that drink blood-bags instead of people. If you know which ones are the less horrible ones, you can make deals with them. Offer them protection from other hunters in exchange for information. I don’t deal in demons though,” you assured them. “However, I do know how to summon one if the situation is that dire. Which it rarely is in these parts. Psychics and witches are also easy to find and very easy to bribe once you get to know them.”

“So you run a black market for information?” Dean asked. 

“That’s one way to put it, sure,” you said with a shrug. “I find that monsters are more willing to speak to you than other hunters. I offer them a deal and they usually take it.”

“What deal?” asked Sam. 

“If they prove to me that they don’t kill people and offer good information, I keep them protected and keep their secret.” 

“And if they break the deal?” 

“Then I kill them,” you said simply. 

“Just like that?” asked Dean. 

“Just like that, Dean,” you said. “Satisfied?” Dean hesitated before nodding. You looked at Sam and he did the same. 

“She’s good, boys,” John said and you smiled at him, gripping his shoulder. 

“So,” you began, “tell me what you need.” John turned fully towards you and you could see that he was exhausted. You weren’t sure when the last time he slept was. Then again, you hadn’t seen the man for months. A hundred different things could have happened since then. 

“We’re looking for the colt,” John said and your brows shot up. 

“As in Samuel Colt?” you asked.

“You know it?” he asked. 

“I do, but nobody knows where it is.”

“We did,” Dean interjected. “Another hunter, Daniel Elkins, had it, but it was stolen.” 

“By vamps, (Y/N),” John said. 

“What would vampires want with a gun like that?” you asked, confused. Everyone that knew about the supernatural was aware of the gun. It was legendary, but most people thought it was just a fable, a myth to tell monsters so they would be scared. You never imagined that someone you knew would be after it.

“We don’t know,” John said, “but we need it.” You sighed, placing your drink down. 

“I can ask some of my contacts, but I can’t make any promises. And as soon as I do, people, monsters, spirits, you name it, they’re all gonna know the Winchesters are after it.”

“We’re out of options, (Y/N),” he said. 

“I’ll do my best,” you said. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask why we need it?” Dean asked. 

“Not my business,” you said. “When you’re in the business in making deals and keeping secrets, you tend to learn to not ask questions. Excuse me,” you said as you got up and headed for your office upstairs. The three men watched after you. 

As soon as the door to your office shut, John turned to his sons. “Really? Did you have to interview her like a suspect?” He didn’t wait for them to answer as he got up and followed after you. 

“How well do you think they actually know each other?” Sam asked, watching after his father. 

“You don’t think…?” said Dean and then he cringed. “Not an image I needed, Sammy. Not at all.”

-------

Slipping into your office, John shut the door softly behind him. 

“Your boys are a lot like you,” you said from your desk as you texted away on your cell phone. John walked around the room as he looked at all the memorabilia you had from various hunts and adventures. Some he had even joined you on. When his eyes fell on the leather couch in the corner, he couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. 

“Sam is like me,” John eventually said, “but Dean is more like his mother.” John turned and walked back to you as you set your phone down and walked around to lean against the desk. John met you there. You reached out and ran your hands up his chest and then over his shoulders. 

“You look tired,” you said softly, looking into his hazel eyes that stared back at you through thick lashes.

“So do you,” he pointed out. You shrugged. 

“It can be hard in my line of work. Never know when someone is going to need me up at three in the morning.” John nodded as his hands slid around your waist under your shirt, his large hands gripping you tighter. His thumbs rubbed along your skin. “I was hoping you’d visit soon,” you said quietly. 

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he said, stepping closer between your legs. 

“I heard you mention the haunting we first worked,” you said as your hands crept up his neck and into his hair. 

“It was a tough one,” John said. “I should have done my research and of course, listened to the local bartender who told me the history of the place.”

“Yeah, probably would have helped,” you said with a grin. 

“You know,” John said, leaning forward to trail his lips along your jaw ever so slightly. “I never did thank you for saving me that night.” Your eyes fluttered closed as he nipped at your ear, your hands tightening in his hair.

“I remember you did,” you breathed out. 

“Oh?” John asked, innocently. Pulling back, he looked down at you with lustful eyes. “Would you mind reminding me?” With a hard tug, your lips met his and he grabbed your hips, placing you on the desk. 

John kissed you hard as he tried to make up for all the time lost between the two of you. You gripped him tightly, letting him take control. His hands moved from your waist to your hips and then your thighs as he took charge of your body. 

Sliding your hands from his hair to his waist, you ran them up his stomach beneath his shirt, feeling his hard chest beneath your fingers. John pressed in closer, gripping the back of your neck to tilt your head back for better access. When he parted your lips, a small groan echoed from your throat which only made him more eager.

There was nothing better than kissing John Winchester. He was the only man to ever make you feel like this and the second he walked out of your bar, you craved him until he returned. 

Your nails raked down his back as he let go of your lips and moved to your jaw and then down to your throat. Leaning back on the desk, you let him mark you, feeling electricity flow through your veins. You gasped as he bit down just above your collarbone. Keeping one hand on your neck, he used the other to grip your thigh. Your leg came up and between his legs. John pressed his body against yours harder at the movement. 

You were flush against him, feeling his body fit perfectly against your own. He dragged his teeth along your throat, eliciting another moan from your mouth. “You’re gonna cause trouble if you keep doing that,” he whispered against your skin. “Not that I’m complaining,” he said as he lay you back on the desk, running his hands along your body as he leaned over you. 

“Don’t be a tease,” you warned as he grinned, wrapping your leg around his waist. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a smirk as he trailed a finger across your chest.

 “John,” you breathed out as he moved back to your lips, swallowing your whispers. 

Just as his hand began to move towards the waistband of your jeans, your phone rang. 

“Fuck,” you groaned as he paused. Detangling yourself from his body, you slid off the desk and grabbed your phone. John stood back, trying to control his breathing as he smoothed down his shirt. You fussed with your own clothes as you picked up the call. 

John didn’t listen as you spoke to whatever contact you had reached out to. Instead, he tried to come down from the high he had just experienced in that small moment with you. He had almost forgotten what it had felt like to have you in his arms, to feel you respond to his touch. His heart jumped in anticipation at the thought of having the opportunity again, he knew it was unlikely. They still had a job to do. 

“You’re in luck,” you said, grabbing his attention as you pocketed your phone. John turned to you. You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand and smoothed your hair. “I have the location.”

-----

Once the two of you had made sure you didn’t look like horny teenagers, you rejoined Sam and Dean. 

“I got it,” John said, raising a piece of paper in his hand. Your vampire contact, a nomad who you had crossed paths with occasionally had heard about two humans who had been taken by a nest. A nest that was gloating about getting the jump on some guy named Elkins.

“Just like that?” Dean asked. 

“I told you,” John said, “she’s good.” Sam still looked skeptical, but Dean seemed to be alright with how things turned out. 

“Do you guys need anything else?” you asked, trying not to let the sadness on your face show. You knew he had to leave now and you weren’t sure when you would see him again.

“We’re good,” John said softly and you nodded, crossing your arms. 

“Well, don’t any of you be a stranger, okay?” you said. “And for god’s sake be careful so I don’t have to hunt you down cause you got turned.” 

“We’ll do our best,” John said with a longing look that Dean caught immediately. 

“We’ll meet you outside, Dad,” Dean said as he grabbed his brother’s jacket. “It was nice meeting you, (Y/N),” he said and you nodded back to the both of them. As soon as the door closed behind them, you grabbed John’s arm. 

“You’re going after it, aren’t you?” you asked. “The demon. That’s what the colt’s for.” John grimaced and you sighed. He had told you about the yellow-eyed demon the second time he had come to see you. To most people, a conversation like that would seem like bad pillow talk, but it was normal for the two of you. 

“You know I have to,” he said, reaching for you. His hand came up to hold the side of your face. 

“I know,” you said. “He’s not gonna know what hit him when John Winchester shows up with Samuel Colt’s gun on his hip,” you said as you pulled him closer, your hand resting on the place his gun normally sat. You pulled his lips to yours and you kissed him fiercely. He melted into the kiss and you felt as if this was finally goodbye. You didn’t know why, but something about the way you held each other spoke volumes. 

Pulling back, you looked right in his eyes and tried to memorize those beautiful hazel irises. “(Y/N), you are...it’s been you for so long,” he whispered and you fought back tears. You kissed him once more, letting your lips linger for just a few seconds before letting go again. 

“Go get the bastard,” you said. John smiled at you. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

Soft domestic destiel things that I Would Like to see

Dean cooking dinner for Cas and Cas wanting to do something too so he bakes a pie for Dean that is somehow So Good

(He’d been secretly practicing for weeks, he even took a cooking class.)

Cas taking a cooking class.

Cas folding Dean’s hot dog pajama pants super carefully.

Dean losing his keys and praying to Cas in the other room to ask him if he’s seen them.

“You don’t have to pray to me for everything, Dean, I’m right here.”

“Well, where’s the fun in that?”

Dean does the dishes but Will Not clean out the drain because the wet food wigs him out.

Cas trying and failing at using a vacuum so Dean buys a roomba.

Cas never quite understands that it’s a vacuum cleaner and he talks to/feeds it by dropping food on the floor (someone with art skills please draw this I need it)

Think Cas interrogating the cat

Cas is one of those neat freaks that has a super organized closet which Dean HATES so sometimes he moves Cas’ clothes around to mess with him- “C’mon, Cas, they’re socks, you don’t need to fold them.”

Similarly, Dean keeps the garage SUPER organized, pegboards and toolboxes and everything in its place. When Dean unfolds Cas’ socks, Cas switches the socket wrenches around.

Dean working late and coming home to dinner, made by Cas, who is super nervous that Dean won’t like what he made.

Dean actually loves it and is blown away by the amount of effort Cas put in.

“Wow, that class paid off, huh?”

Slow dancing in the living room with all of the lights off.

Cas making Dean breakfast in bed.

Dean making Cas breakfast in bed.

Cas REALLY wants a garden so Dean helps him make those raised bed planter thingies.

Now they have an herb garden, several tomato plants, and a whole separate section of flowers that attract bees.

They also have lots of bird feeders near the windows because Cas likes to watch them.

Cas is really picky about what kind of toothpaste he uses while Dean could care less.

Dean 100% owns one of those gigantic barbecues that have 7373299 knobs and functions.

Cas bought him a “Kiss the Chef” apron to go along with it

Dean probably loves to watch football. He doesn’t root for a specific team, he just likes the sport. Cas doesn’t understand At All, but he makes a point to cheer loudly when Dean does.

Their house is the one that all the kids go to on Halloween because they give out king sized candy bars.

Dean always dresses up-David Yaeger, Rambo, a cowboy. Cas just wears his Gas n Sip vest and Steve name tag.

When people ask what he’s supposed to be, he just says “Steve” unenthusiastically.

They put out stockings for Christmas and Jack comes and fills them every year.

Dean’s nightstand is pretty bare-just an alarm clock and a photo from their wedding day. At night, he carefully takes off his wedding ring and sets it there. Every morning when he wakes up, he hurriedly checks to make sure it’s still there.

Cas’ nightstand is clustered with photos and keepsakes. Whatever can’t fit on the bedside table is relegated to the dresser.

Cas loves to take baths and really goes all out-candles, bath salts, essential oils. The whole nine yards. Dean teases him but Cas is unashamed.

Dean secretly enjoys baths too, but he’s not going to admit that.

Dean is one of those people that washes their car Way Too Much and owns all sorts of car care products. There’s an entire shelf in the garage that is Just wax.

Dean genuinely enjoys outside chores and loves to mow the lawn because Cas always brings him a beer while he does.

Not to go back to Dean cooking again but when Dean’s in the kitchen Cas just leans on the counter and Stares.

It makes Dean a little self conscious, but Cas’ face is just so cute and full of love he won’t say anything.

They have a welcome mat that says “Come on in, unless you’re a vampire” that Cas bought as a joke but Dean genuinely loves.

Cas is an avid knitter and is part of a knitting club that meets every Thursday. He tried to teach Dean, but Dean just didn’t have the patience for it.

Cas won’t let Miracle on the furniture but when he isn’t around Dean lets Miracle sit on the couch with him-“It’ll be our little secret.”

Cas knows Dean does it, but it’s just so funny to watch Dean hurriedly shuffle Miracle off the couch and pretend he wasn’t doing What He Was Doing when he comes up the driveway.

Okay, that’s all I have, sorry for the long post, but we were Robbed and these make me feel better.

January 4, 2021: First Blood (1982) (Part II)

Quick Recap before we go on. Oh, and SPOILERS right up top!

John Rambo (Sylvester Stallone) is a Vietnam vet wandering through Washington State, until coming upon the town of Hope, run by the Sheriff Will Teasle (Brian Dennehy).

Sheriff Will Teasle is an absolute dick who arrests Rambo for no real reason; just for being a “drifter.” His police force, which includes the sadistic Galt (Jack Starrett) and sympathetic Mitch (David Caruso, AKA Horatio Caine from CSI: Miami), beats John Rambo, and post-2020 me is UNCOMFORTABLE!!!!!!!

Rambo has Vietnam flashbacks (like you do) and escapes the prison, pursued by the obsessive and dickish Sheriff and his equally dickish men (except for Horatio, maybe).

Galt tries to shoot Rambo, and karma bitch-slaps him RIGHT in the face, holy shit. He dies, and Rambo is blamed and shot at, escaping into the forest.

OK?

OK. On with the recap!

At this point, all of Rambo’s actions are in self-defense. In truth, it’s been self-defense since the beginning. However, he does kill two dogs, so...yeah, can’t really justify that. That sucks. The dog’s handler gets shot by Rambo, who now has a gun, and we also see that Galt’s certified sociopathy has leaked into everybody else but Horatio upon his death, including the dog guy, who tells his dogs to straight up kill Rambo. But, as previously stated...that’s not what happens.

At this point, I should introduce the amemedala.

The amemedala is a portion of the mesencephalon (or midbrain) discovered in the brains of millennials and younger individuals, recently discovered, named, and made up by yours truly. This area, attached to the thalamus, acts as a relay center between the cerebrum and the various sensory receptors of the body, similar to the function of the thalamus. However, while the thalamus governs the broad relay of senses to the appropriate areas of the brain for analysis, the amemedala relays appropriate sensory signals to the frontal lobes, where catalogs of shared sociological trends, or memes, are housed. This relay and association generates connections between extrenal stimuli, and entries in the meme catalog of the frontal lobes. While this is technically an autonomic process, it can be suppressed with enough willpower.

Why am I ringing this up in the middle of First Blood? Because EVERY. SINGLE. CELL of my brain is working to suppress the amemedala right now. Why? BECAUSE OF THE LORAX, AND FOR WHOM HE SPEAKS.

Is it an outdated meme? Very much so. BUT I CANNOT GET IT OUT OF MY GODDAMN HEAD AS I WATCH THIS MOVIE.

OK. That is now out of my system. Anyway, Rambo continues to speak for the trees, which is understandably starting to spook the smalltown cops. This leads to the VERY surprising moment where a camouflaged Rambo appears OUT OF NOWHERE and stabs Horatio in the goddamn leg! Like, wow, he was invisible! I had to rewind the film to see where he was. This is tense...and awesome, not gonna lie. This is awesome.

And then, he gets another cop by JUMPING FROM A TREE. Well, a tree stump, BUT STILL. After he takes him out, he stands in plain sight in front of an approaching cop. That cop, subscribing once again to the shoot-first-ask-questions-later policy, fires. And I SWEAR, Rambo is FASTER THAN THOSE SPEEDING BULLETS, as he dodges out of the way, and the bullets HIT THE COP HE JUST TOOK OUT!

And then, when I didn’t think this could get any more intense, that cop triggers a booby trap, and A STICK WITH WOODEN SPIKES GOES THROUGH THIS MAN’S LEGS, AND HE’S SPEARED LIKE A KEBAB OH MY GOD

The asshole sheriff runs to the NEW set of panicked screams, and his compatriot is just Batman-ed away by Rambo. It’s just the sheriff, now. The storm is building, and the forest is getting darker. The sheriff frees leg-spike cop, and goes to find the other cop, who’s been PINNED TO A TREE LIKE A BUTTERFLY IN A DISPLAY CASE. See, look!

HOLY SHIT IT’S RAMBO WITH A KNIFE IN THE FOREST. He pins the sheriff up to a tree, then with some legitimately badass lines, threatens with the sheriff with “a war [he] wouldn’t believe,” and telling him to make like Elsa and…

I love this sequence. It is the most intense, crazy, holy shit sequence I’ve seen so far this month. Wow. I understand why people talk about this movie. Man, that was a hell of a ride! Good movie, though. All right, so, time for the final sco-

Oh. Oh, my God. I’m only HALFWAY INTO THE MOVIE?

...Wow. OK, then.

We now meet Colonel Sam Trautman, Rambo’s commander in the Green Berets. He’s come to “get his boy.” He says that he came to rescue the Sheriff’s dumb ass from Rambo, rather than the other way around. And the Sheriff is...an idiot. He’s an ass, he’s a maniac, and he’s a stubborn idiot. Even after learning that Rambo is the best, he’s unwilling to back down, the dummkopf.

Rambo kills a wild boar in the woods, which makes no sense for Washington State, but whatever, sure. Anyway, they try to get the colonel to lure Rambo out, even though that’s obviously gonna make his PTSD, just...SO much worse. Especially as he starts using Vietnam parlance in contacting him. Not gonna end well, guys. But it’s then that we learn that Rambo is now the last surviving member of his unit, contributing to his trauma. Rambo’s also been trying to get in contact with the Colonel, winding up here because he has no place to go. He says that there are no friendly civilians, and the trouble’s been caused by that “king-shit” cop. I will be using this term from now on.

Wow. Damn. Hell of a reason for that title. And I think I love this movie. Seriously, I’m having a good time.

King-Shit Cop keeps going ahead with his absolute idiocy, despite all warnings to the contrary. So, a bunch of troops now converge upon Rambo’s place, but he naturally opens fire on them, without killing a single person. In fact, he hasn’t killed anyone this whole movie, and they make a point of saying that he’s been holding back the whole time. So, they decide to use the next, most logical course of action. They FIRE A ROCKET AT HIM.

Afterwards, the Colonel and King Shit Cop catch up at a bar, where the latter exposes his full sociopathy, commenting that he just wanted to kill Rambo. This is opposed to the Colonel, who doesn’t really know what he’d do if Rambo survived.

Which, of course, he did. C’mon, you think a little military-grade propelled explosive is gonna kill John Rambo? Nah. He’s the best there ever was, and he’s gonna prove it now. He jumps into a military vehicle holding an M-60, and hijacks it. Doesn’t take long for the news to break that Rambo’s still kicking, and he’s quickly intercepted by King Shit Cop, who JUST. DOESN’T. KNOW. WHEN. TO QUIT. And I’d admire his tenacity if he wasn’t SUCH AN ASSHOLE.

The cops try to run Rambo and the truck of the road, and he plays the UNO Reverse Card on them instead. And I’m pretty sure at this point…

...that old Johnny boy’s just killed some cops. So, yeah, now there’s a bigger problem. He powers through the State Police blockade like it was a banner blocking a football team, stops at a gas station, grabs the gun from the car, and LIGHTS ALL OF THAT SHIT ON FIRE! Destroying the livelihood of an individual who had nothing to do with this.

Yeah, Rambo’s starting to turn from innocent acting in self-defense to public menace REAL quick. And yeah, it’s King Shit Cop’s fault entirely...but, yeah, Johnny needs some help, because he’s losing the train at this point. But, not to be outdone, King Shit Cop is also beginning to lose it, and it’s definitely beginning to seem like only one of them is going to come out of this alive. And the Colonel tries to give him an out, but King Shit Cop’s prepared to go down with the ship that he blew a hole in in the first place. Like an asshole.

But here we go, the finale. John Rambo vs. King Shit Cop (whose name, by the way, is Will Teasle. I just like Rambo’s name for him better). KSC’s on the roof, Rambo’s on the street. Rambo causes more property damage, possibly because banks also give him PTSD (I joke, but PTSD is no laughing matter, John clearly needs help), and then finds his way to a store that has just all of the ammo a psychologically-damaged Vietnam War veteran on a revenge quest could ever need.

And then he BLOWS. THAT. SHIT. UP.

And he does this...ALL of this...just to lure KSC out of hiding. This man DESTROYS A TOWN because this idiot, sociopathic, unhinged, King Shit Cop, won’t just STAND. THE FUCK. DOWN ALREADY.

Rambo enters the police station, where KSC is on the roof. And, like the Colonel and the rest of us guessed, KSC gets shot in the process. And as Rambo stands over KSC, the Colonel finally shows up and does what literally everybody else should have done.

Talk. He just...talks to Rambo. He talks to this mentally ill man, and that mentally ill man responds, espousing his pure anger at the war, the public, protesters, work, the country, the town, himself...everyone. And goddamn, is that shit palpable.

This man can no longer fit in the world that he was forced to leave, and forced to return to. This poor, poor, poor man. It hurts. And it sucks. And he pours his heart out to the Colonel, and to us, and...you feel it. You feel his trauma, you feel his pain. You feel the aftermath of war. And it’s been seven years at this point for the Colonel, but no time for John. Not Rambo. John. And it’s just...never over.

Damn. Goddamn.

This...this is one hell of a good movie. And not just a good action movie, either. A damn good movie.

And that’s it. That’s First Blood.

Kojima Cinema Vol. 1: Daylight

Game Hihyō (Game Criticism) was an advertisement-free videogame criticism magazine published by Micromagazine Inc. from 1994 until 2006 in which freelance writers, as well as game developers themselves, would provide their thoughts on the industry or the latest videogames. Among them was Hideo Kojima himself, who began a movie reviewing column on the February 1997 titled Kojima Cinema, which lasted for 23 issues. This first installment features a review of the Sylvester Stallone movie Daylight. If the reception for this one turns out to be overwhelmingly positive, I might translate more of Kojima’s reviews in the future (and possibly any other interesting article in the magazine that catches my attention).

Special thanks to the people at Gaming Alexandria for providing the scans.

Grand Opening of Kojima Cinema

Hello! I’m Hideo Kojima from Konami and I will be serializing an article starting from this issue. The editorial department told me “write essays about movies” and I immediately replied “if it’s about movies, leave it to me!” But then I thought about it seriously and wondered if was alright to write articles about movies in a magazine titled Game Hihyō [Game Criticism], which discusses videogames seriously, but I accepted their offer anyway since it gave me a pretext to watch more movies.

Love for Movies

I was told to pick a title freely, so I considered “Letters from Ebisu: The Sequel” after Kenji Eno’s column that used to be published in this magazine (since our companies are both located in Ebisu), as well as  “Ebisu Mail” (after Ebisu Beer) among others, but ultimately I went with “Kojima Cinema” since it was about movie reviews. I want to express my thoughts and impressions of my favorite movies and movies that I watched recently, regardless of whether they’re old and new, as well as write about Game Theory as a game auteur from the movie generation. Naturally, I also want to talk about the latest game I’m developing while it’s happening. With that said, I hope you enjoy your stay at Kojima Cinema.

Daylight, a movie to watch on Christmas Eve while smothered by your partner.

Since it premiered on the same day in Japan and the United States, I was able to watched Daylight without any prior knowledge. For better or worse, it’s a very conventional 1970′s style disaster movie. It feels like a tunnel version of Poseidon Adventure, as it depicts the tenacity and discords of people trying to survive under the extreme situation of being trapped inside a sealed underwater tunnel. The fact that it has Sylvester Stallone in the role of Gene Hackman is quite a problem. I’ll explain later why. While the explosions and collapsing scenes inside the tunnel that make use of digital special effects are a spectacle to behold, I would say the core of the movie is the human drama. The expendable characters that only exists to liven up the drama are not noticeable here and script, which distributes death equality, is somber but realistic. Particularly the resignation of the characters who realized they couldn’t be saved and their unfashionable lines before dying felt more documentary-like than cinematic. On the other hand, the plot is too light and although the tunnel is filled with poisonous gas, everyone is breathing normally and there is no sense of heat despite the characters being on the side of the flames, so there’s an overall lack of realism. I didn’t get the sense of oxygen shortage, entrapment and temperature that the movie was aiming for.

Stallone and the invisible enemy inside the tunnel

The biggest miscalculation of this movie is probably the casting of Stallone. Even though they were trying to make a human drama, Stallone is of course going to be Stallone.

That reckless and warlike mobility of him and his one-armed pull-ups are still alive! Especially in the second half of the movie, his thirst for (first) blood powers up! When a new problem (danger) arises, Stallone seems to be very joyful! It’s like he’s fighting an invisible enemy (an Enemy Zero) by himself. Conversely, putting such a character in a screenplay that goes against his type feels quite fresh. There is a scene where Stallone’s character, after risking his life and going to the place of crisis alone, gets coldly berated “why did you come here alone”, and there is another scene where he tries to lifts a car with his monstrous strength, but is unable to. It’s a reality that only the actor who played John Rambo could pull off.

P.S. It is recommended that you watch this movie during the daytime in an underground low-ceiling theater in an oxygen-free state with a full crowd. Once you leave the theater, you will truly appreciate Daylight.

Disaster & War Movies

Perhaps it’s an influence of the collapse of the Cold War structure, but lately Hollywood has been producing many disaster (kaijū) films lately such as Daybreak and Independence Day. Perhaps it’s a plan to depict drama only from the human side by making a powerful and overwhelming force (enemy) appear, such as a giant monster, aliens or a tornado, but this makes it very convenient to stand on the author’s side. All the bad things are monsters (or disasters) and every measure against them is justified. Since there is no need to come up with circumstances for the enemy’s side, it’s pretty easy to depict a valiant fighting hero. It also makes it easy to invite tears and project sympathy when the good guys win. It’s not so easy when it comes to depict a conflict between people. Even if one side were aliens, if they have a personality, it becomes a situation in which either side could be just or evil. That’s the difference between a war movie and a disaster movie.

Rewarding Good and Punishing Evil in the Game World

Ever since the days of Space Invaders, every game (including RPGs) has been made following this disaster movie template (of rewarding good and punishing evil). The enemy is always a one-sided invader or destroyer. “One day, invaders came from space.” “Suddenly monsters came from hell. A hero now stands up against those who sought to destroy mankind.” The player is clearly fighting for good and the enemy is an absolute evil that must be excluded. This formula leads to fundamental goodwill of every game. The act of defeating the enemy to proceed has become the foundation of shoot-’em-ups and action games. If you allow compassion to the enemy, then there wouldn’t be any game. “The enemy is evil, therefore he must eliminated!” That’s how games are now. Nevertheless, Metal Gear Solid won’t be using this formula. Although the theme is anti-war, it must be somehow established as a game. This part of MGS is difficult. It’s a dead end like an underground tunnel, a state of groping in the dark... But this is the theme and challenge of MGS. Perhaps one day I’ll find the Daylight within MGS.

Source

Game Hihyō Vol. 13 (February 1997)

THE UNTOLD TRUE STORY OF MAD DOG SHRIVER: 

Mad Dog led dozens of covert missions into Laos & Cambodia until his luck ran out. By Maj. John L. Plaster, USAR (Ret.) 

There undoubtedly was not a single recon man in SOG more accomplished or renowned than Mad Dog Shriver. Mad Dog! In the late 1960s, no Special Forces trooper at Ft. Bragg even breathed those top-secret letters, "S-O-G," but everyone had heard of the legendary Studies and Observations Group Green Beret recon team leader, Sergeant First Class Jerry Shriver, dubbed a "mad dog" by Radio Hanoi.

It was Jerry Shriver who'd spoken the most famous rejoinder in SOG history, radioing his superiors not to worry that NVA forces had encircled his tiny team. "No, no," he explained, "I've got 'em right where I want 'em — surrounded from the inside." Fully decked out, Mad Dog was a walking arsenal with an imposing array of a sawed-off shotgun or suppressed submachine gun, pistols, knives, and grenades. 

"He looked like Rambo," First Sergeant Billy Greenwood thought. Blond, tall and thin, Shriver’s face bore chiseled features around piercing blue eyes. "There was no soul in the eyes, no emotion," thought SOG Captain Bill O’Rourke. "They were just eyes." By early 1969, Shriver was well into his third continuous year in SOG, leading top secret intelligence gathering teams deep into the enemy’s clandestine Cambodian sanctuaries where he’d teased death scores of times. 

Unknown to him, however, forces beyond his control at the highest levels of government in Hanoi and Washington were steering his fate. The Strategic Picture Every few weeks of early 1969, the docks at Cambodia's seaport of Sihanoukville bustled with East European ships offloading to long lines of Hak Ly Trucking Company lorries. Though ostensibly owned by a Chinese businessman, the Hak Ly Company's true operator was North Vietnam's Trinh Sat intelligence service. 

The trucks’ clandestine cargo of rockets, small-arms ammunition and mortar rounds rolled overnight to the heavily jungled frontier of Kampong Cham Province just three miles from the border with South Vietnam, a place the Americans had nicknamed the Fishhook, where vast stockpiles sustained three full enemy divisions, plus communist units across the border inside South Vietnam — some 200,000 foes. 

Cambodian Prince Sihanouk was well aware of these neutrality violations; indeed, his fifth wife, Monique, her mother and half-brother were secretly peddling land rights and political protection to the NVA; other middlemen were selling rice to the NVA by the thousands of tons. Hoping to woo Sihanouk away from the communists, the Johnson Administration had watched passively while thousands of GIs were killed by communist forces operating from Cambodia, and not only did nothing about it, but said nothing, even denied it was happening. And now, each week of February and March 1969, more Americans were dying than lost in the Persian Gulf War, killed by NVA forces that struck quickly then fled back to "neutral” Cambodia. 

Combined with other data, SOG's Cambodian intelligence appeared on a top-secret map which National Security Adviser Henry Kissinger studied aboard Air Force One at Brussels airport the morning of 24 February 1969. Sitting with Kissinger was Colonel Alexander Haig, his military assistant, while representing the president was White House Chief of Staff H.R. "Bob" Haldeman. During the new administration's transition, President Nixon had asked Kissinger to determine how to deal with the Cambodian buildup and counter Hanoi's "fight and talk" strategy. 

While President Nixon addressed NATO's North Atlantic Council, those aboard Air Force One worked out details for a clandestine U.S. response: The secret bombing of Cambodia's most remote sanctuaries, which would go unacknowledged unless Prince Sihanouk protested. When Air Force One departed Brussels, Kissinger briefed President Nixon, who approved the plan but postponed implementing it. Over the coming three weeks, Nixon twice warned Hanoi, "we will not tolerate attacks which result in heavier casualties to our men at a time that we are honestly trying to seek peace at the conference table in Paris." The day after Nixon's second warning, the NVA bombarded Saigon with 122mm rockets obviously smuggled through Cambodia. 

Three days later, Nixon turned loose the B-52s on the Fishhook, the first secret Cambodian raid, which set off 73 secondary explosions. A Special SOG Mission Not one peep emanated from Phnom Penh or Hanoi and there was a fitting irony: For four years the North Vietnamese had denied their presence in Cambodia, and now, with U.S. bombs falling upon them, they could say nothing. 

Nixon suspended further B-52 strikes in hopes Hanoi's negotiators might begin productive discussions in Paris, but the talks droned on pointlessly. To demonstrate that America, too, could "talk and fight," President Nixon approved a second secret B-52 strike, this time against a target proposed by General Creighton Abrams with Ambassador Bunker's endorsement: COSVN, the Central Office for South Vietnam, the almost mythical Viet Cong headquarters which claimed to run the whole war. 

An NVA deserter had pinpointed the COSVN complex 14 miles southeast of Memot, Cambodia, in the Fishhook, just a mile beyond the South Vietnamese border. The COSVN raid was laid on for 24 April. Apprised of the upcoming B-52 strike, Brigadier General Philip Davidson, the MACV J2, thought that instead of just bombing COSVN, a top-secret SOG raiding force should hit the enemy headquarters as soon as the bombs stopped falling. 

He phoned Colonel Steve Cavanaugh, Chief SOG, who agreed and ordered the Ban Me Thuot-based Command and Control South, CCS, to prepare a Green Beret-led company of Montagnard mercenaries for the special mission. At CCS, the historic COSVN raid fell upon its most accomplished man, that living recon legend, Mad Dog Shriver, and Captain Bill O'Rourke. 

Though O'Rourke would command the company-size raiding force, Shriver equally would influence the operation, continuing an eight-month collaboration they’d begun when they ran recon together. Mad Dog — the Man and the Myth 

There was no one at CCS quite like Mad Dog Shriver. Medal of Honor recipient Jim Fleming, who flew USAF Hueys for SOG, found Shriver, "the quintessential warrior-loner, anti-social, possessed by what he was doing, the best team, always training, constantly training." Shriver rarely spoke and walked around camp for days wearing the same clothes. In his sleep he cradled a loaded rifle, and in the club he'd buy a case of beer, open every can, then go alone to a corner and drink them all. Though he'd been awarded a Silver Star, five Bronze Stars, and the Soldiers Medal, the 28-year-old Green Beret didn’t care about decorations. 

But he did care about the Montagnard hill tribesmen, and spent all his money on them, even collected food, clothes, whatever people would give, to distribute in Yard villages. He was the only American at CCS who lived in the Montagnard barracks. "He was almost revered by the Montagnards," O'Rourke says. 

Shriver's closest companion was a German shepherd he'd brought back from Taiwan which he named Klaus. One night Klaus got sick on beer some recon men fed him and crapped on the NCO club floor; they rubbed his nose in it and threw him out. 

Shriver arrived, drank a beer, removed his blue velvet smoking jacket and derby hat, put a .38 revolver on a table, then dropped his pants and defecated on the floor. "If you want to rub my nose in this," he dared, "come on over." Everyone pretended not to hear him; one man who'd fed Klaus beer urged the Recon Company commander to intervene. The captain laughed in his face. "He had this way of looking at you with his eyes half-open," recon man Frank Burkhart remembers. "If he looked at me like that, I'd just about freeze." 

Shriver always had been different. In the early 1960s, when Rich Ryan served with him in the 7th Army's Long Range Patrol Company in Germany, Shriver’s buddies called him "Digger" since they thought he looked like an undertaker. As a joke, his LRRP comrades concocted their own religion, "The Mahoganies," which worshipped a mahogany statue. "So we would carry Shriver around on an empty bunk with a sheet over him and candles on the corners," recalled Ryan, "and chant, 'Maaa-haa-ga-ney, Maaa-haa-ga-ney.' Scared the hell out of new guys." Fleming says Shriver "convinced me that for the rest of my life I would not go into a bar and cross someone I didn't know." But no recon man was better in the woods. "He was like having a dog you could talk to," O'Rourke explained. "He could hear and sense things; he was more alive in the woods than any other human being I've ever met." 

During a company operation on the Cambodian border Shriver and an old Yard compatriot were sitting against a tree, O'Rourke recalled. "Suddenly he sat bolt upright, they looked at each other, shook their heads and leaned back against the tree. I'm watching this and wondering, what the hell's going on? And all of a sudden these birds flew by, then a nano-second later, way off in the distance, 'Boom-boom!' -- shotguns. They'd heard that, ascertained what it was and relaxed before I even knew the birds were flying." Shriver once went up to SOG’s Command and Control North for a mission into the DMZ where Captain Jim Storter encountered him just before insert. "He had pistols stuck everywhere on him, I mean, he had five or six .38 caliber revolvers." Storter asked him, "Sergeant Shriver, would you like a CAR-15 or M-16 or something? 

You know the DMZ is not a real mellow area to go into." But Mad Dog replied, "No, them long guns'll get you in trouble and besides, if I need more than these I got troubles anyhow." Rather than stand down after an operation, Shriver would go out with another team. "He lived for the game; that's all he lived for," Dale Libby, a fellow CCS man said. 

Shriver once promised everyone he was going on R&R but instead sneaked up to Plei Djerang Special Forces camp to go to the field with Rich Ryan's A-Team. During a short leave stateside in 1968, fellow Green Beret Larry White hung out with Shriver, whose only real interest was finding a lever action .444 Marlin rifle. 

Purchasing one of the powerful Marlins, Shriver shipped it back to SOG so he could carry it into Cambodia, "to bust bunkers," probably the only lever gun used in the war. And the Real Jerry Shriver Unless you were one of Mad Dog's close friends, the image was perfect prowess -- but the truth was, Shriver confided to fellow SOG Green Beret Sammy Hernadez, he feared death and didn't think he'd live much longer. 

He'd beat bad odds too many times, and could feel a terrible payback looming. "He wanted to quit," Medal of Honor winner Fred Zabitosky could see. "He really wanted to quit, Jerry did. I said, 'Why don't you just tell them I want off, I don't want to run any more?' He said he would but he never did; just kept running." The 5th Special Forces Group executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Norton, had been watching SOG recon casualties skyrocket and grew concerned about men like Mad Dog whose lives had become a continuous flirtation with death. Norton went to the 5th Group commander and urged, "Don't approve the goddamn extensions these guys are asking for. You approve it again, your chances of killing that guy are very, very good." But the group commander explained SOG needed experienced men for its high priority missions. "Bullshit," Norton snapped, "you're signing that guy's death warrant." 

Eventually 5th Group turned down a few extensions but only a very few; the most experienced recon men never had extensions denied. Never. "Mad Dog was wanting to get out of recon and didn't know how," said recon team leader Sonny Franks, though the half-measure came when Shriver left recon to join his teammate O’Rourke’s raider company. And now the COSVN raid would make a fitting final operation; Shriver could face his fear head-on, charge right into COSVN’s mysterious mouth and afterward at last call it quits. Into COSVN’s Mouth The morning of 24 April 1969, while high-flying B-52s winged their way from distant Guam, the SOG raider company lined up beside the airfield at Quan Loi, South Vietnam, only 20 miles southeast of COSVN's secret lair. 

But just five Hueys were flyable that morning, enough to lift only two platoons; the big bombers could not be delayed, which meant Lieutenant Bob Killebrew's 3rd Platoon would have to stand by at Quan Loi while the 1st Platoon under First Lieutenant Walter Marcantel, and 2nd Platoon under First Lieutenant Greg Harrigan, raided COSVN. Capt. O'Rourke and Mad Dog didn't like it, but they could do nothing.* Nor could they do anything about their minimal fire support. 

Although whole waves of B52s were about to dump thousands of bombs into COSVN, the highly classified Cambodian Rules of Engagement forbad tactical air strikes; it was better to lose an American-led SOG team, the State Department rules suggested, then leave documentable evidence that U.S. F4 Phantoms had bombed this "neutral" territory. It was a curious logic so concerned about telltale napalm streaks or cluster bomb fins, but unconcerned about B-52 bomb craters from horizon to horizon. Chief SOG Cavanaugh found the contradiction "ridiculous," but he could not change the rules. 

The B-52 contrails were not yet visible when the raiding force Hueys began cranking and the raiders boarded; Capt. O'Rourke would be aboard the first bird and Shriver on the last so they'd be at each end of the landing Hueys. As they lifted off for the ten-minute flight, the B-52s were making final alignments for the run-in. Minutes later the lead chopper had to turn back because of mechanical problems; O'Rourke could only wish the others Godspeed. 

Command passed to an operations officer in the second bird who'd come along for the raid, Captain Paul Cahill. Momentarily the raiders could see dirt geysers bounding skyward amid collapsing trees. Then as the dust settled a violin-shaped clearing took form and the Hueys descended in-trail, hovered for men to leap off, then climbed away. Then fire exploded from all directions, horrible fire that skimmed the ground and mowed down anyone who didn’t dive into a bomb crater or roll behind a fallen tree trunk. 

From the back of the LZ, Mad Dog radioed that a machinegun bunker to his left-front had his *(Greg Harrigan and I had been boyhood friends in northeast Minneapolis.) men pinned and asked if anyone could fire at it to relieve the pressure. Holed up in a bomb crater beneath murderous fire, Capt. Cahill, 1st Lt. Marcantel and a medic, Sergeant Ernest Jamison, radioed that they were pinned, too. Then Jamison dashed out to retrieve a wounded man; heavy fire cut him down, killing him on the spot. No one else could engage the machinegun that trapped Shriver's men -- it was up to Mad Dog. Skittish Yards looked to Shriver and his half-grin restored a sense of confidence. Then they were on their feet, charging -- Shriver was his old self, running to the sound of guns, a True Believer Yard on either side, all of them dashing through the flying bullets, into the treeline, into the very guts of Mad Dog's great nemesis, COSVN. And Mad Dog Shriver was never seen again. 

The Fight Continues At the other end of the LZ, Jamison's body lay just a few yards from the crater where Capt. Cahill heard bullets cracking and RPGs rocking the ground. When Cahill lifted his head, an AK round hit him in the mouth, deflected up and destroyed an eye. Badly wounded, he collapsed. In a nearby crater, young Lt. Greg Harrigan directed helicopter gunships whose rockets and mini-guns were the only thing holding off the aggressive NVA. 

Already, Harrigan reported, more than half his platoon were killed or wounded. For 45 minutes the Green Beret lieutenant kept the enemy at bay, then Harrigan, too, was hit. He died minutes later. Bill O'Rourke tried to land on another helicopter but his bird couldn't penetrate the NVA veil of lead. Lieutenant Colonel Earl Trabue, their CCS Commander, arrived and flew overhead with O’Rourke but they could do little. Hours dragged by. Wounded men laid untreated, exposed in the sun. 

Several times the Hueys attempted to retrieve them and each time heavy fire drove them off. One door gunner was badly wounded. Finally a passing Australian twin-jet Canberra bomber from No. 2 Squadron at Phan Rang heard their predicament on the emergency radio frequency, ignored the fact it was Cambodia, and dropped a bombload which, O’Rourke reports, "broke the stranglehold those guys were in, and it allowed us to go in." Only 1st Lt. Marcantel was still directing air, and finally he had to bring ordnance so close it wounded himself and his surviving nine Montagnards. 

One medic ran to Harrigan's hole and attempted to lift his body out but couldn't. "They were pretty well drained physically and emotionally," O'Rourke said. Finally, three Hueys raced in and picked up 15 wounded men. Lieutenant Dan Hall carried out a radio operator, then managed to drag Lt. Harrigan's body to an aircraft. Thus ended the COSVN raid. A Time for Reflection Afterward Chief SOG Cavanaugh talked to survivors and learned, "The fire was so heavy and so intense that even the guys trying to [evade] and move out of the area were being cut down." It seemed almost an ambush. "That really shook them up at MACV, to realize anybody survived that [B-52] strike," Col. Cavanaugh said. 

The heavy losses especially affected Brig. Gen. Davidson, the MACV J-2, who blamed himself for the catastrophe. "General," Chief SOG Cavanaugh assured him, "if I'd have felt we were going to lose people like that, I wouldn't have put them in there." It’s that ambush-like reception despite a B-52 strike that opens the disturbing possibility of treachery and, it turns out, it was more than a mere possibility. 

One year after the COSVN raid, the NSA twice intercepted enemy messages warning of imminent SOG operations which could only have come from a mole or moles in SOG headquarters. It would only be long after the war that it became clear Hanoi’s Trinh Sat had penetrated SOG, inserting at least one high ranking South Vietnamese officer in SOG whose treachery killed untold Americans, including, most likely, the COSVN raiders. Of those raiders, Lt. Walter Marcantel survived his wounds only to die six months later in a parachuting accident at Ft. Devens, Mass., while Capt. Paul Cahill was medically retired. 

Eventually, Green Beret medic Ernest Jamison's body was recovered. But those lost in the COSVN raid have not been forgotten. Under a beautiful spring sky on Memorial Day, 1993, with American flags waving and an Army Reserve Huey strewing flower petals as it passed low-level, members of Special Forces Association Chapter XX assembled at Lt. Greg Harrigan’s grave in Minneapolis, Minn. 

Before the young lieutenant’s family, a Special Forces honor guard placed a green beret at his grave, at last conferring some recognition to the fallen SOG man, a gesture the COSVN raid’s high classification had made impossible a quarter-century earlier. 

Until now, neither Harrigan’s family nor the families of the other lost men knew the full story of the top secret COSVN raid. But the story remains incomplete. As in the case of SOG’s other MIAs, Hanoi continues to deny any knowledge of Jerry Shriver. Capt. O'Rourke concluded Mad Dog died that day. "I felt very privileged to have been his friend," O’Rourke says, "and when he died I grieved as much as for my younger brother when he was killed. Twenty-some-odd years later, it still sticks in my craw that I wasn't there. I wish I had been there." 

There remains a popular myth among SOG veterans, that any day now Mad Dog Shriver will emerge from the Cambodian jungle as if only ten minutes have gone by, look right and left and holler, "Hey! Where’d everybody go?" Indeed, to those who knew him and fought beside him, Mad Dog will live forever. (This article is derived from Maj. Plaster’s book, SOG: The Secret Wars of America’s Commandos in Vietnam, published by Simon & Schuster.)

​Innerview: Nathan Reusch​ / The Record Machine​​

October 2008

Art: DJG Design

Note: ​Interview ​for a series called "​Where Are They Now?​"​

Over the years we have gotten to work with really great creative people. After doing this for five years we want to give you guys some more insight on who has helped be a part of this label and make it what it is today. First off we have an interview with Danny Gibson of DJG Design. Danny has always been behind the scenes at TRM. He has helped create almost all of our logos and helped us with a lot of art direction and design since the begining. He also designed our very first release for Jame Dean Trio. ​0​1) Introduction I was at the historic first official meeting of The Record Machine held at McCoy’s in West Port of Kansas City, MO over half a decade ago. My say didn’t amount to much. I think my mouth was full as I was mostly positioned to eat free cheeseburgers. ​0​2) How have you been spending your days? My days are spent. Creeping on the Crow’s Feet I find that time is more easily measured in flap jack format than ever before. Something big has always been beaming and beating and I find myself blind peeping to see how far back the dogs with prickly sticks in their mouths yip, kick and nip for my heels. I do beat the crickets up at 5 am Monday thru Saturday in order to pinch a bit back. Evenings and weekends find me down slide sliver squeezes as well. I engage in making things and find some peace through all the pieces with my maker in the act of doing so. The handful of women I share space with enlightenment my walk as well…kitties and wife. Walks are good too and Fall time is the best for comfortable living in Kansas City. ​0​3) Where have you been spending your days or evenings? A bounty of selections from my basement is always on the menu. I’m easily entertained hunched over at my good ol’ door desk. In the mean time I appreciate the company of my wife, kitty hair on my clothes, celebrating all movies, well-tailored music that sometimes requires a third ear and high rise stacks of books and comics. For nourishment I scrape every pan and pot my wife cooks in. And I am the dishwasher. In the twilight occasion, a one scoop waffle cone of peanut butter ice cream at Miami Ice just down the street does me correctly. If I’m in need to see the stars or get away, the family farm isn’t too far off. ​0​4) What has been in your ears? I love big chunks of ear wax. While rockin’ to the thunder that Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band brought at Sprint Center here in KC, I had a big chunk of ear gunk fall out and it was heavenly. I’m really tickled by the musical foundations a fellow basement dweller named Micah Buzan of Blue Springs, MO is cranking out. He is only 18 and one to watch. Other Kansas City area highlights include The Tambourine Club and The ACBs, who both not only crank out some great and fresh music, but are genuinely lovely lads and don’t boast at the art of playing “rock star”. Far out of this area…I’m excited to hear more from Empire of the Sun as the single “Walking on a Dream” is some of the best dance pop I’ve heard since Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” album. Which, I’ve been rattling the rafters with that ’80s gold as well whenever I tire of the Samey So-So’s of most things current. Though, there are a few great new ones and “Evil Urges” by My Morning Jackets is my favorite album so far in 2008. And I can never get enough Bruce Springsteen in my diet. Every day and sometimes every minute of the day calls for a different selection from The Boss’s healthy catalogue. I’m also into the music of Suicide lately. Oh, and I’m quite convinced that Harry Nilsson is one of our finest song craftsmen as a handful of his albums have really been making sense to me and his range is all over the map. ​0​5) What has been inspiring or refreshing to you lately? The work ethic, ideas, passion and output of singer-songwriters Harry Nilsson and Bruce Springsteen gets me going. I finished reading Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” for the second and one half times and it is gold. I like Michael Chabon’s writing and work ethic a lot too and am spending my second Fall in his books…the same with Flannery O’Connor. In terms of arts and crafts, Saul Steinberg, Henryk Tomaszewski, Eric Carle and Bill Traylor continue to get me to smiling. Oh, and I must hand out an exclamation to fellow maker Ben Chlapek of Neversleeping.com as he is involved with a lot of lovely creations. ​0​6) Earliest Influences that you can think of? Farm Life / Giant Watermelon Patches / Giant Pumpkins / Grandaddy Long Legs / Dead Animals Under Bed / Homemade Stuffed Animals / Taxidermy / Seed Corn Packaging and Farm Implement Logos / Small Town Gas Stations / Uncle Ed’s Horse Drawing Skills / The Seasons / Fireworks / Animals Big and Little / Hunting / Dead Animal Backpack / Grandma Gibson’s Handmade Aesthetics, Checker skills, Sugar Cookies and Salmon Patties / Grandpa Gibson’s Burnt Pancakes and Old Western-Love Story Reading / The Sand Box / Tree Houses and Forts / Popping Asphalt Bubbles in Summertime / Snow Days / Hard Rains / Holidays / Fishing / Camping / Guns and War / Drawing WWII Battles with Dad / Raccoon Wall Paper / Puppets / Anything Jim Henson / Mad Magazine / Mad Balls / Garbage Pail Kids / Dr. Demento / Taping Music Off the Radio / “Live & Let Die” by Paul McCartney & Wings / Mom’s Record Pile / The Beatles / Oldies Music / ‘70s T.V. Theme Tunes / ‘80s Pop Music (Michael Jackson for sure) / Weird Al Yankovic / Ren & Stimpy / Pee-Wee’s Playhouse / Saturday Morning Cartoons / “Gummi Bears” / Comic Books / Tractor Pulls / Big Foot (Creature and Monster Truck) / “Star Wars” / “The Swiss Family Robinson” / “James Bond” / “Indiana Jones” / “Rambo” / “Commando” / “Batman” (Tim Burton) / Going to the Movies / Pizza and Tacos / Soda Pop / Flavored Frozen Pops / Kick Ball / Grandma Dayton’s Spaghetti / Racking Leaves and Riding to the Dump with Grandpa Dayton / Sports (Michael Jordan for sure) / Sports Team Mascots / Sports Stadiums / Collecting Sports Trading Cards / Skyscrapers / Cake and Ice Cream / Late Nights at Best Friend Ean’s Funeral Home House / “…red and yellow, black and white they are precious in his sight, Jesus loves the little children of the world.” / Being Alone / Cutting and Pasting / Falling Off a Slide, Hitting My Head and Blacking Out in Kindergarten ​0​7) Best thing you have seen on a little or big screen in a while? P.T. Anderson’s “Punch-Drunk Love” is my favorite movie and I just took my 8th dip with it. My favorite 2008 movie and the best rockumentary ever so far is “Young @ Heart” and close behind for top of this year is “Be Kind Rewind” and “Son of Rambow”. This Fall and Winter look to boast one of the finest crops of films…I’m highly anticipating “The Road”, “The Wrestler”, “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button”, “Synecdoche, NY”, “The Changeling” and many others. Other great watches of late (old and new) include “The Tin Drum”, “Hoop Dreams”, “It’s A Wonderful Life”, “The Wicker Man” (1973), “Sorry, Haters”, “The Seven Year Itch”, “The Cars That Ate Paris”, “Don’t Look Now”, “Dark Days”, “Rat Catcher”, “The King of Kong”, “Alice”, “Dear Wendy” and “The Band’s Visit”. On the small screen, “Planet Earth” is mind-blowing worship that demands for me to invest in a projector for the future. In T.V. Land this summer I discovered and fell in love with “Beauty & The Geek”. I’m excited for the cool new sci-fi show with cool typography called “Fringe” and another season with the excellent “How I Met Your Mother”. Currently I’m backtracking through the entire series of “Sex & The City” and am absolutely loving it and can’t wait to get the movie! Oh, and the live Broadway production of “The Drowsy Chaperone” is gold genius and made me cry. ​0​8) Last best show you have been to? Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band in Kansas City on August 24, 2008. It is the best show I’ve ever seen, even better than two previous Boss concerts. Sprint Center is now officially called Spring Center. I can’t wait for the Super Bowl half-time… ​0​9) Any links to things you want to pass along? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYwhvD2-fYw 10) The Final Word? (one word only please) GRILLEDCHEESETOMATOSOUP -djg

Big Rural

Today, I’m pleased to share part of an intriguing project from Arizona State University and some top science fiction writers focused on examining the future of solar power—The Weight of Light. Per ASU, it’s a “collection of science fiction stories, art, and essays exploring human futures powered by solar energy… What will it be like to live in the photon societies of tomorrow? How will a transition to clean, plentiful energy transform our values, markets, and politics?” The ebook is free, and you can check it out here. The story we’re running today, about the incoming clash of Big Solar and small town America, comes courtesy of the great Cat Rambo—the president of the Science Fiction Writers of America, and acclaimed speculative scribe in her own right. Enjoy. -the ed

Trish almost didn’t take the turnoff from Interstate 8. She was tired and anxious and it was easy to miss, particularly in the evening blast of last-gasp sunlight. A headache was building in the back of her neck, ratcheted up by lack of sleep. Should have picked a self-driving car rather than this one.

But when she glimpsed it, the decision to swing down the unnamed pebble-and-dust road that led to Ojos de Amistad Lookout seemed so natural that it was almost automatic, happening between one breath and the next. She switched off the AC and thumbed all four windows open. Almost as though she were back in high school, she and Jeff Garcia out driving his ancient Jeep in the early evening, when the blue ebbed from the Arizona sky and a faint scent of creosote rode the cooling wind.

If she got to the lookout point before the sun began to dip below the horizon, she’d see one of the best things about the valley. Because of the coal plant, Tierra del Rey had beautiful sunsets, and she wanted her return home to start with that image.

The road was barely car-width, even for her small rental. The car bounced and jittered along the road, sending pale dust and pebbles flying amid scruffs of agave and prickly pear. Tires crunching over rocks, the rumble outside battling the tinny sound from the dashboard radio as the DJ segued into yet another country song. It was the third time she’d heard this one since pulling the rental away from the airport, a few hours ago.

You city people fill your lives with chatter,

Thinking that us country folk don’t matter …

The road narrowed and dwindled before widening out into four cars’ worth of parking, unoccupied. She pulled the parking brake and reached to the radio.

But listen out here in the big rural, the big land,

Something’s echoing here, maybe you can understand …

She clicked the music off and grabbed her purse and water bottle before taking the footpath up to the point. The path had once been set off with railroad ties, which still bordered the sunbaked mountainside, but the cedar chips were gone now, not even crumbles left. Every step was a memory jabbing at her. How many times had she walked up this way, angry at something, someone, usually the town itself, full of resolution to get out, no matter what?

The sign at the fork was sun-faded into unintelligibility, but she knew what it said. Marcos de Niza, Spanish conqueror, had paused here, looked out, and claimed the valley in the name of his king. Also: no trash, no alcohol, no fires.

By the time she reached the ledge overlooking the valley, sweat covered her, and the evening breeze flickering across her skin was welcome, even if it was barely cooler. She went to the gym three times a week, but she wasn’t in anything like the shape she’d been in as a teen, when she was running track, knowing it the best chance she had for a scholarship. Running her way out of Tierra del Rey and into a better life.

One that had led her straight back here. Anxiety and guilt flared at that. What sort of welcome would she get? She hadn’t thought she’d ever be back. Hadn’t bothered to maintain ties. More efficient that way. More effective that way.

And easier. So much easier.

She gulped down the last of the water and stuck the bottle into her purse. The tomato-red sun rolled on the horizon, sending long black shadows walking across the land, towards the enormous black square that was Phase I of the Sol Dominion power plant, glittering in the last of the sunlight. You could barely see the storage structures scattered among the solar panels like enormous alien flowers, many-petalled and made of dark carbonized plastic with an oily undersheen of cobalt and purple.

Arms folded, she looked towards the town bordering that square to the east, where lights were flickering alive. She could name most of them. The gas station. The diner. The tiny grocery/hardware/drugstore locals just called “the store.” The two-block strip that was Main Street, the grade school on one end, the high school on the other, linked by shared sports fields: baseball, soccer. Still no football stadium. The coal plant, unlit now.

When you came home again, even to “the big rural,” as the song called it, things were supposed to have changed. Here the only change was that black square. Between the town lights and the scattered but symmetrical lights surrounding the plant, a dark strip, perhaps a mile wide, stretched, unlit. As though town and plant had turned their backs on each other.

Not all of them, though, given the vandalism she’d been called to investigate.

A mourning dove called, a lonesome whirra-hu-hu somewhere to her left where the cliff face stretched upward. She and Jeff had climbed further up dozens of times, but this spot had been their favorite.

She ran her thumb between her shoulder and the purse strap, feeling the leather cling to her sweaty skin. East Coast life’s made me soft. She turned back to the trail and descended in the half-light while the dove called behind her. Halfway down, another dove answered it, and their solemn call-and-response accompanied her all the way back to the car.

By the time she was halfway back to the highway, full dark had descended. She switched on her brights, pressing the confirm button at the car’s query. There were no other cars on the road, and she didn’t bother to dim the lights until she hit the outskirts of town.

Two cars in the parking lot of the store. She didn’t expect to recognize them, and didn’t. The bell jingled the way it had a thousand times before as she stepped into the store’s sallow fluorescent lights. Two customers talking to the clerk up front, one of those lazy shoot-the-shit conversations. Their backs turned. But then one shifted and the light hit his shoulder as he shrugged, showed the muscles along the back of his neck and she froze. Jeff.

She could have kept moving, but the customers looked around at the sound of the bell. Jeff recognized her immediately, she could read that in the way his expression shifted: surprise welcome then hardening into anger and a more defensive stance. Beside him, Aaron Paulsen. Of course, who else would I least want to see the night I arrived? Aaron flippin’ Paulsen.

Behind the counter, a sleepy-eyed girl, high school age, unimpressed and bored by all of them, stared down at her phone. Her name tag read Zoe Z, tilted at a careless 30-degree angle on the blue nylon uniform shirt. Trish remembered how scratchy that fabric was, how it seemed to gather heat in all the most uncomfortable places.

Jeff and Trish locked eyes. Aaron was the first to speak. “Beatrice!” he exclaimed, a little too hearty, a little too smiling.

She forced an answering smile, looking away from Jeff’s accusing eyes to meet Aaron’s chilly blue gaze. “Aaron. Jeff.” Hefting a plastic basket from the pile slumped near the door, she stepped towards the back cooler cases. She was tired, and she was hungry. Get in, get the food, get out.

She expected them to say something more, but they were silent. Trying to rattle me, that’s Paulsen’s style. She felt that they must be watching, but when she swung around with her armload of milk, thaw-dinners, and a sleeve of eggs, Aaron was sliding money across the counter to the clerk and taking two packs of cigarettes along with a red, white, and blue striped lighter while Jeff stared at the lottery ticket display.

Aaron scooped up his change as she came up behind them. Turning, he said, “So, come back to check out what your company’s been doing here?”

Of course they know who I work for, she thought. Small towns, everyone knows what everyone else does.

“Troubleshooting,” she said briefly. She looked him in the eyes, watching his body language. “There’s been vandalism. More than petty stuff.” Jeff looked up at that, his face a careful blank.

Was that guilt flickering in the watery depths of the smile Aaron showed her?

“Yeah, I heard about that. People don’t like the power plant. They don’t know what to expect. They know my family’s coal plant built this town.”

“They’re saying a lot, seems like,” she said.

He shrugged. “Small town, word gets around.”

“Word of who’s been doing it too, maybe?”

He shrugged. Behind him, Jeff’s face still blank as an unlit screen.

They stood there in silence while she paid for her groceries and gathered up the bag.

“See you, Beatrice,” Aaron said to her back as she left.

“I go by Trish now.” On the door as she swung it open, a poster from Sol Dominion. The alien flowers dark and ominous against the blue and yellow of Sol Dominion, golden words above it: Sol Dominion Phase II Coming Soon. Underneath the picture in a more sober, shadowy blue: Building Today For a Brighter Tomorrow.

The bells jingled again as the door closed behind her.

*

She kept the windows open to the cooler night air as she headed to the solar plant. On its eastern side was the housing for the workers that had built it, mostly empty now but kept ready for the workforce that would return in three months for Phase II.

The moonlight washed out Sol Dominion’s trademark sunshine yellow and sky blue, leached them of life until the trailers formed a symmetrical, boxy plastic ghost town. Their blank faces flickered past as she drove to the gate, a glass box, lit from the inside, housing a sleepy-looking woman nursing a coffee cup, reading a paperback. She glanced up as Trish rolled to a stop. Booted heels crunched over gravel; Trish turned off the car and proffered her ID. “Evening, Anita,” she said.

Anita Luz, who had babysat Beatrice Soledad from the ages of three to seven, didn’t acknowledge the greeting. She studied the plastic card before flipping it back towards Trish. “Any trailer’s open except the first three in Row G.” She made her way back to the booth and pushed a button. The chain-link gate shuddered open.

“Nice to see you too,” Trish muttered under her breath.

Close up, the trailers in their identical rows seemed even spookier. They were all yellow with blue trim, the number beside each doorway the same color. She opted for Row F—one over but still close to the plant’s other occupants, a skeleton crew of gate guards and technicians, totaling eight.

She settled in, unpacking her groceries. The trailer smelled of staleness and disuse and she opened all the windows, letting the desert breeze wash in and sweeten the air. There were no bed linens. She unfolded a t-shirt and dressed the foam pillow in it, then laid down on the crackling plastic film that covered the bed, listening. She could hear two owls hunting, calling to each other huhu huhu in a stuttering rhythm that overlapped then died away into silence then started again.

Quiet here. One of those nights when the wind sang in the telephone wires. Outside, the field of solar panels was silent and unmoving even as electricity flowed out of it, feeding needs far beyond Tierra del Rey. Sol Dominion’s model project. Almost ready for Phase II. Whoever helped make that happen would be lavished with glory and bonuses and, most importantly, allowed a leap two or three rungs up the corporate ladder.

And if you leaped and fell? There were plenty of other young MBAs with gleaming degrees from Wharton and Harvard, ready to fall into line and begin their own journeys upward.

She fell asleep dreaming of ladders, reaching up out of dark water.

*

When she woke, the day was already starting to heat up. As she filled the coffee maker with water, she glanced out the window, then froze. One of the enormous solar storage devices was askew, canted at an impossible angle that threatened the arrays of black tempered glass beneath its long shadow.

One of the most important parts of the plant, the batteries stored the gigawatts then sent them out to power businesses and homes, so many lives dependent on that invisible flow.

Water ran over her hand as the carafe overfilled. She set it down, turned off the tap, and went out to investigate. The tower was one of the ones furthest from the worker housing and it took her a while to walk there. This close to the panels, she could see weeds growing in the shadows and spiny lizards lying in the sun, soaking up heat.

Machinery, hacked apart, the base of the alien flower chopped as though it were a tree. Beneath it, dropped as though the attacker had been scared away mid-swing, a long-handled axe. She knelt to examine it.

Most of the red paint had peeled away from the head, and someone had wrapped the handle first in string, then black electrical tape, so it could be gripped away. The pattern reminded her of how Jeff and the other boys had wrapped their baseball bats, emulating one of the older kids that year.

The security cameras yielded nothing; black hoods cloaked the faces of the three intruders, who registered only as collections of jerky motion in the infrared system. They’d disabled the lights beforehand; Anita had left a note saying she hadn’t heard anything. Hadn’t even bothered to wait to talk to Trish.

*

Bill Larson had been sheriff of Tierra del Rey for as long as Trish could remember. Stolid to the point of dourness, the lanky, balding man oversaw a single deputy, the pair based in a cinderblock construction on the main road into town. It was a tradition for the schoolchildren to paint murals on it. The current one was fresh, showing town buildings on one side, the solar plant on the other. They met around the central door, where the alien flowers shrunk, brightened, became marigolds, poppies, and roses.

She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and opened the door.

The air inside was crisply cold, hitting her bare skin the minute she stepped through. Lawson sat at his desk, facing the door, leaning back with his boots on the desk, coffee in hand as he studied some form. He scowled at the sight of her.

She shoved down all the feelings he roused in her of having done wrong. A fatherless teen with a mother working too many hours to watch over her children, she’d had her share of run-ins. Now she was here as Sol Dominion’s representative; she stepped forward with the assurance that having a multinational corporation behind her in the face of a small-town sheriff gave her.

“There’s been more vandalism, one of the storage towers,” she said. “I need to see the other reports on it when you come to investigate.”

Larson returned his attention to the form he’d been studying. “No reports. Company property, not town.”

“You’re supposed to oversee the whole valley!”

“Except for Sol Dominion holdings,” he said flatly. “A pleasure to see you, Miss Soledad. Enjoy your stay here in Tierra del Rey.”

*

Her head churned as she drove away. Aaron must be the ringleader. No one was more upset about the coal plant being shut down than the family that owned it, that had commanded a special spot in Tierra del Rey society as a result. She’d found plenty of Aaron’s type in college and then Sol Dominion: born into wealth and unused to losing. They would do anything to avoid it, thinking themselves more deserving of victory than lesser souls.

She stopped at the store to pick up more water. The clerk didn’t even look at her, too intent on her phone to care about any customer. On the way out, Trish saw the poster again. Someone had taken black felt-tip and scribbled all over it, tangles of dark ink, like weeds around the flower bases: “get the fuck out Sol we love coal” and “where’s our water?”

Aaron, behind her again.

I forget that about small-town-in-the-big-rural. Every time you turn around, you’re seeing someone you don’t want to. His smirk, angled down at her as though to remind her of the height discrepancy.

“Come back to see what your company’s done?” he asked, knife sharp. “Or to scavenge the corpse?”

“Corpse is an odd choice of word,” she said, neutral. “The project’s brought in jobs and money, with more on the way. What’s dead, precisely?”

“Take your pick.” Black felt-tip pen riding in his front shirt pocket, she noted. “Maybe the town. Maybe your friendships. Jeff everything you thought he’d be?”

He was, she thought, thinking of that expressionless face when he’d seen her. Still familiar, same stance.

She tried to steer them back to something closer to friendship. “Did he become a volunteer firefighter like he’d always said?” The firefighters had denied him as a teen because of asthma difficulties; nowadays with gene therapy she didn’t think that would be such an issue, but who knew?

Aaron froze as though he was trying to figure out what she meant by the question, eyes narrowing. Finally he spat, “What do you care?” Pushed past and was gone.

She followed him though, at a distance. Trailed him back to the lookout. He’d lead her to the other vandals, sooner or later.

An unfamiliar car. She ghosted along, activating her net link—if she was discovered, she’d be broadcasting whatever happened, in livetime, deterrent enough for most criminals. And if not? Something to think about when and if.

She paused on the bend under the lookout to listen.

Aaron’s voice, and Jeff’s.

“Like a black hole,” Jeff said. “Remember that from sixth grade science? That one always stuck with me, I don’t know why. Big black hole, sucking up everything. Welcome to Sol Dominion.”

She could see what he was talking about: the great glittering black puddle that was the project, the distant alien blooms, one of them askew. Inhuman. Swallowing life and giving nothing, a trickle at best, back to the town clinging to its edge.

But it was realization, not the vista, that froze her. Aaron’s not the leader.

She thought of the long-handled axe. The sort a volunteer firefighter might carry.

Jeff is.

*

Walking back and forth that night, trying to figure out what to do. Every time she went near the guard shack, she could hear the radio. That big rural song again, twice.

You city people fill your lives with chatter,

Thinking that us country folk don’t matter …

To Sol Dominion, the townsfolk hadn’t mattered. She remembered the presentation, the way they’d worded it. Out in the middle of nowhere. And her looking at the map, seeing the crossroads and realizing. Tierra del Rey.

Images flickered through her head as she paced. The poster, the angry black scrawls across it. The glittering black sea of the panels—there’d be so many more of them in Phase II.

But listen out here in the big rural, the big land,

Something’s echoing here, maybe you can understand …

The children’s mural outside the sheriff’s office.

The air chilled as she walked and the tears on her cheeks glittered as she paced.

*

She’d made a lot of calls by the time she invited Jeff to walk with her up to the lookout point. Cashed in all her social capital, maybe overdrawn some of it. That remained to be seen.

Jeff’s expression was wary. He didn’t say much as they walked side by side up the trail.

“Beatrice,” he started once.

“That’s not who I am. I call myself Trish now.”

“That’s not who I fell in love with.”

After that, silence until they reached the point. Still a little cool, but sweat rode her forehead when they arrived.

She could smell dust and creosote bush on the wind. A red-tailed hawk swung far above in lazy spirals, getting an early morning jump on rodents and sluggish reptiles.

Jeff said, “I guess you know.”

“I guess I do.” She took out a bottle of water, took a swig, passed it over to him.

He drank and wiped his lips on the back of his arm before passing the bottle back. There were fine lines in the corners of his eyes now, years of sun she’d avoided. “So, what now?”

“Imagine if we made it something other than a black hole,” she said.

He frowned.

“Ever hear of agro-voltaics?”

At his headshake, she continued. “Imagine crops growing between the panels, sheltered from some of the heat. Strawberries, melons.” She searched her mind for the children’s mural. “Marigolds, poppies. Even roses. The company took the water rights but hasn’t done anything with them. I’ve confirmed that we can get most back.”

She gestured at the expanse. “Yes, more space, but we’ve got plenty of that. And the infrastructure to ship the produce out at the same time. Send the power out to the state but feed it as well.”

“That’s a big change,” he said.

She shrugged. “Some things are big enough to work toward.”

The bottle was dry and sunrise well past by the time they finished talking.

“What made you change your mind, overall?” he asked as they started towards her car.

She shrugged. “Thought about what would piss off Aaron most, so that meant nothing to do with coal.”

“No, really.”

“That’s as good a reason as any,” she said, but kept her smile tilted away from him as they walked away from the sunset and down the path.

Big Rural syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

6 Backward Ideas Hollywood Still Has About Men

Men are complicated, nuanced beings. No two men define masculinity the same way, and each of their boners hides its own precious secret. Many are desperate for every woman to love them, while at the same time compelled to explain their own jokes to them on Twitter. But despite the vast and wondrous spectrum that is man, Hollywood seems to have extremely specific ideas of what a man is supposed to be. And it’s not super great.

6

If You’re Less Than 6 Feet Tall, You’re Not A Real Man

You can be the most handsome, witty, charismatic male on Earth, but if you’re one inch below average height, then tough shit. Hollywood will desperately avoid revealing that awful truth to the audience, lest they vomit in the aisles with disgust. Such is the life of a short action star.

If shortness is acknowledged on screen, it’s as a punchline — a hilarious inadequacy that either leads to constant, desperate attempts at comedy or a life of crime as a bad guy’s sidekick. Movies would have us believe that short people live a life of existential struggle, that they are nothing more than incomplete souls crying out from children’s clothes.

The average height of an American male is 5 feet 9.5 inches tall. (Strangely enough, surveys reveal this is the exact same length of the average American penis.) Tom Cruise is famously 2.5 inches shorter than this average, but we only know that because our own insecurity demands we find a flaw, any flaw, in this 54-year-old man with 2 percent body fat and chiseled features that become only more handsome with age. Yet you’d never know he was a tiny man from watching his movies. For example, Ving Rhames is over 6 feet, but he’s shorter than Tom in that picture up there. How? Is he sitting down? Forty yards behind him? Take look at another shot from Mission: Impossible …

Mark Whalberg is 5’8 and Zac Efron is 5’8. Sylvester Stallone is barely two apples high. And yet every time they’re in a movie, they are looking all the normal people in the eyes, filmmakers forcing them to stand on little boxes to hide that they are grotesque, undersized genetic failures.

And god forbid we reveal that the 5’9 Robert Downey Jr. is in fact 3 inches shorter than Chris Evans. We could do this all day!

Question: Do you think this weird prejudice is with filmmakers or audiences? Do you really think we’d refuse to be inspired by a hero who possesses every other positive trait on Earth — courage, humor, charm, muscles, wealth, confidence, sexuality — if they can comfortably ride in the back seat of a Civic? It’s not like we’re expecting the hero to solve every mystery and defeat every bad guy with slam dunks. Although now that we think about it, that sounds like a pretty sweet goddamn movie.

So if you’re a short (or even average height!) male watching, then guess what: The only trait that apparently matters is the one you can’t do anything about.

5

You Can’t Just Be Smart; You’ve Also Got To Kick Ass

Back in the 1980s, we didn’t care if our burly action heroes could say anything coherent. Arnold Schwarzenegger talked like a moose trying to describe the peanut butter in its mouth, and Sylvester Stallone sounded like that same moose gently lowering itself onto a whoopee cushion. We didn’t care, though, because their swollen pecs and rattling M60s did all the talking for them.

“Aarraragaooooaaahhhh!!!” — John Rambo

In an ’80s action movie, diplomacy was a dick-measuring contest with a stick of dynamite, and Jean-Claude Van Damme always won. Heroes weren’t paid to be smart; they were paid to strangle mooks and walk silently away from exploding gas stations.

We’re obviously so much more sophisticated these days. The good guys in movies can’t be musclebound meat sacks anymore — they have to hold multiple PhDs and have a particular set of skills for every occasion. Ethan Hunt can speak 75 languages while maintaining the sexy abs of Instagram’s douchiest bro. Jason Bourne can predict his opponents’ every move ten steps in advance. Even the biggest, dumbest superhero, the Hulk, spends most of his movies as one of the planet’s leading scientists.

Marvel Studios To be fair, this is a pretty smart way to take down a fighter jet.

It would be nice to think that the message is “Even nerds can be cool!” But these guys don’t win by being nerds. In nearly every case, the real heroism comes in the form of a punch to the throat.

Remember those Robert Downey Jr. Sherlock Holmes movies, in which Sherlock uses his brilliant mind to beat the shit out of guys in shirtless pit fights? That was weird, right? But at least it shows him fighting as a hobby, to get good at it — the BBC version also wins every fistfight he’s in and can easily out-dive exploding bombs. You also might remember in the new Star Trek movies, wherein Mr. Spock uses his Vulcan logic to form plans like “Hold my beer, I’m going to go fuck that guy up.”

Warner Bros. Pictures “I can tell by the speck of paint on your shoes that your face is quite susceptible to temple punches.”

Take Tony Stark out of the Iron Man suit, and he can still beat the hell out of a mansion full of henchmen in Iron Man 3. When Transformers 4 needed a nerdy inventor protagonist, it cast this guy:

In fact, if you’re in a Hollywood film and you realize you’re only brilliant, we have some bad news for you: You’re not the hero. In fact, you’re probably the obnoxious sidekick nerd. Check to see if you’re Simon Pegg or Seth Green. If you’re not, we have more bad news: You’re probably the villain.

The message is clear, boys: Brains are fine, but only if you use them to invent better punching. And if you use your mind exclusively for non-punching endeavors, you’re either ridiculous or evil.

4

Broken, Tortured Men Are Sexy

There’s something sexy about a dead-serious man willing to do anything to get the job done. The Batmans and Liam Neesons of the world, men who ruthlessly cut through criminal organizations while brooding about the atrocities they’ve been forced to commit. Even the supposedly goody-two-shoes Superman now scowls as he struts out of exploded court houses filled with charred corpses and jars of pee. Is any of this sexiness getting you hot and bothered yet? Too bothered?

They are almost never seen eating, but always drink. If they’re in bed, they’re having nightmares about those they’ve lost (or, you know, having sex). They are emotionally cold and distant when they’re not being glib. This is all done in the name of emotional complexity, but can we still call it that when every character is the same?

For example, why does Hollywood refuse to accept Superman as simply a morally sound hero who genuinely wants to help people? Struggling to protect those weaker than him is a perfectly legitimate problem. Did they think we couldn’t relate to him unless he cried in an ice cave like he’s in an Evanescence music video? Did they think he’d look like a “pussy” if he didn’t destroy an entire city and snap Zod’s neck in front of two children?

Every action movie and show seems to be in an arms race to give their stars the most severe PTSD or the highest number of dead loved ones. It used to be we that showed how grizzled a cop was by how old the Chinese takeout was in his filthy refrigerator. Now it’s measured by how many times he flashes back to his family getting tied to chairs and set aflame.

It’s not like this is making these characters more relatable to young males. (“See, he has problems just like you!”) After all, it’s not like they are heroic despite their tortured psychology, or that it’s something to overcome. The psychological damage is the source of their power — John Wick is a boring retired dude until a pair of tragedies utterly destroy his life, at which point he expresses his grief through numerous therapeutic sessions of gun-fu. Mad Max’s defining character trait is that he never smiles, jokes, or shares anything about himself — telling a comrade his name is treated as a shocking breakthrough.

At every turn, the message is the same: You’re not a true, sexy badass unless you’re a tortured shell of a man.

3

Movie Princes Are Non-People

A lot of analysis has gone into movie princesses, specifically the ones Disney has been cranking out for most of a century. That’s because for decades, they were the only lead female characters in kids movies, which put a lot of pressure on them to be positive role models. They taught young girls how to believe in themselves and be courageous, but also that a woman’s greatest virtues are good looks and shutting up.

We’re not paraphrasing; that’s literally a verse in a Disney song.

Still, no matter who you are, there’s a solid chance you can name ten Disney princesses off the top of your head. On the other hand, can you name more than two or three Disney princes? Probably not, because most of the movies don’t even bother giving the poor bastards names. The characterization of the princesses might send mixed messages, but the princes are forgettable handsome shells containing zero personality and a fetish for teen girls. They exist only to rescue the women.

Cinderella’s dream husband? He doesn’t have a name. Beast from Beauty And The Beast? Aside from that mean nickname, he has no actual name. Snow White’s prince? Maybe he’s a Trevor? Could be a Graham or a Tony. We’ll never know, because the writers didn’t think the character was worth naming. These movies give names to the horses and the mice, but not the princes.

The main characters are supposed to spend the rest of their lives with these guys, and the only thing we know about them is that they’re single, heterosexual, and not child molesters. Except wait — we don’t know any of that. The only thing we know about Disney princes is that they fall in love easily and have no problem putting their mouths on sleeping strangers. Finding a girl in the woods and licking her awake isn’t a great contribution to a relationship.

The point is that when it comes to royal romances, a princess brings dynamic character and a sense of adventure. A prince is handsome and has nothing better to do. We suppose the rebuttal is that these are fantasies for little girls and not boys, but that doesn’t make it any better. What’s the message for them? “Some day you’ll meet a walking mannequin who will be perfect for you for one reason: He’s a prince.“

2

Prison Rape Is Hilarious

Jokes about female rape are still circulating out there (though not as many as were a few years ago), but it was always rare, if not unheard of, to see a movie play a violent male-on-female sexual assault for laughs. But if the victim is a male and doing time? It seems there is nothing funnier.

It’s this reprehensible nightmare of a thing — the worst thing happening in the worst possible circumstances — yet Hollywood cannot get enough of prison rape jokes. To show you how easy going we are about it, realize that every time anyone ever joked “Don’t drop the soap!” they were hilariously referring to a criminal raping you. Jokes about it are so acceptable they show up on SpongeBob SquarePants. They refer to it in Naked Gun and Guardians Of The Galaxy, and they hang the entire plot of Get Hard on it. If Will Ferrell and Kevin Hart had negotiated their contract to get paid $15 per rape joke, they could have tripled their multi-million-dollar salaries. This is a real, horrible phenomenon that’s happening to someone, somewhere, right now.

The unspoken implication is that these victims deserve it. Really? Is that what we’re going with — that our civilized society has built a justice system in which one of the punishments for selling weed or stealing a car is the possibility of being violated? Even if Congress codified that into the law, even if we decided that rape is a suitable punishment for tax evasion, it would still be super weird to joke about it. And if the victim is himself a rapist, so what? You’re trivializing the very thing he’s guilty of.

This is, in fact, part of a larger trend …

1

Men Are Cannon Fodder

In the real world, human life is a precious thing to be protected by all means. In a movie, lives are snuffed out as punchlines. Human bodies get blasted into pieces any time a film needs to pick up the momentum, and when we say “human,” we specifically mean “men’s.”

Yeah, we talk about how filmmakers and moviegoers are desensitized to violence, but that’s not true — it’s only violence against men. Let’s look at an example. In this fleeting moment of awesomeness from Batman v. Superman, Batman bursts up through the floor and pounds the shit out of a group of thugs.

He’s still working through the sting of not getting a Best Director nomination for Argo.

It’s pretty fun, right? Now imagine it was a warehouse full of women. Everything else is the same. They’re still armed, still up to no good, but every time Batman crushes one of their collar bones, it’s a woman’s voice screaming out in pain. Turn up the sound on that clip — imagine every painful grunt is a female voice. Imagine if the heads Batman smashed into the floor had ponytails and eye shadow.

We’re not even sure that sequence makes it into the theater — somebody at the studio would get Zack Snyder some counseling as soon as they saw the script. It’s not because women would be no physical match for Batman; nobody is a match for Batman. He is tearing through those guys like a rat terrier loose in a hamster cage. The fact is, that kind of violence toward women would hit you in the gut. When it’s dudes, it’s either awesome or hilarious.

You can do this with any action movie. Imagine watching Return Of The Jedi, only every time a Stormtrooper head is bashed in by an Ewok, you hear a female scream. It would be chilling — the cops would kick in George Lucas’ door and assume he has a crowd of female corpses in his freezer. It’d be equally weird if he had, say, given the battle droids in the prequels Jennifer Tilly’s voice. And remember in The Two Towers when Legolas and Gimli are whimsically counting out their kills? Can you picture that being the same kind of fun if those were female orcs?

In fact, find any movie in which a human death is treated as slapstick, make the victims female, and you are left with a video suitable only for a serial killer’s crawlspace. Indiana Jones once comically shot three Nazis with a single bullet:

If you can’t watch the clip, there’s a little comedy music cue that plays as their bodies slump aside. Imagine all three are women; at the very least, it becomes deeply uncomfortable. (“Uh, was Spielberg going through a rough divorce when they made this?”)

And no, we’re obviously not demanding Hollywood show more women getting butchered to make it equal. We’re not demanding they show us fewer dead dudes. We’re just saying that we’ve definitely been conditioned to react a certain way to on-screen brutality, and the difference between dread and hilarity is usually whether or not the victim has a penis.

That’s weird, right?

Guy Bigel is a professional flute player, and he uploads fun arrangements to his YouTube channel. Check out his stuff here. Jordan Breeding has a blog, a Twitter, and wishes Hollywood would portray him as a super nerd with biceps the size of basketballs.

For more horrible ways Hollywood influences us, check out 6 Obnoxious Assumptions Hollywood Makes About Women and 6 Insane Stereotypes That Movies Can’t Seem to Get Over.

Subscribe to our YouTube channel, and check out How Hollywood Has Made You Dumber, and other videos you won’t see on the site!

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from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/6-backward-ideas-hollywood-still-has-about-men/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/176405958897

As the days endure and Ukraine suffers this abhorrent attack, it only seems more and more likely russia dropped the virus.

I was telling a follower, that China - if they were working on some vaccine or weapon - would be very unlikely to have dropped the virus. They lead in PPE and medical supplies, the country has strict regiment on handling bio-epidemics, they have some of the leading tech in sanitation methods.

russia is a botchy - “we tough men know no fear, comrade.” Their lack of strategy, code and regiment, miscalculation, makes it glaringly apparent that russia could have fucked up a perfectly good bioweapon.

And maga people screm into the void - “ChInA DiDnT WaRN Us!”

You think if russia suffered an outbreak of fucking mysterious virus spread, they would go to the United Nations and say, “Hello, yes comrade. Is problem have for motherland russia. Send PEE.”

I would call you a nutbag piece of shit. You have no idea the capacity russia has for making people go buh-bye. The people dictator putin doesn’t like, they do a David Copperfield. You won’t see those people. Ever.

putins lack of standards and brain rotting stupidity can do at least one thing right. They can fucking kill people. And they can keep word from escaping the iron curtain. You think they’d differentiate from regular rhino and covid. No. Bet a lot of people could have gone missing without us going.... wut?

I know a lot of you kids are babies, and you don’t know russia has been a threat to the United States - to an extent the world - up until the early 90s. Let me do the math for you right quick. That’s basically, yes, 30 years we’ve had a tentative ‘alliance’ with russia.

Which boils down to, “They probably won’t invade today.”

Our relationship with russia, to putin, has always been a business transaction. Nothing more. We share resources, information (sort... of). But russia, at least let me clarify putin, he hates america. We’re stupid and annoying, and the only good thing about our country is that we breed the super variants.

And also we were so pissy about an election cycle, we put into office a stale marshmallow who could be gas lit, ego-stroked, and had the emotional range of a used tampon.

BTW IM TALKING ABOUT TRUMP. TRUMP IS AS TRANSPARENT AS NITROGEN GAS.

And this is not a conspiracy theory plucked off facebook. I’ve rationalized from Feb 2020 that the likely culprit of fucking bullshit global pandemic, if this virus was not a naturally occurring fucker from some stranded mine or the congos, could have realistically been released by some dumbass piece of shit.

russia comes to the forefront, because they have been super quiet and distanced and fucking shit about controlling their side of the pandemic, from day -58. And trump is 

ALWAYS ALWAYS SO EAGER TO PASS THE BLAME ONTO CHINAH. HMMMM!!!!!!! I WONDER WHO GAVE HIM THAT COGNITIVE IDEA

Lets call a meeting and vote someone off the ship.

Then I said, off record and only to close family - because fucking don’t give people like russia spies ideas - this is a prime time for an attack on some country. The virus is a destabilizer.  I said, hey, lets keep an eye on russia. putin looks sus.

Because putin was never an ally. He’s just a guy waiting for an opportunity, and an excuse. And trump handed the motherfucker a full banquet and said, “yus master. Harder.”

the maga people are eager to hold up signs and shit of their fucking fat goiter in rambo gear. awesom. trumps a massive tool. He a hoe. He calls putin a brilliant genius, becaus putin is willing to send troops and weapons to the maga crowd in the United States, if only to see these covid-rabid lunatic trump-supporters supply some fucking entertainment.

putin wants to watch the world burn. But he set his own shoes on fire.

“5 Great Movie Fights From the Past Ten Years” by Nathan Shepka

Having been a massive action movie fan for as long as I can remember, I’ve just about seen it all. Okay, I’ve seen nowhere near it all, that would be nearly impossible. But I’ve seen my fair share of the cream of the crop (movies like Die Hard, Rambo and Hard Boiled) and I’ve seen the absolute lowest of the low, the bottom of the barrel.

For that reason alone I think it makes me a pretty good judge of on-screen scuffles. Again, I’ve seen loads. From Bruce Lee to Van Damme and everything in between. I appreciate a great punch-up, whether that be full blown brawling ala Hard Times (Charles Bronson) or wrist snappingly brutal martial arts fights ala Hard to Kill (Steven Seagal).

Here we’re going to look at some stellar fight scenes from the last decade. In a time of overblown superhero movies it’s sort of slim-pickins’ in terms of real, old fashioned hand-to-hand fight scenes, especially compared to the 80’s and 90’s for example when actors like Van Damme, Seagal, Norris, Stallone, Schwarzenegger and many more were at their peak.

Hence why some of the fights mentioned below either come from instant cult classic foreign films or sometimes from direct-to-video diamonds in the rough. These are by no means the cream of the crop but are just some of my favourite fight scenes in terms of being really impressed upon first and subsequent viewings.

Fast Five – Vin Diesel vs The Rock

Let’s start with a nice easy one. You have Vin Diesel, cornerstone of increasingly ridiculous action franchise ‘Fast & Furious’, you have the introduction of hulking wrestler Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnston to the franchise. This surely has to make for a good skirmish.

Not famous for their intricate aikido moves or graceful high kicks, this fight relies more on cracking each other across the face with punches powerful enough to level buildings. It’s not ground-breaking by any means but it’s exciting to see the two shaven-headed bulls duke it out.

The fight is a lean 2 and a half minutes, not dragging itself into the realms of audience boredom whilst keeping it trim enough to leave the viewers wanting more. This grapple-fest ranks above the slightly skimpy Rock vs Statham battle in Furious 7 that marginally suffered from typical Hollywood editing farts and slightly uninspiring choreography despite featuring some unusually artistic camera movements.

The Rock and Diesel bulldozing through the set like it’s a china shop is reminiscent of Van Damme and Lundgren’s breeze block filled re-match in the belated Universal Soldier: Regeneration and it serves as a memorable scene in a movie that’s already filled with ludicrous stunts and physical feats.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQEfEeBR3-M

Skin Trade – Dolph Lundgren vs Tony Jaa

A movie that was criminally never released on DVD in the UK and that arguably would have made a killing in terms of the casual action fan enthusiast, (given that the cast includes B-movie legends Dolph Lundgren, Tony Jaa, Michael Jai White, Ron Perlman and Peter Weller), Skin Trade features some exceptionally strong martial arts battles.

With a cast like this, you'd expect that to be the case but when you consider the budget of the film and presumably the limitations it had in comparison with a 200 million dollar Fast & Furious entry for example, you'd be forgiven for anticipating underwhelming ‘X vs Y’ fights, a bit like The Expendables franchise has unfortunately produced.

However, Skin Trade really does pull out all the stops in terms of fights and Dolph's battle with Asian action puppet Tony Jaa impresses due to its shrewd combination of the lumbering Lundgren relying on brute strength and nimble Jaa flying around like a praying mantis. A superbly lit location, lengthy punch-up and the best of American and Asian choreography make this one to watch. It totally trumps Dolph's strategically similar battle with Jet Li in The Expendables and Jaa's initial fight with Paul Walker in Furious 7.

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

 Hunt to Kill – Steve Austin vs Gary Daniels

A little-known movie starring Steve Austin, Hunt to Kill’s generic plot involving a border patrol agent (Austin), stolen money and a band of thieves scrambling through the woods doesn’t exactly set the heather on fire. Additionally, an appearance from Eric Roberts and a sulky teenage daughter in peril help to cement this solidly in ‘cliched action schlock’ territory.

Despite this, it’s directed with competence by long-time Seagal collaborator Keoni Waxman and the action is well-shot enough to put this a notch above where it should be, serving as a passable Saturday night 90-minutes with a crate of beer.

The typically handy henchman comes in the form of B-movie icon Gary Daniels who has fought a plethora of action guys in often under-baked fights including his short-lived, one-sided scrap with Seagal in Submerged, choppy brawl with Statham and Li in The Expendables and repetitive rumble with a sleepy Snipes in Game of Death (not a remake of the posthumously released Bruce Lee flick by any means).

Here he fights a clunky Steve Austin, who throws his big meaty fists around with the agility of a battle tank; but Gary Daniels’s best high kicking, Austin’s ability to take a hit and a satisfyingly mean end for said henchman make this a welcome 3-minutes in an otherwise pedestrian action flick.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VHzcL487dX8  (excuse the German dubbing!)

Parker – Jason Statham vs Daniel Bernhardt

The next entry features another B-movie bad guy who has made a career out of playing the sneering henchman. Daniel Bernhardt has challenged action icons Chuck Norris in The Cutter, Keanu Reeves in John Wick and Jean-Claude Van Damme in soon to be released Kill ‘Em All. But here, he’s fighting the Stath in what is one of the least memorable movies of Jason’s career.

However, there are a few standout moments in this largely forgettable crime thriller that sees Statham play Parker, (the same character Mel Gibson’s role in Payback was based on) and his fight with Bernhardt is one of them, coming out of nowhere with pacey aplomb. The other is Jennifer Lopez doing a bit of a sly striptease.

This fight earns extra points for sheer brutality, and just when you think it’s over it hits the gas one more time. After smashing each other into everything in sight in a high-rise apartment, utilising the television, the shower curtain and even the toilet cistern, the fight ends with them baying around out on the balcony and Statham enduring a painful self-inflicted knife wound in order to save himself. If the conclusion of the fight doesn’t leave you wincing a little, you’re probably the devil.

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

The Raid – Yayan Ruhian vs Iko Uwais & Doni Alamsyah

Insane on every level, this brings back memories of both Bruce Lee and early Jackie Chan chop-socky slugs but with added punch, uber-violent dynamic and a sense of tension and panic arguably never reached before by any on-screen martial arts bout.

Asian action triumph The Raid is excellent as a whole but the final two on one battle featuring terrifyingly agile villain ‘Mad Dog’ is the ultimate final gift of an already jam-packed spectacle. Lasting an entire 5 and a half minutes and set in a minimally dressed room, so grey that it blends with the actors’ clothing, it impresses without the use of extravagant or contrived props or gadgets.

No, it’s just a solid flow of hundreds of perfectly timed hits, barrages of genuinely painful looking landings and editing fluid enough to keep your eyes focused on the fight without having to dissect a collage of murky choppy cuts ala the Bourne franchise, to figure out what’s going on.

The last time I witnessed such a high-stakes two on one battle was Mel Gibson and Danny Glover duking it out with the lightning-fast Jet Li in Lethal Weapon 4, in a fight that was both as violent as the original movie and made the audience fear for the charaters’ lives thanks to a flawless portrayal of the bad guy’s skills.

Here is no different and upon first watch I was on the edge of my seat and borderline hollering at the TV for the good guys to win. They just can’t keep Mad Dog down, every time you think they have the upper hand it is snatched away from them and that’s what makes for such a thrilling battle.

To make a good fight, you have to make it look like the underdogs are going to lose, so that the win is much more of a relief and it’s a major relief when the two heroes finally stop taking a pummelling from determined, relentless Mad Dog. Sometimes it’s as much about the narrative or the stakes as the technical ability itself. The Raid final fight has both. Outstanding.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LpQNSW3S5Dg