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litafficionado · 3 years

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Four Questions with Garielle Lutz:

I’m extremely beholden to Garielle who took the time to respond to my silly, garbled, childish, intrusive questions. You can purchase her latest book Worsted here and here, among many other sites. --------- Q. You've attributed the resuscitation of your literary career in quite considerable measure to your teacher and editor Gordon Lish. It seems like you guys are particularly close, even as you seem to have largely confined yourself to Pittsburgh(mostly driven by your erstwhile teaching career but also by your liking the city over time). How does it feel to hear someone like Gordon speak so highly of you, “I think there’s more truth in one sentence of my student [Lutz] than in all of [Philip] Roth. Lutz gives [herself] away. “The speaking subject gives herself away,” says Julia Kristeva. I thoroughly believe that. What you see in Lutz, [her] lavish gift, is [her] refusal to relax [her] determination to uncover and uncover. It is, by my lights, quite wonderful, quite terrific.[…]Lutz is entirely the real thing?” Does one feel vindicated? How do you navigate the waters of self-effacement and self-indulgence as a writer and as a person? A. I haven’t had a literary career before or after studying with Gordon Lish. I don’t think one finds one’s way to him in hopes of launching a career. Anyone with vulgar ambition along those lines would have been shown the door pretty quick. I would never presume to be close to Gordon or to feel that I am part of his life other than in my role as a student. He dwells in another realm entirely. I attended his classes and tried to grasp, to the best of my abilities, the things he was saying about how to get from one word to the next. He also talked about how to free a word from the constricting range of its permissible behaviors, how to drain it of every sepsis of received meaning, until there is nothing left of the word but the skeleton of its former self, just the lank, gawky letters sticking out this way and that, and then how to fill the thing up again, to the point of overspilling, but this time with something that would never have been allowed to belong in there before, and then see whether the word, now close to bursting, can hold up and maybe have a new kind of say. I’m always surprised and relieved whenever Gordon says anything approving about anything I write. I think that for a lot of his students, his opinion is the only one that counts.

Q. You've said, "A typical day goes like this: noon, afternoon, evening, night, additional night, even more night, furtherest night, then bedtime, though I don’t have a bed or furniture of any kind.” Have you always been a lychnobite, sensing the overwhelming superabundance of life after the sunset or is it a relatively recent development facilitated by your retirement from teaching? Do you consider yourself in any way to be a minimalist? Does your room bear any resemblance with a sparsely lit opium den where all exchanges happen at the floor level?

A. I think the pandemic has had a lot to do with it. Lately I’ve been up until five, sometimes six. But I’ve always found mornings the harshest and ugliest part of the day (maybe it’s just because of the place where I live, but I never open the blinds anyway). There can be something awfully scolding about a sunrise the older you get Evening seems to extend every form of leniency, and in the dead of night, expectations go way down, which is where they maybe ought to stay. I do spend all of my time on the floor, but my apartment doesn’t bear any resemblance to an opium den. It’s more like a crawlspace or the back of a dollar-store stockroom.

Q. Even with your reputation of being a page-hugger than a typical page-turner, how do you decide which books to read apart from your line of work? Do you try to keep it largely in the familiar territory, like exploring the oeuvre of a time-tested writer? How does one unshackle oneself from this constant niggling that one ought to read so many books? Here's Ben Marcus: “When I was in graduate school, there was this sort of cautionary adage going around by the poet Francis Ponge that we can only write what we’ve already read and one way to hear that is you’re just sort of doomed to kind of regurgitate everything you’ve read and so if you’re just reading all the popular books, the books everyone else is reading, in some sense you’re maybe unwittingly confining yourself to a particular literary practice that’s gonna look pretty familiar. I remember at the time thinking, okay well if that’s true, if I’m just fated to that, then I’m gonna read things that no one else is reading. I loved to just go to the library and pretty randomly grab books, because I think for a little while, and I’m kinda glad this passed, but I really just had this feeling that a writer just consumes language and just sort of spits it out. So it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t have to be a great novel for it to be worth-reading. And I still read very little fiction in the end compared to non-fiction, essays, works of philosophy, science. And the other sort of dirty secret is: I don’t finish a lot of books. I just don’t care enough. I only finish a book if I have to or if I really want to. And, often, I’ll stop reading a book three pages from the end. I think that as writers, we probably feel a lot of pressure about what kind of a reader to be, what kind of a writer to be in, and we feel this shame, like “I haven’t read DH Lawrence, I’m such an asshole.” You begin to feel like you’ve these deficiencies and you gotta make them up and you never will and a lot of it is just kinda tyrannical. Of course, obviously, we must be naturally motivated to read and read and read and read but I guess I just started to notice that…I got a lot of my ideas by just reading…e.g. a gardening book…like the weird way a sentence was structured.” Then there's Moyra Davey: “Woolf famously said of reading: “The only advice … is to take no advice, … follow your instincts, … use your reason.” A similar thought was voiced by her elder contemporary Oscar Wilde, who did not believe in recommending books, only in de-recommending them. Later, Jorge Luis Borges echoed the same sentiment by discouraging “systematic bibliographies” in favor of “adulterous” reading. More recently, Gregg Bordowitz has promoted “promiscuous” reading in which you impulsively allow an “imposter” book to overrule any reading trajectory you might have set for yourself, simply because, for instance, a friend tells you in conversation that he is reading it and is excited by it. This evokes for me that most potent kind of reading — reading as flirtation with or eavesdropping on someone you love or desire, someone who figures in your fantasy life.”“What to read?” is a recurring dilemma in my life. The question always conjures up an image: a woman at home, half-dressed, moving restlessly from room to room, picking up a book, reading a page or two and no sooner feeling her mind drift, telling herself, “You should be reading something else, you should be doing something else.” The image also has a mise-en-scène: overstuffed, disorderly shelves of dusty and yellowing books, many of them unread; books in piles around the bed or faced down on a table; work prints of photographs, also with a faint covering of dust, taped to the walls of the studio; a pile of bills; a sink full of dishes. She is trying to concentrate on the page in front of her but a distracting blip in her head travels from one desultory scene to the next, each one competing for her attention. It is not just a question of which book will absorb her, for there are plenty that will do that, but rather, which book, in a nearly cosmic sense, will choose her, redeem her. Often what is at stake, should she want to spell it out, is the idea that something is missing, as in: what is the crucial bit of urgently needed knowledge that will save her, at least for this day? She has the idea that if she can simply plug into the right book then all will be calm, still, and right with the world. […] Must reading be tied to productivity to be truly satisfying […] Or is it the opposite, that it can only really gratify if it is a total escape? What is it that gives us a sense of sustenance and completion? Are we on some level always striving to attain that blissful state of un-agendaed reading remembered from childhood? What does it mean to spend a good part of one’s life absorbed in books? Given that our time is limited, the problem of reading becomes one of exclusion. Why pick one book over the hundreds, perhaps thousands on our bookshelves, the further millions in libraries and stores? For in settling on any book we are implicitly saying no to countless others. This conflict is aptly conjured up by essayist Lynne Sharon Schwartz as she reflects on “the many books (the many acts) I cannot in all decency leave unread (undone) — or can I?”” What way out do you suggest? Do you deem it worthwhile to eschew any shred of obligation and be propelled in any direction naturally? Like you said you found grammar books and lexicons more engaging and enjoyable than the novels.

A. I seem to remember that in some magazine or another, James Wolcott once said “Read at whim.” That has always sounded like the best advice. And I assume it means to feel free to ditch any book that disappoints. Like Ben Marcus, I’ve had experiences of abandoning a book just a few pages from the end, but I often don’t make it that far in most things anymore. I came from a long line of nonreaders, so I’ve never felt any guilt about passing up books or writers that so many people seem to talk about a lot, and I don’t expect other people to like what I like. Some books I’ll start about halfway in and then see whether I might want to work my way back to the beginning. Others I’ll start at the very end and inch my way toward the front, one sentence at a time, and see how far I can go that way. I seem to remember that in The Pleasure of the Text, Roland Barthes recommends “cruising” a text, and maybe something like that is what I’m doing at least some of the time, if I understand what he means. And every now and then I’ll read a book straightforwardly for an hour and afterward wonder whether the time might have been better spent staring off into space. Too many books these days seem ungiving. It’s the ungivingness that disappoints the most. A lot of contemporary fiction has the gleam and sparkle of a trend feature in a glossy magazine, and I can appreciate the craft and the savvy that go into something like that, but I am drawn more toward stories and books that demand being read slowly and closely, pulse by pulse, the kind of fiction where everything--what little might be left of an entire blighted life--can pivot on the peal of a single syllable. Q. I'd like to ask you so many questions. But let this be the last one for matters of convenience. Also, in a capitalistic world, one's enshrouded with guilt for taking one's time without being remunerative in any way. Among the books and films that you recently encountered, which ones do you think deserve rereads/rewatches? A. I used to feel like the woman you’ve described so movingly above, someone who questions her choice of books almost to the brink of despair. At my age, though, I no longer have a program for reading, a syllabus or a checklist, and I’m okay with knowing there’s a lot I’ll never get around to. I’m happy being a rereader of a few inexhaustible books and chancing upon occasional fresh treasure. The one book that has shaken me the most in the longest time is Anna DeForest’s A History of Present Illness, which will be out next August. It’s a blisteringly truthful novel written with moral grace and unsettling brilliance and an awing mastery of language. A couple of recent books I have read in manuscript, books that totally knocked me out with their originality and uncanny command of the word, are Greg Gerke’s In the Suavity of the Rock (a novel) and David Nutt’s Summertime in the Emergency Room (a short-story collection). I haven’t watched many movies in the past few months, and the ones I watched aren’t ones I’ll probably be rewatching anytime soon.

#Garielle Lutz #lit #Worsted #Moyra Davey #Ben Marcus #Gordon Lish #Anna DeForest #A History of Present Illness #Greg Gerke #In the Suavity of the Rock #David Nutt #Summertime in the Emergency Room

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coralstories · 3 years

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You Have a Girlfriend?!

Spencer Reid x ocBianca Bennett

A/N: My last Spencer Reid fic was a little after he first met Bianca. This is set after they’ve been together for a while.

A/N 2: I meant to post the Dia de los Muertos Hobbit fic, but my Halloween weekend was surprisingly busy, so that didn’t happen. Take this one as consolation!

Word count: 2725 (wow, that’s a lot)

“What do we got?”

“The sheriff in San Francisco contacted me about a possible serial killer. Here are the files.”

“Thanks, JJ.”

Agent Aaron Hotchner’s team were gathered in the conference room. JJ, Agent Jareau, had called them in early to brief them on a possible case. They all agreed that it was something they should look into. Then Agent Jareau noticed something.

“Guys, do any of you know where Reid is?” she asked, not having heard his input in the past five minutes.

They all shook their heads.

“Maybe he didn’t get your text,” Morgan offered.

“Call him, but tell him we’re leaving in 30,” Hotch said.

With that, the rest of them dispersed. Morgan held back JJ and Agent Prentiss.

“Listen, why don’t we just go and pick up Reid? JJ, you said he gave you keys, right?”

“Oh, he did?” Agent Prentiss asked.

“Yeah, after we named him godfather,” JJ responded with a smile.

“That’s sweet.”

“Yeah.” JJ considered Morgan’s proposal. “Alright, let’s go.”

They beat traffic and got to Agent Reid’s apartment fairly quickly. He wasn’t answering calls. JJ knocked, but when there was no answer, they all silently agreed to go in. JJ unlocked the door while the others kept a hand on their weapons out of habit. They entered cautiously.

“Reid?” JJ called out.

“He must have left by now,” Prentiss said in a reasonable tone.

“The shower’s on,” Morgan pointed out.

“And is that… a woman singing?” JJ said.

They all moved slowly toward the back of the apartment. They heard the water shutoff, and then a woman walked out, still humming. She had a towel wrapped around herself, tucked under her arms, and her hair was wet. She made her way to the fridge and dug around for a moment. She turned, leaned on the island, and started peeling an orange.

“Did you forget something?” she asked.

All three agents froze in surprise. She wasn’t looking at them, her gaze was on her hands, but there was no one else in the room.

“Um, who are you?” Morgan asked.

“And what are you doing in Reid’s apartment?” Prentiss added.

The woman stopped her movements and lifted her head.

“Well, shit. None of you are Spencer,” she said.

This confused the agents even more.

“Do I look like Dr. Spencer Reid?” Morgan asked sarcastically.

“Well I wouldn’t know, but none of you sound like him.”

There was a pause as they all realized something; she was blind.

“That was a joke, guys,” the woman said. She put a piece of orange in her mouth. “Lighten up.”

“You still haven’t told us who you are,” Prentiss said.

“Spencer hasn’t told you about me?”

“No,” all the agents said at once.

“Of course he hasn’t,” she sighed. “I’m Bianca Bennett.”

She extended her hand, which all of them automatically stepped forward to shake.

“Spencer calling,” an automated voice said.

The woman, Bianca, reached across the counter to grab the phone and accepted the call on speaker.

“Hey, Spencer,” Bianca answered. “What did you forget?”

“Hey, Bee,” Spencer said.

His coworkers lifted their eyebrows.

“I forgot my jacket, do you think you’ll have time to drop it off?” Spencer continued.

“You’re lucky I have the morning off,” Bianca said with a smile.

“I don’t know about lucky, but it was definitely—“

“And—,” Bianca interrupted loudly— “you’re lucky some of your coworkers are here. I’ll give it to them and they’ll meet you, yeah?”

“What? Who’s there? It’s JJ, isn’t it?”

“Her and Prentiss and Morgan. I think. And I think they were about ready to shoot me.”

Spencer sighed. “I’m really sorry about that, all of you. I’m guessing I’m on speaker, right?”

“You have inferred correctly, sir,” Bianca said.

“Okay, I promise I’ll explain later, guys. For now, can you just grab my jacket and I’ll meet you at the office, please?”

“Actually, we were just swinging by to pick you up. We got called in early on a case,” Prentiss explained.

“Alright, then I’ll meet you on the plane and get briefed there. I’ve got to go, guys, I’m on the subway, I’m—“

The connection was lost. Bianca turned off the phone and turned back to the agents.

“Reception is spotty on the subway. Let me get his jacket,” Bianca said.

She walked out of the room, and the agents immediately started murmuring to each other.

“Since when does Reid have a girlfriend?”

“And she is blind, right?”

“She’s pretty.”

“I wonder if she’s a genius like him.”

Bianca walked into the living room and held out Reid’s jacket.

“We’ve been dating for about a year now,” she said, answering the questions they asked each other. “Yes, I really am blind. Thank you, and no, I am definitely not a genius.”

All the agents averted their eyes and flushed in embarrassment. Prentiss took the jacket with an apologetic smile.

“Thin walls,” Bianca said. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Anyways, you should go. Don’t want to miss your plane. You’ve got to catch some killers, right?”

“Right,” Prentiss said. “Well, um…“

“It was nice meeting you,” JJ said.

“Yeah, you too.” Bianca shook their hands again.

They left and attacked Reid with incessant questions once they were all on the plane. Reid glanced at Hotch and Rossi fearfully. He shushed them and mouthed, ‘Later'. Hotch and Rossi noticed. They only exchanged exasperated glances and ignored the other agents.

The case went by fairly quickly and easily; the team considered themselves lucky. The night before they returned to Quantico, they cornered Reid in his hotel room.

“Okay, spill,” JJ demanded. “How did you even meet her? She doesn’t work with us.”

“That’s because she’s not an FBI agent at all,” Reid said. “She’s a high school teacher.”

“You’re dating a schoolteacher?” Morgan said incredulously.

“Yes. I have enjoyed our privacy so far, so if you guys could—“

“It’s okay, Reid, it’s not like I can judge,” JJ said. “I kept my relationship with Will a secret for about a year, right?”

The other three exchanged telling looks.

“JJ, we all knew,” Reid said.

“What?”

“No, hold on, I’m not gonna let him turn this around,” Morgan said, cutting JJ off from saying anything further.

“And I’m not going to let you all interrogate me or her about our private, personal life,” Reid countered.

“We just want to know who she is,” Prentiss said.

“And why you’ve been hiding her from us,” Morgan said.

“Well, I told you. Her name is Bianca Bennett and she’s a school teacher. And I haven’t been hiding her from you, you all just assumed I wasn't dating anyone.”

No one said anything for a moment after that. They couldn’t deny it. The possibility never entered their minds that Spencer Reid may be seeing someone.

“Where did you guys meet?” JJ asked, breaking the silence.

Reid gave her a warning look, perhaps trying to determine her intentions.

“She came up to me in the park to ask for advice about one of her students. She had heard me give a lecture before and knew my background,” Reid explained.

“What do you mean, she wanted help with one of her students? Isn’t it her job to teach kids?”

“Yeah, but this student was different.”

“Was that the day you left early?” Prentiss asked.

Reid nodded. “Yup. It still took about seven meetings before she asked me out, though.”

“She asked you out? Oh come on, Reid,” Morgan said.

“It took you guys that long?”

“Well, she was waiting for me to ask her out, but I was completely oblivious. Even her student, the one I was mentoring, and his aunt picked up on it. I liked her, obviously, but I guess I just never thought she would agree to a date. She’s just amazing.”

“Aw. I’m happy for you, Spence,” JJ said, patting the younger man on the back.

“Yeah, it’s about time, man.”

“She’s okay with you being gone for long periods of time like this?” Prentiss asked.

Reid glanced at each of them before answering.

“She would prefer I wasn’t, obviously, but she knows this job is important to me. Besides, it’s not like we have a kid or anything.”

They were all quiet as they thought about their coworker, Hotch. Finally, Prentiss, Morgan, and JJ stood.

“We should get going. We have to be up early for our flight tomorrow,” Prentiss said.

“Yeah, we’ll let you get some sleep,” Morgan said.

“Ask Bianca if it would be okay to ask her to lunch,” JJ said. “I want to get to know her since she’s your girlfriend and all.”

“Okay, I’ll text her in a bit. Goodnight, guys.”

The next morning, they left early for their six-hour flight and got back to Quantico around noon. They went straight to the office to start on reports. Reid was telling his team members about the history of San Francisco as they rode the elevator.

“You know, what’s interesting is that San Francisco was called the “city of sin” long before Las Vegas. The city was rife with prostitution and opium dens as an outlet for the gold rushers who flocked to the city at the time. At first, there wasn’t much law and order to the city and it was run by vigilante groups who would hang anyone who committed a crime.”

Prentiss and Morgan exchanged a glance, but they didn’t try to cut him off yet.

“Then, when they started an actual police force, even those policemen were corrupt and accepted bribes from the madams and drug dealers to turn the other cheek. That all changed after the 1906 earthquake and fire, though. After that, the city’s inhabitants become of a reform-minded mood and when they were rebuilding, they--”

The elevator arrived at their floor, and they stepped out quickly.

“--decided that they would build more respectable businesses, especially on Morton Street, where most of the--”

“Reid, so, how long have you and Bianca been living together?” Prentiss asked.

“Not long. We actually go between her place and mine. We’re usually at her apartment on the weekends.”

Reid’s phone rang.

“Hello?” Reid answered. “What? Are you okay?”

The note of fear in his voice caught the others’ attention.

“Okay. I’m on my way, and I’m going to send some police officers as well, okay? I’ll see you soon.” He hung up and started gathering his things while he dialed another number.

“What’s going on?” Prentiss asked.

“Someone broke into Bianca’s apartment and attacked her,” Reid explained.

“Oh my god,” Prentiss said. “I’ll tell Hotch what’s going on.”

“I’ll drive you,” Morgan said.

“Hey Garcia,” Reid said into the phone. “I need you to dispatch the closest patrol car to Bianca’s apartment. … Everything’s fine for now, but I need you to hurry, okay?… There was a break-in, I’ve got to go.”

He hung up. Morgan followed him with the keys to one of the SUVs. They ran the siren. Morgan followed Reid’s directions and got to Bianca’s apartment in record time. When they got out they saw that there was a police car on the sidewalk. Reid took the stairs two at a time, and Morgan followed close behind. As they neared Reid’s door, they heard Bianca’s voice.

“I’m okay, please stop touching me,” she said.

Reid and Morgan burst into the room to find it a mess. Items were strewn along the floor, the refrigerator was open, a dish was shattered, the coffee table was on its side, and the TV was on the floor near the door. There was one police officer kneeling on a man and putting handcuffs on him. The officer’s partner was attempting to comfort Bianca. He had his hands on her shoulders, ignoring her attempts to shake him off and her stiff posture. Reid barreled through the room toward them, while Morgan kept close to the arresting officer in case he needed help.

“Bianca, are you alright?” Reid asked. “Hands off my girlfriend, she doesn’t like strangers touching her,” he snapped at the police officer.

The man put his hands up in surrender, eyes wide. Reid took Bianca’s hand and led her to the couch, making her sit.

“I’m fine, Spencer. He just surprised me is all,” Bianca said.

The officers stood up with the offender.

“Did she tell you what happened?” Morgan asked them.

“Just that he was here when she came in, and almost knocked her out,” one of them said. “Your boy’s got a good girl there. When we came in she was standing over this loser with her stick pointed at his throat.”

“It’s a cane,” Reid corrected at the same time the would-be thief started shouting.

“She threatened me!” the offender whined. “She said if I moved—“

“Shut the hell up, man,” Morgan said. “It was self-defense. I’d have kicked your ass.”

The officers took him away. Morgan went over to where Reid and Bianca were sitting on the couch. He noticed how Bianca seemed to be melting into Reid.

“Bianca, I think you should go to the hospital,” Morgan said gently.

“What? Why?” Reid asked.

He took Bianca’s face in his hands and examined her. She winced. Her bottom lip trembled and she kept looking up; it looked like she was trying not to cry.

“You said he tried to knock you out?” Morgan prompted.

“Yeah, he tried to hit me with the vase.”

Reid pushed her hair back to reveal a cut on her ear and neck.

“Bianca!” Reid exclaimed.

Bianca touched one hand to her ear. When she pulled it away, her fingertips were sticky with blood.

“I thought it was the water,” Bianca murmured. "From the vase."

Morgan leaned down to examine her. “It doesn’t look that deep,” he said. “But we should still get you checked out. Want me to drive?”

“O-okay,” Bianca said.

“Thank you,” Reid said.

Reid helped Bianca up and to the door, where Morgan offered to carry her down the stairs.

“Thanks, but I can walk,” Bianca replied stubbornly.

She managed it by leaning heavily on the railing and keeping one hand intertwined with Spencer’s. The ride to the hospital was silent, broken only by Morgan and Reid’s cell phones vibrating. Morgan glanced down and saw that it was a group text from Penelope, telling them all that Hotch wants them to meet in the BAU conference room. Morgan looked in the rearview mirror and saw Reid frowning down at his phone, presumably at the same text.

“Spencer, what’s wrong?” Bianca asked.

“What? Nothing,” Reid said.

Bianca’s lips curved up into a smirk. “Now I really know there’s something up.”

Morgan’s eyebrows rose at her keen perception. Bianca, who had been leaning on Reid’s shoulder, suddenly sat up straighter.

“If you need to go back to work, it’s okay,” Bianca said softly.

Reid met Morgan’s eyes in the mirror, the problem clear in his eyes. Reid shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I can’t leave you.”

“But… I have friends I can call. If it’s important--”

Reid’s phone buzzed again. It lit up to reveal a text from Hotch: he was aware of the situation and Reid did not have to come in until it was resolved. Reid sighed in relief and put his arm around Bianca, nudging her so that her head was on his shoulder again.

“Nothing’s more important than you,” he said in her ear.

It was too quiet for Morgan to hear, but the small, shy smile that graced Bianca’s features was enough to let him know of his friend’s plans.

“We just came back from a case, so we probably don’t have to leave again,” Morgan said. “Hotch probably just wants us to go over reports. I can cover for you, man.”

Reid smiled slightly and gave a tight nod. “Thanks.”

“Aaron Hotchner?” Bianca said. She smiled up at Reid. “I want to meet the rest of your team now.”

“Well, maybe we can arrange that for another day,” Reid said.

“Oh, really? I was thinking we could invite them all to the emergency room,” Bianca deadpanned.

It took both men a moment to realize that she was being sarcastic. Reid laughed and buried his face in her hair, and began whispering something else to her. Morgan chuckled and shook his head. He was beginning to like Reid’s girlfriend.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x oc #bianca bennett

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clive-owen-and-the-knick · 3 years

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Rock n Roll Thack

Spoilers ahead for the season-one finale of The Knick.

As The Knick kicked off this past summer, Dr. John Thackery (Clive Owen) reminded those around him that “We live in a time of endless possibility.” Unfortunately for this brilliantly unhinged surgeon, that potential boundlessness got him sentenced to a hospital bed on this weekend’s season finale. Turns out shooting liquid cocaine into your veins before surgery is bad for both you and the health of your patient! Thankfully, Thack will get himself cured with a new drug called, uh … heroin, which was considered safe at the time. “It’s from the Bayer Aspirin Company,” says the prescribing doctor.

My Week In New YorkA week-in-review newsletter from the people who make New York Magazine.

A fitting way to end the poetically harrowing first season of Steven Soderbergh’s 1900s medical drama — with its antihero hitting rock-bottom. What will Soderbergh and the rest of The Knick team have in store for us in season two? Vulture spoke with Owen to discuss those possibilities, the finale, and the unlimited energy it takes to play a cocaine addict.

So let’s start right at the end. Thackery is finally able to get the help he needs … [Laughs.]

… only to find out he’s getting weaned off of cocaine and onto heroin. Exactly! I always thought that was a pretty brilliant ending. And apparently it was true. There were a lot of people getting addicted to cocaine at that time, because it was a new wonder drug and they didn’t realize its addictiveness. So they prescribed heroin as a kind of antidote. Out of the frying pan, into the fire …

It feels like you need a tremendous amount of energy to play a cocaine addict. It’s true. It was very exhausting, simply for that reason. It was exhausting anyway because it was a very intense shoot and Steven [Soderbergh] worked so fast and we were doing a lot, but you do realize that every single scene takes a lot of energy. Especially those episodes towards the end because there’s the [cocaine] shortage, and then when it comes back, he’s taking more than ever. [Laughs.]

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And you guys shot the scenes out of order, almost like a movie. Yeah, [Soderbergh] boarded it like a ten-hour movie, so when we were in [Thackery’s home], we shot everything, from the first episode to the last episode, in just two days. So that was quite a challenge. I made a visual white board on my wall, which just plotted through all the episodes and all the scenes in the episodes, and part of that was to graph my drug intake. That this was a period where you need more drugs, or this is where you were on too many. In some ways, that needed to be charted throughout the whole ten hours.

So you were filming those scenes where Thackery is self-destructing early in the shoot? Exactly. It was all location-based. At first I thought, That’s fine. You always shoot anything out of sequence. But it wasn’t until we started that I realized what a challenge that was. It’s a big undertaking, especially with a part like that.

One of my favorite — though certainly horrifying — aspects of the show is to see all the medical procedures and techniques that are shunned now. Obviously there’s the cocaine, but then there’s the fact that doctors aren’t wearing gloves or that people need to stand in front of an X-ray machine for like 45 minutes. The great thing is, not only were the operations really well-researched — when we did them, they were incredibly faithful to how they were being done at the time — we go into discoveries that were made. But also there were a number of crazy ideas and crazy notions that they were exploring. I am sure in 20 or 40 years from now, we’ll look back and think, Did we really believe that?

I understand you went through a brief medical-school crash course with the show’s medical adviser, Dr. Stanley Burns, before you began production. Yeah, he was an unbelievable source of research and information. It’s almost like this show was his fantasy come to life, because his place, he has hundreds of thousands of photographs from this period, he had medical instruments from the period, he had booklets that were handed to doctors at the turn of the century. He was just an unbelievable resource to have.

What was the hardest procedure for you to do onscreen? Really, the first one was in some ways the most shocking, because we did everything we could, but we had never seen it with all the blood and everything. We had rehearsed it thoroughly, we shot everything up until the point where we make the first incision, and then the blood was pumped through and we just did everything in real time, and Steven kept his shot going. The blood just kept coming, and by the end, when he shouted “Cut!,” we were all covered. It was all over the place. It was a real moment of “Welcome to 1900!” [Laughs.] That was quite shocking. So we knew from then on that this was the direction we were going in.

I read Steven was looking for that “David Fincher” level of blood. Yeah, and again, Dr. Burns was there for every single procedure … He would be like, “More blood,” “Less blood” — that was what he asked for.

I assume you’re not too squeamish in general, right? It would probably be pretty difficult to play the role to begin with. Um, no, and also the scenes were so technically challenging. They work on such a number of levels. You’ve got the technical side of the operation, you’ve got to know what you’re doing, you’ve got the dialogue with the other doctors, and the whole element of performing it in front of an audience. So they were just very challenging scenes generally, and there was no real time to get squeamish. You just wanted to look like you knew what you were doing.

There’s a pretty brutal scene in the finale where you’re doing a blood transfusion and cutting your wrist open. Could you walk me through that? Well, first I thought, throughout the whole show, but specifically that one, the prosthetics guy did such an incredible job. Even to the naked eye, just as an actor standing there, some of the stuff that we were looking down and working on, it was so convincing. And that’s without doing any CGI. But I do remember that one, with the little girl lying on the bed, and wondering if the veins are connecting, and looking at Steven and saying, “How are we ever going to come back for the second season? How are we ever going to bring this guy back? He’s irredeemable!” [Laughs.] So that felt like a scene where we pushed him as far as it was possible to push him.

We don’t know much of Thackery’s background. He made a brief speech about his father slaughtering Indians, but that was about it. Had you and Steven come up with a backstory? There was actually, in earlier drafts, there was an element of him going back to see his father. So there was some stuff there that in the end Steven took out, which I think was a wise thing to do. So there was kind of a rough outline there, but we may find out more about that in the second season.

You’ve mentioned before that there’s something that strikes you as very rock and roll about Thackery. That came out of a conversation with the costume designer, who did such an excellent job. I went to a fitting and she pitched me the idea of these white boots. It was such a strange arrogance about it. And as we were looking at clothes — I have done period things before, and very often, a costume designer will say, “Oh, no, you can’t wear that because they never did that.” But Ellen would say to me, “Well, you can do what you like. You’re Thackery.” He’s the 1900 version of rock and roll. He can wear anything. There’s something about the way he carries himself, and his attitude, and the fact that he’s brilliant also helps him get away with it. There’s something so edgy and visceral about him.

I think one of the most interesting aspects of him is that he’s able to transition seamlessly from an uptown lifestyle to a more downtown decadence, where he goes to these opium dens. Yeah. And it’s also a lovely flavor of what New York must have been at that time. You get the broad spectrum. You get the real rough areas, where disease has taken a grip; you get the wealthy areas, where people are funding the hospital. It gives you such an opportunity to experience a broad palate of life at that time.

Did filming the first season feel more like a movie than a TV show, since Steven directed every episode? For sure. It didn’t feel any different. It felt longer, obviously — though I say longer, we shot the thing in 73 days. It was like the length of a really big movie. Apart from the amount we were getting through each day, which was an awful lot. We moved so quickly. I think our record was 13 pages of dialogue in one day. Apart from that, the pace of it felt absolutely no different from doing a movie. At the end of the day, Steven Soderbergh is a movie animal. And also the fact that we didn’t shoot it episodically. He did board it like a movie. It didn’t feel like television.

Is 13 pages a day a lot? That seems like a lot. It’s a hell of a lot. You try learning that and knowing you need to get up the next day and do another one. [Laughs.]

That’s what’s so great about the show and how insane it must have been to shoot. You’re not only playing an interesting character, but you have to learn all these medical terms that you’re not that familiar with. They are hard to learn, those scenes. And we did occasionally shoot one operation after another, but you have to really put time into them. You’ve got to look and sound completely convincing. I really thought so highly of the writers — the rhythms were often good. Oftentimes when the writing is good, even if it’s technical stuff around the operation, the rhythm is easier to learn. And it’s really difficult to learn if it’s stilted.

How much rehearsal was involved in shooting the actual scenes? There are some really long takes during those surgery sequences. He’s very, very quick, Steven. Those operation days, I’d say yes, the first hour or two of that day were crucial, because that’s where you’d dictate how everything plays — the technical side of it, the rhythm of the dialogue. But genuinely, we’d go and rehearse the scene a number of times, and Steven would have a look at it from a number of perspectives and make a very clear decision and take a very strong perspective on where he wants to shoot the scene from, and then shoot it fairly quickly.

Have you and Steven talked about what’s in store for season two? Yeah, I’ve got five scripts in front of me here. It’s just very exciting because it was such a bold take on a period genre in a way. I thought it was so visceral and edgy. It’s brilliant to be able to come this far. The exciting thing is we can hit the ground running. We’ve already done so much work in taking it to very interesting, unusual and dangerous places. It’s really exciting.

Are you worried about being able to top the first season? No, we’ve got such a wealth of opportunity. It just goes to really interesting and crazy places, and there is still so much there. We are lucky [the writers] literally immersed themselves in the time. There was stuff they were trying to cram in the first season that they can go to. It’s just really great stuff. There’s an awful lot still.

#Clive Owen #the knick

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rwbyvein · 3 years

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Firen Lhain: Chapter 608: Swimsuit Runway: Part I/III

Mercury and Emerald looked up at the vaunted city of Mistral. "I know you're a street rat," Mercury said to her, "but let me explain some things to you."

"I'M NOT A STREET RAT!" Emerald shouted, "Cinder..."

"Never stopped you from picking pockets." Mercury firmly stated.

"What do you have against!?.."

"Because it draws a LOT attention, and is one of the worst ways to make money. Did you learn nothing from?.." he said, and trailed off. "Anyways, Mistral is very classist. The higher status you are, the higher up on the mountain you get to live. This means the higher you go up, the more scrutiny we get."

"And how do you know this?" Emerald asked.

"I guess it might have never occured to you that my father did more than beat me." Mercury voiced, "He took me on assignments. Sometimes I even helped. But you are missing the best part."

"And what's that?" Emerald spitefully asked him.

"Right now what we need most is a street rat. You need to find where all of the other street rats go."

"And then what?" Emerald asked.

"We knock on a few doors." Mercury stated. "And whatever you do, don't pick any pockets."

"And why should I listen to you?!" Emerald shouted, and Mercury looked around, seeing everyone looking at them.

"Because once we start to move we'll have more than enough money to get by," Mercury voiced, "and if you keep that up - you'll ruin everything. Cinder's not here to pamper you and fix your mistakes."

Emerald scoffed, and was incensed, but wasn't sure of what to say. She breathed in deep when something occured to her. "Why... are we even working together?"

"Because we both want to find Cinder," Mercury voiced, "and our chances are much better together."

Emerald angrily looked at him before looking away. He wasn't sure if she saw the panic on his face, but he was trying his best to hide it.

* * *

Mercury laid back in the shadows, simply relaxing, when Emerald reappeared. "So, what?, I do all the hard work, and you just sit your ass aroun?.."

Mercury sat up, "What did you find?"

"Drug dealers, pimps, street gangs, triads, fixers for the homeless, fences..."

"More than enough to get started." Mercury said, leaned back, and flipped himself up to his feet.

"And just what are you going to do?" Emerald said with clear hostility?"

Mercury cricked his neck and started moving about like he was in a fight, "Knock on a few doors."

* * *

Mercury kicked the door into the drug den. It naturally caused a whole lot of panic, with people running all over the place. They were half dressed and strung out on drugs. Many were not able to respond at all and barely looked at him.

"Who the hell do you think you are?!" a man asked him.

"The son of Marcus Black." Mercury stated. "I'm looking to build a little nest egg. So, you can give me your money, or I can kill you and take it." A group of large men approached him.

* * *

Mercury left through the destroyed door carrying a large sack of Lien, and walked into the shadows.

"Very subtle." Emerald stated.

"I never said we had to be subtle." Mercury stated. "This den is too low-brow to have any political connections. It's also an independant operator. All we did was make it so their competitors can jack up the prices." Emerald stared at him in awe, unsure of what to say, "But, now, everyone respects us. And if you don't mess with them, they won't mess with us. We also did get a sack of Lien out of it."

"How's that different from pick-pocketing?" Emerald asked him, and Mercury choked up on the bag.

"What's the best way to make money pick-pocketing?" Mercury asked.

"...the... rich?.." Emerald asked.

"Right." Mercury stated, "All it takes is one rich asshole getting pick-pocketed to piss off the entire powers that be in a kingdom. I got a hell of a lot more money from a single opium den, and nobody cares."

Emerald looked around him at the broken door. "Someone cares."

"Yeah, but the only ones who care are all dead." Mercury said. "Now for the second part."

"Second part?" Emerald asked.

"Take me to the king of the beggars."

* * *

Mercury augustly walked up to the disheveled man. "We're looking for a friend of ours."

"Oh?" the disheveled man asked.

"And we're willing to pay for anyone who can get us information. Just..." Mercury voiced, "don't lie to us. We're," he said, and paused, giving him an intense glare, "not fond of people lying to us."

* * *

RWBY + Nora + Aurora entered the house, only to find the boys and Ilia sitting on the couches.

"So?," Yang asked, "you guys have fun in our absence?"

"Just training." Jaune tried to casually say.

"Perhaps we should?.." Blake asked, looking at the stairs to the gymnasium.

"She has a point." Weiss said.

"What?" Ruby replied.

"Let's show these guys our new swimsuits." Yang said to her, and then turned back to the lounge, "No peeking."

"I know it was meant as a joke, but we would never do such a thing." Ren voiced.

Yang rolled her eyes, and the Huntresses all filed down the stairs.

* * *

"Something is afoot." Weiss quipped.

"Duh." Yang said to her.

"That's a duh?" Ruby asked.

"Duh." Yang said in reply, "Sis."

Weiss quickly pulled Ruby into a hug. She looked over Ruby's shoulder at Yang, "Social graces are perhaps not her strongest suit."

"Oh, believe me," Yang said to her, "I KNOW. Which is why I just bluntly tell Ruby these things."

"She's right." Ruby voiced.

"Perchance?.." Weiss asked, "Whom?.."

"Oh?" Ruby asked, "I mean, Yang. Sometimes she just has to slap me with how things are."

"Yes..." Blake voiced, "the boys are up to something... but I think..."

"Does that?.." Yang asked, "mean you include Ilia as one of 'the boys?'"

Blake just glared at her. She then rolled her eyes before continuing, "BUT I THINK that they would never do anything against us. So, chances are they are buying a present for us, or something."

"What kind of present?!" Nora exclaimed. Blake scowled. Weiss scoffed. Yang quickly moved forward and covered Nora's mouth.

"Shh." Yang whispered to her. Nora nodded and Yang let her go.

"What do we do?" Ruby asked.

"Try to not react." Weiss exclaimed.

"And try to act surprised when they pull it off." Yang continued.

"And?," Ruby asked, "if I'm, not so good at?.."

"She does have a point." Blake voiced.

"What do we do?!" Nora exclaimed, "Because I'm terrible at it, too."

"Perhaps a gag." Weiss voiced.

Nora eagerly pointed at her.

"YES!"

Ruby looked about nervously before pulling her hood over her head.

"I'm pretty sure Jaune has figured out what that means." Nora said to Ruby.

"What do we do?!" Ruby shouted from under her hood.

"Mayhap..." Weiss voiced, "not spend so much time shouting."

Ruby dropped down to all fours. Her tail stuck out of her cape, twitching nervously. She saw it out of the corner of her eyes, and turned towards it. And again. And again, until Yang picked her up. Ruby licked her on the face. Yang quickly let go, causing Ruby to land on all four and run off to the corner. She then ran away to the other corner. She tried to run again, only to have Weiss' black Glyph hold her in-place. She tried to gallop away, but found herself not moving. She hid back under her hood, head quickly moving from place to place.

"She's?.." Weiss asked... "gone... feral?.."

This caused Blake to scoff.

"Dog my cats," Yang voiced, "what got her as high as the hair on a cat's back?" This caused Weiss to glare at Yang. "What?" Yang asked, "You can't tell me your not a fan of my puns."

"It's more..." that Weiss stated, finding the words, "that you are mixing metaphors..."

"It's enough to make a cat laugh." Yang said, causing Blake to break a faint smile.

"I hate to be a wet blanket." Weiss grumbled.

"We know THAT's not true." Nora said to her.

"But turned Blake from a hellcat to one with a cheshire grin?" Weiss asked

"Hoo, doggy." Yang said to her.

"Was that a pun?" Nora asked.

Yang patted Nora on the back, "She tried her best. She also brings up a good point." Weiss, Yang, and Nora all turned to look at Blake.

Blake breathed in deeply before replying ,"We can't let our animal instincts take over."

"Why not?" Nora asked.

"It's a sin!" Blake exclaimed.

"Says who?" Yang voiced.

And Blake looked at her, "If Faunus start acting like animals, how do you think the Humans will treat us?"

"She makes a valid... point..." Weiss voiced.

"Says who?!" Nora exclaimed.

"Yeah." Yang interjected, "Faunus have tried acting all Human-like, and everyone still hates us. Well, except in Patch... the only reason we're allowed so high in Mistral is because we're Huntresses... or were students... I mean..."

"Huntressesmen." Nora added.

"Yes!" Yang said, pointing at Nora.

"That is not... remotely... a word." Weiss grumbled.

"You sound like Jaune..." Nora dejectedly huffed, and this caused Weiss to let out a surprised scoff.

* * *

Jaune, Ren, Qrow, Oscar, and Ilia sat awkwardly on the couches.

"Does?.." Oscar voiced, "it always take this long for girls to get changed?"

"Yes." Jaune decisively said.

"And the shouting?.." Oscar added.

"Also yes." Jaune said with grim finality.

* * *

Note: It means seem like Nora's being inconsistent on her knowledge, she's just being Nora. She knows about the speciality items, but not the rings.

#rwby #firen lhain #faunus au #pollinated knight

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chiseler · 5 years

Text

Nick Tosches’ Final Interview

On Sunday, October 20th, 2019, three days before his seventieth birthday, Nick Tosches died in his TriBeCa apartment. As of this writing, no cause of death has been specified. It represents an Immeasurable loss to the world of literature. The below, conducted this past July, was the last full interview Tosches ever gave.

***

In Where Dead Voices Gather, his peripatetic 2001 anti-biography of minstrel singer Emmett Miller, Nick Tosches wrote: “The deeper we seek, the more we descend from knowledge to mystery, which is the only place where true wisdom abides.” It’s an apt summation of Tosches’ own life and work.

Journalist, poet, novelist, biographer and historian Nick Tosches has been called the last of our literary outlaws, thanks in part to his reputation as a hardboiled character with a history of personal excesses. But he’s far more than that—he’s one of those writers other writers wish they could be. He’s seen it all first-hand, moved in some of the most dangerous circles on earth, and is blessed with the genius to put it down with a sharp elegance that’s earned him a seat in the Pantheon.

Born in 1949, Tosches was raised in the working class neighborhoods of Newark and Jersey City, where his father ran a bar. Despite barely finishing high school, he fell into the writing game at nineteen, shortly after relocating to New York. He quickly earned a reputation as a brilliant music journalist, writing for Rolling Stone and authoring Country: The Twisted Roots of Rock ’N Roll (1977), the Jerry Lee Lewis biography Hellfire (1982) and Unsung Heroes of Rock ’N Roll (1984). After that he staked out his own territory, exploring and illuminating the deeply-shadowed corners of the culture and the human spirit. He’s written biographies of sinister Italian financier Michele Sindona, Sonny Liston, Dean Martin and near-mythical crime boss Arnold Rothstein. He’s published poetry and books about opium. His debut novel, Cut Numbers (1988) focused on the numbers racket, and his most recent, Under Tiberius (2015) presented Jesus as a con artist with a good p.r. man.

While often citing Faulkner, Charles Olsen, Dante and the Greeks as his primary literary influences, over the past fifty years Tosches’ own style has evolved from the flash and swagger of his early music writing into a singular and inimitable prose which blends the two-fisted nihilism of the crime pulps with an elegant and lyrical formalism. Like Joyce, Tosches takes clear joy in the measured, poetic flow of language, and like Dostoevsky, his writing, regardless of the topic at hand, wrestles with the Big Issues: Good and Evil, Truth and Falsehood, the Sacred and the Profane, and our pathetic place in a universe gone mad.

For years now, Tosches’ official bio has stated he “lives in what used to be New York.” It only makes sense then that we would meet amid the tangled web of tiny sidestreets that make up SoHo at what remains one of the last bars in New York where we could smoke. Tosches, now sixty-nine, smoked a cigar and drank a bottle of forty-year-old tawny port as we discussed his work, publishing, religion, the Internet, this godforsaken city, fear, and how a confirmed heretic goes about obtaining Vatican credentials.

Jim Knipfel: When I initially contacted you about an interview last year, my first question was going to be about retirement. You’d been hinting for awhile, at least since Me and the Devil in 2012, that you planned to retire from writing at sixty-five. And since Under Tiberius came out, there’d been silence. But shortly after I got in touch, we had to put things on hold because you’d started working on a new project. As you put it then, “I find myself becoming lost again in the cursed woods of words and writing.”

Nick Tosches: It is unlike any other project. I am indulging myself, knowing nobody has paid me money up front. Is it a project? Yeah, I guess anything that’s not come to a recognizable fruition is a project. So yeah. I do consider the actual writing of books to be behind me.

JK: Did thinking about retirement have anything to do with what we’ll generously call the dispiriting nature of contemporary publishing?

NT: Oh, very much so. Very much.

JK: There’s a remarkable section in the middle of In The Hand of Dante, it just comes out of nowhere, in which you launch into this frontal attack on what’s become of the industry. I went back and read it again last week, and it’s so beautiful and so perfect, and as I was reading I couldn’t help but think, “Who the hell else could get away with this?” Dropping a very personal screed like that in the middle of a novel? And a novel released by a major publisher, in this case Little, Brown. Was there any kind of reaction from your editor?

NT: Okay, is this the same passage where I talk about all these people with fat asses?

JK: Yeah, that’s part of it.

NT: Okay, my agent at the time, Russ Galen, said he heard from {Michael} Pietsch, the editor who’s now the Chief Executive Officer of North America. And the moment he became so, he went from being my lifelong friend to “yeah, I heard of him.” He complained about the fat ass comment, and my agent told him, “If you go for a walk with Nick Tosches, you might get rained on.” Apart from that, no. And I have to say, he considers that one of his favorite novels, ever. When I tried to get the rights back because of a movie deal, he said “no I won’t do that.” I said “Why?” And he said because it was one of his favorite books. So no, there was no real backlash. A lot of comments like your own. A lot of people saying “Boy, that was great.”

JK: As we both know, marketing departments make all the editorial decisions at publishing houses nowadays, and over the years you must have driven them nuts. There’s no easy label to slap on you. You hear there’s a new Nick Tosches book coming out, it could be a novel, it could be poetry, it could be a biography or history or anything at all. I’m trying to imagine all these marketing people sitting around asking, “So what’s our targeted demographic for The Last Opium Den?”

NT: I just set out to do what I wanted to do. If they wanted to cling to the delusion that they could somehow control sales or predict the future of taste, fine, let them go ahead and do it. I’ve always found it’s the books that gather the attention, they just try to coordinate things. All they’re doing is covering their own jobs. If they can wrangle you an interview with Modern Farming, well, there’s something to put on a list they hand out at one of their meetings… They’re all illiterate. Thirty years ago there was still a sense of independence among publishers. Now they’re just vestigial remnants that mean nothing because they’re all owned by these huge media conglomerates.

JK: To whom publishing is irrelevant.

NT: Right. It’s all just a joke.

JK: I guess what matters is that the people who read you will read whatever you put out. If you put out a book of cake decorating tips, I’d be the first in line to buy it. Actually I’d love to see what you could do with Nick’s Best Cakes Ever, right? It’s something to consider.

NT: Maybe not that particular instance, but what you have so kindly referred to as my current project, which is very…eccentric. It’s the herd of my obsessions that will not remain corralled as I intended.

JK: What brought you back to writing? You’ve said in the past that writing is a very tough habit to kick.

NT: Well, what brought me back? I have no idea. Maybe just actual, utter, desperate boredom. There was none of this Romantic need to express myself. Just a lot of little obsessions, that’s all. As I said…well, I didn’t say this at all. There’s nothing at stake. There’s no money, there’s not going to be any money. There’s no one I need to give a second thought of offending or pleasing. But that having been said, I’m taking as much care with it as I have with everything else. I’ve always thought of myself as the only editor. And having had the good fortune to work with good titular editors, which means their job consists of perhaps making a suggestion or stating a preference or notifying me that they do not understand certain things, and beyond that leaving it be. As I told one editor,I forget when or where or why, “Why don’t you go write you’re own fuckin’ book and leave mine be?” He had all these great ideas. The best editors are the ones that aren’t frustrated authors.

JK: I was lucky enough to work with two editors like that. One had a nervous breakdown and is out of the business, the other just vanished one day.

NT: Well, you’re fortunate. Not only do most editors, a majority of editors, which are bad editors, like the majority of anything, really. If they don’t interfere with something, and nine times out of ten make it worse, they’re not justifying their jobs. The other thing is, we’re recently at the point where the new type of writers, which are the writers who are willing to do it for free, think the editor’s the chief mark of the whole racket. But it’s not—he’s not, she’s not. Their job is to get you paid and leave you alone. That’s the thing. Now you got pseudo editors, pseudo writers. If you think of a writer such as William Faulkner. Now there’s a guy who just screamed out to be edited. Fortunately the editors were willing to publish him and leave him alone, which is why we have William Faulkner. That was the editor’s great contribution, protecting William Faulkner from that nonsense. People speak about, what’s that phrase applied to Maxwell Perkins? “Editor of Genius.” Well, the genius was you find someone who can write really well, and don’t fuck with ‘em. There’s something to be said about that. It’s to Perkins’ credit.

JK: If I can step back a ways to your early years. You were a streetwise kid who grew up in Jersey City and Newark. Your father discouraged you from reading, but you read anyway. So what was the attraction to books? Or was it simple contrariness on your part because you’d been told to avoid them?

NT: I got lost in them. It was dope before I copped dope. I used to love to drift away, in my mind, my imagination. I loved books. My father was not an anti-book person, but he was the first generation of our family to be born in this country. A working class neighborhood where okay, this guy worked in this factory, and that guy owned a bar, and that guy delivered the mail. Nobody was going any further than this. And I remember my father saying, “These books are gonna put ideas in your head.” I guess I enjoyed that they did. Terrible books, some of them. Terrible books, but it didn’t matter.

JK: You’ve also said that very early on you wanted to be a writer.

NT: Yes.

JK: Or a farmer.

NT: Or a garbage man or an archaeologist. Those were my childhood aspirations.

JK: Considering the environment you were coming out of, three of those seem counterintuitive.

NT: Garbage men got to ride on the side of the truck, and that looked great. Archaeologists, wow. I didn’t know they were spending years just coming up with little splintered shards of urns. Yeah, writer. Writing had a great attraction for me, because writing seemed a great coward’s way out. You can communicate anything while facing a corner, with no one seeing you, no one hearing you, you didn’t have to look anyone in the eye. It’s a great coward’s form of expressing yourself. That coupled with the fact that what I felt a need to express was inchoate. I didn’t even understand what it was I wanted to express. Sometimes I still don’t.

JK: You’ve also said that in your teens you started to listen to country music, which given the time and place also seems counterintuitive.

NT: Did I say my teens? Maybe I was nineteen or twenty. Yeah, I never listened to country music until the jukebox at the place on Park Avenue and West Side Avenue in Jersey City.

JK: It was right around that time, when you were nineteen, twenty, that you published your first story in the music magazine Fusion. Which means we’re right around the fiftieth anniversary of your start in this racket.

NT: Let’s see…that was 1969, so yeah, I guess so. Fifty years ago.

JK: Then for the next fifteen-plus years you wrote mainly about music. You were at Rolling Stone and other magazines, and you put out Country, Hellfire and Unsung Heroes of Rock ’n Roll. So How early on were you thinking about branching out? About writing about the mob, or the Vatican, or anything else that interested you?

NT: Before I ever wrote anything. You have to understand, these so-called rock’n’roll magazines provided two great things. First as an outlet for young writers whose phone calls to The New Yorker would not be accepted. And they all, back then before they caught the capitalist disease, offered complete freedom of speech. So yes, in the course of writing about music you could…or actually, forget about writing about music, because nobody even knew anything about music. We were just fucking around.

JK: I remember an early piece you did for Rolling Stone back in 1971. It was a review of Black Sabbath’s Paranoid album, but all it was was a description of a blasphemous Satanic orgy straight out of De Sade.

NT: Yeah, I remember that one.

JK: It was pretty amazing, and even that early, your writing was several steps beyond everything else that was happening at the time. But from an outsider’s perspective, your first big step away from music journalism was actually a huge fucking leap, and a potentially deadly one. So how do you go from Unsung Heroes of Rock ’N Roll to Power on Earth, about Italian financier Michele Sindona?

NT: After Hellfire, someone wanted to pay me a lot of money to write another biography. But I realized there was absolutely no one on the face of the earth whom I found interesting enough to write about other than Jerry Lee Lewis. I’d caught sort of a glimpse of Sindona on television. My friend Judith suggested “Why don’t you write about him?” But how am I gonna get in touch with a guy like that? And she said I should write him a letter.

JK: He was in prison at that point?

NT: Yes, he was in prison the entire time I knew him, until his death. He died before the book was published. I met him in prison here in New York, then they shipped him back to Italy to be imprisoned, and I went over there.

JK: You were dealing with The Vatican, the mob, and the shadowy world of international high finance. Were there moments while you were working on the book when you found yourself thinking, “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?”

NT: Well, yes, because the story was too immense and too complicated to be told.

JK: Something I’ve always been curious about. Publishing house libel lawyers have been the bane of my existence. Whenever I write non-fiction, they set upon the manuscript like jackals, tearing it apart line-by-line in search of anything that anyone anywhere might conceivably consider suing over. And I wasn’t writing about the likes of Jerry Lee Lewis, Dean Martin, or Michele Sindona.

NT: “Conceivably” is the key word in this country, where anyone can sue anyone without punitive repercussions. That’s the key phrase. What these libel lawyers are also doing above all else is protecting their own jobs.

JK: Were you forced to cut a lot of material for legal reasons?

NT: Yes, including proven, irrefutable facts. So yes I did. And it’s not because it was libelous, but because it was subject to being accused of being libelous. It’s a shame. Some of the things were just outrageous. I once threw a fictive element into a description that involved a black dog. “Well, how do you know there was a black dog there?” I said there probably wasn’t, that it was just creating a mood. “Well, we gotta cut that out.” So what’s offensive about a black dog? It sets a precedent. Misrepresentative facts? Morality? I don’t know. These guys.

JK: I don’t know if this was the case with you as well, but I found out I could write exactly the same thing, and just as honestly, but if I called it a novel instead of nom-fiction. They didn’t touch a word. Didn’t even want to look at it. As it happens, your first novel, Cut Numbers, came out next. Had that been written before Power on Earth?

NT: Let me think for a moment…Well, the order in which my books were published is the order in which they were written. The only putative exception may be Where Dead Voices Gather, because that was written over a span of years with no intention of it being a book. So yeah, Cut Numbers. What year was that?

JK: I think that was 1988. I love that novel. There’s a 1948 John Garfield picture about the numbers racket, Force of Evil.

NT: Yeah, I’ve seen that.

JK: But of course they had to glamorize it, because it was Hollywood and it was John Garfield.

NT: I like John Garfield. Terrible movies, but a great actor.

JK: What I love about Cut Numbers is that it’s so un-glamorous. It’s not The Godfather. It’s very street-level. And I’ve always had the sense it was very autobiographical.

NT: I’ve never written anything that wasn’t autobiographical in some way, shape or form. The world in which Cut Numbers is set was my auto-biographical world. “Auto,” self and “bio,” life. My auto-biographical world. The world I lived in and the world I knew. It’s a world that no longer exists. Like every other aspect of the world I once knew. Except taxes. Which I found is a really great upside to having no income. I’m serious.

JK: Oh. I know all too well.

NT: I mean, but It comes with “Jeeze, I wish I could afford another case of this tawny port.”

JK: A few years later, after Dino, you released your second novel, Trinities. While Cut Numbers took place on a very small scale. Trinities was epic—the story spans the globe and pulls in the mob, the Vatican, high finance. You crammed an awful lot of material in there. It almost feels like a culmination.

NT: I wanted to capture the whole sweep of that vanishing, dying world. It was written during a dark period of my life, and I was drawn to a beautifully profound but unanswerable question, which had first been voiced by a Chinese philosopher—sounds like a joke but it’s true: “What if what man believes is good, God believes is evil?” Or vice versa. And we can go from there, the whole mythology, the concept of the need for God. To what extend is our idea of evil just a device? We don’t want anybody to fuck our wives. So God says thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife. We don’t want to be killed, so thou shalt not kill. It’s a bunch of “don’t do this, because I don’t want to suffer that.” I don’t want to get robbed. I dunno, what the hell. Yeah, this has something to do with Trinities, and I somehow knew as I wrote Trinities I was saying goodbye to a whole world, not because I was leaving it. It was basically half memory, as opposed to present day reality.

JK: I remember when I first read it, recognizing so many locales and situations and characters. At least from the New York scenes. That was right at the cusp, when all these things began disappearing.

NT: Yes, and now it has to such an extent that I walk past all these locales, and it’s a walk among the ghosts. That was a club, now it’s a Korean laundry. This was another place I used to go, now it’s Tibetan handicrafts.

JK: I don’t even recognize the Village anymore. I used to work in the Puck Building at Lafayette and Houston. Landmark building, right? It’s since been gutted completely and turned into some kind of high-end fashion store.

NT: Yeah, it’s all dead.

JK: Now, when Trinities was released, I was astonished to see the publisher was marketing it like a mainstream pop thriller. You even got the mass market paperback with the embossed cover treatment. I love the idea of some middle management type on his way to a convention in Scranton picking it up at the airport thinking he was getting something like Robert Ludlum,, and diving headlong into, well, you.

NT: I can explain why all that was. It was volume. It was the same publisher as Dino. They were happy with Dino. Dino was a great success. I think that was 1992, because that was when my father died. This is now, what, 2019? There has not been a single day where that book has not sold. Not that I could buy a bottle of tawny port with it. So whereas with Cut Numbers I was paid a small amount and eagerly accepted it. Eagerly. In fact it’s one of the few times I told the editor, ran into him at a bar, and said all I want is this, and he said “Nah, that’s not enough, we’ll pay you twice that.” Then Dino was double that. And look, I really want to do this book Trinities and be paid a small fortune for it. They had to say yes. They had to believe this was going to be the next, I dunno. Yeah, mainstream. Most of these things are ancillary and coincidental to the actual writing.

JK: There were a lot of strings dangling at the end of the novel, and I remember reading rumors you were working on a sequel. You don’t seem much the sequel type. So was there any truth to that?

NT: Not that I was aware of. I’m sure that if they’d come back and said, “Well, we pulled it off,” and offered twice that, there would’ve been a sequel. Because I loved that book, so if they were going to offer me more to write more, I would have. I hated saying good bye to that world and the past.

JK: Maybe you’ve noticed this, but the people who read you often tend to make a very sharp distinction between your fiction and your non-fiction, which never made a lot of sense to me. To me they’re a continuum, and any line dividing them is a very porous, fuzzy one. Do you approach them in different ways?

NT: Oh, god. Do I approach them differently? Yes. In a way, I approach the fiction with a sense of unbounded freedom. But parallel to that, that blank page is scarier knowing that there is not a single datum you can place on it that will gain or achieve balance. With non-fiction, I am constrained by truth to a certain extent. That’s also true in fiction. They just use different forms of writing. There are poems that have more cuttingly diligent actuality than most history works. It comes down to wielding words. Tools being appointed with different weights and cutting edges and colors. Words, beautiful words. Without the words, no writing in prose is gonna be worth a damn. Used to be, I get in a cab, and back then cab drivers were from New York, and they’d ask me what I did. Now I don’t think they really know what city they’re in. They know it’s not Bangladesh. But if I told them what I did, it was always, “Oh, I could write a book.” Yeah, you’re gonna write a book. Your life is interesting. So what’re you gonna write about? Great tippers, great fares? Become a reader first. Read the Greeks sometime. I decided next time a cab driver asks me what I do for a living. I’m gonna tell him I’m a plumber. “Oh, my brother-in-law’s a plumber!”

JK: As varied as your published works are, there are two I’ve always been curious about. Two complete anomalies. The first was the Hall and Oates book, Dangerous Dances, which always struck me—and correct me if I’m wromg—as the result of a whopping check for services rendered. And the other. From thirty years later, is Johnny’s First Cigarette. Which is, what would you call it? A children’s book? A young adult book?

NT: Right. Of course they’re many years apart. Okay, Hall and Oates, Dangerous Dances. I knew a woman who was what you’d call a book packager. I owed money to the government. Tommy Mottola, who was at the time the manager of Hall and Oates, wanted a Hall and Oates book. She asked me if I wanted to do it, and I said yeah, but it’s gonna cost this much. And Tommy Mottola, in one of the great moments of literary judgment, was like, “How come he costs more than the other people?” She said something very nice about me. He has got on his desk a paperweight that’s a check for a million dollars in lucite. We weren’t talking nearly that much. So I came up with the title Dangerous Dances. I had never heard a Hall and Oates record. So I met them. It was over the course of a summer. So I did that and made the government happy. That’s one book I try not to espouse. But everyone knows I wrote that, it has my name on it. As I wanted, as my ex-agent says.

Now. Johnny’s Last Cigarette, which as I said was many years later. I don’t even think that was ten years ago.

JK: I think that came out in 2014, between Me and the Devil and Under Tiberius.

NT: I get so sick of all this political correctness. I mean, every man. Every woman was once a child. And there are all these good. Beautiful childhood moments and feelings. Which is the greatest step on earth that we lose. It’s not a nefarious book like Kill Your mother—which may not be a bad idea—but sweet. Why do we rob these kids of the dreaminess of the truth? So Johnny’s first Cigarette, Johnny’s First whatever. I was living in Paris at the time when I wrote that.. I knew a woman who was one of my best translators into French. We put the idea together with a publisher I knew in Marseilles and a wonderful artist-illustrator we found and were so excited about.

To tell you the truth I think the idea of legislating feeling is like…How the fuck do you legislate feeling? And forbidden words. It may have been Aristotle who said, when men fear words, times are dark. You and I have spoken about this. Sometimes we don’t even understand what it is about this or that word. It’s like that joke—a guy goes in for a Rorschach test, and the psychologist tells him. “Has anyone ever told you you have a sexually obsessed mind?” And the guy says, “Well, what about you, showing me all these dirty pictures?” What do these words mean? I don’t know. Why is it a crime to call a black man a crocodile? I have always consciously stood against performing any kind of political correctness. And I have written some long letters to people I felt deserved an explanation of my feelings.

JK: Whenever people get outraged because some comedian cracked an “inappropriate” joke, and they say, “How could he say such a thing?” I always respond, “Well, someone has to, right?”

NT: Yeah. So one book came from the government’s desire to have their share of what I’m making. We’re all government employees. The other was, why can’t I write something that’s soft and sweet with a child’s vocabulary that’s not politically correct?

JK: If Dangerous Dances and Johnny’s First Cigarette were anomalies, I’ve always considered another two of your books companion pieces. Or at least cousins. King of the Jews an Where Dead Voices Gather are both biographies, or maybe anti-biographies, of men about whom very little—or at least very little that’s credible—is known: Arnold Rothstein and Emmett Miller. And that gives you the freedom to run in a thousand directions at once. They’re books made up of detours and parentheticals and digressions, and what we end up with are essentially compact histories of the world with these figures at the center. They strike me as your purest works, and certainly very personal works. More than any of your other books, it’s these two that allow readers to take a peek inside your head. Does that make any sense to you?

NT: Yes, it makes perfect sense. In fact I couldn’t have put it any better myself. This whole myth of what they called the Mafia in the United States—there’s no mafia outside of Sicily. Or called organized crime, was always Italians. The Italians dressed the part, but the Jews made the shirts. It was always an Italian-Jewish consortium. And this Irish mayor wants to play ball? So now it’s Irish. Total equal opportunity. It was basically…Well, Arnold Rothstein was the son of shirt makers. Not only did he control, but he invented what was organized crime in New York. He had the whole political system of New York in his pocket. Emmet Miller was this guy who made these old records that went on to be so influential without his being known. Nobody even knew where or when he was born. The appeal to me was as both an investigator and then to proceed forward with other perspicuities, musings and theories. I never thought of them before as companion works until you mentioned it, but they are.

JK: People have tended to focus on the amount of obsessive research you do. Which is on full display in these books, but what they too often overlook, which is also on full display here, is that you contain a vast storehouse of arcane knowledge. It’s like you’ve fully absorbed everything you’ve ever read, and it just spills out of you. These forgotten histories and unexpected connections.

NT: I’ve always kept very strange notebooks. I still do, except now it’s on the computer. There’s no rhyme or reason to these notebooks, it’s just,”don’t want to forget this one.”

JK: Speaking of research, has your methodology changed in the Internet Age? I’m trying to imagine you working on Under Tiberius and looking up”First Century Judea” on Wikipedia.

NT: The Internet demands master navigation. There are sites which have reproduced great scholarly, as opposed to academic, works. There’s also every lie and untruth brought to you by the Such-and Such Authority of North America. This is what they call themselves. I experienced this within the past week. It was not only complete misinformation, but presented in the shoddiest fashion, such as “Historians agree…” I mean, what historians? I couldn’t find a one of them.

So my methodology. I love Ezra Pound’s phrase, “the luminous detail.” Something you find somewhere or learn somewhere…They don’t even have a card catalog at New York Public Library anymore, let alone books. You want an actual book, they have to bring it in from New Jersey. Who cares anymore? What they care about is who’s in a TV series, and they whip out their Mickey Mouse toys and, “look, there he is!”

JK: I was thinking about this on the way over. You and I both remember a time when if you were looking for a specific record or book or bit of information, you could spend months or years searching, scouring used bookstores an libraries. There was a challenge to it.

NT: It was not just a challenge. It was a whole illuminating process unto itself, because of what you come to by accident. So in looking for one fact or one insight, you would gather an untold amount. That is what it’s about.

JK: Nowadays if I’m looking for, say, a specific edition of a specific book, I take two minutes, go online, and there it is. I hit a button, and it’s mailed to me at my home. Somehow it diminishes the value, as opposed to finally finding something I’d been searching for for years. Nothing has any value anymore.

NT: No, definitely not. When I was living down in Tennessee, all those Sunday drives, guys selling stuff out of their garages. Every once in awhile you hit on something, or find something you didn’t even know existed. Now education on every level, especially on the institutional, but even on a personal level, is diminished. People are getting stupider, and that probably includes myself.

JK: And me too. Now, if I could change course here, you’re a man of many contradictions. Maybe dichotomies is a better term. A streetwise Italian kid who’s a bookworm. A misanthrope who seeks out the company of others. A libertine who is also a highly disciplined, self-educated man of letters. It’s even reflected in your prose—someone who is always swinging between the stars and the gutter. It’s led some people to say there are two Nick Tosches. Is this something you recognize in yourself?

NT: Yes. It’s never been a goal, it’s just…

JK: How you are?

NT: Yeah. I’ve noticed it, and much to my consternation and displeasure and inconvenience, yeah. But there’s no reward in seeking to explain or justify it.

JK: One of the most intriguing and complex of these is the savage heretic who keeps returning to religious themes, the secrets of the Church and the sacred texts. And of course the devil in one guise or another is lurking through much of your work. Again it’s led some people to argue that since you were raised Catholic, this may represent some kind of striving for redemption. You give any credence to that?

NT: No. Absolutely not.

JK: Yeah, it would seem Under Tiberius would’ve put the kibosh on that idea.

NT: I don’t even consider myself having been raised Catholic, in the modern made-for-TV sense of that phrase. I was told to go to church on Sundays and confession on Saturdays, and I usually went to the candy store instead. I was confirmed, I had communion. To me, it was a much deeper, much more experiential passage when I came to the conclusion that there was no Santa Clause than when I came to the conclusion there was no God. I remember emotionally expressing my suspicions about Santa Claus to my mother. Toward the end of his life, I was talking to my father one day, and I said, “By the way, do you believe in God?” And he said no. I said me neither. And that was about the only real religious conversation we ever had. I think religion, without a doubt since its invention—and God was an invention of man—is a huge indefensible evil force in this world. When people believe in a religion which calls for vengeance upon those whose beliefs are different, it’s not a good sign. Not a good sign.

JK: This is something I’ve been curious about. Two of your novels—In the Hand of Dante and Under Tiberius—are predicated on the idea that you come into possession of manuscripts pilfered from the Vatican library. The library comes up a few other times as well. You write about it in such detail and with an insider’s knowledge. Either I was fooled by your skills as a convincing fiction writer, or you’ve spent your share of time there. And if the latter, how does a heretic like you end up with Vatican credentials?

NT: Okay. You go buy yourself a very beautiful, very important let’s say, leather portfolio with silk ribbon corner stays that keeps the documents there. Then you set about…Well, my friend Jim Merlis’ father-in-law, for instance, won the Nobel Prize in physics right around then. So I went to Jim and said, “Hey Jim, do you suppose you could get your father-in-law to write me a letter of recommendation? I know I never met the man.” Had a tough life, but won the Nobel Prize. Did a beautiful letter for me. I don’t even know that I kept it. You put together five letters that only Jesus Christ could’ve gathered. And he probably couldn’t have because he was unwashed. It was twice as difficult for me, because I had no academic affiliation, not even a college degree. But the Vatican was so nice. There are two libraries. One involves a photo I.D. and the other one doesn’t. They gave me two cards, and they made me a doctor. That’s how you get in. So what do you do once you’re in? They have the greatest retrieval library I’ve ever seen. The people that you meet. One guy was a composer. Wanted to see this exact original musical manuscript because he wanted to make sure of one note that may have changed. So this was all real—I just hallucinated the rest. If you can use a real setting, you’re one step closer to gaining credibility with the person who reads you. I still have my membership cards, though I think they must’ve expired. They were great. You go to a hotel and they ask you to show them photo ID? “Ohhh…”

JK: One of the themes that runs throughout your work is fear. Fear as maybe the most fundamental motivating human emotion.

NT: Any man who thinks he’s a tough guy is either a fool or a liar. Fear is I think one of the fundamental formative elements. And I’m just speaking of myself becoming a writer. Choosing to express yourself with great subtlety in some cases, when what you want to express is so inchoate. But that was a long time ago. I still believed in the great charade. These days I’m just living the lie. But it’s so much better than fear. To convey fear. The more universal the feeling, the easier it is to convey powerful emotions. There was a line in Cut Numbers; “He thought the worst thing a man can think.” Michael Pietsch my editor said, “What is that thing?” And I said “Michael, every person who reads that will have a different idea.” It’s an invocation of the Worst Thing. One woman might read it and think of raping her two-year-old son. Some guy might think of robbing his father. To you or I it might not be that bad a thing, but to that person it’s the Worst Thing.

JK: That’s the magic of reading.

NT: That is the magic of reading. That’s the bottom line. Writing is a two-man job. It takes someone to write it and Someone to read it who’s not yourself.

JK: Exactly. Readers bring what they have to a book, and take away from it what they need, what interpretation has meaning for them.

NT: It’s also possible to write certain very exact phrases and have them be evocative of nothing but a thirst for an answer that the person who wrote them doesn’t know. Readers never give themselves enough credit. Now all the experiential and soulful depths of all our finite wanderings, roaming imaginations and questions thereof are relegated to a Mickey Mouse toy. That’s what I see, people who interact with these toys instead of another person. I don’t care. I was here for the good times.

JK: There’s another idea that’s come up a few times in various forms and various contexts in your work, where you say, in essence, “once you give up hope, life becomes more pleasant,” which is a wonderful twist on Dante.

NT: It’s true!

JK: I know, and I’m in full agreement with you. Hope, faith, belief, are all great destroyers. But I’m wonderinh, when did you come to that conclusion?

NT: A lot of the things I write or think I do put in that notebook I mentioned, and I usually put the date. That was one where I did not put down the date. I do believe it’s true. People say, “never give up hope.” Why the hell not? If you don’t give up hope, it leads you, at a craps table, betting you’re aunt’s car. Where did hope ever get anybody? It’s terrible.

JK: Now, there are two quotes which have appeared and reappeared throughout your work, and I think you know which two I’m talking about. The first is from Pound’s Canto CXX: “I have tried to write Paradise// Do not move/ Let the wind speak/ that is paradise.” And the other’s from the Gospel of Thomas: “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” As you look at your life and work now, and look back over the last half century, do you think you’re closing in on that point where Pound and Thomas finally come together?

NT: Yes. I never thought of that phrase you choose, “come together,” but yes. They’ve become more and more deeply a part of my consciousness. Yes, every day I pause. And I still hold the 120th Canto to be the final one. It was just one person who insisted no, this is not how he would have ended. Which is why the current modern edition of the Cantos goes two cantos more. There’s this line that is so bad. It’s hilariously bad. The joke of history. The line that Pound was supposed to have written to go beyond that beautiful line was, “Courage, thy name is Olga.” The other of course, the meaning of that line, that line being the one you were referring to, if you bring forth what is within you it will save you, if you do not bring forth it will destroy you. Of a hundred translations from the Coptic, that, to me, is the perfect translation. What is that thing? That’s what everybody wants to know. That’s me. That thing is just the truth of yourself. If you do live in fear, that will destroy you. If I speak the truth, the worst it’s going to do is frighten another. That will save you. That will set you free. Those two things, yes. And there’s another element, if I can add it unsolicited. I’ve noticed this pattern with people such as Pound and people such as Samuel Beckett. The greatest depth, the most majestic wielders of language as a communication form, slowly trail off to silence. Which is what Pound refers to in what I know is the last Canto. Be still. Paradise. Ezra Pound’s own daughter, Mary de Rachewiltz, translated The Cantos into Italian. Her translation had moments when it was an improvement on his phraseology. In Italian, “Non ti muovere” is much better than “be still.” Books, reading, writing, lend themselves to interpretive subtleties which are by no means pointless. What can people get out of an app?

by Jim Knipfel

#Nick Tosches' Final Interview #The Chiseler #Jim Knipfel #Nick Tosches

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unfolded73 · 4 years

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How Do We Get Back (11/16) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: In a literal alternate universe where the Roses escaped financial ruin, David and Patrick struggle with loneliness and a sense that something isn’t right. A chance meeting in New York and a terrible tragedy drive them to question whether the timeline they are on is the right one.

This chapter is rated explicit, 4.0k words. (ao3)

I’m posting this from beyond the grave thanks to the S6 teaser being released today, so I apologize for any typos I failed to catch - my brain is mush.

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Chapter 11

The drive to the Schitt’s Creek Motel was short, and when they pulled into the parking lot, the only other car was Stevie’s.

“Okay, when you said run down, you meant we are definitely going to be murdered here in our sleep,” David said.

“It’s this or we keep driving,” Patrick said, already getting out of the car.

The office was dimly lit when Patrick opened the door, and the first thing that struck him was the distinctive odor of pot smoke.

“Patrick?” Stevie sat behind the desk, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. It occurred to him that he hadn’t heard from her since she’d called him about Alexis.

“Stevie, are you getting high at work?” he asked, even though he didn’t really need to ask. The joint smoldering in an ashtray on the desk made it obvious even if the smell hadn’t.

David walked in at that point and recoiled. “Okay, so exactly what kind of seedy opium den have you brought us to?”

“I am getting high at work, because this isn’t going to be my work for much longer. What are you doing here?” she said.

“What do you mean, this isn’t going to be your work for much longer?” Patrick asked.

“I sold the place,” Stevie explained, raising her hands to encompass the motel. “They’re coming to bulldoze it in a few weeks so they can put in a truck stop. Aren’t you going to introduce me?” she said, pointing at David.

“Stevie, this is David Rose. David, this is Stevie Budd.”

David raised his hand briefly in a wave. “Your last name is a little on the nose, isn’t it?”

“Oh wow, I’ve never heard that one before,” Stevie said with her best deadpan delivery before turning back to Patrick. “What are you doing here? Seriously, I literally never thought I’d see your face again.”

“David wanted to get out of New York for a while after the… funeral,” he said.

“So you came here?”

“We’re on our way to Oak Grove but…” Patrick looked at David, trying to gauge whether he might have changed his mind about sleeping here now that he’d seen the place. “It’s been a long day, and I thought you might still be running a motel here that rented rooms to people in exchange for money.”

“I am,” Stevie said, swiveling around to the rack of keys behind her. “Room six is available.” She sort of snickered as she pulled down the key. “All the rooms are available, but I actually changed the sheets in room six yesterday.”

“That sounds like an excellent pull quote for the motel’s website,” David said, still lingering back near the door.

“Really? Because I was going to go with, ‘Come for the uncomfortable mattresses, stay for the coffee that tastes like motor oil,’” Stevie countered.

“What about, ‘Number one choice of lonely drifters’?” David shot back.

Stevie grinned at Patrick. “I like him,” she said before looking back at David. “I like you.”

“Enough to share some of that?” David said, approaching the desk and indicating Stevie’s joint.

“David,” Patrick said at the same time that Stevie said, “Go for it.”

David picked up the joint between two fingers and took a long drag off of it, holding the smoke in his lungs as he handed it back to Stevie.

“We’ll take room six, I guess,” Patrick said.

“He texted me the day after you guys had sex the first time,” Stevie stage-whispered to David as she handed the joint back to him for another hit. “He said you were hot.”

“Okay, I’m going to get the bags,” Patrick said loudly, trying to will himself not to blush.

“Did he?” David said with a grin.

Patrick walked back outside, closing the door firmly behind him. He probably should have known Stevie and David would immediately hit it off — they had a lot in common. He also probably should have known that Stevie of the eggplant emojis would waste no time in embarrassing him. He sighed, opening the trunk. At least it was something to distract David from his grief momentarily.

By the time Patrick got the suitcases unloaded into the room, David had left the office and wandered down to join him.

“I approve of your friend,” David said as he looked around. The room had only one double bed in it, which was kind of odd for a motel, Patrick thought. David was moving around the perimeter of the space, touching things: the tacky paintings on the wall, the old-fashioned tube television, the round table in the corner, the cheap accordion-door closet.

“You approve of her marijuana, you mean,” Patrick said as he put his suitcase on the bed and unzipped it.

“Not at all, her marijuana is terrible.” He’d reached the door that led to an adjoining room and pushed on it, making it swing open.

“Well, that’s not safe,” Patrick said. “Shouldn’t that door be locked?” David said nothing and went into the room so Patrick followed, pausing to test the doorknob. The lock seemed to be broken.

This second room had two single beds in it, which was also a very odd motel arrangement. Patrick started to wonder who had furnished this place and whether they were just as high as Stevie.

“I’m having that feeling again,” David said. “Like I’ve been here before.”

“You’re probably just high.”

“I’m not going to get high from two hits of Stevie’s mediocre weed.” David was still touching things in the room, a thoughtful expression on his face. “It’s all just spookily familiar.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve spent a lot of your life in similarly seedy motel rooms,” Patrick said, standing with his arms crossed and watching David move around the space.

“I know you’re making fun of me, but I still feel the need to point out that I’ve never stayed anywhere like this before,” David said.

“We don’t have to stay, David—”

“No, it’s fine.”

Patrick walked over and bolted the door to the outside. “I assume Stevie isn’t going to rent this room tonight, but just in case.” He patted David on the shoulder as he returned to their room.

They ended up reclined side-by-side on the bed, watching movies that happened to be playing on the few basic cable channels the motel had. Stevie joined them for most of Twister with a bottle of wine in hand, sitting in a chair with her feet up on the dresser and sharing their extra-large pizza. It was nice, and it was comfortable, being here with his friend and with the man who wasn’t his boyfriend but who he maybe definitely was falling in love with.

After the movie, Stevie left them alone with a wink and a filthy comment, her grin the last thing Patrick saw when he closed the door in her face. Then David commandeered the bathroom for his nighttime beauty regimen, which gave Patrick plenty of time to contemplate the bed they’d be sharing, and the things they could potentially do in that bed. Since their kisses the day of Alexis’ funeral had led to David breaking down, they’d done little else but hold each other, and Patrick was uncertain what David was ready for. For that matter, Patrick was uncertain what he was ready for. Two months of near-constant fantasizing left him with a vast chasm between what he’d thought about doing with David and what he’d actually done. He was nervous, and after a day of David’s constant presence at his side, filled with longing.

David finally emerged from the bathroom in a t-shirt and sweatpants, his face pink and well-moisturized, and sat down on the bed. Patrick shot him a small smile and took his much-shorter turn in the bathroom.

When they were both settled into bed with the lights off, David said, “Thanks for today.”

Patrick turned on his side and drank in David’s profile in the dim light, the cheap curtains failing to block out the illumination from the street light outside the window. “For what?”

“Just… at the end of every day it feels like a miracle that I got through it. You’ve made it a little easier.”

Patrick’s hand itched with the desire to reach out and touch David. “I’m glad.”

Clearing his throat, David continued, “And I don’t want you to think I’m going to burst into tears if we kiss. Last time—”

“David, I completely understand about last time,” Patrick said.

“It doesn’t mean I didn’t want you. Or that I don’t want you now.”

Patrick’s heart skipped a beat.

“Or that I haven’t wanted you since you left New York,” David said, and then his face scrunched up. “I didn’t mean to say that last part out loud.”

Rising up on his elbow and hovering over David, Patrick said, “I’ve also wanted you since I left New York.”

David reached up, his hand spanning across Patrick’s cheek and neck, pulling him down into a kiss. Their mouths opened, tongues meeting, all of it messy and perfect. This time when Patrick pulled away there were no tears, and he quickly dove back in for more.

They paused in kissing only long enough to get their t-shirts off, then they were pressed chest to chest, Patrick shifting to get on top of David fully. David spread his legs, hands settling on Patrick’s ass and pulling while he lifted his hips, an accurate grind that made Patrick feel like he was going to lose it in his pajama pants if they kept doing that much longer.

“Fuck, I need…” David gasped, the words tripping out over Patrick’s lips, “I want you inside me, I want you to fuck me.”

Patrick froze. His body and his brain and everything froze, one crystalline moment of being unable to process or move forward or think at all.

David got a panicked look in his eyes. “Sorry, no, I didn’t mean… Okay, that’s a lie. I do want that. But not if you’re not ready—”

Patrick propped himself up an elbow again, giving David a gentle kiss to shut him up. “It’s not that I’m not ready. I’ve thought about doing… a lot of things with you, that included. And I want to. I very much want to. But I… I mean, you know I don’t have a lot of experience, and that seems like something where I could hurt you if—”

“You won’t hurt me.”

Patrick gave him a skeptical look.

“I’ll talk you through it, I’ll show you how…” David groaned, covering his face. “Oh my God, I sound desperate. Never mind.”

Pulling one of David’s hands from his face, Patrick gave him a serious look. “No, not never mind. We can… do that.”

“Wow, don’t overdo it with your enthusiasm,” David said with a roll of his eyes.

Patrick groaned in frustration. “Sorry, I’m nervous. But…” He couldn’t say it while he was looking David in the eyes, so he buried his face in the crook of David’s neck, his teeth scraping at David’s skin. “I want to fuck you so badly,” he whispered.

David’s hips moved against Patrick’s one more time and he moaned, fingers pressing into the back of Patrick’s thighs hard enough to leave marks. “I have stuff in my bag, I can… umm…” David sat up and Patrick tipped to one side, letting David stand. He felt thrilled and terrified and sexy somehow all at once, and it made him want to die, it made him want to scream from the rooftops that David Rose wanted him, even after all this time, even though he was little Patrick Brewer from Oak Grove, Ontario who hadn’t even known he was gay until he was thirty years old, David still wanted him. Throwing caution to the wind, Patrick pulled his pajama pants and boxers off and threw them onto the floor while David was rooting around in his bag, so when David returned with condoms in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other, Patrick got to watch him react to the fact that he was already naked, waiting for him on the bed. David’s resulting grin was gratifying, and somehow calmed Patrick a little.

David tossed the condoms and lube onto the bed, pulling his sweatpants and underwear off before joining Patrick in the bed. Kissing him and trying to suppress a smile at the same time, David maneuvered them until Patrick was on top of him, like before.

“On the one hand, I very much like being naked with you, but on the other, these sheets are the worst,” David said, squirming his back against the selfsame sheets and grimacing.

“Who gives a fuck about the sheets?” Patrick asked as he kissed down David’s neck, pausing and sucking when he found a spot that made David gasp.

“Umm, I do,” David said, but then his hands were back on Patrick’s ass, guiding Patrick to grind against him, grind their cocks together, and it was so good, it was one of the many things he’d been imagining all those weeks after he moved out of his apartment, alone in his childhood bedroom at his parents’ house, taking his cock in his hand and biting his pillow to not make a sound as he got himself off thinking of David.

“Jesus, David,” Patrick moaned, stopping the motion of his own pelvis. “If you want me to fuck you, we’ve got to stop this before I come.”

“Mmm, well I do want that, although I’m also pretty fond of you being out of control,” David murmured.

Patrick sat back on his heels, David’s legs already spread around him. “What should I…”

David sat up to grab the lube, giving him a comforting squeeze on the thigh. “I’ll need some prep, but I can do it myself if you don’t… if you find it distasteful.”

Patrick leaned over and kissed him. “Nothing about you is distasteful, but maybe you can… show me? And I can follow your example?”

Nodding enthusiastically, David reached over and turned on the bedside lamp and then grabbed a pillow and put it under his hips. Patrick shifted forward a bit, rubbing his hand up and down David’s thigh in a way that he hoped was sexy, or at least soothing, while David opened the lube and put some on his own fingers. David brought his hand down between his legs, his long arm alongside his cock, and began massaging the puckered skin around his opening without pressing any fingers inside.

Patrick watched, enraptured. “You’re beautiful,” he said without thinking, and David gasped, his eyes falling shut. David’s cock was so hard, flushed and pressed against his belly, and the sight of it was making Patrick’s mouth water. But he wanted to focus on what David was doing to himself, how he made himself ready.

“The key is relaxing,” David said, shifting into teacher mode, which Patrick had to admit wasn’t exactly a turn-on, since it served to remind him that he was new at this, and that David was bound to find anything he did amateurish and unsatisfying. Then David crooked his index finger, easily slipping it inside to the second knuckle, moving it in and out.

“Can I…” Patrick said, reaching his hand tentatively toward David.

“Yes, um-hmm,” David agreed. “You definitely can.”

Patrick touched David’s rim, below where he now had two of his own fingers inside himself as far as his reach would allow. Patrick had done enough experimenting on himself to know that the stretch would make David deliciously sensitive, so he just continued to rub the skin next to David’s fingers, hoping he was adding at least a little to the pleasure of it. David’s breathing sped up.

“Would you… inside?” David said, taking his fingers out, and Patrick quickly grabbed the lube and squeezed some onto his hand. He found David’s entrance again, rubbing around it a few times before pushing his finger in. It went easier than he had imagined. He turned his hand and crooked his finger, pressing against the strong muscle of his perineum.

“Is that okay?” Patrick asked.

David nodded rapidly. “More. Another.”

It was more of a stretch with two fingers, and Patrick pressed inside slowly and carefully, hoping he was making David feel good. All he wanted was to make David feel good. This time when he crooked his fingers, David whined, his hips bearing down to take Patrick as deep as he would go.

Reaching out with his other hand, Patrick wrapped David’s cock in a loose fist, stroking him in time with his thrusting fingers. David picked up the lube, clumsily spilling some onto his cock so that Patrick could slick all of it up, and he started working David more in earnest with both of his hands.

“Fuck, stop stop stop,” David gasped. “You’re gonna make me come too soon.”

Reacting to David’s words, Patrick let go of David’s cock and pulled his fingers out quickly, making David hiss.

“Sorry,” Patrick said, wincing.

“No, it’s okay.” David squirmed his hips around, getting comfortable. “Just go slower when you… take anything out of there,” he said with a half-smile.

Patrick propped his wrist on David’ knee, trying not to get lube everywhere, and leaned forward to give David a gentle kiss. “Are you ready for me to—”

David kissed him deeper, an edge of desperation in it. “I need your gorgeous cock, Patrick. Fill me up with it, fuck, please.”

Trembling, Patrick grabbed for the strip of condoms, pulling one off and tearing open the wrapper. This he knew how to do, but unlike in the past, with a woman, when the process of putting on a condom would sometimes be all it took to deflate the fragile conditions that allowed him to maintain an erection, this time he almost groaned as he rolled it on. He was so sensitive and so turned on and he worried that he wouldn’t last long enough to give David what he needed.

David already had more lube on one of his hands, and he reached out to spread it over Patrick’s cock. Patrick groaned through gritted teeth, clutching David’s knee and trying not to thrust into David’s fist. Then David was lying back, adjusting his hips, and this was the moment of truth, Patrick thought. He shifted forward, taking himself in hand and rubbing against David’s opening. Nerves started to take over again. He had a mental image of David’s sympathetic glance when he proved himself to be bad at sex.

“Go slow,” David said, probably sensing his apprehension. “It’s been a while for me, and I’ll need to adjust to your beautiful cock, but it’s gonna be so good. You’re gonna make me feel so good.” He put his hand over Patrick’s where it was still resting on David’s knee. “Okay?”

Patrick nodded, pressing forward. At first nothing happened, and Patrick had just a second to wonder if he was already doing it wrong, and then David’s muscles gave way and the head of his cock pushed inside.

David moaned, and it didn’t sound entirely like a pleasurable moan. Patrick met his eyes, worried.

“I’m okay. Patrick, you’re so hot. Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this? Just give me a little bit at a time, okay?”

Following directions, Patrick did as David asked, pushing forward in increments, watching his cock disappear inside David. David threw his head back, panting, bearing down and taking him in and fuck, it was all Patrick wanted, it was this, him and David being joined like this. Images came unbidden to his mind: fucking David hard over a table in a storeroom somewhere, surrounded by boxes, a glass bottle of some kind of moisturizer falling off the table and crashing to the floor as Patrick’s teeth scraped against his lover’s shoulder blade. Face-to-face in his room at Ray’s, giggling over how new and wonderful it was, whispered entreaties to keep quiet as they peaked together. Clutching David’s hip as he sprawled half on-half off of a sofa, pushing deep into him as David whimpered and grabbed a cushion, gold rings on his fingers catching the overhead lamplight.

Patrick came back to himself, leaning over David to let their mouths touch, his cock buried deep.

“Oh God, David, you feel… Can I…” He tried to pull out a little, and felt David’s hand clutching his ass to hold him still.

“Hang on just a minute, let me…” David moved underneath him, a tiny shift of his hips, and both of them gasped at the sensation. “God, I’m so full, it’s so good,” David said and then kissed him again. “Yes, you can move. Short thrusts.”

Patrick was powerfully grateful for David’s directions now, making it safe to experience this for the first time. He knew that even having been in a straight relationship didn’t necessarily mean Patrick would have been new to this, but he was, and David didn’t judge him for it.

Every tiny thrust made it easier to move, but still, God, David was so tight and it lit up every one of Patrick’s nerve endings. Gradually, he lengthened his strokes and David, a desperate look on his face, took his own cock in his hand, squeezing and stroking in time to the motion of Patrick’s hips, the wet sound of it filling his ears.

Patrick lowered himself over David to kiss him, but he was too overwhelmed and uncoordinated to do much more than drag his lips against David’s, breathing into his mouth.

“I’m gonna come so hard,” David whispered. “You’re gonna make me come so hard, fuck, Patrick.” David’s mouth dropped open and his eyes squeezed shut, and Patrick looked down to watch as David came, every pulse of it echoed by a squeeze of his muscles around Patrick’s cock, and that was all it took to push Patrick over along with him, his voice loud enough that he had to hope Stevie had gone home or he’d never hear the end of it.

When he’d regained a fraction of his senses, Patrick levered himself up, gripping the base of the condom and pulling out as slowly as he could. David groaned, flexing his hips and stretching while Patrick got up to get rid of the condom. He washed his hands and then grabbed a washcloth, wetting it with warm water before bringing it back for David.

David cleaned himself up and then got out of bed just as Patrick was settling back into it, and David started reaching for his clothes. “Don’t take me getting dressed personally, certainly not as a critique on the sex — which was fantastic — but I just can’t sleep naked in this place.”

Smiling, Patrick rested his head on his pillow. “Suit yourself.” Once David was back in his t-shirt and sweatpants, he climbed into bed. Patrick rolled toward the window and his grin widened when David spooned up against his back. “Fantastic?”

David swatted gently as his chest. “You know it was.” They fell silent for a minute. “Also, I appreciate you sleeping on the side of the bed that guarantees that you’ll get murdered first.”

“No one’s going to get murdered, David,” Patrick said, stroking his arm.

David pulled Patrick in tighter, his arm squeezing him and his nose pressed against Patrick’s shoulder. “It’s something Alexis used to say when we were little kids,” he whispered. “In hotels, she always wanted to sleep in the bed farther away from the door.”

Patrick turned over under David’s arm and pressed a kiss to his chest, then his cheek, then his lips. He felt a fierce desire to try to hold David’s grief at bay with a sword and a shield in his hands, if only that were possible. “Okay, David. I’ll get murdered first.”

Pulling him tighter, David returned his kiss. “Please don’t. I can’t lose you too.”

Chapter 12

#schitt's creek ff #schitt's creek #david x patrick #david x patrick ff #david x patrick fic #david x patrick smut #hdwgb fic #my fic

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lakritzwolf · 6 years

Text

Flufftober Challenge Day 19:Past

Fandom: Shadowhunters Pairing: Malec

On AO3

The hour was late, several wine bottles stood empty, and the laughter sounded all the way through the apartment.

“No, I will not, that memory is horrendous!”

Alec took a sip of his wine and looked back and forth between Catarina and Magnus, both grinning absolutely deviously, and Ragnor, who tried to look dignified but failed utterly.

“You see,” Catarina began conversationally and poured herself more wine. “That was back in... 1820 I think. Or was it 1822?” She looked questioningly at Magnus. “Goodness gracious,” Ragnor muttered and rolled his eyes. “1822,” Magnus said and took the offered bottle from Catarina to fill his own glass. “I will never forget that.” “I would rather, thank you very much,” Ragnor said with a huff.

While Magnus filled Alec’s glass the latter looked at Ragnor.

“Oh please.” Ragnor sighed. “This is humiliating.” “Come on,” Catarina said and nudged him in the ribs. “I told you about the two Burmese guys and now it’s your turn.” “Well no one forced you to talk about the two Burmese young men!”

Ragnor sighed again. “Oh very well. It was a stupid bet, and it was a lesson well learned,” he began. “We were in Moscow and there was this dancer, a beautiful young lady, and she... well, she was delightful.” Catarina giggled and he shot her a poisonous glare. “I made advances on her, and I have to stress that I was perfectly gentlemanly about it. And then Magnus, the little monster, bet me that I couldn’t woo her. And silly old fopdoodle that I was, I accepted.”

Alec got a sip of wine down the wrong way and Ragnor had to wait a bit for him to be able to breathe again.

“And of course, the inevitable happened,” Ragnor went on. “She told me I was a sweet and handsome man, but that she was spoken for, and left me to be with her lover.” “Who was a woman,” Magnus interjected helpfully. “And so,” Ragnor went on, giving Magnus a death glare, “I lost the bet and had to eat nothing but goluptis for two whole, dreadful, horrible weeks.”

Magnus and Catarina snickered, but Alec just looked at them with a puzzled frown.

“Golubtsi are a Russian delicacy,” Magnus explained. “Not when you have to eat them for two weeks they’re not,” Ragnor cut in. “And...” Alec looked at Ragnor who was pouting and Magnus who couldn’t stop giggling. “What are go.... golub...” “Golubtsi are kale wraps. Basically, cabbage leaves filled with whatever is at hand. Meat, carrots, onions, you get the drift.” “Cabbage,” Alec said slowly and looked back at Ragnor.

“Those were two very lonely weeks,” Ragnor said after pouring the contents of his glass down his throat. “Do you have any idea how lonely you are when you eat nothing but cabbage for two hellish weeks?”

Alec couldn’t help it, he had to join the laughter.

Ragnor harrumphed and filled his glass again, but then he looked at Magnus with a devilish little smile. “And now, my dear friend, I believe it is your turn.”

Magnus’ smile vanished and he took a hasty gulp of wine.

“Oh dear,” Catarina said. “You didn’t think that we go and share our most embarrassing stories and let you off the hook? I don’t think so.”

Licking his lips Magnus looked at Alec who reclined into his chair while raising his eyebrows.

“Et tu?” He asked, trying to sound hurt. “You know I’m all for fairness.” Alec took a sip of wine. Catarina lifted her glass. “What about Shanghai?” “We do not talk about Shanghai.” Magnus thrust out a finger at her, something close to despair in his eyes. “We do not talk about Shanghai!”

This time, it was Catarina and Ragnor who giggled.

“And what happened in Shanghai?” Alec asked innocently. “It’s in the past,” Magnus said firmly. “Only a couple hundred years,” Catarina said. “And a decade or two.”

Magnus stared into his wineglass. Alec nudged Magnus’ ankle with his foot.

“It... it involved an opium den,” Magnus eventually said, very grudgingly. “An opium den?” Alec’s eyebrows shot up. “I was...” Magnus cleared his throat. “I was experimenting.” “And it was a very extensive experiment,” Ragnor added smugly.

Catarina snorted, Ragnor daintily took a little sip of wine, and Magnus glared at his feet, a thunderstorm in his eyes.

“I don’t even know how long he was lost in there,” Ragnor said after a moment. “It must have been days.” “Three days,” Magnus said. He didn’t look at Alec, though. “And when I came to my clothes were gone.”

“But you...” Alec began after a pause. “You could have...” he went on, and ended with a weak imitation of Magnus’ flourished moves to summon his magic.

Magnus gritted his teeth and dragged a hand down his face. “There goes my dignity,” he muttered.

“The poor lad was still so stoned out of his mind,” Ragnor said and leaned forward, “that he couldn’t remember he could have just snapped his fingers to get dressed. Instead...”

“Instead?” Alec asked after a moment with morbid curiosity.

“I panicked,” Magnus said, his face still locked. “You... panicked...” Magnus huffed and closed his eyes, surrendering to his fate.“And fled.” “Without...” Alec hastily gulped down some wine.

Catarina licked her lips and huffed out a little chuckle. “We found him slinking around the backstreets of Shanghai...” “...with a chicken,” Ragnor ended. “A chicken?” Alec’s expression was more than confused. “Yes,” Ragnor replied. “A very strategically positioned chicken. The poor creature must have been traumatised for life.”

Alec tried, very hard. But he failed, and a heavy snort escaped him despite his best efforts. Magnus looked up, and Alec tried to wipe the grin off his face, with moderate success.

“And might I add,” Ragnor began, “that I never ever started calling you silly nicknames involving fowl?” He crossed his legs. “I really could have, you know.”

Magnus emptied his glass, but before he could fill it, Alec laid his hand on Magnus’ arm. Magnus looked at him, but only very reluctantly.

“Hey,” Alec said. “It’s in the past, as you said.” Magnus relaxed a little bit. “It’s not one of my favourite memories of that century.” “But... you got out of there alive. I think I would rather have killed myself instead of running out of an opium den completely naked.” “You, my dear Alexander,” Magnus replied gravely, “wouldn’t have ended up in a shady opium den in the first place.” “Probably not,” Alec replied with a soft smile.

“You see?” Ragnor took another bottle and slowly pulled the cork out with his magic. “Now he knows your darkest secrets, the story with the opium den and the chicken, and that your father it a prince of hell. “He took glass. “And he still loves you.” Then Ragnor looked up after pouring. “That one’s not going to be scared away from you, old friend.”

Magnus rested his hand over Alec’s that still rested on his arm.

“You won’t get rid of me that easily,” Alec confirmed with a soft smile.

Catarina and Ragnor clinking their glasses together as if toasting each other on a job well done tore the two out of getting lost in each other’s eyes. Alec cleared his throat and Magnus busied himself with filling up their glasses.

“And now,” Catarina drawled, “now it is your turn, Alec.”

Alec took a sip of wine and looked at each one of the warlocks. “I’m afraid I can’t really offer any interesting stories,” he said and shrugged. “One, I didn’t have several centuries to collect embarrassing incidents, and two...” He shrugged again. “My upbringing was a little... rigid. I didn’t even drink alcohol before I met Magnus.”

Two warlocks stared at him, and one took a sip of wine with a tiny little smile.

“So,” Alec went on with a sigh. “I’m afraid I don’t have any interesting stories to tell. I killed lots of demons, and once I made up a girlfriend so I didn’t have to admit to my family I wasn’t into girls.” “But there has to be something,” Catarina said. “Something out of the ordinary?” Alec shrugged and took a sip of wine, but then his eyes lit up. “Actually, there’s one thing.”

The other three leaned forward eagerly.

“Yeah, so...” Alec pursed his lips for a moment. “There’s this story about how I crashed my own wedding.”

The room was filled with a greedy silence.

“You see, I wasn’t into girls, and I wasn’t out because the Clave is... really backward, but there was this woman I felt I had to marry for the sake of my family and of duty. But there was also this other guy...” He cast a look at Magnus. “A really handsome guy.” Magnus lifted his eyebrows. “Do I know him? Is he a threat to me?” Alec snorted under his breath. “He’s the most gorgeous man in history,” he went on. “But I thought I couldn’t have him, so I went through with the wedding until... well... I was just about to tie the knot and he storms in, standing there in the middle of the room, staring at me...” Alec took a sip of his wine. “And here I was, and I just walked away from the altar and kissed this guy in front of the Silent Brother, my would-have-been bride, my family, the entire Institute, and a handful of the highest ranking dignitaries from the Clave.”

Ragnor and Catarina stared at him with wide eyes.

“Well,” Ragnor said after a moment.

Magnus emptied his glass and gave Alec a stern look. “I hope he was worth it, Alexander.” Alec didn’t look at him at first and put his glass away as well, but there was a small smile on his lips when he did look up. “He was. He’s the best that ever happened to me.” Magnus leaned a little closer. “Really?” He asked softly. Alec leaned in as well. “Really,” he whispered against Magnus’ lips.

A few moments later Ragnor cautiously got out of his chair and beckoned Catarina to follow him, and the two vanished quietly through a portal.

Neither Alec nor Magnus noticed them leave.

#lakritzwolf's writing #flufftober #flufftober challenge #Shadowhunters #Malec #malec fanfic

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6fluffy-emo6 · 5 years

Text

Probably a bad idea

“I refuse to write in the lines”, knowing lines should be blown up with a very big grenade launcher. I know this because of what happened to my little brother when he was a kid. They should have stopped him when that man went into his room and shut the door. I would’ve if i’d been home, but no I was at a friends house. Once I knew I was furious and hunted down the guy and bashed his head with a baseball bat and man it felt good knowing he deserved it, and the best part I got away with it.

So I’ve taken it upon myself to stop guys like that, yes a very smart decision I know. I’ve been scouting this guy for about a week now, who I saw him stroll by the opium den I frequently go to. The people I look for whom seem most likely to do those disgusting thing are those completely normal people, who would do no harm to anyone, someone who goes to church those people always have something to hide. Especially when they walk in a ghetto like an opium den if you were so perfect then why are you strolling around in a cesspool like downtown Philipsburg? He’s definitely up to something.

I started this vigilante gig when I turned fourteen a year after my brother was molested I just had this surge of anger all of a sudden, it felt like my whole body was filled with molten lava and it wanted to pour out of me, so I used that anger and spent my time working on looking for disgusting perverts like that man and never stopped. My name is Feyra Jones, I’m twenty years old, I go to the university of Phoenix, and I’m secretly a vigilante who hunts down child rapists. For my side job I work in a library stocking shelves and reading mostly, staying in the shadows because being in a relationship, and having friends will just get them hurt if they start asking questions when I leave late at night ,and come back covered in blood and peppered in cuts. My parents died in a car crash when I was three and my brother was just a baby so he doesn’t even remember them, we went to live with our grandma but left and went to live with our aunt Susan after what happened to Reese. But once I turned eighteen I moved us out of that place and into our own apartment in a completely new city and we’ve been living together for two years now.

My phone rings, it’s Reese “When are you going to be home Fey so you can start dinner?”, “Not for a while, you’ll to be on your own for tonight I have over time again”, I say “Okay see you tomorrow, later sis”. “See ya” I hang up and keep stalking Roberts, who I’ve been following for about three hours now. So far he’s just been walking down street after street weird for such a “nice” dude shouldn't he be feeding the poor or something. I hope I picked the right guy this time last guy I followed turned out to be an cop undercover looking to bust a drug operation, that was aggravating seems how I spent a month following the guy. But no I know Roberts is a creep looking for children, I know this for sure because he just stopped to sit down at a park bench staring at the kids on the playground. His eyes turned ferociously hungry when his eyes landed on a young boy about ten years old, who was alone playing by himself in the sand and, I knew Roberts would be on a hunt and so would I.

I lean against a tree and watch him. We stay there till it gets dark and the boy gets up to walk home and the hunt begins. Roberts follows block after block blending into the shadows, avoiding street lamps, he’s done this many many times before because he’s a pro at hiding I can barely keep track of him myself. But once the boy walks down an alley Robert emerges into the light and follows quickly after the boy, and I quickly follow after him. The kid turns around with fear in his eyes, his body locks up and he turns as pale as a ghost.

Roberts smiles I can tell this is his favorite part, he enjoys the fear, bile rising in back of my throat realizing how much of a monster he is. “Don’t be afraid I won’t be rough i’ll make it gentle and slow” Robert says “Please don’t” the boy gasps out, “Please don’t hurt me”. Robert stalks closer to him like prey I follow suit, “I won’t hurt you sweet little young one I won’t leave one bruise on you as long as you don’t scream”, he gets closer where he’s a hair's breadth away, the boy is shaking so badly I thought he’d fall apart. That’s when I strike I pull out my curved knives I’ve had since I started hunting down people like Roberts and stroll out of the shadows.

“You know I shouldn’t have to say you should pick on someone your own size, but I guess it’s needed” I say, Robert whirls realizing he’s been spotted. “You should pick on someone your own size”, I get closer to him extending my knives so he can see them, Roberts eyes light up with surprise and excitement, like it’s some sort of game. He pulls away from the boy, “run” I tell the kid and he sprints down the alley away from danger. “You just lost me my fun” Roberts looks me up down slowly devouring me with his eyes, “But” with a grin on his face, “you’ll do”, and launches himself at me, but i’m ready and already slashing at his arm I cut him he swears and pulls out a switchblade and swipes at me i easily dodge him and, grab his arm and twist it till I hear a “crack” , he screams and pulls away from me, finally with pain and fear written all over him knowing he’s now the prey and i’m the hunter. I grin “I think i’m going to enjoy killing you” I say.

Roberts face pales and sprints down the alley shoving passed me. I curse myself for letting him get passed, I dart after him, catching up with him thanks to the sprints I go on every morning. As I get close to him I see red and blue flashing lights coming behind me “the kid probably called the cops when he got home” I thought as Roberts stops and turns and runs directly at the cops yelling “It’s me i’m the rapist. I did it. Arrest me please!”

I watch in the shadows as Roberts is getting shoved in the back of a cop car a driven to the police station. This could be a problem, I think. “Looks like you’ll need help with this one sis”, I turn and see my sixteen year old brother grinning at me. “Reese what are doing here!” I shout, “Well if it isn’t obvious I was following you” he said with a grin. “I would love to chat about how i’ve known about you’ve being as a rapist killer and how i’ve secretly been following you and making sure the kids are safe afterwards seems how you don’t care about them once they’ve run off”. I’m so dumbfounded I just stare at him “so sense you’re just going to just stand there i’ll go kill the guy myself” he says and starts walking to the police station, I follow him, after a block I turn to him and say, “Why have you never told me you knew about me, and that you’ve secretly been helping me?”, “One I haven't been helping you i’ve been helping the kids, two because, if I confronted you you’d probably hide it from me even more and i’d lose the only family I’ve ever had, so I kept it a secret until now, cause that guy really deserves it” Reese says. I nod “yes he does”.

We walk in silence the rest of the way. Once we get to the police station we go in the back where the officers go for a smoke break. I go ahead and knock the cops out before they even see me. I take keys off one of the cops and tell Reese to go turn off the security cams, “will due sis” and salutes me and walks to the security cam room. I head to the jail cells keeping my head down avoiding eye contact with the other officers and walk right into the cells, where Roberts has already been admitted in he sees me and starts screaming for help but I lock the door and open his cell and pull out my knives. “We’ve got some unfinished business Mr. Roberts” and gut him on the spot and dig my knife deep in his belly and pull it across his stomach and pull it out watching his guts spill out and slowly drag my knife across his throat and watch him drop on the floor and choke on his own blood and watch the last get fade from his eyes as he dies.

I stroll out of the police station where I see Reese across the street leaning against a street light and smirking “What now sis we’ll definitely get caught for this” he says “For now I run and you stay put you don’t need to be running all your life”I say, “No way I’m as much as a part of this as you i’m with you till the very end” he says with such passion i’ve never seen before. “Fine” I sigh “But if I get caught you aren’t going down with me, you’ll get as far away from me as fast as possible for your own safety, no trying to save, no rescue missions, you leave and never come back deal?” I say “Deal” he says stretching out his hand I shake it knowing perfectly well that that was a lie. We walk back in silence but a peaceful silence like we’ve come to some conclusion in this story. While Reese packs the bare minimum of the things we need I go to grab the cash i’ve kept hidden at the library. Reese is packed and shouldering both our packs and, we head out the door starting the next story of our lives.

I know it’s not a good story it’s my first one if you have any tips let me know.

#story #danger #killing #fighting #siblings #brother #sister #revenge #jail #stalker #coffee #city #night #violence

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