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Collateral -- JJ Maybank (Part One)

Masterlist

Summary: JJ’s stunt with Barry bites him in the ass when the angry drug dealer kidnaps you and decides you’re JJ’s collateral for the stolen money.

Warnings: kidnapping, violence, angst, mentions of child abuse and drug use

Pairing: JJ Maybank x fem!Routledge!reader

Word Count: 4,800+

A/N: I started writing this after binge-watching Outer Banks, and before I knew what was happening, I had written 20 pages of this and hadn’t even gotten to the climax… So, this has clearly been broken up into parts. I have part two already finished, and I’m almost finished with part three, but I’m not uploading them tonight because I want this to see the light of day first, and gain some love before I do anything. Please let me know what you guys think of this! I know there isn’t a lot of mushy-feely stuff in this chapter, and it’s mainly angst but, I had so much fun writing this, so please give it a chance and tell me what you think. Also, it’s canon divergent because I tweaked the DCS storyline and everything after John B. finds the first gold bar.

|Part Two|Part Three|Part Four|Final Part|

Your shift at The Wreck had been a long and strenuous one, more so than usual, because Kie hadn’t shown up for her night shift which left you to pull a double and cover for her. In your opinion, the nighttime customers were always worse than the morning customers since they typically consisted of kooks and tourons who expected the best of the best and nothing less. You had a short fuse, similar to your boyfriend, and would often get snippy with customers who complained about trivial things: their drinks having too much ice, their salad too much dressing, or their Chef’s Board not enough cheese or the wrong kind of cheese. Kie’s dad kept you on morning and afternoon shifts as much as possible due to the locals of The Cut coming to the cafe during those times, and your ability to make them feel at home while they ate their toast and sipped their coffee. So, having to work a night shift unexpectedly without a break from your morning shift left you feeling exhausted and detached from the world.

As peeved as you were with Kie for pulling a no-call-no-show, you were more worried than anything; especially when you noticed JJ wasn’t waiting outside to walk home with you like he normally was. You hadn’t heard from any of the other pogues since yesterday, when you had to go to work and they went over to Crain Mansion in search of the gold. You would’ve gone with them, but you couldn’t risk missing another day of work and possibly being fired. After your shift yesterday (and noticing the lack of blond curls outside the cafe), you had headed home with the plan to meet up with your friends and learn of any new updates--but, when you arrived, nobody was there. You waited around for the rest of the day, but when 10 o’clock rolled around and nobody had shown, you retreated to your bedroom and fell asleep. When you had woken up around 5 a.m to get ready for your shift at work, you were relieved to find JJ curled around you fast asleep, and your brother, Sarah, Kie, and Pope passed out together on the futon in the living room. They had a pot cradled between the four of them, but you thought nothing of it as you got ready for work. You left behind a note, asking them to stop by The Wreck when they woke up to fill you in on whatever you had missed, but they had never shown up. 

Now, as you locked up The Wreck at the end of your 10 o’clock shift and waved to the cooks and other wait staff as you all parted ways, your worry only increased. The Cut was warm and humid as you made your way toward the chateau, forcing you to shed your work shirt in favor of the tanktop laying beneath. Your hair was pulled into a high-pony, and while it had been sleek and put together at 6 o’clock this morning, you now had frizzed strands falling into your face and the bottom of your hair was sticky from an exploded champagne bottle earlier that night. Your feet ached and your hips felt unbalanced from the constant speed-walking and maneuvering around tables and patrons, and you wanted nothing more than to collapse against JJ in your room and sleep for a solid 12 hours straight. Before you could do that, though, you had to continue your thirty-minute walk to said paradise and make sure everyone was okay. 

As you left the hustle and bustle surrounding The Wreck and the docks, and ventured further into The Cut, you felt the tension beginning to ease out of your body at the familiar surroundings. As much as you loved The Wreck, you were not a fan of the kooks and tourons that migrated there throughout the night, bothering you during and after your shifts. As expected, the night held the worst of the batch, with alcohol and other drugs filtering their systems and giving them loose tongues and firm hands. Even though you could handle yourself and those who tried making a move on you, you never felt at ease or safe while leaving The Wreck; unless JJ or your friends were with you and you didn’t have to check over your shoulder every few feet. Crossing the imaginary threshold between The Wreck and The Cut always eased your mind, allowing you to slow your steps and cease checking your shoulder. This was also primarily because on The Cut, people knew who you were--not only as a waitress, a pogue, or (Y/N) Routledge, but as ‘JJ Maybank’s girl’. It pissed you off to no-end that people referred to you as ‘JJ’s girl’ more than your own name and you’d often chew people out on it, but you couldn’t deny the protection (and love and warmth and all-things-JJ) it gave you. You and JJ had been dating for two years, and while you loved him more than life and he loved you more than surfing, you often wished you could be seen as your own person: as (Y/N). Regardless of your annoyance at being solely known as JJ’s girl, as you walked the barely-lit streets of The Cut in nothing but a tank top and shorts, you were appreciative of your unofficial title. Very few people were walking around this late at night, but those who were offered you a simple nod or kept their eyes trained on the ground as you passed by, a complete contrast to the tourons near The Wreck. You expected this to continue until you reached your house, no longer looking over your shoulder for an unwanted kook or a touron that didn’t know the rules. 

You turned another corner, now only fifteen minutes away from home, and rolled your shoulders to try and release some of the built-up tension you gained from your shift as you walked. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, letting your muscles relax and a gentle breeze from the ocean to cloud your senses. Just as you were about to open your eyes and continue forward, you heard footsteps approaching you from behind. Your eyes shot open and your body turned but before you could see who it was, you felt the barrel of a gun press against your lower back. The metal was cold against your tank top as it dug into you, the owner’s hand coming up to grab your shoulder and keep you from moving away. 

“Maybank shouldn’t be leaving his things unattended, especially ones as pretty as you,” a voice muttered into your ear, jabbing the gun harshly into your spine. You froze, trying to place the voice to a face as you heard a vehicle approach and stop beside you.

“I’m not a thing, actually,” you retorted, keeping the fear out of your voice as the man behind you jerked you forward toward the black SUV. The backdoor swung open, but you couldn’t see who was driving it or if there was anyone else waiting for you inside. “What do you want? JJ isn’t his dad, whatever Luke’s done to piss you off is his own problem, not ours.”

The man laughed sharply in your ear as he shoved you forward, causing you to drop your shirt and tumble off the sidewalk, and your torso to fall into the backseat. You yelled out when the man grabbed your legs and pushed your body into the car, your body bending painfully as he slid in beside you. The door slammed shut and the man backed you into the corner of the SUV, caging your body against the door. Your hand shot down to the door handle, yanking on it to open the door and let you fall out, but it didn’t budge. 

“Child lock, snowball. You’re not going anywhere.” 

You looked up, finally able to see the man’s face as he grinned down at you. His grill shined each time the SUV passed under a streetlight and the black hair dangling in his face tickled your nose from how close he was. Instantly, you brought your foot up and kicked him in the stomach, pushing him away from you as you struggled to sit up. 

“What the fuck do you want, Barry?” you snapped while the dealer across from you laughed loudly and held onto his stomach. 

He smirked at you, “I forgot how much of a kicker you were, snowball.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been tryin’ to sell blow to fucking 8th graders,” you shot back, glaring at him. “Now tell me what the fuck you want.”

He raised his hands in surrender, the smirk never falling from his face. “I want my fucking money back. You little shits stole 25k from my goddamn house.”

“What the fuck are you on about? The last time I went to your shithole was a year ago to buy an 8ball,” you scoffed. 

“And while I do miss the revenue you brought me during your time as a cokehead, I’m not talking about you, snowball. Your boy, your brother, your brother’s new whore, the ex-kook, and Heyward’s son stole from me. I know you’re too smart and levelheaded to pull a stunt like that, and the ex-kook and her boyfriend have too much going for them to fuck it up by crossing me. This means it was either your boy or your brother,” Barry explained, his jaw tight with anger as he spoke.

“First of all, Kie and Pope have names. Second of all, they’re not dating. Third of all, what makes you think it wasn’t Sarah? From what I’ve heard, the Cameron’s have a history of robbing you blind.”

“Because my sister is too much of a pansy to pull a stunt like this, and she doesn’t even know who the fuck Barry is.” Your head shot up at the new voice, and you made eye contact with Rafe in the rearview mirror. “You dirty pogues have corrupted my sister.”

“I see someone’s been bitched,” you chuckled with a roll of your eyes. Rafe’s foot slammed on the break and caused you to slam into the back of the passenger seat with an oomph. He turned around, his arm already raised to throw a punch, when Barry grabbed it first.

“Chill the fuck out, Country Club. Can’t go beaten on her just yet. Now hurry the fuck up and get us to the hanger.” Rafe’s nostrils flared at Barry’s demand, and after a moment of his fist flexing in Barry’s hold, Rafe relented. He jerked his arm back and continued driving in silence. “Don’t piss off the driver, snowball,” Barry tsked, waving his finger in your face.

“Look, why would JJ or Birdie steal 25 thousand dollars from you? You know how much JJ despises you and your business because of what it’s done to his dad and the hole I fell into last year, and my brother doesn’t even know who the hell you are. It doesn’t make any sense.” 

Barry chuckled, “I see they’ve kept you in the dark. Did they tell you about the gold they found? That they tried pawning off to me this morning?” At the frown on your face and your furrowed brows, Barry laughed even harder. “Oh yeah, they brought in a seven-pound chunk of gold to the shop this morning. Offered ‘em a cashier’s check worth a couple thousand, but your boy is quite the negotiator. So, I sent them to the warehouse for the cash they wanted.”

“And let me take a wild-fucking-guess: on their way, you jumped them, stole the gold, and left them with nothing but dirt under their nails?” 

Barry grinned at your words, his tongue sliding over his grill as he laughed. “See, this is why they should’ve brought you along! Would’ve saved them from all the trouble they’ve gotten themselves into.” 

You rolled your eyes, “Well fuck, no wonder they stole from you. You stole from them first, Barry. An eye for a fucking eye, it’s the way of the jungle ‘round here. It’s the only damn law you follow.”

“You’re right, it is the only law I follow. Which is why you’re here, snowball. You see, before I could complete my task, they jumped me and stole my wallet and the gold. You’re smart, I bet you’re starting to see the problem now. No gold, no wallet, no 25k,” Barry seethed, the smirk falling from his face as he leaned forward, pushing you back into the corner of the seat. “JJ Maybank stole from me, plain as day. If I had seven pounds of gold in my hand it would be different, I wouldn’t be as pissed. But, you see, I don’t. So, as you said, it’s an eye for an eye. And what better to steal from JJ Maybank, than the only thing he cares about? The only thing he owns?”

“He doesn’t own me, so jot that down.”

Barry threw his head back and laughed loudly, shooting an unnerving feeling down your spine. Rafe laughed along, though anyone could tell it was forced as his eyes darted from the mirror to the road. “This entire goddamn island knows that he owns you, snowball, and you damn well know it too. Which means until I get my money back, you’re my collateral.”

--

The bruises decorating JJ’s torso ached with each step he took, but he had to keep moving toward the chateau: he had to prove to the others that he was good. He had to prove that he could do the right thing with the money he stole. Even if his dad couldn’t do the right thing, and wouldn’t let him back in the house without another beating, JJ could do the right thing and be good. Even if he stole the money it didn’t matter, because Barry stole his life, and Barry didn’t deserve the money, and Barry wasn’t good. The money would pay off his restitution, and you wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore and Pope wouldn’t have to feel guilty or worry about it anymore, either. Nobody would have to worry about him anymore, and it would all be good. 

But as JJ limped up the chateau’s steps, repeating to himself that, ‘it was all good, he was good, and everything would be good,’  he wasn’t expecting for the screen door to slam open and for John B. to body slam him into the ground. The blue thermos shot from his grip as he was flung down the stairs, and JJ couldn’t bite back his scream of pain when his already-aching body slammed into the dirt. He didn’t get a second to gather his bearings before John B. was pummeling his fists into his stomach and his arms and his face and anywhere else he could land a hit. JJ couldn’t even lift his legs to fight off his best friend from beating on his twice-battered body.

“This all your fault!” John B. screamed, his face an angry red as tears and spit rained down onto JJ. “He took her because of you!” He ceased his punches only to wrap his hands around JJ’s throat, squeezing and pressing down in an attempt to strangle the life out of his best friend.

Faintly, JJ could hear Pope, Kie, and Sarah screaming, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying. His entire body felt cold but his head felt hot, and the buzzing in his ears was growing louder and louder until it was all he could hear. He could see John B.’s face above him, his lips moving as he screamed and sobbed, and JJ could see his own blood splattered on his best friend’s jaw and shirt. Black spots began to dance in front of his eyes, moving inward until he could only see the murderous rage filling John B.’s eyes. Just as the darkness settled over him, he felt John B.’s weight lift off of him and air came rushing back into his lungs. For a few seconds, all JJ could do was choke on the air whilst his body convulsed, and someone rolled him onto his side in a desperate hurry.

“-eathe, breathe JJ, come on.” Someone was talking to him, rubbing their hand up and down his back as he continued to shake. He still couldn’t see anything and he couldn’t tell who was talking to him and rubbing his back and all he really wanted to do was blackout for a bit. A harsh slap against the center of his back had other plans, causing the air to finally force itself into his lungs. JJ began to cough violently, continuing to choke on the air that was now entering his body. He tried pushing himself to his knees as he dry-heaved onto the ground, but his shaking arms and legs were too weak to support him.

Pope was yelling in the background, “Chill the fuck out, JB! You almost killed him!”, his voice bringing JJ’s senses back to where they belonged. 

“He fucking deserves it! He’s the reason she’s gone!” John B. yelled back, his voice deeper than JJ could remember. JJ blinked a few times, trying to focus on the bloody grass in front of him while his two friends continued fighting in the distance. 

“Hey, just keep breathing,” the person helping him - who JJ now recognized as Kie - soothed, pulling his sweaty hair out of his face as more blood dribbled from his lips. She was upset, JJ could tell by the way her hands were shaking and the sound of wet sniffles every few seconds. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, who John B. was talking about, but all that came out was a harsh wheeze from his burning lungs and even more blood. “Don’t- don’t say anything. Please, JJ, just… just breathe for a few minutes,” Kie whimpered before a sob slipped from her lips. 

He did as she asked and allowed his eyes to close, his body sinking into the ground as he focused on regulating his breathing. After a few minutes, JJ could hear John B. storm inside the chateau, kicking JJ’s crumpled body on his way up the stairs.

“John B., stop it!” Sarah yelled as she followed him inside. 

Pope came and knelt in front of JJ, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to help him sit up. “You fucked up, JJ, worse than I ever thought possible,” Pope sighed as he adjusted JJ against the railing. 

“What-” JJ broke off to cough into his fist, ignoring the blood that splattered across his hand, “what happened?” His voice was hoarse and barely understandable, but Kie and Pope knew what he was saying. 

“You stole twenty-five-thousand dollars from a drug dealer. One of the most nefarious drug dealers on this island, that’s what happened,” Kie said, standing up and pacing in front of the blond. “What did you think was gonna happen, JJ? That he’d let it go?”

“What did he take? The HMS Pogue?” JJ rasped, looking up at his friends in confusion. “(Y/N)’ll be pissed, but we can get it back, or I’ll buy her and John B. a new one with the money.” His thoughts didn’t make sense inside of his pounding head, but he still voiced them regardless. 

“How are you so stupid?” Pope yelled, causing JJ to flinch as the other to shot to his feet. “Why would John B. try to kill you over a boat? Don’t you think (Y/N) would be out here yelling at you, too?”

“My girl doesn’t yell, you know that, Pope,” JJ shook his head. “She’s got work and the boat- the boat is all they’ve got left of Big John,” JJ said, coughing a few times. His head was foggy and his vision was still blurry, so he couldn’t see the mentioned boat sitting on the dock to his left.

“No, JJ,” Kie sighed, “Barry didn’t take the HMS. He took (Y/N). He left a note on the van--he wants his money back, plus the gold, and an extra 5k in exchange for (Y/N). He’ll be back in a week to make the trade.”

“He didn’t say what he’d do to her if we don’t give him what he wants but… it’s not something that needs to be said,” Pope whispered as he carefully watched for JJ’s reaction.

A cold chill fell over JJ, causing him to shiver violently despite the warm temperature outside. “You’re lying,” he spat, forcing himself to his feet. Pope and Kie backed up, steering clear of his sudden burst of energy. “You’re fucking lying, she’s not- she’s not gone, he didn’t lay a fucking finger on her. Barry knows better. You just… you just want me to return the money, that’s it, she’s fine, she’s inside right now, she’s-”

“JJ, stop, please,” Kie cried as JJ spun around, tripping over himself in his haste to run up the stairs. Pope grabbed ahold of him before he could make it very far, pulling him away from the house and John B.’s anger. JJ flailed in his grasp, but he was too weak from the lack of oxygen and two beatings his body had just endured, to fight Pope off. 

“She’s fine!” he screamed, not noticing the tears that were falling from his eyes. “I told her I would protect her, I promised nobody would ever lay a finger on her! She’s inside, and she’s fine--Barry didn’t fucking touch my girl, you’re lying,” he sobbed, straining against Pope’s hold on his biceps.

“Why would we lie about this?” Kie yelled back, suddenly overwhelmed with having to watch JJ fall apart like this in front of her. “Why would your best fucking friend try and beat you to death if it wasn’t true? Why would the gold have been included in the letter? Huh JJ? Do you think (Y/N) would have ever gone along with something like this?” she screamed, her voice hoarse from crying as well.

“We’re telling the truth, JJ. She’s gone,” Pope said, holding onto JJ even tighter as his thrashing momentarily increased. 

JJ let the words wash over him, the truth of his mistake settling deep in his bones. The guilt, and the grief, and the anger weighed him down, and before he could stop himself, he let out a deep, guttural, inhumane scream of agony. Pope couldn’t hold him up anymore as JJ’s knees gave out, his entire body collapsing to the ground while he screamed. His throat burned more than it had before and he didn’t notice when his voice gave out, leaving him a mess on the floor with spit and blood dribbling from his gaping mouth. Pope cradled JJ to his chest, crying into his best friend’s shoulder while Kie fell beside the two, trying to get JJ to breathe again through her own tears.

--

Half an hour later, you were pulling up beside a hanger at the very back of a storage facility. You knew kooks used this area to store their boats, planes, cars, and other expensive things when they weren’t intending to be used in the near future--so you weren’t surprised when Rafe got out of the van and opened up the hanger, revealing a vintage boat and a handful of different furniture. With hurricane season already underway, and summer having begun, you knew kooks weren’t going to be visiting the storage facility very often, meaning there wasn’t a high hope that someone would stumble across you. 

“Welcome to your new home, snowball,” Barry leered, before opening the backdoor and dragging you out of the SUV. He kept the gun pressed against your waist while leading you into the hanger, leaving Rafe to pull the SUV around the corner. It was cold inside, much colder than you were expecting, and you had to fight to keep a shiver from trickling down your spine. “You and I are gonna be real comfortable in here for the next week, maybe longer if your boy doesn’t come through.”

‘He’ll come through’, you thought to yourself, worry spiking inside of you at the mention of JJ. You looked over your shoulder as Rafe came into the hanger and loudly pulled the door down behind him. “So, what? You’re just going to keep me locked up in here until you get what you want? I have a fucking job, Barry. I’ve already called out enough as it is, pulling a no-call-no-show for an entire week is going to get me fired.”

Barry reeled around to stare at you, an incredulous look on his face. “I’ve just kidnapped you and held you at gunpoint, and you’re worried about your damn job?” he asked, waving the gun in front of your face for emphasis.

“Uh, yeah, no shit. My job is the only reason DCS hasn’t snatched me and my brother into the system. Mr. Carrera has agreed to help us maneuver a few technicalities with DCS--so long as I take on extra shifts when needed, and show the fuck up. Plus, a week’s worth of zero tips means bills won’t be paid and stomachs won’t be fed,” you scoffed, knocking the gun away from your face.

“I don’t think you understand the situation you’re in, snowball-”

“Ay, nuh-uh, Country Club. Get your own nickname,” Barry cut in, prompting you to raise your eyebrows.

“But you-”

“Nope. Get your own.”

Rafe paused, glaring down at you in thought, before nodding to himself. “I don’t think you understand the situation you’re in, Maybitch-”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you groaned, pressing your fingers to your forehead in exasperation. ‘It’s got a nice ring to it, though, and JJ would eat it up… Could even get a laugh out of Pope, I bet,’ you couldn’t help but think.

Barry knocked the gun against Rafe’s shoulder, shutting him up with a look of annoyance. “Your boy has gotten himself in a lotta trouble, 25k worth of trouble. So until I get my fucking money, you’re not going anywhere,” Barry simplified.

You pouted in mock disappointment, “Could you at least write a note to my boss?” Barry groaned with a roll of his eyes before he nodded his head at Rafe and directed him toward something you couldn’t see. “Look, I’m gonna be honest with you, Bear. JJ and the others have probably spent the money already. JJ’s got restitution to pay, Pope has an interview he needs a suit for, Kie’s been wanting a new surfboard, and Birdie’s been wanting to fix up our boat with somethin’ pretty. There’s no way they’d let 25 thousand dollars burn a hole in their pockets.”

Barry chuckled darkly with a shake of his head and turned your body around. He forced you to face the spot he had sent Rafe to, where you saw a metal chair bolted to the ground with Rafe stood beside it. He held a boat chain, a lock, and zip ties in his hands and a wicked grin was cracked along his face. Barry moved your ponytail out of the way so he could lean his chin on your shoulder, taking satisfaction in the way your body trembled. “Trust me, snowball, after they see how well you’ve been treated at Hotel Barry, they’ll find a way to get me my money. And you,” he paused to laugh softly in your ear, “you’ll be providing me all the information I need on where to find the rest of that gold.”

‘I’m so fucked.’

--

All Writing Taglist (OPEN): @sophster1881​ @alilcloudy​

Ooo...can i please request Fem reader who have just been heartbroken by a one sided crush and then one day she met The Joker and he makes her forgot about her crush? Can be nsfw if u want 👀

Hello, anon! Ok so this is longer than I'd originally planned but I was having fun 😆 it’s a little story in the realm of a crackfic that I had a lot of fun with! I hope you like it!!

Self-insert, Ledger Joker x fem reader, crackfic

Word count: 2,121

Warnings: light nsfw, mentions of mild violence

Summary: Sometimes people surprise you with what they'll do when their back is up against a wall, even the Joker.

Who?

It had to happen today, of all days. You went to grab a coffee this afternoon and what did you see? The man she knew you were obsessed with had his lips on hers. Right across the street from the café, your so-called friend was making out with the guy you’ve had a crush on for years.

He was back in Gotham on a business trip. His stay would have been shorter if it wasn’t for state of things in the city for the past couple of weeks. It seemed your friend decided it was an opportunity to swoop in before you’d gained the confidence to do it yourself. But the kicker is that he’d already agreed to meet you for dinner tomorrow night on top of it. Looks like he gets around. You all had gone to the same high school years ago and things apparently haven’t changed much. Aren’t you too old for games like this? You tried not to dwell on it, you had a job to do, but it’d been burning in your stomach like caustic acid for hours now.

You resisted the temptation to text her, tell her you saw them. No, if they want to play games, you could play your own. So far you hadn’t come up with anything but the old stand-by, the silent treatment. But this needed something bigger.

Your revenge plotting would have to wait, though. A minor injury out on patrol last month landed you a position in booking at MCU just in time for shit to hit the fan. Being a Gotham police officer was nothing like you’d expected it to be. You had your sights set on helping the disadvantaged, the people who couldn’t catch a break in this god forsaken city, who fell victim to loan sharks and got stuck in an endless cycle of debt to the inexplicably powerful Mob presence here. But the amount of red tape and corruption making that hopelessly impossible was enough to make you resent your decision in the first place. By now, you were one drug possession arrest away from never coming back.

Today, however, had taken an interesting turn. Your eyes were glued to the tv screen in the front office where live coverage of the SWAT team’s descent on the Pruitt building captured everyone’s attention. Some were optimistic about it, but most of the talk around MCU was skeptical. “If he’s gotten out of it before, he can do it again.”

But they got him. Back up teams raced out of the precinct and everyone scrambled with nervous excitement to carry out preparations for his arrival.

You weren’t here the last time the Joker had been brought in. You were off duty and you’d found yourself feeling a little jealous that you weren’t. He was all Gotham talked about, particularly around here. You weren’t sure how many times you’d seen his face by now. That face. There was something about the way he looked into the camera, it sent a tingle down your spine. It was a strange mixture of fear and fascination. It left you feeling conflicted, uneasy from the butterflies it stirred in your stomach, like you shouldn’t get this kind of excitement from it, a little spark of thrill you’d managed to keep suppressed.

But that spark was growing dangerously hotter now that you knew he’d be coming here, so soon, nonetheless. You had to keep your composure. The excitement was enough that you’d almost forgotten the betrayal you witnessed this afternoon… almost.

Your heart pounded as you approached the booking office, the sound of shouts and cheering echoing through the halls. What was he going to be like? Would he be angry? Was he going to take an officer hostage like last time? What if it ended up being you? You tried to take a deep breath, fighting the shaking of your hand as you reached for the door handle before carefully opening it.

You froze just past the doorway, letting it shut behind you. He was so… tall. He stood behind the intake desk, at least several inches taller than the SWAT officer removing the cuffs from his wrists behind his back. His expression was blank, casually watching the officers try to do their job while looking like their nerves were about to snap, avoiding touching him as much as they could.

“One move and I won’t hesitate to shoot you,” one officer said, doing his best to keep his voice from cracking.

The Joker didn’t say a word. He just flicked his tongue over his lip and lazily rolled his eyes. Butterflies fluttered into your throat and you fought to swallow them down. You had to try to relax, you can’t let him get to you. Of course, that’s easier said than done, his presence alone was enough to ignite an oddly alluring anxiety within you.

The awkward silence was broken when the on duty detective voiced his intolerance for that kind of behavior before noticing your arrival.

“Nice of you to join us, officer.”

All eyes landed on you, including his. You couldn’t breathe for a moment. That feeling that you got when you saw his picture was nothing compared to the intense wave of adrenaline that struck you like lightning, leaving you in a cold sweat as his eyes connected with yours.

You tried to maintain a professional demeanor, but you couldn’t hide the way color drained from your face as you slowly approached him. Just breathing took an immense amount of concentration. So much that you didn’t hear the detective giving you the case number to record before beginning the booking process.

“Officer! I’m speaking to you!”

You jumped and broke your gaze away from Joker’s dark rimmed eyes to quickly grab the form as the detective mumbled under his breath. Your hand was shaking again as you tried to breathe normally and recorded the number then in the next line, “Name, Unknown. Alias, The Joker.”

A shiver trickled its way down your back as you could feel eyes on you again and you looked up from the form to see him carefully watching you. Your breath hitched and you quickly tore your eyes away to stare at the form as heat bloomed in your cheeks. This couldn’t be happening. You’d been avoiding talking with anyone about him for weeks and no matter how much you denied it, now you knew why.

The other officers took his long purple coat and suit jacket off of his shoulders, removing a variety of knives from his clothing before turning him around to face you. You kept your eyes down, taking the cuffs from your belt to hold them in your hands, ready to place them on his wrists. A knot has tied itself around your insides and grew tighter the longer you stood there and stared at his hands, stained with traces of white, black, and red paint. Your face burned hotter, and your heart pounded relentlessly in your throat, but you had to try to remain calm. If you kept showing them how nervous you were, you’d be booted off of the case and another officer would take your place. This was pure torture, but you still didn’t want that to happen.

You were surprised by a need for more. He already had you trapped in this confusing push and pull to give in to the unusual attraction you had to him even though you knew it was wrong. It had taken you this long to realize that was it. A deep seated attraction had been sitting in the back of your mind and now it was rapidly taking over your body.

Goosebumps prickled your skin when your fingertips grazed his bare wrists, clicking the latch on the cuffs in place. This was like nothing you’d ever felt before, the rush in your veins, the heat in your stomach. You managed to keep the exhilaration spreading through your body from boiling over as you lead him to the line up wall for his intake photo.

He stood in front of the digital camera, holding the placard displaying his alias with the date and case number, his green hair swept hastily out of his face and infamous greasepaint smeared wildly. When you looked at the screen to capture the image, the knot in your belly unraveled. His gaze focused directly up into the camera lens and straight at yours, the corner of his scarred mouth tugging into a smirk. Your heart pounded in your ears and you could feel yourself shudder as rational thought slipped away, drowned out by a pervasive impulse. You knew he was dangerous, of course, and you couldn’t explain it but, you didn’t care. The fire he’d ignited within you was in control now.

A nervous buzz spread from your hands and down your arms before you looked up from the screen to meet his gaze, returning a subtle smile. Joker lifted his eyebrow and his grin stretched across his face until the other officers approached and he let it fall with a swipe of his tongue across his lip. That was all it took. You let those tempestuous flames engulf you and now you weren’t going to do anything to stop them.

Everything felt slowed down, like you were dreaming, feverish with this sudden and powerful desire when you kicked the door to the private search room open, pulling him inside with you and locking the door. You had precious few minutes before they’d find you. You quickly unlocked his handcuffs and spun around to put your back against the door, gripping the lapels of his vest when you stopped and stared up at his face as your stomach dropped. Why did you just do that?

But the feeling of regret didn’t last long. A low chuckle rumbled in Joker’s chest before he leaned on his hands, placed against the door on either side of you and brought his face inches from yours. Your breath huffed over his lips and the familiar feeling of arousal swelled between your legs as you felt his heat wash over you.

“Needed somewhere, uh, private to perform your search, officer?”

His lips hovered over yours as you smiled and answered softly, “I figured we’d start with the oral cavity search.”

His giggles were muffled when you crashed your lips into his, surrendering to the spontaneous and intense lust you found yourself swimming in. Your heart soared when he kissed you back, raising the intensity and allowing your tongue into his mouth as his hands moved to grip the sides of your face and your eyes fluttered closed.

He hummed when you wrapped your hands around his neck to lace your fingers in his hair and pressed your body against his. You could feel his size beneath the fabric of his pants and your breath hitched. This was one of those moments that didn’t feel like it was really happening, but it was. His hands slid down your sides to grip your waist and your mouths separated to catch your breath.

His eyes traveled up and down your body before another devious smile sent a shiver down your back.

“You. How about you come with me, hm?” he said, his eyes flickering to the gun in your belt.

Your stomach fluttered and you stared back at him, flinching when fists started pounding on the other side of the door and voices shouted. You shouldn’t trust him, you knew you shouldn’t. But trust hasn’t gotten you much in the past, has it? Besides, you didn’t have to trust him. Whatever happens is going to happen at this point so you might as well enjoy the ride. You’d already let it go this far. You swallowed your nerves and nodded, holding on tight to his shoulders.

Another chuckle made you bite your lip before he leaned in and purred in your ear, “Follow my lead, doll.”

You straddled his lap in the back of an unmarked van speeding down the street only moments later, his tongue in your mouth as your hands slid down his torso to the button on his pants. Was he always this lucky? Or did he know this would happen all along? Of course, this was a crazy thought but nothing that had happened today was sane. He held your own gun to your head and made his escape like it was planned that way. Either way, you’d easily forgotten all about the betrayal that felt so insignificant now.

In fact, tomorrow you’d receive a text from the traitor herself bragging to you about hooking up with your now former crush and your response, short and sweet, was “who?”

Taglist! @youmaycallmebrian @heavymetalnarwhal @neverputsaltinyoureyes @jokersqueenofchaos @into-crazy @killingjokee @astheworlddturns @jslittlebirdie @drreidsconverse @vipervixxen

the royal kiddos of Chrysalis, Cadance and Shining armor

Flurry Heart, Skyla, Instar Pale and Crimson Sweet

Bios under the cut

Name: Flurry Heart Nickname(s): Age: 26 Pronouns: She/her, They/Them Identity: Nonbinary Lesbian crush/relationship: Dating Pumpkin Cake Parents: Cadance, Shining Armor, Chrysalis Sibling: Skyla, Crimson Sweet, Instar Pale Special Talent: Magical blacksmith, Love magic Occupation: Princess Location: Crystal Kingdom Likes: Heavy metal, wrist bands, doing make up, teddy bears Dislikes: annoying men, people who think she isnt working hard as a princess Bio: Flurry Heart, oldest child to Shining armor and Cadance and heir to the crystal empire. she was an absolute sweet heart,  curly pigtails absolutely beloved by the kingdom. However when she entered her teen years she went into a hard goth phase and never got out of it. a real 180 on her personality. none the less she still works hard to work on her hobbies often, keeping up with her princess duties and making her family proud. At the end of the day she happily cuddles up with her girlfriend Pumpkin as they show each other funny pictures on their phones and watch stupid movies until they pass out. Growing up Flurry heart and Cozy Glow were good friends,when Cozy Glow had to come along with Celestia and Luna for trips to the empire for Flurry heart to cantorlot the two got to spend time together. it took a bit of warming up as Cozy glow was a few years older than the royal princes, but when the two started hanging out they were best friends. Cozy glow would often sneak her to cool places, steal snacks from the royal kitchen and so on. Cozy also was the one who introduce her to heavy metal saying quote "I don't know if you'll like this you seem like the type to like classy music like the nutcracker of sumthin'" the next visit  Flurry heart had dyed her whole mane black and had on the messiest smudgiest make up. it was a real kicker to watch this 15 year old walk is like she was hot shit. Cozy glow gave her more CD, taught her to style her hair, put on makeup and the whole thing. When they got older Flurry returned favor by custom making Cozy Glow her armor when she was officially made a guard of cantorlot. Flurry heart tries to not let the comments of the citizens and visiting dignitaries get to her, and it helps to have her parents supporting her . She met her girlfriend Pumpkin Cake when the mare began to take on Sugarcube corner deliveries herself, like Flurry heart recalls knowing her when they were real little, and seeing her at gatherings where pinkie brings the cake twins to come have fun. but they never really got to talk. but with the constant deliveries and Flurry Hearts development for a sweet tooth Pumpkin cake was around often. at some point the two started dating and Pumpkin moved to the Crystal empire and lives with flurry heart. Pumpkin works in the royal kitchen and Flurry heart is a black smith specializing is creating magic infused armor. 

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Name: Skyla Nickname(s): Age: 24 Pronouns: She/her Identity: Agender Bi pony crush/relationship: Parents: Cadance, Shining Armor, Chrysalis Sibling: Flurry Heart, Crimson Sweet, Instar Pale Special Talent: Love Magic Occupation: Princess Location: Crystal Kingdom Likes: keeping on schedual, looking good, being looked up to, tradition Dislikes: not receiving recognition for her work, physical labor Bio: Second born to the empire, Skyla is defiantly the most cookie cutter princess of the four crystal heirs. She takes after her mother but is a lot of uptight in keeping tradition, making sure everything is set to be on scheduled and so forth. she may have picked this up from her aunt twilight more or less. while her family around her tries to keep her grounded and calm she can't help but get in a big tilly over not having control over things. its gone from not being able to control her pretend play dates as a filly to making sure the daily happening don't get off course. Her older sister Flurry Heart, while working hard and still making sure to get her work done, is a lot more laze in things and is ok with letting things slide if they don't go according to plan. Which tends to lead Skyla to try and follow after her and fix these things even if they don't need to be fixed. Skyla puts on a nice happy face for the people but all her siblings know she holds quite the temper when no one is looking, especially when Flurry tries to tell her to calm down. Flurry was originally the one being trained to take over Cadance's spot as queen of the empire one day, training in the use of her magic. However when Flurry found her true calling as a black smith the honor was passed down to Skyla who has happily worked hard to catch up. Skyla see's herself as bearing a torch for the future of the empire and that she has to be perfect and so must everything else around her. Fearing things to be able to fall apart at any moment. after the big war against darkness Skyla had begun to realize for a few years, realizing no great danger would ruining the kingdom. But after the Queen Erroria incident where her and her family had been captured she has brought back up her walls and has become more uptight then before. 

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Name: Crimson Sweet Nickname(s): Stripes Age: 11 Pronouns: They/Them Identity: Nonbinary Girl crush/relationship: Parents: Cadance, Shining Armor, Chrysalis Sibling: Flurry Heart, Skyla, Instar Pale Special Talent: helping  people make friends Occupation: Princess, student Location: Crystal Kingdom Likes: friends, beetles, small notebooks, the beach Dislikes: Mirrors, thunder, rotten food Bio: Oldest of the two kids born after the marriage of Chrysalis to the crystal family. a marriage made out of many years of apologies, forgiveness and new found friendship. After Chrysalis accepted the friendship of twilight and equestria she spent many years making up for what she did, so her people and everyone else. She was blinded by anger and sadness, when she ruled she truly believed the only way to feed her people was to take their love, and when shown a new way she felt foolish for never realizing and having let her people starve that she denied the change at all. After the Hive came to accept her as their own again she led beside Thorax and his council. Thorax had always been too young to rule all by himself so with a queen with years of experience around to help him things in the Hive improved in new ways. now with her relationship with the Hive repaired Chrysalis slowly made progress to apologize for what she did to Candace and Shining armor. it took awhile to move past the day she invaded and tried to ruin their wedding, but in time over years of forming bonds they had a new wedding. introducing Chrysalis to their family. Chrysalis still lived in the Hive and though their wedding was official for the time it more stood for political alliance between the two, as chrysalis wasn't ready to let thorax stand alone as leader yet. Her staying ended up being what saved the colony, when the war of darkness arose through equestria the entity tried to reclaim the changlings once again as is minons. Had chrysalis not been there to protect them they would have surely been corrupted once again. After the war ended Chrysalis felt safe leaving Thorax as ruler, chrysalis now lives in the crystal empire with Cadance and Shining armor. over the years they have had two children, Crimson Sweet and later Instar Pale. Crimson sweet is still of the younger royal kids, they are quite rambunctious and love to run around with all the other kids in the kingdom. they love to eat and their favorite thing to do is make picnics, they take outings with their school friends almost every week. Bringing along cute snacks that Pumpkin Cake has made for them. 

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Name: Instar Pale Nickname(s): Age: 10 Pronouns: He/him, Any Identity: Genderfuild bi pony crush/relationship: Parents: Cadance, Shining Armor, Chrysalis Sibling: Flurry Heart, Crimson Sweet, Skyla Special Talent: Studying Occupation: Royality, student Location: Crystal Kingdom Likes: cool weapons, books with cool covers, drawings, collecting things Dislikes: loud noises, making decisions, strangers Bio: Youngest of four, Instar is the quiet baby of the family. Growing up in a family as big as his everyone around him babied him, saying he was always so sweet and cuddly. Which led to an amount of coddling that turned him into a very antisocial pony. he struggles to talk to new people and wont go anywhere unless he is with someone he knows so he can duck behind them to avoid conversations. hes a total hypochondriac, believing to be constantly sick and feeling weak all the time dispute his health being fine. Instar likes to spend time with Flurry heart and shining armor the most, Flurry heart because she is quite and they get to just sit around listening to music and reading. and his father because he gets to sit on the side line and watch him work. Instar doesn't think they'd make much for a guard but they love to read all about the different weapons, armors and Technics taught through history and the country. watching his father display these things, or Flurry heart MAKE them is right up his ally. If you do manage to get him to talk to you he is an info dumping machine and will talk your ear off about some obscure history thing he's learned recently.

Feeling Better

Feeling Better

Summary;  Melissa hasn’t been feeling herself the last few days and is dealing with a headache. Aleister just wants to make her feel good and take care of her.

Requested  by; @mondaynightmcintyre

Beta’d  by; None

Word Count; 1,450

Aleister stood in the middle of the aisle, confused and slightly irritated. To say he had no clue what he was doing would be an understatement. Usually, he ordered gifts online. It was easiest as he was usually on the road. However now, with him being home due to the pandemic, he liked to go out and get them himself.

Not that he had been showering her with gifts, because he hadn’t. However, she hadn’t been feeling herself the last few days and he wasn’t to get her something nice. Something she could keep when he was on the road and it would remind her of him.

But he was clueless.

He kept circling the same two aisles, unsure what to get her. Flowers would die quickly and  everything else he saw just didn’t seem right; picture frames, things you hang on the wall or sit on your desk. It just wasn’t right. Then, he saw it.

He chuckled to himself as he picked it up and made his way towards the cashier. He probably looked ridiculous carrying it around but he didn’t care. He just hoped he got home with it before pictures ended up online. 

Once he had it loaded in the car, he headed back towards the house. He had only meant to be gone for about an hour, told her he was going to the gym, but he had spent more time looking for the gift than he had meant too. Still, it would be worth it to see the smile on her face.

Melissa couldn’t help but to keep checking the time on her phone as she laid on the couch. She really thought he would have been home by now, or at least called, and it was starting to worry her. He always sent her a message if he was going to be longer. Had something happened to him?

The jinggling of the door handle drew her attention as he pushed it open, a small smirk on his face. 

“Hey prinses,” He kept the gift behind his  back as he made his way over and kissed her forehead. “Are you feeling any better?”

She sighed and shook her head as she sat up.

“Head is still pounding. Did you have a good work out?” Her eyes roamed his body and her eyebrow raised in questioning. He was still wearing the same clothes as when he left and he  didn’t smell like sweat, nor had he showered.

“Actually,” He chuckled and kneeled in front of her, “I wasn’t at the gym. I went to get you a few things and didn’t want to tell you.”

He pulled the bag from his back, along with the small bear he had gotten. 

“There’s reeses, Haribos, and pepsi. I figured you could enjoy those while we watch movies. Maybe the caffeine would help your head. Then this guy,” he chuckles and sets the bear in front of him. “Can keep you company when I’m on the road. He may not cuddle back but, hopefully, he brings you comfort.”

“Oh, Aleister.” Melissa smiles as her eyes fill with tears and she wraps her arms around him, kissing him gently. “You're so good to me. I don’t deserve it.”

“Of course you do, mijn liefde.” He kisses her and smiles before moving to sit with her on the couch. “Now tell me, what are we watching?”

“Honestly?” She blushes gently as he sets the candy and soda on the table beside them. “I had just started Finding Dory.”

 He chuckled and nodded as he leaned  back and motioned for her to join him. “That sounds good to me, mijn liefde. Come, let me hold you while we watch.” 

She leans back against his chest, pulling the blanket from the other end of the couch over them. Aleisters arms immediately wrapped around her as her head rested upon his chest, the movie starting. 

They stayed like that for most of the movie. Every now and then Aleister would press a gentle kiss to her forehead, his arm softly stroking up and down her arm. The soft thumping of his heart relaxed her, the headache she felt slowly dulling. Her heart filled with so much love for this man that others saw as an intimidating ass kicker. 

But to her, he was so much more.

Melissa turned her head towards him, her hand flattening against his chest as she kissed him gently. Her tongue pushed past his compliant lips and caressed his as his hands slid up her sides. 

It was supposed to be a gentle kiss, an ‘I love you/thank you’ kiss, but it turned into much more. 

Aleister’s hands roamed over her sides, the kiss deppening as his tongue dominated her’s. Melissa’s body shifted over his as she moaned. His hands found their way under her shirt and pressed against the soft skin there. He groaned as his lips left hers and moved to her neck. Once there, he nipped the skin gently. 

He took his time as he undressed her, kissing every bit of skin he uncovered. His warm hands lit a trail of fire as goosebumps rose on her thighs. Once she was undressed, Aleister stood, stripping off his own clothes as she laid in his spot. He licked his lips as he reached for her again, hovering over her. He nestled himself between her thighs and nipped the hollow of her ear.

“I’m going to take my time with you, prinses.” He growls as his cock slides against her pussy, earning a moan from him.

“Please, baby.” She arches up, legs wrapping around him as he kisses her slowly; his hand cupping her cheek.

Aleister chuckles as he rolls his hips, teasing her. He takes his time as he begins to push into her slick channel. Melissa moaned and clawed at his back. Her heels dug into his ass, trying to push him deeper, but it was no avail. Aleister kept his slow pace, letting her feel as he stretched her inch by inch.

“You were made for me, mijn liefde, and only me.” He pressed heated, sloppy kisses to her collarbone and shoulder; his breath coming out roughly as he nuzzled along the skin. “Do you feel that? We’re a perfect fit.”

She nodded quickly, her eyes connecting with his as she lic ked her lips.

“I know, baby.” 

Her fingers find their way into his hair as hair as he rolls his hips. He brings his forehead down to rest against hers as he thrusts. Each move slow and deliberate, a controlled motion to bring her closer and closer to release. 

His lips pressed against her forehead as his fingers found her clit, strumming in rhythm with that of his thrusts. She moaned as her body arched and her fingers gripped his shoulders. She thought it almost unfair, Aleister always knew how to work her body and he wasted little time.

She shook and pulsed under him, her pussy clenching his cokc and urging him deeper; to fill her completely. 

Who was he to deny his love?

A low growl erupted from his lips as his hips surged forward. Melissa let out a startled cry and dug her nails into the already tender flesh. Her hips surged up to meet him as his cock slid through her drenched heat again and again. His lips stayed where they were, pressed to her forehead as his fingers worked her cllt. He kept the rhythm for a little while before speeding up again. He played her body well, touching and stroking all the little spots he knew would bring her closer and closer; get her panting as she fought to hold it back under him. 

It didn’t take long for him to chuckle as his beard trailed over her cheek, his breath fanning against his ear as he brought his mouth to hover over it.

“Cum for me, mijn prinses.” He nips her earlobe and pulls gently. “Cum voor je Nederlandse papa.”

Melissa gasped, her eyes flying open as Aleister pressed against her clit. Her body shook as she cried out his name, clenching around him as she found her release. Aleister watched in awe, thrusting a few more times before he followed her over the edge. 

He continued to thrust for a few minutes; slowly and lazily as their bodys relaxed. Panting, he maneuvered her body so they could lay side by side, her back pressed against the couch as his arms held her. 

She smiled up at him, their breath coming out just as hard as the others, before pressing a kiss to his lips.

“What do you know,” She chuckled. “I am

TRANSLATIONS;

Princes - Princess

Mijn Liefde - My Love

Cum voor je Nederlandse Papa feeling better. - Cum for your Dutch Daddy

A wee gift for my girl who hasn’t been feeling well. I hope you enjoy it baby. I love you so much

TAG; @theworldofotps @sithstatlander @sophiewolfheart-blog @undiscovereddisneyroyalty @new-zealand-chic @brodieleesclothesline @sjwrites22

The Boys Season 1 Review and Comparison

This was so cathartic.

In an age where we’re inundated with superhero media on all fronts with their bright colors, cheery jokes and positive outlooks, it’s easy to slowly become sick of it, feel the “superhero fatigue” as it were. Where Marvel ruins some stories with far too many jokes (looking at you Thor: Ragnarok) and DC is far too dreary and serious for its own good with a lack of levity, where can one turn to for a GOOD happy medium?

Well, in comes Seth Rogan and Evan Gold, the brilliant minds behind the amazing adaptation of Preacher with yet another brutal and slightly more cynical series. The Boys absolutely stuns not only by being a genuinely compelling series, but also by being one of the few adaptations that improves on the original medium in a few aspects.

Story

The story centers around Hughie Campbell and the titular Boys as they work to expose the horrific deeds of The Seven, a collective of the world's greatest superheroes, and the company that sponsors them, Vought American.

In this world, superheroes are everywhere. They're on breakfast cereals, TV shows, movies, pretty much every piece of media and entertainment imaginable while also protecting America from crime. Sounds familiar, huh? The kicker here is that, much like every asshole celebrity that lets the fame and fortune go to their heads, these heroes are massive cunts. They take performance enhancing drugs, routinely cause accidents that hurt or kill people, sexually harass people left and right and just lie to their adoring public like they’re children.

Unlike the books, however, The Boys team isn’t the well oiled machine that’s been taking down and blackmailing superheroes for years and the first four episodes are spent introducing the different team members.This is likely due to wanting to give people time to care about them individually and the limited number of episodes in the season. This definitely works in also retooling the characters themselves for TV since they may not have seventy-two issues of character development ahead of them

For the most part, the show follows the initial story beats of the comics with a few select differences before splintering off in an entirely new direction. Hughie’s girlfriend still gets blown apart by A-Train, he denies Vought America’s hush money which draws the attention of Billy Butcher and Starlight joins the Seven after the “death” of the hero Lamplighter. 

This also means that there's less time to focus on smaller plotlines and teams that are referenced to in passing dialogue like the Teenage Kix, a pastiche on the Teen Titans, or Payback, the number two group of superheroes to The Seven. While seeing the team take these guys down on the small screen would have been fun, I like the idea of keeping the plot focused on just the core group of antagonists. This way, we don’t have to slog through three or four seasons of small fry and get the big bads in the last few.

After the first half, fans of the comic may start to feel a little bit of the familiar, but then things start to take a drastic turn when Billy's pride and the rest of the teams sloppiness gets them all burned and branded wanted criminals. This never happens in the books because The Boys are funded and protected by the CIA, but here they’re just another group of concerned citizens that are completely in over their heads, adding to the tension and keeping everyone guessing as to what will happen for the rest of the season and in Season 2.

Themes

The original series was written during the latter years of the Bush Administration. Tensions were high and America was still embroiled in the Iraq War. The president was a simpering fool and companies were fucking people over left and right in the name of patriotism. Reality TV and the awful personalities on our screens were on nearly every channel and all of this only fueled the anger that is Garth Ennis’ pen and Darick Robertson’s pencils. It was a product of its time and it was perfect.

We’re now in the Information Age where superheroes and social media are the only things that matter in everyone’s mind, where women’s empowerment is stronger than ever and our leaders speak bombastically with shit eating grins full of lies. Rogen and Goldberg have kept the series modern and take everything to task.

Media. Marvel and DC are everywhere nowadays with some indie companies managing to scrape up their own part of the pie. The Boys makes fun of the seemingly endless cycle of sequels and the goody-two-shoes images of America’s favorite heroes. Everything is carefully managed and curated by a media team, similar to how Disney micromanages even the smallest details of their properties to make everything so sickeningly squeaky clean. 

Not only do the heroes stop crime, but they star in their own movies about themselves as well, some have sponsorships for shoes and have to compete with each other for everything. Almost everything is done for the cameras, even intimate moments whenever Vought can find a way to make it work. The heroes are never too far from the spotlight even when they want to be and oftentimes their acts can go viral without them knowing.

Sexual Assault. In the comics, Starlight is sexually assaulted by Homelander, Black Noir and A-Train in a gross scene to establish that there’s nothing good in that world. It was good for its time in its own dark way, but today there are absolutely consequences to such things as there should have been back then. In the show, Starlight is assaulted by The Deep, her childhood crush, alone. 

It’s dark and makes use of the imbalance of power as The Deep threatens to have her kicked off of the team. Soon after, Starlight comes forward with what happens to her, not allowing herself to let what happened stand and unlike in the books, The Deep gets his comeuppance. Though this also unfortunately leading to him getting assaulted as well. It’s powerful and allows for Starlight to move what could have been an image of weakness, though Vought uses this to their advantage as well, painting her a feminist icon. Best for business right?

Politics. While not everything has to be an allegory for Trump, it’s hard to say that Homelander isn’t just that. He’s what the president thinks he is, a strong, blonde haired man that the entire country loves. Homelander has the people eating out of the palm of his hands and he’s only feeding them shit. He hates the common man and will just as easily let many die if it can somehow serve his interests. He’s not above a little sexual harassment himself and he is just an evil bastard.

There’s also a subplot of military application of superheroes that I feel mirrors the discussion on the use of drones in war. Drones are absolutely deadly and have caused the deaths of hundreds, even innocents when things have gone really wrong. Even President Obama was criticized for how reckless and dangerous their use could be. The world could only imagine the hell that would rain down if superheroes were allowed to duke it out over national security.

Characters

The Boys as a comic series was an unrepentantly cynical take on the superhero genre in an established universe of heroes. The creator, Garth Ennis, didn’t grow up with many superheroes and actually felt disrespected by a few of them, like Captain America. He brought on the amazing Darick Robertson and other artists to realize this horrid world of drugs, hardcore sex and brutal violence. Many of the stories are fun and hilarious, but with the unfortunate feeling of a lot of them feeling one note due to the one dimensional nature of a lot of the “heroes” and the ever escalating level of black humor to the point of being cartoonish.

Our main character cast is absolutely fantastic. Jack Quiad’s Hughie is much like his comic counterpart, aside from being like six feet tall and not Scottish. He’s surprisingly smart with a lot of awkwardness about him. He has a good heart and doesn’t see ALL superheroes as being evil, but does have a slight sense of justice that wants to see The Seven and Vought taken down. 

Karl Urban’s Butcher was the absolute perfect casting choice. He’s got that wry British wit, the fury to capture Butcher’s rage against supes and can play a manipulator like nobody's business. His character arc is one of the few regressions that I can actually appreciate for how it's done, especially as things become more fucked because of him and how he chooses to blame everyone else.

Everyone else is a slight bit of an improvement over the comics versions. The Frenchman, played by Tomer Capon, is similar to his comics counterpart, but we’re given reason to care about him and The Female. In the comics, Frenchie and the Female knew each other prior, but I don’t think it’s ever revealed how they met or became close. In the show Frenchie frees The Female, played by Karen Fukuhara, from thugs that had been keeping her prisoner and he slowly gains her trust over the course of the next few episodes after her introduction. We see their friendship grow, learn a little bit of her backstory and get a better understanding of what she wants versus just following Frenchie around and being terrifyingly adorable.

Annie January aka Starlight, played by Erin Moriarty, is probably the second best change in character in the series. She starts out as a bright eyed, bushy tailed hero looking to do good, but after being sexually assaulted on her first day in The Seven, decides that it will never happen again. In the comics, Annie stays around in The Seven and takes the abuse for a little while before speaking out and fighting back against the rest of them. What makes things even better, not only does she challenge her uber Christian beliefs during an event sponsored by Vought, but she does so while also getting Vought to force her abuser into giving a public apology at the mere thought of her causing their stock prices to crash.

Consequently, Mother’s Milk, portrayed by Laz Alonso, one of the most layered characters in the comics isn’t made better, but the more ridiculous aspects of is character have been toned down. We don’t hear of his disabled mother and his addiction to her breast milk that fuels his own superpowers, nor is his wife a crack addict that makes pornos with their daughter. He’s simply a reliable member of the team that loves his wife and will give Butcher the truth when he’s acting like an asshole.

The series actually brings a lot of grey to most of these characters. A-Train never once shows remorse for his actions in the books, but in the show he's painted as kind of sympathetic, while still being seen as a monster for what he does and the reasons behind them. The Deep could go either way after his actions with a redemption arc or a full turn to villain, but is shown to be knowingly aware of how little regard there is for him. He calls himself a "diversity hire" and acknowledges his own ineptitude, but he's still an absolutely terrible person.

Queen Maeve may be one of my favorite changes that manages to be even more sympathetic than her already pretty great comic counterpart. She, much like Starlight, did want to change the world, but she let the apathy and jaded nature of the job take her over. She's an alcoholic that sees a bit of herself in Starlight. The change comes in how she reacts to what I think might be Homelander's most heinous act in the show. She shows far more remorse and guilt over what happens than she does in the comic, showing us a side of her makes you want to root for her and to see her get better.

The best character… dear Lord, is Homelander, played by Anthony Starr. Homelander is a bastard. The worst thing imaginable because of his sheer strength and power. He’s a sociopath with all of the powers of Superman and none of the goodness. In the comics he’s simply just another asshole. 

He’s the most powerful of the Seven and absolutely revels in the hedonistic lifestyle that he’s accustomed to while also hating being under the rule of Vought. In the show, he’s shown as being supportive to Vought, especially it’s current Senior VP of Hero Management, Madelyn Stillwell. He has something of a mommy fetish as shown with his interactions with her and later in the series actually expresses emotions over learning of his own tragedies, but instead of trying to change for the better, he doubles down on his hatred and anger to become an even bigger monster than before. 

In the comic he just wants all of the superheroes to conquer the world, but here, he just wants to hurt everyone who hurts him. He plays games like a child, threatening and revealing secrets to toy with people before absolutely breaking them. He's horrible in a very personal way and his sneering smile only makes him so much more hateable. He knows there isn't a damn thing you can do to stop him and he revels in that fact, I love it.

Pacing and Direction

Coming in at an hour for each episode, the first two to three can feel a bit slow. Getting all of the story elements to sit just right can take time, especially as new things are introduced every few minutes. This slow burn approach easily helps to build the tension before things get really crazy by episode four. By that point, the story is unfolding at a perfect rhythm, the team is mostly together, they’ve made their plans of action and it’s all so smooth.

Thankfully each episode is directed by different people to avoid each feeling so similar. The common humor and tone is kept the same, but some episodes are very hopeful almost before being met with one that absolutely makes you hate certain characters and the actions that they take. In particular, the episode where Hughie and Butcher visit a group therapy session and Butcher flies off into a rage about the weakness of the attendees as they basically lick the balls of the heroes that have maimed them was amazing. The director pulls so much emotion out of that scene and continues on as the episode moves along in a far more dramatic fashion than some of the others.

Some others lean heavier on the debauchery such as the episode where Hughie and Butcher venture into a superhero sex club and watch as these guys do some pretty amazing feats with their abilities in some really gross ways. There’s a good balance of levity and drama that makes neither feel too overwhelming.

Overall

With a great cast, impeccable acting and an unpredictability that I actually enjoyed, The Boys absolutely blew me away. I was wholly prepared to rip it apart if I felt like it didn’t do the story justice, but Rogen and Goldberg are fans and knew what we all wanted. It’s unabashedly a comic book show, but still has enough to it that people who have never heard of the series will be floored by how much they can find to enjoy.

It’s for the nihilistic and jaded comic book fan. It’s for the casual watcher who’s gotten enough of Marvel’s colorful displays of happiness and it’s absolutely for the happy person who just wants to have some fun with what they watch. 

I thoroughly enjoyed this season of The Boys. So much so that I’m aching with anticipation to re-read the comic series in preparation for Season Two. It’s unlikely that it’ll follow the plot much, if at all after the ending, but with Stormfront (as a woman) being announced as the new Hero joining the Seven in the next season, I’m excited as to who else they might pull. This first season absolutely earns a high recommendation from me.

okay but re: the coming out fic. they come back to hawkings for christmas and joyce somehow picks up mike checking out will and tries to play a matchmaker because of how oblivious both of them are about their crush on each other

[ sequel to this ]

Joyce watched Will try to contain his excitement during the long ride to Hawkins, but even if he tried to look bored and disinterested the entire time, she could easily see the anticipation and joy sparkling in his eyes that would never be hidden with a mopey expression. It was their first time back in Hawkins since the move and Will and El had spent the past week in the meantime on and off the phone with Mike in particular to discuss the activities they all would be participating in while the two returned.

Joyce turned to face her son again and reached out a hand to pat his thigh. Will jumped at the contact but then relaxed into it with a small smile sent her way. “Sorry,” he said off-handedly, “it’s just…it’s been a while.”

Joyce nodded in understanding. She missed Hawkins, too, in an abstract sort of way. It was always her home town too, and even though leaving was necessary after everything that happened, she was equally excited to return. Joyce looked up into the rear-view mirror and spotted El sleeping in the back curled up against Jonathan’s shoulder as he also slept as his head lolled side to side with the moving car. A warm smile draped onto Joyce’s lips at the sight, ever so happy that in Hopper’s absence El easily slipped in with the Byers family and found solace in both Jonathan and Will.

When Joyce pulled up into the Wheeler’s driveway, Will practically sprinted out the car toward a figure at the front steps of the house. Joyce sat back and watched as Will embraced the taller boy, both of them swaying as they held onto each other so tightly. She covered her smile with a hand even though no one could see it in the dark. Will still hadn’t bothered to tell Joyce much about his crush on Mike, but she could hear it in the way he talked about the other boy, in how he tensed up when El mentioned something about Mike even if they weren’t together anymore, in how his entire mood grew a little brighter after a call with Mike. It was cute—so adorable, how didn’t she notice before?—and Joyce was overjoyed that she knew who exactly made her son this happy.

Joyce reached back to squeeze Jonathan’s knee and wake him up. He was a little slow to wake but patted El’s hair and helped her out the car alongside him. It took El a moment to realize where they were but once she did, she was also running toward the front and quickly joined the hug that Mike and Will were still ensnared in. Jonathan stayed back with Joyce, leaning against the car after he closed his door shut and watched the kids.

When Nancy made her way outside to the ruckus happening on the porch, Jonathan was quick to leave Joyce’s side and make his over to his girlfriend. Watching everyone reunite made Joyce’s eyes water and she felt a twinge of regret with having moved Will and El away from their friends and loved ones. She made her way to the Wheelers and her kids and took Mike in a hug as well. He was much taller than he was before, at least 6 feet in height yet still as scrawny as before. Well, not as scrawny, he had picked up some muscle around his thighs and biceps which was curious. Joyce wondered if he was doing sports in high school after all.

“Hey, Ms. Byers,” he said happily during the hug. “It’s been a while.”

Joyce pulled away and reached up to pat his face. “You’ve grown up so much already. Your mom must be so proud.”

“All I did was get taller,” Mike laughed and glanced over at Will. The way his eyes lingered over Will’s figure caught Joyce’s attention. Mike looked back up into Will’s eyes and Will’s grin grew wider as he nudged Mike’s shoulder with his own. Mike tolled his eyes. “Also, I got on the track team. Don’t ask how, I still don’t know.”

Will tugged on Mike’s t-shirt sleeve. “You gotta show me your uniform.”

“It looks exactly the same as it did the entire time you lived here!”

“Yeah but it’s you wearing it and that makes it different.”

Mike smirked. “You just wanna see how tight my ass looks in those shorts, huh.”

“Mike!” Will screeched, shoving at his friend as Mike fell into giggles and tried to bat away Will’s hands.

Joyce stifled her own laughter as Will and Mike dissolved into friendly bickering with each other. She turned to El who was watching the two with something tinged with sorrow in her eyes. It left just as quickly when Nancy took her in a hug and soothed the younger girl.

The reunited team made their way inside the house, not wanting to disturb the neighborhood any further given the late hour. Mike was blabbing on about this film study elective he managed to snag for his sophomore year and Joyce’s eyes couldn’t leave Will. She really didn’t mean to, but now that she could watch Will and Mike interact knowing that Will was in love with Mike, she couldn’t look away. Will was always trying to stand a little closer to Mike, eyes darting to his lips every so often as Mike continued on. The tall track runner plopped onto the couch and Will sat down beside him close enough for their thighs to press together. The big kicker was the way Will’s eyes crinkled at the edges when Mike laughed, how a soft smile unknowingly crept onto his lips when Mike spread his gangly legs over Will’s lap and splayed himself over the couch like an octopus as he kept chattering about his politics class.

Joyce knew that the differences in Mike and Will’s interactions compared to a year ago was mostly found in missing each other so deeply. Being touchy was their way of reassuring themselves that the other was real, that it wasn’t a dream and they really were reunited. They were always a handsy duo anyway. She knew this and she understood this, but she couldn’t deny that Will had something more imbedded in every touch, every word, ever glance. Joyce tried to think back to before the move, to check if she was reading more into things just because she knew how her son felt about the other boy.

When Mike got up to get water glasses for everyone, Will caught eye contact with Joyce and she wiggled her eyebrows. Will blushed and tried to hide his reaction by turning to chat with Nancy during Mike’s absence. El joined in the conversation and Joyce didn’t have much to say so she leaned back and watched the three chat like they hadn’t been separated for months. Hearing a noise from behind her, Joyce turned and spotted Mike standing a little ways behind the couch with two glasses in his hand. His eyes were trained on Will, seemingly hazy as he watched Will laugh at a joke El told Nancy. A smile Joyce has always subconsciously dubbed Mike’s Will smile crept onto his lips and it was so sickeningly lovesick Joyce couldn’t believe she hadn’t realized it before.

Maybe she was blinded by the thought that Mike was, well, straight and had no interest in Will. Maybe she was like everyone else who hadn’t seen the unique bond built between Mike and Will after all these years. No one else had noticed how different they were with each other, not with well meaning intentions at least. Joyce knew about the bullies, her ex-husband was the biggest offender after all. She knew that what Mike and Will had scared other people, frightened kids into slinging petty insults, but she never looked deeper until now.

Mike snapped himself out of his stupor and noisily made his way back to the couch where he passed Will his water and ruffled his hair.

“Hey!” Will gruffed as he restraightened his hair. “You might be an athlete now and do bro-stuff like hair ruffling and noogies with your boys but I am not a fan of messed up hair.”

“I cannot believe you uttered that sentence in relation to me.” Mike takes offense and put a hand to his chest. “I am not an athlete and I do not do ‘bro-stuff’.”

“Alright star runner for the Hawkins High Track and Field Team.”

Mike made a face and Nancy spoke up. “Mike, you are the star of the team this year. There’s no shame in that. It’s amazing that you managed to catch up to the top athletes on the team given your inability to run more than 15 seconds at a time back in middle school.”

He shrugged. “It’s whatever.”

Nancy sighed. “It’s not whatever. I don’t know why you refuse to admit you’re good at something! You haven’t even brought up the screenwriting final in creative writing that you got an A+ on last semester.”

“Nancy, can we not have this conversation tonight? It’s, like, almost 2 am and I’m sure Will, El, and Ms. Byers want to rest.” Mike slid his cup across the table and stood up. He was more closed off, eyes dull with exhaustion and mental irritation. Joyce watched Will stand up as well and grab Mike’s arm with a questioning glance. Mike looked down at Will’s hand and then up into his eyes. “You wanna sleep over like old times?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s,” Will turned to Joyce with raised eyebrows. “Can I stay, Mom? I know you already got the motel room for tonight but…”

Joyce watched how Will’s hand started to gently rub Mike’s arm, how Mike started to relax from whatever tension has boiled up inside him from Nancy’s words. She couldn’t bare with separating them again. “You can stay. El can too, if she wants.”

El nodded happily. “I can sleep in the basement like before!”

Mike laughed and sent Will a smile that screamed thank you. Will returned the smile with a shy one of his own. Joyce knew she made the right decision then and there with letting Will stay over. She stood and gave Will a hug. “Tell him,” she whispered in the commotion of Mike and Nancy telling Jonathan goodnight.

Will sputtered. “Mom, no. No, I’m not gonna ruin things like that.”

“You won’t.”

Will shook his head with a pitiful smile and squeezed his mom a little tighter. “You don’t know that.”

Joyce didn’t bother saying more as Mike came over to give her a hug goodbye and promise that he’d take good care of Will and El in the meantime. Joyce trusted Mike, she always did, so she knew he meant well. She hoped that he’d speak up about how he felt for Will, if he even knew what he felt in the first place. Mike was usually head on strong when determined but if he had been liking Will for so long already and said nothing, he probably wouldn’t say anything tonight.

The drive to the motel was silent. Jonathan was staring out the window and Joyce wondered why he hadn’t stayed the night as well. At least to spend time with his girlfriend. She voiced her thoughts and Jonathan simply shook his head.

“I don’t want to interrupt the kids or leave you alone here.” The teenager sent Joyce a soft smile. “I don’t mind, really. Don’t worry about it.”

Joyce loved her kids so much, she wondered how she was so lucky to have two amazing sons and El in her life despite all the struggles the family has been through thanks to Lonnie, the Upside Down, and the labs.

The next day started with Joyce driving over to the Wheeler’s residence to have a small breakfast with Karen. She assumed Will and El would be hanging out with the Party most of the day given it was Christmas Eve. It would give Joyce ample time to talk with some of the parents and get the lowdown on activity since she left. When she arrived, Mike and Will were in the garage leaning on their bikes and whispering between themselves. Joyce’s eyes turned up toward the mistletoe sprig that hovered above between them. She wondered if Will or Mike even knew they were standing under it, but they both seemed oblivious to anything but each other.

Mike suddenly laughed loudly and leaned his head back, which caused him to spot the mistletoe above. Will was chuckling himself and didn’t notice the panic that flashed in Mike’s eyes as he realized what their positioning meant. Joyce couldn’t hear what they were saying but Mike motioned upwards while talking and Will looked up with widened eyes and a pink flush to his cheeks. Mike leaned down and pressed his lips to Will’s cheek in a chaste kiss so fast Joyce couldn’t tell if she imagined it or not. Will didn’t look like he was breathing and Mike was fiddling with his fingers before stepping away and grabbing his bike.

Joyce got out the car then and made her way to the boys. Will refused to make eye contact when he said hello and Mike was glancing between the two of them with raised eyebrows. “I’ll, uh, I’m gonna go get a hat for my head. Because it’s cold and snow is a thing.”

Mike was back inside in a blink, leaving a flustered Will along with Joyce. The kid huffed and rubbed against the back of his head. “Uh, what did you see?”

“Only the cheek kiss.” Joyce replied warmly. “Is there more?”

“No! No.” Will blushed more. “Nothing more. I just…I didn’t think he would actually…,” Will ghosted his fingers over where Mike had pressed his lips and blushed even more. “Oh my god, this is embarrassing.”

Joyce wanted to pull him into a hug. “It’s adorable, Will. He really cares about you.”

“It’s tradition! Mike would have kissed anyone who stood here. He wouldn’t have done it with me if he knew what you do.” Will deflated pretty quickly after those words. “He was telling me last night about this girl on the cheerleading team who used to tease us when we were younger and now wants to date him since he’s on track.”

“But is he dating her?”

“No.” Will shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean much of anything. He’s still interested.”

“Did he say that?”

Will paused. “Actually, no.” He waved a passing hand. “Doesn’t matter though, it’s not like I have a chance. I’ve accepted that.”

Joyce opened her mouth to tell Will to reconsider his options but Mike came bounding into the garage with a beanie on and a homemade scarf around his neck. His nose was pink from the cold but the smile in his eyes when he spotted Will was warm enough to melt snow.

“You don’t have a chance with who? You didn’t tell me you had your eyes on someone.”

Will gave his mom a look and she raised her hands in surrender. “I’ll leave you two boys to your fun. Is your mom up, Mike?”

“Sure is.” Mike nodded toward the door. “She’s in the kitchen right now if you wanna say hello.”

Joyce nodded her goodbye and lingered at the door where she heard Mike start pestering Will about who he liked and why Will hadn’t told him yet. She snorted to herself at the fact that Mike, who was so obviously head over heels for her son, also hadn’t told Will who he liked so really he had no business questioning Will. Will wouldn’t tell him even if it was so obvious that Mike liked him back.

Joyce sighed and shook her head at her son and his crush’s antics. She wasn’t really one for interfering but these two boys were so oblivious and would probably never actual fess up to their love for each other because of the mutual deeply rooted fear that they would lose their best friend if the confession was spoken aloud. Her heart ached for them both, how they each had to keep their affections secret from the world as the world was scared of two boys loving each other as deeply as Mike and Will did. She wished she could pull Mike aside and let him know but it wasn’t her secret to tell.

“Karen,” Joyce called as she waltzed toward the kitchen where the other woman stood scrambling eggs at the stove.

Karen turned and sent Joyce a happy smile. “Joyce! It’s so great to see you. Did the boys leave already?”

“They were on their way out when I arrived,” she replied warmly. “How have you been recently? We haven’t talked in a while, you and I.”

“Oh,” Karen made vague hand motions, “I’ve been okay.” Her eyes darted toward the stairs before turning back to the stove. “Things have been…a little tense though.”

“What happened?”

“Mike is in therapy,” she started lowly, almost as if it was a sin. “Ted wasn’t very happy about spending the money on the sessions or the…the pills,” Karen shuddered here, “but Mike really needed it.” She turned to Joyce with tears in her eyes, “I don’t know what happened to him. I feel like I don’t know him anymore. He’s so traumatized and I don’t know what I did. He won’t tell me a thing but I can hear him crying sometimes in the bathroom late at night.” Karen wiped at her eyes. “I just want him to be okay again but I don’t think that’s possible.”

“You did nothing wrong, Karen.” Joyce took the other woman’s hands in her own. “Mike is getting the help he needs and you are an amazing mom for supporting him this way. He’ll open up to you soon. He loves you. He’s just keeping you safe.”

Joyce wished she could tell Karen everything that she had learned in the past three years about the secrets of Hawkins. She wanted to let Karen know what exactly Mike was going through so she could support her son more, but again, it wasn’t her secret to tell.

“Oh,” Karen laughed to herself timidly, “also, Mike doesn’t know this, but Ted and I are thinking about a divorce.”

Joyce’s eyes widened almost comically. “A divorce?”

“Yes. It’s about time really.” She glances at her eggs with a soft smile. “I feel so trapped recently. Nancy helped me realize some things and Holly,” Karen looked back upstairs. “Holly deserves her dad but I can’t keep up this act any longer. Pretending that I’m okay with…with this.”

Karen motioned to the kitchen and then rubbed at her temple. “It’s still a discussion. I don’t know if I’ll go through with it. I don’t think Mike can handle a divorce right now.”

Joyce places a comforting hand on Karen’s shoulder. “Do what is best for you and your kids. I know you love them with all you have. You’ll make the best decision, I know you will.”

Karen sent Joyce a watery smile. “Thank you, Joyce.” She sniffled and then scooped the eggs out onto a plate that she offered to Joyce. “How are things at your new place? Do the kids like it there?”

Joyce took the plate and relayed her experiences out of Hawkins. Karen listened excitedly and asked questions here and there that entertained Joyce throughout the conversation. She missed this easy comradery with Karen, missed chatting with her while Mike and Will took their sweet time packing their bags for a sleepover at the Byers’ house.

“Oh,” Karen interrupted suddenly as she sipped from a coffee cup. “I’ve wanted to ask you something for a while but I could never get the words out.” Joyce nodded for her to continue. “How do you…how do you talk to your son in a way that lets him know it’s okay to be, well, to be different?”

“Different how?”

Karen stared into her cup. “Mike is…Mike is on the track team and I hadn’t really noticed at first but when he talks about, well, boys, it’s not…it’s not normal.”

“Normal?”

“I mean, no, it’s normal. It’s fine. I’m just…,” Karen sighed heavily. “I think Mike likes boys and I want to ask and let him know it’s okay without being overbearing.”

Joyce blinked and set her plate down carefully. She sat up a little more in her chair and turned to face Karen fully. “I know Mike hasn’t been very open with you, but let him know that you’re always going to love him and support whatever he does in life. Tell him that it’s okay to go against the grain. It’s okay to be himself.”

“Do you think he’ll ever trust me enough to tell me?”

Karen’s voice cracked on the word trust and Joyce wanted to pull her into a hug so bad. “He already does. He’s just scared he might hurt someone he loves if he opens up.”

The young mom smiled to herself. “I just want him to feels safe and happy.”

Joyce nodded in agreement. It’s why she had to move. No one was safe staying in Hawkins anymore.

The two chatted about nothing of much importance for another little while, up until the Party came crashing inside being loud and noisy but happily united. Joyce watched the troop of kids stomp their way through the house toward the living room. Mike was at the door with Will still, dusting off snowflakes from his hair with a grumble. Will was chatting with Lucas still as he stood and let Mike pick at him. Joyce turned to Karen, who was watching the two carefully before turning to lock eyes with Joyce. Joyce nodded once and Karen’s eyes lit up with joy and she turned back to watch her son. Joyce could see in her eyes how much she cared for Mike, she only wished Mike would tell her everything that happened in ‘83, ‘84, and ‘85, everything that was happening still as the Upside Down still existed.

Mike came into the kitchen to make some hot chocolate for everyone and gave his mom a passing kiss on the cheek when she greeted him. He put the kettle on and looked between the two women with a slightly narrowed gaze.

“You two haven’t been conspiring, have you?”

Karen laughed. “No, honey, just catching up on how you boys are doing. Are you feeling well? You’ve taken everything you need?”

Mike quickly glanced at Joyce and then turned back to the kettle. “Yeah, I’m good. Better than good. Really happy actually.” He laughed to himself. “Does Ms. Byers know about me?”

“The therapy,” started Joyce quietly. Mike tensed but nodded. “It’s okay, Mike. Will needed it, too, after his disappearance.”

The tall boy clenched his jaw. “I know. I just…I shouldn’t need it.” His posture slumped dramatically yet he still has his back turned to Joyce and Karen. “I didn’t go through as much.”

“You went through a lot, Mike. Don’t discount your experiences.” Joyce stood up to approach the boy and catch his eye contact. “We all want you to be happy and heal. We love you and support whatever you need.”

Mike’s eyes looked toward his mom. Karen smiled and stood up to join Joyce. “I love you, Mike, please never forget that.”

The teen huffed but gave the two women a watery smile. The kettle started whistling and he started pouring cups of chocolate and some milk and sugar into each one. He paused after the final cup and turned to his mom with tears brimming in his eyes. “Mom, I’m so sorry.”

Karen rushed to take him in her arms and cradled his head as he wrapped his arms around her tightly. Joyce smiles to herself and turned to spot Will in the entrance with worry in his eyes. He looked so pained seeing Mike as he was, lips parted as if to speak but unable to find the right words to say.

“Mike,” he whispered as he made his way into the kitchen. The boy turned at the sound of his name and gave Will a half-muttered hello. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” He grabbed a cup and passed it over to Will. Their fingers brushed and Will purposefully let his hand linger a little longer atop Mike’s own. Mike flushed and avoided eye contact as best as possible. “I, uh, that’s for you.”

“Thank you.”

Mike looked up and Joyce turned to Karen with a hidden smile as the two boys shyly smiled at each other. They broke the gaze when Dustin called for them to get their asses back to the couch. Karen waited until the two were gossiping back with the rest of the party before she turned on Joyce.

“Mike and Will?” She sounded so joyous about it.

“Yeah, but I don’t think they know that they like each other.” Joyce sighed. “I hope they manage to realize it before we leave town.”

Karen nodded silently. “Hmm. We could help! Christmas is the perfect romantic holiday anyway.”

“You want to play matchmaker with our sons?”

“Why not? They both deserve to be with someone who makes them as happy as they do.”

It was worth a shot at least.

Joyce spent the rest of the day trying to get Will and Mike to either sit together or end up in a room alone. Karen has sprigs of mistletoe about the house and kept trying to “accidentally” catch the boys under them. The most she got was Dustin and El under the mistletoe in the hallway upstairs, which was adorable in it’s own right in a way. By the time the rest of the party departed, Karen and Joyce has practically given up on trying to get the two boys to notice what was happening between them.

“Maybe we should switch tactics,” started Karen as she sat on the couch while the boys were upstairs. “They are already so romantic with each other, I never noticed it until now.”

Joyce agreed. “I tried to get Will to tell Mike how he feels but he refuses to believe that Mike likes him back.”

A loud clatter drew the two women from their conversion and they both swiveled to face a gaping Mike Wheeler in the kitchen getting snacks for his sleepover with Will. The twinkling lights of the Christmas tree in the living room danced off his shocked face and colored his skin in rainbow shades of blush.

“Will likes me?”

Joyce panicked. “He, uh, he cares for you a lot! You’re his best friend, Mike.”

Mike shook his head and hands. “No, no, wait. You said—you said—,” the boy puts a hand to his head and raises his other hand for pause. “Oh my god, this has to be a cosmic joke. There’s no way possible Will likes me. I…I never imagined…”

“So, you do like Will?” Karen quietly questioned in the resounding silence. Another clatter from upstairs pulls in everyone’s attention and they spotted Will at the top of the stairs having dropped his notebooks that scattered down the staircase.

Mike was red in the face at this point and Will seemed frozen in place, unable to keep his eyes off Mike.

“Is she—is Karen right? Do you—,” Will’s voice was cracking at the edges, full of emotion that he had bottled up for years.

“I—yeah. Yeah, she’s right.” He took a few steps closer to the staircase. “I didn’t…I didn’t want to scare you off by telling you though. It’s pathetic kinda. How long it’s been.”

“10 years, right?”

Mike laughed. “Yeah. 10 years.”

Will ran down the stairs and practically launched himself into Mike’s arms. Mike wrapped his arms around his best friend’s waist and tucked his head into his shoulder as they held each other tightly. Joyce couldn’t hear them much—she didn’t want to eavesdrop and their mouths were muffled—but she could hear Will’s strained I love you so much murmured into Mike’s shirt. She felt tears prickling in the back of her eyes seeing her son so happy in the arms of the boy he loves so deeply, finally confessing and obtaining the happiness he deserved.

Karen was crying more openly, one hand to her mouth as her other hand wiped smudged eyeliner from her eyes. Joyce thought about how Karen was in a loveless marriage, how she stuck with it for her kids, and now, she got to see her son who loved someone he wasn’t supposed to love, who kept this secret to his chest for years always frightened if anyone knew, finally able to hold the person he loved most in his arms and know it was reciprocated.

Joyce took Karen’s hand in her own and squeezed it tightly as they shared comforting looks with each other. Turning back to the boys, Joyce rolled her eyes as she spotted them desperately kissing, mistletoe strung up between them at the base of the staircase.

“It worked,” Karen laughed with a sniffle as Mike and Will pulled from each other. The two boys couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop holding each other, couldn’t stop basking in the love they shared.

Joyce’s heart was so full of love for these two boys, it nearly hurt. She smiled and agreed with Karen full heartedly. “It worked wonderfully.”

[ —> ]

stupid monitor

tony stark x male!reader word count; 1.3k summary; everyone has a monitor on their wrist that counts down the time it’ll take before you meet your soulmate. when it finally gets down to zero, the monitors will blare an identical tune that only they can hear. a/n; this is with @sorryimacrapwriter for their writing challenge, had a lot of fun writing this

If there was something that Tony Stark hated the most it was that damn monitor on his wrist. He hates it. He couldn’t care less about when he would find his soulmate. It was dumb, stupid, all of the above.

Whenever the wrist monitor is brought up in a situation, Tony goes off, ranting how much he despises it.

“It’s stupid, do I care about how long I have till I meet my soulmate? No. The whole idea is stupid. I obviously care about my soulmate, but the whole countdown thing is obnoxious. Don’t even get me started on if I can remove it or not Rogers, I already tried. Oh my god, and the song it’ll play. What if my soulmate likes Miley Cyrus? I don’t think I can handle a relationship with someone who listens to Miley Cyrus.”

Of course, that part was a stretch. But he was running out of things to say about the thing. It annoyed him on ends. The screen waiting on his left wrist. Taunting him. As it counted down the years, months, minutes and seconds until you find your soulmate.

Tony still remembers the heartbroken look on Pepper’s face when she realized that she was not his soulmate, despite dating for a few months.

They were on a date. A nice restaurant when the waiter pointed it out. Pepper went to grab the plate to help the waiter out. She held out her left hand, palm facing up

Her monitor still blinked; 00:04:32:57

The polite server sucked in a breath. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you two on a date?” She asked quietly, as to not disturb the other’s dining. Tony glanced up at her with a confused look. He grabbed Peppers free hand. “Yeah, is there a problem.”

The waiter’s eyes widened. “Oh no, of course not. But-” she hesitated and leaned closer to the table. “You both do realize you’re not each other’s soulmate.”

Pepper tilted her head at the waiter and looked at her wrist. She saw that she still had 4 months till she would find her soulmate. She cried in the middle of the restaurant. She knew it wasn’t her fault nor Tony’s. They just met at the wrong time and assumed they were meant to be. The waiter apologized profusely, and she felt almost as bad as Tony did. She even tried to pay for their dinner even though they did not eat and left as soon as the incident happened.

That was about 6 months ago, and Pepper found her soulmate, it was some nice guy. Tony always forgets his name and now she’s pressuring Tony to be excited to find his.

“C’mon Tones! Maybe they’re dying to find you, and you are denying it.”

You are dying to find your soulmate. You are very excited to see your soulmate, to see what they look like, if they like video games or reading. All of it.

You would gush to your family every time you see them about how close you are.

To them, you seemed over-excited. They would try to calm you down a little, warning you. Maybe your soulmate could be a murderer. Who knows? But that didn’t stop you.

All your friends were finding their soulmates while your monitor still flashed the number you hated;

01:11:34:52

You couldn’t wait almost 2 years!

“What if tapping it made it countdown faster?” You asked your friend. She invited you over to her house to try and get your mind off of it.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know man, I had you over to stop thinking over it and here you are.”

You were at the grocery store a week later when you felt a burning on your wrist. You looked down and saw that the numbers changed.

00:00:09:13

You gasped. It was strange, you never heard of anyone’s timer’s changing? It didn’t matter though, your soulmate was probably in the store and you couldn’t hide your excitement.

Tony and the team got back to the tower after a long mission. It was supposed to take another 2 years or so. Fury mention something about Hydra agents in Russia or something like that. Turns out the Avenger’s are better than Fury thought a the 2 year mission ended up taking a week.

Clint was lying on the couch when he called out. “Can someone go get ice cream?”

Tony rolled his eyes, yet he wasn’t surprised. He went to look at his watch when he noticed his monitor.

00:00:07:46

He decided it was now or never. Tony knew it was no one on the team and they didn’t have any ice cream at the tower so he would have to go get some.

Natasha was almost to the elevator when Tony pushed her out of the way. “Sorry Nat, but i’m getting the ice cream.” She was going to snap back but Tony shoved his hand in her face, as if that was excuse for the push.

“Listen Stark, you know i’m the only one who really knows what kind of ice cream Clint likes so you better move or-”

Tony cut her off with an exaggerated groan. He stepped further in the elevator and motioned for her to come as well. “Come on, I don’t have all day.”

You were pushing your cart around when you ended up in the freezer section. Maybe you should get some ice cream for your best friend. You look around at all your options.

When Tony made it into the store he booked it for the ice cream aisle leaving Natasha behind. There wasn’t to many people in the store, a few older couples and some college jocks. There was even a lady with 4 kids who looked very tired. It took some time for Tony to navigate through the store but once he found the freezer aisle he knew he was good as golden.

00:00:00:32

Tony looked at himself in the glass doors. He looked awful. Covered it dirt and some blood. But if he was meeting his soulmate they should know this side of Tony Stark.

He looked around the aisle and the only person he saw was a young man. He had to admit, that he looked good.

All of a sudden Tony could hear the kicker in Bohemian Rhapsody.

So you think you can stop me and spit in my eye?

He looked around. The store wasn’t playing the music. The music that the store was playing sounded like elevator music that you would hear on your way to a business meeting.

So you think you can love me and leave me to die?

You noticed it too. It happened to be your favorite song. You looked at your wrist and saw the time.

00:00:00:00

There’s your soulmate. The Tony Stark. You couldn’t help the smile that blossomed over your face as you walked over to him.

Oh baby, can't do this to me baby

“So, I take it that you’re my soulmate?” Tony said once you got close enough to him. You bit your lip trying to hide your smile. “Mhm, I take it that you like Queen? Better than Miley Cyrus.”

The two of you belted out the next part.

Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here

Tony laughed. “I think we’re on the same page.” He looped his arm around your neck.

“Let’s finish your shopping”

Natasha stared at the two of you confused. She was confused on who you were, why both of you were just screaming Queen and why Tony was leaving her to go shopping with you.

She rolled her eyes and payed for the ice cream then left. Tony can find his way home.

Racist mom tries to bribe son to dump me, I gain power over everything she cares about.

This is gonna be a LONG post lol, may have gotten exact timing sequences out of order.

Met a guy that we had mutual friends with and invited him to hang out with my friends and do fun stuff. Later learned he was not even allowed to hang out with my crowd cuz his mother was the very strict and hypocritical sort who thought everyone else was inferior to her precious kids. Guy was telling them he was doing work or something. Eventually he told them he wanted to date me and they flipped. The dad doesn’t have much say in the house and the mom (EM) was livid.

You know how Amish people don’t like rock and “sinful” music? Or females that wear shorts and tanks? Yuuup basically her. She went through my social medias and literally compiled and printed out giant lists of every country song I’d ever posted or concert I’d been to or clothing she thought was too provocative along and gave it to the pastors at both of our churches. EP called MY mom at 2am a couple times to rant and rave about “how could she let her daughter do such sinful things and flirt with boys yada yada yada”. She made racist remarks to Guy (I’m a super cute half Asian half messican, and all of his family is pale white golden haired angels) and even asked him if I’d molested him (I’m 5’ 2” and he’s literally a foot taller than me) and if that’s why he wanted to date and marry me. He was still at home and they went on a family trip to Colorado. Or as it turned out to be an exorcism style prayer meeting over Guy because EM just knows there must be a demon or something wrong with him. Oh and this was only within a span of a few months while he saved up to move the hell out.

Nope not over yet. EM then was harassing his work, his new church pastors (mine), his friends, got one of his business partners to leave him with lies that Guy is “bipolar” and “Schizophrenic”, thankfully most of the people had our back and we had some good laughs over what outrageous things they told us. Even driving an hour and a half to his apartment (I know dumb move to let them know where he moved to), in the middle of the night a couple times to harass and berate him and blubber about how everyone would judge her and how her reputation was going to suffer and church standing, she even dragged his two younger siblings into it all and told him they were heartbroken that he moved out and all the reasons he needed to move back home. Cue even more fun, one night he was just done so when they showed up to again try and bully him into moving back home or at least dumping me, he just up and left. Got in his mini and drove away. AND THEY FOLLOWED HIM. Unbelievable right? He used to race his mini so he lost them pretty quickly and booked it over to where I lived and spent the night there. I know, why not call the cops right? Well there was no physical damage or threats thereof. Yes she’s been verbally and borderline physically abusive to him growing up, think patriarchy super conservatives but it’s a matriarchy. At one point EM asked Guy what it would take for him to dump me, what amount of money could she pay him (Guys dad makes buttloads of moola, yeah those kind of people) to get me out of his life and for him to move back home. SHE TRIED TO BRIBE HIM TO LEAVE ME. She’d threatened to disown him and all the typical rich EP stuff before and knew he didn’t care. EM even called all his guy friends and asked if Guy has ever had any “homosexual” tendencies etc. Next month Guy proposed, and EM was SO MAD that she heard about it for the first time from a mutual friend congratulating her on the upcoming wedding! So of course she calls all the pastors and REEEEs about how we’ve been living in sin (kicker, we hadn’t even done the dirty dance but she didn’t bother asking) and telling everyone that they shouldn’t attend the wedding etc. Yea call us prudes :p EM also printed out all the reasons why I wasn’t good enough for her son and handed those out like candy to church leaders. Then when that had no effect she switched tactics and did the same thing with all her reasons why he was immature and shouldn’t get married and should move back home and be parented. Still no effect, except my dad at a huge meeting where she tried to distribute those, gathered them all back up and handed them to her and told her to stop slandering us and said how ungodly that was. And she stood there baffled and all the other people present agreed with my dad and told her to put those papers away. EMs exact words “but but I thought the very reason everyone is here is to show Guy why he needs to leave that girl and move back home!” I couldn’t help a giggle and a few other people couldn’t either. That meeting is a whole nother story, it was hilarious.

Where is the revenge you ask? Well all that was just the tip of the iceberg of course, but the revenge has been pretty simple. Spend a few obvious nights (SLEEPING ONLY) at his place, just to trigger her, but ofc our pastors and friends knew we’d committed to abstinence our entire lives up to the wedding (hella yea wedding night was killer) and other things like that to get under her skin but nothing that anyone else thought was bad. Very publicly plan and execute a HUGE wedding (over 500 people) and tell everyone about how our relationship is so beautiful and holy and how Gods destiny brought us together yada yada. She made a couple extra hoops for our pastors but we jumped through them with flying colors and everyone except her thought we were the cutest most Christian kosher thing. So basically to save face she had to fake smile and accept all the congratulations and be secretly embarrassed that we didn’t invite her to the wedding showers (she said she never wanted to see me and wouldn’t go to the wedding) and made excuses as to why she hadn’t gone, EM couldn’t tell her friends that we hadn’t invited her now could she? She went after the best man too and he almost decided against being the best man she was such a hassle and he was a pushover, but I told him the best passive way to deal with her is tell her that he wants to be there for his friend and how could she argue with that? She didn’t. But of course, what’s better than forcing her to attend the wedding but not allowing her to ruin it? Extremely petty I know, but I’m a drama llama and have enjoyed 98% of all this. I of course get ahold of EMs own mom and get to know her and she’s very sweet and loves me to death, along with Guys siblings and his dad, as many of EMs own friends and their families etc. So everyone loves me and when we invite them all to the wedding, they strong arm her into coming. I have my cop friends who have been having a heyday hearing about all this drama coming in for the wedding, one of them I make my MC so if she tried anything, not only would they take care of her swiftly, but she would also deeply embarrass herself because there was no denying that there were 500+ people there who loved Guy and I, including a lot of her friends. The ceremony was great, went off without a hitch, oh wait... I am not a bridezilla so if anything went wrong it was fine and the drama was cracking me up, I was a little disappointed she didn’t try anything drastic, but I could see on her face the entire time that EMs smile was sooo fake, and I got reports that she was seen crying outside later. Watching people congratulate her was priceless. When my own friends congratulated her a few of them later told me that she seemed surprised that I had any “respectable” friends (her literal words) who thought well of me. And no I’d arranged her to be only in one photo so she couldn’t ruin any others.

Oh and our wedding day was only the 3rd time she’d ever set eyes on me. She was against me from the start for almost a year without ever having spoken a word or ever seen me in person. Take that EM. To this day I have no idea what was her real beef with me. Happy ending: now that I provided the first grandkids, to my chagrin they’re like baby Targaryens they’re so white, and of course she’s too “young” to be a grandma so she’s called “nana”, but we laid down ground rules and she knows we will ostracize her at the drop of a hat, and she has kissed butt so hard and to her credit done her best to mend everything without ever really actually mentioning any of it. It’s great. We have holidays and fun visits in between and she showers us with super expensive gifts and will drop everything possible to help if we need anything. I think we’re friends now. One day I think she might bring it all up and try and play the victim, idk, but she’ll be hit with a carefully detailed account of everything that went down, in case her memory “fails” her. I can forgive but I’ll never forget, after all, I got my delicious revenge. Power over everything she holds dear and the evidence to expose whatever she hasn’t already done by her own dumb self and absolutely ruin her reputation and community and church standing. I feel really good right now

TLDR entitles mom wants to be petty about me dating her son so I take petty to another universe levels and crush her with epicc facts and logic and hold all the cards to ruin her life now

(source) story by (/u/cyborgurl)

11/22/2019 DAB Transcript

Ezekiel 44:1-45:12, 1 Peter 1:1-12, Psalms 119:17-32, Proverbs 28:8-10

Today is the 22nd day of November. Welcome to the Daily Audio Bible. I am Brian. It's great to be here with you as we continue forward in our journey to the Scriptures this year and continue day by day through the weeks that we have remaining as we make this push into the final stretch of the year. So, today we’ll be going back into the book of Ezekiel in the Old Testament and then we get to the New Testament we will be beginning a new letter known as first Peter and we'll talk about that when we get there, but first we’re reading from the New Living Translation this week. Ezekiel chapter 44 verse 1 through 45 verse 12.

Introduction to the first letter of Peter:

Okay. So…so we concluded the letter from James yesterday, which brings us to the letter known as first Peter. And, so, this is kind of homecoming in a way because we’re being reunited with Peter whose kind of an old friend because we traveled through the Gospels in the book of Acts alongside of him. And, so, we've gotten a little bit of a glimpse into his personality and character and we’ve certainly seen that he’s a passionate person, but now we’ll hear that passion distilled down into written form as we go into first Peter. So, Simon or Simeon was actually Peter's given name, but by the time he had become a part of the inner circle of Jesus, Jesus had given him the name Cephas, which in Aramaic means rock. And, so, when we translate the Aramaic into Greek then that same word is Petros. And, so, Petros, Peter we can see of the origins of the English biblical name for Peter because Petros's in Greek is rock, which takes me back to my childhood because I used to love this band named Petra, right? And rock. They were a rock band singing songs about the rock of their salvation. So, this is how we get from Simon or Simeon to…to Peter. And Peter’s story obviously as we know it from the Gospels is one of redemption and complete transformation. I mean the Peter in the book of Acts is a very different Peter than the Peter in the Gospels after the coming of the Holy Spirit. So, we see this transformation and it's a pretty big one because we remember that when we remember Peter's lowest moment when he is standing outside the quarters of Caiaphas as Jesus is being insulted and ridiculed and he's denying that he even knows who Jesus is. So, we follow Peter from there all the way to the upper room where tongues of fire fell at the coming of the Holy Spirit. Peter was empowered after that with a boldness and an anointing that we still feel the reverberations of. So, in this letter that we’re about to read Peter writes that his location is Babylon. And, so, there’s plenty of scholarly conjecture about that but the general consensus here is that he's probably referring to Rome. And, so, with this in mind, then the letters been generally dated from the early to mid-60s A.D. And Peter says he's writing to God's chosen people who are living as foreigners in the provinces of Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia and Bithynia. And these were five different provinces in the Roman Empire that are all now located within modern-day Turkey. And, so, he addresses us to God's chosen people who are living as foreigners, because as this letters passed around to those people that would've been well understood in the Jewish culture, those living as foreigners or the Diaspora, those who had been scattered all over the world over long periods of time in different exiles and most recently those who were fleeing persecution because of…because of their faith in Jesus. Now James, the letter we finished yesterday, as I said from the outset is a bit of a butt kicker because it's very, very confrontational in a very kind and true way where the truth is being told and you know it's the truth. So, we can get out of Peter…or out of James ago…whew…that kicked my butt and now I need to catch my breath. But Peter, we got to know him a little bit and he packs a punch of his own. So…we’re…we’re sort of lining up for round two of the unfiltered truth being spoken into our lives in a way that is very practical. But again, just like James, Peter’s not trying to condemn anybody or make anybody feel bad. Like these people are already suffering, they’re already learning to endure. So, he’s not trying to shame them. He’s actually trying to encourage them, bolster them, lift them up because their faith in Jesus is actually causing suffering in their lives. And, so, Peter's reminding them that there is a hope, a glorious for those who endure. And, so, off we go. We’re at the straight talk portion of the New Testament as we move through…well…through James and Peter and John and Jude. So, let's continue our journey. First Peter chapter 1 verses 1 through 12.

Prayer:

Father, we thank You for Your word. We thank You for another step forward, another day in Your word. And as You bring us into the ending of another of our weeks together, we look forward to the fact that…well…in a couple days we’ll be entering the last week of this 11th month and then we’ll be entering into the 12th month of the year. So, You've certainly brought us far and yet there is still a distance to go. So, as we enter into these letters of Peter, we invite Your Holy Spirit to speak clear and true to us. Each of us has a story to tell and each of us is living inside that story. And, so, all the circumstances of our lives are varied and various and wrapped all over the world and within different cultural contexts. And yet Your word is true and when it speaks to us, it speaks to “us”. It speaks to “us” where we are. It confronts “us” where we are and we can just say, “yeah that's for somebody else” when You are…when You're pricking our heart. And, so, we open ourselves to You completely as we continue this journey forward. We invite You to come Holy Spirit. May we become more and more aware of Your eternal presence within us. We pray this in the name of Jesus. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com is home base, it's the website, it’s…it’s where you find out what's going on around here. So, be sure to…to tune in and stay connected in any way that you can.

I have been mentioning the Prayer Wall this week because it’s just been heavy on my heart. We just have these resources available to us all the time where we can reach out. And this season that we’re moving into…I mean it brings us to the place where we need to reach…I mean we can be full of festive joy and also in the depths of despair at the same time or one minute later. Like, it’s just such an erratic time. And we just get sucked into it. And, so, the Prayer Wall is a resource that's just…no matter what's going on…it's there and you can access it through the app and you can access it through the website and it’s there and it's just a way to know you’re not alone as we continue to move through and navigate the rest of the year. So, check that out. It's in the Community section at dailyaudiobible.com or you can access it using the Daily Audio Bible app by pressing the Drawer icon in the upper left-hand corner.

If you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible, if this rhythm that we share each and every day, moving us and navigating us not only through the entire tire Bible but through an entire year together, if that does bring life and light and good news and hope and encouragement into your life then thank you for your partnership. We…we can’t do this if we don't do this together. That has always been the case and thank God we are…we are just brief weeks away from completing 14 years, seven days a week. So, thank you profoundly for your partnership as we continue day by day all of the steps forward. So, there's a link on the homepage at dailyaudiobible.com. If you’re using the Daily Audio Bible app you can press the Give button in the upper right-hand corner or, if you prefer, the mailing address is PO Box 1996 Spring Hill Tennessee 37174.

And, as always, if you have a prayer request or comment you can press the Hotline button in the app, the little red button up at the top and just start sharing or there are number of numbers that you can dial depending on where you are in the world. If you are in the Americas 877-942-4253 is the number to call. If you are in the UK or Europe 44-20-3608-8078 and if you are in Australia or that part of the world, 61-3-8820-5459.

And that is it for today. I am Brian I love you and I will be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer and Praise:

This prayer is for Biola. This is Victorious Vanessa from Maryland. Biola I heard your request and I stand in agreement with you for marriage. So, Father we know that as we delight ourselves in You, You give us the desires of our heart. We also have this confidence that anything that we ask You, according to Your word You hear us. And since we know that You hear us, You grant us Your petitions…our petitions. Your daughter Biola is ready for a covenant relationship in marriage and I ask You Father to present her Your best candidate, not just a man of God but an Ephesians 5 man that will love her like Christ loves the church, a man that would wash her in the word daily. Allow their hearts to be knitted together. Anyone that would cause her to fall Father, remove them. Anyone that she would cause to fall, remove them. May they meet each other’s needs 100% physically, emotionally, spiritually, financially. We thank You God in advance in Jesus’ name for Your best candidate for Your daughter Biola. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.

Hi this is Joanne from Happy Valley responding to running desperately to Jesus call which I just heard. __ I’m 78. In four months, I’ll be 79. I’ve been struggling with…like you have been in my life. I try to be nice but there’s a…like an old spark of anger that’ inside me all the time, maybe jealousy. Wvery time I try to be nice but sometimes I just can’t; however yesterday morning I had yet another epiphany from God about why I am the way I am, and He’s given me hope that we can work this out. He will never…He will give up on you. He will never leave your side no matter how old you are, no matter what you’ve said or done. He will not give up on you. He loves you like crazy and He will always. Just relax and ask Him. And thank goodness for this community because it is by hope He will guide you. Bless you dear. You are gonna be fine. I love you. Bye.

God bless you DABbers this is Norma from the Bronx I am just responding to Desperately Running to Jesus, my sister who was asking if…if it’s okay for her to feel having those feelings. And I just like I was relating to her. And I’m relating to her because first of all I’m 57 and I’m also going through similar situations as far as myself responding in a certain way like aggressive. And God has been showing me that, you know, at our age after so much giving and working hard and being mistreated and unappreciated, a lot of these…these feelings from frustration are…are kind of well up. And I hope that this helps. And what He’s showing me is, you know, to just keep releasing it to Him every time you feel frustrated, every time you feel disappointed, unappreciated. And I just keep asking Him to just fill me up with so much compassion and so much mercy and to help me to see things from the other person’s point of view, to understand them. And that helped me to speak with more grace and more mercy towards people. Remember, it’s never too late because Abraham, God dealt with him until he was way past 100 years old. So, it’s never too late…

Hi family this is Erin from Michigan let’s pray. Dear God, here I sit in my warm home with my happy life and my friends and my family around me and I just really couldn’t think of how things could get better. It’s not perfect by any means but Lord God I give you the praise God for my wonderful life. And then my dear sister Karla calls today. It’s Tuesday, November 19th and she said her heart is broken Lord God and I just…I pray for Karla. I ask You to lift her up, I ask You to show her today in a very real and positive way that someone is praying for her Lord God and that even in the midst of her heartbreak and her wanting to give up and her…her Hoping that she can trust You because she’s been let down so many times Lord God. I lift Karla up, I lift her up, I ask You to help her today in a very…very supernatural and special way so there can be no question that You are there with her today Lord God. I pray Your peace, Your perseverance, Your protection and Your prosperity over dear Karla Lord. Help her to know that we love her. Help her to not believe the words in her, You know, that are coming to her that…that says she can’t trust You and that she’ll never be free of the heartbreak she’s feeling right now. We pray all of these things in the powerful and precious name of Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen. Karla, I heard you today. I love you and I’m gonna keep praying. Thank you for calling in. Your heart will be healed. I’m speaking that truth over you. All right. Take care.

[singing begins] One step forward and two steps back, cross our fingers don’t step on a crack we may feel what’s coming or be under attack but we are in Christ so there is no lack. If God is for us no one can stand against. Don’t let the enemy keep you on the fence. Jesus’s His word the sword and defense so raise your mighty I am and rest. I will declare the Almighty has rescued me. In him I am righteous secure and free. My spirit will bow down to my God alone. I stand in faith in Jesus my cornerstone. I will stand in faith. This too shall pass. God’s word and the love they fail not. God’s word is what will last. I will not fear. I have strength in him. I am strong and courageous in Jesus my king. I will rejoice and sing. I will rejoice and sing. [singing ends]

Hey, DABbers this is Slave of Jesus in North Carolina. All right Holy Spirit let’s roll. __ from Florida, amen to all the prayers for healing dealing with cracked ribs and his heart problems. Amen to all the future homes we’re building and that we get the utilities we need. Amen to prayers for David Watkins cancer treatment. Blind Tony always love your poems. Amen to your prayers for Alfaio from Delaware. DABber Drew from California, amen to all your prayers about your worries and good luck on your job issues. Jason, we pray for Jason Lord. We pray for Jason knowing that God definitely gives an “S” about him and the enemy that’s coming against his brain will be destroyed in Jesus’ name Amen. I have been listening to the DAB for, I think it’s been eight years, and I’d never heard or understood, even though I’ve heard it every time with Brian, about James. This is so cool about this “without faith…works…without works faith is dead.” And I’ve never understood that because you can’t earn your way into heaven. It’s grace. But what a great explanation this year. I don’t know if I’d missed that or whatever. So, I wrote in my journal here about…”it shows…our actions shows what’s really in our hearts.” So, I’m in my DAB journal and I wrote this, I said, “James is all about faith without works is dead. It does not mean we can earn our way into heaven. It means that our actions shows what’s really, we in our heart. For example, if we have faith, true faith, that God is willing to provide for us, we’ll be willing to give away more of our resources to others that need more of it. And it could be said about fear. I’ve heard that faith means there’s an absence of fear. So, if you have anxiety, you know, you really gotta start to question your faith at how much faith you got.” And, so that’s a good indicator that you gotta get closer to God. But get back, read James and listen to Brian’s commentary on the 17th of November. It’s awesome. Love you all. Have a great day.

HI, @notquiteandrea!!!! It’s finally here!!! I finally wrote it!!! Can you believe it... This definitely goes out to you!!! Thank you so much for spending the summer talking The Office and Dwangela with me, and for sharing crazy theories and thoughs. Dlso this goes as a super super delayed birthday present and less late, but still delayedlate engagement present!!!

I hope you like it and it works :) It was rather hard to find their voices, but feel free to always prompt me something :)

Angela was a six year old girl when she discovered about what soulmates marks were. She was asked about it by her classmates who were showing off the names on their own body; when she came home, she asked her Mother and she told her how ungodly this things were.

It brought shame to her family the thought that their daughter had a mark on her body, right in the middle of her back. Since it was on her back, Angela could never read the name, and no one ever told her, and soon she learned to always keep it covered and hidden, trying to prove herself worthy of God and to be loved and protected by Him.

So Angela never searched for a soulmate, she needed a good husband like every other woman in her family should. But even if she met her soulmate, she couldn’t know she had, when the name on her back had not once been revealed to her. So she didn’t know who he was when she was introduced to him.

It was a different case for him. The soulmate mark wasn’t a shame, but it was very rare in the family and they sure weren’t a priority – if you could marry your soulmate, good, but it was more important to be practical in a marriage – marry someone of good blood, that would be a good addition to their farm and family. But he still kept his eyes out there, but the name of his soulmate wasn’t as uncommon as his, so no matter how many Angelas he met, none had reacted.

When he met his soulmate, she didn’t react either, she had never known that her soulmate’s name was Dwight. But Dwight still kept his attention up around any Angelas and that was how it was with his new coworker.

She was a small woman. Short, skinny, her hips were certainly not big enough to birth Schrute babies, but she worked well – she didn’t spend her time goofing around like Jim and the new receptionist – and she was responsible and reliable.

Dwight was enchanted by her, but she didn’t react. She would have reacted if she had the name, if she was his soulmate. So Dwight never acted on anything, he came to work every day and sold more paper than anyone else in the office. And then something happened, it wasn’t on purpose but during the same week, Dwight stayed in the office late two nights, and Angela kept him company; as dinner time came, they sat with each other and it was rather easy to talk to her, even if it started to only be about their jobs, it then moved to animals (Dwight learned early enough not to mention the process of butchering those same animals).

Those two nights ended up not being the only ones they spent alone. Once a month, at least, Angela would have to stay late, to go over the books – Dwight learned that she didn’t fully trust the work of the other accountants. And things evolved slowly, besides sharing conversation, they would do little things for each other, Dwight would change the thermostat when he noticed her pulling her jacket on, or they would buy something for each other when they went to the vending machine – they soon learned that they both liked the Baby Ruth bars and they would always get an extra one for another.

In a few months, those things moved from being a night thing to a during the day thing as well. And then at night they started kissing, one kiss at first (Dwight didn’t realize at first but there was a tingling on his leg, that he passed off as being tired). The kiss started simpler and then bigger and deeper and longer, until it culminated on the surprise party for Michael that Jim threw (Dwight should have known to throw that party first).

The lights were out. Angela wouldn’t do it with the lights on that wasn’t proper, so she didn’t notice her name on Dwight’s leg. Dwight felt the bandage on her back under her bra, but he didn’t ask her about it, fearing that would be too personal.

Two weeks passed and they were still meeting in secret. Every few days, they would take each other’s car to one of their houses; they even started talking at work, discreetly of course. After another two weeks, Dwight finally questioned her about the bandage, worried that she was seriously hurt, and then she answered and things changed.

“It’s nothing…”

“Are you hurt?”

“In a way. But I’ve been doing my penance.”

“What do you mean?” Dwight asked, confused, turning to look at her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you. I’m unclean.”

“You’re quite clean, Angela, you smell like citrus. But you can use my tub if you want.”

“I don’t mean that, and I’ll go home to shower in the morning – your soap doesn’t agree with my skin – allergies, you know that,” she said, even smiling a bit, “My soul is tainted – I’ve tried to make up for it but I’m not sure.”

“Angela… what does that mean?”

“My skin was marked when I was born.”

What?! Could she be?

“What does it say, Angela?”

“I’ve never read it, Dwight!!” she complained affronted, pulling back and for her blouse to cover her back. “It’s a sin.”

“It’s not a sin, Angela. And I have one,” he said, and he immediately continued, “it’s Angela.”

“What?” she was scared and this couldn’t be happening. Dwight after pulling on his underwear – white kickers – showed her the top of his leg. “Is it me?” she asked. Angela pulled on her clothes slowly, not being able to dress on her first try, and in a very not-Angela-like-fashion, she mumbled over what she did.

Dwight didn’t answer. He didn’t know the answer. He thought it was a no, but now if she never knew the name before...

“I need to go…” she whispered, before disappearing out of his room and down the stairs and out of the farm. Angela didn’t drive home at that, she drove to her church, needing to pray, because right now, she wanted to look at her back for the first time in a long time.

Dwight didn’t sleep any more that night. He went outside, looking over his beets and making sure they were the best on this side of the hemisphere could produce, before working on the rest of the farm.

The next day, or better later on that same day, Angela didn’t show up to work. And Angela didn’t take sick days. In the years she had been working at Dunder Mifflin, she had only taken a few sick days once and that was only when her mother had been sick – Dwight had checked and it had been true.

Angela hadn’t seemed sick yesterday, neither during the day or when she left him. Dwight pondered if he should talk with Michael, but he decided not to – he wondered if that was fair, or if it was only based on his personal feelings.

Dwight ended up spending more time than he should thinking about Angela and where she was. Every time he went to the common room, he had the intention to get something out the vending machine for her. So that day, he couldn’t wait to leave the office and drive up to her house.

He knocked on her door and called for her; his worries about being found by others forgotten, the need to check on Angela overpowering him. He could be her soulmate if she let him, the thought of her never knowing who her soulmate was, of never looking. They may have lost years together. Angela sure wasn’t the ideal woman, but she had good morals and Dwight couldn’t deny he liked her.

Angela didn’t come to the door. But Dwight knew how to get in – he had warned her that her house was too easy to get in – he went around the back and with a paper clip he opened her window and climbed in. He was in her living room and he searched for her in the usual places and in her room he found her – she was sleeping on top of her covers, her eyes were red and she had The Bible next to her.

Dwight wanted to go forward and take a peak of her back, pull the bandage off; but Angela would probably consider than an invasion of privacy, so he didn’t do it (she would probably already complain about him coming in through the window).

Instead of touching her, he picked up the Bible – he had read parts of it when he was younger, his family believe parts of it, but not all. There were passages underlined and he read them over and over, they were the ones that people supposed referenced the marks.

But Angela didn’t have all those referenced quotes underlined, only the ones that seemed to talk about soulmate marks as impure and dirty. So Dwight had a mission now.

Dwight took off, he started going for the window, before turning back to the door. He went to the closest bookstore in Scranton and asked for the Bible, and then went back to the office, using his (non-official) spare key to open the office. He went to his table and turning on the internet the computer, he started on working.

It was well into dawn when he got it done and he honestly pondered about just staying and sleeping at the office, but instead went home for a few hours, after putting the new Bible on Angela’s desk, under papers, so Oscar and Kevin would not find it, but he was sure that she would.

After less than the doctor-advised sleeping hours (not that it mattered what doctors said), he came to the office, early as ever, wanting to see Angela as he got in. He observed her the entire day, but she gave no sign of having found the Bible or that he was in the office with her.

Angela found the Bible first thing in the morning. She had been distracted since she was pretty sure someone broke into her house, but she recognized the book anywhere, it wasn’t hers she knew. Angela dropped into her bag, knowing she couldn’t be reading during work hours. She pretended to have forgotten about it the entire day, but it was burning a hole in her bag and when she got to her car she opened it and she immediately noticed the underline passages in red.

Angela couldn’t wait; she pulled her legs up and read each one of the passages, and with tears in her eyes, she finished it when it was already dark outside. And sadly Dwight had been too distracted to notice that she was still there.

She went home and sat at her table with both Bibles in hand – two visions of soulmate marks; and she was more confused than ever. She couldn’t make sense of the words and what God wanted of her, so she went to the only good place for answers.

The priest was still there when she came in, and he greeted her by name, inviting her in to his office.

“Have you thought about your dilemma, Ms Martin?”

“I got a second copy of the Bible with other passages underlined, none of the ones my mom and priest back home talked to me about.”

“The Bible can be read in many different ways.”

“But how do I know which is right?”

“I can’t tell you, Angela. It’s your read of the book – your interpretation of His words.”

“I don’t know…”

“Come to my sermon this Sunday.”

Angela then waited for the sermon, but until the weekend, she looked over the words underlined over and over and didn’t let herself be caught looking at Dwight. Every time she showered she wanted to look to what was under the bandage, it burned her skin all day, calling her name, but she didn’t give in, knowing it was dangerous.

Dwight tried to talk to Angela but she didn’t let him. He could never catch her alone, she wouldn’t even answer his calls; she even sent Kevin on her place when he said he needed the help of an accountant. She didn’t even catch her eyes in meetings like she normally did – there was nothing, just emptiness… And Dwight finally wondered if he had been right in pushing her (would have Starbuck pushed? She definitely would have, he concluded).

The weekend came and with work done, he focused on working on the farm and rewatching his favorite Battlestar Galactica episodes, wishing that in some way he and Angela could be like Laura and Adama – those two would be together by the end. Time passed and he had no notion of hours, besides counting how many episodes he had and the sun coming down outside.

And then the door bell rang. Dwight almost didn’t want to get up, but he knew Mose wouldn’t open the door, he was recently scared of the doorbell sound. Thankfully he was the one who went to the door, because Angela was on the other side – she looked even smaller than normally.

“Angela…”

“I need you to read my back. Now.”

“Angela…”

“I really don’t know this, Dwight. I just don’t. I’ve been to church every day this week. And I don’t know. But for the first time I’m questioning what I was taught, so I need to know.”

“Come in,” he told her. Angela already knew her way around the house and got into his room upstairs.

Dwight waited at the door of his own room, with her standing in the middle, he waited for a sign to step forward, and he got one when she started unbuttoning his jacket. He closed the door behind her and waited, she had never taken her clothes in front of him, it was always done in the dark and in expectation for something more.

Her jacket came off and with her back to him, she took off her blouse and then finally her bra, which closed on top of her bandage.

“Can you?” she asked, looking over her shoulder, and he closed the distance. And he pulled the bandage off carefully, afraid of what was behind it – it was Pandora’s box. And then there it was, the six letters than made his name – it could be another Dwight, but he doubted it.

“What does it say?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Dwight… It’s my name, Angela.” And she broke down at that, her head was miles an hour and she couldn’t – she didn’t know how to handle this.

“Angela, are you okay?” he called for her, but she didn’t answer. “Angela, Monkey,” he said and noticed that she was lost on the bed, she hadn’t passed out, but she was on the verge of it. “I’ll get you my aunt’s tea,” he said disappearing to the kitchen.

He was quick and soon he was back with a mug which he gave her, the smell overtook her and she finally spoke.

“There’s blood in this, isn’t it?”

“Pig’s blood – it’s good for--”

“Dwight,” she said exasperated, but also with a small laugh behind it – she was used to his antics by now. She was still turned to him, with his name flashing at him, and he finally got her shirt to cover herself.

Angela now dressed, in her pants and his shirt sat on the bed, looking at him, waiting for something. She looked even smaller than normal, and he just didn’t want to push her away or scare her way.

“Angela…”

“I really don’t know anything, D. I don’t know what this means… you’re my… soulmate… and I don’t know what that means.”

“Okay. The dictionary--”

“Dwight, no!! I know what it means. I don’t know what it means to me and God.”

“What do you want to do now then?”

“Come and join me,” she told him. Dwight opted to join her instead of going back to the Cylons downstairs, and once again he wasn’t sure about what to say. No words were needed then, Angela pulled herself closer to him, resting her head on his belly, before falling asleep, exhausted after a week of barely sleeping.

Dwight pulled a book from his bedside table, but he couldn’t properly focus on the words, only hoping that his Monkey would find peace with the words on her body.

This post got me thinking about all the ways the Foxes are petty with each other just to be assholes. So here’s some thoughts I had on the lengths the Foxes go to in order to get on each other’s nerves. 

When Kevin looks through the cabinets and finds candy and sweets, he always moves them to the top most shelf so that Andrew can’t reach. Oddly enough, he’s never seen Andrew climb the cabinets for the sweets. And yet somehow, he always has a bag of them open in his lap. Turns out Andrew just planted the sweets in the cabinet as a decoy and has his own hidden stash under his bed.

More often than not, Kevin gets super bossy during practices. So Dan likes to assert her position as captain by making Kevin run random laps in the middle of practice. Eventually, Kevin had broke down and turned to Wymack asking “Are you seriously letting her stop the scrimmage for me to run a lap?!” but Wymack just shrugged and said, “She’s your captain.” Secretly Wymack enjoyed Kevin’s incredulous expression of annoyance.

There were two ideal parking spaces outside of the court. So whenever Allison was feeling extra salty, she would purposely park her car extremely poorly so that she took up both spots. Watching the monsters have to walk from the other end of the lot was oddly satisfying. Aaron would always give her a dirty look. Andrew didn’t show any signs of annoyance but he would always show up early the next practice to get to the spot first. Which is how Allison knew she had won.

Nicky’s personal brand of petty was actually quite endearing since it usually consisted of forcing both Minyards into the same room by tricking them. He would text them both at the same time but keep it so that it seemed like the outing was one on one. Until both Minyards would show up at the same time for dinner with Nicky and scowl, both too prideful to walk away. 

Matt wasn’t a very petty person, but every once in awhile Kevin would make a comment toward Dan that wouldn’t sit well with him. After practice, he would head over to Wymack’s. Of course he was let in without question. He also wasn’t questioned when he grabbed the handle from Kevin’s vodka stash and walked out the door with it. He had also collected the bottle from Kevin’s room and the flask he hid in the side seat cushion. Matt’s observance of all his hiding spots paid off when Friday night rolled around and Kevin was fuming, accusing Andrew of hiding all his vodka. Andrew didn’t even deny it. Kevin’s frustration as he grabbed his jacket and left the hall brought the kind of revenge smile to his face that Matt wasn’t normally familiar with. Worth it.

Probably the most petty person on the entire team was Aaron. This stemmed from a general resentment of literally everybody he was surrounded by. But nobody made him more annoyed than Neil. What absolutely sucked was that Neil just expected bad things to happen to him, so he rarely got annoyed. He was actually so oblivious, that he didn’t even realize somebody was messing with him. It started small, with Aaron bumping into him or "forgetting” to get him a drink at the bar. Or moving one of his running shoes. Or pushing all his food to the back of the fridge. But nothing seemed to rile Neil up. So he had to go to extremes. Which is how Aaron ended up hiding his racquet. The day of practice came and Neil opened his locker to find his racquet missing. He asked around, frowning a lot. Eventually it sent him into an absolute tizzy, with him ripping apart the entire room while everybody frantically told him to calm down. Eventually Neil snapped and started insulting Kevin loudly to the entire room. Which is when Aaron finally chimed in and said “It’s on top of your locker, dumbass.” Andrew’s annoyance, Kevin’s shock, and the rest of the Foxes’ general fear was satisfying enough for Aaron to return to simple petty tricks again. For now. 

Renee was a saint, and because of that, her pettiness was extremely difficult to catch on to. Whenever she did something petty, nobody would catch on. So if she threw a ball from the goal at Kevin’s shins, they just assumed it was an accident. When she tripped and spilled her entire Gatorade on Aaron’s gym bag, it was obviously a clumsy mistake. The only person to finally catch on to Renee’s evil genius was Allison who would share a knowing smirk with Renee after almost every incident. They never spoke of it out loud, but they both knew. 

Neil’s pettiness obviously came out through his words and was primarily only directed at Kevin and Andrew, though in two very different ways. Neil liked to be petty toward Andrew by using his own words against him. But with Kevin, he would often make off handed comments to throw Kevin off his game. It only happened when Kevin was being particularly frustrating. But the kicker was that after Neil would get fed up and throw a comment at Kevin, he would straight up walk away. Kevin couldn’t stand that. He’d demand Neil come back or ask what the fuck he was thinking leaving their 3am practice. But Neil would just head out and Andrew would follow, leaving Kevin to clean up the balls by himself and find the pair waiting in the parked car. On one particular night, Andrew drove away and forced him to walk back. 

And finally, Andrew was the most outwardly petty person. His pettiness was direct and pointed. He would throw the balls from the goal all the way down the other side of the court so the person would have to chase them. He would purposely pour all of Kevin’s protein powder into the toilet while Kevin watched. He’d make comments at the upperclassman directly pointing out the flaws in their personalities. I mean for fuck’s sake, he threw Neil’s keys off the roof and made him go get them. It was the reason everybody tried to stay on Andrew’s good side, because the opposite was a small torture. 

Unfiltered

Yesterday I got a notification from tumblr to write something unfiltered, to be brave. Well I’ve had something on my mind alot lately, something I’d normally be afraid to share. I’ve been thinking about it because I’ve been having nightmares, about none other than Eric. I’ve had nightmares off and on, frequently not so much nightmares as just recalling things he did to me. When I told him I didn’t want him in my life anymore I was afraid, for many reasons. Besides the actual physical attacks I endured there were other strange things that had happened. I remember going to Vegas with Mark and he just stopped talking to me and of course I was hurt but I started to feel okay after awhile. Then I received a text and he said he had been in jail and he was embarrassed about it and asked to see me. I didn’t know if I wanted to see him, I tried to get out of it by being like well when I get out of work I’m going grocery shopping and I’m tired whatever. Normal people would say okay well it doesn’t have to be today but no he insisted, he said he’d see me after, I really didn’t want to see him. I got home and took a shower first because I felt gross from work and by the time I got out of the shower he had texted me to ask if I was home yet. I got dressed and texted back that I had and he said he was near by then boom he was at my door. It was like an uncomfortably short amount of time. Like he had been outside when I got home or something. It made me really nervous. He made comments like if he wanted to know if something was going on he wouldn’t ask me he’d find out other ways. He was telling me about a book Dave Chapelle discussed in his stand up about this pimp. He told me that this pimp made his girls loyal by beating them excessively with a coat hanger and then taking care of them all weekend so in the end they were grateful. He had this really uncomfortable look on his face, I remember feeling sick by that, because it was like he thought that was genuinely a great idea. Just some really inconsistent things. Between that and everything I experienced I was all too aware he might really be mentally ill and I might set him off by not wanting him in my life anymore. I also knew I had these really strong feelings about him that I didn’t always feel in control of so I posted on facebook that I changed my number because of him and that I hadn’t been completely honest about our relationship and that he had attacked me more than once, non consensually, unfairly, and I just wanted him out of my life. I guess I felt like that was the best way to, burn that bridge, I felt like if people in my life knew how unhealthy this was that I wouldn’t go back and people in my life would only reinforce this. I changed my locks, I put a few extra cameras up incase he showed up and attacked me again and I promised myself I’d press charges the next time. I smudged my room because I felt uncomfortable in my room, I got the new car and I had the windows tinted day one, and I parked my car in the garage so he wouldn’t know if I was coming or going incase he really did do something crazy. I joined this group on facebook with women who were abused because I didn’t understand ya know, how did I let this go on, how did I end up with this guy. Not that I necessarily think I’m better than others I think I’m better than this and how on earth did I end up here. So I’ve been having the nightmares again and I’m on this page and some girl posted that the women in this group should stop whining and they’re to blame etc etc and it hit a nerve. My best friend said something like what were you thinking you know better than to let someone put their hands on you. I corrected her because the most terrifying points I fought I didn’t let this happen to me, maybe by allowing him in my life after and thinking it wouldn’t happen again but I didn’t just do nothing. But I can’t help but wonder what led up to me being in this situation? Or honestly any of these fucked up situations I’ve found myself in. How did I end up married to a man who put me down and beat my kids? I think that’s a legitimate question because I don’t want to spend my life being a battered woman. So what started as a decision to not waste so much time dating and focus on my goals, has turned into maybe I need to be single and celibate until I’m healthy, maybe I need to stop dating and work on myself. 

One thing I think led to this is being raised in an abusive household. There’s a real culture of abuse in my family. When I was growing up both my parents were abusive. I don’t have a lot of good memories of my childhood. I remember being called a bitch, fat, lazy, stupid, you name it, by BOTH my parents. In middle school I was seeing a therapist because I was really depressed and anxious and she wanted to have me tested for ADHD, I was failing classes, and I wasn’t really trying but I was also having trouble focusing on anything. I don’t know that I had or ever had ADHD, as a grown up I realize depression and anxiety can cause difficulty with focus but I knew things weren’t okay. My son is ADHD and his therapist says there’s a lot of evidence it’s genetic, so it’s possible. So I brought this up to my Dad. My Dad blew up and threw a book at my face and told me there was nothing wrong with me that I was just a lazy ass bitch who needed to open a book, it hurt enough I remember it 30 years later. I remember being beat with an axe handle because I ran out the door to go play and the door didn’t close and my Dad said it was because I didn’t shut the door but I knew I had, so I wouldn’t say I left it open. He beat me until I had bruises and I remember screaming because I was worried about getting hit with the sharp part of the axe. Turned out the door was broken and wouldn’t latch. I remember my Mom pinning me down on the bed and slapping and punching me because I laughed at an inappropriate time. I watched my brothers head dent my wall from the other side of the wall because my Dad threw his head threw it. My friend recently told me she didn’t want to stay the night at my house when we were kids because one time when she was over my Dad pulled my pants down and beat me with a hair brush and then made me sit on the couch and watch everyone else eat cookies and they kept trying to get her to join in. I was frequently denied food. Even as a grown up I wouldn’t go see this doctor my Mom swore by because I remember as a 3rd grader he encouraged my parents to put me on a 1000 calorie diet. I remember crying and begging my Mom for food because I was so hungry. My Dad tried to put me on the slim fast diet that same year, and then tried to convince me to go to a fat camp, and I look at pictures of me during this time and I wasn’t even that overweight. My weight has always been a subject of ridicule from both my parents, even as an adult. I went home when I was pregnant with my son because I was sick and and needed help. I ended up septic with cellulitis and I was holding ice packs on my stomach to sleep because they wouldn’t take me to the ED because they felt nothing was wrong. My Dad told me the only thing that was wrong with me was that my fat ass needed to get up and do more. The night before I ended up in the hospital for two months they took me to the mall for my birthday so I could walk because they didn’t feel like I was moving enough. Then tried to take me to Applebees for my birthday because they had a low fat menu. I had just turned 30 and I was home and they initially forgot my birthday so this insult was their attempt to make amends. After I realized that they’d forgot my birthday I took my daughter to get ice cream and go to the beach alone. For my ex husbands birthday they threw him a surprise party, for me as an after thought they tried to make me go to a restaurant I didn’t even like because they had a menu that would hopefully help me not be such a fat ass. The kicker, everyone in my family is overweight, not just me. Infact I look like my Dad in that respect. I remember going to my Grandmas house when I was 8 or 9 and passing a cemetery and wishing I was there, my Dad had just beat the shit out of me for getting an attitude with him or something that earned a seriously disproportionate reaction, and then he made me go to the bathroom and wash my face with cold water which he always did if we were crying too hard and then he was taking me to my Grandmas because he had to do something over there. I just thought if this is what my life is going to be like I’d rather be dead. To be honest the happiest my parents have ever been with me was when I married my husband. In therapy I read a book about a narcissistic Dad and it was creepy how similar the Dad in the book was to my Dad. All the way down to pitting siblings against each other. Because to this day my brother and sister and I are in some giant competition with each other for my parents approval. I’ve opted out, it’s why I didn’t move home because while I could recognize that Eric and my ex were damaging to my life, I could recognize my parents are just as damaging to it. The really crazy thing is my Dad and Mom will tell me how happy or proud they are of my brother and sister but never that they’re happy or proud of me. But over the years I’ve come to realize they do this to them in regards to me. So we are all trying to get their approval because they won’t ever compliment me to me or my sister to my sister. Now they do this with their grandkids, so my sister and sister in law are in some war over this, I’ve opted out. I will occasionally find myself getting upset because my kids are frequently forgotten but then I think about my childhood and I think maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t want my kids exposed to this. I think all these experiences really groomed me to be okay with being abused. Then of course as a teenager I dated a guy who cheated on me and lied to me all the time, like ALL THE TIME. I didn’t ever stand up for myself, I think now I maybe didn’t realize I deserved to be treated better. Then I was raped, I never said anything to anyone about that. Infact the guy showed up to lunch and asked me to go riding around with him the next monday like nothing happened. My best friend knew something happened. I was hanging at her house and he showed up and I acted really weird as she said and then I took off. She kept asking me what happened, what he did, and all I said was she’d be smart to keep him out of her house and away from her daughter. I was so ashamed and I just wanted to pretend like nothing had happened.

Eventually I got married and he was everything I could’ve asked for. He made me feel safe and confident. He was calm and always happy. When we left Michigan and my husband started working in his professional job, something changed. He really started to treat me like he was better than me or something. I was struggling so much at that point with post pardum depression and I initially felt like it was because I was letting him down because I sometimes couldn’t get out of bed. I ended up in the hospital for weeks at a time, I was on drugs. But even as I started to recover he did this and it gradually got worse. Nursing school pushed him over the edge. He frequently told people I wouldn’t do it I’d just quit. He started putting me down really passive aggressively, then more directly. I’d ask him to help me or ask him to do something around the house and it was almost like he intentionally wouldn’t just because I asked, it really was that childish. We fought constantly about money and housework, from the beginning. He didn’t do housework, I almost didn’t marry him over this. We got engaged and moved in together and I quickly found out that he was gross. That sounds mean but it’s true. We have actually thrown away 2 stoves because he will not clean the stove top, but he insists on cooking. So no matter how big my workload was I was still expected to do all the housework. So when I worked 70 hours a week, with a new born and post pardum depression, to put him through college I was expected to clean just like I did when I was a stay at home mom or a freelance artist. When I was going to school full time, working part time and still doing everything I did with the kids like I did when I was a stay at home mom, I was still expected to do 100% of the house work. I was exhausted. If I spent money on myself at all it caused a fight. We struggled with bills, and even when I was struggling to feed the kids he wouldn’t work overtime. He also insisted on getting an allowance so that all his money didn’t go to bills and even if I was struggling to feed the kids he insisted on an allowance, that was also exhausting. He would tell the kids we didn’t have the money to do anything because I wasted all of our money when in reality there just wasn’t enough money. He frequently involved the kids in our fights. He’d make fun of me in front of them and his friends. The abuse towards the kids didn’t start until they got older. At first I honestly didn’t even recognize it as abuse, it wasn’t that much different than what I experienced growing up. We’d occasionally have fights about that, if I felt like he went too far I’d bring it up and we’d fight. If he called the kids names I’d get mad. He frequently called my daughter a bitch. I think of all the things I dealt with growing up the name calling was the worst, being put down was the worst. To this day I hear my Dads voice in my head calling me fat and stupid and lazy. So I was really sensitive to that. It was like well she talked back of course she should get smacked across the face, she lied or whatever. Until my daughter lost it at school and admitted she was planning to kill herself. My 7 year old was having the same thoughts I had as a kid driving past a cemetery. I cried and cried and cried, because I knew exactly what she was feeling. I rarely hit my kids, like occasional spankings and never when I was mad. I just felt like after the things I had gone through with my parents I had the potential of going too far and I didn’t want to hurt my kids. With that though I knew I had to make changes, it was no longer optional. It’s sad that him insulting me wasn’t enough to make me leave though? Isn’t it? The first time he stood there with a bunch of people and made jokes about how stupid I was, while I held back tears because I felt so hurt and betrayed by that, should’ve been the first time I thought about leaving. But my self worth was so bad that him treating me like that wasn’t what made me want to leave, it was him hurting my kids. But what did I do? I clung to another man who would only treat me worse?

There were many occasions where Eric did things that should’ve been a red flag. I came to see him, and mind you I lived 210 miles away so it wasn’t a small thing to come see him at that time. I’d get here he’d have time to have sex and then he’d leave and that was it. So I’d make comments that all he wanted from me was sex and he’d say no no and give me some line. But it was, that’s all the relationship he wanted from me. I never came back from seeing him and was happy, I didn’t like feeling used and cheap but I don’t know why I just had these feeling for him. Then there was the time he used me to get a blow job and then just took off and never came back and laid in bed and cried. I felt incredibly used, but again I continued to see him. I wish these were the worst things that he had done to me, I really do. The first time he was violent was one fall I drove to see him after my night shift job, so worked 12 hours and then drove 3.5 hours to see him because I was just so in love and he said come take a nap with me so I did. I remember feeling so happy that he wanted to see me. I get here and he tells me he’s mad that I failed a test and he grabbed me by my throat and pushed up until I was on my tippy toes and told me he was upset. He proceeded to “punish” me. He took his phone out and took pictures during this, which I was upset about, I didn’t say anything though, I tried to ignore it but I was upset about it, during, after, everytime he brought the pictures up. We didn’t talk about pictures, we didn’t talk about punishment, we didn’t discuss any of this, the pictures weren’t consensual. To tell you how much I trusted this guy I was also in love with, after I left his house I did nothing but worry he’d share them, or put them online, I was so stressed out, I still to this day worry about it. This evolved from being beat with a cane, to him biting me and staring at me like he was hoping to make me cry, to him deciding to fist me. I didn’t want to be fisted either, we hadn’t talked about that but he did it and he kept doing it until he said he wanted to hear me screaming. Like he wanted to hurt me. Then he almost abruptly threw me out, grabbed a bunch of stuff in a giant hurry and left. The days proceeding this were shocking. So by the time I got to my friends house my whole vagina had swelled up, like this was actually a lot of trauma, to the point where I got to her house and struggled to pee. More shocking than this I told him about it and he didn’t really care. Like if I had done something to someones penis that caused it to swell up I’d be horrified and I’d go see them or I’d act really remorseful but he didn’t do anything. When I was at his house I had this feeling that there was someone else. Like he really might have done this to me then threw me out like trash to go see his girlfriend or something? Slowly the swelling improved over the next day, he didn’t check up on me to see if it was better, like he truly didn’t care that he had hurt me. With the bdsm stuff if I was with someone trying new things like that we would have some pretty extensive after care, but there would have been some pretty extensive discussion before hand too and there wasn’t. Like if it had been someone else I would have stayed the night, or if I had called to say there was an issue they would’ve come to me or insisted I would’ve come to them, something. There would have been more support. But this wasn’t bdsm this was abuse, I was just entertainment and he had been entertained and it was over. That week I went to look at his page on this bdsm site and he blocked me. He tried to play it off like no he just deleted his account but I’ve family that’s on the same site and I asked my cousin to look, my cousin by the way hates this guy, she thinks he is everything that makes the bdsm community look bad. He still had his page. He denied it and denied it, but I had no idea why he blocked me, but I had had that feeling there was another girl. I didn’t want to keep asking my cousin to look so my friend and I created another page and just kept checking and a month or so later I confirmed it was another girl. This would be the first time he told me he loved me, it wasn’t because he loved me, it was because I was leaving because I knew he was lying. I have no clue why he cared? He was just trying to protect his occasional piece of ass? I have no idea, because I knew he didn’t care about me. He really did at this point suspend his account and he said whatever he had to to smooth things over. I think why didn’t I leave him alone at that? Every bit of that should’ve made me think okay I’m in a relationship with a horrible person. But no what did I do? I made plans to move there, because while he was abusing me he said something that stuck to me, he said I needed to get through nursing school so I could come home to him. That really impacted me emotionally. I have no idea why you’d say something so profound if you didn’t mean it? Just like why would you tell someone you loved them if you didn’t? I can’t answer that because I am not a bad person, so I don’t act like that. I don’t abuse the people in my life, so I don’t know how to explain the behavior of someone who does. In the end I made excuses for all of this. I thought well I’ll talk to him about the pictures, maybe this was just punishment that went over board, maybe he doesn’t understand aftercare, he’s new to bdsm. He didn’t care, not about any of it, this wasn’t bdsm this was abuse. 

Other than the fact that he was just a complete piece of shit who walked all over me nothing really violent happened for quite a long time. I moved here, he’d come for sex then ignore me. I’d see things or notice things here and there that made me aware there were others. I should’ve kicked him out of my life 10 billion times but didn’t. I don’t know why, I feel like this is a problem, I think the fact that I allowed any of his behavior into my life is a giant red flag that maybe something is wrong with me, but I did. Eventually we were allegedly dating, because there were still others, so I was committed but he was not and I remember we had a conversation about how I some of my needs weren’t being met. He came over one night and it was rough, but quickly felt out of control to me. I remember fighting back, I don’t remember this as vividly but I remember him wrapping my hair around my bed frame and tying my feet together and beating me with my canes, and I remember crying. I remember thinking this can’t be happening to me. I remember laying there, not being able to fight him anymore thinking it was over, I really couldn’t be with this guy anymore. I remember he’d beat me and randomly stop and fuck me and I felt disgusted by the fact that he was turned on. Because I was screaming and crying. I don’t know about most people but if I have to pin and tie down the person I’m sleeping with while they are screaming and crying, I wouldn’t be in the mood anymore. Even with the sadists I had been with there would always be a point where they knew I was at my limit and the focus wouldn’t be sexual anymore. But this man was not only in the mood he was continuing. I don’t completely remember why I was being punished, but this was allegedly punishment for something. I remember crying and laying still and just saying Daddy, because that’s what I called him, and then he stopped for no reason. He let me go and he held me until I calmed down. Alot of times by the end of these things he made me feel like I had done something good for him, like I had made him happy and we’d have sex. I didn’t always want to but I felt like I had to. The bad thing about this was my daughter heard it, she heard him hitting me and me screaming and crying. When he left I walked out of my room and she was on the stairs crying, she was scared but didn’t know what to do, she was considering calling the cops. I didn’t know what to say to her? I wanted our new place to feel safe to her so I didn’t want to tell her what had happened. I played it off like we were just having a little fun and I was sorry she heard it. She still brings it up but now she thinks I’m loud when I have sex. I should have ended it there, because now it was effecting my kids but I didn’t. And this just got worse. Again I played this off like we just really needed to talk about it, that this wasn’t acceptable punishment and I was going to tell him that. He didn’t care, because this wasn’t a bdsm relationship, this was an abusive one. 

Eventually someone sends me this picture of him with another girl and I had to do something. Again that should’ve just been it but I thought well maybe he’ll just be honest with me now and we’d talk to out? I’ve had friends who had a spouse cheat and they went to counseling and their relationship was actually stronger. I thought maybe we’d work together and have a stronger relationship, maybe he’d be honest with me. He wasn’t, cause this wasn’t that guy, he didn’t really care about me or our relationship. He said he ended it with the other girl, he’d give me really inconsistent information about their relationship. I messaged her, the only question I had was does he call you princess, she didn’t respond, if she had I probably would’ve ended it because I’m sure he did, it wasn’t special to him just to me. When it seemed obvious he didn’t care I got on a dating app and started talking to men. One day he came to my house, it was a saturday morning, at the time I worked friday nights. And he acted like he wanted to see me, like he wanted sex, and we start having sex, this is the time I remember vividly. I was on my stomach and he wrapped his wife beater around my neck and pulled. At first this felt good I like to be choked but soon my fingers and toes started tingling and everything started sounding muffled. I remember feeling stunned like I wasn’t completely sure of what was happening. Then I heard him say so you want to send pictures to other men huh? And I legit panicked I knew what was going to happen next I was terrified and I started to try to fight to get away and he forced my hands into the restraints on my bed with me screaming and crying, please don’t, please stop. I was kicking and the was sitting on my legs. this went on for what seemed like forever. Just like the time before he beat me with my canes, he broke one, he bite me, he pulled my hair, he choked me, he stopped randomly and fucked me, all while I was crying and screaming and trying to fight him off me. I was begging him to stop. My kids weren’t home this time. I remember thinking about my friend Lori. I had a friend who was killed by her fiance when she ended it. She was beat in the head with a hammer, thrown in her car, drove a ways up the highway, and then he parked on the side of the road and set the car on fire and hitch hiked home. I thought I’m going to end up just like Lori, I really was afraid he was going to kill me. He wasn’t stopping, he didn’t care, he was sexually excited by this. I just kept thinking it’s over and I’m not being dramatic, I was that afraid. I decided at some point to try to get the restraints off my wrists and I managed to and that’s when he stopped. He got off me and I jumped off the bed and just cried, I was terrified of him. He kept trying to make it about other stuff, he kept saying over and over he loved me. He clearly didn’t love me. I cried the entire day, he got me to calm down long enough for him to leave and I started crying again. I thought about calling the cops, I was covered in bruises. I remember getting up for work because I had to go to work and he came back and I was scared. He brought roses, I really felt like I was in some stupid lifetime movie, he brought roses, he sexually tortured me and then he brought me roses. What a psycho! We had sex and I didn’t want to, I wanted him to leave, but I was afraid. It was very affectionate sex, like maybe he knew he went too far this time. I don’t think he felt sorry but I think he knew it wasn’t ok. It was the worst day. I remember walking into my job having not slept, having cried all day and being covered in bruises and I couldn’t even hold my purse on my shoulders. Through all the fighting I didn’t realize how bruised I was. I went in the bathroom and took pictures, I still have them, I was covered in bruises. I found bruises on my legs, back, breasts, stomach, I was covered. I used to get excited about bruises, it was like a reminder of a fun time. These made me sick to my stomach. There were other incidents after this but mostly he had basically bailed on me at that point. But he came over and we were going to have sex. I had bought this vibrator a guy I had went to this concert with had wanted me to buy so we could use it together because he lived like 3 hours away. I bought it but him and I weren’t seeing eachother and eventually I shared it with Eric. We tried to use it once but it didn’t go well and he claimed to want to see how it worked. He pulled my shirt over my head while we were having sex and I was nervous because he had his phone out to use the app and he had taken pictures of me without asking me permission before. So I was worried. It wasn’t until later that I found out that yes he did take a video of me with my shirt pulled over my head. Then he started threatening me. Eventually he started threatening to carve his initials in my boob and I just started crying. I was so scared of him, I thought he’d do it. I screamed and I cried and he stopped. He said you know I’d never do anything to hurt you. But he had, on multiple occasions. He absolutely would have. After that I changed my locks. After that I knew it was over, despite every little thing that happened after that, I was actually afraid of him and I knew this would continue no matter what I did. I have on occasion thought about going to the cops with my pictures and asking what I could do. More so because I remember that feeling of finding out my rapist had raped other people, I felt like I could’ve stopped it. Clearly this man is dangerous, maybe I could stop it. The charges he is already on probation for are all the same things he did to me. I think the fact that he did this to someone else and he got a year of probation is disgusting. It says a lot about how and why so much violence against women happens. And it’s why I didn’t go to the cops because they obviously didn’t care about who ever he hurt before me. After the nightmares lately I’m definitely considering therapy. I think maybe it’s good to take time from dating and work on myself because he did break me, and the worst part is he’s not even sorry.

So now I am paranoid about things in my life. I broke down on the side of the road close to my house and I panicked, I called everyone whose number I knew because I felt like I wasn’t safe, I felt like I had finally got him out of my life and I had finally broke that hold he had over my mind and I felt vulnerable sitting there on the side of the road. When my friend showed up I was shaking and I couldn’t even explain it. I did eventually tell her that that guy I was seeing he had hurt me and I just knew if he saw me on the side of the road he’d stop and if he’d stop I’d be in love all over again and he could hurt me again. Turned out she had been in an abusive relationship before and she completely understood. She helped me get my car home and now I feel a lot less alone. I got my new car and took it the next day to get it tinted, I was insanely insistent it happened immediately. I didn’t want to be driving around and have him see me in my new car incase he is watching me. If I had the money I’d have moved immediately. But I feel stronger now and I don’t think I’d so easily let him in again. But I don’t want the next guy to be someone like him, or my ex, or my Dad, I deserve peace and happiness in my life. So I’m taking a break for myself. I’ve smudged my house now, my weird native friend Darcy who was convinced I was a healer had showed me how when I was a kid, he taught me a lot actually. I’ve a bag of stones he put together for me for protection and I took it out. I’ve smudged my room more than once now and I think it helped. I asked a friend of mine who deals in crystals what she thought because it still feels heavy upstairs and I ordered a large orb recently. My goal is peace and happiness, no matter how much sage and sweet grass I have to burn. But counseling I think is needed. 

NSFW #2.4: Make Your Mark

The sun hung high in the clear azure sky, casting the cliffs and sandy ground in a light golden hue. The setting was one that called to mind any number of stories, mental images of camels and oases and, of course, pyramids. But to the contrary, NSFW were not visiting the Great Pyramids, one of the legendary Seven Wonders that happened to be in the city where Valor Pro was hosting their event. Instead, they’d traveled several hours away to Luxor, the fabled Valley of the Kings. It brought them to where they stood now- inside of a magnificent three tiered temple that seemed to glow in the same golden cast as its surroundings. Several groups of tourists wound their way up the grand staircases and through its ancient halls. Bishop Church and Mike McGuire, however, were already in an area only restored a few years prior, taking a moment to appreciate what lay before them- and turning an eye toward their GoPro camera, set up on its portable tripod. Their outfits coordinated well- both in khaki shorts and sturdy hiking boots, sporting their new ‘Cherry Bomb!’ tanks. Bishop sported an NSFW branded ballcap to shield his eyes from the sun, while Mike opted for their ever present Mets cap. They hadn’t made a habit of wearing their own merchandise lately but someone special was bound to get riled up when they watch. “Welcome to Egypt, Valor Pro faithful! I gotta tell you, there ain’t a better place the brass coulda picked for this show. The whole country is soaked in history. Legendary kings hundreds of thousands of years old have left their marks all around us. And this here? This grand piece of fuckin’ architecture is dedicated to one of ‘em- Hatshepsut. Now, Hatshepsut was an interesting piece of work, different from any other of the great Pharaohs of ancient Egypt. And that had a lot to do, well, with who she was.” They were in a long, somewhat narrow room with an arched ceiling. The walls were adorned with murals, colorful in spite of their age even though there were quite a few pieces of imagery missing, and the ceiling a still vivid blue sporting row after row of yellow stars to mimic the desert sky at night. While Mike spoke, John observed with his hands behind his back. For someone so broad, he did his best to minimize his impact on this ancient ground. “In modern times, everything about her is accessible within seconds. But here,” John’s right hand gestured to the pictures in front of him, “is one of the major ways the ancient Egyptians  communicated. And so despite Hatshepsut’s accomplishments, she was slowly erased and when she wasn’t? Her ascension and motives were all questioned and scrutinized.” “There’s been lots of speculation on why her successor- her stepson- did that. A common theory goes that he didn’t hold her any ill will personally, but didn’t want any other women getting ideas on doing what she did and becoming Pharaoh themselves. But whatever his motive was? It didn’t fucking work, because, as my partner said, you can look up her reign in seconds. We’re talking about her right now. Which is a testament to the fact that true greatness can’t be buried forever.” Mike went to lean against the wall in a casual manner, but a somewhat alarmed look from their partner stopped them and they folded their arms instead. “Of course, chipping away cartouches and pulling down statues ain’t the only way to try to diminish someone’s mark on the world. Trying to muddy the narrative’s the bog standard these days. Kicking up so much shit that what makes someone shine is lost in a storm of crap that either ain’t true or doesn’t matter.” John finally turned around to face the camera, he stood close to his partner. “We’re somewhat used to it,” John paused, “A business decision was made to not renew our contracts in our previous place of employment. There were whispers circulating as to why. And within moments, our tenure had been rewritten by those that linger like wraiths. Coming to Valor Pro was our way of saying to them, to anyone, that our legacy is ours. But here we are, contenders already, and yet the focus has shifted to something that is less than desirable. That’s why we feel that it is on us to remind everyone just who we are.” “We are the kings of tag team wrestling. The falling Icarus, the Cherry Bombers, the Bishop and the Queen. Our bond is fuckin’ unbreakable and our faith in each other is unshakable, no matter how much shit tries to cover up our legacy.” Mike shifted their hat to the side. “And here you are, Reboca, stepping up to us with your fuckin’ arrogance and cracks about our age while conveniently forgetting to say boo about the fact that your fiance's job is hanging in the balance. Too busy sucking yourself off to remember that detail? Or do you really not give a shit?” “Maybe you do. Maybe you’ve got that card clutched to your chest. But Cross Reboca, we understand where your priorities lie. You took one look at us and you dismissed us. You see NSFW as an appetizer to your grand feast. Dakota Jennings, though,” he turned to Mike, “Her actions are debatable but even then, I like her.” “Me too. In other circumstances, we could be friends. She’s totally my kind of gal. There’s just one eentsy weentsy little thing wrong- girl, you’ve got a real whacked out view of your current situation. Let’s break this down. We’ve talked about this and I don’t wanna hang on it too long, but let’s play devil’s advocate and say Vannah had it coming. That doesn’t mean you got carte fucking blanche to wallop everyone with a chair who looks at you goddamn cockeyed. Holy shit. I mean, I’ll admit to playing fast and loose with the rules, but when you go around making modern fucking art with steel chairs and blood? And the brass gets sick of your goddamn shenanigans and calls you to the carpet? There’s only one person responsible for the predicament you wind up in, and I’ll give you a hint- it ain’t Ms. Vanessa Byrne. And even so? And this is the kicker, Jennings- you cry foul on getting punished for your shit at the same time you’re selling fucking t-shirts of it. Wow.” Mike let out a subtle ‘whew’, having said all that in a minimal amount of breaths. Their partner graciously picked up the thread. “And so that’s why you’re here. Back against the wall. Wounded animal. Against all odds. All of those cliches. It puts Mike and I in an unfortunate predicament. We are the arbitrators. We have the final say on your career in Valor Pro.” There was a poignant pause. Footsteps going away from them in the distance can be heard. “Right now, right here, it gives me second thoughts. To extinguish a young career would be no proud achievement. But Mike knows about me. Knows how I handle business in that ring. Once I step between those ropes, friend or foe, I don’t care who you are.” “That’s true. We got a little saying between ourselves- ‘it’s different in the ring’. Now, that phrase has a few meanings for us, most’re personal. But the one you need to be concerned with is the one my partner just alluded to. Because he’s dead serious and so am I- soon as that bell rings, we don’t care. Soon as that bell rings, our sole fuckin’ sphere of concern involves watching each other’s backs and making sure one of you stays down for three, no matter what we have to do to make that happen. Reboca has his arrogance and skill. Jennings has her violence and moxie. That may or may not be enough, but we will do horrible fucking things to you to make sure’s shit it isn’t.” Mike’s eyes were hard-cut emeralds in the dim light, narrowed, sharp, and dangerous. “Three seconds is the easy way out,” John’s fists balled up, the muscles in his arms taut with tension, “I’d need about nine myself. First, blood flow is cut to the brain. All of those vibrant colors become muted. Vision fails. Then like pulling a plug, the ability to move, to speak, to remember, to feel love - that all goes away as the frontal cortex shuts down. A second later, unconsciousness. The bell rings. You don’t hear that. It takes three seconds for normal brain function to resume. And when it does, Dakota Jennings, you’ll come to the realization that while Cross Reboca still has his greatest opportunity to date, you will have nothing.” “Shit’s cold. But that’s the business. I’m sure you two understand.” Mike shrugged. “Also understand we ain’t selling you short. We know we’re in for a hell of a fight. We know you two won’t be split easy- no matter what Cross does or doesn’t say, even if he is the guy in this fight with the least to lose, you two are gonna get married. And it’ll probably be a big, fancy affair, destination venue, celebrity appearances, gourmet cake personally barbecued by Guy Fieri guaranteed to take you to fuckin’ Flavortown, the works!” John mouthed the words to himself, ‘barbecued cake?’ “You got that to look forward to. You got love for each other that nobody’s gonna deny. Nothing can take that away from you…” Inhale. Exhale. Their expression sets in a certain sort of determination and defiance.  They looked to their partner, who responded with a slight nod. “...just like nothing can take what me and Church have away from us. Nothing. We don’t have the glitz, the glamour. The fancy cars an’ movie stars, the high roller suites. You live like superstars. But we’re Not Superstars- we’re Fuckin’ Wrestlers. And that fact? That is why we’re going to be Valor Pro’s next Chimera Tag Team Champions.” Giving that crooked grin of theirs, Mike clicked off the camera. It wasn’t a moment too soon. Before Mike could even say anything about what they’d just recorded, a stampede of footfalls echoed through the ancient stone hallways, and a small throng of people came into the shrine where NSFW had just finished recording. They cut between them, the two of them momentarily on opposite sides of a small Nile of humanity, occupying the empty spaces in the murals long since partially erased. Their eyes stayed connected, even as the tour group made their way around the chamber and took pictures. When a part of the room thinned out, they made their way back to the center. Mike held out their hand. John took it, and the two of them joined the group in their appreciation of ancient history.

Hey Team. There are a few codes I live by and one of them is...”Never Ask For Something That You Are Not Willing To Give”. To me, that is a simple definition of not being Selfish, but it can also keep you from being stressed about any situation you are in. If you have no Time to give others, don’t expect them to take interest in you. If you cannot Share what you have, don’t be wasting your time trying to take from others. If you cannot feel Compassion to a situation, do not  expect Empathy for yours. Keep it moving. Stop standing in someone else’s moment or light. Get Out the Way of Someone’s Happiness.

I am a Giver. When I say that, it doesn’t mean that I always give of myself  and the things I have. I have NO PROBLEM telling you NO. I just believe that you cannot GAIN, if you are not willing to SHARE. I have an Open Hand as well as an Open Mind, because that is the ONLY way I can see someone RECEIVING GREAT THINGS in their lives. If you close yourself off, you receive Nada. But with that being said...it still doesn’t mean you allow yourself to be suckered. Yet, we are ALL Human, so we will make errors in that department as well, but when you know you are being used...YOU DO BETTER. You make wiser choices.

So as you can imagine, this is an opening to Nicole Avant Forrester Dominguez’s situation. I am not a huge fan of the character (even though I am thoroughly impressed with Ms. Reign Edwards). She has many flaws that completely gets on my nerves, but she does try to atleast to be a good person. But she is Young and Naive, yet Stubborn and Dumb at the same time. It’s irritating, trust me...I KNOW. But she is a Giver to a Fault. If she cares and loves someone, she finds it in her soul to believe in their “Good Intentions”. Be it Family or Friend. And if they ask something of her, she tries to give it to them without even weighing on what it make cost her in the end. Yeah...that’s DUMB AF. You cannot Give of Yourself, if you do not GIVE TO YOURSELF first. But for some reasons, people believe that is a Selfish Trait. That’s crazy. If there is one thing I learned (especially being a Mother, Wife and Friend), if I do not take care of myself, I cannot offer anything to anyone else. I am the PERSON who makes ME WHOLE. So if I do not take time to replenish myself, I have NOTHING of substance to offer others. So ALWAYS take care of Self no matter what role you have at moment. If you find yourself in a “Bad Moment”, take time to BE with YOURSELF to seek answers.

But back to Nicole. She is at a point where she has to decide to take ownership in her right to be a Mother to her Firstborn or give her away to her sibling as she had earlier intended to. She is in an emotional spiral because not only have she been given the news that she may not be able to bear anymore children, but she is also making that Natural, Instinctive Bonding connection to her child and her child is connecting to her. 

Now, I have to say something that alot of y’all may not want to hear this, but a Child...especially a Toddler KNOWS their Natural mother. They know her by scent, sound and energy. A mother and Child shared that during Gestation. Their senses are much more keener in their early years and for most mothers their attachment to their Child is almost unbearable to detach from during that time. So what Nicole is “feeling” with Lizzie are not just her being “caught up in her feelings”, it is an instinctive hormonal physical trait that never really goes away. Sure...it took her while (due to bad writing because unless she was suffering from PPD...which could be the case, she would have shown it much earlier), but it is as REAL as it should have been since she first laid eyes on Lizzie. It’s a natural connection. So trust me, Lizzie is just as emotionally, mentally and physically attached to Nicole as Nicole is to HER. The BOND is THERE.

Now does that make Maya any less emotionally, mentally or physically attached to Lizzie. No, it doesn’t which is why I cannot for the life of me understand why Maya cannot empathize with Nicole’s pain right now. Not just her not being able to have more children, but to try and DENY that Nicole’s feelings about Lizzie is something that will “just go away”. But that goes back to what I previously wrote...”Never ask for something you are not willing to give.” Maya Avant Forrester was just TOO COMFORTABLE asking Nicole not ONCE, but TWICE to give her a NATURAL CHILD of Nicole. She and Ric did that like they were at “Build A Child”. They wanted a Child a “Certain Way” that ONLY Nicole could give them. Sure, you can call it a “Gift” or “Making a Deal” all you want, but what they were asking for were Nicole’s Flesh and Bloods before Nicole was even THINKING ABOUT STARTING A FAMILY SHE WILL WANT OF HER OWN. They wanted THEIRS without ANY INTERFERENCE...be it Nicole’s life or dreams for her future. But now that Nicole’s “Gift” has cost her more than she would EVER THINK OF GIVING THEM, Maya nor Rick can find it in their Heart or Soul of returning the favor. They are not even trying to let Nicole have any parts of their Happiness no matter what it cost her to give it to them. They have no problem asking it of Nicole, but are completely flabbergasted if Nicole would ask it of them? How could she be so cruel and Selfish?

What? Did I miss something here? Nicole is asking you two to “share” Lizzie with her and she is being called Selfish. “Well...she made a deal and she should HONOR IT.” 

Oh really? Because I NEVER saw it when Nicole said that she would give what could be her ONLY BIRTH CHILD TO Ric or Maya. Nope, that scenario was never brought up (which is more #Dumbshyte), but now that it is the POSSIBILITY, it’s “So sorry...but I got NOTHING for you here!”

And when is “staying in a Bad Deal” considered a good solution when you are not even obligated to HONOR IT? Lizzie is Nicole’s child LEGALLY AND BIOLOGICALLY at the moment. Why must she do something she KNOWS in her HEART AND SOUL is wrong for her and her daughter? Why must she do something that is ripping her apart to keep someone who would not even bother to do it for her, to stay whole? What damn sense does that make?

She made a deal? Well...guess what? Deals are made to be broken.

But what about Zende? Why should he be stuck raising a child that he doesn’t want? 

Excuse me? Are we speaking of the SAME Zende who thought Sasha may be carrying his child and ASKED NICOLE to stay by his side because he couldn’t turn his back on his OWN FLESH AND BLOOD....YET is telling the WOMAN HE CLAIMS TO LOVE, that he is NOT COMFORTABLE RAISING HER FLESH AND BLOOD? Well...of all the PETTY ASS TRIFLIN...Ugh! Once again, someone asking something of someone else that they aren’t willing to give themselves! 

But the kicker in all of this is the Selfish Ones are quick to call the Unselfish Ones...Selfish in a heart beat. EVERYONE expects Nicole to DO THE RIGHT THING by them but have shown OVER AND OVER that they would NOT do it for her.

I really just want to grab Nicole and shake her until she sees what is the TRUTH  and then hug her till she understands that she deserves so much more and that she has EVERY RIGHT TO BE SELFISH FOR SELF CARE.

But I know, that will not happen. Not one person, except Julius is telling Nicole that she has every right to fight for her child and as the #Bellshyte is expected, she will give her child to two of the most Selfish people I have seen and return to later on be betrayed by the Selfish jerk who had no problem in letting her down. But it’s a Soap Opera and somebody has to play the FOOL...Right? #Y

I

Peter C. Baker | Longreads and The Point | January 2019 | 35 minutes (8,900 words)

This story is produced in partnership with The Point and appears in issue no. 18.

“What do you know about Jon Burge?”

Barely seven minutes into her black-history elective on the morning of April 16th, Juanita Douglas was asking her students a question she’d never asked in a classroom before, not in 24 years of teaching in Chicago’s public schools. She’d been preparing to ask the question for over a year, and she knew that for many of her students the conversation that followed would be painful. Disorienting. She didn’t like the idea of causing them pain. She didn’t want to make them feel overwhelmed or lost. But she thought, or at least hoped, that in the end the difficulty would be worth the trouble.

It was only second period. Several of Douglas’s students — a mix of juniors and seniors — were visibly tired. A few slumped forward, heads on their desks. I was sitting in the back row, so I couldn’t tell for sure, but I thought one or two might be fully asleep. Some were stealthily texting or scrolling through Snapchat. Others were openly texting or scrolling through Snapchat.

After a few seconds, Douglas repeated the question: “Do you know Jon Burge?”

A ragged chorus of noes and nopes and nahs.

“Tell me again what year you were born in,” said Douglas, who is 54 and likes to playfully remind her students that they don’t know everything about the world.

2000. 2001. 1999.

“Okay,” she said. “Well… Welcome to Chicago.”

Like so many new curriculum units in so many high schools across America, this one began with the teacher switching off the lights and playing a video. Who was Jon Burge? The video supplied the answer. Burge was a former Chicago Police Department detective and area commander. Between 1972 and 1991 he either directly participated in or implicitly approved the torture of at least — and this is an extremely conservative estimate — 118 Chicagoans. Burge and his subordinates — known variously as the Midnight Crew, Burge’s Ass Kickers, and the A-Team — beat their suspects, suffocated them, subjected them to mock executions at gunpoint, raped them with sex toys, and hooked electroshock machines up to their genitals, their gums, their fingers, their earlobes, overwhelming their bodies with live voltage until they agreed: yes, they’d done it, whatever they’d been accused of, they’d sign the confession. The members of the Midnight Crew were predominately white men. Almost all of their victims were black men from Chicago’s South and West Sides. Some had committed the crimes to which they were forced to confess; many had not. The cops in question called the electroshock machines “nigger boxes.”

The video cut to Darrell Cannon, one of the Midnight Crew’s victims. He spoke about getting hauled by cops into a basement:

I wasn’t a human being to them. I was just simply another subject of theirs. They had did this to many others. But to them it was fun and games. You know, I was just, quote, a nigger to them, that’s it. They kept using that word like that was my name… They had no respect for me being a human being. I never expected, quote, police officers to do anything that barbaric, you know… You don’t continue to call me “nigger” throughout the day unless you are a racist. And the way that they said it, they said it so downright nasty. So there’s no doubt in my mind that, in my case, racism played a huge role in what happened to me. Because they enjoyed this. This wasn’t something that was sickening to them. None of them had looks on their faces like, ugh, you know, maybe we shouldn’t do this much. Nuh-huh. They enjoyed it, they laughed, they smiled. And that is why my anger has been so high. Because I continuously see how they smile.

Text on the screen explained that Burge was fired in 1993, following a lawsuit that forced the Chicago Police Department to produce a report on his involvement in “systematic torture,” written by its own Office of Professional Standards. After his firing Burge moved to Apollo Beach, Florida, where he ran a fishing business. In 2006 another internally commissioned report concluded that he’d been a torture ringleader, but still no charges were brought; the Illinois five-year statute of limitations for police brutality charges had by then expired. In 2008 FBI agents arrested Burge at his home, and creative federal prosecutors charged him — not with torture, but with perjury. In a 2003 civil case, Burge had submitted a sworn statement in which he denied ever taking part in torture. In 2010 a jury found him guilty. After the trial, jurors pointed out that the name of Burge’s boat — Vigilante — hadn’t helped his case.

As soon as the video ended and Douglas flipped the lights back on, her students — most of whom were, like her, black — started talking. Their confusion ricocheted around the room.

“How long did he get?”

“Four-and-a-half years.”

“He only got four-and-a-half years?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“I really feel some type of way about this.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I’ve got it on my phone.”

“He didn’t torture them alone. Why didn’t anyone else get charged?”

“I’ve got it on my phone. He’s still alive.”

“I’m just… angry.”

“He lives in Florida!”

“Didn’t no one hear the screams?”

CHICAGO – OCTOBER 27: Aaron Cheney demonstrates outside the federal courthouse where former Chicago Police Commander Jon Burge was attending a hearing on charges he obstructed justice and committed perjury for lying while under oath during a 2003 civil trial about decades-old Chicago police torture allegations October 27, 2008 in Chicago, Illinois. Burge cannot be charged for the torture of suspects because the federal statute of limitations for the crime has expired. (Photo by Scott Olson/Getty Images)

* * *

Douglas’s students didn’t yet know it, but they were not the only Chicago students wrestling with Jon Burge and the Midnight Crew last spring. In fact, teachers and students at each of the city’s 644 public schools were figuring out how to talk about the cops on the A-Team — and, by extension, the past and present of the fraught relationship between Chicago’s police and Chicago’s policed. Teachers were going down this path whether, in their hearts, they wanted to or not. There was no choice: it was an official requirement, codified in city law.

This classroom initiative is part of a historic, novel and perplexingly under-covered development in the ever-more urgent search for solutions to the cumulative harm inflicted on Americans — especially black Americans — in the name of law and order. On May 6, 2015, in response to decades of local activism, Chicago’s city council passed an ordinance officially recognizing that Burge and his subordinates had engaged in torture, condemning that torture, and offering his victims (or at least some of them) compensation for their suffering. The ordinance is a singular document in American history. Torture accountability — even basic torture honesty — has been a perennial nonstarter in American politics, all the more so in our post-9/11 condition of perpetual war. Reparations, especially those with a racial component, have long been treated as, alternately: an incoherent absurdity; a frightening threat; a nice-sounding but impractical rallying cry; or, more recently, in the wake of the National Magazine Award-nominated Atlantic essay by Ta-Nehisi Coates, as a worthy (but still essentially utopian) demand. But within Chicago city limits, reparations for police torture isn’t just a thought exercise, a rhetorical expression about what should exist in a better world. It’s Chicago City Council Resolution SR2015-256: the law of the land.

If this is the first you’ve heard of all this, you are hardly alone. In the years since SR2015-256 passed, I have again and again found myself informing people of its existence. This has included prominent national experts on torture and torture accountability, Chicago police officers, and lifelong Chicagoans of all races with a professed interest in racial justice. On the North Side of the city — and certainly in its northern suburbs, where I live — I do not think it is ridiculous to suggest that there are more people of all races who can summarize Coates’s “The Case For Reparations” than those who are familiar with the historic reparations experiment unfolding right now in their own metropolitan area.

If people know anything about that experiment, they likely know that it involved some money: a pool of $5.5 million from which vetted Midnight Crew victims could receive a maximum of $100,000 each, regardless of whether their coerced confessions had been false or not — regardless, that is, of whether, in the eyes of the law, they had ultimately been judged guilty or innocent. By this point, several of Burge’s victims had pried civil settlements from the city, some comprising millions of dollars. This strategy was more available to some than to others, depending on the jury-friendliness of their biographies (and rap sheets). The vast majority of the civil settlements were compensations less for torture than for wrongful conviction. Officially, like all civil settlements, they were not for anything at all; they were just transfers of money, with no admission of wrongdoing or even agreed-upon findings of fact. They therefore did nothing to address what many survivors, in Chicago and elsewhere, identity as one of torture’s most enduring wounds: the unwillingness of their fellow citizens and government to adequately recognize exactly what happened.

In addition to the cash payouts, SR2015-256 contained a handful of other benefits for the Midnight Crew’s victims, including free tuition at the city’s community colleges and free access to a new psychological counseling center to be opened on the South Side. (This counseling center, the ordinance specified, was to operate a model similar to the one used by the Marjorie Kovler Center, a famous torture rehabilitation facility on Chicago’s North Side. The Kovler Center welcomes survivors of political violence from around the world — but not, its website warns, from America or any “place under U.S. control.”) In recognition of the fact that torture’s effects reach beyond the lives of individual victims, these services were made available to all members of survivors’ immediate families, and in some cases to their grandchildren.

The ordinance also pledged the city to take two concrete steps to counteract its decades-long tradition of trying to make the Burge story disappear. These two promises will likely end up being the most controversial parts of the law, because they deal not with bureaucratic payouts but with attempted modifications to Chicago’s public history — to the story the city tells itself about policing. First, Chicago officials would work with activists to design and erect a memorial to the city’s police-torture survivors. Second, the city’s public schools would henceforth be required to add “a lesson about the Burge case and its legacy” to the official history curriculum for eighth and tenth graders. To many of the activists who fought for the reparations package, the curriculum was its most meaningful component, precisely because of what it asked from the city: not money, but time and talk, however awkward or uncomfortable that talk might be.

The memorial design and site selection process is still underway. But last August, city officials held a press conference to announce that, after two years of development, the new curriculum — titled “Reparations Won” — was ready for the children of Chicago.

* * *

Chicago is one of America’s most racially diverse metropolises, but also one of its most racially segregated: a patchwork of different social and economic worlds that know relatively little about each other. For this reason, my original hope was to watch the curriculum being taught in schools all across the city. What would lessons about the Midnight Crew look like in resource-starved black schools on the South and West Sides? How would the same curriculum be taught in predominantly Latino classrooms? (There are more Latino students than students of any other racial background in Chicago schools.) Or in the relatively diverse magnet schools found on the North Side, well stocked with Advanced Placement and International Baccalaureate classes? What about schools in the almost-burbs — just inside the city line — that are disproportionately populated by cops, firefighters and other city workers, in classrooms full of their children and nephews and nieces? (In Chicago, city employees are required to live within city limits.) I wanted to see it all — and maybe, by stitching together detailed observations from classrooms across the city, play some part, however minor, in the effort to put Chicago’s separate worlds in conversation with each other.

Juanita Douglas was the only teacher out of dozens I asked who opened the doors of her classroom to me. The curriculum was too important, she said, for its rollout to go completely undocumented. The Chicago public-school system thought otherwise. A few days after the press conference announcing the curriculum, I contacted the district’s notoriously evasive press office. To my surprise, I was quickly put in touch with Michael Passman, then the director of media communications. Passman initially sounded supportive — warmly supportive, even — of my plan to watch the curriculum in action in schools across the city. But this phone call was the last time I ever heard from Passman, despite dozens of messages I left on his voicemail, in his inbox, on his deputy’s voicemail, in his deputy’s inbox, and with their office secretary. Teachers I met kept telling me I was welcome to sit in on their class — so long as their principals approved. Several principals said it was fine with them — so long as CPS approved. CPS told me to be patient. Other journalists told me they were hearing the same thing. Once I happened to get through to Passman’s deputy, who told me not to worry: a plan for journalists who wanted to observe the curriculum was just a day or two from being released. This was the last I ever heard from her.

Because Douglas is not an eighth- or tenth-grade history teacher, she was not required to be teaching the curriculum. But she was one of many teachers across the city who elected to do so anyway this year for the benefit of current juniors and seniors, who otherwise would have graduated without learning about Burge. This past April and May, I spent eighteen mornings in her classroom at Lincoln Park High School, observing two back-to-back sections of her black-history class[1] as they worked through “Reparations Won.”

Before my first day, reading over the curriculum and imagining myself in Douglas’s shoes, I felt overwhelmed by the visceral intensity of the material alone. Once I was in her classroom, though, I quickly realized the presence of another challenge, one that will surely be obvious to any teacher. It was the problem of shared knowledge, and how little of it Douglas could presume. This went far beyond knowing who had and who hadn’t heard of Jon Burge. From day to day, she couldn’t even be sure who had done the previous night’s reading, and so she often started class with a series of questions designed to get everyone on the same page about the basics.

“I need to understand what you understand about this situation,” she said on the second day of the curriculum. “What were the methods of torture that you put down? What did you write?”

She pointed at a boy near the back of the class.

“Uh… they were shocked, burned, beaten and tied up.”

She pointed at another boy, toward the front.

“They were held for days without food and water.”

One of his neighbors chimed in: “They were left naked for days.”

Most of her students were black, and some were Latino, Asian-American, biracial, multiracial. Just one was white. Though Lincoln Park is a prosperous North Side neighborhood, most of them lived on the South or West Side, and came north every morning because the high school that used to be in their neighborhood is now closed. Some were, for high schoolers, relatively informed about U.S. history: when, on the second day of the curriculum, they read about Burge’s time in the army — his posting in a POW camp in Vietnam and the possibility that this was where he’d first learned about electroshock torture — they nodded along, and made comments indicating their familiarity with other Vietnam-era atrocities. Other students, it seemed, were completely lost: when asked, many raised their hands to indicate they did not know what a prisoner-of-war camp was.[2]

Some students had been to Black Lives Matter protests, or read about mass incarceration and the New Jim Crow. Others had never been to any protest of any kind in their lives. Some students came to class wide awake, visibly enthusiastic, caffeinated. Others showed up looking exhausted, or like they were counting down the hours until the end of class, until lunch, until prom, until graduation. Some came to school every day, and were already thinking about college. Some came now and then, and were not sure they would graduate. Some had family members whose lives had been deeply marked by interactions with Chicago’s cops and courts and jails and prisons. Some had family members who were cops, or used to be. It was Douglas’s job to teach them all.

May 6, 2010: Former Chicago police Lt. Jon Burge leaving the federal building in Chicago where attorneys prepared for the trial of Burge who was charged with lying about the alleged torture of murder suspects. (AP Photo/Chicago Sun-Times, Brian Jackson)

* * *

The first few days were heavy on context: on white Chicago’s long history of resistance to its black population, from redlining to street riots; on Burge’s upbringing in the all-white South Side neighborhood of Deering, which, during his lifetime, became an all-black neighborhood; on the city’s intentional overcrowding of black neighborhoods and schools; on the escalation of the police “war on crime” in black neighborhoods; and, finally, on the first allegations against the Midnight Crew, and how they were ignored by then-Cook County State’s Attorney Richard M. Daley, who would go on to become mayor.

On the fourth day, the class watched another video, this one detailing the case of Ronald Kitchen, a Midnight Crew victim who, largely on the basis of his tortured confession, was found guilty of murdering two women and three children and sent to death row. Beginning in 1990, he spent 21 years before his conviction was vacated and a judge declared him innocent.

The video featured footage from the 2011 deposition of Detective Michael Kill, one of Kitchen’s torturers. In this footage, Kill is seventy and long retired. Wiry and full of contempt, he leans back in his chair, as if keeping his distance from something that smells bad. Offscreen, Kitchen’s lawyer asks Kill whether he made a practice of using the n-word in his interrogations.

“Sure I did,” says Kill.

How often?

“I would say I used it as many times as I had to.”

But why?

“Well,” Kill says, his grimace intensifying, “how many inches of tape are in your recorder?” “How about a million, for starters?” he suggests.

Kitchen’s lawyer asks him why he used the n-word so much.

Kill shakes his head, still grimacing. “Trying to explain police work to you,” he says to the lawyer, “is like trying to explain physics to my grandson — who is three years old.” He used the word, he explains, to make suspects feel comfortable. To show them he understood their world, knew their language. “You’re not there,” he says. “You haven’t been there. You don’t understand it, okay? You have to live it.”

No, Kill says, he never beat Kitchen. Never tortured Kitchen. Why would he do something like that, he asks rhetorically, and risk getting fired, losing his pension?

No, he knew nothing about anyone beating or torturing Ronald Kitchen. Jon Burge was his boss, sure. But he hardly knew the guy. Couldn’t really tell you anything about him.

Many of Douglas’s students were visibly upset by Kill: by what he was saying, by how casually he was saying it, by his apparent disdain for the very idea that anyone might think anything he’d done would require an explanation. “Can we turn it off?” asked a boy seated next to me, quietly and plaintively. But the longer the video went on, the more the kids started making fun of Kill: they knew, after all, that the old man’s denials hadn’t carried the day; that the state had set Kitchen free, that the city had settled his civil case for $6.15 million. They started laughing at Kill’s clipped speech, his old Chicago accent, his pissy evasions. At one point in the video, Kill admits that he heard Kitchen whimpering in his cell. But he insists this was not due to any mistreatment but instead to some “blood pressure stuff.” A Latina girl, one of Douglas’s most reliable participants in class discussions, snickered and mimed taking a picture of Kill’s scowling face on her phone, suggesting what a good meme it would make. “When you know you got caught,” she said, laughing.

The next day, the class watched footage of Kitchen himself, filmed after he was released from jail but before he won his settlement. Someone off-camera asks him to describe his post-release life. Kitchen tells them he hardly sleeps. That the mere sight of a Chicago police car sends him into a full-body terror, which is why he’s had to leave Chicago, the only city he ever knew. “It’s hard,” he says. “It’s hard, it’s hard. It’s like a dream to me, sitting up here with you. It’s like, at any moment, this could get taken away from me all over again.”

It had been easy, perhaps, to joke about Michael Kill: a caricature of an old white villain on the wrong side of history. But there were no jokes to tell about Ronald Kitchen. “Do you know how many of the police went to jail?” asked a black girl toward the front of the class, referring to all the other Midnight Crew members besides Burge. It wasn’t the first time one of Douglas’s students had posed the question, and it wouldn’t be the last. Each time, the answer was the same: zero.

“How do you grow from there?” asked a Latina girl. “How do you grow from such a horrible time your life?”

After class that day, I stayed behind to look at what everyone had written on their reflection sheets. Douglas collected these almost every day, and she often let me look at them, wanting me to understand that the reactions I saw during class were only part of the story. Many of her students rarely spoke unless forced to. On their reflection sheets, however, freed from their worry about how a roomful of their fellow teenagers would respond, these same students would often write searching, poignant reflections, and pose deep questions (“why haven’t we heard about this?” one of them wrote after the very first day of “Reparations Won.”) On the day of the Kitchen video, their comments were particularly painful to read:

that could be me!

This affects how my life will be, because when I decide to create a family I will constantly be in fear if my husband is safe or my children if I have a son I have to fear he may get stopped by the police.

it could be my boyfriend, dad, cousins, etc.

This is stuff that I see in movies and may encourage if I don’t like the bad guy, but it’s unimaginable to think about in real life

this was like being a slave, but in the 90s

My dad just got pulled over recently and he wasn’t tortured but what if this did happen to him?

My father was also framed with something he didn’t do. (He’s been in there since I was 3 and is getting out in 2027.)

CHICAGO – OCTOBER 27: Tears stream down the cheeks of Carolyn Johnson as she listens to speakers at a rally outside the federal courthouse where former Chicago Police Commander Jon Burge was attending a hearing on charges he obstructed justice and committed perjury for lying while under oath during a 2003 civil trial about decades-old Chicago police torture allegations October 27, 2008 in Chicago, Illinois. Johnson alleges her son Marcus Wiggins was tortured until he confessed to a crime when he was only 13 years old. Burge cannot be charged for the torture of suspects because the federal statute of limitations for the crime has expired. (Photo by Scott Olson/Getty Images)

* * *

The longer I spent in Douglas’s class, the more I wished I’d managed to find a way into more schools. Some teachers met with me, or spoke with me on the phone, to recall their experiences with the curriculum, but there was no substitute for being there: for taking in the atmosphere in the room as a group of young people made contact with the Burge saga. I came to feel that this atmosphere was history itself — not the professional intellectual enterprise regulated by peer review and professional standards, not the subject of polished magazine articles, but the living tangle of connections between past and present that is always available to us, sometimes as inspiration or solace, sometimes a burden, most often both at once. This sense of history, of course, will be central to any serious attempt at reparations in America. At Lincoln Park High, I was watching students dive into the living tangle — watching them pull out this strand, that strand, and ask what they meant, where they belonged.

I was especially curious about what was going on at other schools because of the criticisms of the curriculum that had surfaced in local media. On September 14, 2017 — less than a month after the curriculum was unveiled — the now-defunct local news site DNAinfo ran a story about a meeting between parents, faculty and staff at Edison Park Elementary, on the cop-heavy Northwest Side. All of the parents quoted in the article were opposed to “Reparations Won.”

“You’re taking eighth graders and trying to mold their minds with material that is highly confrontational and controversial,” said Angela McMillin, who described herself as “infuriated, appalled and disgusted” by the curriculum. “It’s contradictory to how they live their personal lives with their families, where they eat dinner every night and celebrate Christmas … I think it’s deplorable.” McMillin wanted to opt her daughter, an eighth grader, out of the curriculum.

The school’s principal, Jeffrey Finelli, informed her that this would not be possible. “It would be a little like saying, ‘I don’t like quadratic equations, so I’m going to opt out of algebra,’” Finelli said.

Emily Skowronek, a social-studies teacher who would be teaching the curriculum, was also present at the meeting. She promised, in the paraphrase of Alex Nitkin, the DNAinfo reporter, to “leave the Burge episode squarely in the past.” “There are a lot of bad apples in every profession,” Skowronek said. “And we’ll try to portray that to our kids.”

The week after Nitkin’s article was published, another story appeared about Northwest Side parents unhappy with the curriculum. This one was published by Chicago City Wire, a subsidiary of Local Government Information Services, which is a content farm run by conservative activists. LGIS employs low-paid freelancers from around the world to write newsy-looking pieces that embody conservative viewpoints and seed them in outlets across Chicagoland. Like the DNAinfo piece, this one quoted Angela McMillin. “It’s disgusting that it happened,” she said of the Midnight Crew’s torture. She wouldn’t even let her daughter watch Law and Order: Why would she want her reading about “a man’s testicles being electrocuted or guns being jammed down men’s throats?” Plus, she added, the curriculum will “make a further racially divided community.”

I contacted McMillin and several other attendees of the Edison Park meeting, hoping to learn more about their objections. Most people did not write or call me back; of those who did, all refused to speak to me, even anonymously. One person, explaining their refusal, wrote:

After the article came out from DNA, the reaction was kind of like a lynch mob … people from other parts of the city were really nasty and mean and not at all considerate of the huge amount of parents that work for the police department in our area and parents of students that attend our school. It was actually said how racist we were that we were even questioning the curriculum.

This, too, was history.

* * *

The longer I spent in Douglas’s class, the more I saw her oscillating — sometimes from day to day, sometimes within the same lesson — between two different takeaways from the material at hand.

Takeaway One stressed the horror of it all, and the deeply systemic nature of that horror: all the cops and prosecutors and judges and city officials (mayors!) who had turned a deaf ear to the complaints of torture for so long, afraid of what they would mean, if true, about their professions, their jobs, the convictions they’d won, the sentences they’d passed down, the city they’d made. The reparations bill had passed, but many likely victims of police torture remained in jail. The state had established a Torture Inquiry and Relief Commission and given it the authority to re-examine cases and fast-track them back into the courts. But the commission had been swamped by petitions and struggled with funding. In 2017, the director estimated that, at its current pace, it would need 23 years just to evaluate the petitions it had already received.

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From this perspective, the justice system was something between a broken ideal and a rotten lie, a noble-sounding rhetorical scrim that overlays and obscures a system of inequality and exploitation.

“I’m still confused,” a girl said one day. What she was confused about was all the other cops besides Burge who had tortured. “How did they not go to jail?”

Douglas gave a tight smile, the smile of a person trying not to give in to the unpleasantness of the news they had to deliver. “You expect things to work the way they’re supposed to work, not the way they actually work,” she said.

Douglas pushed Takeaway One because she wanted her students to understand the truth of the world they lived in — but also, it was clear, because she wanted them to be safe. More than once, she drew her students’ attention to the case of Marcus Wiggins, a black thirteen-year-old tortured by the Midnight Crew. “Why would they torture a thirteen-year-old? Why are they torturing a thirteen-year-old? I need an answer.”

A Latino boy in the front row began to venture a response. “For suspected — ”

Douglas cut him off. “But why? I want you to look at everybody in this room. ”

He hesitated. “Maybe… because they can. They’re using their authority.”

Douglas nodded, then pushed the point a step further. You might think of yourself as kids, she told them, but that didn’t mean “they” would see you that way too. “You might be playing. You might think: I’m a kid. But no.” This was why it was important for them to be careful. Important not to joke around — not to act like kids — in the presence of cops. Important not to assume that things work the way they’re supposed to work. During a discussion about the Ronald Kitchen case, a rail-thin boy in what looked to me like an updated version of nineties skater wear posed a question: “Like, what was special about Kitchen so the police went after him versus any other kid on the block?”

“I don’t want to say this,” said Douglas. “But it could happen to you.”

“It doesn’t seem that way,” he said.

“But it is that way,” said Douglas.

Of course, if Takeaway One was all there was, the curriculum would be an extended meditation on the intolerable harshness of the world; and no one involved in its creation or implementation wanted that to be its only message to Chicago’s teenagers. And so, Takeaway Two stressed the importance of individual choices, even in the face of systemic injustice. This was why the curriculum was called “Reparations Won”: it was meant to be more than a catalogue of woe. It was also a testament to the possibility of pushing back and changing the world. There were all the activist groups who kept showing up, year after year, decade after decade, asking for torture accountability. One of these groups, We Charge Genocide, even sent a delegation of young Chicagoans to Switzerland in 2014 to talk about Chicago police in front of the United Nations Committee Against Torture. (One member of that delegation, Douglas told them, was a Lincoln Park alumnus — one of her former students.) There were the lawyers who took the cases of Midnight Crew victims long before anyone had even heard of the Midnight Crew. There was Joey Mogul, the lawyer who wrote out the reparations ordinance as an entry for a conceptual art show with a torture-accountability theme. There was the county medical examiner who insisted, despite police pressure, on making a formal record of the injuries sustained by Andrew Wilson, Burge’s first accuser to get any traction in court. There was the cop, or the multiple cops, who when they heard about the lawyers bringing torture cases against the CPD, started anonymously mailing them notes, feeding them names to dig into.

So many people deciding to do nothing — to keep their heads down and not cause trouble, to not risk the danger of upsetting the system.

So many people deciding to do something — to insist on things being different.

“This is why we have to study things,” said Douglas. “So it won’t take so long.”

Oct. 27, 2008: Darrell Canon, who alleged that he was tortured by Chicago Police in 1983, listens to speakers during a rally outside the federal courthouse where former Chicago Police Commander Jon Burge was attending a hearing. (Scott Olson/Getty Images)

* * *

Near the end of my time in Douglas’s class I was sent a recording of a recent meeting about “Reparations Won” at Wildwood Elementary, a predominantly white school on the Northwest Side. The person who sent me the recording told me I could use it however I wanted, as long as I didn’t identify them. Wildwood is the neighborhood immediately to the east of Edison Park. I’d heard of it for the first time from Juanita Douglas, who, in a classroom discussion of Chicago segregation, had recalled her first and only trip to Wildwood. One day in the Nineties she drove her son there for a high school football training clinic. She told her students how surprised she was by the leafy, suburban feel of the neighborhood. This was Chicago? But most shocking of all was the sight of local teenagers showing up to the clinic on bikes — and leaving them on the ground. Unlocked!

The recording I received starts with Mary Beth Cunat, the Wildwood principal, laying out the evening’s format to the audience, which is obviously made up of parents of her students. “I’m just nervous,” she says, and she sounds it. There are multiple speakers, she explains; each will have their turn, and then parents will have a chance to write their remaining questions and concerns on Post-it notes. “We didn’t leave time for open-ended questions and answers,” she says, but promises that the Post-it notes will be read. “We will read those,” she says. “We will take them seriously.”

A Wildwood history teacher reads a prepared statement about the value of teaching difficult histories. Then he leaves, explaining that he has another obligation to get to.

“There’s no police-bashing going on here,” says Cunat. “It’s focusing on a very discrete episode in history.”

A representative of the Chicago Committee on Human Relations gives a bizarre speech in which he explains the committee’s mandate to investigate discrimination of all kinds in the city. He makes no mention of Jon Burge, the Midnight Crew or “Reparations Won.” He talks mostly about Muslims in the city, and how police stations have been holding fast-breaking dinners during Ramadan to improve community relations. Torture is mentioned, but only briefly, and only the locally infamous “Facebook torture” incident of 2017, in which three black eighteen-year-olds and one black 24-year-old kidnapped a mentally disabled white eighteen-year-old, eventually taking him to a West Side apartment where they tied him up, beat him and removed part of his scalp — all of which was broadcast on Facebook Live, where viewers could hear the kidnappers yelling “Fuck Trump!” and “Fuck white people!” (To this day, if you google “Chicago torture,” the first result is the Wikipedia page about this story.)

Then a local police commander expresses his fundamental concern about the curriculum:

You know, I think anyone who has been around children probably realizes that they don’t hear everything that we say. So that’s probably our biggest concern. Even though they’re going to teach a curriculum — [the kids] are going to hear what they want to hear. And I’m just afraid that some of them might feel themselves empowered that maybe they don’t have to listen to the police. You know, in a stressful situation. And maybe they should run from the police. And they’d be endangering themselves…

His advice to Wildwood parents, however, is to accept that the curriculum is happening, and do their best to make sure it is being implemented responsibly. When he was in school, he said, he didn’t know why they were required to learn the parts of speech. “But I didn’t object,” he says. “I didn’t walk out of the classroom. I didn’t confront the teacher about it. You know? I think we just have to learn what’s in the curriculum. We don’t have a choice about it.”

The fourth speaker — a Wildwood counselor — is explaining the meaning of “restorative justice,” when a man in the audience interrupts.

Won’t the curriculum, he wonders, “be teaching a false narrative? [Burge] hasn’t been convicted of anything in our courts. So how can you teach that?”

Principal Cunat reassures the man that the curriculum does not say Burge was convicted of torturing anyone — just perjury and obstruction of justice.

“And then all the ones that supposedly were victims — are they going to have their rap sheets?” the same man wonders. “Are they going to show these kids that? Are they going to have both sides of the conversation?”

Cunat tells the man that, if he has a question, he should write it down.

“I’d rather sit here and we can all ask our questions and we can all know the answers,” the man says. “Does anyone else agree with that?”

“If you want that kind of meeting,” says Cunat, “you are free to let me know.”

“Okay,” says the man. “We want that kind of meeting. We would rather have an open discussion.”

“One of the reasons we don’t have an open conversation,” says Cunat, “is because it ends up getting derailed… I really respect you. I care about you a lot. I really feel like it could just become… this ad hoc stuff is not very safe, in terms of my staff and in terms of what we’re trying to accomplish.”

“But what are we trying to accomplish?” asks the man.

Alnoraindus Burton, a victim of torture under former police commander Jon Burge, at Pontiac Correctional Center in Pontiac, Illinois on November 8, 2017. (Photo: Amanda Rivkin)

* * *

On April 30th, Douglas reminded her students that on the following day they were not to come to the classroom, as usual, but instead to go to the library, where they would have the chance to hear from Ronald Kitchen, who had flown in from Philadelphia. (Throughout the spring, a total of eight survivors visited fifty classrooms across the city.) This wasn’t the first that her students had heard about Kitchen’s visit, but it was obvious that some of them had forgotten, or been absent every time it was mentioned. Even those who remembered seemed sobered by the prospect that the visit was finally happening: that in 24 hours they would be in the same room — close enough to touch — as the man from the video. The man they’d heard Michael Kill lie about. Someone for whom thinking about torture required no imagination at all, because he’d lived it.

Douglas had recruited some of her more participation-prone students to give Kitchen’s visit an air of ceremony. They’d printed up programs. The boy who had wondered why it was Kitchen the cops picked up that day played some welcome music on his guitar: an acoustic rendition of a song by Death, the black band from Detroit that played punk before punk was really a thing. A girl read a poem she’d written called “What They Don’t Tell You about Black Boys.” Another girl read an introduction: “Mrs. Douglas has been teaching us about the agonizing tortures of African American men. We welcome one to speak with us today.” She turned away from her classmates and toward Kitchen, who was sitting on a chair behind her. “I just want to say to you personally that your story will never be forgotten.”

Kitchen nodded, taking in the scene in front of him. “I’m really touched,” he said. “Sometimes I’m at a loss for words when I see a lot of young people actually taking heed of what’s happened.”

He took a breath, then spoke for almost twenty minutes without notes. He talked about how bogus the charges against him had been. He talked about co-founding, with other Midnight Crew survivors, the Illinois Death Row 10, the campaign that eventually won a moratorium on all Illinois executions, since expanded into full abolition. He talked about completely losing touch with his son, who was three when he was arrested. About how, whenever it was time for someone to be executed, a guard would bring that person down the hall, letting him stop at each cell along the way to say goodbye. He talked about how, whenever he heard them coming, he would lie on his bed and pretend to be asleep, because he couldn’t bear to face them. He talked about how ashamed this made him feel, looking back. He talked about his mother, who developed dementia while he was in prison and did not recognize him when he was released.

It wasn’t a practiced speech. It wasn’t shaped to build to a certain point or lesson or revelation. Kitchen talked about having been a drug dealer. “It was never a secret,” he said. “Never has been: that was my living.” That was true — Kitchen has always been upfront about his past — but I could not remember Douglas’s class discussing it. I thought I could feel a shift in the nature of the room’s collective attention, the cumulative effect of several dozen teenage minds simultaneously switching gears to process the same new variable. Kitchen didn’t dwell on it. He urged students to get involved with activism — urged them to avoid the delusion that change was impossible. “I want to thank you all for allowing me to come sit here and talk to you all,” he said, again looking almost dumbfounded by where he was — in a Chicago history classroom — and what he was doing there. “I’m trying not to tear up. I’m good at it. I’m good at holding my stuff in. I love that you gave me so much attention. I never had this much attention. I really do appreciate it. Thank you.”

There was a short question-and-answer session. The students sounded more formal than usual, like they were trying to be their most mature, respectful, adult selves — which, as often happens with children trying not to sound like children, had the primary effect of evoking how young they remained.

They asked Kitchen how he gets along today with his oldest son, the one who was three years old when the Midnight Crew snatched up his father.

“It’s rocky,” he said. “It’s very, very rocky.”

“Are you able to sleep any better now?” a student asked. “I know that sleep is, like, a big thing.”

“Actually, I don’t sleep,” said Kitchen, looking like he regretted having to be the bearer of this bad news. “I’m still on penitentiary time, for real. I eat like” — he mimed shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he could — “I choke some food down. I’m still on penitentiary time. I have to catch myself, when I’m at home: I hear the clink of them rattling the bars … I can’t really sleep. I’ll get up and I’ll walk around my house. I’ll check the doors, peek out of the curtains. Or I’ll sit up, listen to the radio, watch TV for hours. I really don’t sleep.”

Before they returned to their normal school days, some of the students stayed to talk with Kitchen one-on-one, or in small groups. He is a tall man, well over six feet, and he bent down to get his face closer to theirs. I kept my distance, sensing an unusual intimacy in the unfolding conversations. Later, though, I asked Kitchen what they had been asking him about. “How did I survive?” he said. “What kept me strong? What do I do now? How do I live?”

Ronald Kitchen, who was tortured by Chicago police officers working under former Chicago Police Commander Jon Burge, in front of his sister’s home in Chicago, Illinois on August 16, 2018. (Photo by Amanda Rivkin)

* * *

Kitchen is far from the only Midnight Crew survivor who admits to breaking the law and inflicting harm — far from the only one with a rap sheet that isn’t, or isn’t only, a police fabrication. Some of these rap sheets are quite long. All of them are easily available online. They are irrelevant to the question of whether anyone should have been tortured, or whether their torturers should have been punished.

Torture is forbidden by the Constitution’s Eighth Amendment and by multiple international treaties to which the U.S. is a legal signatory, and which have been ratified by the Senate. Torture, all experts on the subject agree, doesn’t produce reliable information, and as a result often undermines the very investigations it is notionally intended to serve. Torture is wrong. It is wrong because it is wrong to take such complete, intimate control of another person — wrong to turn their body and mind into weapons trained against themselves. And if this is wrong then it is always wrong, and not more or less wrong depending on anything the victim has done.

There’s something wearying about trotting out the arguments against torture. But as long as torture continues — and continues to be justified with arguments — it will remain necessary to do so.

* * *

In May I heard a rumor that the eighth-grade history teacher at Wildwood Elementary had received so many critical comments from parents in advance of the curriculum rollout that he asked Cunat if he could be excused from teaching it. Cunat, according to this rumor, accommodated the request — and took on teaching the curriculum herself.

The next time I heard Cunat’s name it was because she’d been forced to step down — the result, according to the headlines, of a decision to invite an “anti-police” speaker to a Wildwood career day. I assumed, when I saw the headline, that the speaker in question had to be a Midnight Crew survivor. But I was wrong: it was a young Chicago activist and musician named Ethan Viets-VanLear, whom Cunat had asked to participate in the event at Wildwood. Viets-VanLear was part of the delegation that traveled to Geneva to talk about Chicago police brutality in front of the United Nations. Asked by Wildwood students to explain his motivation, he talked about the 2014 death of his friend Dominique “Damo” Franklin, Jr. at the hands of a Chicago police officer. Word of Viets-VanLear’s visit spread to Wildwood parents, some of whom quickly scoured his social-media pages for anti-police sentiments and called for Cunat — who was just one year into a four-year contract — to be replaced. Both Viets-VanLear and Cunat reported receiving numerous death threats.

Cunat wrote an apology to the entire school, saying she regretted inviting Viets-VanLear. A few days later, an impromptu school-wide meeting was held for students to receive a presentation on policing from Martin Preib, vice president of the Chicago Fraternal Order of Police, and Adrian Garcia, a CPD detective with a child at Wildwood. That afternoon, Cunat resigned. Fox News ran a story commemorating her downfall. She is now a principal in Rockford, Illinois, a city ninety miles west of Chicago.

In September, Jon Burge died. After being released from federal prison in 2014, he had moved back to Apollo Beach, where he lived off his CPD pension. In 2015, when SR2015-256 was signed, he was interviewed by Martin Preib for a now-defunct blog called The Conviction Project. “I find it hard to believe,” he said, “that the city’s political leadership could even contemplate giving ‘reparations’ to human vermin.”

After Burge’s death, Chicago’s Fraternal Order of Police issued a statement saying that the organization did “not believe the full story about the Burge cases has ever been told. … Hopefully that story will be told in the coming years.”

* * *

A few months earlier, during the summer, I stopped by the Humboldt Park office of Joe Moreno, the Chicago alderman who first put the reparations ordinance before the city council in 2013. It hadn’t been his idea, but he’d been involved in the fight against the Illinois death penalty, and after the ordinance was presented to him by a coalition of activists and lawyers who had been fighting, in the courts and the streets, for the A-Team’s victims for years, he agreed to work with them.

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I asked Moreno why he thought the ordinance had passed in the end — and not just passed but passed without a single “nay” vote from any of the historic white ethnic enclaves (or “the more autonomous Caucasian wards,” as Moreno referred to them). How had the official legislative body of a city that had never been able to admit to torture now swung all the way to reparations?

Moreno wanted to recognize that some council members had likely undergone a genuine change of heart. A-Team survivors had met with many of them one-on-one, explaining what they wanted and why. Their lawyers had compiled the facts, and the facts were simply too overwhelming.

But Moreno also suggested a more cynical theory. There was still plenty of opposition — still plenty of people at city hall who thought, in his paraphrase, “I don’t want to be for this, this is ridiculous, these guys are all guilty and just want money.” But, he said, it had over time become “much harder for them to be vocal on it that way.” It wasn’t that every alderperson stopped doubting Burge’s victims, he said — but that some of them had made the decision to just move on: to pass the ordinance “rather than fight.”

This dynamic had shaped how the ordinance was covered, Moreno argued. “Every journalist, they savor so much the fight,” he said. Had there been a protracted legislative battle between different Chicago constituencies, it might have been covered more prominently. Instead, the ordinance — which, in the scheme of city budgeting, cost relatively little — passed, which meant the story lost much of its oxygen for the city’s journalists.

To the extent this was anyone’s goal — and of course they would never say so if it was — it may look as if their wish has been granted. All spring, I made sure to check my “Chicago torture” and “Chicago torture curriculum” Google Alerts daily, eager to see the stories that appeared. I assumed that at least a few local journalists would find a way around the CPS shutout and that, through what they published, the conversation about Burge, torture, the police and reparations would enter its next phase of civic life. Now and then, Burge was mentioned in yet another story about bad Chicago cops using torture or blackmail to frame suspects, or about more potential Midnight Crew victims getting their claims heard in court. But the school year ended, the summer dragged on, and no stories about the curriculum appeared. (At least until Burge’s death, when the New Yorker ran a story about the curriculum on its website, and many of Burge’s obituaries also mentioned its existence.) I kept telling people I met about reparations in Chicago, and they kept being shocked that they didn’t already know about it.[3]

In the short term, SR2015-256 has not made Chicago as a whole appreciably more conscious of its own history. But not every major development in civic culture — in a city’s (or a nation’s) consciousness of itself — gets noticed as such upon its arrival. Thousands of children all over Chicago have now talked about the city in a new way, and thousands more will again next year, and again the year after that. The impact of this is impossible to predict with any specificity: there is no such thing as a utilitarian cost-benefit analysis of starting to tell the truth, together, about what happened.

The official “Reparations Won” curriculum calls for eighth graders to mark the end of the curriculum with an op-ed about police-community relations, and for tenth graders to design a memorial to victims of police brutality. Douglas modified this requirement, requiring her students to work in groups to make mock talk shows about the Burge scandal and the reparations fight, in which they role-played as the principals, including Burge himself. These talk shows, which students presented live on their last day with the curriculum, were bits of utopian theater: collections of guests who would, in reality, never appear on the same talk show, and speaking with a bluntness they would never employ if they did. Anyone could be anyone: in one of the groups, Jon Burge himself was played by a Latina girl, who sauntered on stage grabbing her crotch in an exaggerated show of machismo. “I’m great,” she said.

“Why do you think you and your officers were able to get away with torture?” asked the host.

The class had watched numerous videos of Burge being deposed, during which all he did was assert, over and over again, his Fifth Amendment right not to testify. But this fictitious Burge took another tack: “I wouldn’t call it getting away,” the girl playing Burge said. “I’d call it doing our jobs. But if for some reason there’s this big thing where people think we were doing something wrong… We were able to get away with it because people covered for us. No one’s going to tell on me.”

* * *

Peter C. Baker is a freelance writer based in Chicago and a contributing editor at Pacific Standard magazine.

* * *

[1] Throughout this piece, for ease of reading, I have composited observations from both of these sections into one class. Douglas taught a third section in the afternoon, which I did not attend.

[2] There was no room or time for a detour into Chicago’s status as one of many nodes in the network connecting Vietnam, U.S. policing and the War on Terror. An investigation by the Guardian published in 2015 told the story of Richard Zuley, a contemporary of Burge’s on the Chicago police force who used comparably brutal interrogation methods. As a Navy reservist, he sometimes helped with counterterrorism missions in the pre-9/11 years, and when the military prison at the U.S. military base at Guantanamo Bay opened in Cuba, Zuley was called in to help extract information from a high-profile detainee. There, in the words of the Guardian reporter, he “supercharged” his Chicago-honed techniques for use on suspected terrorists.

[3] Many of those who did know about the ordinance were misinformed. In August, I had a long talk with two Chicago cops in a Starbucks; they’d heard about the reparations ruling, but were under the impression that the money went not just to vetted torture victims, but to entire neighborhoods on the South and West Sides. Each had a child in elementary school, and each said that if a torture survivor — or “a supposed torture survivor” — came to visit that child’s school, they would refuse to let them attend history class that day.