Yo I am sick and tired of living during catastrophic times

Can politicians fucking do smth about global warming already?? Or are their heads too far up their asses in denial to bother empathising with all the people dying of their negligence?

Fallen - A Sherlock Imagine

Hi! This is a series that I’ve been writing for quite some time now. I’ve revisited and revisited themes and characters over and over, and I could not face up posting it. But I think it is time I share a little bit of this work just for my sake. Here are the two first parts. There is more to follow! 

Summary: Five years after The Final Problem, Sherlock Holmes has been bored out of his mind. Having a hard time to teal with trauma and a less hectic lifestyle, he’s feeling like he is rotting away. That is until some very interesting case present itself and reveals to be intrinsically linked to him. Chasing after an assassin through London, he suddenly has to face who he really is. 

Pairings: Sherlock x Reader/Sherlock Holmes x John Watson

Warnings: At the moment, none, but might lead to smut. ;)

NOTA: My first language remains French. If there are inconsistencies, I am deeply sorry! 

Masterlist

The gusty wind pushed violently against the windows, causing a din in the small room in a central London’s flat. The night was already well underway, the reflections of the moon pierced the half-open curtains, illuminating the room with immaculate streaks. Inside, Sherlock Holmes’ face was tense. In his bed, lying on his back, his head tilted to the side as he murmured in his sleep. His eyes moved under the thin eyelids. He saw them, these two icy, impenetrable blue eyes, staring back at him, while the hands of his assailant aggressively surrounded his neck. He felt his lungs emptying as he struggled for breath. He felt suddenly euphoric; he was no longer breathing and he let himself go in this sea of uncertainty, lulled by the sweet feeling of an imminent death. Finally, his eyes opened and his irises increased. He was suffocating and his hands were shaking. Paralyzed, he lay in the same position for a moment. Then, when he regained his senses, he straightened up against the head of his bed, switched on the bedside lamp to his right and rested his head on the cool bedhead. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, then glanced furtively at the half-open drawer of his bedside table. He had to resist, he told himself, he couldn't spend his time running away from his thoughts and memories. He snapped the drawer shut and sighed heavily. Outside, London was still asleep.

Sherlock woke up suddenly later in the morning. He fixed the ceiling for a few minutes, paralyzed by the haunting images that took assault his dreams. He inspired slowly and scrutinized his surroundings. His mornings looked pretty much alike: he woke up whenever he pleased and his waking hour depended on the time he had gone to bed the night before, if he had gone to bed at all. Once awake, he usually struggled to stay in place in the large space that was his mattress. The room felt too quiet. He did not need to take a look at the watch he had left on the bedside table, nor had to open the curtains to guess the time of the day; he usually had an idea of the hour just by simply analyzing the ambient sound of the city outside. For instance, if the noise of the honking horns sounded steadily, he knew that the rush hour was at its height. On the contrary, if everything seemed too calm, he guessed that he was still finding himself at the hour of grace, when London, still asleep at dawn, was just beginning to move. At last, sometimes he could speculate that it was already past breakfast time: Mrs Hudson was already on the lookout, making as much clatter as she could, pretending to do some housekeeping in order to get him out of an unworthy sloth for a man of his age. 

That morning, Sherlock knew that the kettle that the landlady had left on purpose in the living-room table was cold. He sighed; he never liked to sleep, felt that napping was a total inconvenience and a fatality. But he had been bored out of his mind lately and sleeping was a good stretch out between the long hours of agony that had become his banal existence. He took his time to sweep out of the warm sheets and laid his feet on the cold wooden floor. He took a few minutes to enjoy the contact of the ground under his naked toes. He then scanned the room carefully; the pale hue of the day struggled to break through the dense curtains and dust particles floated through its glow. He took a deep breath and exhaled, shook his hair vigorously, putting in place some of the dark curls that had rebelled on his head during the night. He slipped on the clothes he had been preparing the night before and threw a quick shot in the mirror, replaced some curls again, slipped on his watch and headed for the living room. His first reflex was to grab the papers that Mrs Hudson always left beside the kettle. He peered out the main lines of the news, being about the only thing he enjoyed nowadays, and lost himself for a while. As he peered out the main lines of the news, his phone vibrated in his coat. He looked at it and smiled widely. 

It was a beautiful day; London seemed to be straight out of a golden-looking postcard. Sherlock stopped in front of the imposing building that housed the Diogene’s Club. First hesitant at the bottom of the stairs, he scowled and climbed the steps with a determined pace, trying to pull himself together. Inside, John Watson was leaning against the large wooden wall, a take-out coffee in his left hand. When he saw his friend, the doctor walked in his direction and smiled. ‘Still drinking that dirty water they dare to call coffee?’ Sherlock teased, walking with John in the long hall. ‘Each time I think it can’t possibly get worse,’ replied the doctor with an amused tone. ‘And yet each time you’re disappointed. You don’t learn.’ They stopped in front of the elevator doors. ‘Where’s mine?’ enquired the detective. John scoffed. ‘I didn’t bring you one.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because each time I do and each time you spit it out and say it’s disgusting.’ ‘It is disgusting.’ ‘Then why would you want one?’ ‘Because now I look empty-handed’, replied Sherlock as they got out of the elevator. John observed his friend walking before him and shook his head. They stopped in front of a part-closed door. Mycroft’s office. They could hear him talking and he sounded concerned. ‘What is it today you think?’ enquired John. ‘No idea.’ ‘Is it another political scandal?’ ‘God, please no. We’ve had enough of these.’ ‘I have no idea what we are doing here,’ sighed John, annoyed. ‘Drinking crap coffee and waited to be called by his Holiness’, replied Sherlock. John scoffed as Mycroft opened the door. ‘I thought I heard voices.’ ‘Then you should consult, Mycroft.’ Sherlock said as he entered the office. He walked directly to sit in his brother’s chair. Mycroft sighed and looked at him, exasperated. ‘Thank you for coming on such short notice,’ started Mycroft. ‘You didn’t give us much choice,’ replied John, sitting in front of Sherlock. ‘I was with my daughter, it’s Sunday.’ ‘Aren’t you always with her?’ ‘That is sort of what parents are supposed to do, taking care of their child,’ answered John, placing his cup on the desk and crossing his arms in front of his chest. ‘Well, I am glad we sorted it out,’ replied Mycroft with a disinterested smile. He turned away to the fourth person in the room. The stranger looked quite ordinary and was about the same age as Mycroft. He was dressed in a posh suit and his salt and pepper beard gave him a severe expression. He looked overall not impressed. ‘This is Darius White, head of the foreign desk’, said Mycroft, pointing to the stoic man. ‘Oh hello,’ replied John, extending his hand. The man stayed in his seat and barely acknowledged the doctor. ‘And this is my brother, Sherlock Holmes,’ added Mycroft. Sherlock waved impatiently. He never was one for introductions. ‘Shall we begin?’ asked the older Holmes, walking to close the door behind them. Darius White nodded and turned at John. ‘Good morning gentlem – ‘ A noise cut him mid-sentence. Sherlock just had taken a sip of John’s coffee and spat it out noisily on Mycroft’s desk, staining the many papers accumulated on the surface. John frowned and looked at his friend, both amused and annoyed at the same time. Mycroft, on the other hand, rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. ‘Sorry, do please continue’ murmured Sherlock, not bothered at all. ‘There has been an assassination of a member on a prolific CEO yesterday.’ ‘Who?’ asked John, suddenly intrigued. Mycroft slid a photograph over John. John gave the photograph to Sherlock. ‘He was not very liked by his pairs,’ added Darius White. ‘Doesn’t make it easy to circumscribe the potential suspects.’ Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘Yesterday, Lennox Burton got out of a meeting at five in the morning, there had been some important transactions during the night. His driver took him home where he was supposed to rest for a couple of hours before returning at his office for a lunch meeting. The driver came back at Burton’s penthouse around noon but as his boss wasn’t answering his calls or coming down, he used his emergency key to enter the penthouse and that’s when he discovered Burton’s body.’ Mycroft pushed another picture to John. Lennox Burton was spread on the floor with what appeared to be a sea of blood around him. He switched on to the next picture, it was a close-up autopsy photograph of the wound: a perfectly horizontal and clean cut on the neck. ‘Neat’, whispered Sherlock. John shook his head. ‘Did somebody see anything?’ he asked. ‘Was there any CCTV in the surrounding areas?’ ‘Evidently not,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Whoever was being the attack managed to alter it.’ ‘So,’ cut Sherlock. ‘It was premeditated.’ ‘Naturally.’ ‘And you want me to find who killed him?’ ‘Quite so.’ Sherlock frowned. ‘But there’s more,’ he thought out loud, staring at his brother. ‘There have been in fact about four similar killings in the past month’, added Darius White. ‘And you think they are related?’ intervened John. ‘Evidence points that way.’ ‘These aren’t just random murders,’ laughed Sherlock. Darius White chuckled. Sherlock Holmes was quick indeed. ‘The first three murders were committed on criminals. Sex-traffickers, drug-dealers, mostly,’ he replied.  ‘But this murder is different,’ observed Sherlock, ‘it was committed on an apparently respectable man.’ ‘Are you sure they were killed by the same person?’ interrupted John. ‘Well, we will need to know for certain. This is why we called you, gentlemen,’ replied Darius White solemnly. ‘I will need to see Mr Burton’s house of course,’ declared Sherlock. ‘I will text you the details,’ said Mycroft. ‘I guess Scotland Yard is involved?’ ‘Already there, brother mine. As usual.’ Sherlock stood up, quickly followed by John. As they exited the office, they heard the grave voice of Darius White advising Mycroft to insist on the confidentiality of this case.

In Your Atmosphere (Part Three)

Pairings: Steve x Reader & platonic Bucky x Reader (mostly)

Warnings: PTSD / Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, Panic Attacks, Mental Health Issues, Survivor Guilt, Eventual Smut 18+

Summary: The first time you met Steve Rogers, he kissed the hell out of you. It wasn’t the first time he met you.

Part Two / Master List

—

As the sun disappeared under the horizon, the compound became busier, almost bustling with activity as more and more people returned from their missions. Not that you noticed. After your brutal training session with Steve, you'd left him behind to finish his training and took another long, hot shower and then a nap, having been thoroughly and completely wiped out by the exercise. At first, you’d changed back into your casual clothes with the intention of exploring more of the compound, but once you went to rest your eyes for a minute you were out like a light.

The sounds of a heated argument followed by the slamming of a door were what woke you from your slumber. You couldn’t hear a lick of what had been said, but you ventured out into the hallway to investigate, yawning loudly. Your muscles were already singing from overuse – not even the hot shower had helped – and you’d feel it even worse tomorrow for sure.

The long hallway was dimly-lit, giving you the impression that it was much later than it actually was; a quick check of your phone indicated that it was a little after eight o’clock at night.

During your tour earlier in the day, you'd learned that this entire side of the building was residential, including the three floors above and the two below yours. It was evident that other people lived on your floor, the third floor, but you hadn’t yet figured out who your neighbours were. Your bedroom was in the corner, furthest from the stairs, and as you made your way toward them, you assumed that you probably wouldn't be finding out tonight. The other doors were closed, and it was far too quiet for your liking.

Your stomach growled and you gave up on your investigation to make your way to the kitchen. Considering everyone who lived here were all basically roommates, there were bound to be arguments. You knew from experience that it was hard to live with other people sometimes, and the Avengers were people, too.

The kitchen was deserted, and the dishwasher was running. It looked like everyone may have already eaten dinner. How did that even work, anyway? Did they share meals at the kitchen table, or did they eat separately? Who bought the groceries? Were they for communal use? At the very least you hoped that the answer to the last question was ‘yes,’ because you were starving.

Not wanting to accidentally steal someone else’s food, you took a mandarin orange from the fruit bowl on the table, in hopes that it would stave off your hunger while you tried to figure out what else you could eat without imposing. You took a seat at the counter and peeled the fruit as you scrolled through your Insta feed, liking a couple of Wanda’s posts. She was really excited about an upcoming high-end makeup release based on the female Avengers, herself included. She even had her own eyeshadow palette which you made a mental note to buy.

Just as you started to research the other palettes, a female voice piped up from the other side of the kitchen island. “Hey, you’re up.”

You jumped, slamming your knee on the counter in the process.

“God damn it, Nat,” you hissed, rubbing your bruising knee. “I hate it when you do that shit.”

She just grinned at you and took a seat at the counter beside you, peering at your phone. “Oh yeah, those are coming out next week. You’d better buy mine.”

“You know I will,” you told her, popping a piece of fruit into your mouth. Not that you knew how to use it properly, the makeup, but you liked to try anyway.

Natasha took a piece of your orange for herself without asking, but that was only because you’d shared plenty of meals before, namely when the two of you went drinking. It didn’t bother you in the least. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.” You knew what she was asking, about how you were coping with what had happened earlier. At her skeptical look, you rolled your eyes. “We did some burpees and talked it out.”

Natasha snorted.

You frowned at her. “What? Exercise calms me down. You know that.”

You purposely didn’t mention the fact that you and Steve had trained together for over an hour, or that the sexual tension between the two of you had been so thick you could’ve cut it with a knife. It was unfortunate that your face heated at the memory, because Natasha didn’t fail to notice if the sly look on her face was any indication. “Is that what it does, now?”

“Yes,” you said exasperatedly, shoving the rest of the orange into your mouth.

She laughed again. “Burpees. Christ. You’re perfect for each other.”

You finished chewing and swallowed the fruit. “Can you not?"

She shot you another teasing look, but as per your request she changed the subject. “Have you had dinner?”

“No, I was going to ask. Is everything shared, or…?”

“Yeah,” she affirmed. “Pretty much. If you buy something for yourself, though, just write your name on it before you put it in the fridge. Otherwise someone will get into it.”

As if on cue, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, walked in for a post-workout snack – at least that’s what you assumed from the gym towel slung over his shoulders. There were two large refrigerators in the room, one by the entryway and one near you, behind the kitchen island. He went for the former, from which he pulled out a random blue container and cracked the lid to peer inside.

“Like I said,” Natasha said, eyeing him warily, “Someone.”

You tried and failed to stifle a laugh. From what you understood, Sergeant Barnes had been through hell and back, so you couldn't really blame him. He was probably still adjusting to not being a human science experiment. That was probably a little more important than remembering to check a container for names.

“I only take Nat’s food,” he commented dryly, not even bothering to look over at the two of you as he popped the container into the microwave. “She likes to eat healthy. So do I. Your body’s a temple ‘n all that.”

You raised an eyebrow and glanced over at her for confirmation. She just shrugged. Well, you couldn't really blame him for that, either.

After the microwave started up, he leaned on the counter and finally spared a glance at you. Then he greeted you casually, “Oh, hey, Tang. Been awhile.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

That was when his eyes widened for a split second, and you could almost see the gears turning in his head as he realized what he’d said - not that you had any idea what that was, exactly.

“Sorry,” he covered quickly, “You, uh, look like someone I used to know.” As if that was a good enough explanation, he came over and held out his right hand, the flesh one, for a handshake. “Call me Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you,” you said politely, shaking his hand as you offered him your name.

Then he brought your hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss to the back of it with a crooked smile.  “Good to meet you, too, gorgeous.”

Maybe it was because your brain was already fried from the day’s earlier events, but you just gaped at him. That made twice in one day you’d been hit on, and by two Avengers, no less. Bucky was plenty handsome, of course: he had that sort of ‘bad boy’ appeal, with a bit of scruff on his face and a head of unruly brown hair. It suited him, but you couldn’t help but wonder how often it got in the way during fights. You liked to have yours pulled back out of the way, or cut short, depending on the mission.

The microwave beeped, then, signalling that his food was ready, and he released your hand to go retrieve it.

“I think you broke her,” Nat remarked.

“Nat,” you huffed, “You need to stop.”

You definitely weren’t used to this kind of attention. While in the past you’d been on missions where your role was that of a seductress, you’d never actually had that sort of appeal in your regular life. Today was a freak occurrence.

Bucky just laughed and, with his container and a fork in hand, he made his exit. He called over his shoulder on his way out, “See you around, sweetheart.”

---

What was meant to be a quick meal turned into a spontaneous girls’ night, with wine and cheese and stupid, terrible spy movies. That had always been a favourite for you and Natasha, because they were so hilariously inaccurate and the two of you loved to rip them apart. This one in particular was worse than most, but then again, you’d already polished off a bottle of wine each and were well into a third.

It felt so, so good to catch up with her. You hadn’t had a chance to over the last few months, considering how busy she’d been with the Avengers and how hard you’d been working to dig into SHIELD’s corruption. Every now and then, you did a welfare check on her to ensure that she was still alive, and of course she was. You had no doubt that she checked up on you every now and again, too.

Your peals of laughter spilled out of the living room as Natasha did a particularly awful impression of the female lead, who seemed to have no common sense whatsoever.

Sadly, your fun was rudely interrupted.

“It’s three in the morning, ladies. I can hear you all the way…”

Steve’s reprimand trailed off as he caught sight of you, and it was like his irritation seemed to just melt away. You were sitting cross-legged on the sofa, looking pretty as a picture with a blanket thrown over your lap, face flushed from the alcohol. He’d been able to hear all the excitement from his room upstairs, but he didn’t really put two and two together until he saw you. It wasn’t that he didn’t recognize your voice; it just caught him off-guard. It had been a long, long time since he'd seen you smile, and even longer since he'd heard you laugh.

You glanced over at Natasha, brows raised. “Uh oh,” you managed to say in between giggles, “We’re in trouble, now.”

“Busted,” she agreed with a grin, before she let out a sigh. “I guess it is getting late, though. Got an early mission.”

As Natasha got to her feet, Steve eyed the coffee table and spotted three bottles of wine, two of which were empty and the third, nearly so. Beside them were two wine glasses, a small platter of cheese, crackers, and grapes, as well as a half-eaten block of chocolate. Judging by the haphazard way the chocolate bar had been opened, with the foil ripped and crumpled in such a strange way, he guessed that it was yours.

“Aw, but the movie isn’t over,” you protested, reaching over to break off a piece of chocolate.

He was right.

“Sorry,” she told you apologetically, taking one last cube of cheese for the road. “Night, guys.”  

With one final pout, you said, “Bye, Nat.”

Steve didn’t miss the sly look Natasha shot him as she left the room, and his jaw tensed. He wasn’t going to live down the day's earlier events for a while.

“There’s still plenty of cheese left,” you called out to him, not wanting it to go to waste. “And wine, if you like that sort of thing.”

“What are you watching?” he asked you, slowly coming to stand beside the sofa.

“It’s called Hitler’s Mistress.” At Steve’s unimpressed look, you added, “His girlfriend is an American spy, except she’s really bad at it. Like, in real life he probably would have figured it out in the first two minutes of meeting her, bad.”

“That sounds…” he paused, wrinkling his nose as he tried to think of a nice way to word it, “not that great.”

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” you told him matter-of-factly. “It was supposed to be a love story, but it’s terrible. Watch with me?”

Considering his history, he didn’t particularly want to watch a movie about Hitler, but you really seemed to be enjoying it and he was awake, now. So, taking your word for it, he settled into the nearby armchair. “Sure.”

You were a bit disappointed that he didn’t next to you on the sofa like Natasha had, but that was fine. It was probably better that you didn’t sit together, considering, well, everything.

What you didn't know was that Steve had purposely not sat there for exactly that reason. He wanted to respect your boundaries, for one, and for two, he honestly didn’t trust himself around you, not after the stunt he'd pulled. In the end, though, he was glad that he stayed. The movie was absolutely terrible, and he got a kick out of it just as much as you did. Hitler was portrayed in a negative light, which was great, and it was even better that his ‘girlfriend,’ the spy, was so bad at her job and he still couldn’t figure it out. While Steve appreciated that, what he liked more was spending time with you.

Unfortunately, you were sauced. You put on pretty good front so as not to appear drunk, but tonight it wasn’t intentional; it had just become second nature to you now due to your job. And, quite the opposite, not once did Steve touch the alcohol. You got the impression that he preferred beer or spirits.

As the full extent of your inebriation started to set in, you found yourself staring less at the movie and more at him. God, he was flawless and so, so sexy even when he wasn’t trying to be. He was literally just sitting there, but all you wanted to do was get up, go over, and mount him like a stallion. Every now and then, Steve leaned over to take a piece of cheese or a grape - a simple movement, really - and when he licked his fingers, it lit a fire within you that just wouldn’t quit.

It didn’t take long for you to polish off the rest of the wine. There wasn’t much of it left, anyway, and you didn’t want it to go down the drain. At least, that’s what you told yourself. The real reason was because your nerves were shot.

That was a mistake.

The credits started to roll sooner than you would have liked. It was about four o’clock, now, per the clock on your phone. Even though you knew how late it was, there was just something about him that made you want to stay with him, spend time with him… maybe even sleep with him. No, that was definitely just the alcohol. With a heavy sigh, you unsteadily got to your feet and stretched, doing your best to ignore the growing heat between your legs, the lingering soreness in your muscles, and the fact that you’d had far too much to drink.

“You alright?”

When you turned your head to look at Steve, you swayed a little. “Peachy keen.”

You weren’t. You’d drank quite a bit, and he knew it, judging by the amused expression on his face as he pulled himself up out of the armchair. God, with even that simple action you could see his muscles flex and strain under his shirt. He wasn’t even doing it on purpose, which made it about ten times worse.

“Here." He held out his hand to you. “I’ll help you up to your room.”

How chivalrous. You wanted to swoon.

“But the mess—?”

Steve shook his head. “I’ll take care of it, doll. Come on.”

Your face heated at the casual address, and even more so when you took his hand, your skin tingling at the warmth of his touch. Still, you felt guilty letting him clean up after you, but you were in no state to try and collect the leftover plates and glasses without dropping them. Your words slurred just a little as you apologized, “I'm sorry for the trouble. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Nat, and…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassured you as he eased you down the hallway. “Everyone needs to let loose once in a while.”

“Do you?” you asked him.

He pondered that question for a moment, before he answered, “Not as much as I should.”

“Well, that’s no good,” you said with a frown. “Have a drink with me next time.”

Next time. The phrase warmed his heart, but he got the feeling that it was just the alcohol talking. “Next time?”

You didn’t notice what you said until he mentioned it, and then you found yourself flustered, drunkenly babbling, “I shouldn’t have assumed– I mean, I’m a mess so I totally understand if you don’t want to—”

Steve said your name and stopped walking, giving your hand a gentle tug to stop you, too. "Hey," he said as you spun around to face him, swaying slightly. “I’m kidding. That sounds great.”

The halls, unlike the living room, were still dimly lit, and with the television switched off, it was quiet - almost unnervingly so. The only thing you could hear was the sound of your racing heartbeat in your ears as you looked up into his kind blue eyes, feeling absolutely minuscule in front of him. He was so tall, a fact you’d never fully realized until now. You loved it.

Despite your inebriated state, you didn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes flickered down to your lips. 

You needed to say something, anything, to break this tension, otherwise you’d do something you would absolutely regret in the morning. You’d always prided yourself in your professionalism: you weren’t the type to sleep with a coworker, and you didn’t plan to start today despite how incredibly tempting the prospect was. 

That thought sobered you up a little.

“Do you—” you began, throat dry, “Do you have a mission in the morning, too?”

Your sudden question brought him back to reality. “Oh, yeah. With Romanoff.”

You grimaced and gently released his hand, not wanting to take up any more of his time. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up so late.”

“I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions,” he teased, “being 96 and all.”

Right. Of course. You knew his backstory, but having him come right out and tell you something like that came as a bit of a shock. Here you were, in your mid-twenties, being attracted to someone who'd been born nearly a full century prior. How stupid of you to assume that you'd be able to relate to him, someone who had grown up during the Great Depression. There was literally nothing in common between the two of you, no foundation upon which to even build a friendship, let alone a relationship. You felt like a moron.  

Well, you certainly swooned, but it wasn’t because of his chivalry.

“Whoa, hey.” Steve caught you easily as you fell, with one arm around your lower back. “Do you want to sit down?”

Your fingers embedded themselves loosely in his shirt as a flush of shame crawled up your neck. God, you were an idiot. Even now, you loved how strong his chest felt under your fingertips, the way he held you so securely, his warmth—

Your eyes fluttered shut, then, and your head lulled back as your consciousness began to fade. You could vaguely feel him pull you closer, and when he said your nickname again, you thought that his voice sounded so far away. It barely registered when he hooked his other arm under your knees to lift you up; instead, for a brief moment, it felt like you were floating.

That was the last thing you remembered.

---

Tags: @jennmurawski13, @patzammit

Part Four

The Goose

The following is an excerpt from The Lund Loop Newsletter. To learn more click here.

In one sense, the hole in the television was beautiful, almost artistic.

The impact – from what I first assumed was a broomstick, but later turned out to be a hammer – had punched a perfect circle in the center of the tube, radiating a sunburst of fine cracks towards the edge of the screen.

That it hadn’t exploded in an electric storm of glass shards puzzled me. All the TV’s I’d seen smashed by guitars in bad 80’s music videos had done so. But the lack of dried blood or bits of flesh in the shag carpet in front of the television cabinet convinced me otherwise – and somewhat disappointedly I must confess.

None of my roommates were home to help solve the mystery, but explicitly understanding the dynamics of a house shared by four twenty-something males, I started to backfill a theory as to why the only TV in the house was now inoperable.

And it wasn’t just any TV. It was a 32” Sony Trinitron, arguably the best set you could buy in 1986. And even though my roommate got it for free by pulling a credit card scam at Circuit City, it was still a loss.

Occam’s razor suggested an overly inebriated partygoer had backed into it while playing air guitar with a broom, but that’s as far as I could take my mental exercise as I was tired and numb. To the point that kissing sixteen channels of cable TV goodbye for the foreseeable future didn’t even register.

I had just arrived home after a six-hour drive from Arizona, where my girlfriend and I spent a week trying to make Castaneda-like connections with the spirits of dead shamans, but instead got drunk and crashed in cheap motels. 

I was disappointed by the experience, though the fact that Castaneda’s tool of transformation was peyote and ours was Crazy Horse Malt Liquor did not occur to me at the time.

It was upon climbing the stairs to my room that I realized the damaged TV was just the beginning of a tale that would end with the spilling of avian blood and a public shaming, the likes of which Huntington Beach, California had never seen.

—-

The older you get, the more your circle of friends solidifies. Though you still might pick up some acquaintances later in life, it’s very rare to develop true friendships after forty. Rarer still is meeting true friends of your true friends – those whom you’ve never met before. That’s because, by the time you hit forty, you’ve known your true friends for a long time and are much more likely to have met anyone else meaningful in their lives.

Meeting friends of friends is something that happens in your early 20s.

That’s the time when your world is expanding, first by leaving high school, and second by entering college or the workforce. That’s when you first start to meet people who don’t know your parents or siblings, aren’t familiar with your hometown, and don’t share a common history with you.

Meeting a friend of a friend is a dicey proposition when you’re young. They come with implied approval due to their relationship to your new friend, but not a guarantee. After all, you haven’t really known your new friend that long, so how can you be sure they are a good judge of character – present company excepted.

For me, it worked like this…

In my early 20s, I picked up some new friends whom I ran with for a few years. One was from across town, another from one county north, while three or four others were transplants from out of state. Those were the ones you had to worry about.

The transplants were trying to get away from something. Usually a small-town mentality or small-minded people.

But small-minded people aren’t very good at getting the hint, and every spring break or 4th of July holiday a friend of a friend would arrive in town, excited to see what Southern California was all about.

That’s how I first met Snap. His real name was Sean.

Sean was a good guy. A solid guy. He was intelligent and polite, even thoughtful at times. The type of guy you’d introduce to your mom and she’d tell you the next day, “I really like that Sean.”

But Sean was a different person when we went out drinking – which happened quite a bit.

One moment everything would be great. Everybody would be laughing, joking, and having a fun time. Then in an instant, it would all go bad.

Sean would fly across the bar and crack a random guy in the jaw. Or scream “you’re a fucking bitch,” to a girl whose only crime was to order a drink next to him. Often, he’d break down and sob incoherently to his friends, who, while trying to console him, would suddenly be accused of mockery and challenged to a fight.

The worst part was that you never knew when it would happen. On some nights it only took one beer before things went off the rails. On others, he could drink all night long without incident.

But when it did go bad, it always happened without warning. There were never any signs or telltale clues that he was about to go off. He just snapped.

So, we called him “Snap.”

—-

As I came to the top of the landing, I noticed that three of the four doors to the bedrooms were open, an unusual occurrence in our house. Though all my roommates knew and mostly trusted each other, it was best practice to keep your door shut.

And it was no coincidence that the only door that was still closed had a lock on it. Or that it was mine.

Walking past the open doors, more damage was revealed. In my roommate Andy’s room, his pride and joy, a five-component stereo system, had been destroyed.

All the knobs from the tuner were on the floor, and the posts that held them in place bent downward as if hit by a hard object.

Both the windows on the dual-cassette player were cracked, like some solid metal object had been smashed into them.

The five-disc CD player had dents all over its case, the type that would occur if a hammer type instrument had struck it.

Hmmm?

And finally, both speakers had multiple holes punched in front and back, each the same size and circumference as the hole on the TV tube downstairs.

Double hmmm?

Then I passed Greg’s room and saw that the strings on his prized guitar were hanging by the tuners, as if ripped out from the bridge. There were also round impact marks across the face of the guitar which matched up with the stereo and the TV.

I was sensing a pattern here.

My third roommate, Jeff, has a couple of things askew in his room but no damage as far as I could see.

As tired as I was, I couldn’t help but modify my theory. Besides, it was simple.

Andy worked five days a week and had to get up at seven each day. Because of this, he was always in bed by 9:00pm. However, Greg was currently in between jobs, and liked to watch TV downstairs until early in the morning. On more than one occasion – sometimes multiple times per night – Andy would come out of his room and ask Greg to turn the TV down.

Sometimes once was all it took. But other times it might be four or five times before the request was acted on, and by that time they both were screaming at each other like maniacs.

Like I said, it was simple. Andy finally had enough of the loud late-night TV, came downstairs, and in a fit of rage, smashed Greg’s TV screen with a hammer.

Greg then took the hammer, ran upstairs, and went to town on Andy’s stereo system. After he was done, Andy took the hammer and attempted to destroy Greg’s guitar.

My roommate Jeff likely tried to break them up – physically – which is why some of the stuff in his room was knocked around.

Simple.

So I unlocked my door, went into my room, and crashed for a well-needed rest, unaware that the real culprit in this mayhem was “Goose.”

—-

I met Goose for the first and only time when I woke up from my nap. His real name was Eric. I never did get his last name.

He was a friend of a friend – a transplant – who had been hanging out and partying at our house for the last three days.

Our house sat on the corner of our tract’s outlet street, right next to a main thoroughfare. Sitting on our front lawn, you could see a wall across the street which ran along the length of that thoroughfare denoting our neighbor’s backyards.

It was in one of those backyards where a honking sound began on the Saturday night I was trying to commune with dead Indians (sorry, that’s what we called them in 1986).

The sound was made by a goose.

Apparently, Goose – the friend of a friend, not the animal – was in the front yard drinking with my friends and roommates and got annoyed by this sound. So he announced to anyone who’d listen, “I’m going to go over there and kill that fucking goose.”

With that he threw down his beer, grabbed a club out of an old golf bag in the garage – I think it was a three-wood – ran across the street, and jumped the fence into a random neighbor’s backyard.

Immediately, he was confronted by a full-grown male Canadian goose, honking, and using its long neck to lunge and peck at him. According to Eric’s police deposition, he freaked out, took a swing, and despite never having played a hole in his life, connected flush with the head of the goose, immediately silencing it and in the process, separating it from life.

Eric claimed that he never meant to hurt the goose, just to scare it, but when it lunged at him, he panicked, causing him to take the fatal swing.

But that wasn’t the end of it and retaliation was swift. In addition to reporting it to the police, the owner of the goose got his brother and a buddy together, grabbed some tools, including – c’mon, you know where this is going – a hammer, broke into our house when everybody was out, and proceeded to do as much damage as possible to our highly prized consumer goods.

But he didn’t stop there. He also called the local newspapers – when local newspapers were social media – and begin a shame campaign.

So though Eric returned to the shithole from whence he came, never to face justice – or return to HB again, my roomates and I had to endure the scorn that arose from a series of front page articles about the goose murder, each one accompanied by a photo of the neighbors holding up their photo of Susie – their deceased pet goose.

The Goose published first on your-t1-blog-url