#the way richard’s leaning over in that fourth photo
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Celebrity Withnail and I screening, 8th of February 2000.
#paul mcgann#richard e grant#withnail and i#mcgann monday#the way richard’s leaning over in that fourth photo
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this competition asked to write a short story in the dystopian genre and my entry's below - don't rb!
the sweetest fruit
The boy gasped, straining against the padded frame of the jeep just as the vehicle slowly came to a halt. ‘Look!’ he shouted, pointing at a spot about a hundred feet from the group. ‘Look, Mum! That’s so cool!’
Half-instinctively, his mother had already grabbed a fistful of his tank-top, ready to yank him back. She had spent the entirety of the trip sitting as still as possible, facing forward, eyes stubbornly fixed on the self-cooling top of the car in a pointless effort to fight her motion sickness: her patience was already wearing very thin without her eight-year-old personal safety hazard trying to get himself killed.
‘Ethan, for the love of God,’ she snapped. ‘I already told you to stop leaning over the frame! Do you realise how dangerous that is?’
‘No, Mum, you’ve got to look!’
‘Emma, darling,’ her husband whispered, a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘You should really look at this. It’s magnificent.’
Whatever it was, even her fifteen-year-old daughter - who had spent the last thirty minutes texting her friends back home without so much as a glance at the scenery - was jaw-slacked, so she slowly got up on her wobbly knees and peered over her shoulders.
In the shadow of a tree, protected from the sweltering heat, two lions were feasting on a zebra. Perhaps belatedly, as it’d taken her a second to drink the sight in, she realised that the poor thing was still alive: writhing as blood, red and hot and pulsing, gushed out from where the bigger lion - the male - had bitten into its back.
The smaller one, the female, soundlessly sank its teeth into the dying animal’s neck, and the latter gave one last weak kick, finally falling limp. When the lioness stood again, it was almost impossible, from this distance, to see her eyes amidst the bloodied mess on her face.
‘Oh, my God, Matt,’ Emma said. ‘This is beautiful. Nature truly is beautiful.’
‘You don’t really get to see this kind of show anywhere else today,’ their guide said from the driver’s seat. He sounded proud, as if he’d hunted and fed the zebra to the lions himself.
Alberto wasn’t wrong, Emma reasoned. Given that they were parked in the middle of the privately-owned biggest North American savanna, he - or rather, his employer - was the one effectively feeding the lions. Like feeding mice to cats. She glanced at her children, glad they could have a window on a reality that was long gone. To think it would have taken a trip around the world to watch this spectacle - imagine the motion sickness then! If only, she considered wistfully, there could be a way of replicating glaciers just as accurately.
‘Honestly, it seems a bit unfair that they get to eat real meat,’ Ethan said at the dinner table a few hours later. He was picking at his plate, moving the fried grasshoppers they’d been served for dinner around, but not really eating any. ‘While we are stuck with insects and microprotein or whatever.’
Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. She was tired and sunburnt, her sensitive pale skin suffering under the blistering sun of the region, so different from the temperate weather back home North. She had a splitting headache, too. She was, yet again, at the so-called end of her tether. ‘Ethan…’
‘You should be glad you get to eat at all,’ her daughter said at the same time. ‘There’s a reason it’s illegal to eat meat. These animals are here for show, anyway. They were originally from Africa.’
‘Shut up, Becca,’ Ethan mumbled. ‘Everybody knows there are no animals in Africa. There’s nothing there.’
Becca’s cheeks were tinted pink, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Of course there were animals. There were animals everywhere before the Climate Crunch.’
‘Both of you, stop it,’ Matt interjected. ‘Ethan, your sister is right. You should be grateful that we are here in the first place. That said…’ He leant forward, voice down to a whisper: ‘I have a surprise for you. Or, well, Richard has a surprise for us. When he arrives tomorrow, he’ll bring us real meat. Bovine meat.’
‘But it’s illegal,’ said Becca.
‘It’s technically illegal,’ Matt acknowledged. ‘It’s not if you know how to get some and no one from Animal Conservation finds out. Do you think our president only eats insects? Please, Becca. Use that big brain of yours.’
‘Yes,’ Ethan snickered. ‘Use your brain, Becca.’
‘That is too generous,’ Emma said. ‘Inviting us here in the first place was, when even he hasn’t gotten here yet. Now this. I wouldn’t know how to repay him.’
Truly, all she felt was jealousy. Her guts twisted with the sheer force of it. Yes, she had known that Richard was comfortable. The gated, heavily guarded estate spanned for thousands of acres, comprised the 5000sqt villa they were staying at (five bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a cinema, marble floors and solar panels on the rooftop), an indoor swimming pool inspired by vintage photos of Amalfi, two indoor tennis courts, and the savanna they’d explored earlier in the day. ‘The biggest conservation area in North America since they repurposed the Midwest,’ he’d bragged in a video call, two weeks before. ‘You will love it. The holiday you deserve. Make yourselves at home.’
But meat? He could get meat?
Matt’s family had designed DeNuketify, which was basically the only effective way of purifying ocean water from whatever nuclear waste Japan kept spewing so that it could be used and, most importantly, drunk. They had managed to flee the continent with the last handful of greencards about the time her family did, too, taking their precious Queen’s accent with them to found Nova London. She was the governor of Nova London now, for God’s sake. The bloody queen herself was long dead but she was alive, and yet, yet - they had never had meat.
‘We don’t have to, Emma,’ Matt said. ‘We just need to remember how lucky we are to enjoy this meal, this house, this holiday. Look at that,’ and he nodded towards the TV screen again. ‘Actually, Alexa!, volume up!, I think the Italians have finally surrendered.’
The war correspondent’s voice grew louder. She - they, Emma reminded herself: Becca always told her not to assume anyone’s gender - was wearing a dust mask and reading from a bundle of documents. ‘The last military hospital in the island of Palermo was destroyed four days ago by a Canadian airstrike,’ they were saying. ‘The rebels surrendered soon after, followed by the group of extremists in the Nebrodi island. Etna had already surrendered last year.’
‘It’s important to remember that these actions were necessary to finally put a rest on the instability of the region,’ they added. ‘Canada will fund a complete restoration of the Southern archipelago. The remaining civilians will be provided with a shelter and then, when the time comes, a suitable job. Nova Italia will be the sixteenth Canadian state, the fourth offshore. There are also hopes to extract petroleum from the seabed of the sunken city of Gela.’
‘Watch them make it into a holiday hotspot,’ Matt commented. ‘The weather is still nice there.’
‘Ooh, I heard about this.’ Becca picked her phone back up and started furiously typing away. ‘There’s this journal entry soldiers found over there, under the rubble, that’s gone viral. It was translated into English. Wait, I’ll pull it up. Alexa, volume down.’
‘I’m not sure I want to hear it,’ Emma said, uneasy. ‘We’re on holiday. Should we not watch a movie? Something funny?’
Becca waved her away, as if she was an annoying fly. ‘It’ll be good practice for my drama class.’
Matt didn’t help—he simply shrugged, half-apologetic, as if to say: Let her do her thing.
Becca made a show of clearing her throat, too, before she started reading from her phone—her high voice now grave, studied, as if she were speaking to a larger audience: ‘I wonder what peas taste like.’
Right then, the scene on screen changed to footage of what looked like a destroyed village, something out of an apocalyptic movie. Emma found herself unable to look away.
‘Nonna used to say that her own great-grandmother grew them in her garden. Figs, too,’ Becca read. ‘They say they were the sweetest fruit.’
Emma wondered if this journal was actually written by a child or a teenager. It didn’t sound like an adult at all. She couldn’t help but picture a girl, a brunette, not much older than Becca, perhaps a rebel, or a trainee nurse on the sweet cusp of adulthood, holding this journal of hers, or perhaps a gun. It violently reminded her that her own daughter, too, would have to serve her time in the Forces in three years.
On screen, the Canadian soldiers walked among the ruins, zigzagging between torn up clothes and discarded weapons, surely looking for surviving rebels under the rubbles.
‘Isn’t it silly that we can hear the fighters overhead and that all I can do is think about food?’ said Becca. ‘I wish we could also eat figs and be happy.’
On screen, the camera zoomed in on a long-forgotten man's shoe, some crumpled photographs, on a pile of bodies in black bin bags.
‘Grandma - I miss her - left me a poetry book, too, from T.S. Eliot. I hope the book is with me when I die, so I can give it back to her when we meet again, afterwards. So I can tell her that T.S. Eliot was wrong.’
On screen, one of the soldiers approached and showed a little trinket to the camera: a bloody, heart-shaped locket that must’ve once been golden, hiding the miniature pictures of two brunette children that would never have a name.
‘That’s enough,’ Emma said. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. ‘Stop reading.’
‘The world may have not ended with a bang, but it didn’t end with a whimper, either: the world didn’t end at all. Sometimes,’ Becca finished reading, ‘I wish it had.’
‘What a load of rubbish,’ Matt scoffed. ‘Everyone should feel lucky to be alive. I bet this journal is a fake. Alexa, turn the TV off.’
As the screen faded to black, Ethan finally popped a grasshopper in his mouth. ‘I can’t wait to have meat tomorrow.’
#my writing#honestly dystopia is not a genre i'm interested in#lol#this was lazy and i wrote it in one morning while i was hungover on negroni
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Save Me (Part 2)
Summary: Bucky comes to your rescue during a fight with your boyfriend.
Characters: Bucky, Steve, Sam (eventually), minor characters
word count: 2734
Warnings: a touch of angst, fluff
I don’t know how much time has passed when I wake up in a bed covered by a thin blanket, but judging by the orange light streaming through the window I'm assuming at least a few hours. I slowly move my legs and try to sit up flinching at the dull throb in my abdomen. “Ow.” I bring my hand to my stomach and squeeze my eyes shut against the pain.
“Hey, take it easy sweetheart,” a voice sounds at my side and I jump flinching again. “The nurse said you might feel some pain for the next couple hours.”
I look over to see Bucky sitting in a chair beside me. “You stayed,” I look around and note that none of the other beds in the room have chairs which leads me to assume he brought his own chair, from the waiting room most likely, to sit by my side. I wonder what he told them to allow him in here.
A kind smile spreads across his face. “Of course. I told you, I'm not going anywhere.”
My eyes start to water for probably the fourth time today, probably from the hormones. Before I can say anything else the doctor comes around and checks my chart.
"Alright Y/N, everything went well. You will feel cramping for the next couple of hours and possibly a few days after. That's all normal. Here is a prescription for antibiotics, I want you to take these twice a day with food to avoid infection." He hands me a slip of paper.
I nod along as he talks about other possible side effects and tells me I can go. I heave a deep sigh of relief when the doctor leaves and I slowly sit up in the bed.
Bucky watches me as I move leaning forward ready to jump in to help if I need it but giving me the space to do things on my own first. "How are you feeling?" He holds his hand out to me to help me to my feet.
I bring my hand to my abdomen again and frown. "Empty," I look up at him. "Is that weird? Like, I don't physically feel any different but I'm very aware that I’m not pregnant anymore." I feel a pang of sadness when I think of that fact and for a second I start to worry if I made a mistake getting the abortion, but then the bruise left by Alex catches my eye and I'm reminded of I would have to deal with if I hadn't done this. I let my hand drop and move to pick up my clothes that are sitting at the end of the bed and pull the curtain closed to change. "I'm hungry too," I say when I open the curtain and with the thought that I haven't eaten anything today.
"Wanna get a slice of pizza?" He looks at me with such genuine hopefulness that I can only stare at him in shock for a second.
"Uh, y-yeah. Sure." My brain stutters back to life again and I barely catch the smile that spreads across his face before he hides it behind his hand.
"Great. I know a really good place close by," he smiles again, not bothering to hide it this time and picks up the chair. "I should bring this back."
I'm reminded of the fact that he probably wasn't allowed in here. He follows behind me as I slowly make my way back towards the waiting room. When we get back outside I'm relieved to see that the crowd from before has dissipated a little, but Bucky still angles himself between me and the crowd and rests a protective arm around my shoulders.
I lean into his side as we walk until we're around the corner and I can't help but feel a little disappointed when he lets his arm drop and takes a step away to give me some space. "It's this way," he beckons me forward leading us down the street towards a small pizza shop that looks warm and full of love.
The shop is bright when we step inside and we're greeted with wide smiles and a hug for Bucky from an older man. "This little shop was mine and Steve's favourite place back in the 40's," he explains. "I knew Richard when he was just a kid playing with toys in the corner over there."
The older man grins, "and now I run the place. It's good to see you James, what can I get for you two?"
"We'll share a large pepperoni...if that's ok with you." He adds quickly looking at me and I nod.
"Coming right up!" Richard thumps Bucky once on the back before disappearing behind the counter. We sit at a nearby table and the waitress brings out two glasses of water for us.
“This was the first place I came when I was well enough to come back,” he reminisces with a far away look on his face. “It was nice to see it still standing and it’s hardly changed.”
I take the time to look at the decor around me. The tables are covered with red and white checkered tablecloths and the walls are covered with pieces of art and photos of Italy, and soft music filters around us from the speakers spread out over the room. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that Bucky is now watching me with an amused smile on his face. I pretend not to notice...until I can’t anymore. "What?" I finally ask, as a blush that blooms on my cheeks.
He watches me for another second before speaking. "I wanna know why you didn't recognize me at first," he cocks his head to the side. "I mean I'm not upset or anything but you recognized Steve immediately so I'm just curious."
I shrug and look down at the napkin I’m currently ripping to shreds. "Well, I mean, there's photos of Captain America everywhere, posters, comic books, lunch boxes, my niece's bedroom walls." I chuckle at the thought of how excited she'd be if she knew I just met him. "But most of the photos we get of you are on the news, which are blurry as fuck. And I don't read tabloid magazines."
Bucky bobs his head in understanding, a thoughtful look crosses his features. "And besides you were wearing gloves before, that arm is a dead giveaway." He had taken his gloves off when we sat down and I glance down at his hands folded in front of him.
He laughs and my heart skips a beat at the sound. "Yeah, that's fair," he's handsome, almost too handsome, but when he laughs there's a vulnerability to him that makes him seem more alive. It reminds me that he's real and not just a fantasy my mind made up.
Silence settles over us again but it's not the awkward silence from the clinic. This feels comfortable and natural, we're just two people enjoying each other's company. The waitress returns then with the pizza and couple plates for us. We thank her and she gives us a wide smile as she glances between the two of us. "You guys make a really cute couple by the way," when her words register I look up at her in shock.
"What? Oh, no we're not- we're not together. He's just helping me with some stuff. We only met today actually," My blush returns and I glance over at Bucky expecting to see him equally as shocked but he just sits there watching everything unfold, seemingly amused by my floundering.
"Oh! I'm sorry, you just seem comfortable with each other, I assumed you were on a date." She gives an awkward laugh before turning to leave. Bucky leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.
"Is the thought of dating me really that bad?" He teases and his smile grows at my reaction.
I blanch, "Oh my God! No, I'm so sorry. I just- I panicked. Sorry." He's enjoying this, I think to myself and I scramble to think of something, anything, to move past this feeling of wanting to literally disappear off the face of the face of the earth. "Well, now that I've sufficiently embarrassed myself, thank you again for staying with me," I keep my eyes on the slice of pizza in my hand, afraid to meet his eye.
There's a pause and I force myself to look at him, he’s leaning forward again his amused smile turned serious. "You don't have to keep thanking me," he regards me with a gentle look in his blue eyes. "I'm just doing what any good person would do." He shrugs and takes a bite of his own slice.
"I don't know about that, not many people would wait hours at a clinic for someone they don't even know, let alone at their bedside." My curiosity from earlier returns and I tilt my head. "By the way, what did you say to get them to let you in?"
Bucky freezes mid-bite and chews slowly as if stalling. He swallows and wipes his mouth with a napkin. "I, uh, I may have told them you were my girlfriend and that I was worried about you waking up alone and didn't want you to be scared," he pauses before continuing. "I mean, it wasn't a total lie. I know what it's like to wake up in a place you don't know in pain, with no one there to help you, and I didn't want you to feel that." A dark expression crosses his face and I know he's remembering his past and everything he experienced at the hands of HYDRA. I don't know the details but I know what he went through I wouldn't wish on anyone. My heart breaks for him and without thinking I reach across and place my hand on his, hoping it's enough to comfort him like he did for me at the clinic.
Despite my hunger from earlier I'm only able to eat one slice before my stomach begins to cramp again, so I push the rest towards Bucky which he quickly finishes off.
We ask the waitress for the bill but she only shakes her head and tells us it's on the house. I look behind her to see Richard smiling at us behind the counter, so instead I give her a generous tip and thank both her and Richard.
I pull out my phone and pretend to scroll through something if only to have something else to focus on other than Bucky's gorgeous smile and piercing blue eyes. "I should get going." I say reluctantly and Bucky matches my movements as I stand up and head for the door.
*************Bucky*************
Richard winks at me as I wave goodbye and we both share a knowing smile. I like her. she possesses a quiet strength that I find amazing, and even in her simple jeans and t-shirt outfit paired with an oversized knitted sweater she's beautiful.
When I step outside behind her I see that she's at the curb looking for a cab. The sun had set a while ago leaving the sky an inky black. I tap Y/N on the shoulder. "Let me give you a ride home."
She begins to protest but I shake my head and raise my hand to stop her. "Come on, I'm parked back by the clinic you'll get home faster."
She thinks about it for a second then nods. I begin to walk back the way we came and when she catches up to me she links her arm with mine causing my heart to swell. I look down at her for a second and she's smiling up at me, her eyes shine in the low light as if she held all the starlight that was missing from the sky. She looks even more beautiful.
We walk like this the rest of the way arm in arm and I feel a pang of disappointment when reach my motorcycle knowing she'll be leaving my side soon. "This is yours?" She asks and I worry that she'll change her mind, but that worry melts away when she steps ahead of me to examine the bike with a look of awe and excitement on her face. "I've always wanted a motorcycle," then her face falls in slight disappointment. "But my parents were always worried I'd get hurt and then I never got around to getting my license when I moved out."
I chuckle at her excitement and pull the helmet out of the small compartment at the back and hand it to her.
She looks down at it and frowns. "What about you?"
"I'll be fine, don't worry about me." I wink at her and get on the motorcycle. “Super soldier remember?” and she laughs.
“Oh right, how could I forget.” She swings her leg over the bike and gets herself situated on the seat behind me. She places her hands on either side of my waist but I can feel her hesitation.
I look behind me and she gives me a nervous lopsided smile. “You’re gonna need to hold on tighter than that, sweetheart.” She scoots forward and tightly wraps her arms around my waist pressing her body flush to my back. “You ready?” I ask as the motorcycle roars to life.
“Uh huh,” she nods against my back and I smile to myself before we speed off through the streets of New York with her giving me directions every once in a while.
Within 15 minutes we’re pulling up to a small house that she tells me she’s renting. Once we’re stopped and I’ve turned off the bike she hops off the bike and laughs. “That was amazing!” she unbuckles the helmet and hands it back to me. “I definitely need get a motorcycle now.”
The image of her riding her own motorcycle pops into my head and I smile at the thought. “I could teach you if you want.” I offer, hoping I don’t sound too eager to have a reason to see her again. Heat blooms in my chest when she turns her grin on me.
“Yeah, I’d like that.” She looks behind her at her house and heaves a sigh. “Well I better go, thank you again. For everything.” She pauses and chews on her lip as if debating something then steps forward and wraps her arms around me in a hug. Taken by surprise I tentatively wrap my arms around her, after a second we let go and she gives me one last smile before turning to walk up the steps to her house.
*************Y/N*************
I unlock my front door and step through with the biggest, stupidest grin on my face. I couldn’t believe the fight with Alex was something that had happened just this morning, but the bruise on my wrist is still very purple reminding me of the reality that today could’ve ended much worse for me if it wasn’t for Bucky stepping in.
I set down my purse on the bench sitting by the door and I take off my sweater and lay it on the bench beside my purse when a cool breeze wafts over me and a chill runs down my spine. Did I leave a window open somewhere? I wonder to myself as I walk into the living room to check. I walk up to the first set of windows to find they are tightly latched and when I look outside I can see Bucky still at the side of the road leaning against his motorcycle. I would wave to him but he’s looking at something else and that’s when I see the flash of something reflected in the window.
My stomach drops and I slowly turn around to face the opposite wall and reach over to turn on a lamp at my side. My blood freezes in my veins and my heart stops when I see him. Alex.
He’s sitting on my couch silently watching me, his eyes are red as if he’s been crying, his clothes are rumpled and it looks like one of his sleeves is ripped; from what I don’t know. In one hand he’s holding a half empty bottle of vodka, my vodka. And in the other: a knife.
Tags: @doralupin01 @whatsupbucky
#Save Me#Bucky x Reader#Bucky Barnes#bucky x y/n#bucky x female reader#marvel#Avengers#James Buchanan Barnes#MCU#part 2#the winter soldier
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WHO Recommends Against Hydroxychloroquine To Prevent Covid-19, Oklahoma Is Stuck With Piles Of It
https://sciencespies.com/news/who-recommends-against-hydroxychloroquine-to-prevent-covid-19-oklahoma-is-stuck-with-piles-of-it/
WHO Recommends Against Hydroxychloroquine To Prevent Covid-19, Oklahoma Is Stuck With Piles Of It
Oklahoma Governor Kevin Stitt (R) has defended the state’s decision to purchase around $2 million … [+] worth of hydroxychloroquine last year as being “proactive.” (Photo by Alex Wong/Getty Images)
Getty Images
Remember hydroxychloroquine, the drug that some were pushing as a possible way to prevent Covid-19? Well, the World Health Organization (WHO) is now saying fugget about it.
The BMJ has published a “living WHO guideline on drugs to prevent covid-19,” and on it is the statement, “We recommend against administering hydroxychloroquine to prevent Covid-19.” This is based on a review of available evidence, mainly six randomized controlled trials involving over 6,000 participants, by the WHO Guideline Development Group (GDG) panel of international experts. There was no meaningful difference in rates of Covid-19 infection diagnoses, hospitalizations, and death between people who had taken hydroxychloroquine and those who had not. At the same time, taking hydroxychloroquine brought the risk of adverse effects like heart rhythm problems, blood and lymph system disorders, kidney injuries, and liver problems from the medication typically used against malaria. It’s called a “living” guideline because the WHO plans on adding recommendations about other drugs being considered to prevent Covid-19.
A sign somehow equates hydroxychloroquine with face masks, despite the WHO finding no evidence to … [+] support the use of hydroxychloroquine to prevent Covid-19. (Photo by Richard Baker / In Pictures via Getty Images)
In Pictures via Getty Images
That means people and states like Oklahoma that purchased hydroxychloroquine after then-U.S. President and now Mara-A-Lago resident Donald Trump touted the medication are now stuck with stockpiles of this stuff. That is unless the U.S. is overrun by malaria-carrying mosquitoes anytime soon. And take a wild guess as to who ultimately has had to pay for these stockpiles that may go unused and expire? If you live in a state like Oklahoma, go to the bathroom, look in the mirror, and point at yourself. Yes, that’s right, taxpayers had to pay for the stuff.
That’s why the Oklahoma attorney general’s office is apparently attempting to negotiate a return of 1.2 million hydroxychloroquine pills that the state purchased in April last year from FFF Enterprises for around $2 million, according to Sean Murphy reporting for the AP. Jimmy Kimmel recently parodied their situation with an Oklahoma “travel” commercial:
MORE FOR YOU
Yeah, trying to get a refund of around $2 million is not exactly as easy as getting your money back for the fake butt underwear that you bought online. The supplier can always say, “umm, but you bought it, and we can’t re-sell it. Because no one freaking wants that much hydroxychloroquine now.”
Governor Kevin Stitt (R) reportedly defended the purchase last year by saying, “I was being proactive to try and protect Oklahomans.” Protect Oklahomans? Based on what evidence? At no point were real public health experts in the U.S. saying “stockpile hydroxychloroquine.”
Proactive wasn’t exactly the theme of an article written on January 18, 2021, by Carmen Forman for The Oklahoman entitled, “As coronavirus surges in Oklahoma, Gov. Kevin Stitt mum on next steps.” In the article, Forman mentioned that “Oklahoma has been the worst state for test positivity and ranked fourth-highest for new Covid-19 cases per capita.” She also wrote that “asked what, if any, new steps Stitt is considering to reduce the spread of COVID-19 in Oklahoma, his office did not give specifics and leaned on the governor’s oft-used mantra of ‘personal responsibility.’” Well, looks like Oklahoma state residents have been personally responsible for paying for all those doses of unused hydroxychloroquine.
One of the biggest tragedies of 2020 and 2021 has been political leaders not heeding the advice of real scientific and public health experts. While public health experts in the U.S. were pushing for similar policies and interventions that successfully controlled the spread of the virus in countries like South Korea, Taiwan, and New Zealand, political leaders like Trump and others didn’t seem to be listening. It appeared, instead, that they were listening to the voices pushing for the use of hydroxychloroquine. Some of these voices may have actually been people trying to sell hydroxychloroquine. After all, when do you get a chance to sell to taxpayers over one million doses of an anti-malarial medication in the U.S.?
#News
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Title: I’d Take It All Back Just To Have You
Pairing: Olivia Benson/Alex Cabot
Summary: Thanks to the technological miracle of artiforgs, you can now live virtually forever. Nearly indestructible artificial organs, these wonders of metal and plastic are far more reliable and efficient than the cancer-prone lungs and fallible kidneys you were born with – and Keaton Medical will be delighted to work out an equitable payment plan. But, of course, if you fall delinquent, one of their dedicated professionals will be dispatched to track you down and take their product back.
Until they fall in love with you, of course.
Read on FFN or AO3
The first time Olivia Benson held a heart in her hands, she was 17. The mass of tissue and metal was warm against her fingers, warmer than she expected it to be, and smooth. She ran her fingertips over the valves and ventricles, traced the aorta down to the right auricle, and stopped at the small barcode and logo there – a black circle with a lightning bolt running through it.
The trainee beside her cleared his throat and Olivia passed the heart on to let him examine the clacking valves of the unit, and she knew then that as immoral and downright disgusting this job is there is nothing she would rather do.
On the morning of her 18th birthday, Olivia’s boss went down to the Records Department where she had spent the last year sorting files and sent her up to Accounts Receivable on the third floor of Keaton Medical’s brick and mortar building in the heart of downtown Manhattan. Truth be told, Olivia had never been above the basement of the building, not even when she had first applied to work there. There was a separate entrance in the rear of the building that led directly into Records and Olivia had never felt the need to travel above that.
A security guard directed her through the maze of cubicles and copiers and shredders to a room at the back. The door was didn’t have a handle, at least not one that Olivia could see, but it did have fingerprint and retina scanners.
“Fingerprints first,” the security guard said, gesturing to the pad beside the door, “then your eye. If they called you up here, it’s ready for you.”
Olivia nodded, swallowing hard. She placed her hand on the scanner and the affirmative beep came faster than she expected it to. The she looked into the retina scanner and waited while it affirmed her identity, which only took a few seconds but felt like a lifetime to Olivia.
The inside of the Repossession Unit was underwhelming, to say the least. An island in the center of the room with two id badge and fingerprint scanners on either side and a printer/scanner in the center of it, a shredder built into the island, four metal folding chairs against the wall.
There was no one else in the room. Olivia picked the chair closest to the door and sunk into it; if there was anything she learned from working at Keaton Medical for the past year it was to keep her hands off anything she wasn’t expressly told to touch – luckily she hadn’t been the one to learn that lesson the hard way, though she suspected Bryan Cassidy didn’t feel so lucky after one of the security guards broke his hand.
The door slid open and a man probably eight years older than Olivia walked in. He was tall and muscular and wearing a navy-blue t-shirt with several small bloodstains on it. There was blood on his chin and he was grinning.
“Sorry I’m late,” the man said, scanning his id card and fingerprints. “My last appointment ran late.” He set a pink sheet of paper in the scanner and leaned back against the island while the scanner did its thing. “Are you Olivia Benson?” – Olivia nodded – “I’m Elliot Stabler. Cragen said you’re my new partner.”
“So I’m being promoted then?” Olivia asked. “I was just told to wait here.”
Elliot shrugged – “Looks like it” – and turned around to see what pink slip the printer gave him. He read the information on the sheet and then handed it over to Olivia. “We gotta stop off at Supply on our way out, get you suited up. Keep up or get out now.”
Olivia followed Elliot out of the room, easily matching his long stride. She was finally able to take a minute to read the pink slip in her hand once they were in the elevator. She let out a low whistle. “Says this guy lives around here,” she said. “Are they sure this is right?”
“Don’t question the intel,” Elliot said. “Accounts Receivable knows what they’re doing.”
“It’s a pricey area is all,” Olivia said. “I'm just making sure we didn’t miss a payment in the mail.”
“Look,” Elliot sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s your first day in Repo, I get it, but they do their jobs and we do our jobs and they pay us nicely to keep our questions to ourselves. I got five kids, Benson, I need this job, so just don’t question it. If they say he didn’t pay, then he didn’t pay.”
The Supply Depository was up on the sixth floor of the Keaton Medical building. The elevator door slid open to reveal two reception desks staffed by two armed guards each and rows upon rows of metal shelving stacked with weapons and tools and uniforms. Olivia handed her id card over to one of the guards and he led her down through the rows of supplies. She was assigned a black duffel bag, three black t-shirts, three pairs of black pants, a pair of boots, a jacket, a Taser, a set of scalpels, a bone saw, a rib spreader, and an assortment of other tools and gear.
Once they were finished and Olivia was changed into her new uniform, she followed Elliot down to his car and they headed on over to Number One Central Park South Unit 2011 – the Penthouse.
The Plaza Hotel, twenty stories tall, and their client, Henry Richard Smith, lived on the top floor.
“The first step to any repo job,” Elliot said, “is to map out the area. You’ve got to know where the client is, and you’ve got to know what else is nearby. How big is the house/office/hut in which he’s staying? Any other people inside? Are they on the phone? Are they armed? Are they on the phone with someone who is armed? That sort of thing.” He pulled his tablet out of his duffel bag and opened up a set of plans. He handed the tablet to Olivia. “These are the building plans: ducts, units, etcetera. This last page is the plan for Smith’s unit. Study these, figure out a way to take our client.”
And so Olivia did.
For three days they sat in front of the Plaza, waiting and watching, memorizing their client’s comings and goings.
And then Olivia said, “We just walk right in the front door.”
Elliot grinned. “We walk right in the front door.”
So that’s what they did.
The doorman didn’t move to stop Olivia and Elliot when they strolled into the building in their Keaton Medical uniforms at noon on the fourth day of their stakeout. He didn’t move to stop them when they boarded the elevator bound for the 20th floor. And he definitely didn’t move to stop them when they bypassed Henry Richard Smith’s security and walked right in his front door.
Not that he would be expected to – most buildings had a policy of allowing the bio-repo men to do their jobs. It was just easier on everyone.
The door opened into a small foyer with a closet and door to a powder room to the left and a stairwell to the right, and the foyer opened into the living room. High end furniture, abstract art, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Central Park. Olivia let out a low whistle.
Elliot dropped his bag on the middle cushion of the couch and settled down beside it, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “Might as well get comfortable, Benson,” he said. “We’re still a couple hours out.”
Olivia nodded absently, barely listening to what he was saying. She wandered around the living room looking over the pictures on the walls. The photographs told the story – they usually do. She could check out everything she needed to know on the sheet – date of birth, marital status, kids, etc. – but the pictures gave the most complete profile. What a person chooses to frame says a lot about them.
There was Smith – middle-age, hair receding, great teeth – next to a woman half his age, both in scuba gear down in Fiji. Another of the two of them on a ski slope somewhere in the Alps. Mixed throughout, photos of Smith and a little girl, aging randomly. In one picture, she’s in pigtails and they’re at the circus; in another she’s dealing with her first bout of acne and the look in her eyes says hurry up and take the picture already. These, combined with the obvious bachelor pad, made it clear: A divorcé with disposable income, choosing to spend his newfound single lifestyle traveling the world and making a general fool of himself with women way too young for him.
After she looked at all the pictures in the living room, Olivia decided to give herself a tour of the rest of the apartment. Off the living room was a kitchen, which was barely large enough to stand in comfortably, but had all brand new, high-tech, unused appliances. The fridge was mostly empty, save for some Chinese take-out and a few bottles of water, and the cabinets had mostly cans of soup and boxes of cereal. Beside the kitchen was the washer/dryer closet, and across from that was a bedroom with an attached bathroom. From there, Olivia went upstairs where there was a bathroom in the hall, another bedroom with an attached bathroom, and the master bedroom with yet another attached bathroom.
How could one person need so many bathrooms?
“Benson,” Elliot yelled up the stairs, “it’s time.”
Olivia hurried down the stairs, taking two at a time. She stood beside the door where Elliot directed her to so she would be concealed when it opened but blocking it after it closed, while he took his place just beside the living room entrance. Olivia switched the lights off just as the sound of inebriated laughter floated through the door.
They came in half undressed. His shirt unbuttoned, her skirt hiked to the waist. Hands roaming everywhere. They stumbled down the hall and into the living room, landing on the couch.
Just before they started their business, Olivia flicked on the lights and Elliot stepped out into the middle of the room. “Hello, Henry,” Elliot said, and the girl jumped so badly she fell on the floor. Henry scrambled to cover himself with any clothing he could get his hands on, leaving his companion to fend for herself.
“Now that’s not very chivalrous, Henry,” Olivia said, picking up some of the clothes and handing them to the girl. She smiled gratefully and moved to cover herself.
Elliot cocked his head toward the door. “You’re free to go, miss,” he said. “You won’t want to see this.” The girl scrambled to her feet and hurried, half-dressed, out of the apartment. Smart girl. “Mr. Smith, we’re from the Credit Union.”
“Fuck. Holy fuck–” Smith stammered, getting to his feet. He grabbed up his pants and rummaged through his pockets, presumably looking for his wallet. “Wait, I can pay.”
“Sorry,” Elliot said. “That’s not our department.” He raised his Taser and took steady aim. “I’m legally bound to ask you if you’d like an ambulance on standby, though you will be unable to secure another artiforg from Keaton Medical in replacement.”
“Wait,” he said again, “don’t–”
That was as far as he got before Elliot’s Taser darts slammed into his chest and released their electricity. He went down twitching, and Elliot stayed clear until he was down for the count.
Elliot nodded and set his Taser down on the coffee table. “Gimme a hand with this?” he said, gesturing toward the couch. He grabbed one edge and Olivia grabbed the other and they moved it back several feet from where Smith was lying motionless on the floor.
It didn’t take long for Elliot to pull out the extractors and scalpels he needed for the job, and he had barely made the first incision when Olivia felt the roiling in her stomach. She swallowed hard and tried to will the feeling away.
“The first one is the worst,” Elliot said, pushing his hand into the viscera of Smith’s abdomen.
The sound was unlike anything Olivia has ever heard before – wet and unnatural – and she jumped to her feet and rushed into the bathroom. She heaved into the toilet for just a minute before standing and staring at herself in the mirror. She needed to get herself together. She signed up for this job. This was her choice. She cupped her hands under the running water and rinsed out her mouth and then splashed some cold water on her face. When she was finished, she rejoined Elliot in the living room.
Knelt down beside Elliot, Olivia watched as he carefully extracted Henry Richard Smith’s artificial liver and then dropped it into her gloved hands. “We’re cutting it close,” he said, placing a surgical covering over Smith’s abdomen. He stood and peeled the gloves off his hands. “The goal is to get it done before the effects of the Taser wear off. Blood is hell on a good shirt. Clean that up and let’s get out of here. I’m gonna call an ambulance.”
Olivia dropped the Keaton LS-400 liver they came for into the stainless-steel sink in the kitchen. The high-pressure faucet nozzle did just the trick washing off the blood and attached tissue, and before long the metallic organ was gleaming in the glow from the overhead lights.
When Olivia entered the living room, Elliot was filling out a yellow receipt. He signed it in triplicate and left a copy on Smith’s body. If his next of kin has any issues with the repo or the aftermath, there were numbers they could call. No one ever did, but they were available.
Olivia was silent on their ride back to the Keaton Medical building and all through the artiforg return process and while Elliot closed up their job in the Repo office.
“You get used to it,” Elliot said, picking up his gear to head home for the day. “The jobs start getting easier after the first one. Soon enough you’ll be able to do it without a problem.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Olivia asked.
Elliot sighed. “Then you’re one of the lucky ones.”
Much to her dismay, Olivia learned quickly that Elliot was right – it did become easier to get the job done. It wasn’t that she developed a disregard for human life, she just grew a thicker skin and learned to separate her feelings from her work. There were still cases that got to her, of course, like the first time they had to take a set of lungs from a child and the woman who asked to stay awake as they took her heart and Olivia held her hand as she died, but she never let herself break, never let herself show any kind of emotion.
Before she knew it, her probationary year was over, and she was able to pick up her own cases. After that, time started to blur together. She regularly pulled doubles, occasionally pulled triples. She typically cleared three cases a night, some nights she cleared up to five. She was on top of the world.
And then it was all ripped away.
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Nerves
Prompt: Imagine being Garcia’s sister and meeting Spencer after all these years of hearing about him to help on a case, but your reaction surprises both of you
Warnings: idk, maybe language. If you watch Criminal minds, think of that sort of stuff
Word Count: 4664
Note: “What’s with you? You need a hug or something?” for @hanny-bananny This was so fun! Beta’d by the ever fabulous @like-a-bag-of-potatoes
~~~~~~~~~~~
You’d been out of graduate school for about four years now, with quite a bit of experience as a forensic psychologist. However, that didn’t stop any of the surprise when SSA Hotchner called you yesterday to ask if you wanted to assist a case.
“Dr. Garcia, I know you’d be a valuable asset for our team on this. This is your area of expertise, correct?”
“Yes, sir. But I’m not sure I have the correct skill level that your team does,” you had answered as you gathered ingredients for your dinner.
You’d never met any of Penelope’s team, mainly because there was never a chance to. The day she had the Day of the Dead celebration, you were in a conference in San Diego. And every other event that happened with her team, you were busy working on your degree, working with a patient, or lecturing some class somewhere. You were on the move just about as much as her team was.
But you knew all of them by her explanation of them. Derek Morgan was her best friend. You had heard a million wonderful things about him and definitely wanted to meet one day. Agent Hotchner, or as Penelope referred to him - Hotch, was a man of confidence and power, you’d admired him from afar. Mr. David Rossi sounded like he could be your dad with as much as you had in common of classic cars, good italian food, and fine liquor. JJ sounded like a woman you could respect. Dr. Tara Lewis was a woman after your own heart being in the same field. But then there was Dr. Spencer Reid, or boy genius. Penelope had confided that he held three PhDs and his IQ, his eidetic memory, and to her, these were abnormal facts. Something she marveled at, little did she know, you were absolutely in love with Dr. Reid’s mind, you just had yet to meet him.
“You’ll do fine. Could you meet us at nine tomorrow?” he asked, his voice never showing any emotion or inflection.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Garcia can show you where we’ll be.”
“Thank you.”
Now, you were standing right outside of the FBI headquarters waiting on your sister Penelope to show up. You wore black slacks with white pin stripes, a gray satin long sleeved blouse, and diamond choker. You were pretty sure you didn’t blend in, but you were a doctor, not an agent.
She saw you and literally squealed. You loved her with all of your heart, but you weren’t quite as bubbly as her. While she surrounded herself with color and bright things, you seemed to be a bit darker and more cynical. Maybe it was the job. She was behind a screen, while you sat face to face with killers, listening to detailed renditions of ownership they had murdered their victims.
“You’re here! You’re really here!” she exclaimed as she ran up to hug you.
“Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?” you questioned innocently with a frown.
“Because I only see you a few times a year,” Penelope reminded with a stern look.
“I know. I’m sorry work just…” You let the idea go, not wanting to have to explain yourself again.
“I know, I know. Come! Come meet my team! I can’t believe this is finally happening! It’s been ten years and you have never met them.” She grabbed your hand and hauled you inside as you got a visitor pass and she took you up an elevator to her office.
“This is the bat cave,” she explained happily. “This is where all the magic happens.”
“Oh, wow, Pen. You really went all out, huh?” you asked as you went up to her desk full of pretty knick knacks, playing with all of them.
“It helps to distract me.”
“I know.”
“Well it’s only 8:40, I’m not sure anyone besides Hotch will be here…” she started, but as she finished the thought, a man walked in the room.
“Baby girl, do you have--oh, hi, you must be baby girl’s sister here,” the coffee skinned man said as he came up to shake your hand.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Y/F/N Garcia.”
“Man, I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said with a smile.
“I would say likewise but I’m not sure who you--” you started as your eyes shifted to your little sister.
“This is Derek Morgan,” Penelope explained.
“Ah, I should’ve guessed. Sorry, I’m out of it.” You laughed and he grinned at you.
“Hey, I feel you. I don’t start thinking until well past 10 am.”
“Did you need something, chocolate lava?” Pen asked.
“Oh, yeah, yeah. I need the case file for that Atlanta case. And Hotch wants us in five minutes.”
“Roger that,” she said and he smiled at you one more time before leaving.
“He seemed really nice,” you remarked once he left.
“Yeah, but hands off, he’s got a pretty serious girlfriend,” she replied.
“I just said he was nice. I wasn’t even going there--”
“Garcia, Hotch wants you and your sister in there now. Here’s a file the director wants you to look over,” a young man said as he came in, his eyes glued to the file. In an instant, you were shot by a lustful arrow. This man’s hair, outfit, and lean body immediately made your mouth go dry and your knees weak. He dropped the folder and left in a flash, his eyes never noticing you.
“Holy shit,” you thought to yourself.
“Who was that?” you asked almost as if you were out of breath.
“That was Reid, wh--” She stopped and started to laugh that knowing laugh of hers. “Oh, ho, ho, ho. You like him don’t you?”
“No,” you lied as your eyes snapped to hers.
“You do!” she nearly shouted before you could shush her. “Oh my god, you like him.”
“No, I don’t. Your boss is waiting for us. Let’s go.”
Her eyes narrowed on you. “Fine but we aren’t done with this yet.”
She escorted you from her room down the hall into a small conference room with the whole team. They introduced you quickly and you finally matched faces to names, except for Dr. Lewis, she was at her other job.
But the only one you were concerned with was Dr. Reid.
“And this is Dr. Reid,” Penelope said with a cheeky grin as you extended your hand but he didn’t take it.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” he said. “Sorry, I have a thing about germs,” he apologized as he held his hand up.
“Ah,” you breathed, your analyzing skills kicking into overdrive.
“Let’s get started,” Agent Hotchner suggested which broke the magical spell you were under.
“Right. Dr. Montoya is the fourth victim to show up in the southeast region that’s had their necks slashed, dropped off in a wooded area of a park, covered in painters tarp,” your sister explained as she pulled up pictures.
“Dr. Montoya, as in, Richard Montoya?” you questioned.
“Yes, do you know him?” Agent Hotchner asked.
“Yes, we worked together for about six months. Who could do something like this?” you asked while you frowned at the screen.
“That’s what we’re hoping you could shed some light on.”
“The other victims were Dr. Marcy, Dr. Esteves, and Dr. Hollinger,” Pen continued. “All disposed of the exact same way, just in different states. Each one week apart.”
“Where they dumped near their homes?” Derek asked.
“Yes, they were all dumped within thirty minutes of their residence.”
“So he attacks them at their home, most likely,” JJ said.
“So...he’s killing all psychologists?” you asked, your head spinning. You didn’t look at crime scene photos much, much less of your colleagues. You felt sick.
“Are you alright, Dr. Garcia?” Hotchner questioned.
You nodded weakly. “I just...I know these people.” A tear ran down your face. “I’m sorry.”
“You can go get some air. Morgan and JJ, wheels up in 10 for us. We’re going to look at the latest crime scene in Austin. Reid, Rossi, Garcia, and Dr. Garcia, stay here and figure out any link you can between them. Figure out if there were any dinner guests, corresponding emails, texts, or phone calls between the victims or any that come up between them.”
“Yes, sir,” Pen responded.
The team dismissed, leaving you alone with your part of the team.
“Who was the first...victim?” you questioned.
“Dr. Marcy,” Reid answered as he led you to the board with all of the case facts all over it. You saw your friends and coworkers faces up on the board, alongside gruesome photos and your stomach turned.
“Wrapping them means remorse, right?” you asked, grasping for some semblance of sympathy for the person doing this. It was easy to separate yourself when you talked with patients, but when they killed friends….it made it much harder to rationalize their behavior.
“That’s right,” Agent Rossi confirmed as he got up from the table to stand beside you. “Are you okay? You look a little...pale.”
“I’m not sure,” you answered truthfully.
“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you a water?” he asked.
“Yes, please, thank you.”
You sat at the table as Dr. Reid joined you and your sister tried to look for a link and Agent Rossi left the room.
“I’m not seeing anything that relates these doctors together except their profession. It looks like all of them have interacted with each other through a few brief, meaningless emails, a few phone calls scattered over the years…” Pen explained.
Rossi returned with your water and you sipped the chilled drink slowly, trying to calm yourself and focus. The FBI, your sister, was asking for your help and you needed to get your head in the game. Your friends deserved that from you.
“Okay, so what do you need me for?” you questioned as soon as your wits were gathered.
“Did you ever hear them talk about any troubling patients? Anyone they reported?” Rossi asked. “Garcia, check for patients that they reported to authorities.” She began clacking away as you searched your mind.
“No, no more than the typical shop talk.”
“No one stood out?”
“No,” you said, shaking your head. “Do you think he’ll kill again? Why is he killing so many psychologists?” you asked, desperation and exasperation in your voice.
“We don’t know,” Rossi said.
----------
The team returned, and with them came the files from Dr. Montoya’s office. They were working on getting the other files from the other doctors to you. You and Reid began poring over them, he going much faster than you. You were looking for any clue of an unbalanced patient and after forty case files between you, his notes weren’t making much sense, and now it was late at night. You pushed the file away from you and squeezed your eyes shut.
“Are you alright?” Reid asked as his eyes never left the page.
“Yes, I just need a break is all.”
“I’m sure this is hard, being your friends and all. We appreciate you doing this.”
“Do you think I’m next?” you blurted out, your eyes searching his.
“I don’t know. Did you ever treat patients that may have been theirs?”
You shook your head. “No, not unless it was in tandem. But those were only a few cases.” You sighed. “I just….They wanted to help people, that’s all they wanted. Why did this have to happen to them?”
Reid pursed his lips in silent sympathy for you. “So how did you become a doctor?”
“I went through medical school,” you answered.
He furrowed his brow at you. “I understand that but I guess I meant, why did you become a doctor?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Curious, I suppose. You and Penelope don’t seem all that much alike,” he observed.
“We aren’t really,” you noted. You sighed. “I just wanted to help people. The criminal mind has always fascinated me and I wanted to do everything I could to understand it, and help them get past their issues and become functioning members of society. And if I couldn’t do that, the least I could do was try to understand them.”
“It’s funny that Garcia was the way she was before the FBI found her and you took the complete opposite path.”
Getting lost in his appearance, his looks, you almost forgot to answer him. You felt like you’d known Reid for a good portion of your adult life thanks to Penelope.
“You’re full of questions and observations, Dr. Reid,” you noted.
“As are you. Part of the job, right? It’s up to us to watch people, observe every detail of them…” He stared at you as the idea trailed of his lips that you were yearning to kiss. You’d been in love with Dr. Reid’s mind for years now, and here he was, in your ideal body type, better than you’d ever imagined. Penelope did not do him justice.
“Okay, well let’s put that BAU training to the test,” you urged with a flirtatious tone. “You want to know so much about me, why don’t you give it a whirl? Tell me some things only someone of your caliber could catch.”
Reid smiled gently at you. “Alright, let’s see. You’re right handed,” he started.
“Oh, stop right there, I want an explanation for everything you decipher about me.”
“Very well. You’re right handed because even though you haven’t picked up a single writing utensil since I’ve met you, you walk forward with your right foot, you lean on it more, you lean to your right when you sit, and you grab everything with your right hand.”
“Alright, one point. Go on. Impress me, Dr. Reid,” you said before you bit your lip.
“You have a nervous habit you’re trying to break. You have a tendency to put your hair behind your ear, then immediately uncover it. My guess is you are insecure about your ears, but it’s just recently come about, either a coworker or a boyfriend teased you about it and it’s come into fruition recently.”
Your eyes darted away, which you knew was a tell sign that he was right.
“You grind your teeth at night, because I can see you relaxing your jaw every time you frown, another habit you’ve been told to break. Your jaw clenches, you frown, then your jaw loosens. Which means you’ve been to the dentist in the last two months. Statistics show we’re more likely to keep to a routine or suggestion that’s been given to us within 6 to 8 weeks.”
“Wow,” you breathed.
“You also listen to music a lot and the fact that there’s none in here has you on edge,” he continued.
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you unwittingly hum to yourself and shake your leg when there isn’t noise in the room, meaning that silence makes you uncomfortable.”
“And why do you think Penelope and I chose different life paths?” you questioned.
“Because her defense mechanism was to shield herself from hurt, so she adopted the gothic look, appeared hard to others so they wouldn’t think they could hurt her. She wanted something she could control, so she got into hacking. You wanted to make your parents proud, so you became a doctor. At first, you wanted to do the usual medical endeavors, save lives like your parents couldn’t be saved, but somewhere along the way you didn’t want to hold that much life in your hands, so you opted for psychiatry. You started in grief counseling, but it became too hard for you to bear, so you thought it would be best if you did a job that stopped bad people or at least understood them.”
You sat stunned into silence at his words. They were the truth.
“Uh,” you started in a shaky voice. “Yeah...How did you know all of that?”
“Little movements you made,” he said with a half shrug. “It’s my job. Plus I know Garcia’s past and I know a little bit about you already.”
“Oh? Well then tell me what I’m thinking right now,” you challenged, staring into his eyes as you slowly leaned forward. But before you could get too close, the team came into the conference room, spoiling the moment.
“So this unsub has to be unemployed, right?” Derek suggested. “I mean, it’s been a month and he’s hit four different states each week, calculating these kills so he’s not interrupted. So he must have a lot of time on his hands. So he’s either unemployed or he’s taking a leave of absence or sabbatical.”
“Meaning that the first kill, was close to his house,” you said suddenly.
“What makes you say that?” Derek asked.
“Because he only had a week with the other three, right? That’s including travel time and getting settled into lodging, and eating. The first kill, he needed more time to sit and watch his target, trying to figure out when to strike and how to do it the best way. He must live in Alabama, or he just moved,” you answered.
“Garcia, check patients --” Hotchner started.
“I’m on it,” she said through the speakerphone then hung up.
“She’s very good, huh?” you asked with wonder. You knew Pen was amazing with computers but you never quite knew just how good.
“What if...What if the unsub went after the first doctor because they failed him in some way?” you asked. “Is that possible?” You were so out of your element, but it was a thought.
“But why go after the other doctors?” JJ asked.
“That’s a good question. Considering we all sort of overlap at some point, it could mean they all encountered him or never did,” you said.
Dr. Reid looked around the room and asked, “Guys, what if the first doctor failed someone he knew, and the others failed him?”
“What do you mean?” you asked.
“What if someone close to him was working with Dr. Marcy, and they committed suicide, so then he went to the other doctors and they weren’t helping him cope with the suicide? So he took it out on them?”
“Could be, but what’s the stressor?” Derek questioned.
“Losing his job? You said yourself he has to be unemployed.”
“So we’re looking for someone who lost someone, lost a job, and is in sessions themselves?” Rossi questioned.
JJ frowned. “But Garcia already ran all the patients, none of the patients that fit the profile overlap.”
“We’ve been looking for cutters, not someone with a suicide in the family,” Dr. Reid retorted before he dialed your sister’s extension. “Garcia, look for anyone who came in for dealing with the suicide of a family member for our victims.”
“Okay, give me more, that’s a long list.”
“He’s between eighteen and thirty,” JJ added.
“And look for anyone who lost a job within two months,” Derek commented.
“Okay...Nothing. We have a few patients that committed suicide themselves for each of them but none that fit the parameters.”
“Pen, do any of those suicide victims have close family that’s still alive that is in sessions?” you questioned.
“Uh, yes! We have one. Amanda Ivris. She committed suicide after being in Dr. Marcy’s care for over two years. She killed herself five months ago and has an older brother Charlie….Oh lord, she cut her own throat and Charlie found her.”
“Did Charlie ever see those other doctors, baby girl?” Morgan questioned.
“No, it doesn’t look like it.”
“Then how is he tied to them?” JJ wondered.
“Could’ve used an alias,” Derek offered as he shrugged.
“What about a job, Garcia?” Rossi questioned.
“No, he lost it...six weeks ago,” she answered.
“Address,” Hotchner ordered.
“On your phones.”
The call ended but you were puzzled. “Wait, but what about his ties to the other doctors?”
“Odds are he used an alias or asked to remain anonymous,” Reid answered as he started to leave.
“Wait, what do I do?”
“You come with us,” Hotchner answered.
“What?” you asked, panic and alarm bells screeching inside you. “I’m not trained for the field.”
“You don’t have to be, we just need a trained psychiatrist there to help calm him down.”
“But I -- “ you started.
“Now. We need to move,” Hotchner commanded.
The address wasn’t too far away as they grabbed you a bulletproof vest and your heart sped out of control. What if this unsub shot at you? What if you couldn’t talk him down? What if he shot at this team?
“You took Y/N with you?” Garcia suddenly said over the car speakerphone system, her voice filled with panic and concern. You were riding with Derek and Dr. Reid.
“Yeah, baby girl but I’ll keep her safe.”
“I know you will but what if--”
“Momma, calm down. I need you calm and focused in case I need you, okay? Y/N is going to be fine.”
“Okay...okay,” she said between deep breaths.
“Alright?” Derek asked as he drove.
“Alright. Just be careful.”
With that, she hung up.
“She’s a bit of a worrier,” you said from the backseat.
“You’re telling me. When any of us goes into the hospital, she’s the first one by our side, ready to spring into action,” Derek commented with a little laugh and shake of his head. “Where did she get that from?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think it stems from wanting to keep anything she loves safe, I mean, don’t we all?” you asked, but you were met with silence.
You arrived at the house and followed Spencer and Derek onto the porch.
“FBI. Ivris, open up!” Derek shouted and when there was no response, Derek kicked in the door and they nodded for you to follow them. You stayed on Spencer’s heels until Derek noticed movement in the kitchen and he and Spencer took off running. He eventually ran from the kitchen right where you stood. Stunned, you couldn’t react or respond. So he grabbed you and put a knife to your throat. The guys caught up to you, their guns drawn toward you and Mr. Ivris. You had no idea what to do.
“Get back or I’ll cut her! She’ll bleed just like the rest of em!” he shouted, his knife digging into your jugular.
“You don’t want to do that,” Spencer insisted calmly.
“Oh yeah? How would you know what I want?”
“Because I know you want to make everyone feel like you felt,” you suddenly said, cutting off Spencer. You weren’t sure what you were doing, you were just going off what you knew from your patients. You were scared, sure, but something about the situation, you kept your heart rate down. Possibly because you knew getting upset wouldn’t help anything.
“What?” he asked, as if he was impatient.
“That’s why you killed Dr. Montoya, Dr. Marcy, and all those others. You hold them responsible for losing your sister. I get that. Because the doctors failed you, they failed her. That’s not her fault or yours. They should’ve tried harder to save her. I know that,” you said. “It’s a doctor’s job to take care of their patients.”
He loosened the grip on the knife and pulled it away slightly.
“Yes. Yes,” he agreed fervently as he spun you around to face him, his hands hard on your shoulders. “Did someone fail you too?”
“No...I failed them,” you answered solemnly and while he realized what you said, Derek was handcuffing him.
-------------------------------------
The case wrapped up but Agent Hotchner asked if you’d like to assist on more cases. You immediately agreed. You wouldn’t work at the FBI full time, but you would have the proper training with a gun, stances, situations, language. For the most part, you would be there to fill in when Dr. Lewis couldn’t.
This meant that you had plenty of time to get to know Spencer Reid. He and you often sat together on cases, he even went with you to the gun range. But the only issue was that after a month of working with him, you had flirted heavily and he wasn’t picking up on any of the signals. You’d asked him out to coffee and while he agreed, he didn’t really seem to get the hint. You often tried to gently touch his arm, or even go as far as to play with his hair and he seemed completely indifferent to your cues, signs, and advances.
You had talked to Penelope about it and she even tried to assist by pushing you and Spencer together, dropping hints of her own. You even dressed scantily a few days with an extra tight blouse and skirt and spiked shiny heels, but it was like you were hitting on a robot.
One day, shortly after another one of your failed attempts to flirt, you went into the conference room with Morgan to look over a case, throwing the file down and huffing, your coffee spilling as you angrily sat it down.
“Shit,” you growled, your emotions getting the better of you. You were at the end of your rope with this whole Spencer thing. You were trying everything you knew of and you were out of ideas.
“Damn, bad morning?”
“Why would you think that?” you asked in a smartassed tone.
“What’s with you? You need a hug or something?” Morgan asked with a half smile since he never saw you like this.
“No, I just need Spencer to notice me,” you responded in a low tone, more to yourself than him.
“Oh, so pretty boy has you frazzled. What’s up?”
You sighed as you turned to face him. “I’ve done everything I can to make it clear that I like him. I’ve asked him out, flirted with him, touched on him…”
“Have you just tried telling him?” he asked, his brows pulling together.
“No…” you answered sheepishly.
“Well maybe you should give that a whirl. The kid isn’t always keen on social cues.”
“You’re telling me,” you huffed.
“And here comes your chance,” Morgan said as he glanced up and Spencer was smiling at you two as he walked in.
“Hey guys,” he greeted.
“Y/N has something she wants to tell you, Reid,” Morgan said before he jumped up and left, a huge grin on his face.
“You’re an ass,” you said in a hushed whisper as he disappeared out of the room. You turned back to Spencer, your face red.
“You had something to tell me?” he inquired, those wide, innocent eyes on yours.
“I--uh--yeah…”
He stared at you a moment then said, “Okay. What is it?” He smiled at you, waiting.
Your nerves were bundling inside you, about to make you burst. You finally decided to simply go for it.
“Spencer, I like you,” you blurted out, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Oh, thanks, Y/N. I like you too,” he answered with a grin.
You smiled half-heartedly, realizing he didn’t take in what you’d just confessed.
“No, Spence...I have a crush on you.”
“Oh...Oh!”
“Yeah,” you said awkwardly. “Well this was fun,” you quickly said, starting to gather your things.
“Wait, don’t go. Do you mean that?”
“Well of course I do. Spencer, I’ve been trying to flirt with you heavily for a month now.”
“That’s what that was? I thought you were just overtly friendly.”
Suddenly, you let out a cackle.
“No,” you laughed. “No, I did all that because I want to date you.”
“I want to date you too,” he informed. It took a second for you to register that he just agreed that he liked you back.
“You do?” you breathed.
“Of course, Y/N. You’re highly intelligent, you’re sweet, you’re funny, you understand my jokes. I just didn’t want to ask you out because I didn’t think you liked me like that.”
“For the smartest guy in the room, you can be quite foolish, Dr. Spencer Reid,” you teased.
#hannah's classic criminal minds quote challenge#spencer reid#reid#reid fic#reid x reader#spencer x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x reader#criminal minds fic
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“Their Majesties Secret Service”
Summary: “The name is Mercury, Freddie Mercury.”
Queen appears to be popular rock band, touring the world. In fact, they are deep undercover agents for Her Majesties Secret Service (MI6).
Elements from 007 James Bond, “I Spy”, and “The Man from U.N.C.L.E”.
Notes:
Obviously, VASTLY different backgrounds for each of the boys.
Check out the end notes for links about each of the American 1960’s TV series I drew upon for inspiration and how I picture each character.
(See the end of the work for more notes.)
Chapter 1 : It's a Spy life....
PART ONE
Rodion Misahovick Petrenko was born in Moscow to parents who were first chair musicians with the Russian State Symphony Orchestra. They miraculously managed to escape to West Germany while under the guise of a family vacation in East Germany and then made their way to England. Unfortunately, his parents were killed in a car accident less than six months later under mysterious circumstances. Their seven-year-old son, already fluent in four languages and showing musical aptitude, was quickly and quietly placed with a couple who worked as agents for the British secret service. At age seven, he had seen and experienced more than most adults, and understood perfectly well what he was going to do when he was older. To go with his new identity, he was given a new name as well: Roger Meadows Taylor.
Farrokh Bulsara, a boy who could command a crowd with his acting and singing, and adapted to any culture or environment so easily – like a chameleon - attracted the attention of some very certain people at his school in India. His parents were overjoyed when their application to emigrate to England was somehow fast-track approved, and Farrokh was offered a place at a very elite boarding school that they had never heard of, but were nonetheless thrilled to send their son to. Farrokh adapted perfectly, just had been expected, excelling in acting and anything else that he put his mind to. He was also introduced to the world of government agencies, and he easily fit into any situation presented to him. And he kept up with his boxing and languages training.
Brian Harold May was essentially born into the service; Harold May held a very important role in the British government while posing as humble worker, and he saw greatness in his son from Brian’s earliest age. May was not going to deliberately force his only child into any certain career path, but he wanted him to be ready just in case and insisted on Brian having extra tutoring in every available subject. When his father died in an accident that was never fully explained, Brian was taken under the wing of a family friend and the rigorous instruction in science and the arts continued. Brian happily accepted the academics, but did dislike the martial arts trainings. Still, he never questioned it; he had been brought up to follow orders.
John Richard Deacon was left an orphan when he was nine years old and taken in by his godfather, an officer with the British Secret Intelligence (MI6) and Special Operations Executive during World War II. His guardian’s real aptitudes, though, were mechanics and engineering, and John took to those subjects as well. John was quiet, easy to overlook, and painfully shy at times, but he was also was stubborn as Hell, had a ruthless streak to match anyone when necessary, and possessed a photographic and eidetic memory. His godfather knew early on that John had potential.
Perhaps it was inevitable that the four of them would one day meet; four young men who one way or the other had been groomed since childhood for very special occupations. But the meeting came sooner than expected, and for a very unusual reason.
*****
*****
It started as the brainchild of an MI6 agent, James Beach. In the late-1960’s there was not just a cold war but a cultural war as well between East and West. Beach specialized in undercover operations, and he saw how one of the few venues of access to the Iron Curtain and other areas of the world was through the arts. Unfortunately, the other side knew this as well, and the occasional classical musicians or artists allowed to travel were kept under the tightest security and observation…again, by both sides.
But perhaps, there was another type of music that could provide a cover. Beach watched as the Beatles toured the world, were famous even behind the Iron Curtain, and granted access to places and people no ordinary person would be. It was a…unique…. opportunity, and Beach was never one to shy away from any opportunity.
He consulted with an old friend, one who had served with British Special Forces and landed at Normandy. Now he was president of a music company, which was part of what gave Beach his idea. His friend had kept up his security clearance, and they had some long talks over a period of a few months. Yes, his friend thought it *could* work. Of course, it would take a great deal of background preparation for it to be plausible. Years, actually. And if it worked, it could turn into one of the most long-term deep cover operations that even MI6 had ever orchestrated.
Hard work and patience had never deterred James Beach before.
Primarily, of course, it would hinge on the agents selected. Or rather, the young men whose lives would be changed forever.
In picking the agents, there could be no hint of any military affiliation, which eliminated students from military boarding schools. There were a number of young agents being groomed in other schools for government service, but this would require very special abilities, including the psychological background to endure the program.
Most of all, they had to possess genuine musical skill.
After going through literal rooms of files, Beach and his team selected four candidates. Three of them already had private military training and undercover work; some of it extensive. The young age of one agent made Beach initially pause, but there was no denying the contents of his file, and his mentor trained only the very best. Plus, he was already being groomed for future leadership and this would be excellent training. Beach would personally deal with the fourth agent when the time came. That young man had been intended for a science and research track, but it would be adjusted.
Most importantly, of course, all of them were truly musicians, each a perfect piece of the puzzle. They would require extra training, of course, but that was easily arranged.
His friend studied the backgrounds and photos of the four young agents, and agreed that they could fit the profile he would create for them. They could – with proper instruction – be believable.
And so, in the winter of 1970-71, James Beach arranged for meetings with each of the young men.
*****
*****
“Mr. Bulsara,” Beach opened the door to his office, and the young man stood quickly and shook his hand.
“Sir,” he said, his voice quiet and respectful.
“Please, do come in.” Beach sat down at his desk and he watched how Bulsara took in the room in a single glance, obviously making note of every object. Beach was pleased at his careful surveillance. He opened the file on his desk mainly for show; he had memorized all its contents.
“Well, first, you are to be commended on a job well done,” Beach said, truly impressed at the results of Bulsara’s latest assignment.
“Thank you, Sir, but really, it was nothing,” Farrokh said modestly. He had infiltrated a suspected terrorist group at a nearby university, uncovering a plot to place explosives at various locations.
“Nevertheless, it was a dangerous assignment, and you handled it well.” Beach closed the file. “You also receive first marks in the classes you took while undercover, and still maintained your own studies.”
“Leaning is enjoyable.” Farrokh answered. “Expect, of course when it isn’t and then ‘it’s a downright pain’.” His voice and demeaner completely changed with the last words, and Beach had to smile at the effortlessly undercover ability show that the young man had just displayed. It was just as Bulsara’s handlers said; the man could completely change personalities between words.
Beach clasped his hands, considering. “Did you enjoy the classes in art and design you took while undercover?”
“Of course.”
“And I’ve read that you are quite the singer and pianist.”
This time Beach was fairly certain there was no absolutely no acting involved. “Music is a hobby, Sir, but yes, I do quite enjoy it. Though I really consider myself a rather mediocre pianist at best.”
Beach brushed the modestly aside; there was a great deal of testimony and reports in Bulsara’s file about his musical skills. “There is a possibility of a future assignment,” he said, “that requires all the skills that you have worked to perfect.” He leaned forward. “Mr. Bulsara, have you ever considered starting a rock band?”
*****
*****
“No.”
Beach raised an eyebrow at the young blond man sitting across the desk from him.
“No, thank you, Sir,” Roger amended his words, but his flat tone remained the same.
“Why?”
Roger’s entire body language remained impassive. “It is a waste of my skills,” he said.
Beach made a show of looking at the file on his desk. “No one denies your field skills, Taylor, but you have musical skills as well. It would be one thing if they were say, the violin, or cello.” Beach was not proud of himself for naming those particular instruments, but to the younger agent’s credit, there was not a flicker of emotion on Taylor’s face. “But you took up percussion, which is a vital piece of this plan.”
“I’m fairly certain that you have other agents who can hit things with sticks,” Roger answered blandly. “I have been trained for the field.”
“This would be field work in the extreme.”
“Mostly here in Britain.”
“Initially yes, but then world-wide if the plan is successful.”
“Whereas I have already completed field work on the continent. This could take years to implement *if* successful.”
“Taylor,” Beach looked at him sternly. The handlers had not understated the stubbornness of the young man. “I know what you have worked for, and no one denies your skills. But we need you for this. You are the logical choice given your field work, your background, and your musical talents. You have been trained for undercover field work, and that is what this shall be, make no mistake about that. Simply think of it as a very unique undercover assignment.”
“I rather think it is going to be a waste of time and assets,” Roger said bluntly, and Beach just smiled.
“Then ensure that it is not a waste.”
*****
*****
The young man visibly paled. “Playing music? On a stage? In front of people?”
Beach hid his smile. “I’m told that that is what rock bands do, yes.”
“Sir,” John carefully chose his words. “I understand the nature of the operation, how unique it is, and how it could work. But I really do not think I am suited to be one of the agents.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I really don’t enjoy crowds.”
“You will be the quiet one in the group.”
John shook his head. “I think I would be a liability. I am not the rock star type at all. How could it be convincing?”
Beach nodded in understanding. “It will require some work on your part,” he admitted honestly. “But the operation will be rolled out slowly; you will have some time to make adjustments.” He considered the young man. “This is a unique opportunity, John,” he said. “You fit the profile for your musical talents and your leadership. Bulsara is the senior agent in the field, but you are needed for logistics and technology.”
“I don’t sing.”
“That is already covered. The others will sing.”
The young man pursed his lips, obviously torn between personal feelings and duty. It was clear which would win. “If I must for the assignment,” he finally said.
“You may enjoy it.” Beach honestly hoped the lad would come to enjoy the assignment. He didn’t like Deacon acting like he was being sent to his death.
John shook his head. “If I must.”
*****
*****
“Sir—“
“Brian.” Beach looked pointedly at the young man that he had helped to raise after his father’s death.
“Uncle Jim,” Brian amended. He looked down his at hands. “I really don’t know what to say.”
Beach nodded. “I know that you never thought you would be in the field, Brian, but this is a very unique opportunity.”
Brian sighed. “Yes, I can see that, but I really don’t think it makes sense for me. I have science training, not field training.”
“You will have time. The other three have field experience to varying degrees. All you need to do initially is focus on the music, which I know will not be difficult.” He smiled kindly. “You can now play your guitar as much as you like.”
The tall young man twisted his hands. “I do love music, yes,” he admitted. ‘But I still don’t see how I fit the profile to be a good field agent.”
Beach smiled. “Start growing your hair long.”
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PART TWO
The operation was approved.
Step one was to create a suitable background, which meant each of them had to enroll in or transfer to assorted nearby colleges so they could meet as “students”. It was rather silly for Farrokh, who already had graduate honors in politics and geography, but he enjoyed the art and design classes that were picked to fit his future role as a flamboyant front man (he was also in the legal process of changing his name to suit the cover). Brian was able to continue work on his doctorate in astrophysics. John was able to easily continue his engineering studies, now focusing on electronics. Roger stuck to biology and added chemistry, but now his story was that he was studying to be a dentist; Beach had raised an eyebrow at that backstory, but decided it would do no harm and would in fact add interest.
Though he suspected the agent had picked dentistry simply to be difficult.
By the spring of 1971, all young men were settled at their various colleges, their covers established. They also, of course, had met and been briefed. All were professional, and it turned out that Farrokh and Roger had trained together several times, shared some classes, and had an honest enough respect for each other. Brian and John shared science interests, even though Brian was rather intimidated by the younger man. All knew John was not to be trifled with, even though he was quiet as a mouse.
Despite some grumbling from Roger (still convinced this was a waste of his skills), signs of future stage fright from John (he knew dozens of ways to disarm a person, but quaked at the idea of having to talk to them), worried looks from Brian (biting his nails from stress and missing his science books), and loud gestures from Farrokh (getting into character), their first meetings and briefings went well.
Their first musical rehearsing did not fare as well.
Beach’s friend had recruited a number of songwriters to prepare music for the group. Songs that all agreed were good and would appeal to young people. All the four agents had to do was learn them and begin to do “gigs” as a college band. The songs should have been the simplest part of this stage of the mission.
They were not.
“Utter crap,” Roger sneered.
“The lyrics make no sense at all,” Brian objected.
“This is written in the wrong timing,” John muttered.
“These songs will not do at all,” Freddie announced (his name change was official as far as the public record was concerned). The team leader looked at Beach. “Sir,” he said, trying to stay professional. “We have tried numerous times to play this….rubbish. I believe a primary school student wrote this song.”
“Who can’t count,” John added under his breath.
“And can’t write,” Brian agreed.
“Crap,” Roger summed up.
Beach raised an eyebrow at the assembled team. “We hired the best professional songwriters,” he mildly protested, curious to see how the young team would respond.
“If this is the best, then end the operation now,” Roger said. “Waste of all our time.”
The director looked at the drummer/agent mildly. “Prove me wrong then,” he said.
Freddie got a gleam in his eyes, accepting the challenge. He looked at his team and nodded. “Give us a few days, Sir,” he said.
The four agents went to the newly assigned rehearsing studio in the MI6 building. “What do you mean, give us a few days?” Roger demanded. “These so-called songs are beyond hope.”
“But they can give us some ideas,” Freddie argued. He looked at the other three agents. “Look, I know that aside from me, no one has a real background in this type of assignment, and that is fair. But our job is to be musicians. We agree this current stuff is rubbish, and we know what good music is. I say we write our own songs.”
“Of course, that would be so easy,” Roger sneered.
Brian sighed, trying to be a peacemaker. “Well, then let’s pick the best possible song we were given, and work on it. We know what’s wrong with it; I think we can fix it.” He looked through the sheet music and pulled one out. “This melody is actually not bad, aside from some fixes on the percussion.” He looked at John and Roger. “If you two work on that, then maybe Bulsara and I can look at the lyrics.”
“Mercury, darling. Freddie Mercury,” the singer/team leader corrected.
Brian blushed. “Right. I‘m sorry. Still sort of….new to this.”
Freddie smiled. “It’s alright. It will get easier, just keep repeating my new…my new name….every chance and it will become habit. John, dear,” he looked at the youngest agent. “I meant to tell you earlier, you did a wonderful job with the miserable music you were given. I know you and Roger can fix the percussion.”
As team leader, Freddie had memorized the files on his three team members even more thoroughly than they knew his file. He’d had long discussions with Beach, getting briefed on all he would need to know to lead them. He knew about Roger’s complicated past, John’s painful insecurity despite all his accomplishments, and how Brian had been thrown into the field when he had planned his whole life to be in the lab. They were all misfits, and he was the biggest one of them all.
Ah, what fun this could be.
“Alright then lads, to work,” he said cheerfully, taking a seat at the piano and gesturing for Brian to join him. John and Roger retreated to the drums and John picked up his bass. After about 20 minutes, they re-gathered and began tossing out their ideas.
An hour later, they were playing something that might actually be good.
*****
*****
Summer 1971:
Their jobs – when not at school – was to work 24/7 on music. Freddie and Roger had led double lives basically since birth, and John had been practicing being undercover since he was a child. But it was all new for Brian, who had been focused all his life on only his studies, and was the worst liar in the world. “Try to look on it as homework, or a research project,” Freddie suggested. “You are being perfectly honest when you tell people you have to study.”
“That might work,” Brian agreed, still biting his finger nails.
Freddie knew his team’s secrets, including Brian’s depression. He went out of his way to be cheerful and upbeat around the tall man, knowing that he couldn’t *fix* a mood, but did all he could to make Brian comfortable, such as learning the signs when to give him space and when company was welcome. Brian did truly love music, and Freddie kept him focused on that.
“Plus you are still getting your degree,” Freddie pointed out one day. “Nothing says you can’t still study your science no matter how successful we become.”
“Right,” Brian snorted, but he was smiling a little, so it was an okay mood. “I have no idea how to do field work, Freddie. What do I do; go up to someone and say ‘tell me your secrets’?”
Freddie chuckled. “No, you say ‘we know you have relatives in the old country’,” he said in a suddenly completely evil heavy accent that sent honest shivers down Brian’s long spine.
“It’s creepy how you do that,” Brian sighed.
“Tell you what,” Freddie said cheerfully. “You concentrate on the music right now; we have to establish ourselves as a true band first, and you are truly an amazing song writer and guitarist. Focus on that and your science, and the rest will come. No one is going to shove you into a field situation without warning. We’re a team.”
Brian sighed but nodded. “Alright,” he said, determined to apply his science perfection to music.
*****
*****
Fall 1971:
With John, it was getting the young man to not have a panic attack at the thought of being on stage…in front of real people.
“They won’t hurt you, darling,” Freddie pointed out. After months of practice, it was time to see how they did in front of a real audience. Their performance was a mix of a few covers and some original songs. John didn’t usually drink, and neither did Brian, but both of them had taken shots of vodka for liquid courage.
“People will be looking at me,” John hissed. Freddie and Roger exchanged understanding looks; John had been raised and trained to fit into the crowd; to not stand out.
“They are looking at a new college band, dear,” Freddie tried to console him. “Not at John Robert Deacon. They have no idea who you are. Don’t worry; I will make sure most eyes are on me.”
Yeah, there was little doubt about that. Freddie was making his Queen debut in a one-piece outfit with full makeup and glitter. Come to think of it, they all had on makeup and at least a tiny bit of glitter. Glam band, indeed.
Freddie had really taken off and run with the idea once they were given free reign by Beach and the record company. Many names had been suggested for the band, and the team had united behind their leader backing him even if they thought his suggest was pretty draft. They were young, smart (college degrees an interesting back story that the record company was planning already to promote), and good-looking, if Freddie did say so himself.
And their music was truly good.
Something had truly clicked. It was a miracle, but a welcome one. All four truly were gifted musicians, and somehow, they really honestly had come up with good original songs. The president of the record company that was secretly already backing them knew the truth, but no one else there did, and ‘Queen’ was being seriously considered as a band to keep an eye on. They had already recorded some demo songs for documentation and the back story; now they just had to prove they could perform on stage as a group.
Freddie had been performing on and off a stage since he was a child. Roger had been acting life since he was five. Brian had never been on a formal stage, but at least he was feeling pretty good about the music. John was a nervous wreck since all of his undercover training had concentrated on *not* being noticed.
“I wanna go in the lab and invent something,” he was saying to Brian. “Like, an invisibility cloak. Yeah, something to keep me invisible.”
Well, Hell. Time for the senior agent to get serious. “Deacon,” Freddie snapped, and Thank God, John looked up at him. “Get it in gear. This is an assignment, no matter how strange. Understand?”
John, Bless him, took a deep breath, set his jaw and nodded. Brian had to blink as if someone had flipped a switch.
“Ready, Freddie,” John said, confidence suddenly high. Freddie nodded sharply at Roger who also effortlessly switched into on-duty mode, and Brian, who was nervous, but always ready to play music.
“Let’s do this,” Freddie said confidentially.
*****
*****
Winter 1971:
They were either soulmates who would ride off into the sunset and have a dozen happy children together, or mortal enemies who would destroy worlds in their private battle.
It depended on the day. Hell, sometimes the hour.
Right now, they were Hell-bent on destruction.
“Fuck you, Farrokh,” Roger sneered.
“Excuse me, Blondie?” Freddie said sweetly.
Oh, Fuck. Brian and John looked at each other nervously.
Freddie was instinctively pulling rank as the senior agent. Roger was bristling as the one with the most field experience. It was a pissing match for the ages, and Brian and John were caught in the middle.
It would have been one thing if it was over the mission or a specific assignment. But this was about a simple song lyric.
Without fully realizing it, Brian and John got between the two would-be warriors. Even with his extremely limited tactical understanding, Brian knew why he turned to Roger and John turned to Freddie. Roger, for all his temper and bluster, respected that Brian had the least field experience and was, basically, a civilian thrown into this world. He would not hit Brian or even shove him unless truly provoked. He truly liked the tall scientist.
And Freddie looked upon John as the little brother, even with knowing what John was capable of given certain conditions. Freddie was the one who protected John on and off stage.
John had pointed out to Brian the strategic benefits of the situation long ago, accurately predicting the outcomes. Brian reflected that it was truly scary how John thought at times, but he none the less welcomed the ideas.
“Okay, new mission procedure,” Brian said sternly. At least he had confidence when it came to protocols. “Music is not up for violent debate, understood? We have to work together on this.”
There was some mumbling on both sides, but eventually Freddie and Roger made up….about 5 minutes later. They found a bar (they were officially off duty) and toasted their undying friendship until Brian and John drove them home.
“God save the Queen,” John muttered to Brian as Roger and Freddie passed out in the living room of their shared flat.
“God save Queen,” Brian agreed, making notes in the margin of his new science textbook.
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PART THREE
The plan worked.
‘Queen’ performed for a year at various venues, gaining a steady fan base and reputation. Soon, the team was composing songs entirely on their own and record executives who had no idea who they were dealing with were interested in the young band. Of course, they were signed by the company of Beach’s friend, but nothing could appear to be too easy or unusual. ‘Queen’ worked hard for their record label and for their college classes.
They also had to continue training. Brian was introduced to the world of undercover science equipment and increased his self-defense classes, while John continued to excel with all his studies. Roger and Freddie had to keep up with all the field agent drills and practice as usual. All four were exhausted each day, but none were afraid of hard work; they had been raised to rise to expectations and were determined to succeed.
During the first year, Freddie and Roger were able to do a surprising amount of field work at their gigs. They knew how to ask the right questions in any situation, and passed on a great deal of info about potential crimes or things overheard at assorted venues that were passed onto the appropriate officials. Roger muttered that it was all “domestic stuff”, but was still determined to show his worth.
And he had started to like the rock drummer persona. Decadent Western lifestyle be damned, he was actually having fun, for really the first time in his life. It was something of a shock. He was also dangerously starting to like his teammates. Roger was suspicious about it, but after a year of usually seeing them every single day either for music or at a government building or training field, he still liked them. He had only been truly tempted to punch Freddie six times, and that was a true miracle, Bless his little communist heart.
Brian started to settle in a bit. He was burning the candle at both ends at times, now studying agent protocols and memorizing all sorts of codes and procedures in addition to science. And, of course, making music. But he loved it. He wrote songs incorporating science terms, and figured out a whole new musical code using certain notes and tones in place of letters that they could use. John was so excited about the electronic possibilities that he and Brian locked themselves in a sound booth with their guitars for a weekend and emerged with a truly unique code that withstood the efforts of the best code breakers to decipher it. It even incorporated certain vocals, making it truly sneaky. MI6 officially named it the ‘Royal’ code, and it was immediate made top secret. Besides the band, only a few senior agents at headquarters knew the cypher.
John also relaxed enough that the panic attacks decreased. It was odd how he could take on bar of drunks and clear the room without getting a single hair out of place or smudging his glam makeup, but he blushed and stammered when a female groupie tried to take him home one night. Brian, too, was rather shy about that, making Freddie and Roger sigh.
“It’s referred to as ‘duty demands’, dear,” Freddie said to Brian one night as they had drinks at the apartment. They were off-duty for a rare weekend and had all decided to just collapse and relax.
Brian saw John blush to the tips of his ears, and he knew nothing good was going to come from this. “Ah….demands what, exactly?”
“Sex, of course,” Roger said, a bit too casually for Brian and John’s liking. “There are times you will have to have sex with someone as part of a cover. Seduction, if you will. The oldest trick in the books, but it still works.”
Brian blinked and looked to John for confirmation, who blushed even redder, and nodded. “Um….okay?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Freddie said, patting Brian’s knee. “It’s not that it won’t happen….it likely will. But try to think of it as business and stay calm. Sometimes its really not bad at all,” he grinned. “Ah, the things we do for crown and country.”
“Yeah!” Roger said, obviously trying now to cheer up Brian and John. “One time, in West Berlin, there were a pair of twins, and they did this thing where I had to---”
“I get it,” Brian said quickly.
“Twins?” Freddie sniffed. “Triplets in Spain,” he countered. Roger glared and slammed back a shot of vodka, ready as always to turn something into a competition.
“On a cruise ship on the Rhine river, in the captain’s bed, while he was steering the ship, with his mistress *and* her sister,” he threw out. “And I had to climb out the port hole.”
Freddie raised an eyebrow. “With a female tourist guide in Egypt, in an open tent around the corner of the Great Pyramid, while her clients were taking pictures of a baby camel.” He smirked. “Sand got in unexpected places.”
“Um, excuse me?” John actually held up his hand. “Are you talking about duty demands or just for, err, fun?”
“Both.” Roger and Freddie said at the same time. They clinked drinks in a toast.
And Freddie had become Freddie Fucking Mercury. And no one was going to stop the band now.
Chapter 2: Breakthoughs
Summary: Brian has some harsh things to consider as he enters field work. John needs a quiet place.
All things considered, Brian adjusted fairly well to his new life. Over the first year, he had a very steep learning curve, but Freddie and Roger took him under their wing, and ensured that Brian was able to concentrate on the music and eased him into the world of being an undercover agent. He was a horrible liar, and terrified that he would do something wrong, so Freddie and Roger took the forefront at controlling their cover and dealing with the public while John and Brian stayed in the background as much as possible. John still hadn’t gotten over his stage fright and it seemed he never would, but he knew how to listen and put things together. At parties, he and Brian stayed mostly quiet and then would pass on what they heard to Freddie and Roger and let the senior agents take point on what needed to be followed up.
Brian did enjoy a number of successes. No one doubted his intelligence and the music code he and John developed had been tested and proved. He calmly and quickly diffused a suspected bomb at one venue; it turned out to be fake, but still, Brian had stepped up without a pause and risked his life to determine it was a fake. He developed new field tests for possible poisons and explosives, all the while writing brilliant songs and learning to lead a double life.
Even when it was so hard for him.
He was a pacifist, and hated any violence. The one thing he had refused to do, with the support of his teammates, was to carry a gun. He reluctantly passed the required field scores and could break down any weapon given to him (and knew how to jam them as well). But he absolutely, positively, refused to carry.
And everyone supported him. Especially Freddie and Roger.
Roger was of the opinion that it was good Brian didn’t want to carry a sidearm. If he was uncomfortable, then so be it. It was good to keep him away from guns if he was nervous. Besides, Brian had made it clear that wasn’t against *fighting* or using some type of weapon when absolutely necessary. It had been a perfectly normal bar fight (not even mission related) and Roger had been having rather a lot of fun when Brian had come up from behind and kicked a would-be assailant In The Head. Damn those long legs. Then Brian calmly packed up his guitar but not before kicking someone else in the knee. Brian apologized to both men, but still, he had totally clocked them. Roger respected that, as did John, who had tied them up with some extra brass strings.
Freddie understood Brian more than the senior agent let on. Sometimes when they were alone, they would talk long and hard not about music, but about the double lives they led. Freddie had trained most of life for this work, but it was all new to Brian, and Freddie understood.
Including the most difficult question any agent had to face.
“I can’t….I don’t think I could ever…” Brian twisted his hands, looking down at his lap. They were alone in a MI6 office, going through a debriefing, and Freddie knew Brian was ready for this talk.
“Kill someone,” Freddie finished. Brian flinched, looking at Freddie with misery and the leader shrugged a bit. “My darling,” he said, putting an arm around the taller man and pulling him in for a hug. “Let me share something with you. At one point or another during a field recruit agent’s training, they will be asked, point blank, ‘can you kill someone’? It’s always phrased exactly that way, and it’s when the person least expects it. The only consistent is that it’s when they are alone with a senior trainer, and those are the exact words: can you kill someone? Not could you, should you, or would you. *Can* you? And you need to answer then and there.”
Brian’s eyes were a bit wide, and Freddie hugged him, making the guitarist look at him. “There are variations of what is considered the ‘right’ or proper answer. But there is no disagreement about what is considered the *wrong* answer. The wrong answer is ‘Yes’.” He let Brian think on that for a moment.
“Why is that the definite wrong answer?” Brian finally asked.
“Because murderers belong in prison. People with no emotions, no feelings, who answer yes to such a question without much thought are immediately sent to psychiatric help. We do this job to help people, Brian, for country and crown. We don’t do it to kill people.”
“But it happens sometimes.”
“Yes,” Freddie agreed calmly. “When all other options are gone. There’s another question all field recruits are asked: ‘*could* you kill someone?’ That answer is even more tricky and very personal. For many people, they would lay down their life for their family, friends, or their country. But it’s different when you are faced with the possibility of needing to *take* a life for your family, friends, or country. And it should be. Even for family and country; cold-blooded murderers have no place in our profession.”
Brian sighed, running his fingers through his now long hair in thought. “I don’t think I can,” he said finally.
“That’s alright,” Freddie assured him. “Bri, everyone knows your situation. You never wanted to be in the field, and you are doing it only because of this very unique mission. Don’t feel guilty or let it get to you. No one will ask you this question. I am going to be totally serious and honest; one day you may have to face that situation, and have to decide what to do. No matter what you choose, you will hate yourself. But do not let it eat you up. The reason we knew you were right for this mission was because of your moral compass. We need to you. Roger and I need you, and so does Deaky.”
Brian bit his lip, considering. He knew he would never ask any of his teammates if they had ever had to make that choice, thought he was pretty sure he knew the answer at least in Roger’s case. But he would never ask, and would never question it.
But he did wonder what their answers had been.
“Freddie?” Brian hesitated and then shook his head quickly. “No, never mind. I’m sorry, I have no right, I --”
“It’s alright,” Freddie smiled gently, knowing it was only fair to give his answer to the question that he had brought up. “I said that I thought I could, but only if it was the absolute last resort to save someone else. And then I cried for about 10 minutes at just the thought of it. My instructor held me while I bawled, and then took me out for drinks.” A fond look passed over Freddie’s face. “He’s a wonderful man. Landed at Normandy when he was just 17 years old, even younger than Deaky, believe it or not. He’s still training field recruits, making most of them cry and not because of the question but because of how tough he is. We keep in touch. Keeps trying to set me up with his daughter and while she’s lovely, I’m a bit afraid of her.” He winked at their scientist/guitarist. “Now, if he would give me permission to court his son, well then –”
“Freddie!” Brian rolled his eyes in laughter and shoved the singer away.
“Actually, we should set you up with his daughter. I think you two would be just right for each other,” Freddie said, happy matchmaking plans already dancing in his head.
Brian looked rather horrified. “You are afraid of her, but want to set me up with her?”
"She won’t hurt you, darling. She would like you, I promise. I would suggest Deaky, but I think he would have a heart attack. But,” Freddie grinned. “I do think I know just the right girl for our Deaky. Want to play matchmaker? He may need some pointers. Maybe we can get one of Roger’s biology books—"
“Oh, God, Freddie!”
“No, really, he needs some help. Not that she isn’t capable of taking care of it herself, but she’s a friend, and I hate to make her do all the work. It just doesn’t seem fair.”
“I am not having this conversation,” Brian said firmly.
“No, wait! We really need to! For Deaky’s sake!”
*****
*****
John was turning out to be a spectacular field agent, albeit a shy one. It was how he operated best, and all knew it. He put on a good face in public, but his three teammates could see the toll it was taking on him. Becoming a public, famous, person was killing him bit by bit. Like Brian, he had never planned to be a field agent in the public sense. He had wanted to stay mostly in a lab or in an operations room, managing logistics and technology and appearing in public only quietly and discretely. He knew he was being groomed for a management position and the field work was invaluable, but he simply wanted to die at how public it made him. John had wanted to be like Harold May, holding a boring, respectable public position, while working undercover.
Instead, he was posing in his underwear for pictures and running from screaming fans. Beach had said that he could be the ‘quiet one’ in the band, and John damn well intended to hold him to that promise, just as soon as he figured out a way to do it.
Thank God for Freddie, Brian, and Roger.
And Veronica.
Freddie could lie like no one’s business, but when it came to his friends – his teammates – he would pull no punches. If he was going to set someone up, he would be honest about it. He knew John needed a safe place and it would take a very special lady to provide that for him.
“John, this is Veronica. Veronica, John. He’s the lovely chap I told you about.” Freddie beamed at John as they stood in the hallway of a MI6 building, John blushing in a completely mortified manner, and Veronica smiling sweetly. “Veronica is a teacher trainee.” This was true enough; no one needed to know yet exactly what Veronica was in training to teach (it involved lasers and missiles). “Now come on, we have reservations at a disco.”
John fell in love that night, though only Freddie knew it. Veronica took a bit longer….12 hours. Then she had to get pregnant to finally convince John to accept her proposal. But it all worked out. John had a quiet place and a home of their own to decompress and he could share his honest worries with his fellow MI6 agent and lead a reasonably quiet, private, life as much as possible. Veronica kept up her work even while juggling 6 children; she was amazing, and everyone knew it. John was just in awe that she actually let him touch her inappropriately, and he was eternally grateful to both Veronica and Freddie.
It wasn’t a cover. It wasn’t a set-up. It was true love on both sides, and everyone knew it. Freddie bawled at their wedding and Roger and Brian got drunk and asked Freddie to set them up as well, seeing how happy Veronica and John were. Freddie was obviously a genius and knew what he was doing.
Brian and Roger gave Freddie a coffee mug with “World Greatest Matchmaker” embossed on it that the senior agent proudly kept at his messy desk at headquarters.
Freddie did eventually set up both Brian and Roger, and everyone was happy. Ironically, it was John, Roger, and Brian who set up Freddie with Jim, and they never let him forget it.
Notes:
STORY and AUTHOR NOTES: Future chapters will be random snapshots/time-jumps of various scenarios and adventures in this universe. Some hints: why did Freddie change costumes so often during shows? Sending messages, darling. Roger’s drum solos? Morris code, of course!
**I am travelling for the month of July so I likely be able to update until I return, but I promise that I WILL continue this story!**
Prompts Welcome! If you have an idea for a case/scenario/etc…please send on and I will be happy to try to incorporate it 😊
CHARACTER NOTES:
Freddie is James Bond, Napoleon Solo (“The Man from U.N.C.L.E”), and Kelly Robinson (“I SPY”) all rolled into one.
Roger is both Napoleon Solo & Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin (“The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”) – with a temper - and Kelly Robinson (“I Spy”) – also with a temper.
Brian is Alexander Scott (“I Spy”) and Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin - without a temper.
John is future ‘Q’ and/or ‘M’ in training (James Bond universe), Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin, & Alexander Scott – sometimes with a temper.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Man_from_U.N.C.L.E.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Spy_(1965_TV_series)
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Buying Whores for Chuck Berry’s and a Threat from Jerry Lee Lewis
By David Himmel
The following is an excerpt from The Last DJ, now available. For the complete experience, listen to the book’s soundtrack here while you read.
WEEKENDS AT THE STATION REQUIRED A THEME. For example, during the Oscars, we’d spotlight songs featured on movie soundtracks like Lulu’s “To Sir with Love” from the movie of the same name or Simon & Garfunkel’s “The Sound of Silence” from The Graduate. Grammy weekend spotlighted Grammy-winning songs: “Up, Up and Away” by The 5th Dimension and “It’s Too Late” by Carole King. Mother’s Day had songs about moms or featured girl groups like The Marvelettes and The Shangri-Las. If there was no holiday or event to celebrate, we’d do twin spins—playing songs by the same artist back-to-back, or my favorite kind of treat, the same song performed by different artists, like “Walk Away Renée” by The Left Banke and then The Four Tops—or spotlight a big artist who was having a birthday. We found a way to make things relevant. The Fourth of July was always Founding Fathers of Rock ’n’ Roll Weekend.
Elvis Presley. Chuck Berry. Little Richard. Jerry Lee Lewis. Those are rock’s founding fathers. And since Elvis was dead, we only had to get the other three together to play the big summer concert the station was producing. “KOOL 93.1 presents a Founding Fathers of Rock ’n’ Roll Concert featuring: Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis! Live at the Orleans Arena, Saturday, July fifth!” It was the first time in history that all three shared the bill.
My main gig at the time was being the marketing director. By now, KOOL was in the top-five–ranked stations in Las Vegas, thanks to our hard work. It was a rarity for oldies stations to crack the top ten. But like I said, we were making damn good radio. Hot Rod was a programming and marketing genius. And our ability to create events like the Founding Fathers concert was a part of what made our radio worth listening to.
My office had once been a broom closet, about five feet deep and six feet wide. It was stuffed to the ceiling with files, standard office supplies, a clunky desktop computer that hated connecting to the printer, radio station swag, an empty mini keg of Hofbräuhaus beer and photos of me with some of the celebrities I’d met and/or interviewed; Barry Williams (Greg Brady from The Brady Bunch), Tony Orlando, my beloved Mary Wilson, The Beach Boys, Ray Charles, a certain yet-to-be-discovered child molester known for pitching popular gut-rot sandwiches.
I should quickly tell you about my encounter with Jared Fogle. At the height of Fogle’s fame, he showed up at the station one afternoon. Subway had deployed him on a media tour to promote the health benefits of a Subway diet. I met him in the lobby while he was waiting for an intern from Sunny to find him headphones. Why he needed headphones was beyond me because guests don’t necessarily need headphones, but Fogle refused to step into a studio until he had a pair of headphones. I learned of this as I introduced myself and offered to lend him mine. I ran to my office and grabbed them. As he awkwardly fidgeted with them, sizing them to his head, I made small talk.
“So, Jared. You used to be a pretty big, fat guy.” “Yeah,” he said.
“As you can see, I’m pretty thin.” “Yeah.”
“What would you suggest I eat if I wanted to pack on a few pounds?”
“What?”
“Well, what did you eat that made you such a huge, fat guy? I want some of that.” He looked at me as if I’d just called his mother a gutted cock wallet while stabbing her in the throat. Sure, it wasn’t the nicest small talk I’d ever made, but I was trying to have fun with the guy. Here he was, rich and famous and making a living by talking about Subway sandwiches and how he used to be a fat ass and now, no longer was. I figured he had to have a sense of humor about it and so I thought my question was totally fair and reasonable, considering that we both had weight issues, just issues on the opposite ends of the scale. He did not have a sense of humor about it and did not think my question was fair. But Jan, our receptionist did and so did Fogle’s PR girl standing next to him. I let the discomfort linger with their chuckles before walking him back to the Sunny studio for his first interview. I then ducked into the KOOL studio and suggested that T.J. ask Jared about his diet before he lost the weight. When T.J. asked, there was more awkward silence, which wasn’t the way we usually treated on-air guests, but it was pretty damn funny. While I feel for his victims, I take immense pleasure knowing that Fogle is rotting in prison, hopefully gaining back all of that weight.
But as I was saying…
My cramped office was across the hall from Hot Rod’s, which was far more spacious yet still stuffed with KOOL swag, swag from stations where he used to work, photos of his family, double the celebrity photos I had, a mini fridge with chilled beer, award and recognition plaques, and a stereo that constantly played KOOL 93.1 so he never missed a second of his programming.
A few weeks before the July 5 concert, Hot Rod made the short walk to my office. He would usually just holler my name, but I had my door closed because I was on the phone fighting with Allison even though she was in her office next to Hot Rod’s, across from mine. Our relationship was holding steady at the point of destructive workplace behavior, like having closed-door phone fights from across the hall. Hot Rod knocked on my door.
“Yo, Doc! Open up, man.”
“We’ll finish this at lunch,” I said to Allison before hanging up on her and opening the door.
“Why bother?” Hot Rod said. “We can all hear you. Just keep the doors open. Don’t make us work so hard.”
“What’s up?” I asked, respectfully annoyed.
He was leaning against the door frame holding some kind of contract in his hand waving it around in a look-and- see-what-I-got kind of way. “You ever had to read through a rider?” he asked.
“No.”
“Well, you’re gonna need to. This is Chuck Berry’s. Come on.”
He handed me the rider as we took the five steps back to his office. He sat behind his desk and leaned back in his eight-hundred-dollar ergonomic chair he’d received in trade for providing testimonials in on-air ads for the company. (Payment in trade was not uncommon, and Hot Rod reveled in it. It’s how he got the pool built in his backyard and hair replacement surgery. Trade, swag and prizes helped offset the crappy salaries radio paid. I landed myself a nice Weber grill, a Panasonic DVD player and a trip to Hawaii as a result.) He cranked up the stereo. It was his shift. He had voicetracked it earlier that day. I plopped down on the old couch across from his desk and began reading.
Most riders were standard. They listed the needs of the performer, like transportation and accommodations, and specifics on their backline—amps and monitors and such. Often there’d be requests for a certain kind of bottled water to be present in the green room. The more finicky performers listed green room temperature settings.
I came to the part that I knew Hot Rod had come to see me about. “Um. Is this real?”
“It most certainly is.”
“Two big-breasted, blond women.” “Yep.”
“Evian Water, that’s no problem, but two big-breasted, blond women? How are we supposed to provide this?”
“You know any cute college girls who want to make a few bucks?”
I had graduated two years earlier and knew plenty of attractive women who fit the description. None of them would be up for whatever Chuck Berry had in mind, regardless of the pay. And I wasn’t about to use my social capital asking any of them, so I said, “Probably not.”
“Okay then. Here.” Hot Rod pulled his wallet from one of the desk drawers and handed me the company American Express. “Go to Pahrump and buy two hookers.”
“You’re joking.”
“Better get going. You’re bound to hit traffic. And make sure they can provide their own transportation.”
“It might cost extra.”
“That’s why I gave you the company card.” Allison’s office door was still closed. I knocked. “Come in. Oh. It’s you.”
“Listen, I have to cancel our lunch date.”
“Figures. Why?”
“I have to go out to Pahrump this afternoon.”
“Why do you have to go to Pahrump this afternoon?” “It’s the closest place where you can legally buy hookers.”
“Oh! So we have one little fight this morning, and now you’re going to go buy hookers?”
“They’re not for me. They’re for Chuck Berry.”
“Right. Good one, David. Real smooth. Just get out and go. Enjoy your whores.”
“I don’t think they like being called that.” “Get out. And close the door when you leave.”
✶
PROSTITUTION IS ILEGAL IN LAS VEGAS and throughout Clark County, but beyond, it’s a booming, tax-generating, safe, and regulated business. Pahrump sits just over the edge of Clark in Nye County. I pulled into The Honey Ranch. The year before, Honey’s had done a massive remodeling, and I orchestrated an on-air promotion with the brothel. Listeners could win memorabilia from Honey’s and qualify for a chance to win an all-inclusive paid weekend experience at The New Honey Ranch. Honey’s wasn’t just a place for hooker banging. It was a sprawling resort. It had a bar, tennis courts, a pool and a full spa. Everyone knew what the real purpose and the bread and butter of this brothel was: Sex. The resort and spa stuff were pure marketing. And that made it easy for a family-friendly oldies radio station to promote it on-air while giving away old plastic-covered love seats that had witnessed more a la carte erotica than even the most perverted Vegas sex junkies could imagine.
If you want to witness impeccable customer relations, rent women from a Nevada brothel. Buying a sweater at Banana Republic is more complicated than leasing out two humans at Honey’s. Everyone was, of course, smiling and friendly. I was made to feel like the most important person to ever walk through the doors. I told the madam who I was and what I needed.
“You’re Dr. Dave Maxwell!? I pictured you older and fatter,” Madam Maureen said.
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“We love your station and listen to it all the time. It’s probably playing in the bar right now. Come on, I’ll take you there. I’ll even buy you a drink.”
“Thank you, Maureen, but I really can’t stay. I just need to hire two of your best girls. Blond with large breasts.”
“Dr. Dave… you young ones are all about getting down to business. You ought to take some time to enjoy yourself.”
“Really, I have to—”
“Okay then. Let’s go have a look at our girls.”
Madam Maureen flipped through the schedule to find those who would be available for the concert. She summoned the girls through an intercom system in the way a McDonald’s cashier calls out your order. A few moments later there were six young, lingerie-clad women standing before me. She asked the girls to walk, pivot, turn. I would have felt guilty that they were being presented like prize livestock at a 4H competition except that this was their chosen profession, and this was how they made their money, and they were earning a decent buck, too. This was the furthest thing from the grimy and violent sex trade in dark back alleys and Thailand.
“Pick your two,” Madam Maureen instructed. I made my choice, Dakota and Candace.
As Madam Maureen finalized the transaction, she asked me, “What’s this for again?”
“Our Founding Fathers of Rock ’n’ Roll Concert. Chuck Berry requested two big-breasted, blond women.”
“Oh, that’s right! I would love to go to that concert.” “You know what? I know a guy. I think I can hook you
up. Will you provide their transportation there if I do?”
“Depends on how good the seats are.”
I smiled at her and signed Hot Rod’s name to the credit card receipt, waved farewell to Dakota and Candace and drove back to town, hoping that Chuck Berry would behave himself and that I hadn’t done a terrible thing.
✶
BY THE TIME JULY 5 ROLLED AROUND, the show had sold out. I was able to get Madam Maureen two tickets, but they were nosebleed—we had to pay for the transportation. Loading in that day was exciting as the three legends and their entourages milled about the stage and the back hallways of the Orleans Arena. I was wearing my KOOL 93.1 staff polo with “Dr. Dave” embroidered on the right breast, so I was often stopped and asked a question or given a request by a manager or a roadie.
“You work for the radio station?” The man looked brittle, his skin blueish pale. There were two men on either side of him, each holding one of his arms to keep him steady and upright. They couldn’t have been much younger than he was, though they looked it. His Southern accent was soft and reminded me of my grandfather’s Memphis drawl. I was standing face-to-face with Jerry Lee Lewis.
“You work for the radio station?” he asked again.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Lewis. I’m Dr. Dave Maxwell. What can I help you with?” Little Richard walked past us, and he, too, looked frail and worn down. The Killer glared at him as he passed. The Innovator didn’t seem to notice. Jerry Lee turned his gaze back at me, his eyes smaller now, his face taut with rage.
“Can you do me a favor, boy?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t let that niggah touch my pianah.” He and his two men went on their way.
Fear replaced my awe. Trying to reconcile what Jerry Lee Lewis had just said to me, I barely heard Chuck Berry calling out my name from inside his dressing room.
“Hey! Dr. Dave!”
I doubled back and poked my head in. He was lounging on the small leather couch like a king with his spoils: Dakota on one side of him, Candace on the other. They smiled and waved at me. I smiled back. At least, I think I did. “Don’t let that niggah touch my pianah” was the only thing my brain could digest at that particular moment.
“You’re Dr. Dave, right?”
“Uh, yessir.”
“I was told that you handpicked these two beauties out for me.”
“Yessir.”
“Hell of a job, young man. Hell of a job. See you on stage.”
✶
THEY PUT ON AN INCREDIBLE SHOW. Both Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard came alive once the lights hit them—each with their own piano. It was like it was 1958 again. Jerry Lee kicked the piano stool back during “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.” Little Richard was funny, sassy and hit those woos with astounding accuracy. Chuck Berry even managed a duck walk during “Maybellene.” I watched from the wings with the rest of the station staff and Dakota and Candace.
“He’s a really nice man,” Candace said to me.
“I’m relieved to hear that,” I said. “Hiring you for him felt a little awkward.”
She smiled. She understood. She turned her body toward me, still smiling. I thought for a second that she wanted me to kiss her.
“We always work our hardest to make sure the customer has a nice time,” Candace said. “We always give a little bit… extra.”
Dakota, who had been engaged in the show, broke her focus and joined Candace in the smiley, busty standoff with me. And then I realized that they didn’t want to be kissed. They wanted to be tipped.
“Oh, uh, hang on,” I said as I searched my pockets. I didn’t have much. Just a small stack of ten-dollar gift cards to Jersey Mike’s Subs. I had lifted them from the station’s prize cabinet and had been doling them out randomly to attendees throughout the show. With the grace of an arthritic magician, I divided the small stack into two and gave one to Dakota and the other to Candace. They looked at me, puzzled. I proclaimed, “The radio station—rock ’n’ roll—thanks you for your service.”
A punchy behind-the-scenes look at the beginning of the end of the radio we had come to love. The Last DJ reveals the drama behind the voices that deliver our favorite songs and what happens in the DJ booth when the microphones are turned off and the smooth talking stops.
#The Last DJ#The Last DJ: The Life and Times of a 20-Something Oldies Disc Jockey#Real Oldies#Oldies Radio#iHeart Radio#Clear Channel#Clear Channel radio#David Himmel Author#David Himmel Fiction#Las Vegas#Las Vegas radio#Chuck Berry#Little Richard#Jerry Lee Lewis#Simon & Garfunkel#Lulu#The Marvelettes#The Shangri-Las#Left Banke#The Four Tops#Grammy Awards#Founding Fathers of Rock 'n' Roll#Elvis Presley#Barry Williams#The Brady Bunch#Jared Fogle#Subway
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Clean energy sector swings Republican with U.S. campaign donations
(Reuters) – U.S. solar and wind energy companies have donated far more money to Republicans than Democrats in congressional races this election cycle, according to a Reuters analysis of campaign finance data, an unprecedented tilt to the right for an industry long associated with the environmental left.
FILE PHOTO – U.S. President Donald Trump applauds in front of U.S. Vice President Mike Pence (L) and Speaker of the House U.S. Rep. Paul Ryan (R-WI) during his first State of the Union address to a joint session of Congress inside the House Chamber on Capitol Hill in Washington, U.S., January 30, 2018. REUTERS/Win McNamee/Pool
While the money is modest compared with that donated by fossil fuel interests, the support provides GOP candidates with added credibility on clean energy, an issue polling shows swing voters care about.
Renewable energy has typically depended on government subsidies and policies to help fuel its growth, and the donations come at a time when Republicans control both houses of Congress as well as a majority of state houses across the country. Republicans have so far left subsidies for the industry largely intact.
“We support those leaders who share our vision,” said Arthur Haubenstock, vice president of policy and strategy at 8minutenergy Renewables LLC, a California-based solar project developer, and treasurer of a newly formed employee-funded political action committee that shares the company’s name. So far, the PAC has donated only to Republicans.
Overall, political action committees representing solar and wind companies have donated nearly $400,000 to candidates and PACs in the 2018 election cycle, including $247,000 to Republicans, $139,300 to Democrats, and $7,500 to independents, according to the Reuters analysis.
That marks a record. During the 2016 presidential elections, the first cycle during which the clean energy industry gave more to the GOP than to Democrats, Republicans received just over half of the combined $695,470 in political contributions from major wind and solar PACs.
Before that, solar and wind companies mainly donated to Democrats, who were broadly seen as more supportive of policies that could help the nascent sector grow. In 2014, 70 percent of the contributions from seven major wind and solar PACs went to Democrats.
The U.S. solar and wind industries have expanded greatly over the last decade and now employ some 300,000 workers nationwide, nearly six times more than coal mining. The hottest growth has been in states that voted heavily for President Donald Trump in 2016.
That has helped strengthen the industry’s appeal to Republican lawmakers, allowing it to rebrand as a jobs engine for the heartland, instead of as a tool for combating global warming, an issue that played better with Democrats.
“Solar is creating economic activity in so many districts,” said Abigail Ross Hopper, head of the Solar Energy Industries Association (SEIA), whose donations have tilted heavily toward the GOP. Global warming “is certainly not our lead talking point,” she said.
SEIA has contributed more than twice as much to Republicans as to Democrats this cycle, $56,500 versus $26,700.
FILE PHOTO: Solar panels are seen in front of a natural gas power plant at the Tahoe-Reno Industrial Center in McCarran, Nevada, U.S., September 16, 2014. REUTERS/Max Whittaker/File Photo
Prior to 2016, SEIA’s contributions to Democrats were reliably double what the group gave to Republicans. The American Wind Energy Association’s PAC, too, has shifted its giving. In 2014 it gave Democrats twice as much money as Republicans, while in the current cycle it has given $87,500 to Republicans compared to $67,500 for Democrats.
SUPPORT FOR CLEAN ENERGY
Polls have found widespread support for renewable energy among voters, including among Republicans. Most recently, a Gallup poll from early March found 73 percent of adults favor an emphasis on alternatives like wind and solar over traditional fossil fuels. Just over half of Republicans – 51 percent – favored alternatives, compared with 88 percent of Democrats, Gallup said.
Among moderate Republicans and voters who lean Republican, there is even wider support for renewable energy. A poll conducted by Pew Research Center in early 2017 found that nearly two-thirds of that group favored alternative energy sources over fossil fuels.
The polls also found that attitudes toward clean energy are not necessarily linked to those about climate change. The Gallup poll, for instance, found just 35 percent of Republicans think climate change is caused by human activities, and 69 percent think the seriousness of global warming is exaggerated.
“Clean energy works every time and it doesn’t alienate the base,” said Jay Faison, Chief Executive of ClearPath, a group that aims to help elect Republicans supporting clean power. Independent-minded voters view support for alternative energy as a signal that a candidate is “not an errand boy for the party leadership,” he added.
Nevada incumbent Senator Dean Heller is among the chief Republican beneficiaries of support from the clean energy industry. His re-election effort has drawn more than $15,000 in backing from solar and wind this election cycle.
Nevada ranks fourth in the nation in solar installations and generates more than 11 percent of its electricity from the sun. One in every 203 people is employed by the solar industry in Nevada, putting it second only to ultra-green California.
FILE PHOTO: Sen. Dean Heller (R-NV) speaks during a ceremony to present the Congressional Gold Medal to Filipino veterans of the Second World War on Capitol Hill in Washington, U.S., October 25, 2017. REUTERS/Aaron P. Bernstein/File Photo
Heller told Reuters he supports clean energy because of the jobs it has brought to his state. Nevada has been able to attract employers like Tesla, he said, in part because its abundant sunshine can produce renewable power for factories and other business operations.
He added he doesn’t see a conflict with supporting both solar energy and fossil fuel interests: “I’m very pro ‘all of the above,’ and I think that’s where the GOP is,” he said.
Other Republicans receiving solar and wind donations include Kevin Brady of Texas, Carlos Curbelo of Florida, George Holding of North Carolina and Tom Reed of New York, all members of the House Committee on Ways and Means, which is responsible for writing tax policy.
All four hail from states with sizeable solar markets, and Curbelo is also co-chair of the Climate Solutions Caucus, a bipartisan group of House lawmakers working on policies to address climate change.
House Majority Leader Kevin McCarthy has received about $13,500 in contributions from the renewable energy PACs, and SEIA held a fundraiser for him in his California district last year. McCarthy’s congressional district, which includes a swath of the Mojave desert, boasts more solar capacity than any other district in the nation, most of it in large-scale projects for utilities.
ROCK-BOTTOM MARKS
Democratic and environmental groups downplay the clean energy industry’s shifting financial support, saying companies are simply trying to protect their interests by supporting the party in power.
“AWEA and SEIA are trade associations representing the financial business interests of their member companies,” said Sara Chieffo, vice president of government affairs at the League of Conservation Voters, which has found itself at odds with solar and wind PACs on many candidates, including Heller.
The league gives Heller rock-bottom marks for his environmental voting record and has endorsed his Democratic opponent, Jacky Rosen, in the Nevada senate race.
Most environmental groups still primarily back Democrats. The League of Conservation Voters, for example, has contributed $1.3 million to Democratic congressional candidates this cycle but has not supported a single Republican. Billionaire Tom Steyer’s NextGen Climate Action Super PAC has spent tens of millions of dollars in recent election cycles on campaigns against Republicans and for Democratic candidates.
Democratic National Committee spokeswoman Sabrina Singh questions why solar and wind companies would support Republicans over Democrats.
Republicans, she said, “consistently seek to defund efforts to promote clean energy,” while “Democrats at both the federal and state level have been fighting to promote renewable energy.”
The Republican National Committee did not respond to a request for comment.
Renewable energy industry shifts to backing Republicans – tmsnrt.rs/2vGH8zh
Additional reporting by Grant Smith in New York; Editing by Richard Valdmanis and Sue Horton
The post Clean energy sector swings Republican with U.S. campaign donations appeared first on World The News.
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Clean energy sector swings Republican with U.S. campaign donations
(Reuters) – U.S. solar and wind energy companies have donated far more money to Republicans than Democrats in congressional races this election cycle, according to a Reuters analysis of campaign finance data, an unprecedented tilt to the right for an industry long associated with the environmental left.
FILE PHOTO – U.S. President Donald Trump applauds in front of U.S. Vice President Mike Pence (L) and Speaker of the House U.S. Rep. Paul Ryan (R-WI) during his first State of the Union address to a joint session of Congress inside the House Chamber on Capitol Hill in Washington, U.S., January 30, 2018. REUTERS/Win McNamee/Pool
While the money is modest compared with that donated by fossil fuel interests, the support provides GOP candidates with added credibility on clean energy, an issue polling shows swing voters care about.
Renewable energy has typically depended on government subsidies and policies to help fuel its growth, and the donations come at a time when Republicans control both houses of Congress as well as a majority of state houses across the country. Republicans have so far left subsidies for the industry largely intact.
“We support those leaders who share our vision,” said Arthur Haubenstock, vice president of policy and strategy at 8minutenergy Renewables LLC, a California-based solar project developer, and treasurer of a newly formed employee-funded political action committee that shares the company’s name. So far, the PAC has donated only to Republicans.
Overall, political action committees representing solar and wind companies have donated nearly $400,000 to candidates and PACs in the 2018 election cycle, including $247,000 to Republicans, $139,300 to Democrats, and $7,500 to independents, according to the Reuters analysis.
That marks a record. During the 2016 presidential elections, the first cycle during which the clean energy industry gave more to the GOP than to Democrats, Republicans received just over half of the combined $695,470 in political contributions from major wind and solar PACs.
Before that, solar and wind companies mainly donated to Democrats, who were broadly seen as more supportive of policies that could help the nascent sector grow. In 2014, 70 percent of the contributions from seven major wind and solar PACs went to Democrats.
The U.S. solar and wind industries have expanded greatly over the last decade and now employ some 300,000 workers nationwide, nearly six times more than coal mining. The hottest growth has been in states that voted heavily for President Donald Trump in 2016.
That has helped strengthen the industry’s appeal to Republican lawmakers, allowing it to rebrand as a jobs engine for the heartland, instead of as a tool for combating global warming, an issue that played better with Democrats.
“Solar is creating economic activity in so many districts,” said Abigail Ross Hopper, head of the Solar Energy Industries Association (SEIA), whose donations have tilted heavily toward the GOP. Global warming “is certainly not our lead talking point,” she said.
SEIA has contributed more than twice as much to Republicans as to Democrats this cycle, $56,500 versus $26,700.
FILE PHOTO: Solar panels are seen in front of a natural gas power plant at the Tahoe-Reno Industrial Center in McCarran, Nevada, U.S., September 16, 2014. REUTERS/Max Whittaker/File Photo
Prior to 2016, SEIA’s contributions to Democrats were reliably double what the group gave to Republicans. The American Wind Energy Association’s PAC, too, has shifted its giving. In 2014 it gave Democrats twice as much money as Republicans, while in the current cycle it has given $87,500 to Republicans compared to $67,500 for Democrats.
SUPPORT FOR CLEAN ENERGY
Polls have found widespread support for renewable energy among voters, including among Republicans. Most recently, a Gallup poll from early March found 73 percent of adults favor an emphasis on alternatives like wind and solar over traditional fossil fuels. Just over half of Republicans – 51 percent – favored alternatives, compared with 88 percent of Democrats, Gallup said.
Among moderate Republicans and voters who lean Republican, there is even wider support for renewable energy. A poll conducted by Pew Research Center in early 2017 found that nearly two-thirds of that group favored alternative energy sources over fossil fuels.
The polls also found that attitudes toward clean energy are not necessarily linked to those about climate change. The Gallup poll, for instance, found just 35 percent of Republicans think climate change is caused by human activities, and 69 percent think the seriousness of global warming is exaggerated.
“Clean energy works every time and it doesn’t alienate the base,” said Jay Faison, Chief Executive of ClearPath, a group that aims to help elect Republicans supporting clean power. Independent-minded voters view support for alternative energy as a signal that a candidate is “not an errand boy for the party leadership,” he added.
Nevada incumbent Senator Dean Heller is among the chief Republican beneficiaries of support from the clean energy industry. His re-election effort has drawn more than $15,000 in backing from solar and wind this election cycle.
Nevada ranks fourth in the nation in solar installations and generates more than 11 percent of its electricity from the sun. One in every 203 people is employed by the solar industry in Nevada, putting it second only to ultra-green California.
FILE PHOTO: Sen. Dean Heller (R-NV) speaks during a ceremony to present the Congressional Gold Medal to Filipino veterans of the Second World War on Capitol Hill in Washington, U.S., October 25, 2017. REUTERS/Aaron P. Bernstein/File Photo
Heller told Reuters he supports clean energy because of the jobs it has brought to his state. Nevada has been able to attract employers like Tesla, he said, in part because its abundant sunshine can produce renewable power for factories and other business operations.
He added he doesn’t see a conflict with supporting both solar energy and fossil fuel interests: “I’m very pro ‘all of the above,’ and I think that’s where the GOP is,” he said.
Other Republicans receiving solar and wind donations include Kevin Brady of Texas, Carlos Curbelo of Florida, George Holding of North Carolina and Tom Reed of New York, all members of the House Committee on Ways and Means, which is responsible for writing tax policy.
All four hail from states with sizeable solar markets, and Curbelo is also co-chair of the Climate Solutions Caucus, a bipartisan group of House lawmakers working on policies to address climate change.
House Majority Leader Kevin McCarthy has received about $13,500 in contributions from the renewable energy PACs, and SEIA held a fundraiser for him in his California district last year. McCarthy’s congressional district, which includes a swath of the Mojave desert, boasts more solar capacity than any other district in the nation, most of it in large-scale projects for utilities.
ROCK-BOTTOM MARKS
Democratic and environmental groups downplay the clean energy industry’s shifting financial support, saying companies are simply trying to protect their interests by supporting the party in power.
“AWEA and SEIA are trade associations representing the financial business interests of their member companies,” said Sara Chieffo, vice president of government affairs at the League of Conservation Voters, which has found itself at odds with solar and wind PACs on many candidates, including Heller.
The league gives Heller rock-bottom marks for his environmental voting record and has endorsed his Democratic opponent, Jacky Rosen, in the Nevada senate race.
Most environmental groups still primarily back Democrats. The League of Conservation Voters, for example, has contributed $1.3 million to Democratic congressional candidates this cycle but has not supported a single Republican. Billionaire Tom Steyer’s NextGen Climate Action Super PAC has spent tens of millions of dollars in recent election cycles on campaigns against Republicans and for Democratic candidates.
Democratic National Committee spokeswoman Sabrina Singh questions why solar and wind companies would support Republicans over Democrats.
Republicans, she said, “consistently seek to defund efforts to promote clean energy,” while “Democrats at both the federal and state level have been fighting to promote renewable energy.”
The Republican National Committee did not respond to a request for comment.
Renewable energy industry shifts to backing Republicans – tmsnrt.rs/2vGH8zh
Additional reporting by Grant Smith in New York; Editing by Richard Valdmanis and Sue Horton
The post Clean energy sector swings Republican with U.S. campaign donations appeared first on World The News.
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15 key questions for NFL Week 10
Week 10 got off to a rough start with a Thursday night game that featured a number of brutal injuries, most notably a torn Achilles that will cost Richard Sherman the remainder of the 2017 season. All of the injuries we have seen to key players this season have been sickening, and hopefully the trend doesn’t continue as we head into the weekend games.
With the 2017 season more than half over, some teams are getting close to “must-win” territory. That makes for plenty of good storylines across the league, and here are some of the most important questions to ask as Week 10 continues:
1. Can Brock Osweiler keep his job another week?
Osweiler got the start for the Broncos against the Eagles last week, and it went about as well as everyone expected it to. The veteran quarterback completed 19-of-38 passes for 208 yards, one touchdown and two interceptions in a blowout loss. Things won’t get much easier for Osweiler on Sunday against the Patriots, and there’s a good chance that game will be his last opportunity to prove he deserves the starting job. If Osweiler struggles again, Paxton Lynch should be ready to go in Week 11.
2. How bad have things gotten in the Giants’ locker room?
Two anonymous Giants players ripped Ben McAdoo earlier in the week, with one saying a lot of players in the locker room have quit on the head coach and another criticizing McAdoo’s practice schedule and disciplinarian leadership style. McAdoo later fired back at the players and said his door is always open, but there’s no question things are getting worse by the week for the G-Men.
At 1-7, the Giants have nothing to play for but pride. They’re traveling to San Francisco on Sunday to take on the 0-9 49ers, and losing to a team like that could result in a total implosion in New York.
3. Will the Browns and/or 49ers get their first win?
Speaking of the 49ers, they’re one of only two teams in the NFL without a win in 2017. The Browns are the other. San Francisco has a better chance to win at home against the Giants, but the Lions need to stay focused and not get caught looking ahead to their divisional matchup against the Bears. We’re getting to the point in the season where teams without a win might start trying a little harder as the potential for a 0-16 season becomes more of a reality. Can the Browns or 49ers use that to their advantage? It’s only a matter of time before one team finds its way into the win column.
4. Who will the Cowboys lean on to run the football?
The ongoing war between Ezekiel Elliott and the NFL appears to be over, and the Cowboys are going to be without the star running back for the next six games. With Zeke out, Dallas is likely going to take a “hot hand” approach with Alfred Morris, Darren McFadden and Rod Smith. McFadden rushed for more than 1,000 yards in 2015 with the Cowboys, but he has not recorded a carry this season. Morris, who has turned just 14 carries into 116 yards this year, seems like the best bet to carry the majority of the load. Although, Smith looked impressive while rushing for 61 yards on eight carries in a win over the 49ers last month.
Dallas still has the best offensive line in football, so they should be able to run the ball even without Elliott. Having one of the three aforementioned backs step up would be a huge help.
5. Can the Saints prove they’re a real playoff team?
The Saints are the hottest team in football, having won six games in a row heading into a tough game on Sunday at Buffalo. While the Bills aren’t exactly a Super Bowl contender, they tend to play tough at home. New Orleans, historically, struggles mightily on the road. That’s why Sunday’s game will be a big test.
If the Saints are a legitimate playoff team that can contend for the NFC title, they are going to have to prove they can beat quality teams on the road. Scoring 30 points at home against the Bucs isn’t all that impressive. Doing it at Buffalo would be another story.
6. Are the Texans finished without Deshaun Watson?
Losing Watson was devastating for the Texans, who looked like the favorite to win the AFC South and nearly beat the Seahawks on the road the last time the rookie took the field. In Week 9, Houston was forced to turn to Tom Savage. The result was a 20-14 loss to a Colts team that is not very good and doesn’t have Andrew Luck. Savage completed just 19 passes on 44 attempts for 219 yards and a touchdown. He wasn’t horrendous, but he was nowhere near as effective as Watson had been. It could be a long second half of the season in Houston.
7. Are the Packers destined to fall out of the playoff race?
Packers fans are holding out hope that Aaron Rodgers can return later in the season, but the team won’t need its star quarterback if it falls out of the playoff race. Since Rodgers went down, Green Bay has lost three straight games — two of them within the division. On Sunday, they travel to face the Bears. If Chicago beats the Packers, both teams would be 4-5. Brett Hundley has thrown just one touchdown pass and four interceptions in two-plus games since taking over for Rodgers. It’s tough to envision Green Bay staying in the playoff race under the current circumstances.
8. Can the Lions avoid a major letdown at home?
With the Packers and Bears facing each other and the Vikings traveling to Washington, D.C., for a tough game against the Redskins, the 4-4 Lions have a great chance to pull within a game of first place in the NFC North. The only thing they have to avoid is losing to the 0-8 Browns at home. While that sounds like an easy task, Cleveland has to be at least somewhat motivated to avoid an 0-16 season. Detroit could also be looking ahead to important games against the Bears and Vikings. Matthew Stafford and company had better not look too far.
9. Which team will take control in the AFC South?
With the Texans sitting at 3-5 and having lost Deshaun Watson for the season, the AFC South may be a battle between the Jaguars and Titans. No one could have predicted that is where we’d be at entering Week 10 of the season. Tennessee will search for its fourth consecutive win on Sunday, and there’s no reason they can’t get it against the reeling Bengals. The Jaguars — winners of two straight — are hosting a Chargers team that will have to travel across the country, which is never an easy task. Both teams could be looking at 6-3 after Sunday, and they will likely be battling it out for the AFC South crown down the stretch.
10. How will Leonard Fournette respond after being benched?
The Jaguars were able to come away with a win over the Bengals last week despite not having Leonard Fournette, who was benched for reportedly missing a team photo and treatment. Fournette has been as good as advertised this season, rushing for 596 yards and six touchdowns in only six games. Jacksonville needs Fournette in order to continue winning games and have a chance at winning the AFC South, but the rookie has to prove he can stay focused. It will be interesting to see if he runs with a little extra motivation against the Chargers on Sunday.
11. Are the Steelers or Patriots the team to beat in the AFC?
The Steelers and Pats are both coming off a bye, and both teams are leading their respective divisions with 6-2 records. New England travels to Denver in Week 10 to take on the Broncos, while Pittsburgh has an easier task on the road against the Colts.
With their defense showing signs of improvement in recent weeks, the Patriots should be able to create problems for Brock Osweiler. Unless the Steelers or Pats slip up in the coming weeks, their Week 15 matchup against one another could very well determine who gets home field advantage throughout the playoffs. As New England showed us with a dominating win over the Steelers in the AFC Championship Game last season, home field advantage can be the difference between winning and losing in the postseason.
12. How will the Bucs survive without Jameis Winston?
Winston is expected to miss at least two games after he was once again pulled in Week 9 because of his lingering shoulder injury. The quarterback visited with Dr. James Andrews this week for what he called “standard protocol,” but that is not a great sign. The Bucs have little chance of making the playoffs with their 2-6 record, and things could get ugly without Winston.
Veteran backup Ryan Fitzpatrick has played well while filling in for Winston this season, but no one would be surprised if that doesn’t last. The Bucs’ season feels like it is on the verge of crumbling, if it hasn’t already.
13. Is Terrelle Pryor officially a forgotten man in Washington?
Pryor was one of Washington’s biggest offseason acquisitions, and he gambled on himself by signing a one-year deal when other teams were willing to offer a multi-year contract. Thus far, it looks like that gamble was a losing one.
Pryor has just 20 receptions in eight games this season, and he and Kirk Cousins clearly are not on the same page. Josh Doctson appears to have surpassed Pryor on the depth chart, and the second-year receiver’s role should only grow going forward. With Pryor playing under a one-year deal, the Redskins have little motivation to force the issue with him. He may find his face on a milk carton in the coming weeks.
14. Is the AFC West a one-horse race?
The AFC West was once considered the toughest division in football, and there’s still a chance it could live up to that reputation down the stretch. However, the Raiders have been largely disappointing and the Broncos are still a mess at the quarterback position. The Chargers have shown some signs of life, but they are too inconsistent to be considered a playoff contender. That leaves us with only the Chiefs.
Kansas City and Oakland are both on byes in Week 10, and the Chargers have a tough road game against the Jaguars while the Broncos host the Patriots. If both Los Angeles and Denver lose, the Chiefs will have a two-game lead over Oakland and a three-game lead over everyone else. That type of deficit is tough to overcome, and Andy Reid’s team clearly looks like the best in the division. There’s no reason to expect that to change going forward.
15. Does Case Keenum ever plan on giving up his starting job?
The Vikings are somehow 6-2 and hold a two-game lead in the NFC North despite Sam Bradford missing several games with a knee injury and Teddy Bridgewater still working his way back. While Bridgewater has been practicing in full and could be ready to play in Week 11, Case Keenum has given Mike Zimmer no reason to make a change at quarterback.
Minnesota has won four straight games with Keenum under center, and the veteran is protecting the ball well enough to put his team in good positions. It’s hard to bench a quarterback when the team is winning, and the Vikings don’t want to rush Bridgewater back anyway. If Keenum continues to play well, he could conceivably remain the starter for the rest of 2017.
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The Warriors May Have the Death Lineup, But the Cavs Have LeBron at Center
Up 22 points, and 12 minutes away from taking a 1-0 lead in the Eastern Conference Finals, Cleveland Cavaliers head coach Ty Lue opened the fourth quarter with LeBron James, Deron Williams, Richard Jefferson, Kyle Korver, and Iman Shumpert on the floor. Lue hadn't used this lineup at all during the playoffs, and the group had only played together 29 minutes in five games during the regular season.
After about 30 seconds, Boston Celtics head coach Brad Stevens subbed in Jae Crowder and Isaiah Thomas in for Al Horford and Marcus Smart. But Stevens eventually realized that no team really has an answer for when James moonlights at the five.
The Cavs outscored the Celtics by three points in just under five minutes before Lue inserted Tristan Thompson and Kevin Love back into the game. Stevens exhaled, looked at the scoreboard, and realized it probably doesn't matter which position James plays. Stopping him at this stage of his career is one of the hardest tasks in professional sports—and it's impossible when he's also the biggest guy on the floor.
"It was very clear that he was trying to get to the rim on us, no matter who was on him," Stevens said after Game 1. "He's a physical guy who's got some physical advantages on people, but we need to do a better job in a lot of ways. I don't always think it's the guy that's guarding him, necessarily, it's what guys are doing around him—being active, being long, being deceptive in help, all those other things. This is easier said than done because those guys are all guarding shooters, so who do you help off of, who do you come off of?"
Check out some more video from VICE Sports:
The 32-year-old James is arguably playing the best basketball of his life right now. He's averaging 35 points, nine rebounds, and seven assists per game, with a PER, True Shooting percentage, and Win Shares per 48 minutes that all rank as the second highest of his playoff career. He's never been less interested with long twos, or more productive at the basket, and he is shooting 43.4 percent from beyond the arc on 5.9 attempts per game. His team has never been more dominant with him on the floor (+14.7 points per 100 possessions) and his on-off point differential has never been higher. And he's never been more versatile.When James transforms into a center, there are two important side effects: 1) for better or worse, Thompson, Love, and Channing Frye are on the sideline; and 2) the opposing team is forced to downsize, which is never ideal considering how lethal James can be when there's zero rim protection.
With no shot blockers near the basket on Wednesday, James relentlessly attacked the rim on almost every touch. First, he nearly crippled Thomas at the rim. Then a couple minutes later, after Cleveland used Korver, Thomas's man, to set a ball screen and force a switch, James calmly turned the two-time All-Star into a 5'9" speed bump, tore through Jaylen Brown's late rotation from the strong-side corner (which also left Jefferson wide open), and banked home a left-handed layup.
When the Celtics put two or three bodies in his path, James whipped passes out to open shooters and then sprinted into the paint to battle for rebounding position. It all looked flawless, but there's also some downside, of course, to leaning on this type of lineup for too long. For starters, it's incredibly taxing on James, who has to crash the glass, set screens, roll to the hoop, initiate offense, attack the hoop, and protect the rim.
Photo by Bob DeChiara - USA TODAY Sports
James is only one man, and in general Cleveland doesn't usually perform that well in critical defensive areas when he has to do everything. (This is likely why Stevens subbed Thomas in for Smart as quickly as he did.) According to NBAWowy, the Cavaliers scored 1.26 points per possession—an absurd number—in the 113 minutes James played center this season; 82.7 percent of their shots were dunks, layups, or threes.
These units also coughed up 1.09 points per possession, a really bad number that could've been a lot worse if opponents didn't shoot so poorly from beyond the arc. But James was masterful in these sequences, even by his own legendary standards. He recorded an ungodly 69.8 True Shooting percentage despite only making a third of his threes.
Whenever he's the largest and strongest player on the floor, it looks as strange and dangerous as a great white in a swimming pool. The only real defense is to pray he misses or makes the wrong decision, which is sort of like hoping the sun won't rise tomorrow morning.
None if this is new. James has always had the size, intelligence, technical skill, brawn, and endurance to move up or down at whatever position his team needed him. His career is a never-ending experiment that continues to yield humiliating results for his opposition.
The Miami Heat were forced down this path during their first championship run five years ago, when Chris Bosh was sidelined with an abdominal strain. James had to slide up a position, and wound up playing meaningful minutes at center, in small units that featured Shane Battier, Mario Chalmers, Mike Miller, and Dwyane Wade.
Here's what NBA Hall of Fame center Bill Walton said at the time:
"Picture how the center plays. He's not only in the low post; he's also at the pinch post [the elbow area around the foul line] and the high post. This plays right into LeBron's hands. He's an outstanding passer and has outstanding footwork, which are two things you look for in a center. One thing all the great centers had in common was mobility—Bill Russell, Wilt Chamberlain, Cowens, David Robinson, Hakeem Olajuwon, even Shaq. And obviously LeBron is one of the most mobile players in the league."
Heat head coach Erik Spoelstra used to call James "One Through Five," a nickname that was as accurate as it was clunky. It's also the primary characteristic that should one day separate him from every other Hall of Fame icon in arguments about who the best player of all time actually is.
Nothing a coach does this late in the season is random, and Lue didn't dust off this five-man unit—which hadn't played together since Cleveland's deflating overtime loss against the Atlanta Hawks back in early April—just because he was bored. This lineup is unguardable, but it also needs reps.
Photo by Bob DeChiara - USA TODAY Sports
Here's what Lue had to say about unleashing James at center right before the playoffs began:
"My thing is just touch on it and see how it looks so we can have a feel for how to play that way. In the playoffs it's a game of adjustments, and what you can do best and you throw the other team off. So we just tried a lot of things this season, just see what works best, a lot of different lineups. And it could play a role, it could play a factor in the playoffs. Just a game of chicken and you gotta see what happens."
The Cavaliers know that the Eastern Conference Finals won't be their last series of the season. It's more likely than not the Golden State Warriors will be next. Thanks to Draymond Green's transcendent help defense and Andre Iguodala's timeless two-way value, the Warriors have redefined small ball's limitations over the past few seasons, and are more than ready to utilize it in games that matter most.
Cleveland knows they have to shrink in order to match up. The Cavs' fourth-most common lineup in last year's finals was James, Kyrie Irving, Jefferson, Shumpert, and J.R. Smith. They were outscored by 16 points in 14 minutes, but it's hard to extrapolate too much from such a small sample size. The Cavs turned it over nine times and missed eight of their nine three-point attempts during that stretch, while the Warriors canned six on the same number of tries, and had five fewer turnovers.
Cleveland did not play James at the five for a single second against Golden State during the regular season, but if their offense stalls and they want to alter the game's tempo or draw a couple cheap fouls by torpedoing LeBron toward rotating defenders at the hoop, they now possess an improved crew of shooters to pull it off. Helping off Korver or Smith won't work, Williams has made over 40 percent of his threes since the Dallas Mavericks waived him, and Jefferson is a legit threat from the corner.
A spread floor also plays into James' hands as a devastating cutter. When all his teammates are capable passers with a well-respected outside shot, he can use his quickness to barrel into open space, trigger widespread panic in every defender on the other team, and create an opportunity for himself or someone else.
One NBA Western Conference coach told VICE Sports that he doesn't think playing James at the five is a worthwhile strategy for lengthy stretches, partly due to how the roster is constructed, defensive concerns, and how physically exhausting it can be—but that when deployed in a timely fashion, it can wind up being the difference in a competitive game.
Photo by John E. Sokolowski - USA TODAY Sports
James is older, wiser, and armed with more complementary pieces on his team than ever before; Irving has only run point for 50 minutes all season with James at the five. When he played center during the regular season, James would stand at the high post with his back to the basket while four teammates spread out in each corner, the opposite wing, and dunker's spot.
If no help came—it rarely does, since he's the hardest player to double team who's ever lived—James would patiently back his man down to the block and kiss a turnaround off the glass. Or draw a foul. Or muscle in for a point-blank bunny.
Magic Johnson comes to mind as the only comparison, but James' physical profile is far more imposing in an era that guarantees enough time and space for him to crack open the other team's chest, dunk the ball, then sew it back together.
He was one of 28 players in the league to use at least 200 post-up possessions this season, and only seven guys were more efficient, according to Synergy Sports. Kawhi Leonard is the one person alive who can singlehandedly keep LeBron at bay with reasonable success from various spots on the floor.
Trying to stop James has already been so difficult. Doing so when he's a nominal center, operating in space, is unfathomable. His passing chops are otherworldly, but he's also one of only a handful of players who consistently makes good things happen without a screen. He'll isolate from the mid-post or pick up a head of steam and plow downhill. When he wants to attack a mismatch, the Cavs can just send whomever they want to set a pick, and he'll either force a switch or take off for the basket. It's all a nightmare, and makes slowing James down feel much more like an individual effort than something team-oriented.
Over a seven-game series, Green may be too slow, Kevin Durant may be too delicate, and Iguodala may be too hobbled. Putting either of those first two on James draws them away from the basket, and may leave the rim too vulnerable for his drives. That said, if anyone can deter these lineups and punish them on the other end, it's Golden State.
Even though we're still a couple weeks away from a possible three-match, it's clear the Cavaliers and the Warriors already have each other on their minds. One side added an All-NBA wing, while the other is steadily rediscovering how to accentuate the best player alive even more than it already is.
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The Warriors May Have the Death Lineup, But the Cavs Have LeBron at Center published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv
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Hyperallergic: On Life and Work: Hannah Black and Petra Buchegger
Hannah Black, “Beginning, End, None” (2017), three-screen video projection (all photos by the author for Hyperallergic unless noted otherwise)
VIENNA — Hannah Black, a British artist in residence in Berlin, set off a furor in March when she circulated a letter demanding that “Open Casket” (2016), Dana Schutz’s partially abstracted painting of the Civil Rights martyr Emmitt Till, be removed from the Whitney Museum’s 2017 Biennial and burned.
Few artists have introduced themselves to the wider art world in a more polarizing way, and when they do, it’s through their art, not their politics. The museum did not remove the painting, but the controversy did raise some important questions about identity, ownership, censorship, and freedom, despite its indefensible premise.
But what of Black’s own art? At the time of the letter, a solo show at Bodega on the Lower East Side had recently closed after receiving a favorable notice in the Village Voice, and she presented a performance piece commissioned by PS1 MoMA’s Sunday Sessions series in April.
My first encounter with Black’s work was on the second sub-level of Vienna’s Mumok (Museum Moderner Kunst Stiftung Ludwig Wien), where she is presenting Small Room, an elegant installation of projected videos and latex sculptures. The “small room” of the exhibition title is the biological cell, the basic unit of a living body, through which Black attempts to extrapolate a definition of life.
A wall text describes the three-screen video projection, titled Beginning, End, None (2017), as taking “the apparent neutrality of contemporary biology for a loose meditation on the incommensurability of experience and its descriptors, of life in the abstract and the everyday practice of living.”
This is already something of a mouthful, a hazy metaphysics of the essential and the experiential. But then the text goes on to explain:
Utilizing the common educational metaphor of the cell as a factory, Black compares the biological cell to the history of real prisons and factories — symbols of mass production that stand for the victory of capitalism, social control, and the construction of the individual.
Such sweeping pronouncements always lead to trouble, and “symbols of mass production that stand for the victory of capitalism, social control, and the construction of the individual,” if anything, lack subtlety in their imaginings of a hegemonic, lockstep corporate culture — a picture that a close reading of the news, for better or worse, belies every day.
Black presents her tropes handsomely and wittily, however, and the three-screen format, filled with images of stars and prisons, train rides and factories, is often a pleasure to look at, if a little too in keeping with the conventions of biennale art. At the rear of the room, almost hidden by the screens, a stanchion-like, stand-alone monitor featuring a computer graphic of a rotating wireframe box completes the video-based setup.
But if you turn around, the four latex sculptures are standing behind you with disarming simplicity. Three are hung like sheets on a clothesline in an inverse arrangement to the video screens, with the two flanking sculptures in front and the central one behind, while the screens are installed so that the center is forward and the sides hang back. A fourth latex sheet, off to the right, is draped from an armature like a robe on a towel rack.
Hannah Black, “Small Room,” installation view: “Membrane 2,” “Membrane 1,” “Membrane 3,” (all 2017), latex, wool; “Live” (2017), latex, temporary tattoos
These works carry forward the idea of the cell — the horizontal sheets are called “Membrane” (numbered one through three) and the fourth is called “Live” (all 2017) — which, according to the wall text, springs from “an observation from a biology textbook — ‘No life without a membrane of some kind is known.’” The text goes on to mention the artist’s self-awareness that “this show itself is just one example” of the “the commodification of life and the life sciences.”
The beauty of “Membrane” and “Live,” however, is that you can leave the buzzwords on the wall and gaze at their otherworldly translucency, their ghostly lines, and their enfolded light and shadow, reading whatever you like — or nothing at all — into them.
* * *
Tucked into a side street far from the neon bars and Late-Baroque temples of the Museum District, Galerie Eboran is presenting a small but moving exhibition of sculpture, photography, and video by Petra Buchegger, an Austrian artist born in Graz in 1970. Like Black’s installation, it appears to be bifurcated between media, with three-dimensional objects that would seem unrelated to their accompanying photos and video if not for a underlying vision of the body, the earth, women’s work, and fate that stitches everything together.
The photographs are collectively called “Aprons Knots” (2017), and each consists, as the title suggests, of a soiled strip of plaid fabric torn from an apron and tied into a knot. These quietly dignified objects, stiffened by exposure to the elements, are laid against a white backdrop, not unlike Richard Avedon’s fashion shots of crushed cigarette butts, that highlights every stray thread and every speck of dirt.
Petra Buchegger, “Aprons Knots” (2017), C-print on 3mm Dibond, 40 x 60 cm
As beautiful as these photographs can be on an abstract plane, there’s something about their directness and humility that dissuades you from believing they’re operating on a purely formal level. There has to be some kind of connection to the lived-in world, a context that is supplied in the adjacent room, where the video Falisa Invernadero (2016) depicts an abundance of tomato plants, and apron knots tying the vines together.
Buchegger lives part of the year in the Galician region of Spain, where the video was shot. The women of the region typically wear an amulet around their necks as a good luck charm, which they make out of baked dough in the shape of a hand, a boat, or a sardine. The artist has taken the amulets’ varied forms and enlarged them enormously in relation to the original, but the resulting sculptures, made from styrofoam covered in rock-hard papier mâché, are still very much on a human scale, with most of them the size of a three-year-old child.
Petra Buchegger, “La Mano” (2011), Styrofoam, papier mâché, acrylic (photo by Eva Hradil)
For the most part, the upper portion of the sculpture is painted white, and the lower section is crisply demarcated by a clean, dark color: maroon, black, or blue. The surfaces are scored, crimped, stubbled, and gouged with navel-like holes, as if the artist were trying to retain the idiosyncratic features of the original amulet’s hand-molded baked dough.
The enlargement of everyday objects has been a mainstay of Pop Art and neo-Pop, from Claes Oldenberg to Jeff Koons. And the practice has long been accompanied by a sense of at least gentle satire, as with Oldenberg, if not outright condescension, which many observers, myself included, have attributed to Koons, though he would deny it.
Buchegger’s objects, on the other hand, are genuinely playful, light, and buoyant — due in part to her assertively hand-hewn finish (as opposed to Koons’s superhuman sheen). There is nothing Pop about them, despite the demotic sources of their imagery, because there is nothing ironic about them. They simply hang on the wall, sit on the floor, lean against a column, or lie heaped in a corner, their expansive, spongy forms taking over the room, as if bulging with the good luck ascribed by superstition to the amulets.
Each sculpture seems to contain a dissimilar or opposite entity: the sardines bear a kinship with the hand; the boat might mutate into Jonah’s whale; a green, white, and violet ladder evokes both a garden trellis and a slice of DNA; and a multi-pronged floor piece might be interpreted as a bit of coral, a calcite crystal, or a life-bearing spore. The vitality of the sculptures stand in counterpoint to the forlorn strips of fabric in the photographs, their textures as antithetical as goose down and sandpaper.
Petra Buchegger, “La Barca” (2011), Styrofoam, papier mâché, acrylic (photo by Eva Hradil)
But the beauty of the show is its acceptance of the binary, in which contrasting mediums and conflicting styles are reconciled by the artist’s faith in her subject: life defined by the work needed to sustain it. For the Galicians, who live in the northwestern corner of Spain, sustenance springs from the soil and the sea. For Buchegger, a respect for — and surrender to — these perpetual cycles has led her to marking their rhythms with amulets and apron strips, while laying claim to the sacredness of time.
Petra Buchegger: An Aesthetic of Existence continues at Galerie Eboran (Stumpergasse 7, Vienna) through May 27.
Hannah Black: Small Room continues at Mumok (Museum Moderner Kunst Stiftung Ludwig Wien, Museumsplatz 1, Vienna) through June 18.
Travel to Vienna and hotel accommodations were provided by Mumok in connection to the opening and symposium of WOMAN: FEMINIST AVANT-GARDE OF THE 1970s, which will be discussed next week.
The post On Life and Work: Hannah Black and Petra Buchegger appeared first on Hyperallergic.
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