#you cursing them for these things while the male gods then commit literal crimes
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i hate how people are unfair to Greek Goddesses and never see their side in situations. "Athena should have punished Poseidon and not Medusa" yes, but have you ever thought that she has no way of punishing him? Same with Hera, she didn't choose to marry Zeus, she can't punish him for his betrayals so she tries to get at him through his lovers. Is right? No, but what could she do?!?!?
not to mention that it's always good to remember that society is sexist, of course women seem to do absurd things for "no good reason"
#2024 and i have to defend Hera look at the absurdity we have reached#you cursing them for these things while the male gods then commit literal crimes#greek mythology#hera#athena
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A Horror History of Werewolves
As far as horror icons are concerned, werewolves are among the oldest of all monsters. References to man-to-wolf transformations show up as early as the Epic of Gilgamesh, making them pretty much as old as storytelling itself. And, unlike many other movie monsters, werewolves trace their folkloric roots to a time when people truly believed in and feared these creatures.
But for a creature with such a storied past, the modern werewolf has quite the crisis of identity. Thanks to an absolute deluge of romance novels featuring sometimes-furry love interests, the contemporary idea of “werewolf” is decidedly de-fanged. So how did we get here? Where did they come from, where are they going, and can werewolves ever be terrifying again?
Werewolves in Folklore and Legend
Ancient Greece was full of werewolf stories. Herodotus wrote of a nomadic tribe from Scythia (part of modern-day Russia) who changed into wolves for a portion of the year. This was most likely a response to the Proto-Indo-European societies living in that region at the time -- a group whose warrior class would sometimes don animal pelts and were said to call on the spirit of animals to aid them in battle (the concept of the berserker has the same roots -- just bears rather than wolves).
In Arcadia, there was a local legend about King Lycaon, who was turned to a wolf as punishment for serving human meat to Zeus (exact details of the event vary between accounts, but cannibalism and crimes-against-the-gods are a common theme). Pliny the Elder wrote of werewolves as well, explaining that those who make a sacrifice to Zeus Lycaeus would be turned to wolves but could resume human form years later if they abstained from eating human meat in that time.
By the time we reach the Medieval period in Europe, werewolf stories were widespread and frequently associated with witchcraft. Lycanthropy could be either a curse laid upon someone or a transformation undergone by someone practicing witchcraft, but either way was bad news in the eyes of the church. For several centuries, witch-hunts would aggressively seek out anyone suspected of transforming into a wolf.
One particularly well-known werewolf trial was for Peter Stumpp in 1589. Stumpp, known as "The Werewolf of Bedburg," confessed to killing and eating fourteen children and two pregnant women while in the form of a wolf after donning a belt given to him by the Devil. Granted, this confession came on the tail-end of extensive public torture, so it may not be precisely reliable. His daughter and mistress were also executed in a public and brutal way during the same trial.
Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
The thing you have to understand when studying folklore is that, for many centuries, wolves were the apex predator of Europe. While wolf attacks on humans have been exceedingly rare in North America, wolves in Europe have historically been much bolder -- or, at least, there are more numerous reports of man-eating wolves in those regions. Between 1362 and 1918, roughly 7,600 people were reportedly killed by wolves in France alone, which may have some bearing on the local werewolf tradition of the loup-garou.
For people living in rural areas, subsisting as farmers or hunters, wolves posed a genuine existential threat. Large, intelligent, utilizing teamwork and more than capable of outwitting the average human, wolves are a compelling villain. Which is probably why they show up so frequently in fairytales, from Little Red Riding Hood to Peter and the Wolf to The Three Little Pigs.
Early Werewolf Fiction
Vampires have Dracula and zombies have I Am Legend, but there really is no clear singular book to point to as the "First Great Werewolf Novel." Perhaps by the time the novel was really taking off as an artform, werewolves had lost some of their appeal. After all, widespread literacy and reading-for-pleasure went hand-in-hand with advancements in civilization. For city-dwellers in Victorian England, for example, the threat of a wolf eating you alive probably seemed quite remote.
Don't get me wrong -- there were some Gothic novels featuring werewolves, like Sutherland Menzies' Hugues, The Wer-Wolf, or G.W.M. Reynolds' Wagner the Wehr-Wolf, or even The Wolf Leader by Alexandre Dumas. But these are not books that have entered the popular conscience by any means. I doubt most people have ever heard of them, much less read them.
No -- I would argue that the closest thing we have, thematically, to a Great Werewolf Novel is in fact The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. Written in 1886, the Gothic novella tells the story of a scientist who, wanting to engage in certain unnamed vices without detection, created a serum that would allow him to transform into another person. That alter-ego, Mr. Hyde, was selfish, violent, and ultimately uncontrollable -- and after taking over the body on its own terms and committing a murder or two, the only way to stop Hyde’s re-emergence was suicide.
Although not about werewolves, per se, Jekyll & Hyde touches on many themes that we'll see come up time and again in werewolf media up through the present day: toxic masculinity, the dual nature of man, leading a double life, and the ultimate tragedy of allowing one's base instincts/animal nature to run wild. Against a backdrop of Victorian sexual repression and a rapidly shifting concept of humanity's relationship to nature, it makes sense that these themes would resonate deeply (and find a new home in werewolf media).
It is also worth mentioning Guy Endore's The Werewolf of Paris, published in 1933. Set against the backdrop of the Franco-Prussian war and subsequent military battles, the book utilizes a werewolf as a plot device for exploring political turmoil. A #1 bestseller in its day, the book was a big influence on the sci-fi and mystery pulp scene of the 1940s and 50s, and is still considered one of the best werewolf novels of its ilk.
From Silver Bullets to Silver Screens
What werewolf representation lacks in novels, it makes up for in film. Werewolves have been a surprisingly enduring feature of film from its early days, due perhaps to just how much fun transformation sequences are to film. From camera tricks to makeup crews and animatronics design, werewolf movies create a lot of unique opportunities for special effects -- and for early film audiences especially (who were not yet jaded to movie magic), these on-screen metamorphoses must have elicited true awe.
The Wolf Man (1941) really kicked off the trend. Featuring Lon Chaney Jr. as the titular wolf-man, the film was cutting-edge for its time in the special effects department. The creature design is the most memorable thing about the film, which has an otherwise forgettable plot -- but it captured viewer attention enough to bring Chaney back many times over for sequels and Universal Monster mash-ups.
The Wolf Man and 1944's Cry of the Werewolf draw on that problematic Hollywood staple, "The Gypsy Curse(tm)" for their world-building. Fortunately, werewolf media would drift away from that trope pretty quickly; curses lost their appeal, but “bite as mode of transmission” would remain an essential part of werewolf mythos.
In 1957, I Was a Teenage Werewolf was released as a classic double-header drive-in flick that's nevertheless worth a watch for its parallels between werewolfism and male aggression (a theme we'll see come up again and again). Guy Endore's novel got the Hammer Film treatment for 1961's The Curse of the Werewolf, but it wasn't until the 1970s when werewolf media really exploded: The Beast Must Die, The Legend of the Wolf Woman, The Fury of the Wolfman, Scream of the Wolf, Werewolves on Wheels and many more besides.
Hmmm, werewolves exploding in popularity around the same time as women's liberation was dramatically redefining gender roles and threatening the cultural concept of masculinity? Nah, must be a coincidence.
The 1980s brought with it even more werewolf movies, including some of the best-known in the genre: The Howling (1981), Teen Wolf (1985), An American Werewolf in London (1981), and The Company of Wolves (1984). Differing widely in their tone and treatment of werewolf canon, the films would establish more of a spiderweb than a linear taxonomy.
That spilled over into the 1990s as well. The Howling franchise went deep, with at least seven films that I can think of. Wolf, a 1994 release starring Jack Nicholson is especially worth a watch for its themes of dark romantic horror.
By the 2000s, we get a proper grab-bag of werewolf options. There is of course the Underworld series, with its overwrought "vampires vs lycans" world-building. There's also Skin Walkers, which tries very hard to be Underworld (and fails miserably at even that low bar). But there's also Dog Soldiers and Ginger Snaps, arguably two of the finest werewolf movies of all time -- albeit in extremely different ways and for very different reasons.
Dog Soldiers is a straightforward monster movie pitting soldiers against ravenous werewolves. The wolves could just as easily have been subbed out with vampires or zombies -- there is nothing uniquely wolfish about them on a thematic level -- but the creature design is unique and the film itself is mastefully made and entertaining.
Ginger Snaps is the first werewolf movie I can think of that tackles lycanthropy from a female point of view. Although The Company of Wolves has a strong feminist angle, it is still very much a film about male sexuality and aggression. Ginger Snaps, on the other hand, likens werewolfism to female puberty -- a comparison that frankly makes a lot of sense.
The Werewolf as Sex Object
There are quite literally thousands of werewolf romance novels on the market, with more coming in each day. But the origins of this trend are a bit fuzzier to make out (no pun intended).
Everyone can mostly agree that Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire was the turning-point for sympathetic vampires -- and paranormal romance as a whole. But where do werewolves enter the mix? Possibly with Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter books, which feature the titular character in a relationship with a werewolf (and some vampires, and were-leopards, and...many other things). With the first book released in 1993, the Anita Blake series seems to pre-date similar books in its ilk.
Blood and Chocolate (1997) by Annette Curtis Klause delivers a YA-focused version of the classic “I’m a werewolf in high school crushing on a mortal boy”; that same year, Buffy the Vampire Slayer hit the small screen, and although the primary focus was vampires, there is a main werewolf character (and romancing him around the challenges of his wolfishness is a big plot point for the characters involved). And Buffy, of course, paved the way for Twilight in 2005. From there, werewolves were poised to become a staple of the ever-more-popular urban fantasy/paranormal romance genre.
“Sexy werewolf” as a trope may have its roots in other traditions like the beastly bridegroom (eg, Beauty and the Beast) and the demon lover (eg, Labyrinth), which we can talk about another time. But there’s one other ingredient in this recipe that needs to be discussed. And, oh yes, we’re going there.
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Alpha/Beta/Omegaverse
By now you might be familiar with the concept of the Omegaverse thanks to the illuminating Lindsay Ellis video on the topic (and the current ongoing lawsuit). If not, well, just watch the video. It’ll be easier than trying to explain it all. (Warning for NSFW topics).
But the tl;dr is that A/B/O or Omegaverse is a genre of (generally erotic) romance utilizing the classical understanding of wolf pack hierarchy. Never mind that science has long since disproven the stratification of authority in wolf packs; the popular conscious is still intrigued by the concept of a society where some people are powerful alphas and some people are timid omegas and that’s just The Way Things Are.
What’s interesting about the Omegaverse in regards to werewolf fiction is that, as near as I’ve been able to discover, it’s actually a case of convergent evolution. A/B/O as a genre seems to trace its roots to Star Trek fanfiction in the 1960s, where Kirk/Spock couplings popularized ideas like heat cycles. From there, the trope seems to weave its way through various fandoms, exploding in popularity in the Supernatural fandom.
What seems to have happened is that the confluence of A/B/O kink dynamics merging with urban fantasy werewolf social structure set off a popular niche for werewolf romance to truly thrive.
It’s important to remember that, throughout folklore, werewolves were not viewed as being part of werewolf societies. Werewolves were humans who achieved wolf form through a curse or witchcraft, causing them to transform into murderous monsters -- but there was no “werewolf pack,” and certainly no social hierarchy involving werewolf alphas exerting their dominance over weaker pack members. That element is a purely modern one rooted as much in our misunderstanding of wolf pack dynamics as in our very human desire for power hierarchies.
So Where Do We Go From Here?
I don’t think sexy werewolf stories are going anywhere anytime soon. But that doesn’t mean that there’s no room left in horror for werewolves to resume their monstrous roots.
Thematically, werewolves have done a lot of heavy lifting over the centuries. They hold up a mirror to humanity to represent our own animal nature. They embody themes of toxic masculinity, aggression, primal sexuality, and the struggle of the id and ego. Werewolf attack as sexual violence is an obvious but powerful metaphor for trauma, leaving the victim transformed. Werewolves as predators hiding in plain sight among civilization have never been more relevant than in our #MeToo moment of history.
Can werewolves still be frightening? Absolutely.
As long as human nature remains conflicted, there will always be room at the table for man-beasts and horrifying transfigurations.
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This Is Love (Chapter Four): Through The Gates
Notes: We’re inching closer and closer to the Seed’s arrival, I know it’s a slow burn to the game events, but I’m enjoying building up to it and hope it will make the impact of it all just that much more meaningful.
Word Count: 9098
Chapter Warnings: Cursing, Belligerent Drunk Man, Drug Overdose, Pratt and Dahlia being dumbasses
For chapter one and the warnings about this fics overarching themes, please click here!
For the previous chapter; click here!
A tall bearded man is on her porch; leaning against the railing. The familiar snake tattoos that curl down his forearms give him away; Lonny. The Eden’s Gate member who showed at the station to give her and Whitehorse a hard time. What is he doing at her trailer? There’s no reason for him to be here.
“Can I help you?” She asks, raising an eyebrow as she steps up onto the porch.
“Just figured I’d stop by, make a friendly visit to the new deputy,” he expression is somewhere between a smile and a predator baring its teeth.
“And, how exactly did you figure out where I live?”
“Small place, loose lips, word spreads fast.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, now, if we’re done with this ‘friendly’ visit-”
“Word spreads especially fast within our congregation, when someone starts arresting our members.”
“Maybe, your congregation members shouldn’t commit crimes?”
“The law of man matters little compared to the law of god.”
“Well, I get paid to enforce the law of man, so unless god starts signing my paychecks, I’ll be sticking to that.”
“Greed isn’t a pretty sin.”
Goosebumps prickle and creep up her skin at the word sin, making her throat tight, as the word settles over her. Memories of her stepfather claw at the back of her mind, phantom pain of beatings past making her body ache, the guilt and shame of being a sinner pitting in her stomach. She digs her nails into the palms of her hands and grits her teeth.
“Yes, so greedy, as you can tell, I mean just look around, ” she gestures around the dilapidated trailer park, “the used needles a foot away from the kiddy slide cost me extra, but I think they really bring the place together.”
“Charming.”
“I do try.”
“Look, I’ll make this stupidly simple, for you,” Lonny creeps closer, nearly standing on her, glowering down at her, “don’t step on our toes and we won’t step on yours.”
“Is that so?” She grins and literally steps on Lonny’s toes, crushing her boot down as hard as she can, until he finally grunts in pain and takes a step back.
“Don’t make a problem out of yourself, deputy….” His dark eyes flicker around, until finally landing on the shed behind her trailer, “that where you keep your bike?”
“Maybe, maybe not, whats it to you?”
“You know, a little generosity goes a long way to mending relationships, deputy. That motorcycle of yours would be a nice little gift to the flock and most importantly, me.”
“Get bent.”
“It’s important that we all do our part, deputy. That everyone gives a little, so that we all can flourish. As we inch closer and closer to the brink; that becomes even more important. What’s yours is mine, so, which is more important, keeping your motorcycle or helping others?”
He’s in her space again, hand reaching out and squeezing her shoulder in a pseudo-friendly gesture; that not even almost friendly smile on his face again.
“I’d sooner watch the world rot than give up that bike. Now, get the fuck off my property.”
She shoves his hand off her shoulder and marches into her trailer; slamming the door shut behind her. Dahlia could scream, could tear apart her entire trailer in rage. Where the hell does that guy get off? Demanding her bike; the motorcycle she slaved over. Her and Lloyd rebuilt that thing from nearly scratch after his son wrecked it; left it abandoned in their shed, a muddle heap of metal left to gather dust. She helped rebuild it; just a project at the time, something to keep busy while she was waiting to see if she got accepted to the police academy, meant to stave off the anxiety. And when it was done, perfectly functional and shining like it was brand new, Lloyd told her to keep it, she deserved it.
There’s not a lot of things Dahlia’s felt she earned; feeling every success has been a fluke, a mistake, a moment of luck. But, she earned that bike. She nearly fought Lloyd’s son when he visited that holiday season; trying to reclaim the bike now that it was fixed and she refused. Lloyd sided with her; because she earned it. Because she put the work and hours into it. And she’ll be damned if she’s going to let some bearded zealot barge in and demand she give it up.
The more she learns about Eden’s Gate, the less she likes them. Stealing booze, trying to take her bike, trying to scare her. She needs a cigarette; she decides and pulls the pack from her pocket; only to find it empty. Damn it. Dahlia starts digging through tossed aside pairs of pants and jackets; she has to have a half empty pack somewhere. She grabs up her duffle bag, still mostly unpacked other than what she’s worn or used this week, rummaging through the pockets for a pack of cigarettes.
A crumpled piece of something brushes against her hand and she yanks it out; only to find a scrunched up white pamphlet. She straightens it out a bit and groans when she reads the front; Eden’s Gate, We Love You surrounding a cross like symbol. Why is this group all over everything?
Giving up on finding a cigarette somewhere in her mess; Dahlia changes into some comfy clothes and plops herself down on the couch, turning the small tv on as background noise more than anything. She finds herself fiddling with that pamphlet again, placed aside before she changed.
Dahlia opens it; if this damn group is going to haunt all her days here, she might as well read their crap. It seems to be fairly standard religious fare. Casted out? Rejected by society? Try Jesus. Take a leap of faith, wash away your sins, confess, atone, and become stronger by joining their family. There are mentions of how corrupt the world is and how it’s all going to end; nice appeals to fear mongering, always have to appreciate that approach. Every word of the dribble reminds her of darker days, of her step father and his asinine sermons. The type of people who’d probably make a PSA about how Dungeons and Dragons is satanic, Harry Potter should be burned at the stake, and Pokemon is an evil atheist agenda to push evolutionary theory on kids.
The leader; man bun guy, calls himself The Father. Those goosebumps and bad memories come back. She knows assuming that all strongly religious people are like her step-father isn’t the best practice. But mentions of sin and calling himself something regarding father, just… doesn’t help.
He calls his siblings heralds; a sister and two brothers.
Her eyes glaze over as she absorbs the same crap she's had spewed at her for years, thoughts of making a donation to planned parenthood in their name pass through her mind. She doesn’t know for certain if the group is pro-life, but one can assume. The picture on the second page of the little pamphlet catches her eye and she sputters out a laugh.
Who the hell runs the PR for this church?
First the creepy statue, then the serial killer-esque drawing on him to open their book, and now a family portrait so awkward she might cringe herself into a coma. Three men and a woman; siblings according to the text. Man bun is in a chair in the middle; not even making eye contact with the camera. The woman, Faith, the siren she’s seen at the hotel and accidentally grabbed outside the diner is on the floor beside the chair. She looks annoyed, like a teenager being dragged to an awkward family dinner. Behind them are the two brothers. One with slicked back dark hair in a coat that appears to be covered in planes; which is… a look. And the other a mountain of a human compared to his sibling; ginger hair with the sides shaved, in camouflage, holding a red rifle.
It all looks ridiculous, from their expressions to their poses. Whoever thought this was a good way to market them is the epitome of human stupidity. Dahlia crumples the little pamphlet and tosses it into the trash; thankful for a laugh to cap off her night. She spends an hour or so watching tv, drifting off to sleep on the couch as she’s done every night.. Eyelids growing heavier and heavier with each second, until black blankets her mind.
Her bladder wakes her up during the middle of the night, causing her to turn and flop around, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She stares at the ceiling contemplating if she has to pee bad enough to warrant making herself physically stand up; the effort feeling herculean in the bleary twilight hours of the night.
“What if I told you, you could be free of sin,” a male voice drifts from the tv and she groans; this shit again?
She sits up on the couch, sliding down onto the floor with the clumsiness of her sleep leaden body. On her tv, at four am, amid commercials for sexy single phone lines is an infomercial for Eden’s Gate.
One of the brothers; the one with slicked back hair in the plane coat, John Seed as the text on screen tells her. He dramatically talks about how all you have to do is say Yes, the power of Yes, walking around what looks like a red carpet covered in flowers; terraces laced with them around him, a crowd gathered around as he talks.
Is he the reason for the Hollywood style YES sign in the valley?
The crowd around him starts to chant the word yes; he’s saying ‘yes, I will be saved’, ‘yes, I will confess’, ‘yes, I will atone.’ And he gestures upwards; revealing a lit up sign of the word YES and she bursts out laughing; her stomach aching and her bladder upset with her for it. Once her laughter subsides, she does what any good decent young adult would do. She rewinds it to the start of the infomercial, grabs her phone from the table, and records the cringefest to post online before finally going to the bathroom.
She goes back to sleep after, still cracking up about this dumb religion and their dumb advertisement.
Dahlia wakes up around noon or so the next day, checking her phone while still curled up in the couch. The post of the religious cringe has gotten some traction; someone making a reaction gif out of the guy gesturing to the yes sign. Jokes about how the guy must get off on the word yes, how insane it must have felt to be working on this, ‘imagine having a grown man in a plane coat telling you to chant yes while he dramatically touches his own tit’. The internet truly is a beautiful place sometimes.
She stretches out her muscles and decides to call the clinic, the one she gave info about to Tweak. Dahlia wants to make sure he actually reached out and didn’t just use her good graces to avoid trouble and call it done.
“Hey, I’m Deputy Hale of the Hope County Sheriff’s department, I referred someone to contact your clinic about rehabilitation. I was calling to see if they contacted you.”
“Of course, could I have their name?”
“Aaron Kirby.”
“Yes, we did receive a call from Aaron Kirby, he’s been placed on our waitlist as our drug counseling services are currently at capacity and we can’t take on any more clients.”
“Understood, thank you.”
She sighs; she can’t fault him for that. Hopefully, they’ll be able to get him in soon. Dahlia stretches, making her back pop, now what to do with the rest of her day. Maybe it’s Lonny trying to take her bike or maybe it’s the mention of those Clutch Nixon stunts yesterday; but she has an itch to go riding and do some stupid shit.
A quick shower and change of clothes; then she’s grabbing her helmet.
Music reverberating in her skull, the rev of her motorcycle engine beneath her, the wind whipping around her, and she’s healed from everything if only for a moment. Dancing and riding her bike are the only things to do this for her; or maybe it’s the music itself that does. But when her blood is pumping, her ears are ringing, and her throat is raw from screaming along to the songs; nothing else matters.
She’s not lonely as she takes a sharp turn right at the chorus.
She’s not sad or pathetic as she cruises down the road, passing cars.
She’s not a disgusting sinner as she takes one of the paths that goes through the woods.
She’s not rejected, worthless, and tossed aside as she hits one of the many ramps across the county, catching air before hitting the ground again.
Everything is pure chaos and adrenaline in her veins; no room for guilt or doubt or
Deer. Big deer, in the road, it isn’t moving.
She hits the brakes; the sudden jerk of a stop, pushing her body forward, losing her grip and being ejected forward. Dahlia hits the ground in a heap, head rattling but thankfully not split on the road. She forces herself to roll over on her back, body aching in protest. Her eyes close and she takes deep breaths, trying to gather herself.
Something fuzzy pushes against her hand, glancing down to see the large deer sniffing at her. It’s no worse for wear, so that’s good at least. She forces herself to sit up, body protesting, and she peels her helmet off. The deer shuffles back a little but when she extends a hand it tentatively presses against it. She scratches its nose.
“You’re very lucky you’re cute.” She digs around in her pockets, finding a pack of crackers, she always has food on her if she can help it and she offers the deer a cracker. It eats from her hand. Maybe she’s just trying to avoid moving her bruised body, but she spends a few moments finishing the little pack with the deer before finally forcing herself to stand.
Her motorcycle is in good shape, a little scuff on the side, but nothing she can’t buff out if needed. Dahlia’s baby remains the most stable part of her life. She rides it back to her trailer, a bit more carefully. She’s managed to burn through most of the day with her reckless bullshit.
She calls Lloyd and Caroline that night; telling them about her first week, skirting around details that might sadden them. Going to the F.A.N.G Center is reduced to just going there, nothing of being overwhelmed and leaving. No mentions of Pratt tricking her when she talks about Peaches, just an old lady with a cougar Dahlia got to carry. No mention of being left out everytime Pratt and Hudson go to the Spread Eagle. No mention of Lonny, the threats, the religious group that seems much more involved with the community than she originally thought. Everything is fine, perfect, ideal.
The pain of her little crash has mostly faded by the time she shows up to work the next day; uniform properly on when she comes into the station bullpen.
“What the hell happened to you?” Hudson calls out and Dahlia can’t help the heat crawling up her face at the attention. Her forearms and some of her upper chest that’s exposed are covered in bruises; mottling blues and purples.
“Oh, uh, I had a little bike crash yesterday.” She shrugs.
“Jesus christ,” Pratt grumbles and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Rook, you need a hobby,” Dahlia starts to say something, but Hudson continues, “one that doesn’t injure you.”
She likes to dance, but dancing completely alone isn’t as much fun, not awful but not as fun. And there's not exactly dance clubs in Hope County. Hmmm. Unfortunate. She shrugs, if her hobby kills her, it kills her.
During patrol, Pratt and her don’t talk about the F.A.N.G Center, they don’t talk about him being angry at her. An awkward cloud hanging over them as they patrol. She doesn’t even bother to ask to give tickets when they pull people over; already knowing Pratt won’t let her and not wanting the conversation. An emergency call to what’s called Sergey’s place breaks up the monotony, suspected overdose.
She digs her nails into the leather of her seat as Pratt flips on the sirens; what if it’s Tweak? Doubts of if she did the right thing running through her head. She wanted to help him; but if he ended up just being put on a waitlist and overdosing right after, how much good did she do?
Sergey’s place is a wooded area filled with abandoned train cars where homeless people and drug addicts gather. Dahlia rushes to where she sees a group of them gathered around; screaming and crying coming from the center.
“Clear the way, so we can help,” Pratt tells them, the crowd dispersing, a woman is seizing. Her entire body jerking and drool pooling from her mouth; another woman holding her close, crying over her.
“Did she take anything?” Dahlia asks.
“We were shooting up and then she was on the ground, I, it’s all my fault, I-”
“Understood, we’re gonna do everything we can to save her.”
Dahlia holds the seizing woman as still as she can, getting out the syringe of narcan that's kept in patrol cars. She plunges it into the woman’s arm, forcing the medicine into her system, watching as her seizing slowly starts to lessen. Removing it, she notices the large bruise and cut on the woman’s forehead.
“Dispatch,” Pratt radios in, “we need an ambulance out to Sergey’s place, confirmed overdosed, head trauma, female early twenties. Junior Deputy Hale has administered a dose of Narcan, over.”
Dahlia stays with the woman, to make sure she doesn’t seize again and hurt herself further. Meanwhile, Pratt clears the way and helps get the ambulance into the area when it arrives; the woman being taken away on the stretcher. They find out the one who was holding her was her sister, allowing her to go with her to the emergency room, while Pratt asks some questions of those who were around. Nothing suspicious; just an overdose, no one to blame.
The younger deputy sighs and a hand clamps down on her shoulder; gently squeezing. Pratt is next to her and she raises an eyebrow at him.
“We got here quick, she should be fine.”
“Maybe, lets get going.”
The conversation is still more than a little stilted as the day goes on; but it isn’t quite the awkward silence of before. Pratt making little comments and saying things, while she nods or hmms along.
Later in the afternoon, when they’ve stopped back at the station, for lunch and paperwork regarding the overdose. She yawns and stretches her arms, standing up from her desk to get coffee. Maybe she needs caffeine or maybe she’s just tired of sitting in one place; but either way she’s up and moving.
She rubs a hand down her face as she enters the kitchenette where the fridge and coffee machine are. Dahlia grabs her mug; one that was bought for her by Lloyd and Caroline. It’s a little embarrassing, the picture of a black cat with the message, ‘horrible and adorable.’
Warmth presses in close to her back, looming over her. The smell of Pratt’s cologne hits her just as a large hand plucks her mug off the counter. Pratt holding the mug high above her head.
“Hey!” She tries to grab it from him but can’t reach, Pratt grinning as she makes the effort to stand on her tiptoes but still can’t quite get it.
“Something wrong?” he smirks, “you can’t reach your kitty cat mug?”
“Can you go five seconds without being an ass?” She turns to face him, glaring at his shit eating grin, the mischief in his eyes as he crowds her and holds the mug just out of reach.
“Hmmmm, no. Can you go five seconds without pouting?” He reaches up with the hand not holding her mug hostage and cups under her jaw to squish her cheeks together and force her lips to pout out; laughing at her.
She smacks away his hand, making a grab for her mug, knocking against his chest in the attempt before he jumps back.
Dahlia whines and he just laughs, dodging her again as she tries to take her mug back. Her fingers can barely reach his face, let alone high above his head where he’s holding her mug hostage. She clambers to grab a hold of his bicep; trying to pull herself up high enough to grab it, laughing at the ridiculousness of trying to essentially climb her coworker to get her mug.
“Jesus christ, you fuckin’ spider monkey!” He nearly falls over, but catches himself and switches the mug to his other hand, placing it on top on the cupboards.
She glares for a beat, still hanging off of Pratt’s arm before letting go. Dahlia can’t even reach the top shelf in the cupboards.
“I’m actually going to strangle you.”
“Something wrong, Thumbelina?” He taunts and ruffles a hand through her hair, the gesture far more rough and teasing than when Whitehorse does it to comfort her.
“Yeah, my coworker is an ass.”
“Not my fault you’re short.”
“If I get dirt on the counter, you’re cleaning it.”
“What do you-” he bursts into laughter when she box jumps up onto the counter, grabbing her mug. The deep rumble of it makes her smile, it’s ridiculous, but he’s left her no choice.
“The hell are you doing, Rook?!” Whitehorses’ voice cuts through Pratt’s cackling and she jumps down with a yelp.
“Pratt did it.”
The older deputy straightens up, after nearly bending over doubled from his laughing fit. Whitehorse pinches the bridge of his nose, Dahlia swears she can see the migraine forming in his head.
“I didn’t do anything,” Pratt defends himself, “she managed that all on her own.”
“I, I just...no feet on the counter, that's where food goes, for fucks sake, ” Whitehorse looks from Dahlia to Pratt, “and no whatever you did.”
With that the sheriff leaves; weary of their bullshit. Dahlia jabs her fist into Pratt’s ribs, hard enough to jostle him but not enough to truly hurt.
“You got me in trouble!” She yells, sounding every bit a kid who just got ratted out to the teacher, and Pratt only snickers.
By the time Dahlia manages to get her coffee, her face hurts from smiling. The ache of happiness followed throughout the day, until Hudson and Pratt cap off the night with another day of chatting at the Spread Eagle, Dahlia left to go home alone.
The next day a call comes in from Adelaide Drubman, Hurk Sr’s ex wife who owns the marina as Dahlia’s been told. She’s seen advertisements around for the older woman’s real estate business, telling people to call Addie. The woman pictured on the signs of those advertisements is a fair representation, albeit maybe a little more airbrushed, of the woman standing before them when they arrive. Older with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, a red bandana tied in her hair. She’s all sly smiles and winks when she sees the two deputies walking towards her.
“Well, hey there, hon’,” she greets them, the southern Montana accent one of the strongest Dahlia’s heard since she’s arrived here.
“Hey, Addie,” Pratt replies in kind and Dahlia gives an awkward wave, “what’s wrong?”
What’s right, Dahlia can’t help but wonder as she looks at the property, clearly abandoned and dilapidated.
“Well, I think some squatters might have moved in on me, sweetheart. And, apparently threatening them with my gun is illegal, but having y’all run ‘em off with yours is fine. Go figure.”
“Yeah, the law is pretty picky about that kind of thing,” Pratt says with a laugh.
“I mean, I’m not complaining , at least I get a chance to see some young pieces of ass in uniform.”
Dahlia chokes and coughs; heat flooding up to the apples of her cheek. That was blunt. Really blunt. Pratt doesn’t seem the least bit bothered, maybe he’s just used to this. Despite her embarrassment, she’s smiling. Something about Adelaide is comforting, warm and friendly, the kind of person who doesn’t know a stranger. Dahlia remembers the gross curmudgeon of an old man that use to be her husband.
“Speaking of which,” Adelaide continues, looking at Dahlia, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, honey.”
“Uh, yeah, I’m new at the station.”
“Our probie junior deputy.”
“Adelaide Drubman, pleased to meet ya.”
“Uh, this might be impolite,” she pauses, rethinking for a moment, but she needs answers, “but were you seriously married to Hurk Sr?”
“Un-fucking-fortunately.”
“Did you lose a bet?”
Adelaide starts laughing and Dahlia can’t help but smile, the sound absolutely heartwarming.
“I’m serious; lose a bet, piss off a witch and get cursed, broke a mirror and had seven years bad luck… It’s gotta be something, ‘cause that just don’t add up.”
“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” the older woman tells her, “word of advice, don’t let anyone tell you you gotta stay with a man just ‘cause he knocks you up.”
“I’d rather die.”
“Good, keep that mentality, save you years of suffering.”
“Okay, enough chat, let’s go check out the place,” Pratt says, nudging Dahlia to get a move on. She sticks her tongue out at him as they walk into the rundown house.
There’s trash strewn around, thankfully no needles or sign of drug users here. Adelaide must have a lot of trust in whoever she has cleaning these places up for resell. They pass through rooms, looking for anyone who’s not meant to be there, knocking on doors and calling out. Most of the house is cleared through and the two of them head to the attic, a good place for any squatters to hide.
The stairs creak under her feet as she takes them two at a time, moving ahead of Pratt in minutes. She hears him grumble, he tells her to slow down, but she doesn’t.
It’s dimly lit, some abandoned furniture and old antique crap littering the area; blocking the window that might have let in even a glimmer of sunlight. She flicks on her flashlight. The light illuminates the dust that hangs heavy in the air, drifting across her vision. Something rustles, a box shuffling across the floor.
“What was that?” Pratt asks as he finally joins her in the attic.
“I don’t know, yet.”
Scratchy noises echo through the room and she walks towards where she saw the box move. She crouches down and shifts the boxes out of the way, finding nothing but a dusty floor beneath them. Then something presses against her leg, a soft sniffing noise.
“Oh my god!” She gasps as she looks down at the cute opossum staring up at her; baby pink nose sniffing at her jeans. A white face, tawny gray almost black body, with big soft dark brown eyes, its wiry whiskers curling at odd angles.
“Is something wrong?!” Pratt yells out and comes rushing over, feet stomping across the floor; the heavy thuds making the opossum hiss and creep backwards.
“You scared it, jackass.”
“I,” he looks down at the hissing opossum, “I thought something happened.”
“Shhhhhh…”
Dahlia reaches out; tentatively brushing her fingers against its narrow snout, feeling the short slightly rough fur. The hissing stops and it sniffs at her hand, letting her scratch up its face to the top of its head. It relaxes into her touch and she scratches behind its ear.
“You can’t pet every animal, you meet, Rook.”
“Watch me,” she says before scooping the opossum up in her arms, holding it close to her chest. A tongue licks over her cheek, the marsupial content in Dahlia’s arms.
Pratt shakes his head and leaves the attic; Dahlia following him down the stairs. Adelaide is waiting outside the home when the two deputies exit.
“Good news, Addie-”
“I acquired a baby.”
“Jesus fuck,” Pratt rubs a hand down his face at her interruption, “there’s no squatters.”
“’Preciate ya coming out to check and taking care of the opossum problem.”
“I fail to see the problem.” Dahlia’s new friend is trying to climb up her head, licking her scalp.
“You really gonna try to sale this mess?” Pratt asks, rolling his eyes and ignoring the younger deputy’s new pet.
“It’s my best chance of making any profit anymore; those fuckin’ Seeds are buying up any place thats actually worth a damn thing. Flipping run down places is the only way to even hope of making money anymore. You know those bastards even tried to by the Marina.”
“They’re gonna own the entire county before we know it.”
Deputy Pratt shrugs his shoulders and Dahlia chews her lip; unsure if she likes how casually they talk about the local religious nutjob owning the county. The older deputy doesn’t even seem bothered by the thought; the idea of them buying everything just thrown out as blasé as one would say the time of day.
“I swear to god, I can’t figure out what I wanna do more; punch John Seed’s face or ride it.”
Dahlia raises an eyebrow at the older woman; she’s unsure what that means…but it sounds vaguely inappropriate… Her nose scrunches, brows furrowing as she tries to reason through this. Riding…like sitting on someone’s face? So, oh… Heat flares up Dahlia’s cheeks as the meaning hits her; definitely inappropriate. Very inappropriate. She covers the opossum’s ears, as if to protect the innocent being from the filth, meanwhile her own ears are burning.
“Addie…”
“I know, I know,” Adelaide waves her hand dismissively, “but you know what they say, the pussy wants what it wants.”
“Not sure that’s the saying.” Pratt laughs
Dahlia raises an eyebrow before looking down at the opossum in her arms as if the little critter could answer her unasked question. Instead, its doe eyes just stare up at her. What cats have to do with Adelaide wanting to fuck John Seed is beyond Dahlia’s comprehension.
“You alright over there, hun?”
“Don’t worry about her,” Pratt dismisses Adelaide’s concern, “she’s probably just wondering what cats have to do with anything.”
“Oh lord.”
“How did you know?” Dahlia whispers, wide-eyed at Pratt, only getting a throaty laugh in response.
“How old are you again, sweetie? Pussy, vagina, cunt; what’s between your legs. Well, maybe not yours, I ain’t got a chance to check y-”
“I would like to change the subject!” Dahlia blurts out; face feeling like it’s been set on fire and no doubt a vivid flush a red. Adelaide’s little grin and Pratt’s laughter only serving to make her face more crimson.
“Well…if we’re on the subject of faces I wanna ride, the Ryes are having their barbecue next Saturday, you and Hudson gonna make it out?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I’ll be seeing you then, Pratt, and hopefully you too, junior deputy. I gotta call my remodeling guys.”
They say goodbyes and wave off Adelaide, going back to the patrol car. Dahlia cuddling her new opossum friend as she goes. This is her baby now and will comfort her through humiliation at the hands of Hope County’s sex perverts.
“What are you doing?” Pratt asks, when Dahlia opens the car door.
“What do you mean?”
“Fuckin’, put the opossum down!”
“No.”
“You’re not bringing that thing into the car.”
“I’m not abandoning my child.”
“It’s literally a wild animal.”
“It’s a opossum, not a bear, calm your tits,” Dahlia tells him firmly, opening the door and plopping down with her critter in her lap. Pratt groans and jumps in the driver side.
“So, what, you’re gonna take it home and make it a pet?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“You know how some stations have like animals and stuff?”
“You mean K-9 units, trained dogs? You wanna train a fuckin’ opossum?”
“No, don’t be ridiculous,” she rolls her hand flippantly, “I’m not gonna train her, she’s perfect the way she is.”
“Have fun getting the sheriff on board with this, that thing could be rabid for all you know.”
“Opossums don’t carry rabies; like they physically can’t have rabies.”
“Okay, fuckin’, opossum expert.”
Dahlia spends a mile or two, just watching out the window at the world passing by as she scratches at her new friend’s ears. Passing by a sign for Rye and Son’s Aviation, she remembers the conversation with Adelaide.
“Who’re the Rye’s?” She turns her head towards Pratt, head cocking to the side in curiously.
“Huh? Oh, they’re a couple who live not too far from Falls End. They have these big barbecues that basically the entire county shows up to; everyone brings some food, it’s a whole thing.”
“That’s nice.”
“You should come.”
“I don’t know them.”
“It’s open invitation, you live in Hope County, cook some food, show up. It’ll be fun.”
“Just like the F.A.N.G Center?” She raises an eyebrow
“Well, if you don’t freak out and run off halfway through, yeah, things can be fun.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.” She rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at Pratt.
Side eyes and double takes are taken at Dahlia as she walks into the station carrying a opossum. Dahlia just nuzzles her face against the top of the opossum’s head as they reach the office, plopping down in her chair and propping her feet up on her desk. Pratt walks past with his lunch and Dahlia grabs a handful of apple slice off his plate; making the older deputy stop and glare at her.
“Can I help you?”
“I gotta feed her.” Dahlia shrugs, letting the opossum munch on one of the slices of fruit.
“Feed her your lunch.”
“My lunch is an energy drink and a twinkie.” She ate the last of the lunches Caroline sent with her; an empty fridge and a sink full of Tupperware waiting for her at home.
“How the hell are you still alive?”
“The world’s too cruel to end my misery.”
“Jesus fuck,” he rolls his eyes, “calm it down, Hot Topic.”
“What are you doing, Rook?” Heat zings up Dahlia’s cheeks when she hears Hudson’s voice and sudden fear that being the weird opossum girl might not be what she wants.
“Is that a fuckin’ rat?” A guy next to her, dressed in the standard officer uniform asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Feeding...opossum…Who are you?”
“Rook, this is Brennan, he’s one of our officers, Brennan this is-”
“The rookie deputy, I know, I’m officer Beau Brennan, nice to meet ya,” he says, extending a hand and she moves the opossum to properly shake it. Beau Brennan, possibly the most southern sounding name she’s ever heard, especially this far up North.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“But, uh, Rook,” Hudson looks at Dahlia, “should you really be bringing a wild animal into the station?”
“Maybe not...she’s friendly, though.”
“So, Joey questions you and she has a point,” Pratt swings his hand in an angry gesture, “but I do it and I get mocked?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why don’t you tell Joey, how you want the opossum to be the station pet?”
“Do you?” Joey raises an eyebrow at Dahlia, the younger deputy’s face turning a deeper shade of scarlett.
“...yes..”
“If you want the thing so bad, why not just take it home as your own pet?”
“That’s what I was asking!” Pratt butts in.
“Five seconds ago, you were asking how the hell I kept myself alive, you want me in charge of keeping something else alive?”
“She’s got you there,” Hudson looks back to Dahlia, mirth lighting up those olive green eyes, “what's her name gonna be?”
Dahlia suddenly has no coherent thought in her head. Just cricket noises as she realizes she’s never actually named an animal in her life. Every time she’s ever had a pet or something close to one, she just refers to it by species or someone else names it. The cat’s name is cat, dog’s name is dog.
“....Opossum…?”
“Not how names work,” Hudson pets behind the opossum’s ear, “Petunia?”
“Petunia, it is,” Dahlia flusters to say grinning, she’s actually okay with this, Hudson doesn’t mind the weird opossum girl.
“Why are you encouraging her!?”
“‘Cause it’s annoying you.”
“I think the girls have you outnumbered, Staci.”
“Staci?” Dahlia looks over at Pratt, is that his first name? She’s never actually heard it before. His face completely falls, hazel eyes harsh and angry.
“Shut up.”
“Your name is Staci, oh my god.”
“Spelled with an ‘i’,” Beau adds, grinning as Dahlia starts cackling.
“Oh my god, you have a sorority girl name!”
“Laugh it up, you know when Whitehorse comes back, you’re gonna have to say goodbye to your new friend.”
“Eh, it’s Rook, so he won’t mind much,” Joey says, shrugging her shoulders.
“Huh?”
“You don’t know?” Brennan raises an eyebrow at her, “everyone knows that the sheriff is soft on you. Been hardly a week and it’s like he’s adopted you.”
Her cheeks hurt from grinning, Whitehorse sees her like his own child? She knows she’s lucky to even have gotten the job; let alone the way he’s been going the extra mile to make her feel at place here. But knowing he may see her like family lights up her heart. The sheriff already reminded her of Lloyd before, but hearing that cements the comparison.
“Dear god, if you were a dog, your tail would be wagging,” Pratt-Staci, grumbles as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“It's cute,” Brennan defends her, “we don’t even need a canine unit with her around. Ow!”
Brennan jumps when Dahlia kicks him in the shin, hard enough to bruise she’s hoping. Hudson and Pratt laugh. Petunia is content and nuzzling into Dahlia’s neck as the four shoot the shit, the topic of the Rye barbecue coming up. Hudson and Brennan both plan on being there as well. Dahlia finds herself sinking deeper into her chair, holding Petunia closer. Taking her phone from her pocket and checking the notifications on John’s little video. Other than someone claiming he looks familiar and another person saying he’s hot; it’s mostly more taunts.
“What’s going on here?” Whitehorse’s voice cuts through the chatter, the sheriff coming through and spotting the gathered deputies and officer. His eyes landing on Petunia within a second, “Rook?”
“Yeah?” She scrolls past someone using a gif of John’s light up yes sign as a reaction gif.
“Why are you holding a opossum?”
“She likes being held.” She doesn’t bother looking up from the phone.
“She?”
“Her name’s Petunia.”
“You can’t have a opossum.”
“She’s the station opossum.”
“Rook,” Whitehorse sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, “just go put her outside.”
“So, she’s an outside station pet?”
“I don’t care as long as she’s outside.”
“I’m taking that as a yes,” Dahlia says, finally looking up and grinning ear to ear. Whitehorse shakes his head and just waves her off before going into his office, no doubt looking for some Tylenol or Aspirin at this point.
“That’s it,” Pratt lets out a heavy exhale, shaking his head at Dahlia.
“Told ya, soft on Rook.”
“I’m gonna take Petunia outside, to her new home.”
“Do you think she’ll stay around?” Hudson asks, as her and Pratt follow after Dahlia, towards the little lot of land behind the department.
“If I keep feeding her, she should, right?”
“I’m gonna have to start bringing two lunches, aren’t I?”
“Nah, you don’t wanna overfeed her.”
“Hilarious.”
The wind is blowing just a bit; breezing by and shifting the grass around them. The sun starting to set as the evening arrives. Petunia licks her cheek and then runs up on Dahlia’s shoulder, little hands grabbing at her skin as she clambers up onto her head; curling up like she belongs there.
“Pffft,” Hudson sputters out a laugh, “look this way, Rook.”
Dahlia faces Joey, grinning with the apples of her cheeks flushing red. The older deputy has her phone out and snaps a photo of Dahlia with Petunia perched on her head. She’s not sure why the moment is worth catching, but she’s glad it was.
“Send that to me, if you don’t mind…” Dahlia asks as she puts Petunia down in the grass.
“No problem,” she taps away and Dahlia feels her phone buzz, “and don’t worry I’ll send it to you, too, Pratt.”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“Didn’t have to.”
Dahlia sits down on the ground, petting Petunia as the sun sets. As always Hudson and Pratt leave that evening for the Spread Eagle, she catches Brennan talking about going to the Hollyhock Saloon with some fellow officers before she leaves. Everyone has their friend group, their routine. And it’s time for her own; going home to an empty trailer.
And an empty fridge, she remembers. Oh god, she has to go shopping doesn’t she? It’s a break in the monotony but she’s not sure it’s a welcomed one. She also has to do dishes at some point…and laundry… Adulting sucks.
There’s a little family owned market in the Henbane River region; just a bit more to it than the general store in Falls End. The fluorescent lights irritate her eyes as she pulls off her helmet to look around. Never the cooking type; Dahlia’s hoard comprises of things that don’t require more than a microwave to prep. Frozen meals, snacks, and absolute garbage pile high in her cart as she scours the shelves for more. This might get her through for a week.
Her phone buzzes, another Twitter notification, she’s sure someone else reacting to the Eden’s Gate commercial. She tugs her phone from her pocket; just like she thought a Twitter notification, but the message beneath it catches her eye. A text from Hudson, where she sent the photo of Dahlia and Petunia. The young deputy hasn’t gotten around to opening it; mind preoccupied. She opens the message.
Dahlia doesn’t take pictures of herself and has never been particularly enthralled with her own appearance. But, she likes this photo of her. Petunia is perched on her head, dark eyes warm and soft. The evening sun setting behind Dahlia illuminates her in golden light; dark hair mussed, brown eyes lighting up amber where the light hits, and a wide grin on her face.
Beneath the photo is a message from Hudson captioning it;
‘cant tell who looks better here’
Heat makes it way up to her hairline. Is…did Hudson call her cute? She’s comparing Dahlia to Petunia, a opossum, both Petunia specifically and opossums in general are cute. So if Hudson’s saying Dahlia’s looks are on par with a opossum; does Hudson mean she’s cute? But, not everyone thinks opossums are cute… Some people think they’re gross little trashy goblins, does Hudson think she looks like a trash goblin? She seemed to like Petunia, but just cause she was nice to the animal doesn’t mean she thinks opossums are cute. Dahlia leans her forehead against the freezer section for a moment; letting a turkey meal cool her flushed face as she forces herself to not agonize over this.
A few deep breathes and a concerned passerby make Dahlia straighten back up, getting her bearings before heading to self-check-out. She quickly rings up her items and bags them, leaving the market with her grocery bags in tow.
“Leave me alone…please…” A soft demure voice whispers, a woman about Dahlia’s age stands beside the road a man towering over her with a beet red face. The smell of liquor coming off him on the wind. His hand is wrapped tightly around her wrist, her skin indenting under his grasp as she tries to fold in on herself to avoid his touch.
“Wh-what, you scared daddy Joe’ll call you a sinner for spending some time with me?”
The stench of alcohol wafts off his breath with every drunken slur; even at a distance, the smell churns her stomach. She drops her bags on the cement and makes a beeline towards them, she needs to keep this from escalating, or someone will get hurt.
“Leave me alone!” The girl’s voice shakes as she tries to pry herself from the man’s grasp.
“Fuckin’ peggie whore!”
“Hey!” Dahlia yells out and runs as his other hand starts to raise and pull back.
She gets between them just in time to feel the crack of his hand striking her face. An ache and echo of pain rings through her jaw; a metallic taste where her cheek scraped the inside of her jaw. Glassy eyes widen, the man shocked at the interruption.
“Wh-who-”
“I’m a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department, and unless you want some jail time for assault, I recommend you get the fuck out of here.”
“Pssh,” he scoff, whiskey scented spittle spraying into the air, “li-”
“I’m giving you to the count of three to get out of my sight, sir. One,” she leans into his space, glaring him down and sneering as she counts, “two, th-“
“F-fine, fine, fuckin’ bitch.”
He makes a dismissive hand gesture as he grumbles a curse, but he stumbles away, leaving the two girls alone. Dahlia rubs absent mindedly at her cheek before turning towards the girl; a peggie, he called her. One of the followers of Eden’s Gate. She’s beautiful, five or so inches taller than Dahlia, with long black hair falling in waves down her shoulders. Delicate fine facial features, the deputy can’t help but feel the girl’s face might have shattered has it been struck. Like the handful of peggies she’s seen, traces of tattoos and markings are on her. ENVY etched across her chest and a delicate tattoo of vines with blue flowers curling up her forearm.
“Are you okay?” Dahlia asks her.
“Oh yes, yes, I’m fine, but are you?”
The girl reaches out, fingers nearly brushing over Dahlia’s cheek. She instinctively ducks back, avoiding the touch. Strangers touching her is never something she’s been fond of, though she can’t imagine many people are.
“I’ve taken worse from better; I’ll be fine. You be careful and have a safe night, ma’am.” Dahlia nods at her and makes the quick walk to her abandoned groceries and bike.
She stoops down and begins to collect the food that fell from her bags. A pair of slender hands join in, helping gather up a bag of microwave meals for her, the girl offering it to Dahlia once it’s secure.
“Thanks,” Dahlia murmurs, taking it from the stranger, stashing her groceries in the little storage space under her motorcycle’s seat.
“It’s the least I can do…I’ve never seen you before.”
“I started here about a week ago.”
“Really, that’s incredible…The Lord placed you here at the exact right time.”
“Nah, I just needed groceries,” Dahlia shrugs, “well, hope you have a nice night.”
“Wait,” she knots a hand in the deputy’s shirt, “I’m Layla…”
“Nice to meet you,” Dahlia offers, Layla’s dark brown eyes are darting around, avoiding eye contact.
“I…was on my way to a sermon at Father Joseph’s church and-”
“Look, Layla, if you need my help just say the word. But, if this is the beginning of a conversion spiel; save your breath and my time, ‘cause it ain’t happening.”
“I don’t feel safe, going there alone, right now. What if he comes back?” Her arms cross over herself, the thin cardigan not doing much to protect her from the night chill.
“Oh, uh, you don’t have anyone who can go with you? Aren’t religions like, community things?”
“I was gonna walk there by myself, but…”
“Fuckin’ hell, where is it?”
“Up the north bridge, one of the island’s in the middle of the county, it isn’t far.”
“Here,” Dahlia shoves her helmet at Layla, “I got one helmet and if anyone’s brains are splattering on the road, I’d rather they be mine.”
Layla pulls the helmet on over her head, body still shivering. Dahlia shies and shrugs off her leather jacket; it’s only going to get colder on the ride there with wind whipping around. She hands it to Layla who smiles and takes it, pulling the worn black leather jacket on. Oversized on Dahlia and still marginally so on Layla.
“Thank you,” Layla murmurs as Dahlia straddles her bike, then climbs on the back. Dahlia takes in a deep breathe when arms wrap around her midsection, Layla pressing in close to the deputy’s back as she starts the engine. The familiar nature of the touch contrasting with the fact they’re strangers.
As Dahlia makes her way up to the bridge, Layla lifts the visor just a smidge so that she can whisper directions in the deputy’s ear. Once she’s past the bridge coming from the Henbane, the roads have fencing and barbwire, making it nearly impossible to go from the road into the woods on the island. She rides down the winding road, taking a left turn off the paved road onto a beaten path, rounding the corner she sees it.
A cold sweat builds on the back of her neck, heart dropping into her stomach. It’s a collection of small white buildings, dark roofs, with Latin scrawled across some of the buildings; Luxuria, Acedia, and more she’s sure. All of it on a large piece of land, within she can see picnic tables, bundles of white flowers, where they might gather for picnics or barbecues. She pulls her bike to a stop just a distance from the white gate; Church of Eden’s Gate etched in the upper arches.
People are all around, getting out of white trucks and cars, greeting each other with hugs and waves; throwing side eye glances at Dahlia when they notice her. Dogs are barking somewhere; she doesn’t know where from. Layla clambers off the back of Dahlia’s bicycle, pulling off her helmet and handing it back to her.
“Sister Layla,” a deep masculine voice rumbles out, a familiar man standing by the white gates. Tall with a thick dark beard, his deep dark eyes are focused on Dahlia as he speaks to Layla. Theodore is what the other man called him that day when Dahlia caught them stealing from The Spread Eagle. He looks a moment away from ripping the deputy’s head off her shoulders; his shirt dipping in a way that exposes the way PRIDE etches across his chest, crossed out as are all sins the church members wear.
“Brother Theodore, this is-”
“The new deputy, we’ve met, why is she here?”
“I was just getting ready to leave, don’t worry.”
“What,” Layla’s eyes widen and she grasps Dahlia’s arm, “you can’t.”
“I can’t…?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow and shoots a pointed look where Layla’s grabbing her, making the girl let go. Layla’s trying to rope her into this shit, isn’t she?
“You came all this way Deputy, why not just come in, listen to the sermon.”
“Not happening, I already told you, not my scene. Just give me back my jacket, so I can leave, okay?”
“But,” Layla chews her lip, gears in her head turning, “how am I suppose to get home?”
“I saw at least thirty people go in that church, I’m sure someone will be willing to give you a ride home.”
“Oh, uh, I-”
“Brother Theodore, Sister Layla, service will be starting soon!” Someone calls out from within the compound.
“I have to go, I’ll be right back, Deputy!” Layla rushes to say and then runs off towards the church, Dahlia’s jacket still on her shoulders.
“Hey, wait!” Dahlia jogs after Layla, hurrying through the little compound, but the woman vanishes into the steepled church ordained in cross symbols.
She stops, just before entering the door and takes a step back. The crush of boots in dirt echoes beside her before coming to a stop, the looming of someone nearby. Body heat lingering near her side as she looks up at the cross on the topmost steeple of the church.
“You going in?”
“No.”
“Have fun out here,” Theodore tells her, moving to press a heavy hand against the church door.
“Those dogs,” she starts, listening to the barks ringing out around her, “they friendly?”
“Why don’t you go find out?” He leaves her with a smirk, walking into that church.
Dahlia lets out a harsh breath and pushes her hand back through her hair. A breeze pushes through, her t-shirt and thin uniform shirt does nothing to keep out the chill. She’s not leaving without her jacket; her wallet and phone all in the pockets. Music echoes from inside the church as she plops down onto the ground outside it, balancing her helmet on her knees and resting her chin on it.
If your soul has grown weary, and your heart feels tired…
She fidgets with her helmet, chewing her lip. Please let this Joseph guy be short winded, she just wants to leave. The entire place sets her on edge, makes her skin crawl and she wants to hide away.
Let the water wash away your sins…
A cool breeze passes by, a soft whipping sound mingling with the singing. She scans the night sky, searching for her favorite and only known constellation, she has a feeling she’s going to be here a while…
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Can I have a request where the male V3 cast’s fem!s/o went to vacation to America and then two days later, police come to their door come to question them and it was later discovered that someone killed her. 4 months later when it was her funeral she just s h o w s u p . And so she later had to explain her wacky adventure that went from the mafia to curses. Bonus points if she just yells: “OI! I thought I told you not to eat my cake... or did I?”
Sorry but this time I won't fight for bonus points
V3 boys whose fem!s/o went to America for sometime and then days later it was discovered that someone killed her when it was her funeral she just shows up
Ryoma Hoshi
He didn't mind you going there alone. Like why should he stop you? Ryoma trusted you and knew that you were smart enough to not get yourself in trouble.
But few days later he was informed that someone killed you and he couldn't belive it... Why did world want to take everything from him so badly? He should have come with you... Or at least stop you... But it's too late now... He needs to face reality.
For first week he tried to get over it alone and didn't told any of your friends about it but your family members did knew.
All that time you weren't around he felt empty and didn't smile at all. But can anyone blame him really?
Ryoma didn't move any of your belongings he knew that sooner or later he had to do it but he just didn't not even when your funeral was next week.
When the funeral took place it was quite awkward since your body wasn't found but the killer turned themselves in immediately after committing their crime.
Some people found it wierd since why hold this event without the body? It was more likely to be just a sad party where all your loved ones mourn your death.
That is untill you suddenly walked in. Everyone was surprised and Ryoma didn't knew what to think at that moment.
While everyone gathered into large group hug you were quite confused and when they let you go you asked Ryoma what happened.
So he told you whole story. But to be honest he thought that everything in front of him wasn't real and it was all a dream... Thank God he was wrong he was so wrong and he can't be more happy to be wrong.
When you came home Ryoma asked you what actually happened and where were you entire time? You saw no point in lying to him so you told him what happened.
Gonta Gokuhara
He understood why you were going there without him and of course he will miss you but he doesn't want to hold you back.
So he tried to plan something on your arrival. But other than that he did pretty much what he usually did when you weren't around.
However about 2 days after the police informed him about the incident... And he couldn't belive it...
He felt like his legs were giving up on him and started crying. You were so kind! Why whould anyone do this to you!?
It led him to this point where he didn't knew what to do. Should he tell anyone? What is he going to do without you for good!?
It broke his heart when he thought that he won't ever see your smile again... Won't hear your voice... Nothing will ever be the same...
He decided to distract himself from this brutal reality for a bit and spent some time taking care of his bug friends. But it wasn't enough to cure his broken heart. No matter what he did he couldn't stop crying...
After some time had passed Gonta started thinking more about memories he made with you instead of the fact that he won't be able to build any new.
And when it came to your funeral he was calm. Still extremely sad but calm. All of your friends and family members were there and he talked to them entire event.
That is untill everyone saw a familiar face... It was you!? Gonta was super happy and confused but mainly happy!
He gave you the warmest hug and didn't question what happened for the time being. Gonta told you how much he missed you and you just couldn't help but smile.
Later on you told him about your adventure and he was impressed since what you did was so brave!!!
K1B0
Keebo fully understood why he shouldn't come with you so he didn't question it.
So he often contacted you and accidentally forgot about the timezones- so he did call you while you were sleeping. He didn't do it intentionally tho-
He started worrying when you didn't show any signs of being alive but he thought that you were just having a good time and he should stop worrying.
But when he was informed about your death he could not believe it... It must have been a joke right?
After some time though he believed it and felt like he was about to cry... Right he can't cry...
He wanted to be alone for a while so he ignored every call he received and didn't let anyone inside.
'a while' lasted for about 2 weeks- then he ansvered to all the messages he got but he still was extremely sad.
There wasn't anything specific he did before your funeral. He was doing everything he did before but... You just weren't there...
When everyone gathered he thought about how much he loves you and wished you were alive... Then he felt someone touch his shoulder.
As he turned around he saw you and shouted your name catching all attention. Keebo was extremely glad that you were alive.
He didn't care about people around and asked you what happened.
Kaito Momota
When you told him about going there he let you go on one condition. You HAVE to call him every day.
So when he didn't got a call one day he was getting worried since you didn't ansver his calls either... Maybe you went to sleep early? Maybe your phone battery was dead?
Another day passed and he still didn't hear from you... But he did hear from the police that you were dead.
Kaito couldn't belive it. At first he doubted it but sooner or later he had to acknowledge it...
He tried not to think about it but he couldn't stop no matter how hard he tried.
Entire time between your death and funeral he tried to spend with his friends so he could calm down. But he just couldn't stop thinking about you.
When it was time he didn't understood why there whould be a funeral if there was no body. To be honest he still felt like something was wrong and you were still alive. At least that's what he hoped for.
That's when he looked around and saw you. There was no mistaking it definitely you. At first he was freaking out since he realized you might be a ghost but- it's you.
When you noticed him you ran towards him catching everyone's attention as they didn't knew what to say...
After all you were supposed to be dead! But not like anyone is complaining about the fact that you are alive.
He asked you thousands of questions from what happened to you to where you have been this entire time.
Shuichi Saihara
Shuichi didn't stop you from going there and didn't even thought about it.
When you were gone he missed you but you talked from time to time so it wasn't that bad.
It was bad when he was told that you died though. He became a shut-in and didn't go outside for quite a while untill some of his friends payed him a visit.
They managed to put him together but it didn't change fact that he was constantly thinking about you. In the good way though.
He slowly got over your death but didn't try to forget you. Heck it was last thing he wanted.
After few months he was at your funeral trying not to cry. He needs to stay strong.
But in reality what made him cry wasn't the fact that you were dead it was the fact that you were alive.
Seeing you made him feel much better. And then you explained everything to him.
Rantaro Amami
Rantaro whould love to come there with you but he couldn't. It was mostly around his sisters but he told you to go by yourself.
Every day you made sure to at least text him so he started worrying after you didn't contact him for 3 days...
Then information about your death wasn't a secret. He felt like he was going crazy. Denying it he thought that it was just a nightmare but it wasn't.
He tried to hide all of the despair from his siblings and tried to act like nothing happened. But he abandoned sleep. He couldn't sleep knowing that he won't ever see you again.
And everything was like that until it was your funeral.
But during it he just felt empty... Still he wanted to live for your sake.
However all his thoughts were disturbed when he saw you making grand entrance on your own funeral.
He immediately stood up and ran towards you he hugged you close and didn't let you go for very long time.
Kokichi Ouma
He wanted to go too so he tried to change your mind about going alone. But you couldn't take him and he knew why.
So your plans stayed the same. Still Kokichi often called you in the middle of the night on purpose. It was a little revange but two can play this game.
Either way you stopped responding. He thought you were just annoyed by this so he didn't worry.
That is untill he was informed about your death... He didn't wanted to believe it but it was the truth. But he didn't cry. Instead Kokichi was lost in thought mainly thinking about what you went through together.
Around others Kokichi acted like he usually did to their surprise. But only you could tell it was a lie. Still you weren't there so this doesn't matter.
When months passed it was your funeral already. And everyone was surprised to see your there ALIVE!?
When Kokichi saw you he couldn't tell how he felt but those emotions sure were positive. He asked you what happened and that's when you told him entire story but not in detail.
Korekiyo Shinguji
When you were going on your vacation Korekiyo had planned to do his anthropology work and he focused on his research only- if not the fact that he whould wait for you to contact him and see how were you doing.
However one day he got message from your killer and his heart literally stopped when he saw that message.
He calmed down thinking it was a joke (even though you never joked like this) but then the photo was sent and he didn't knew what to do at this point.
The police took care of it but your body wasn't there when they went to investigate. Still there was your blood on the crime scene.
Korekiyo thought about preforming a seance and that's exactly what he did. There was something odd though... It didn't work. Maybe it was because he was way too far from place of your death? Or maybe there was no death to begin with.
Either way Korekiyo didn't thought that you actually died because there was just too many odds.
But he showed up at your funeral either way. Still he didn't believe that it was happening.
All his thoughts were confirmed when you showed up. He wasn't as surprised as rest of your loved ones. But he was first one to hug you. It was very tight and loving hug even though he thought that you weren't dead part of him thought that he was desperately denying truth.
~Mod Chiaki
#Ryoma Hoshi#Gonta Gokuhara#K1B0#Keebo#Kiibo#Kaito Momota#Shuichi Saihara#Rantaro Amami#Kokichi Ouma#Korekiyo Shinguji
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Critique of Fairy Gone’s final episode
Been stewing on it for a few days, but for a show that I've enjoyed so thoroughly, it's hard to accept how much the ending of Fairy Gone let me down.
It's not a resolutely terrible ending, certainly not the worst I've seen in an anime this year, and at a surface level it seems mostly passable, but thinking about it more deeply yields a number of distressing implications that point to- if not a betrayal of it's own themes and ideals, is a deeply depressing answer to them.
And the worst part is that there is nothing that need by changed beyond the very last episode itself to improve it. All the pieces were in place, but I feel they were played just slightly the wrong ways, and ends up saying several very unfortunate things.
Spoilers below, and a long essay of comprehensive critique.
Cutting straight to the heart of it; Ver's death was cheap and cruel drama for last minute resolution, and I believe that it hurts the story far more than what little was gained from it. So why did Ver have to die, exactly? Especially when her counterpart Wolfran was allowed to live?
She claims that she must atone for her sins, but what precisely are those sins? Veronica was at no point affiliated with the Eins order, was very pointedly foiled in her attempts to commit terrorism and assassination, and was even implicitly forgiven by the target of her vengeance not once, but on repeated occasions.
Her ultimate crimes amount to little, and more so when compared to Wolfran, who has to this point served an apocalypse cult and terrorist sect and repeatedly gotten away with the harming of innocents and furthering the plans of those who would do further harm. But he gets off with a scratch, forced to keep on living and atone with life instead.
Furthermore, the attack that lead to Ver's impalement and eventualy demise is incredibly dubious, and frankly, offensive when immediately followed by Free's *identical* maneuver that went unpunished. There were no differences between these two attacks at all; they both used their fairies to boost themselves towards the Divine Beast's head, and struck out with a sword. It is endlessly rude of the show to favour Free in this for seemingly no reason other than to ensure his participation in the final boss fight, but even then, there are numerous ways they could have shown this without *perfectly mirroring* the very actions that got Ver killed.
So I've covered the why and the how, but what about what Ver's death means? From the show's perspective, we're told it means she's giving her all to sacrifice herself for Marlya's sake in some grand gesture of love. But this argument holds very little water when examined closely. The two had resolved to take on the fight together no less than 4 times over the previous two episodes, and Ver taking it all on herself is simply contrary to that. HEr reckless behaviour is hardly out of character, but it shows an almost oblivious disregard for the resolution and reconciliation the two faced in the incredibly heartwarming and poignant reunion they had earlier.
Furthermore, Ver's sacrifice; and Sacrifice is what it is, plays into the previously established themes of the Blessed Child and the Cursed Child that Marlya and Ver were designated as and well developed throughout the course of the story. While one might rightly point to this being capitalized on, the message that this choice sends is incredibly dark and depressing.
We're shown that even though these two managed to reconcile and meet again after years, Ver is still doomed to die for her cause, and Marlya is still doomed to have all those that she loves die. It almost proves the rule that Maryla's care for others puts them at risk. We've never been shown comprehensive proof that this idea is truly a delusion- in a world with fairies and magic, and the two of them being from a village of people specially attuned to them, it has always been treated as an entirely *plausible* fear that she has had to force herself to overcome.
From a broad perspective, it means that Veronica's sins and mistakes are worth her dying for absolution, while Wolfran's do not warrant his death. It means that while Ver is punished for attempting to strike at God, Free is rewarded. This pattern of the principal male characters being favoured over the main female characters is... Unfortunate, to say the least.
Not to mention the all-but-explicitly blistering text of Ver and Marlya's love for each other, Ver's death and Marlya's following sadness are simply one more of an endless field of the graves of women loving women that media has continued to dug for decades, insistenting that a tragically unfulfilled love is the only outcome.
And what comes from Ver's death, physically? Her fairy joins with Marlya's, powering her up and allowing her to bring the end to the conflict. Firstly, the plan was described as feasible with Ver's fairy alone, so the twin powerup seemed like unnecessary flash, but let's accept the fancy fusion for what it is, and still ask;
Why is Ver's death necessary for this? Would it not have sufficed for the two of them to join forces together, and with their newfound connection and communication been able to join their powers? Is there not more to gain emotionally from the two of them affirming their bond to each other rather than having it be cruelly ripped apart by fate once more?
None of this precludes Free from participating, or even Wolfran. Hell, it would have been much more exciting to see all 4 of them team up together to take it down. You can still highlight Free and Marlya's comraderie by having them support each other, while also celebrating each of their connections to their counterparts.
But this isn't what we got.
We get two men who endured this apocalyptic conflict literally no worse for wear, and arguably each better than they started. One woman punished for her already forgiven sins, doomed to be sacrificed for the sake of others and forced to die to prove her love, and one woman who was taught that even her longest and truest relationships will be forcibly stripped from her, and that all she can do is remember them in her heart, with the looming threat that it will continue to happen over and over.
And so Free and Marlya set off on a motorcycle trip to find the answers to the Fairy's mystery, Wolfran settles down in his old town, and Ver was so utterly destroyed from one simple mistake that her grave site is merely a formality.
This is strange, and so easily improved. Free was never much connected with the fairies; his story was always about the echoes of the war he was forced to fight. Why would he not stay and aid in the reparations? Why would he not help his friend adjust to life at home, in the way he couldn't the first time?
Why did Ver and Marlya not go together on that motorcycle trip to learn the truth of their Sunan inheritance, finally together and free to go where they wished? To show Marlya that those that cared to her will not always leave her, and to show Ver that there is good in the world worth living for?
Fairy Gone has been... an enjoyable, thought provoking experience all the way through. It's been an amazing show that I've been excited to watch more of every week... and it's because I loved it so much that Fairy Gone's final episode hurt me so much; both personally as a wlw, and intellectually as a fan of complex narratives. It was so very close, and it could have so easily been better.
And I really, really believe it should have been. We deserved more.
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killer queen
(in which the author is self-indulgent, aziraphale presents as female, and crowley is torn between holding on and letting go)
note: i definitely wrote this while blasting killer queen, but that was probably obvious
this fic was loosely based off this request by @olivianeesan! i really went wild with it but it was fun so hopefully all's well that ends well
i'd like to apologize in advance because my 1920s nerd had a field day writing this lmao
~*~
Go to America, they said. It's the perfect place to plant the seeds of evil, they said.
Well, they'd been right. But that didn't mean Crowley had to like it.
Of course, his dislike wasn't inherent to America, at least not necessarily. Though he'd never admit it, he'd been in a seemingly perpetual bad mood following his falling out with Aziraphale in 1862.
They hadn't spoken since. And 60 years had already passed.
What was worse was that they didn't usually leave off on such a bad note. And even if they did, they would reconcile within a week or two. But this time, they hadn't.
Maybe that was what irked Crowley so much. The lack of reconciliation. Not to mention he wasn't particularly interested in digging through his emotions to figure out what else might be sparking his frustration.
(It was possible, even, that a part of him was afraid to find out.)
That being said, Crowley ended up being pretty successful in America. He was successful everywhere, of course, but Jazz Age America truly was the perfect feeding ground for evil. Americans were always looking for a little sin. Speakeasies, bootlegging, the stock market - corruption flowed through the veins of this country.
Currently, it was the middle of the night, but the speakeasy Crowley resided in was thriving. Men were drinking, flappers were dancing, music echoed around the room - in about a hundred years, he was sure this scene would be quite picturesque.
"Hey," a drunken man slurred, sliding into the seat across from Crowley. "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" Crowley muttered, taking a sip of his wine and moving his chair slightly away from the stranger.
"That Killer Queen is coming here tonight."
Crowley paused, processing the news. Interesting. Then he shrugged, not bothering to answer directly. The man appeared to take the hint and left, which was surprising, seeing as he'd smelled like he'd bathed in whiskey.
However, despite the lack of care that he presented, Crowley had to admit his interest was piqued by the man's question. The so-called Killer Queen was an infamous flapper that women hired to "test" their husbands' loyalty. She presumably seduced them to see if they were willing to cheat. It was only a thing among the elite, really.
(No one knew what Killer Queen's day job was, either, but a few rumors were floating around that she worked as a psychiatrist who focused on the trauma of abused women.)
Killer Queen was loved by half of the male population and hated by the rest. Despite this, no one could deny their attraction to her, including or perhaps especially other women.
If she did show up, Crowley had to admit that he'd be interested in meeting her.
"Oh my God!" a flapper with short black hair shrieked as she rush into the speakeasy, her feather boa slipping off her shoulders. "She's coming! She's really coming!"
Huh. Speak of the devil and she shall appear.
Crowley took another sip of his wine, then nearly choked on it as the Killer Queen entered the room.
He'd recognize those blue eyes anywhere.
"Angel?!" he sputtered. He cursed, almost biting his tongue as he realized it might have been better to keep his mouth shut.
Aziraphale glanced across the speakeasy, her eyes widening as she saw Crowley. Crowley tried to look away and pretend he hadn't seen her, but it was too late. As Aziraphale passed by his table, she sent him a look that said:
Meet me in a private room in ten minutes.
In reality, it wasn't her look that spoke, but rather her words were spoken telepathically into Crowley's mind. Sometimes being a supernatural being was convenient, even if telepathy did feel rather invasive. Tended to leave a person with an itch on the back of the neck.
Crowley found himself unable to take his eyes off Aziraphale as she walked away. The angel rarely presented as female, but he found her to be as beautiful as ever. The glittery silver flapper dress she wore hugged her curves in a way reminiscent of Bessie Smith.
Wait.
He was supposed to be angry at the angel. Not ogling her.
(Fortunately, Crowley had always been very good at multitasking.)
~*~
Crowley pulled the door shut after entering the private room, tossing his hat down on the table. "Fancy running into you here, angel. And as a flapper, of all the fashion trends to choose from."
Aziraphale's face turned a pretty shade of pink, and she fidgeted with the strings of pearls hanging around her neck. "I needed to, well, it was necessary to assimilate myself as a bit of a party girl, my dear."
"So I've heard, Killer Queen." Crowley sat down across from the angel, not particularly regretting the acidity of his tone. "You know, you could just admit that you came to fraternize with the American elite. Wouldn't hurt my feelings."
Aziraphale stared at him, her face revealing no emotion whatsoever. Then she sighed, tucking an escaped strand of her wavy blonde hair behind her ear. (The angled cut looked good on her, much to Crowley's irritation and attraction.) "I take it you're still... angry about 1862."
Angry? No, he wasn't angry. Betrayed, perhaps. Frustrated. Tired of the 60 years of resentment that still boiled inside of him. But not angry.
(How could he ever be angry at her?)
Crowley didn't bother to grace the angel with an answer to her question.
Aziraphale bit her lip, which Crowley noticed was an action cuter than it had any right to be. "Will you at least tell me why you're here? In America?"
Crowley shrugged. "Corrupting souls. Committing evil deeds. The like."
"Such as...?"
The silver ribbon that was tied around Aziraphale's forehead and threaded through her blonde hair was distracting, though not as distracting as the lower-than-usual cut of her silver dress.
Damn, he was whipped.
"Urging Prohibition along, for one. Inciting a bit of gang violence. I've already gotten two commendations for encouraging bootlegging and for my help in facilitating the development of increased organized crime."
Aziraphale chuckled, resting her elbows on the table and placing her chin on her hands. "I should have known your lot was behind Prohibition. The intention of the movement seemed too good to be true."
"Without Prohibition, there'd be no speakeasies, no bootlegging, no Al Capone. As humans say, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. And while that's not literally accurate, it is what happened here." Crowley noticed that the angel's nails were perfectly manicured. The relaxed manner in which she sat was ridiculously poised. "Anyways. Care to tell me what you're doing in America, Miss Killer Queen? Besides the whole 'seducing humans to test their loyalty to their partners' affair."
Huh. That came out more bitter than he intended.
Aziraphale frowned. "Who told you that?" She rolled her eyes. "Trust me, my dear. I have not 'seduced' anyone. Besides, I only agree to help the women whose husbands I know are unfaithful."
Crowley raised an eyebrow. "And how are you able to tell, exactly?"
Aziraphale pursed her lips (which were painted a rich crimson, and Crowley couldn't stop staring at them), then sighed. "My dear... Trust me when I tell you that there is nothing more painful than being in a room with two people, one of whom is in love with every fibre of their being, while the other feels nothing. Worst is when they never have, and they never will."
For a moment, Crowley did not respond, simply staring at the angel.
He wanted nothing more than to hold Aziraphale close to him and kiss her senseless, to kiss her with the passion of someone who'd been in love for almost 6000 years.
But he couldn't. He'd never be able to.
An angel could never love a demon. Not like that.
And thus, therein lay the problem. He did understand. Or at the very least, he was deathly afraid that he did.
Crowley laughed. It was harsh. Bitter. "No, angel. I understand plenty." He stood abruptly, unable to be in her company any longer. "I've got to be going." If he stayed even another minute, he might say something he'd regret. "I know you have holy business to attend to. All that jazz."
Aziraphale stood, too, her brow furrowed in confusion. "But you've only just got here!" Her face reddened, and she broke eye contact with the demon. "Not to mention that it's been... It's been a while since we last saw each other, and - and had a chance to... Talk."
"I have to go," Crowley repeated. He grabbed his hat off the table. "I'm sorry, angel."
"No," Aziraphale murmured. "I'm the one who's sorry." She glanced at Crowley, her expression determined and her blue eyes steely. "But as I said 60 years ago, I refuse to be a part of your self-destruction."
Her stubbornness was as endearing as it was frustrating. "I know," Crowley said simply. He placed his hat on his head before moving around the table to get to Aziraphale, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, just above the silver ring on her middle finger. "I forgot to mention that you look beautiful," he said as he let go of her hand. "Maybe hold onto that dress for a rainy day. It suits you."
Aziraphale's face turned a deep shade of pink. "O-Oh," she stammered. "Thank you, my dear. That's - That's very kind of you to say."
Crowley turned around to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.
"Wait." Aziraphale's voice was hushed. Her grip on his shoulder tightened, though not enough to cause any pain. "Will - Will I see you again? Soon?"
Crowley gently shrugged her hand off of him. He didn't turn to face her. "Goodbye, angel."
He was already halfway out the door before she responded.
"My dear boy... Be careful."
And then he was gone.
~*~
#my beta reader: you're just gay for Aziraphale as a flapper#me: AND??? YOUR POINT????#good omens#ineffable husbands#aziraphale#anthony j crowley#anthony crowley#crowley#amy writes#good omens fanfiction#good omens fic#fanfiction#1920s#jazz age#female-presenting aziraphale#flappers#beta reader is code for friend who wants to read all my fics early
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if anyone’s curious, here’s my very lengthy and disorganized notes + scriptures on the bible and polyamory. (i didnt include any specific references to biblical polyam relationships, just because everyone knows everyone was polyam and i dont feel the need to source that. this is mostly focusing on The Law. and polyam’s status as a “sin.”)
my conclusion: 1) “marriage” in the bible is defined by man + God, not the state. it’s just being in a committed relationship with someone (and doing sexytimes). 2) the bible describes polyamorous relationships as “marriage,” even the ones it’s condemning for being incest or w/e. 3) therefor, polyamory can NOT be judged differently than monoamory on grounds of adultery or fornication, and while there is greater discussion to be had about these things (i dont think they are sins either), it’s bigoted to presume those topics are somehow inherent to polyam and not just relevant to all sexual relationships. there is NO biblical evidence that polyamorous “marriage” should be treated any different than monoamorous “marriage.”
define marriage
the Big One, genesis 2:23-25
“The man said,
“This is now bone of my bones
and flesh of my flesh;
she shall be called ‘woman,’
for she was taken out of man.”
24 That is why a man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife, and they become one flesh.
25 Adam and his wife were both naked, and they felt no shame.”
there’s no legal status here, nor even a particular ceremony. Adam and Eve are “married” just by being in a committed relationship before God.
1 Corinthians 6:12
12
“I have the right to do anything,” you say—but not everything is beneficial. “I have the right to do anything”—but I will not be mastered by anything. 13 You say, “Food for the stomach and the stomach for food, and God will destroy them both.” The body, however, is not meant for sexual immorality but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body. 14 By his power God raised the Lord from the dead, and he will raise us also. 15 Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ himself? Shall I then take the members of Christ and unite them with a prostitute? Never! 16 Do you not know that he who unites himself with a prostitute is one with her in body? For it is said, “The two will become one flesh.”[b] 17 But whoever is united with the Lord is one with him in spirit.
there’s a lot in here worth talking about in regards to queer relationships and the questionable universal applicability of paul’s letters, but a)sin is specifically alluded to as “not beneficial” (which means stfu “oh it was accepted back then but we know better now.” if ur gonna consider it sinful WITHOUT scripture backing u up you better have a damn good reason.) and b) “one flesh” is used just to refer to the act of sex. so if we’re defining marriage with the genisis passage, all it is is leaving your family, living with someone, and having sex with them. no pastor or county judge required.
are we really willing to say Morality is decided by something as fickle and bigoted as legal status?
matthew 19:4
4
“Haven’t you read,” he replied, “that at the beginning the Creator ‘made them male and female,’[a] 5 and said, ‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh’[b]? 6 So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.”
marriage isn’t defined as something the state decides, but by the action of choosing to be with someone and “becoming one flesh.” defining marriage based on what the state says rather than God is borderline heresy.
define adultery
the too-many-words one, leviticus 20:10-22
“‘If a man commits adultery with another man’s wife—with the wife of his neighbor—both the adulterer and the adulteress are to be put to death.
11 “‘If a man has sexual relations with his father’s wife, he has dishonored his father. Both the man and the woman are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.
12 “‘If a man has sexual relations with his daughter-in-law, both of them are to be put to death. What they have done is a perversion; their blood will be on their own heads.
13 “‘If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.
14 “‘If a man marries both a woman and her mother, it is wicked. Both he and they must be burned in the fire, so that no wickedness will be among you.
15 “‘If a man has sexual relations with an animal, he is to be put to death, and you must kill the animal.
16 “‘If a woman approaches an animal to have sexual relations with it, kill both the woman and the animal. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.
17 “‘If a man marries his sister, the daughter of either his father or his mother, and they have sexual relations, it is a disgrace. They are to be publicly removed from their people. He has dishonored his sister and will be held responsible.
18 “‘If a man has sexual relations with a woman during her monthly period, he has exposed the source of her flow, and she has also uncovered it. Both of them are to be cut off from their people.
19 “‘Do not have sexual relations with the sister of either your mother or your father, for that would dishonor a close relative; both of you would be held responsible.
20 “‘If a man has sexual relations with his aunt, he has dishonored his uncle. They will be held responsible; they will die childless.
21 “‘If a man marries his brother’s wife, it is an act of impurity; he has dishonored his brother. They will be childless.
22 “‘Keep all my decrees and laws and follow them, so that the land where I am bringing you to live may not vomit you out. 23 You must not live according to the customs of the nations I am going to drive out before you. Because they did all these things, I abhorred them. 24 But I said to you, “You will possess their land; I will give it to you as an inheritance, a land flowing with milk and honey.” I am the Lord your God, who has set you apart from the nations.
only ONE thing is referred to as “adultery” in this list, sleeping with another man’s wife. not marrying a mother and her daughter, not marrying your brother’s wife. those are listed as completely different crimes. adultery isn’t marriage, by definition. but having multiple spouses still counts as marriage. God just says dont be fucking gross about it.
also. i saw some arguments like “they were just poly cause it was cultural osmosis, not cause it was holy, but verse 22 clearly says these laws are NOT the laws of the land. the people of God were to keep away from incest and adultery, but NOT polyam. inch resting.
jeremiah 23:10,14
The land is full of adulterers;
because of the curse
the land lies parched
and the pastures in the wilderness are withered.
The prophets follow an evil course
and use their power unjustly.
And among the prophets of Jerusalem
I have seen something horrible:
They commit adultery and live a lie.
They strengthen the hands of evildoers,
so that not one of them turns from their wickedness.
They are all like Sodom to me;
the people of Jerusalem are like Gomorrah.”
The key component of the adultery metaphor here is deceit. The passage is even titled “the lying prophets.” there’s no evidence that consensual, non-deceitful polyamory is even remotely similar to what constitutes “adultery.”
deuteronomy 22: 22, 30
22 If a man is found sleeping with another man’s wife, both the man who slept with her and the woman must die. You must purge the evil from Israel.
30 A man is not to marry his father’s wife; he must not dishonor his father’s bed.
again, you *sleep with* another man’s wife and it’s adultery (not marriage), but you *marry* your father’s wife and it’s just gross.
proverbs 5: 20, 6:24, 26
Why, my son, be intoxicated with another man’s wife?
Why embrace the bosom of a wayward woman?
keeping you from your neighbor’s wife,
from the smooth talk of a wayward woman
For a prostitute can be had for a loaf of bread,
but another man’s wife preys on your very life.
it’s literally always “another man’s wife.” not “anyone but your one and only wife.” a prostitute isn’t even “adultery,” which is p sus and gross tbh but not really the point at this exact moment. find me a single passage in the bible that condemns adultery as anything other than having sex with someone whose partner is unaware.
non-scripture sources:
https://www.biblestudytools.com/dictionary/adultery/
Adultery: conjugal infidelity. An adulterer was a man who had illicit intercourse with a married or a betrothed woman, and such a woman was an adulteress. Intercourse between a married man and an unmarried woman was fornication. Adultery was regarded as a great social wrong, as well as a great sin.
https://www.queertheology.com/bible-polyamory/
Scripture doesn’t just describe these relationships, it seems to condone them. Exodus 21:10* sets out some guidelines for how to treat your wives if you have more than one. Deuteronomy 21:15–17 governs inheritance amongst children in polygamous marriages. If authors of these passages thought polygamy was wrong, their advice would have been “don’t do it!” not “here’s how you should do it.”
When you’re born, you are literally made from the body of your parents… but if they have a second child, that child is just as loved, important, and from the body. From God to our parents to our children, we understand love to be abundant. The same is true with romantic and sexual love.
*the verse is: “If he take him another wife; her food, her raiment, and her duty of marriage, shall he not diminish.
And if he do not these three unto her, then shall she go out free without money.” (its a lot of fucked up shit about slavery actually, but the POINT is there’s no BIBLICAL basis to condemn polyam. if u want to still call it a sin u need to find a reason it’s not BENEFICIAL, as paul said earlier.)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gG9-bgnVc1c&feature=youtu.be
if u think jesus/the church is the model of perfect marriage, that’s poly my dude. also that video describes jesus as a “relationship-slut” which is great.
God doesn’t ask us to do things for no reason. what is the reason polyamory would be considered harmful (“not beneficial”)?
(spoilers: its not. polyam folx can be just as healthy or just as toxic as monoam folx. if ur willing to challenge homophobia why arent u willing to challenge anything else)
addendum: its really not good scientific method anyway to have to prove this ISN’T a sin. thats not how the burden of proof works. why don’t yall try proving it IS a sin first, instead of just assuming it is because some homophobes told u. just saying what’s the point of queer theology if we dont question EVERYTHING and just take some crusty old white guys’ interpretations as the only ones that matter.
addendum the second: paul was ace af and doesnt quite realize no one else is so his opinions on sex are a bit weird tbh. 1 corinthians 7 makes a LOT of sense if you read it from a “whats the big deal about sexual attraction” kinda way.
third adendum: this also sort of means chaste marriage isn’t considered biblical, but i dont really think thats a problem because it doesnt mean ur relationship isn’t valid, just like. it doesnt qualify as the Thing in the Bible that is cheat-on-able and needing to follow Marriage Laws. also as weve proven, that very specific definition of marriage isnt really relevant to relationship status or legal status today.
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America: Not The New Jerusalem, Merely Another Rome
”When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” -- Paul the Apostle (1 Corinthians 13:11 KJV)
”And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” -- Jesus Christ of Nazareth (John 8:34 KJV)
Ronald Reagan, tending the garden of thorns Dick Nixon had sown, referred to America as “a city on a hill”, thus appropriating Jesus’ words via John Winthrop through John F. Kennedy.
It’s interesting to chart the progression. Let’s do so in reverse.
Reagan:
”I've spoken of the shining city all my political life, but I don't know if I ever quite communicated what I saw when I said it. But in my mind it was a tall, proud city built on rocks stronger than oceans, wind-swept, God-blessed, and teeming with people of all kinds living in harmony and peace; a city with free ports that hummed with commerce and creativity. And if there had to be city walls, the walls had doors and the doors were open to anyone with the will and the heart to get here. That's how I saw it, and see it still.”
Kennedy:
”I have been guided by the standard John Winthrop set before…’We must always consider…that we shall be as a city upon a hill—the eyes of all people are upon us’. Today the eyes of all people are truly upon us—and our governments, in every branch, at every level, national, state and local, must be as a city upon a hill—constructed and inhabited by men aware of their great trust and their great responsibilities…History will not judge our endeavors—and a government cannot be selected—merely on the basis of color or creed or even party affiliation. Neither will competence and loyalty and stature, while essential to the utmost, suffice in times such as these. For of those to whom much is given, much is required…”
Winthrop:
”Now the only way to…provide for our posterity is to follow the counsel of Micah, to do justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly with our God, for this end, we must be knit together in this work as one man, we must entertain each other in brotherly affection, we must be willing to abridge ourselves of our superfluities, for the supply of others’ necessities, we must uphold a familiar commerce together in all meekness, gentleness, patience and liberality, we must delight in each other, make others’ conditions our own, rejoice together, mourn together, labor, and suffer together, always having before our eyes our commission and community in the work, our community as members of the same body, so shall we keep the unity of the spirit in the bond of peace… for we must consider that we shall be as a City upon a Hill, the eyes of all people are upon us; so that if we shall deal falsely with our God in this work we have undertaken and so cause Him to withdraw His present help from us, we shall be made a story and a byword through the world, we shall open the mouths of enemies to speak…curses upon us till we be consumed out of the good land whether we are going”
Jesus:
”Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid.” (Matthew 5:14 KJV)
Go back and read Reagan’s statement.
While I’ve trimmed Kennedy and Winthrop’s quotes and edited the latter for clarity (God bless Noah Webster for standardized spelling!), there’s a striking difference between what they saw as a city on a hill and what Reagan saw.
Reagan operates under the presumption that of course we’re the best, of course everyone else will look up to us, of course we are the New Jerusalem referenced in the Bible.
We are God’s anointed, His new chosen people. America is God’s Promised Land, a nation to which all other nations can merely hope to aspire to be.
Our shitte truly stinketh notte.
Reality? We have fucked up and we have fucked up badly.
Compare Reagan’s self-congratulatory, ignorant nostalgia with the dire warnings of Kenney and Winthrop.
Yes, there is great promise.
Yes, there is great potential.
Yes, we are a city on a hill.
But Kennedy and Winthrop both cautioned that history and the world would not be kind if we failed to live up to our own grandiose promises.
(And, yeah, there’s irony in that, considering how both failed to make good on those promises, ///but at least they knew the danger was there///.)
Look at Matthew 5:13, the verse immediately preceding Jesus’ original “city on a hill” reference: ”Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.”
America is no New Jerusalem, no Holy Israel of the New World, no Promised Land.
Rather, we are the New Rome, an empire built on greed and ruthlessness and blood and genocide.
And slavery. Let us never omit that original sin, or its bastard step-sibling, white supremacy.
As long as the history of this nation was written by the Parson Weems of the world, be they well meaning hagiographers or unprincipled propagandists, it was the history of white Christianist* men of property succeeding because God and / or providence had deemed them the masters of the universe, the unquestioned rulers of the earth.
(Oh, there might be a mean one once in a while, maybe an occasional bad one, but it was a white man with money’s world, and if non-whites and non-males wanted to enjoy even the slightest taste, the first thing they had to doo was make sure white Christianist male supremacy reigned supreme.)
Our nation has been at war virtually its entire existence.
It has slaughter and subjugated literally millions of people around the world.
Don’t give me that bullshit about the American Revolution being a good and just war -- Canada stayed under British rule and did just fine, thank you, and although they have their own problems, a far less bloody history than the United States.**
Don’t give me that bullshit about the Civil War being a good and just war -- there shouldn’t have been any need for a civil war if the first shipload of African slaves to arrive in North America had simply been seized and freed.
Don’t give me that bullshit on World War Two being a good and just war -- if Hitler hadn’t declared war on us, we would have never gotten involved in Europe.***
America has waged incessant war against other nations and native peoples in order to make a few wealthy people even wealthier.
Can we justify the War of 1812? No.
Can we Justify the Mexican War? No.
Can we justify the Spanish-American War or the too numerous to recount Latin American bush wars? No.
Can we justify the Philippines, or Korea, or Vietnam?
Don’t even pretend we can justify what we’ve done in the Middle East.
And as terrible as those are, those are the crimes we’ve committed against others.
Look at how terribly we treat one another.
After centuries of enslavement, African-Americans then needed to endure the humiliation of segregation.
Hispanic Americans who can trace their ancestry in this land much further back than any Anglo found themselves aliens in their own country.
Women and non-Christians and anybody outside of toxic white male heterosexual norms declared unfit and excluded from the public sphere.
And we allowed the tiny greedy few at the very top to rob us and pick our pockets and let our families and children suffer because they promised us if we did so, they’d let us feel that we were the best simply because we were white Christianist males.
We are long overdue for our moment of clarity, our agonizing reappraisal, out “come to Jesus” moment when we recognize our sins and shortcomings.
We gotta stop eating our own bullshit and recognize ourselves for the villains we are.
Only by identify the source of the contagion and draining the virulent infection can we hope to cure it.
”Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own: for he is a liar, and the father of it.
”And because I tell you the truth, ye believe me not.” -- Jesus Christ of Nazareth (John 8:44-45 KJV)
© Buzz Dixon
* “Christianist” is a term coined by the political commentator Andrew Sullivan to refer to those people who are culturally Christian, who may even think of themselves as Christian, but in reality are as far from the teachings of Christ as is possible and just use their so-called Christian identity as an excuse to do whatever the fuck they feel like doing because “God loves us and forgives us and wants us to be in charge”.
** The taxation in “no taxation without representation” referred to England trying to get the colonies to take at least partial responsibility for triggering the bloody Seven Years War (in the U.S., the French & Indian War) that virtually drained England’s treasury and wrecked a couple of European empires in the process. One may argue the crown made a fatal misstep in not allowing token colonial participation in parliament, but you can’t say they were unfair in wanting the colonials to help pay for a war ///we started/// in direct violation of international treaties.
*** Not only were many prominent Americans against getting involved in European affairs, but a large number were pro-Nazi to boot, and they went to ground only when Hitler made it impossible to defend him any longer. And while we’re at it, let’s dispel with the myth that Hitler and the Axis would have won if the U.S. hadn’t stepped into the fray; Hitler lost WWII on June 22, 1941 when he invaded Russia. Contrary to the popular culture of the US and western Europe, it was Russia that took on the brunt of the German war machine, and Russia that painstakingly ground them down at great cost. To put it simply, Russia would have still beaten Germany without the help of the Allies; the Allies might not have beaten Germany without the help of the Russians. And while Japan was reeling from saturation bombings and the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Russia declaring war on them was the moment they realized there was no hope left.
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Bang!
That guy was dead, 100% dead and it’d happened seconds before Levi had wandered out for the sole sake of warning the small group that’d gotten a little too rowdy and was asked to leave, that the cops had been called. The argument itself had already put a damper on the night, and the continuation of the fight from out front, to someplace a little more secluded had the previously lively crowd solemn with worry, and those exact crowds were the reason he sought out the dives of the city. All he’d truly wanted to do was throw back a few cheaply priced pints and people watch, and now he felt just as on edge about the outcome of the altercation as everyone else. Although part of him didn’t want to wait and see how everything turned out, someone nearby muttered something about 911, setting off warning bells in his head. Not only were they heated, they were drunk, and at that point all the brunet wanted was to be able to go back to his room safely. You know, avoid ending up a witness or something. With the guy’s cellphone out, Levi took it as a cue and slid from his bar stool as cooly as he could, leaving without his backpack so that the bartender would know he planned on going back. He would have liked to pay his tab first, bring his stuff with him, and simply head out once he had warned the men, but he didn’t want to risk wasting any time; it felt like the right thing to do. Get them out of there before law enforcement got involved, and let people move on with their evening. That’s what he would have wanted had he not been the more proactive type, and besides, he didn’t think some drunken brawl was worth those guys getting a record over. In his mind, the little bit of information he had would be enough to break the other men up, and then everything that followed would be a whole hell of a lot simpler.
“Listen guys, I just want you to know the co-”, around the corner, and - Bang! - the shot filled the slim space, accompanied by a shout that Levi couldn’t be sure was his, or one of the other guys. His ears were ringing, and it seemed like time and space was moving more slowly than usual as he advanced on the situation. Even in the confusion of it all, he could tell who the obvious winner was, and with brown eyes locked on the limp, bleeding figure on the ground, he barely registered the high strung company just a few feet away. “The guy who shot him ran off right after,” one of them said while advancing, finally giving the male a reason to look up from the body, and when he did, one of the few guys he’d seen leave the bar not too long ago held out small hand gun which, out of instinct, Levi took, “we’re gonna see if we can catch up with him, saw his face and all.” And then he was off, leaving the gaping student alone with absolutely no idea what had just happened, and a heavy weapon gripped in his palm. He didn’t even know why he took it, perhaps because he was hardly even present in the situation. The ringing continued but was beginning to die down some, and though he could see the other three taking off in the other direction it still didn’t sink in that he needed to drop the gun, that the same amount of people who’d left the bar were taking off and there was no ‘other guy’ that had commit the murder. He needed for get far away, get his prints off it, but instead he looked down at it and then the other guy, the weapon shaking slightly as he tried to connect the pieces of what had unfurled just seconds before he’d stepped outside.
It was the whoop of a siren, the sound of tires pulling to a stop, and then advancing footsteps that finally clued Levi back in. At least enough for him to toss the gun and make a run for it, which as shouts of, “stop in the name of the law!” and “get down on the ground with your hands on your head!” followed after him, he realized probably wasn’t the best way to prove just how innocent he was. But at that point it seemed like the only option, being the only breathing person left at the crime scene, with a guilty look of disbelief on his face and the desperation with which he’d fled, Levi knew trying to explain would be useless. There wasn’t a single shred of evidence on his side, and the chase had already begun - back tracking now and pleading to be heard would just make him look even more guilty. Then, when his long legs and head start caused the sound of running feet to fade, the sirens started and everything became quick, and surreal. He ducked own streets if they weren’t too busy, or well-lit. Only down alleys where he could clearly see a street on the other side; the last thing he needed was to get caught at some dead end, and end up a convicted criminal for a murder he honest to god hadn’t commit. He wasn’t even sure which was louder, the sound of his old chucks beating against the pavement, or his pulse pounding in his ears, but neither, or a combination of the two were enough to drown out those damn sirens. But Levi continued running, not slowing down for anything, not to catch his breath or listen for just how close or far the pigs were from his location. It took everything in him to push forward despite not having a single clue of where he was going, or what area of the city he was headed towards, all the boy needed was to get as far away as quickly as he possibly could, then focus on finding a safe place to properly mull everything over.
There was no way he’d downed enough brews for his vision to be blurring, yet it was, and while fairly positive he hadn’t miscounted, he also wanted keep an open mind toward the option that, maybe he’d lost track somewhere along the line and passed out in a gutter while trying to get home. That he was just having a very, very vivid drunken dream based on some much calmer, but still similar version of the night he’d just experienced. One thing was for sure, he’d take a dirty puddle over the reality he was currently in. Just to be sure, Levi delivered a quick, harsh slap to the side of his face then stumbled as he recoiled from it, a small yelp leaving him as his flesh stung from the contact. It wasn’t a dream, and that disappointment honestly hurt more than the burning handprint on his cheek. His lungs were aching, and his hands felt dirty from holding someone else’s murder weapon. His entire being felt dirty, as he questioned himself over, and over, and over again as to why on earth he’d felt it was his moral duty to clean up someone else’s mess. He felt stupid, and naive as he thought back to how easily he’d taken the gun off that man, how he’d never once thought to himself how bad of an idea that was regardless of whether it’d been given to him by the actual murderer or not; his fingerprints would still have been on it. His fingerprints were on it. Levi could go on forever, blaming himself entirely for what he was now involved in, but the fact of the matter, and the all too horrifying reality that his tipsy mind had finally began accepting, was that he couldn’t run forever. Not only were his lungs and calves burning, the sirens were getting louder, which meant either they were getting closer, or the search had widened. He prayed for the latter and pushed on, needing just long enough to find somewhere to hide. Preferably before the news picked up the story, and his face became known city-wide, too. Which could have been avoided for at least a day or two had he not left his ID at the bar, another thing the brunet began cursing himself for.
A quick glimpse over his shoulder and the flash of red and blue hitting the buildings at the corner told Levi he needed to duck in somewhere quick, or they’d catch him in minutes. His prayers were unanswered, and they had gained enough that if he didn’t think quick, the marathon he’d just forced himself into would be entirely for nothing. An apartment building, that would work, but of course the front entrance would be locked - for the sake of keeping people like him out, he thought bitterly - and find another way in could potentially take more time than he had. So for the time being, he ran into the alley and crouched behind a dumpster, where he waited until he was sure the search had moved past that particular block, and tried to bring his breathing from it’s panicked wheezing, to a normal pattern of in through the nose, out through the mouth. Then, when the pants were accompanied by nothing other than small whines of protest from the back of his throat, Levi scrambled on top of the large metal bin, and reached desperately for the last rung of the fire escape ladder above his head. The sirens were likely to draw the attention of the neighbourhood’s inhabitants, and with no other way to get into the building he knew he’d have to keep moving if he couldn’t get himself up, and inside soon. A sweaty, unfamiliar dude walking around the area looking sketchy right after a bunch of cop cars passed through shouting over their coms asking about witnesses, he assumed, probably would make him a prime suspect. But finally, the tips of his fingers grasped it and he was able to pull it down, making it possible to climb up it; something he did both as hastily, and quietly as physically possible.
At the top Levi pulled himself onto the platform, not even pausing to breathe before starting up the stairs in search of anyone who was still awake, and while being as non-judgemental as possible in the situation, kept an eye out for someone who wasn’t likely to call the cops on him the second they saw him perched outside their window. Up and up he went, using just the tips of his toes as he sped up each level of the building’s fire escape, and slowing as he walked along the platforms, not wanting to miss a potentially helpful stranger simply because he was in too much of a rush to properly explore his options. But he was growing tired, and even more desperate as he began attempting to think up another plan, and failed. Finally, there seemed to be a window of promise - literally - and once he was just to the side of it, he began taking inventory. He couldn’t see anyone just yet, but the lights were on and the window was partially open, which was the best he’d managed to find thus far. So he waited, crouched low next to the sill with his eyes wide and locked on as much of the apartment as he could see from his spot; realizing both that there was a chance he could be waiting for hours, and that he was currently the epitome of creepy. Still without a plan B, however, Levi took it as a chance to once again attempt regulating his breathing, which was once again slowing to an exhausted pant when a blonde head came into view. Giddy with a chance at genuinely getting a moment to sit down, of course given that the stranger was willing to hear him out, he shuffled his bent up figure closer to the opening, then knocked on the wooden frame while leaning in as casually as he could possibly manage. “Hey there, if I could steal a second of your time…” he called in, hoping that a combination of the two would get the girl’s attention.
Leaning tiredly against the sill, the brunet brushed some damp hair from his forehead and huffed heavily, trying to sate the anxiety that was leading to a newfound shortness of breath he tried his very best to hide whilst continuing, “see I uh, jog, I like to jog when it’s dark, you know, a nice cool evening is always the way to go, and my roommate, he went out sometime after I left, and well, I left my keys at home… I don’t um,” he paused awkwardly, all the words coming out that bit too fast with insufficient pauses between them before finally, a second wind allowed him to tack on a quick, “like to jingle.” Accompanied by a purposely sheepish smile, Levi was hoping he could maintain his nerves and the desperation they caused, and pass them off as simply feeling silly for an honest mistake. Caused by a lapse in mutual understanding, rather than a set-up that lead to him becoming a wanted criminal. Not really sure how to invite himself in just long enough for things to settle, he pulled out his cellphone - the one thing he’d had on him when he left the bar - and waved it around in the blonde’s direction, “anyway, he’s gonna text me once he’s home so he can let me in, and I didn’t want to wake anyone up by buzzing, so I just need a place to wait.” Another pause, another small huff, and he was leaning into the window even farther, hoping his tone came across as that of a friendly neighbour stuck in a bind. “Do you mind if I come in?”
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South Park; Does it Help or Harm
Comedy Central’s South Park has been on the air now for 20 seasons, starting in 1997. The creators of the show, Trey Parker, Matt Stone and Brian Graden, seem to have started the show as just a simple adult humor cartoon, with the occasional deconstruction of pop culture. However, the show has grown to be an political spectacle.
The show is about four children, named Stan Marsh, Kyle Broflovski, Eric Cartman and Kenny McCormick, who live in a mountain town in Colorado named South Park. The boys go on adventures, often involving pop culture celebrities, and eventually somehow someway the story gets completely blown out of proportion and becomes utterly ridiculous. Just to try and portray the ridiculousness of the show, here is the opening disclaimer shown before every airing of the show:
Despite the recommendation that the show not be viewed by anyone, the show is one of Comedy Central's highest-rated shows (watched by more than 8 million viewers a week). It has been translated into 30 languages and shown in 130 countries, nominated for 18 Emmys (winning five), made into a movie (1999's Bigger, Longer & Uncut, which grossed $83.1 million worldwide) and has spawned a merchandising industry generating hundreds of millions of dollars (The Hollywood Reporter). Does the show inspire a pessimistic view of the world around us, or does it serve as a representation of how ridiculous the popular media’s portrayal of society is? Using cultural theory and ideologies, I plan to expose the show for what it is, regardless of my bias, and let you the reader ponder the rationale of the show.
The first set of analysis regarding the show, is based on its relationship to pop culture. In many ways, pop culture is American culture, because no other society internalizes pop culture representation like American society. This notion is often termed as the Americanization of culture. This is referring to the change of culture from an art of the people to an art for the people to consume. This is the product of a commercial capitalist society and it as resulted in popular culture being more socially and institutionally central in our society, more so than that of Europe (Storey, 8). In our society today pleasure and desire is manufactured for us based on our socio-economic position and how that position is represented in popular culture. That being said, I believe that South Park acts as a contradiction to that representation. South Park exposes the ridiculousness of having popular culture so prevalent in society’s spheres on influence, by mocking celebrities, fads and norms, yet the only reason its still on the air is because it makes money and people watch it.
The show also exposes how Americans idolize the representative they voted for president, as if he is a figure of pop culture. For example, in episode 12 season 12, Obama wins the election and those that voted for him bask in his glory, while those that don’t think it is the end of days. Randy Marsh when looking at President Obama, pressing his face to the television comments, “He’s so awesome, he’s so perfect and awesome.” The episode then continues by making fun of the conspiracies created behind every election. They do so by rendering Obama and McCain as using the entire election as a way into the White House so they can get access to an underground tunnel leading to the heist of the hope diamond. This represents how the election has become more of a patriotic rally than a democratic debate and how things get thrown out of proportion in a heated election.
Here’s a link to the entire episode: http://southpark.cc.com/full-episodes/s12e12-about-last-night
Here’s a list of the top 10 celebrity impersonations on South Park (Warning Crude And Mildly Offensive):
youtube
“Popular culture is structured by the attempt of the ruling class to win hegemony and by forms of opposition to this endeavor (Storey, 10).” By mocking pop culture South Park exposes the agenda of the ruling class, particularly the ruling class’ use of popular media to articulate an unachievable desire conforming subordinate groups to a hopelessly commercial lifestyle. I believe this is why they chose the band Primus to produce the soundtrack for the show, a band that named their 1999 album Antipop.
Despite the benefits of putting up a mirror to pop culture and letting its hideousness be exposed, the viewer must know to interpret as such in order for it to be fully deconstructive. A viewer may very well view that show as just mindless humorous entertainment, which renders them just as capable as one of the ignorant citizens of South Park. Or, they might view the show in a pessimistic matter and internalize the content to be the stupidity of a hopeless world.
Also, South Park directly relates to a Post-structuralist interpretation of society. Its meaning is flexible and will never truly be concrete, depending on personal interpretation. Because the show is a cartoon it is in binary opposition to reality. It gets place in the same category as hundreds of texts that are unconsciously binge consumed. However, it is a deconstructive text if critically interpreted correctly. Deconstructive texts, “must always aim at a certain relationship, unperceived by the writer, between what he commands and what he does not command of the patterns of language that he uses” (133, Storey). South Park fits this definition because the language used is crude and vulgar, yet its message is, hey society look at what is accepted by you in relationship to what isn’t. It says that to talk about things using curse words is unaccepted, yet for a company to profit off of the public by manipulating them with lies into thinking a certain way is. Its exposes how stereotypes are created and internalized, yet to talk about them and address the issue is taboo. It exposes how to make jokes about Satan and God are forbidden, yet to make jokes that oppress social groups is ok.
South Park is a deconstructive text, however if interpreted incorrectly, it can reinforce existing hierarchies. If a viewer were to watch the show without critically thinking about its message, it could potentially further the internalization of the hierarchy.
In a episode 4 season 20, the children at South Park Elementary have been exposed to an online bully that torments the young girls of the school. This leads to the split of boys and girls against each other. The girls think it’s one of the boys, when in reality its one of the parents. The episode begins with Kyle explaining the issue to his father (who is the bully or “troll”) and he says, “One guy gets online and says terrible things about girls and it reflects badly on all of us. Everyone is sad, everyone is depressed and no body knows how to move forward.” Kyle’s Dad brushes the issue aside and walks out. This is the basis for every stereotype every created. When a man of color commits an act of violence, it gets internalized by the people around him not for what the crime is, but for what he is, a man of color. Then the act becomes stereotype because it is reflected badly on all people of color. On the contrary, if a white man were to commit the same act, he would just be considered a crazy person, because he doesn’t ave the same signifier as the man of color. South Park is exposing this issue, though it is hidden in pity middle school conflict, and it exposes the societal issue. The episode then continues with students that are male exposing their genitalia during the national anthem, in protest. The character Butters is usually shy and avoids conflict, however he is the leader of the boys who are in protest. This to me shows how hate and opposition can make even the pure at heart want to take up arms against the oppressor. Additionally, South Park has reversed the roles of men and women, making the boys of the show oppressed by the women based on the actions of few. When in reality it is the majority of men who oppress women by judging them based on the means of their sexuality and their physical attributes. This is a prime example of the shows deconstructive nature.
Here is a link to the entire episode: http://southpark.cc.com/full-episodes/s20e04-wieners-out
South Park is also a critique on the postmodern society we live in. The show essentially defines its characters by the metanarratives they posses. That notion parallels how the members of a society define themselves and judge others based on these subscriptions. For example, the character Chef, one of the few black characters on the show, is overtly involved in classic African-American culture preconceptions, such as his ability to sing soul music and discuss the power of love with the children. Also, a priest makes a few appearances on the show and its almost always during a mass. The priest says something ridiculous and untraditional, yet all the people of the church take his words with reverence and respect. The one black child’s name is literally Token.
In addition, South Park mocks the American Society for being hopelessly commercial. South Park is the definition of an, “anything goes culture, a culture of slackening, where taste is irrelevant, and money is the only sign of value” (Storey, 196). The character Kenny represents the lower class of society. Kenny is purely the object of neglect. The viewer can never understand what he is saying and he dies in every episode and yet no one seems to care. Often his dead body lays and rats surround it and then the episode ends. Kenny represents the absence of wealth and what it means to social status to be as such. Yet all the children and adults desire the same material goods commercialized. Representing the lack of separation between what is perceived as art, and what is art.
Kenny’s Multiple Deaths:
youtube
South Park is a show that I would recommend to a friend, because it brings all of the issues of society into reconsideration. I forces the viewer to see the horrors of racism, sexism and gender binary, in a comedic environment. Though there is no comedy when having real life discussions about these issues, It makes the topic easier to cope with. However, before recommending I would explain the critical thinking elements involved in watching the show. Without understanding them, the viewer can either further their hierarchic misrepresentation of society, or view society pessimistically as hopeless and too far from revival.
If you are a frequent viewer of the show, I would enjoy hearing your interpretations of the show, before and after reading this blog. Did/Do you view the show as a exploitation of the ridiculousness of society, or as a comedy cartoon show with no other purpose than to exist as such?
Reference:
Storey, J. (2015).
Cultural theory and popular culture.
Harlow: PearPrentice Hall.
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