To my Beautiful Vanessa,
Until the day I finally get over you, I'm going to use this as an outlet to pour out these emotions that no longer have a recipient.
You broke up with me. That was your choice and I'm abiding by your wishes. I'm staying away. Yet... why do I still see hints that you want to talk to me? I'm confused. Isn't this what you wanted? More confusing still is that you have the avenue to reach out to me but you're not. Is it your pride? Are you afraid I'm not going to accommodate you?
Admittedly, I'm still hurt by what you did. Try though I might, it would be hard not to bring it up if and when we talk. I've seen you write quotes about apologies and wanting to turn back time to do it all over again... yet I can't assume those are for me... although I do feel they are.
If you do reach out, you at least have to face the consequence that I will question you. I will ask what you're sorry about and if you truly understand your mistake. Otherwise, it's all futile. You'd have learned nothing and will most likely do it again. I'm forgiving. But I'm not dumb.
I have also learned from you. If ever we do get back together, I will do my damndest to never do to you what you did to me. I won't hurt you the way you hurt me. Love doesn't work that way. Love isn't about revenge. If ever we do get back together, I will be grateful. But that will be a miracle. And most likely Fate neither of us can escape.
When we were still together, I've always been grateful. I would wake up with you in mind, spend the day with you in mind and end it the same way. It's you and has always been. I was constantly at a high. In love. Inspired. When things don't go my way, all I have to do is think of you, know that I have you in my life and that balances out the negativities. I was too happy I feared the day I was going to lose you.
But lose you I did. And now I'm at a loss. But it wasn't even my fault. You wanted this and I simply agreed. Are you happy? One of us ought to be. Because it would suck big time if we both chose this and neither of us are satisfied with the outcome.
If you want to talk to me, I'm an email away. Share with me your thoughts. My time and my heart has always been, and still is, yours.

The pain was the worst thing`Dominick Mason had ever known…and he knew what it felt like to die. It felt like his brain was in a blender, being chopped to liquid for a Jeffery Dahmer smoothie and though it seemed melodramatic, he imagined he could feel himself losing brain cells by the minute. The sun, Merrick told him, would not burn him, but it would decay him faster, so sleep or rest during the day. With the sick, throbbing agony in the center of his brain, however, that was impossible. He spent most of the day curled up on his side, hugging his knees, and moaning. He had flashbacks to dying in his apartment, and that made things even worse. The room became too small, too close, the air too stale. His heart, filled with the blood of last night’s meal, pounded in his chest, and he went from slightly chilly to hot and feverish as blood was forced through his circulatory system. It mixed with the embalming fluid and left him feeling full and constipated. He didn’t want to get up, but he also didn’t want to go on lying there. He was the definition of miserable.
Before long, the pain became too great and he got up to pace, pressing his hands to the sides of his head and gritting his teeth. Merrick, who slept very little if at all, sat in his chair and watched, trying his best to talk him through it. “It’ll be over soon,” Merrick said. “The pain receptors in your brain are the first to go. When they burn out, you won’t feel anything.”
“When?” Dom asked, his voice raising with the tide of pain.
“A couple days?”
“A couple days???”
“The pain will lessen gradually,” Merrick said, “this is the worst of it.”
Dom believed that this was, indeed, the worst of it, but he doubted it would lessen gradually. For the rest of the day, the pain got worse and worse until every light blinded him, every sound turned his stomach, and the smell of anything made his gorge rise. The cloying smell of the embalming fluid, the light but unmistakable odor of dead flesh, and the scent of stale blood sitting in decomposing stomachs made him want to vomit, but he was afraid to. He didn’t think he could handle the sight of blood rushing from his mouth and splattering the floor. He still possessed enough of his facilities, he believed, to go insane.
Pain has a way of darkening one’s mood, and by the time the sun began to set, Dom was in the most sour mood possible. Even Merrick’s calm, fatherly voice was beginning to get on his nerves. When he took the oath to him the day before (or was it the day before that?), he turned his faith and trust over to Merrick entirely. He was finally accepted, included, finally had the love and fellowship that, in the pit of his soul, he had always wanted. Merrick understood him, Merrick was kind to him.
But deep down, Dom realized that he didn’t fully trust him. He said that his brain didn’t rot because he was “lucky.” That sounded like some bullshit to Dom. Why wasn’t Joe a blithering idiot too? Was he lucky as well? Did lightning strike in the same place twice? In life, people had done nothing but hurt and lie to Dom. Why would death be any different? He thought back to the strange liquid that always seemed to leak from Merrick’s nose, and Joe’s. He thought it was embalming fluid, but it never leaked from his own nose, or from anyone else’s. He tried to tell himself that it was far too soon to judge, but once he began to doubt something, his mind raced away. He felt a twinge of guilt, as Merrick had done absolutely nothing to deserve his doubt, but goddamn it, his head was on fire and he wanted it to stop. Anything to make it stop.
Just after sundown, the music began as Club Vlad opened for the night. It throbbed in the center of Dom’s head and made him want to claw his eyes out. When it became too much for him, he slipped away and stumbled into the sultry summer night. He came out in the alley running behind the club, clutching his head and breathing through bared teeth. He staggered, bumped into a metal trash can, and roared at the top of his lungs, as if he could purge himself of the pain by screaming.. His voice echoed and came back to him, making the pain worse.
Merrick was lying. He knew it. People always lied to him. His brain was rotting and PEOPLE WERE LYING! Flashing with anger, he slammed his fist into the brick wall of a Chinese restaurant. He barely felt anything so he did it again and again until his hand was lumpy and shaking. He sat heavily on the ground and pressed his hands to his head. It felt like maggots were burrowing into his brain, and he was suddenly terrified that they really were. He needed to stop this awful pain, but how?
An idea came to him.
The funeral home.
Maybe there was something there.
He was on his feet and lumbering there before the thought had even finished reverberating through his mind. It was a long shot, but he was desperate. On the way there, he stuck to the shadows, staying out of the light cast by the streetlamps and avoiding people. When he passed them, he kept his head down. When he reached the funeral home, he went to the back door where he and Jessie had gone the other day. He tried it, and it opened.
Inside, he bounced off the walls like a pinball, knocking over an end table and tearing at the flesh of his head, pulling it away in long, gray strips. He panted like a wild animal, his body a raging tempest of emotions. It was reaching a crescendo, he thought, his brain was about to go supernova. The world dimmed, things got really echoy. The young man he’d picked the embalming fluid up from was there, looking scared.
Flashing, Dom grabbed him by his shirt and slammed him against the wall, knocking a painting of a flowery field to the carpet. Everything seemed to go in slow mo. “How does Merrick keep his brain from rotting?” Dom heard himself demanding from far away. “How does he keep the pain away?”
The man trembled. “I-I-”
Dom slammed him again. “Tell me or I’ll make you like me.”
“No!” the man wailed. He shook his head from side to side, his eyes wet with fear.
“How?”
“He-He uses a solution,” the man stammered. “Some kind of special thing. It preserves his brain. That’s all I know.”
An idea occurred to Dom.
Holding the man by the back of his neck, Dom dragged him into the embalming room and pushed him against the table. His head felt like it was swelling. Hot, screaming, getting ready to explode. He looked around, found the embalming machine, and grabbed the hose. There was a sharp tip on it so that you could jam it into a body. He held it in his hand, hesitating for just a moment before pressing it to his temple. The man watched in horror as Dom slowly shoved the tip into his head. It tore his flesh, broke through his skull, and sank into his brain. He felt no pain, only pressure, but cried out anyway. His eyes rolled up into his head and a shudder went through his body.
“Turn it on!” he yelled.
“That’s not what he -”
“TURN IT ON!”
Starting, the man turned the machine on. Cold embalming fluid squirted directly into Dom’s brain. Almost at once, the pain began to ebb away, replaced only by a fuzzy sense of numbness. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, looking for all the world like an addict taking a hit of his favorite substance after a long and trying day. Fluid leaked from his nose, ears, and eyes and dripped down the back of his throat.
The man waited for a long time, then turned the machine off.
The pain was gone.
At least for now.
“Tell me again,” Dom said.
The man did. Merrick used a special preserving agent to keep his brain intact. Joe, the man suspected, got it as well. So Merrick had lied to him.
Dom felt betrayed.
And angry.
Leaving the man (Dom realized that he didn’t even know his name), he walked back to Club Vlad, his hands fisted in his pockets. All his life, he had been hurt, lied to, and ignored. All his life, people had done wrong to him. And all those years, he just took it.
He resolved not to be so accepting in death.
At last, he was going to stop being a sniveling little bitch and stand up for himself.
When he reached Club Vlad, he slammed through the back door and took the stairs two at a time. At the top, he called out Merrick’s name. The old man was sitting in his chair, being attended to by Jessie and Matt. He looked startled when Dom came in. “You lied to me,” Dom said, stalking over to his benefactor.
“What are you talking about?” Merrick asked, doing his best to sound innocent.
“You lied to me!” Dom screamed. He bent over and got so close to Merrick’s face that he could have kissed him. “You told me there was no way to save my brain, but that’s not true. You’re pumping your head full of shit and letting the rest of us rot.”
A dark shadow flickered across Merrick’s face. “Watch your tone when you talk to me,” he said. His voice was low, menacing.
“Fuck you,” Dom said. “I should k -”
Suddenly, Dom was being grabbed from behind and yanked back, an arm around his neck. He cried out in alarm as Joe swung him around and slammed him face first into the wall. He heard his nose crunch, felt his teeth shatter. Next, Joe wrestled him to the glitter-sprinkled floor and wedged his knee between his shoulder blades.
Merrick watched with a sneer of disgust, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. He wheeled himself over, Jessie holding his IV stand steady and following behind. “Listen, you son of a bitch,” Merrick said, “you’re lucky to be a part of this family.”
Cold fear filled the pit of Dom’s stomach, yet he wouldn’t back down, couldn’t back down. He had lived his entire life like a mouse in a burrow, he wasn’t about to live his entire death the same way.
“Fuck your family,” he said defiantly. “And fuck you.”
Merrick’s face darkened and he sat back in his chair. He looked at Jessie and nodded. She went away and came back a moment later holding something in her hand. Dom’s eyes widened when he saw what it was.
A wooden stake, one end honed to a razor point.
Why they had one of those lying around, Dom didn’t know; it’d be like Superman keeping a piece of kryptonite on the mantle over the fireplace. Merrick directed Max and Matt to hold Dom’s arms down/ Joe pivoted, kneeling on his head now so that Dom’s back was exposed. Dom’s heart slammed with terror and tremors raced through his body.
“Is this what you want, Dominick?” Merrick asked. “To die? To truly die?”
Dom swallowed hard. No, it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to live, to love, to have a family one day. He wanted a happy, normal life, the life TV and social media had been promising him since he was a little boy.
But all of that went out the window the night he died in his little apartment. There was no life anymore, just a grotesque parody of life. What was there for him other than death? Clinging desperately onto life for decades like Merrick? Stuffing himself full of embalming fluid and moth balls? Grinding for one more minute just so he could sit hooked up to a machine?
Dom spoke.
“What?” Merrick asked, not having heard.
Dom licked his lips. “Just fucking do it.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Expectation hung in the air. Finally, breaking the tension, Merrick nodded to Jessie. Kneeling down, she brought the stake up, and Dom closed his eyes.
This was it.
He braced himself for death.
Jessie brought the stake down just as a shot rang out, deafening in the small space. Her head whipped back, embalming fluid, skull fragments, and gray, sickly pieces of brain showering from the back of her head. She flopped back and landed on the floor with a sickening thud.
A woman cop, her black uniform in stark contrast to the burning white light, stood in the doorway to the hall, her gun drawn. Everyone did, indeed, freeze, more out of surprise than respect for authority. They all looked at her, their dead mouths agape, resembling children who’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Everyone on the ground!” she barked.
No one knew what to do. They hadn’t expected to be raided by the police so had not prepared. She jerked her gun and everyone instinctively flinched. “On the ground!” she repeated. To Max: “You too, bone boy.”
The first one to react was Joe. He sprang at her like a big, undead frog. She brought the gun around and fired, but he was already crashing into her. The shot went wild and struck the IV bag next to Merrick; he ducked and let out a sound of fear. The others rushed her, and Dom got quickly to his feet. Jessie lay on the floor, her mouth open in a silent scream and her bony fingers frantically examining the ragged hole in the center of her forehead. For a moment, he was frozen; everything was happening too fast. Then, when Merrick saw him and cried, “Stop him!, he came alive. Jessie tried to grab at his leg, but he kicked her hand away and stomped on it like it was a giant spider. On the other side of the room, Matt, Joe, and Max had forced the cop to the ground. Perhaps excited by all the action, perhaps just hungry, they began to tear her apart. She howled in pain, and the last thing Dom saw before he fled was her open, blood-filled mouth. Her eyes were filled with pain…with terror.
After that, Dom ran.
***
When the interloper was dead, Merrick directed Joe and Matt to dispose of the body. “Get rid of it,” he said wearily and rubbed his temples, “make sure it isn’t found.”
They rolled her into a carpet from the office, and the way her feet stuck out may have been comical under other circumstances.
Goddamn it, this was bad. Merrick’s entire philosophy rested on avoiding detection. He had done well in that regard. Whereas other vampires had attacked their villages and gotten themselves dug from the ground and staked, he had made it four decades. He never shat where he ate, and there is no bigger turd than killing a cop. They might dawdle on all the boys who’d gone missing - taken because their blood was stronger and more robust than the blood of girls - but they would not take a cop dying lightly at all.
Merrick owned various businesses around the country. He and the others would simply move on. Tomorrow night, they would disappear into the night. They had done it before and they would likely do it again. Once things were settled at their new base of operations, he would have Joe killed for all the trouble he’d caused.
And Dom?
Let him go.
The little rat wouldn’t last a month on his own.
“Jessie?”
Jessie sat against the wall, gazing into space.
“Jessi…start packing. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
She didn’t move, didn’t seem to hear. The shot had all but lobotomized her.
Damn it.
Joe backed the van up to the back door of Club Vlad, and then helped Matt carry the carpet-rolled body down the stairs. They loaded it in and closed the back doors. Together, they drove around looking for a place to dump it. Merrick wanted it to go unfound, but Joe doubted there was anywhere isolated enough in the city. On a whim, he drove to Washington Park, a vast expanse of green trees and shadows. There was a large pond there. It seemed the best option. They were leaving tomorrow anyway, so did it really matter?
Joe backed the van to a railing overlooking the dark water and put it in park. He and Matt got out, fetched the body, and carried it to the railing. They lifted and heaved it over. It splashed. Thus, they rid themselves of Vanessa Rodregiez.
***
Bruce sat anxiously up in his easy chair and waited for his cell to ring.
Parked in front of the TV by warm lamplight, a beer wedged between his legs, he’d been watching the 11’o’clock news when the phone rang. He picked it up and it was Vanessa. “Hey,” she said, “I think I found our body?”
“Which one?” Bruce asked and took a drink. “We have a lot of those these days.”
“Dominick Mason.”
Bruce sat forward in his chair. “Dead Dom? Where?”
“He just came out of a funeral home, ironically enough.”
“That sounds about right,” Bruce said. “Where are you now?”
“I’m following him east on Central.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” Bruce asked.
“I think so, but I’m not sure. I’ll call you back when I’m done.”
Bruce sat the phone aside and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
At some point, he fell asleep sitting up, his head lulled to one side and his mouth open. He snorted himself awake, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. He checked his phone and was perturbed to see that it was past 2am.
Vanessa hadn’t called.
He dialed her number and let the phone ring until it went to voicemail. Sighing, he ended the call, then waited a few minutes and called again.
Still no answer.
It was possible she had forgotten. Maybe the guy turned out to not be Dead Dom after all. She followed some random guy around, realized it, and that was that. Hell, she was probably too embarrassed to call and tell him about it.
Something told him that wasn’t right, however.
There was something else going on here.
Something…darker.
Just before 3am, his phone rang. He snatched it off the end table next to the chair and answered it. It was Burt, the night sargent. “Rodriguez is missing,” he said simply.
Bruce’s heart sank. “Missing?”
“Yeah, she hasn’t checked in for hours and she isn’t answering calls.”
“I’m on my way,”
Bruce tore through the house, pulling on his uniform, socks, and shoes in less time than it took a Daytona 500 pit crew to service a car. In ten minutes he was speeding down 787, the Albany skyline rising in the distance. As he hurried to the station, he thought back to his last conversation with Vanessa. She’d found Dom the Dead Man, the “corpse” who’d scared Ed Harris out of a 20 year career. Despite all their talk about vampires and the living dead, Bruce didn’t believe it, not really. Even so, he was sure that Dominick Mason had done something to Vanessa.
He checked in at the station before doing anything else. They had triangulated Vanessa’s last known location via cell towers. Cops were already out searching the streets for her. Bruce went out as well, intending to start from her last known position and work his way east on Central. The closest funeral home was Tebbutt and Frederick on Central. There was also Lasak & Gigliotti on North Allen Street. Bruce didn’t know which one Vanessa had seen Dom come out of, so he checked both.
Both were deserted at this hour.
Undeterred, Bruce drove up and down Central Ave. At one point, he noticed a shape in an alleyway that looked human. He hit the brakes, jumped out, and pointed his gun at it. “Freeze!”
An old wino stepped out of the darkness. “Alright, you got me,” he said, hands up. “I started COVID. It was an accident, I swear.”
Bruce sighed and put his gun away.
For two more hours, Bruce searched the streets of Albany for Vanessa. At 4am, he spotted a squad car abandoned in the rear parking lot of an abandoned gas station on lower Lark Street. He called it in and the desk sergeant confirmed that it was the one Vanessa had signed out that night.
Still there was no sign of Vanessa herself.
Just after dawn, as the city came alive and CDTA buses began lumbering up and down the streets, Bruce got a call on his cell. “A jogger found a body in Washington Park.”
Bruce was in his personal car. He had no bubble light, no siren. Even so, he sped through the streets like he did, blowing through red lights and stop signs with little care to himself or anyone else. When he got to Washington Park, he found an army cops by the pond, the scene cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. He slammed on the brakes, threw open the door, and jumped out without even turning off the engine.
The body was rolled up in a carpet and lying on the bank. Two beat cops unrolled it at Bruce’s direction. “We should wait for -” one of them started, but Bruce cut him off.
“Do it.”
They compiled, and at the carpet’s center, like a rotten cream filling, was the body of Vanessa Rodregiuez. Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes wide and staring. Her throat had been mangled and ripped away, her head nearly severed. Even in the black and red mess, Bruce could make out the teeth marks and puncture wounds. They may have looked like something else to anyone else who saw them, but he knew, in that moment, what they were dealing with.
A sharp pang of horror sliced through him, and his knees went weak.
“Jesus Christ,” one of the beat cops drew.
Bruce fell to, rather than knelt on, one knee. He bent over the body, a mixture of horror and grief welling his throat. He wanted to reach out, to comfort her in death, but he stayed his hand. Instead, he visually examined the body. She had bruises on her face, defensive wounds on her hands, and her gun was gone. Whoever had attacked her, she put up a fight.
Something glinted on her pants.
“What’s that?” one of the cops asked.
“I dunno,” the other replied, “but it’s all over the carpet.”
Indeed, there were glinty little specks all over it, winking like mocking eyes. Nice work, eh? We really fucked her up, didn’t we? Wink wink.
“It looks like…”
The other cop cut him off. “Glitter.”
Bruce flashed back to his visit to Club Vlad the other day.
There had been glitter everywhere.
Bruce stood up.
He had work to do.
***
Instead of going back to the station to start his shift, Bruce went to Lowes. There, he bought a mallet, a gas can, and a dozen sticks of wood. An employee in a blue vest used a machine to sharpen them to a wicked point and he took his purchases to the car. Next, he drove over to the Mobil station and filled the gas can. He was so hellbent on revenge that he sprang for premium, the good stuff. No expense shall be spared.
His final stop was at a Catholic church. He filled a canteen with holy water from the marble font by the door, then swiped a crucifix from the wall. He stopped by the station, went inside, and grabbed a black duffle bag with POLICE written across the front in yellow. He opened the gun cabinet in his office, took out a shotgun, and loaded it with shells. He grabbed a handful from the box and stuffed them into his pocket.
He was just finishing up when Bertha came in. “There you are,” she spat, “I’ve waited long enough for you to do something. I demand -”
Bruce shoved the duffle bag into her arms. “Make yourself useful.”
“What?” she demanded.
“We’re going to get your granddaughter,” Bruice lied. Kind of.
Bertha’s demeanor changed. “Good. It’s about time. I was starting to think you were a complete incompetent.”
Bruce didn’t answer. Outside, he plucked the bag out of Bertha’s hands and tossed it into the backseat. He slipped behind the wheel and Bertha sat in the passenger seat. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Club Vlad,” Bruce said and started the engine.
“I want all of them arrested.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bruce said.
She barked orders the entire way there. Bruce was so deep in his thoughts that he barely heard her. The image of Vanessa’s ruined throat and terror-twisted face haunted him, and he felt a lump forming in his throat. Hot tears filled his eyes but he blinked them back and forced himself to calm down.
I’ll cry when I’m done killing, he thought.
A few minutes later, he pulled to the curb in front of Club Vlad. It was a hot and sunny day and the place seemed even more ominous because of it. The windows were black, the front cast in perpetual shadows by the old marquee from when it used to be a theater. The place was surely closed, but Bruce could hear music still playing from inside, some techno dance bullshit. “Alright,” he said, “let’s go.”
Getting out, he slung the dufflebag over his shoulder and carried the shotgun, the canteen full of holy water clasped to his belt. Bertha carried the gas can, looking confused. “Why do we need this?” she asked.
“We’re burning the place down.”
Bertha blinked in surprise…then an evil grin carved across her face. “That’ll show the bastards.”
Unlike last time, the door was locked. Bruce used the butt of the shotgun to break the glass, then reached inside and unlocked the door, being careful not to cut himself. This was the point of no return. What he had in mind would probably get him kicked off the force or even thrown in jail - and we all know how tough jail can be for a former barnaclehead. The memory of Vanessa’s contorted face pushed him on, however.
He’d suffer any consequences he needed to just so long as he got the sons of bitches who did this to her.
Inside, the club was cool and cave-like. Strobe lights flashed, on and off, black and white, dazzling Bruce’s eyes. The bartender was at his station, cleaning up from the night before. When he saw Bruce and Bertha come in, he started. Bruce pointed the shotgun at him. “Don’t fucking move,” he commanded.
The bartender hesitated, then reached for something under the bar.
The shotgun kicked in Bruce’s hands, and the bartender flew back, turning as he crashed into the barback. Bottles, glasses, and mugs crashed to the floor along with the bartender. Bruce racked the gun, and the shell flew out. He moved low and fast now, expecting to be swarmed by vampires, living thugs who worked for vampires, or vampire thugs who worked for themselves.
Though the shot had been like thunder, no one came.
Bruce had no idea where to go, but he imagined that vampires were naturally gravitate to the lowest part of the building. Was there a basement? Shit, he should have looked up the building plans at city hall. Damn, this is what happens when you go off half-cocked. He searched around a bit, opening doors and sweeping the rooms beyond with the shotgun. He found no basement, only stairs leading up. “Stay close,” he said to Bertha.
In the lead, Bruce crept up the stairs, the flashlight on the shotgun providing a cone of clean, white light. At the top of the stairs, he went right, and came to an office and a store room. Backtracking, and bumping into a bungling Bertha, he went into the next room. It was large and open with a vaulted ceiling, almost like a ballroom. Here the same strobe lights throbbed on and off, making him dizzy. Was this to dazzle prospective vampire hunters?
Either way, this was the place. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, some curled up on their sides and others in the classic vampire pose: Flat on their backs with their hands laced over their chests. In the center, like the sun to the planets, Merrick Garvis lay slumped back in his wheelchair, his neck exposed for any potential assassin to come and cut. Not that it would kill him. At least Bruce didn’t think it would.
“They’re all dead,” Bertha whispered. She looked around and gasped. “There’s Jessie.”
Jessie lay on her back, her hands folded on her chest. She had a ragged bullet hole in the center of her forehead. “Oh, God,” Bertha wavered, “someone shot her.”
He hoped it was Vanessa. And he hoped it fucking hurt.
Looking around, Bruce couldn’t find Dominick Mason. Was he the one who killed Vanessa? Was it a group effort? He wanted the little son of a bitch bad, but it looked like he’d have to go on without him. They didn’t have much time.
Unshouldering the duffle bag, he knelt down and rummaged around. “Start splashing that gas on the bodies,” he said.
“But -”
“Just do it,” he snapped.
There must have been a harder edge in his voice than normal, because Bertha jumped and did as she was told. She upended the can and began to splash gasoline onto the sleeping forms, the smell of it acrid and strong.
Taking out a stake and the mallet, Bruce went over to Merrick and knelt down. He gripped the stake in one hand and placed it firmly against Merrick’s chest. He brought the mallet up and hesitated, the gravity of what he was doing finally reaching him. What if he was wrong? What if -
Merrick’s head whipped up and their eyes locked.
Too late.
Bruce brought the mallet down as hard as he could. The stake drove deep into Merrick’s heart, and the vampire let out a howling screech that rang through the chamber like the cry of a banshee. His bony fingers clawed at the stake and his head whipped from side to side, his back arching and his robe coming open. In the quick strobe pattern, Bruce was shocked to see that his body was little more than a wood frame, chicken wire, and cotton balls. His blacked heart was hidden behind a screen of mesh that the stake had easily torn through. It throbbed, seemingly in time with the strobe lights, and Merrick let out another wail.
Bertha screamed, and Bruce jumped to his feet.
The vampires, drawn by their master’s cries of distress, were rising to their feet. Two, four, six of them, pale and ethereal like ghosts in a gothic mansion. They came toward Merrick, and Bruice fell back a step. The old man had gone still and lay slumped to one side, his eyes open and his mouth slack, embalming fluid leaking from the corner of his lips. Jessie bent over him and touched his face. Though she moved like a zombie, with no human emotion, Bruce was crazily sure that it was a touch of tenderness and love. Merrick didn’t stir.
He was dead.
Jessie looked at him. Yellow liquid leaked from her eyes like tears. Instead of attacking him, she turned on her grandmother and slammed her against the wall. Bertha screamed and dropped the can. It landed on its side, its contents sloshing out onto the floor. A man that resembled the pictures Bruce had seen of Joe Rossi only deader rushed him, slamming into him and knocking the shotgun aside. It hit the floor and skidded away. Joe grabbed Bruce around the throat and squeezed. Still the lights flashed, off and on, off and on. The walls thrummed with the mechanized beat of dance music, pierced only by Bertha’s screams as Jessie ripped out her throat.
Joe leaned in, his fangs wicked and glowing in the light. Bruce clawed at the monster’s face, tearing away strips of dead flesh. Joe turned his head to the side, and Bruce kneed him in the groin. Even dead, getting kicked in the balls hurt like hell, apparently. Joe’s grip loosened and Bruce was able to shove him off. Bruce unclasped the canteen and frantically screwed the cap off as Joe recovered. Joe sprang at him again, and Bruce splashed him in the face.
A sound like sizzling meat filled the air, and Joe screamed at the top of his lungs. He pressed his hands to his face and danced around the room, his skin liquifying and oozing between his fingers. The others were coming now, led by a terrible skeletal thing. Bruce scooped the shotgun off the floor, brought it around, and fired. The blast hit the thing dead center, tearing it literally in half. The top half flew back, an all too human look of surprise on its face, and the bottom half fell over with a wet thud. Another vampire came at, and Bruce slammed it across the face with the butt of the gun. He heard its jaw crack, saw teeth flying.
Bertha lay dead on the floor, Jessie bent over her. The smell of Bertha’s blood attracted the others, who seemed to forget about Bruce, Merrick, and everything else. Joe was on his knees, wailing in pain, and the skeletal thing was pulling itself toward Bertha. A feeding frenzy broke out as vampires fought to get a piece of her the way piglets might fight over their mother’s teat. Bruce watched in a mixture of horror and fascination, but recovered himself. He grabbed the gas can from the floor and dumped the rest of its contents on Merrick’s body, the feeding vampires’ backs, and the floor, using the last of it to make a little trail to the door. He tossed the can aside, bent down, and stuck a match.
A huge, fiery whump filled the room, and fire streaked along the trail. The vampires all went up in a huge ball of flames, and fire shot up Merrick’s body, catching his robe, his hair, and the wooden frame that had kept him semi upright for God knows how long. Letting out inhuman screams, the vampires broke from Bertha’s corpse. One stumbled around, bounced off the wall, and fell; another toddled toward Bruce before falling to its knees. The half skeleton kept drinking from Bertha’s neck even as it burned.
The heat was enormous, baking. Bruce backed away, and the last thing he saw before smoke obscured his vision was Merrick Garvis.
He was literally melting.
***
Dominick Mason tried to go home, but he no longer had a home. All of his worldly possessions sat on the sidewalk in front of his building, discarded coldly as easily. His key didn’t work in his door and there was a FOR RENT sign on it. Why would it be any other way? He was dead. Sooner or later, everyone forgets you when you’re dead, and all the things you held so dear wind up in the trash. It was a hard pill to swallow, but most people aren’t around to see it after they die.
He was.
From his building, he walked east toward Washington Park. In the distance, thick, black smoke billowed into the air, and sirens rose. He barely noticed and wouldn’t have cared even if he did. No more rubbernecking for him. That was for the living.
The pain that had plagued him so the previous day came back, only less this time. Maybe he was imagining it, but it was getting harder to think. Not that he cared, really. What was there to think about anyway? How he had no one to mourn or miss him? How he died and not one single person, except for maybe his mother, cared, or even noticed? How he had done nothing with his life? Even to the women he’d slept with, what was he? Just another dating app hookup. They probably didn’t even remember his name.
Merrick had been right about one thing. Death was easy. It was life that was hard…life that hurt.
With that in mind, Dominick made his way to Washington Park. It was a vast and deep place with many small caves and thickets. Kids played on the playground, their cries of laughter scenting the still air. It had grown cloudy and began to rain. Still, smoke poured into the sky in the direction of Club Vlad. Dom didn’t wish ill on Merrick and the others, didn’t hope it was them burning. He didn’t care anymore. Not about them, not about anyone. For better or worse (and he would argue it was worse), his life was over. His time came days ago, he just missed the boat.
Picking out an isolated little area, Dom sat against a tree with his legs splayed out in front of him. He titled his head back and closed his eyes. Yes, thinking was hard now. His mind felt sluggish, cold. He was thirsty…so, so thirsty, but he ignored it.
Slowly, the bugs found him. Flies buzzed around him and laid their eggs in his skin. Beetles scuttled over him, followed by worms.
Next, it was the birds. They ate out his eyes and nibbled at his blue, bloated skin.
The animals came last.
Their appetites were bigger.
And they left little remaining of poor, outcast Dominick Mason.
***
That night, Bruce sat alone in his little trailer, a bottle of whiskey wedged between his legs and unshed tears in his eyes. He stared at his reflection in the darkened TV set and took long swallows from the bottle. He planned to drink until he forgot or passed out, whichever came first. He tried to not think about Vanessa, but in his addled state, he couldn’t control himself, and began to cry. When that storm passed, like the others before it, he chugged from the bottle.
As distant church bells clanged the hour - midnight - a feeble knock came at the door. Bruce took another drink and it came again. Getting up, he stumbled, nearly fell, and gripped the bottle tightly. He didn’t want to lose one precious drop.
Again, the knock.
“I’m coming,” Bruce slurred. He staggered to the door and fought with the lock. He was dizzy and seeing double.
When he got it, he opened the door.
The bottle dropped from his hand and clanked onto the floor.
Vanessa, clad in a puke green hospital gown, stood on the step, her hands pressed to her chest and a look of anguish on her milk white face. Her head tilted to one side, the wounds on her neck cleaned but open, gaping. Her dark eyes shone with tears. “I’m dead,” she said.
Breaking down in tears, she collapsed against him and they sank to the floor. She was cold and smelled. Bruce wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest anyway. “Shhh, it’s alright,” he said drunkenly. “Hey, it’s alright.
“I’m dead,” she repeated, and her voice broke. “I don’t want to die.”
Bruce held her close, trying to warm her icy skin. He didn’t know what to say, so he cried with her.
“You’re safe now,” he said, “it’s going to be okay.”
“I want blood,” she said and sobbed harder, “I want to hurt people.”
“Shhh,” Bruce said again. “It’s okay.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a utility knife. He flicked the blade across his wrist and searing pain shot up his arm. “Here,” he said and offered her his blood, “drink this.”
He did this without care and without thought. She needed him, and one barnaclehead always backs up another.
Vanessa hesitated, looking from his face to the oozing blood, unsure.
“Go ahead,” he told her.
Vanessa brought his wrist to her mouth.
And began to drink.

Best Wedding Car Rental Delhi: Ride into Forever in Style by Hiremetaxi.com

Congratulations! The wedding bells are about to chime, and every detail is meticulously planned – the dream venue, breathtaking décor, and the perfect ensemble for your big day. But have you considered the grand entrance? Arriving in style sets the tone for the entire celebration, making a lasting impression on your guests and creating those unforgettable wedding photos.
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Your wedding car is more than just transportation – it's the chariot that carries you towards your happily ever after. Here are some key considerations to ensure your chariot rolls in with style:

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The show kind of made the Starks more rustic than they where in the books. House Stark in the novels where not as wealthy as the Lannister's but they where a lot wealthier than the show.
First lets look at what they wear in the books which is nothing like there costumes in the show.
Side note Lord Rickard owned Steel armour and gold spurs.
When Arya is packing to go to Kings Landing she files where chest with silk and Sansa is fond of blue silk.
In Kings Landing Eddard looked nothing like what he did in the show, he always wore what he called his council silk. Ned also commissions a new uniform for his guards. Long cloaks of heavy grey wool decorated with white satin borders. Their cloaks are pinned with hands of beaten silver representing there Lords office as hand of the King. When he was on the Iron Throne Ned wore a white double embosomed with a grey dire wolf.
In Winterfell at the feast welcoming the King and Royal Family they all dressed grandly, including Benjen Stark. There are high born brothers in the Nights Witch from the north and south and I have never seen one dressed as well as Benjen at that feast, not even Lord Commander Mormont himself. He wears rich black velvet high black leather boots. His wide belt has a silver buckle and very heavy silver chain.
When Bran is attacked by Wildlings he is attacked for what he is wearing and he is second legitimate son and he is wearing a wolfs head broch of silver and jet. Jet is a gemstone and this is not a formal event this is just outriding in the woods.
Jon wears fine blacks and mole skin gloves which would not be cheap. At Winterfell harvest feast Bran is dressed quote, as befits a Prince and Robb wears a bronze crown and Catelyn describes her sons royal Kingly attire as quote magnificent.
Also Theon Greyjoy dressed very well when he was living with Stark in silk and Gold and Balon fears the Starks have made him soft. I doubt Greyjoy money was funding Theon's extravagant lifestyle. When he takes Winterfell he crowns himself Prince of Winterfell and orders and orders a new crown forged with black diamonds and chunks of gold. Where did he get the gold and diamonds if not from Winterfell's plundered treasury. And before Winterfell Bran and Luwin gave the Manderley's gold and build a royal fleet and mint coins.
At the Winterfell harvest feast
Now lets look at Winterfell it is much bigger and much grander than in the show this is a Castle built of granite which is an opulent martial.
Winterfell is a huge castle complex spanning several acres and encircled by two massive granite walls.
Remember the Castle is built over natural hot springs and as the wiki explains.
The water is piped through walls and chambers to heat them, making Winterfell more comfortable than other castles during the harsh northern winters.
Also from the wiki
Inside the walls, the complex is composed of dozens of courtyards and small open spaces. Weapons training and practice take place in those yards. The inner ward is a second, much older open space in the castle where archery practice takes place. It is located next to the broken tower. Inside Winterfell stands the inner castle, which contains the Great Keep and the Great Hall. Winterfell's towers and halls have diamond-shaped window panes.[6]
Inner Castle
The Great Keep is the innermost castle and stronghold of the castle complex. It was built over natural hot springs to keep it warm.[5] The Great Keep contains bedchambers for House Stark[5] as well as the solar of Lord Eddard Stark.[7] The building is connected to the armory by a covered bridge.[8] From a window on the covered bridge, one can see the entire yard.[9] Beneath the Great Keep are cellars with narrow windows.[10]
The Great Hall is used for receiving guests and the place where the household dines together, including the Lord of Winterfell. It is made of grey stone[11] and has wide doors made of oak and iron,[12] which opens to the castle yard, and a rear exit leads to a dimly-lit gallery.[12] Inside it can hold eight long rows of trestle tables, four to each side of the central aisle,[12] and the hall can seat five hundred people.[13] There is a raised platform for noble guests, and the walls are covered with banners.[11] The hall contains the high seat of the old Kings in the North. The seat's cold stone has been polished by the many lords who have sat upon it, and its massive arms are decorated with the carved heads of snarling direwolves.[14][15]
The small sept was built for Lady Catelyn Tully, a southron, by her husband, Lord Eddard.[16]
Courtyard and Other Buildings
The First Keep, a squat and round drum tower, is the oldest surviving part of the castle but is no longer in use. Around it lies a lichyard where the Kings of Winter would bury their loyal servants. The keep has gargoyles atop it.[17][6] Maester Kennet determined it was built after the Andals arrived.[18]
The broken tower, also known as the Burned Tower, was once the tallest watchtower in Winterfell. Over 140 years ago a lightning strike set it afire and the top third collapsed inward, but no one rebuilt it.[19][20] It stands behind the old inner ward. Crows nest atop the broken tower.[19]
The ancient godswood of Winterfell has stood untouched for ten thousand years, with three acres of old packed earth and close-together trees creating a dense canopy, which the castle was built around. At the center of the grove stands an ancient weirwood with a face carved into it, standing over a pool of black water.[16] Across the godswood from the heart tree, beneath the windows of the Guest House, an underground hot spring feeds three small pools, with a moss-covered wall looming above them. The godswood is enclosed by walls, and is accessed by a main iron gate, or smaller wooden ones.
The Glass Gardens[21] is a greenhouse heated by the hot springs, which turn it into a place of moist warmth.[5] It is used to grow fruits, vegetables, and flowers.[9][22] The garden has green and yellow glass panes[10] locked in frames.[8]
The crypt of Winterfell, located near the First Keep, is where members of House Stark are buried. The underground crypts are long and narrow, with pillars moving two by two along its length. Between pillars stand the sepulchers of the Starks of Winterfell, the likenesses of the dead seated on thrones, with iron swords set before them to keep the restless spirits from wandering, and snarling direwolves at their feet. The crypts are deep under the earth, cavernous and bigger than the complex above ground. They are accessed by a twisting stone stair and a huge ironwood door that lies at a slant to the floor. The stair continues below to older levels where the most ancient Kings in the North are entombed.[23][17][10]
The Bell Tower is connected to the rookery by a bridge. The bridge is covered and runs from the fourth floor of the tower to the second floor of the rookery.[6][8]
The maester's turret is below the rookery.[24]
The Library Tower houses the library at Winterfell. A stonework staircase winds about its exterior.[8]
The Guards Hall is in line with the Bell Tower, and further back, the First Keep.[6]
Winterfell has undercrofts and cellars.[25] The castle also has dungeons,[25] including tower cells.[26]
Walls
Winterfell is a huge castle complex spanning several acres, defended by two massive walls of grey granite with a wide moat between them.[4] The outer wall is eighty feet high, while the inner is one hundred feet high.[4] There are guard turrets on the outer wall and more than thirty watch turrets on the crenelated inner walls.
The great main gates[7] have a gatehouse made of two huge crenelated bulwarks which flank the arched gate[8] and a drawbridge that opens into the market square of the winter town.[27][28]
There is a narrow tunnel inside of the inner wall stretching halfway around the castle, allowing travel from the south gate all the way to the north gate without interruption.[19]

• The Hunter's Gate is close to the kennels and the kitchens. It opens directly onto open fields and the wolfswood, so people can come and go without having to cross through the winter town. It is favored by hunting parties.[4]
• The East Gate[10] or east gate[29] leads to the kingsroad.[10] The Kingsroad Gate[7] may be another name for the same gate.
• The Battlements Gate is a small arched postern in the inner wall. It crosses the moat between the walls but does not have a passageway through the outer wall.[7]^#

When Jon Snow becomes Lord Commander of the Nights Watch he considers building a glass building but thinks it will be costly and for such fine glass he would need to look Myr and by the freedom of a few glass makers.
We know Sansa loves lemon cakes and lemon trees do not grow naturally in the north importing lemon seeds to Winterfell from the reach or Doren would not be cheap. My guess would be the seeds came form Doren as one need only sail up the narrow sea than the up the White Knife.
Finally Maester Luwin has his own turret and mentions having servents of his own. The Starks top servants have servants
Not as wealthy as the Lannister but it clear Ned and Robb after him where unlike in the show 2 of the wealthiest man in the world.

Cigarettes and rebellion have always gone hand-in-hand, and in an age of cigarette packet-sized health warnings, now more than ever, smoking a fag says: 'I do not give a fuck.' But if Brandon Flowers is hoping to strike a seditious pose by sparking up at the start of the interview, it's not going according to plan. The Killers' frontman is on all fours rooting through the junk that carpets the anteroom at the band's rehearsal space. "Has anyone seen my lighter?" he asks, rocking back on his heels. The question hangs in the air while Brandon cocks his head, waiting for an answer like a meerkat listening for a predator. Twenty-five years old and with a delicate bone structure, there's something almost dainty about him. Receiving no response, he returns to his search. "Oh, Jeez," he sighs. "I had it just a minute ago."
It's a scene that emphatically does not suggest a rebel without a cause. The mess isn't helping. The Killers' HQ - an industrial unit sandwiched between a construction supplier and the offices of a housing development just off Dean Martin Drive in West Las Vegas - is ankle-deep in designer clothing. A Dior Homme suit lies crumpled by the door; there's a pile of shoes topped like a sundae by a pair of Marc Jacobs trainers; and anyone wishing to enter the shoebox room the band use as an office must negotiate a mountain of discarded jeans. Many items are identifiable as coming from the wardrobe of Hot Fuss, The Killers' hugely successful 2004 debut album - triple platinum in the UK with two weeks at Number One and five million sold worldwide. Look! There are the shirts, ties and suit jackets they wore when they thrilled Glastonbury 2005 with indie rock anthems Mr Brightside and Somebody Told Me. That was the crowning moment of a two-and-a-half year tour that finally concluded in October of last year. It seems that after playing that final date in Miami, they returned to Vegas and shrugged off their image onto the floor of this bland white box.
Now a fine layer of dust covers the dead clothes. The Killers have no further use for white tuxedos on their second album, Sam's Town. Today, Brandon wears a black polo shirt, black pin-stripe waistcoat, black jeans and black boots. Where there used to be a layer of foundation, there is now a beard - an untrimmed beard at that. Dave Keuning (30, guitar), Mark Stoermer (29, bass) and Ronnie Vannucci (29, drums) all echo Brandon's black ensemble. Ronnie has added Aviator shades and a handlebar moustache for a dash of motorcycle cop, Dave's frizzy bubble of hair gives him a Marc Bolan-ish air, and there's something very teenage about Mark's scuffed Vans.
Short of walking around wearing sandwich boards saying, "Our new record is a bit heavier than the last one," The Killers couldn't hope to communicate that message more effectively. And they have gained some musical girth on Sam's Town. The pop hooks that made Hot Fuss so irresistible survive intact - see the ringing guitar riffs on first single When You Were Young - but there's a newfound punchiness, coupled with an epic sweep. The minor-to-major uplifts on Bones are fabulously dramatic, the coda to Why Do I Keep Counting? thrillingly intense. Comparisons to Bruce Springsteen have been made. If they overstate the case a little, they are at leaset qualitatively accurate. The Killers are back and this time it's serious - they've got the bootlace ties to prove it.
"Hey, it says here that Springsteen's headlining Glastonbury next year," shouts Ronnie, who's flicking through the NME. He nods sagely at the page without looking up.
"Really?" asks Dave, nicknamed Crazy Dave on account of his alledgedly volatile nature.
"The Boss is headlining one night, we're playing second on the bill the next night and Kylie's headlining the Sunday," says Brandon, charging like a bull through Michael Eavis' as-yet-unannounced line-up with what subsequently proves to be a characteristic gaucheness.
But that lighter is proving elusive. This being America, none of the people hurrying to-and-fro prepping the world for the release of Sam's Town smokes. Manager Robert Reynolds - Bobby Rey to the band - barks into his mobile, booking his band onto eye-wateringly demanding tours. "We're going to make a lot of money," he cackles to himself before switching calls to make a series of stern pronouncements on legal matters. Dave, Mark and Ronnie disappear for a jam session. Artwork is approved, B-sides are decided on and schedules are hammered out.
"I can't find it," Brandon says, finally. But he's not going to be denied the opportunity to underline The Killers reinvention with a puff of smoke. "Let's go to the gas station. I'll have to buy one. It's too busy to talk here anyway."
+
Brandon's black (of course) Volkswagen Touraeg four-wheel drive is barrelling down West Flamingo Road into town. "I was a bell boy there," he says, pointing out of the driver's window at the stucco facade of the Gold Coast casino. "I was working there when we were signed."
Coming from Las Vegas, it is perhaps inevitable that casinos play a big part in The Killers' story; not only is Sam's Town named after one, it was recorded in one, too.
The band began writing songs while on the road with Hot Fuss, turning up early for soundchecks to run through new ideas. On a trip home to Vegas, George Maloof, a hotelier known for cultivating famous friends, invited them to record the album in the new studio he'd built at The Palms, his flagship hotel-cum-gambling den. When the tour finished in October 2005, they returned to Vegas and spent five month finessing the songs they'd sketched out on the road. Then, in February, they decampled to the third floor studio at The Palms and recorded Sam's Town over 11 weeks.
Producer Flood (U2, Depeche Mode) encouraged them to experiment. They overdubbed, fiddled with synthesizers and played with new equipment. It took them five weeks to get the backing vocals right. The band sang the harmonies, then double-tracked them four times. The end result recalls Queen wondering, "Is this is the real life? Is this just fantasy?" When Ronnie, a trained classical percussionist, brought some kettledrums down, eyebrows were raised; but the fabulously bombastic coda on Why Do I Keep Counting? vindicates his indulgence.
"That's kind of the Ben Hur of the album," he says. He's not wrong. Sam's Town is a record on an epic scale. "Yeah, it has drama," he continues. "But, at the same time, I think it's a little more exposed than Hot Fuss. It's a little more naked. Last time it was about a lot of fictional things." By "fictional", Ronnie means that Hot Fuss wore its predominantly British influences for all to see. Brandon's taste in music is rabidly Anglophile - he constantly references The Smiths, The Cure and Joy Division - and it showed. By contrast, Sam's Town is an unequivocally American record. The lyrical imagery is pure American dream - cars, girls, wide-open spaces and escaping to a better life. "We're burning down the highway skyline/On the back of a hurricane that started turning/When you were young," sings Brandon on When You Were Young. That's the basis of the Springsteen comparisons then, though the lack of pathos more closely recalls another blue-collar rocker from New Jersey - Jon Bon Jovi.
The phrase "this town" recurs throughout the album, and it's always receding into the distance as The Killers escape to a new life. "This town was made for passing through/I never did get along with everybody else," sings Brandon on This River Is Wild. On Read My Mind he "never really gave up on breaking out of this two-star town", while on the title track he offers something of an explanation: "Nobody ever had a dream round here."
"With the first record, there was this feeling that there was this world out there that we didn't know," says Mark later in the day. Before The Killers, he studied philosophy: now he's their quiet one. "We wanted to get out and away from this and be somewhere else. We hadn't had a lot of experience - hadn't travelled much - then we were gone for three years. We didn't sit down and say that we wanted to make a record about how we're glad to be home, but that's what happened naturally."
It's not an angsty record. The Killers have already escaped with Hot Fuss, and, having done so, they view the experience fondly now they're back. There's a mistiness to Brandon's eyes as he explains how the album got it's name.
"Sam's Town is a casino on the edge of Vegas," he says. "I grew up in Henderson, which is out on the way to the Hoover Dam. My mom and dad lived in a trailer park, and my dad used to hitchhike up and down Boulder Highway, which is the only way you could get to Vegas. Sam's Town was the first thing you saw on your way in to town. So, when you're driving down Boulder Highway from Henderson, I always thought you finally knew you were getting somewhere when you saw Sam's Town. It was kind of like a beacon."
"It's not a completely American album," contines Brandon. "We still have our English influence, but we're also from the Wild West. Somehow we've managed to unify all that on this album. it's just such a perfect resemblence of what we are."
At the petrol station, Brandon rummages through the glove box looking for change to buy a lighter. "This is a great album," he says, pointing at Highway Companion, the latest from iconic American rocker Tom Petty. "I've always been a big fan of his. He's such a great American artist."
Yes, Brandon: we get the point.
+
When Brandon finally lights his cigarette, he smokes it awkwardly, like a child mimicking something he's seen the grown-ups doing. However, when he cheerfully admits that, "I feel the same mentally as I did when I was 12," it's not a knowing nod to the fact that he sometimes behaves like a loveably precocious child, but a reference to an unusually comprehensive grounding in pop music at an early age.
When Brandon sings about "this town", he doesn't mean Las Vegas. He means Nephi, Utah or Henderson, Nevada, where he spent his childhood. His parents are Mormon and he is the youngest of six children. "I was a surprise," he says. "I've got a 42-year-old sister." If he was issues about his "surprise" status, he chooses to gloss over them. "It turned out perfect because my brother was a teenager when I was a kid," he says. "He would bring home things like Rattle And Hum by U2 and I would watch it. I remember he bought Live In Dallas by Morrissey. It was always him watching these things, or his door was shut and you'd hear The Head On The Door by The Cure blasting through the house and rattling the walls."
The Killers were formed when Brandon answered an advert Dave had placed in a local paper in late 2002. Dave cited Oasis as a big influence; Brandon had seen them play recently and responded; and, as Dave has said in previous interviews: "He was the only person to reply to my ad who wasn't a complete freak." However, the band was born in Brandon's brothers bedroom.
"His room was like a shrine," enthuses Brandon. "It was a holy place. I wish I could show you a picture of it. It was covered in posters. There'd be a big picture of Elvis wearing a bow tie that just said 'The Smiths' [the artwork for The Smiths 1987 single Shoplifters Of The World Unite]. You had The Cure wearing face paint [the artwork to The Cure's 1985 single In Between Days] - all that kind of stuff. I remember Morrissey being on the cover of the NME, with the halo [from 1985] - stuff like that. You just wanted to know about these people 'cause they were so cool. My brother seemed like such a cool person. But he was a teenager, so he wasn't going to be that nice to me, a kid."
Brandon was fascinated by his brother's collection of music, magazines and posters, but he was denied access to them - officially, at least. "I would sneak in," he says. "I knew he'd be angry if he found out, but I would go in as soon as he left the house." For a long time Brandon was too scared to actually play anything. "That didn't come 'til later. I just used to go in there because I liked it. Then I got to the point where I'd actually take a tape out and put it in. It took more guts to do that."
It was a life-changing moment. "I was ten and the first song I played was Sing Your Life by Morrissey. I remember dancing about to it."
The lyrics to Sing Your Life include the lines, "Sing your life/Just walk right up to the microphone/And name all the things that you love/All the things that you loathe." It's intriguing to wonder what Morrissey makes of the neophyte he inspired with these lines.
Eventually, Brandon inherited his brother's tape collection. "It was around the same time CDs started coming out in a big way. He started buying CDs and gave me his tapes. And that was it: it took off from there. I got a hundred of the best albums - all the New Order, all the Morrissey, all The Smiths, The Beatles. I started buying posters. I went to see The Cure in concert. It was just kind of a continuation of my brother. And it was nice because, though my parents were strict, they were already used to it from him. There was no, 'My dad doesn't understand me,' or any of that kind of stuff. My mum likes The Smiths."
Brandon was 13 and his favourite band was late-'70s/early-'80s American new wavers The Cars, and particularly their jaw-droppingly catchy 1979 single Just What I Needed.
"I wouldn't exist without that song," he says. "That was the one. I remember driving around with my mum when I was 13, and we're living in Nephi - a really small town - and I felt so cool when I put that song on. Like: 'I have something that none of these kids I'm going to middle school with tomorrow have.' That excitement is what music's about, isn't it? That's why I understand the mentality of people that don't like us because we've sold so many records. I used to like it when no one else knew about a band. So I get that - I do."
+
Brandon's first band was called Blush Response. It was never going to work out. Not because he refused to move to Los Angeles with them, but because he is utterly - comically - shameless. He's given to making outrageously boastful statements like: "It's not like the '60s, '70s and '80s now. There are only a few bands around that are really good, that just do it. I mean, there's what, five or six of us?"
For the record, in Brandon's estimation, those bands are Franz Ferdinand, Razorlight, The Strokes, The White Stripes, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and, of course, The Killers.
"I don't want people to think I'm lumping myself with other people just to make us sound cool," he says. Really? It sort of sounds like you are. But he just steamrolls through it. "Yeah, but you know what I mean," he says, grinning at his own cheekiness. He's so disgracefully forward you can't help but laugh along with him - Oh you are awful, Brandon! But joking aside, The Killers are the most commercially successful of all the bands he mentions.
Later, back at the rehearsal space, the band run through Sam's Town at deafening volume in preparation for the forthcoming tour - first the US, then the world. The infectious, almost contagious, chorus of When You Were Young sounds fabulous, as do the U2-like guitars and Twin Peaks synths of Read My Mind. Meanwhile, Smile Like You Mean It and Somebody Told Me benefit from the newfound harder edge.
They somewhat heavy-handedly underline the new direction by playing Paranoid by Black Sabbath and Get It On by T Rex. That's the thing: The Killers are not a subtle band. Their songs are like a wet kiss from a girl who's a bit too drunk. They are big and brash, and not everyone loves them for it. Mr Brightside and Somebody Told Me might go down as well at hip nightclubs as they do on the festival circuit, but the DJs play them with the same guilty look they wear when playing a pop record.
"I hate that," says Brandon. "Like writing a song you can hum somehow cheapens it? It makes me think of this quote by Morrissey. Everybody knows how he read Oscar Wilde, Keats and Yates when he was growing up and that he wanted to be a writer. He was talking to this journalist who asked why he hadn't become a writer, and Morrissey said: 'What I do is more powerful than what you do because I can write down these words and you get it to a melody. How can you beat that?' I'm of the same opinion. I don't understand why a good melody that's memorable is a bad thing."
Being dismissed as pop particular aggrieves Ronnie. "When we first came out we got compared to Duran Duran all the time. Jesus Christ! We got a keyboard player now all of a sudden he's Nick Rhodes! Come on!"
"The people who criticise us for being too poppy don't get it," agrees Mark. "I think that's the problem with a lot of rock music. People are afraid to write a song any more. Either that or they can't. And that attitude hurts music in general. The best bands ever have all written great songs. You can still do it and do it intelligently and it can be original. This isn't a studio creation with a producer writing these songs for us. We're not Avril Lavigne, or something like that. We're a real band writing real songs, just like a punk band would do, except that we write pop songs."
You get the impression that The Killers knack for showboating pop hooks that border on vulgar is inextricably tied up with the brazen side of Brandon's personality. But while his ebullient charisma, not to mention the songs themselves, mitigates his outrageousness, there is a less attractive side to his ego. He has a combative streak. He can't resist taking pot shots at emo bands, notably Fall Out Boy, whith whom The Killers share an A&R man.
Has he heard how many emo kids it takes to change a light bulb? "No." None. They just sit in the dark and cry. It's a full 30 seconds before he stops laughing. When he does he admits: "Yeah, we've had problems with other bands. You know, when you walk in the room it's like..." He whistles the theme to The Good, The Bad And The Ugly. "We're like gangs."
And while the other members of the band are diplomatic on the subject of Brandon, you don't have to read too deeply between the lines to conclude that there have been internal issues, too.
"Some people will think Brandon's the big genius," says Dave, visibly bridling. "There are songs, such as Why Do I Keep Counting?, where he's written every note. But there are others, like When You Were Young, that were more of a collaboration - like Mr Brightside, where I had some of the music and Brandon came up with the lyrics. We always have arguments about who wrote what. The truth is that we all help in that process."
When asked how success affected them, Ronnie says: "There were certain things that needed adjusting. When you're on tour for two years, people can get a little needy. It doesn't help that you're surrounded by yes men and everybody's working for you. At times we've had to say, 'Who do you think you are?' to people. No one wears the trousers, but some people would like to. I think if it wasn't for the people in the band kicking each other in the ass... Let's just say there was some ass-kickin'."
It doesn't take a genius to work out whose ass needed kicking most often.
+
It's the following day and The Killers are back at their rehearsal space. The topic of discussion is what to wear in the video for Bones, the second single. It's a big deal: the director is Tim Burton. "I feel like Frank Sinatra when I sing it," announces Brandon. "With maybe a little bit of Morrissey and a little bit of Elvis, too."
Of course he does. But if securing the services of Tim Burton tells you one thing, it's that The Killers are about to get even bigger, perhaps even make the leap to the same level as Coldplay et al. Already stars, they are about to become superstars. Brandon can hardly wait.
"Do you know that Rolling Stone didn't want to put us on the cover last time," he says indignantly. "They didn't think we were stars. We sold five million albums! What more do they want from a band?"
Whatever was required, Brandon would be happy to do most things. "I'll do stuff that some people don't want to do, 'cause I want people to hear the music," he says. However, even he has limits. "The Rolling Stone thing made the record label think: 'What can we do to make them stars?' If I go on vacation with my wife, do they have to send somebody to be there to take pictures of me? Is that how you become a star? I don't want that. I walked down the red carpet one time and I realised I don't like it. But you don't have to walk down the red carpet for people to hear your music. We do still have some of that indie blood running through our veins."
He heads off at a tangent: "When you walk around Liverpool, you think of The Beatles, or you go to Manchester and you think of The Smiths or Oasis. I want you to come to Las Vegas and think of Sam's Town. And I think we've started to capture that, which is a truer version of The Killers, 'cause that's where we're from."
He pauses.
"I used to live across the street from Sam's Town. Maybe it'll be like our Abbey Road where people go to take pictures."
Is that what he'd like?
"I wouldn't mind it," he says, desperately hoping it will come true.
He puts a cigarette between his lips, looks down at his trouser pockets and pats them in search of the lighter he bought yesterday.
"Hey, I don't suppose you've got one?"

I’m currently writing a paper on “The Lost Weekend” by Charles Jackson and ever since I started writing I’ve been wanting to quote a specific sentiment from “The Bell Jar” but I sadly can’t remember how exactly it went or where find it in the novel.
From what I remember, she said that “crazy” people have always caught her interest and she’s been preoccupied with their stories for her entire life. I cannot find this quote for the life of me.
Does anyone else here remember? Is it even in the book?? I’d really appreciate your help

I’m (34) a Canadian who was laid off last June, and I’ve been on the job hunt since then. I’ve dabbled in some freelance work here and there, but for all intents and purposes, I’m looking for a permanent, full-time, and (ideally) remote position.
Lately I’ve been having more success with getting interviews, having made it to the second and third round of interviews with some companies. I’m currently in different stages of the interview process for two companies; however, I just received an offer for a remote management position that I applied to last week with a relatively well-known American company.
Rather than immediately being overjoyed, I found myself feeling slightly skeptical for a few reasons: * The pay is considerably more than I’ve made in any other position, which just makes it feel a bit too good to be true. * I only had one interview with one of their hiring staff—not with anyone from the department I’d be working in—rather than the usual 2-3 I’m used to. I also received the job offer in less than a week of applying. * The interviewer asked me relevant questions about my experience in my field, but she didn’t ask about my experience in a managerial role, which I feel like would be important to know. * I looked up my interviewer on LinkedIn, and she doesn’t have her current role listed at the company I interviewed for. I also came across the LinkedIn profile for the hiring manager who initially emailed me, and it states that her current role is as an HR director for a company in an entirely different industry. I know this isn’t necessarily proof of anything nefarious, especially if they’re not necessarily active on the platform, but it does strike me as a little odd.
As a final caveat, I should also mention that the hiring manager did state at the beginning that they’re looking to fill this role urgently, which could speak to why the offer came so quickly.
Should these concerns be setting off alarm bells, or is this normal practice for remote positions with US-based companies? Are there any questions I should be asking to confirm the legitimacy of the offer? What else might a Canadian need to know about this sort of scenario?
Thanks in advance for any insight!
UPDATE Thanks for the helpful comments, everyone. After following through with your suggestions and doing some more digging, I'm fairly certain this was a scam. Here's a bit more evidence in case it's helpful for anyone else in the future: * The original email address had the company name with "-job" appended to it, so it seemed like it might have been legitimate. I analyzed the email header using the Google Toolbox feature and found that it was actually sent from a titan.email address, an email service provider based in India. An IP lookup also revealed that it came from somewhere in Germany. * I asked my friend who's a lawyer to read over the offer letter, and he said that it seemed like it might have been written by AI. He also said their privacy policy wouldn't hold up to any scrunity. * To buy myself a bit more time, I asked the hiring manager if I could be put in touch with both an HR representative and my potential direct report, to which she said "...kindly note that due to the high rate of employee during this current recruiting process we are unable to handle calls until during the workers orientation." * In addition to the errors in the above message, she's also made a few other errors in her correspondence, one of which was excluding the apostrophe in the company's name in her email signature and even swapping around the company name (e.g., Buy Best rather than Best Buy). * I took a quote from the original job ad and looked it up online, and I found the exact job description in an online article for "[My Role] Job Description". * The hiring manager's most recent message was sent at 10:30 pm EST, an unusual time for employees in the US or Canada to be sending work emails unless they're working pretty damn late.
I was really hoping there was a reasonable explanation for all of my doubt because it would have been a great opportunity, but I can't ignore all of these flags. Fortunately I haven't given them any other personal information apart from my name, email address, and phone number, so I'm hoping this is the end of it. It's such a shame that scammers are willing to go through the effort of taking targets through an entire interview process—even having them speak to an actual person on a fake video interview. I know scammers prey on people's vulnerability, desperation, and naivete, so I'm glad to have dodged a bullet, but what a huge waste of time that was.

In a lot of sci-fi, people often dismiss surface defenses, or make them overpowered or ridiculous. And in another direction, orbital bombardment's effectiveness is quite overstated when we look at the history of warfare. In particular for surface defenses though, wet navies at sea get overlooked. Certain writers will fight tooth and nail to keep infantry, tanks, planes, and artillery in a story, even with fleets of starships, then laugh at the idea of a space marine ever setting foot in water. But why? Submarines are naturally stealthy, and theoretically can avoid getting shot from orbit by diving. Yet they'll be dismissed or ignored. A surface vessel has 71% of the globe to maneuver in, potentially more on another planet, and it can carry a large reactor and plenty of weapons of any kind. Yet it is generally taken for granted that all surface vessels would be sunk immediately in any conflict, and are worthless. Other criticisms abound, yet the most common threads are presumption or omission. There is an undercurrent that consistently believes the ability to destroy a planet will make all enemies submit, when that hasn't stopped us since Trinity. I submit that naval vessels are underutilized, and could be more useful than expected, as a mobile source of energy and firepower that's bigger than anything ever put on land, and through their maneuverability have an advantage no stationary installation can match in terms of survivability and strategic deployment.
The arguments generally made against naval vessels are that a wet navy ship can't hide. You can't throw a tarp over it like you can infantry, tanks, or planes. Critics will insist that a seagoing vessel will be instantly lit up, it will be a target that will immediately be destroyed. If a submarine pops up to fire, they'll get nuclear depth charge'd or shot with a laser. Here's a few questions; what's the difference between that and infantry? Why have ground forces at all? Some critics will ask that exact question. In some circles it's presumed that space warfare makes all other kinds of conflict obsolete, or that significant firepower does the same thing. The ability to destroy a planet has done nothing to dissuade us from having conventional war. But that's what we've always said with any new weapon. The Templin Institute video on planetary invasion had a great description of this.
https://youtu.be/XgN5yq362_s
Before WWII, strategic bombing was seen as a game ender. It's effects on breaking the enemy's will to fight is dubious at best. Strategic bombing and nuclear weapons did nothing to end war, or force the enemy to surrender. Even with Hiroshima and Nagasaki, that was a country at its breaking point after fifteen years of near-constant conflict, and five years of a global war. And still, some holdouts tried to stage a coup to prevent the emperor from surrendering.
After WWII, there were those who believed the nuclear age put an end to conventional war. The air force insisted the Navy and Marines were obsolete. This was part of a conflict that would be known as the Revolt of the Admirals. Air Force General Frank A Armstrong was quoted in Nathan Miller's "The US Navy: A History":
"You gentlemen had better understand that the Army Air Force is tired of being a subordinate outfit. It was a predominant force during the war, and it is going to be a predominant force during the peace, and you might as well make up your minds whether you like it or not, and we do not care whether you like it or not. The Army Air Force is going to run the show. You, the Navy, are not going to have anything but a couple of carriers that are ineffective anyway, and they will probably be sunk in the first battle. Now as for the Marines, you know what the Marines are, a small bitched-up army talking Navy lingo. We are going to put those Marines in the Regular Army and make efficient soldiers out of them."
This was accompanied by:
"In the age of atomic warfare, the fast carrier task force was regarded as an anachronism, and such a massive concentration of ships was seen as being more vulnerable to the bomb than any other weapon system...some strategists doubted that the navy would have an important part to play in the future...Admiral Nimitz, then chief of naval operations, pointed out the same thing had been said about the navy when the submarine, the torpedo, and the airplane were introduced. 'While the prophets of naval doom are shouting themselves hoarse, the Navy will be at work to make the changes needed to accommodate American sea power to the new weapons,' he declared..."
They can't think of a war without nuclear weapons. Then the very first war we came across after WWII, Korea, they could not use nuclear weapons at all. Political, economic, or military reasons could all make orbital bombardment less than desirable in certain situations. The situation might prevent it politically. There's limited wars, there's rules of engagement, there's resources you need, there's stuff you want. On the other side of the equation the weapons might not show the results you expect. They might not be accurate, they might be affected by some new flaw, they're just not what you hoped. Or the enemy is more capable than you expect.
Heinlein said in Starship Troopers that "War is not violence and killing, pure and simple; war is controlled violence, for a purpose." Clausewitz once said that "War is a mere continuation of policy by other means". And I say that the ability to destroy a planet is insignificant compared to the power of "why on earth would you do that". If your goal is to conquer a planet, simply glassing it won't get you anything. If you wish to conquer and seize land, you need to send troops. You need someone to hold it and die for it.
So why in the world must this apply to everything but the wet navy? You will see people with big garrisons, you'll see Bolo cybertanks with megaton-per-second firepower, you'll see infantry doing guerilla warfare, you'll even see aircraft. Why is the wet navy seen as so obsolete in sci-fi circles? The largest vehicle ever built in the real world is the ship Seawise Giant, nearly twice the size of the Hindenburg, the largest flying machine ever built, and longer than the largest aircraft carriers ever. This means that a future battleship, carrier, or other vessel could be just as big and carry enormous weapons. Yet still folks insist that because surface ships can't throw a tarp over themselves, that they'll be sitting ducks.
Submarines I've noticed in some circles are a solution. They are small, sneaky, and can use lasers as much as missiles. Others say that they're vulnerable when launching, hence the laser idea. One cool idea I've seen is a boat that extends out big laser arrays on the surface connected by a tether to the sub hiding deep underwater, so that if the laser is shot the submarine is safe beneath the waves. Yet just as often when this idea is proposed, it is claimed that if a submarine pops up, they'll be bombed, insisting that satellites have advanced too far. I don't know enough to speak to that, but there's a lot of ocean. What do you gain by wasting ammo dropping rocks on 71% of the planet just to be sure they don't have a submarine hiding? Wouldn't that be an excellent reason to have submarines, just so the enemy has to waste ships patrolling and not hitting the land targets? That would mean fewer ships to the front line, if the defender has multiple planets, and force the enemy to expend resources.
The arguments eventually circle around to "we can nuke it". First of all, the ocean is big and it is deep. You'd trash the environment, including things you might want to conquer, if you vaporized thousands of square kilometers of sea water to kill a single hundred-meter sub. As I must repeat, the ability to destroy a planet is insignificant compared to the power of "why on earth would you do that?" During the Cold War, despite having the ability to glass the planet, we still built tanks, ships, and artillery, because there are certain kinds of war, certain modes of operation, certain things that don't involve total annihilation, because so often that's not what war is about. If you want to conquer a planet, you have to take it. The Soviets being able to annihilate Washington didn't magically alter the fact that they didn't have the ships to move any troops to hold it.
A submarine is one thing. If that can survive, why not a surface ship? Again, that tarp thing would be the answer. "They're sitting ducks!" One must ask why? During the Cold War, carriers were vulnerable, sure, but we still built them, and they can carry nukes too. And they can do a lot more things than a battleship can, from disaster relief to moving the crew's cars. A surface ship can be stealthy, just not as much as a sub. They can carry larger weapons than a sub, with more power to put through them.
While it's said a surface ship can't hide, neither can a starship, it's sitting up there shedding heat like mad. A surface ship has the whole planet to play with.
http://www.rocketpunk-manifesto.com/2009/06/space-warfare-i-gravity-well.html
One scenario pitched to me recently is a bunch of corvettes and frigates loaded down with missiles and lasers that shoot their wad in the opening salvos like a lot of Cold War plans. But does it have to be that small?
Let me be clear. Current generations of naval vessels likely wouldn't stand a chance. But they create an interesting precedent, because there exist multiple anti-satellite(ASAT) weapon projects that we could extrapolate for use on a surface vessel. We have a ton of projects, from the MIRACL directed-energy weapon, to the ASM-135 air-launched missile, the YAL-1 Airborne Laser(ABL), to the RIM-161 Standard Missile 3(not technically anti-satellite, it's an anti-ballistic missile that has been used in ASAT roles). These are ground-based, air-launched, and sea-based. We also can think about space guns, i.e. weapons used to launch projectiles into space. Project HARP in the 1960s used modified 16-inch naval guns to launch projectiles high into space. They succeeded, and a mass driverailgun would likely be able to get the same performance out of a smaller package. Keep in mind, these weapons don't need to achieve orbit, they just need to hit something in orbit, so they can be much smaller. They were flawed, and less than accurate, but they do exist. So this means that we can speculate on the future of these weapons if they were more mature. And all of these could be mounted on relatively conventional platforms. Size isn't everything, yet a war machine's power isn't in just its armor, but in its ability to deliver offensive power as much as defensive power.
The MIRACL was ground-based, and not mobile; they tried to use it to shoot at a satellite. It didn't work well, they ended up using a smaller less powerful weapon for the job. The YAL-1 ABL was a 747 modified with a weapon of the same output as the MIRACL, only airborne. The ASM-135 was attached to a squadron of unmodified F-15s that would go into supersonic zoom climbs to launch the missiles. The RIM-161 is an anti-ballistic missile mounted on standard AEGIS VLS cells that has successfully intercepted satellites. 16-inch guns have been used on battleships for years. And with newer technologies, you don't need anything that dramatic, or that big. In the 1970s, the US experimented with an eight-inch gun mounted on a destroyer. That project didn't go very far, but it did function, and it means big guns can be mounted on small ships.
So, let me lay it out. F-15s(which people have considered using for aircraft carriers), conventional VLS cells, and cannons have precedent for being able to intercept spacecraft. Modern stealth systems do exist even for surface vessels, they can't hide as well, but they can carry a larger variety of weapons, and more powerful reactors than a sub. This creates precedent that modern destroyers, or something similar, and aircraft carriers, could serve a role in space warfare. As for surviving orbital bombardment? Super-cavitation is a process for reducing drag on a ship or a weapon's hull as it travels through the water. We also have hydrojets, hydrofoils, and other technologies that are deployed or in the works. Increasing the speed of a surface ship could be the difference between life and death for it.
A futuristic carrier group might consist of a carrier, smaller than ours perhaps, equipped with futuristic air-breathing aircraft, protected by destroyers and submarines. These destroyers are armed with energy weapons, missiles, and cannons capable of firing at targets in orbit. The submarines can do the same thing. The carrier can provide air support to land-based units and fire at the enemy in space without having to worry about needing specialized runways or that they might get hit in a first strike. The escorts can shoot at the enemy, provide gunfire support when needed, and light out at a hundred knots to escape the blast of an orbital bomb.
Now, there are certainly challenges. What warrants posting a large force like this on a planet that might not have any fighting? I'm not sure that is easy to answer, though one thought is to ask what's the point of the Kansas National Guard? They're not likely to see any combat anytime soon. On the other hand, navies in our world exist to fight potential threats. Depending on a setting, your colony world might only have one faction there. Having a trained naval force might be very useful for disaster relief and keeping the peace. EDIT: this could be useful to factions who don't have many ships, or are prepared for an eventuality where they are caught with their orbital defenses destroyed or driven away.
There's also reason for water-based Marines, with amphibious assault ships and all the bells and whistles therein; big transports, air cushion landing craft, helicopters, etc. What if the enemy lands across the continent? Or across an ocean? Might you need sea transportation? Imagine if you didn't have surface defenses. You have militia to play guerilla, and orbital defenses, and your colony only settled on one of two continents on the planet. The enemy blows up your orbital defenses, then steals some mining equipment and sets up a whole operation on the other side, eating up your planet's resources, sending them off to the war effort, while you're completely helpless because the biggest boat you have is a yacht. You can't fight back without being bombed, but you can't even fight back without that because you don't have any missiles, lasers, or any other weapons capable of hitting their ships, and more than that, you can't even get your four thousand militia over there to destroy the mine. A futuristic carrier group would make all the difference here, with access to amphibious assault equipment and other gear that can move in one go what could take months by helicopter.
One thing that keeps coming back in this debate is "but they could get bombed, why bother investing in them?" In the Cold War, trillions were invested in technologies they knew would get annihilated in any conflict. That a first strike could wipe out all our bombers and missiles in one stroke. And that is what second strike capability is about, the ability to hit back even if they hit you first. No matter how much you destroyed, no matter how many ships you sank, missiles you found, or bombers you shot, you could never ever be sure the enemy couldn't drop a hundred more nukes on you hidden somewhere. If even a single plane, a single fighter jet, with a single pilot, got through, millions would die. So much of modern warfare is based on the idea that this advanced weapon could easily be wiped out in a master stroke. EDIT: A surface navy could be used in an environment where friendly space vessels have been drawn away or otherwise incapacitated.
I submit that wet naval vessels are underutilized in sci-fi circles and could be more useful than expected even to factions who utilize starships, as a mobile source of energy and firepower that's bigger than anything ever put on land, and demonstrate strategic mobility and survivability their maneuverability have an advantage no stationary installation can match. They can respond to threats all over a planet, and engage with the enemy in space. Like how nuclear weapons didn't end the age of the carrier, I doubt orbital bombardment would put an end to the sea.
Let me know your thoughts, or suggestions you have for using sea vessels in the context of space warfare!

Yesterday in the Daybell trial (day 22) in Idaho, a supervisor from the FBI’s CAST (cellular analysis dept) testified & they brought up a map, matching the description of the map in the Delphi case, and described why they pick a 100m range - even though the data points can be much more specific than that.
This leads me to believe that FBI’s CAST team made the map referred to by Baldwin & Rozzi, showing the phones being tracked around a 100m range.
(The rest of this post incorporates that assumption bc I believe it’s strongly evidenced based on the testimony from the Daybell trial yesterday)
Those in the ‘guilty’ camp like to argue that AT&T “made the map” (nonsense; they provide data & coverage maps, not tracking maps to aid in prosecutions, unless subpoenaed to do so, which wouldn’t be done bc CAST exists).
The FBI CAST supervisor explained that the 100m range is an objective point that doesn’t over, or under-state their precision, and allows for a reasonable margin of error. [the actual precision range is about 16-30m IIRC]
It’s much more precise than phone pings and their maps they showed on the screen tracking Alex Cox’s phone within a 100m range seems identical to what’s being described by the Defense in regard to the map of the 100m range on Ron Logan’s property.
The testimony also was specific to AT&T & Verizon phones, and did include maps provided by AT&T, none of which match what’s described in the Delphi case, but did show overlapping coverage zones that are more detailed than the coverage map provided on their website.
A lot of the data was provided by AT&T, and there was clear contrast with the actual AT&T maps vs. the FBI CAST maps that use a 100m range - the CAST maps incorporate the AT&T data & pings, geolocation (done by CAST), Google location data, and drive test information.

Google and Gmail specifically give abundant location data points as precise as any other form of GPS (~concern for my own privacy~)

It also showed multiple phones being tracked (Lori, Chad, and Alex), and described (w/ visual aid on maps) how they track those phones within the 100m range, and in relation to phone’s distance from each other.
In the Kohberger case, they are having a heck of a time getting this same division (Idaho) of CAST to participate in their discovery phase, and I believe (speculation) that the reason for that is likely because of HOW transparent they are about this data & the backup info that supports it. They showed maps, raw data, put the report right up on the huge projector screen & explained the 100m map in full detail.

A lot of the info that’s come out about the Kohberger case shows that the PCA doesn’t line up with the facts from the FBI (the scenario is ringing a bell, I must say). Yesterday the Defense in that case quoted the state as saying the PCA “is irrelevant at this stage” - and this is right around the time the subpeona issued to the FBI CAST expert should be fulfilled (sometime this week) (speculation within a speculation: I think they turned it in last week, or as soon as they received the subpoena, bc it’s not like they didn’t have it ready… The CAST data was relied upon by investigators before the arrest and is referred to in the Dec, 2022 PCA. So it seems like they turned it in already, and now the state states that ‘the PCA is irrelevant.’ (— In the Delphi case, that goes without saying))
IMO, the state’s quote indicates the FBI was forthright about their data, the State wanted to limit the information they disclose to only things that support their PCA, the FBI refused to exclude data that works against the State, nothing was brought forth or presented, the Judge subpoenaed it, and when it was brought forth, the state said to disregard it all {this is yet to be confirmed but based on the Touhey process being implemented as of the 05/02 hearing & major indications in the filings we’ve seen since then}

So! I bet Baldwin & Rozzi have figured out who made the map - FBI CAST - and that it’s not just AT&T phone pings - and that the FBI CAST will gladly share with them every detail they seek, bc it ain’t no secret for them. It seems to be work they’re proud of and will present in great detail

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Further tags: talks about extreme misogyny. Anti-feminist propaganda, Racial fetishization.
I ain’t really want nothing fr, just a place to share my thoughts on the K-pop industry+ the fetishizing of Korea through its media. I will I can’t really speak on the whole perspective as I am not Korean, but as a feminist I still feel like I have to say something and take the proverbial plank out of my eye.
I was reading this really good thread on Twitter from a feminist in Korea. She details many systematic problems in the county that women face and are harmed by. Fem-scide, extreme misogyny, abuse, etc. I share it because I feel like her voice needs to be heard on a wide scale. I know everyone in this sub is cool, but I say it for brevity sake to go and read about what she says and engage with it respectfully and show her just as much respect. Do not harass her! Thread talking about that:
https://x.com/ciljdw467/status/1789382955560837538?s=46
Now, I read a pretty interesting quote tweet about the thread ( same demand engaging with this tweet and to not harass the creator:
https://x.com/tigertombs/status/1790032815804817432?s=46
Now this gave me some pause, I’m not going to lie. It’s not everyone’s problem, but it sure is the problem of a dangerous amount of people, and that scares the shit out of me. The thread is making me look twice at how I consume K-pop and K-drama as an outsider looking in. Yes, both of these things have introduced the world to a wider perspective of Korean culture, yet I still feel like people are falling for some bells and whistles, and I feel like I’ve fallen for it at some point in my youth as well. People are spreading their personal problems with fetishizing a whole Country and its People to create ideal images and spread these “ refined” ideas to others, causing this weird “ they can do no wrong attitude” to happen. Flawless images like that penultimately hurt movements like feminism.

The reality of women in Korea is very scathing, too scathing for people to have back’s and forth’s about how “ unproblematic” a certain idol member is compared to others. Spreading useless “ He would never” when in reality, he just might be, hell maybe he totally would. Like yes, not every man is going to be horrible, but aligning every one of them to a media stereotype not only blinds women to the reality of character, but also puts a unrealistic and dangerous stereotype on Korean men, no one deserves to be thought of only as an idea to be lusted over. 

I have already met so many people who absolutely have these gross ideas of Korea and Koreans, and when that happens, nasty results is all you get to see. Now I’m kinda scared because I feel like engaging with idol culture, I’m actively giving money that harms a human rights movement, I’m giving my money to an industry built to be a beacon of misogyny, and intended to spread it. Paying the bills of the people who create these distractions from liberation. And that really scares me. I can’t really look at my groups the same way again.

So, my wife and I are in the process of buying a house in West Yorkshire. Our mortgage broker has pointed us to Digital mortgages, trading as Atom. They've done their valuation and I get a message from the mortgage broker telling us they're asking for a "red ash/ shale test" asking around the potential new neighbours (the house is located a few doors down from my grandparents, so we know these people we'll!) this isnt something anyone else had heard of! Doing some research we realise its to do with potential sulfate attack in the foundations. So we start to look for quotes, but alarm bells start ringing to me. The neighbours didn't know why it was, the estate agent had never heard of this test, it doesn't seem to ever be an issue in this part of the UK. So I ask more questions of my mortgage advisor. Turns out The report is required due to the type of trees in the area and potential issues caused by the roots underground.
Surely the digital mortgages have made a mistake here? Has anyone else had errors on their valuation from the mortgage advisor? Can anyone offer any advice?
This whole situation has me worried, confused and angry.

So I'm going to avoid naming the name of the company because I'm currently in a dispute with them. I've posted here before about a proposed $27,731.60 "service replacement" charge that this company suggested after telling me that my smoke alarm system had died and that it was due to "corroded electrical supply that was past its serviceable lifespan".
I'm happy to report that I did not acquiesce to any such outlandish charge and instead got the opinions of three different qualified electricians from the area. The most I was quoted was $2,300, i.e. 1/10 of the proposed cost, to change out the circuit breaker panel, but the other 2 electricians said they didn't think there was anything the matter with my electrical supply and that there was no corrosion on the buses and everything was wired neat and tidy.
The rage I feel. Ohhhh the rage.
So then I found out that the smoke alarms they charged me $2,700 to install a year or so ago were actually $119 Kidde brand combo smoke/CO alarms with wireless interconnect. Those detectors come, by default, with a 10-year sealed battery, bear that in mind. In other words, they come factory direct that way at the $119 price point. The number they installed even with labor at $115/hour shouldn't have come to more than $1k, so being charged nearly $3k raised my alarm bells. I dug into it further and got a detailed invoice from the company and yup, they gouged me.
They charged the following:
6 counts of "wireless combination smoke/co detector" at $228.60/count = $1,371.60 3 counts of "install a wireless battery operated smoke and CO detector" at $178.20 per = $534.60 9 counts of "add 10 year sealed battery to detector" at $52/count = $468 (!!!!!!!!) Heat detector units at $166.50/count for 2 counts = $333
Total of $2,707.20
Those heat detectors by the way cost even less than the smokes because they don't have voice command or wireless operation, they're just hard wired heat detectors.
I was OUTRAGED that they were literally charging me $468 to "add a battery" when the battery comes with the unit straight out of the box and requires no additional assembly or work. Disgusting price gouging.
Fortunately, there was a "service satisfaction guarantee" clause and you bet your 3rd point of contact that I invoked that! So I did get the money back for the smokes, every penny of it.
The company is now, however, jerking me around about a $468 charge (different from the one in the invoice) for one of their electricians to come to my home and try to "fix" my smoke alarm system. But it wasn't broken. Indeed, all that happened is that one of the units had a fault and just needed to be re-initialized, but it just so happened that the one in question was the "hub" unit that acted as the central connector for all of the others in the wireless grid. So when that faulted, all of the others started chirping and saying "connection lost!" over and over and over again at 1 o'clock in the morning.
The only thing the goofus that they sent out did was just push the silence button, put the alarms back up, and then 15 minutes later when they inevitably unsilenced after the 15 minute hush period and started screaming "connection lost!" again, he tells me that my system is damaged beyond repair because of my outdated electrical supply and I'll need to get the full service updated at which point they can get a warranty replacement on the smoke alarms.
Bruh. -.-
So after he leaves, I call Kidde, the manufacturer, and confirm that in fact all I ACTUALLY have to do is hold the button down on the central unit for about 8 seconds until I get 3 beeps, then hold each of the other units down for about 5 seconds until I get 2 beeps, then hold the central unit down for 5 seconds and get 2 beeps and they alllllll reconnect and reinitialize. Took me less than 5 minutes.
How a licensed electrician working for the company that installed those units didn't do that while at my home for 3.5 hours is beyond me. I have to assume he was intentionally not fixing the units in order to pressure me into a $27,731.60 service agreement. That or he was inept. I don't know which is the more generous thing to assume, frankly.
The same company also installed a whole home surge protector on my circuit breaker. It's internally fused, apparently, so it's patched DIRECTLY into the main breaker, not onto sub breaker. It's a PSP Category 1 Hurricane Surge Protector (model #HC1C100-06N) and I called PSP, the manufacturer, directly to try to get a quote on the price for it, but they tell me they are a factory that sells directly to electricians, so they can't quote me a value. But I'm willing to bet it's substantially less than $1,100.
So my question is this: I know for sure they were taking me for a ride from the beginning because online sources tell me residential whole home surge protectors cost typically between $30 and $150 or so based on the quality and brand. And that installation is usually another $200ish. I'm curious to know: have any of you worked with a PSP Cat-1 Hurricane surge protector? Are they low quality, mid, or high? About what do they charge you as the electrician? About what do you typically charge to install? Bonus points if you're in western Massachusetts or the New England market in general and can quote approximately what it would cost to do this. I'm trying to establish that in all 3 cases this company grossly overcharged me, because I want my money back for any work they did since it has, thus far, all been substandard.
And to clarify, they were not running any new wires for the smoke alarm system or for the surge protector. They used existing breakers and existing wires, so it cannot be the case that they were justifying a higher charge for that reason. They literally put up 9 smoke alarms on existing wires, took them like an hour and a half, so at the $115/hour rate they quote that should have been like $180 of install charges plus maybe a fee for rolling a truck out here and the cost of the units themselves. Something a little over $1k would have made sense. In my defense, it was the middle of the pandemic, I was going through a messy breakup with an ex who cohabitated and co-owned my home at the time, and looking up prices for smoke detectors was not at the top of my priority list at the time of this charge. I guess "caveat emptor" so my fault a bit, but also screw that nonsense, electricians shouldn't be cut-throat bastards, they should quote an honest price for honest work.

How badly will I be marked down: For Belles quote (‘Another idol has displaced me, a golden one’) as ‘I have been displaced, by a golden one’ then wrote down the whole analysis as my paragraph
Put ‘look like the innocent flower’ as Act 1 Scene 4 instead of the real Act 1 Scene 5
Finally I said Ghost of Christmas Past said ‘This boy is ignorance. This girl is want’ when it was ghost of Christmas present
I always get grade 6 on these essays so is my grade going down this time as I wrote incorrect quotes characters and scenes

"The candleflame and the image of the candleflame caught in the pier-glass twisted and righted when he entered the hall and again when he shut the door." --first sentence of ALL THE PRETTY HORSES
In Rick Bass's THE TRAVELING FEAST, which I mentioned last post, he quotes from McCatthy's NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN, Bell's dream in which he sees his father riding ahead, carrying the fire to make a place for him --(rather like John 14:3)--but anyway, that contained fire. God's fire, is in opposition to that marvelous scene in THE ORCHARD KEEPER, where Sylder's devilish persona looks back at him in the glass, hands cupping the fire of the match, from the back seat of the car.
"The match scratched and popped. Sylder meditated in the windshield the face of the man cast in orange and black above the spurt of flame like the downlidded face of some copper ikon, a mask, not ambiguous or inscrutable but merely discountenanced of meaning, expression."
"In the flickery second in which Sylder's glance went to the road and back the man's eyes raised to regard him in the glass, so that when Sylder looked back they faced each other over the cup of light like enemy chieftains across a council fire for just that instant before the man's lips pursed, carplike, still holding the cigarette, and sucked away the flame."
In other threads I've discussed Dan Egan's recent THE DEVIL'S ELEMENT: PHOSPHORUS AND A WORLD OUT OF BALANCE. But also interesting is one of his sources, by British chemist and author John Emsley, THE SHOCKING HISTORY OF PHOSPHORUS; A BIOGRAPHY OF THE DEVIL'S ELEMENT, a better historical view, packed with riveting accounts of the diabolical applications for phosphorus.
My full take on THE ORCHARD KEEPER and the Fall of the Green Fly Inn is here:
THE ORCHARD KEEPER, THE SOUND AND THE FURY, GENESIS, AND THE FALL - McCarthy, Faulkner, Julian Jaynes, Sin and Consciousness : cormacmccarthy (reddit.com)

I ask this question because it takes a while to build a squad of players that fit together and play the way the manager hopes to be able to play. More importantly, the GM signs the players; is responsible for the draft; makes the trades/transfers; and sets out a strategy for the club to pursue. American sports try and give expansion clubs and losing clubs to build from the draft, but it takes time.
As I've posted before, Lucy Rushton is the GM with a stated mission to play, in her words, like "Barcelona." That's not Montoya's statement. In fact, he doesn't have enough players that can play in tight spaces; nor forwards that are known to play well together in a combining effort. Oshoala and Kundananji are the type of forwards that need to get behind the defenders, using their speed. Rushton has very little experience in the women's game, as she came from the MLS, but has the pedigree and academics to be a football executive. She doesn't have experience with the American pool of players, and appears to not have a grip of European players.
As a reference, here's both Angel City's and San Diego Wave's inaugural 2022 opening day rosters:
Forwards: Simone Charley, Jun Endo, Tyler Lussi, Christen Press, and Jasmyne Spencer. Midfielders: Hope Breslin, Katie Cousins, Stefany Ferrer Van Ginkel, Savannah McCaskill, Lily Nabet, Cari Roccaro, Miri Taylor, and Dani Weatherholt.
The defenders: Vanessa Gilles, Sarah Gorden, Madison Hammond, Paige Nielsen, Ali Riley, Allyson Swaby, M.A. Vignola, Megan Reid. The goalkeepers: DiDi Haračić, Brittany Isenhour, and Maia Perez. The coaching staff: Head Coach Freya Coombe, Assistant Head Coach and Performance Director Robert Udberg, and Head of Goalkeeping Coach Daniel Ball.
Forwards: Alex Morgan; Amirah Ali; Jodie Taylor; Katie Johnson; Makenzy Doniak; Marleen Schimmer; Sofia Jakobsson.
Defenders: Abby Dahlkemper; Tegan McGrady; Christen Westphal; Kaleigh Riehl; Kayla Bruster; Mia Gyau; Naomi Girma; Taylor Hansen.
Midfielders: Belle Briede; Emily van Egmond; Kelsey Turnbow; Kristen McNabb; Sydney Pulver; Taylor Kornieck; Taylor Porter.
If ACFC is lucky, they might lose another 5 or 6 players by the beginning of next season. The Wave might lose another 4 or 5 players as well.
This is how things go. Give the Bay FC a chance to build out their roster and compete for the playoffs. How many of our original players do you think will be on the roster opening day 2026? Will Rushton still be the GM?

I’m so excited that I’ve finally purchased a new Rogue. It has been a long time in the making. I ended up getting a 2024 SV AWD w. the premium package. So it has leather interior and the panoramic sunroof. Bells and whistles that I didn’t even need, but certainly appreciate!
The price I was quoted by 2 dealerships for this particular Rogue was practically the same. It seemed excessively high to me, but what do I know. Once I let them know that I was talking to both of them, well that changed the game. After all was said and done, and this took all day of going back and forth, I ended up getting it for 5K less than what I was originally quoted (at both dealerships)! This is a pretty big win, right?!
It was rough, time consuming, frustrating, and I felt as though I’d been in battle. It took about a month total, but the day I bought it I walked into the dealership alone, intimidated, but I was prepared not to settle. The sales Mgr was friendly in the beginning, but by the end of the day he seemed ready to punt me through the glass door. lol I was nice, patient, and all that. I simply stuck by what I came to do, which was to buy the car for the best deal I could find, from the dealership that offered the lowest price. I made that perfectly clear to both dealerships. The 2 competing dealerships was the winning ticket. I’m not one to brag (but realize I am about this lol), but I’m proud of myself.
Please please please don’t take their word when they say they “can’t go any lower”. I know this is car buying 101, but I want to remind anyone planning to buy to shop around. Visit competing dealerships. It’s exhausting but worth it. Know the addendum fees, doc fees, bundles, etc. the crap you don’t need to pay vs what you can’t get around.
For any future buyers, as you know, they lie through their teeth. As soon as I quoted their competitors’ price (which was lower), they dropped the price significantly. And so it began - it was like a pissing match and after all was said and done like I said FIVE G’s less. They even lied and said there wasn’t a Rogue (the one that I really wanted) anywhere in a 250 mile radius! Magically tho, the exact one I wanted appeared when the other dealership promised to get it for me by the end of the day. Such BS! What a shame it has to be like this!
So again I know this is probably car buying 101 common sense stuff, I just want to remind folks to stay strong out there and fight for the right price! Do your research so you know what is fair and what’s bogus. Do not settle for what is on the lot and don’t accept “the lowest price they can offer” because in my experience it kept dropping substantially when a competitor got involved.

Hello darkness my old friend, here’s the media round up of the Timbers Sounders match…but yay Tillamook?
PORTLAND:
Sam Svilar / Stumptown Footy: Portland Timbers 1, Seattle Sounders 2 - Instant Reaction
“The Portland Timbers fell 2-1 to the Seattle Sounders under the sun in a heated rivalry game in Providence Park. Felipe Mora opened the scoring, but Seattle scored two unanswered through Cristian Roldan and Raul Ruidiaz to send Portland to their third straight defeat, and extended the winless run to nine games.
…
A week after a result that felt like rock bottom for this team, Portland hit a new low — both in the season and in the standings. Portland is winless in nine straight games, and sit dead last in the Western Conference.
Any semblance of hope that was generated earlier this season feels fully dead and gone. With the time for moral victories long gone, if this team wants to even get close to the playoff line it feels like there is quite a mountain to climb.”

Shane Hoffmann / Oregonian: Portland Timbers drop rivalry game to Seattle Sounders as winless streak continues: ‘We’re in trouble’
“A 1,001-day stretch of derby dominance died on the field at Providence Park on Sunday afternoon.
…
“I feel as if we’ve let our supporters down with that result,” coach Phil Neville said. “Today was our bounce-back game. Today was the game where we had to show something different than what we’ve done over the last eight games. And there’s been positives in the last eight games. Today, at this moment in time, I can’t feel positive because of the result.”
…
“Any criticism that comes our way, it’s got to be aimed at me,” Neville said. “I select the team, I pick the system, I pick the tactics and the last nine games, we’ve got to be better, I’ve got to be better. But the one thing I’m absolutely convinced of is that we will get this right. I’m more convinced today than I’ve ever been.”

• "Massively disappointed...there's no time for sulking" Phil Neville discusses loss to Seattle

Bonus: Joel Odom / Oregonian: Portland Timbers debut new jersey sponsor
“The Portland Timbers debuted a new sponsor on their jerseys Sunday after agreeing to a multiyear deal with Tillamook…”
KOIN: Tillamook new Portland Timbers jersey sponsor
…Tillamook VP of Marketing Kate Boltin said they are excited to expand their relationship with the Timbers.
“It will always be important to us to support our home state of Oregon,” she said. “And the time felt right to further invest in our longstanding partnership with the Timbers, do some good for the community and show appreciation to the fans.”
KATU: Portland Timbers sport Tillamook as new jersey sponsor in multi-year deal

NATIONAL:
Matt Doyle / Armchair Analyst MLS: Atlanta's regression, Cincinnati fill their biggest need & more from Matchday 13
“2. The Sounders were due for a break and they finally got one. Portland had taken a 1-0 lead through Felipe Mora in the 15th minute of Sunday’s Cascadia Cup clash, but four minutes later Cristian Roldan’s deflected 28-yarder wrong-footed Portland’s Maxime Crépeau to make it 1-1. Half an hour after that Raúl Ruidíaz found a bit of magic in his boots to make it 2-1.
A batten-down-the-hatches performance for the final 40 minutes kept that as the final scoreline. The result broke a six-game winless run against the Timbers for Seattle and pushed them up to 10th in the West, three points beneath the play-in spots.
Portland’s misery continues as they’ve now gone nine winless, and drop into the Western Conference basement.”
Anne Peterson (a human!)/ AP: Ruidiaz Scores Go-Ahead Goal And The Sounders Secure A 2-1 Cascadia Cup Win Over Portland“…Portland Timbers coach Phil Neville said he was “massively disappointed” by the loss and took full responsibility for it.
“The results have to change very very quickly, if I was a supporter I wouldn’t be happy today,” said Neville, in his first season with Portland.”

• Field Level Media: Sounders defeat Timbers for first time since '21

SEATTLE: Not in the mood to quote any of this, but here are some links:

• Jayda Evan / Seattle Times: Raul Ruidiaz leads Sounders past Timbers for rivalry win
• TIM OSTLUND-FOSS / Sounder at Hear: Jingle Bells, Portland smells

Vlad's Distressed Mistress: A New FNAF Theory....
A while ago, I came across a new perspective on a commonly overlooked part of the FNAF franchise, and I couldn’t help but not go deeper and share my findings. Plus with the advent of new FNAF content, this topic only seems to get more and more interesting.
Back in FNAF Sister Location, at the end of nearly each night, we find ourselves in what we assume to be Mike's house, where he spends some time watching a show called 'The Immortal and the Restless.' For those who may be new to the franchise, this four episode show seems to be styled after late 50's soap operas. Specifically, it is very similar in style and music to a real life soap opera called 'As The World Turns' from 1956 and also has a similar naming convention as 'The Young and the Restless' from 1973.
In Immortal, we catch a glimpse into the lives of Vlad the vampire and Clara, who are shown to be consistently on edge with each-other.
At a glance, this doesn't seem like much, but as I delved deeper I noticed many things that I have never heard or seen talked about in the FNAF community. So here it is, my notes and theories on what Scott might be trying to tell us through 'The Immortal and the Restless.'
Sources:

• The Five Nights at Freddie’s Ultimate Guide
• The Immortal and the Restless Series from FNaF Sister Location
• Five Nights at Freddie’s Fazbear Frights Book #1: Into the Pit Stitchwraith Stinger
• Five Nights at Freddie’s Security Breach
• Five Nights at Freddie’s The Movie

NOTE #1: William Afton had an Affair
As I was reading the Ultimate Guide, I came across the script for The Immortal and the Restless on pages 420 and 421. But what got me thinking wasn't what Vlad or Clara said, but it was the first lines that was spoken by the narrator.
In episodes 1 & 2 of I&R, Clara is described by the narrator as ‘Vlad’s distressed mistress…’
Immortal and the Restless: Episode 1
Narrator: Another day, another dramatic entry in the lives of Vlad and his distressed mistress!
Narrator: Will Vlad and hisdistressed mistressfind common ground? Tune in next time!
Immoral and the Restless: Episode 2
*Narrator: As the sun sets, so does another chapter in the saga of love lost between Vlad and his distressed mistress…
The fact that this phrasing was used three times got me to thinking. To start, what does the word mistress mean? According to to the official Oxford Language website, the word has two meanings;

1. A woman in a position of power or authority
2. A woman having a extramarital sexual relationship, especially with a married man.

With this in mind, I am under the impression that Vlad and Clara are NOT married. Clara does brings up a Dimond ring in episode 4: ‘Well, how’s this? Im keeping the diamond ring.’ I believe that she is most likely referring to a engagement ring, which only further cements my initial observation that these two are NOT married.
Through-out the story of I&R I find no evidence that Vlad and Clara are married. From the language used in the script to even watching the shorts closely and taking note of their hands for wedding bands. Nothing. They are referred to as ‘long lost lovers’ and ‘star-crossed lovers’, but nothing that indicated that they officially ‘tied the knot’.
With this information, I believe that Vlad had an affair with Clara and cheated on Mrs. Vlad. Then, if we are to assume that Vlad is a representation of William Afton in this story, than I believe that Willam had an affair with another woman. This is why Mrs. Afton left, sure William was probably consumed by his work with the animatronics, but the fact that he cheated on her is most likely what sent her off the edge.
NOTE #2: Child Support
As I was reading trough the I&R script again, there are a few times that the story brings up Vlad having to pay child support.
Immortal and The Restless: Episode 1
Clara: Well, then, at least pay your child support, you deadbeat!
Immortal and the Restless: Episode 4
Narrator: But what about the baby? What about the back child support?
Why would Vlad have to pay child support? If we are building off of the theory that Vlad cheated on his wife, she probably filed for divorce and demanded custody of the baby. A custody battle ensued, with Vlad coming out on top, giving us an explanation of why we see the baby with him in I&R. I then looked through-out the franchise and, wouldn’t you know it, there is a reference to a custody case in three other places.
1.Fazbear Frights Stitchwraith Stinger #1 (The Books)**
In the first Stitchwraith stinger at the end of the first Fazbear Frights book Into the Pit, we meet Detective Larson who just divorced his wife and is in the middle of a custody battle over their seven-year-old son Ryan.
2.Five Nights at Freddie’s Security Breach: Retro CD 4-7140 (A Modern Game)**
In Retro CD 4-7140, while having a session with Vanessa, the therapist brings up the fact that Vanessa’s father, Bill, ‘didn’t play fair’ when he was in a custody battle with Vanessa’s mother. Quote from the game;
Therapist: I know you do. Your supervisor notes that you follow instructions perfectly. Your dad made you follow instructions, didn’t he? I’m talking about the custody battle between your mom and your dad. Your dad didn’t play it fair, did he? He used to make your mom look bad in court.
While this snippet could be used to explain how Vanessa got to where she is in the game, I think that this has a deeper meaning that could relate to this story in I&R.
3.Five Nights at Freddie’s The Movie**
In Five Nights at Freddie’s Movie, one of the main points of the film is that Mike was *fighting for custody** of his sister Abby against their horrible aunt. It is one of, if not the main reason why Mike accepted the job at Freddie’s in the first place.
With all of this in mind, the biggest question is WHAT DOES IT MEAN? Ok, so William Afton had a custody battle, but for which child? Is it Crying Child? Is it Michael? Or is it Elizabeth? What other implications does this have on the lore overall? For that, I am still working out an answer.
Regardless, the fact that this comes up FOUR different times in multiple aspects of the franchise gives me more than enough reason to think that Scott is trying to tell us something. Now, I personally do not have open access to either the Fazbear Frights or Tales from the Pizzaplex series, so there could be a chance that there could be more cases of custody battles. For that, I reach out to you, my fellow theorists, please comment down below and let me know if there are other instances of this in the franchise.

I've always been bound to death.
On my eighth birthday, a shadow strode into my house and shot me and my family dead. I remember it vividly, every detail, every angle, etched and stained and carved into my memory.
I sat very still with my knees to my chest, my gaze glued to my siblings.
Lily and PJ looked like they were sleeping, and I could almost believe it.
I didn't look at the shadow.
From the comfort of my knees, I waited for my brother to lift his head.
But his body was so limp, so still, every part of him faltering. My sister’s head was nestled in his shoulder, thick beads of red running down her face.
They're just sleeping.
I could tell myself they were— as long as I didn't look at the splatter of scarlet staining the back of the couch and pooling at their feet.
BANG.
Mom’s body dropped onto the ground.
I lunged forwards, slamming my hands over my ears.
BANG.
PJ’s head slumped forwards, a teasing smile still frozen on his lips.
BANG.
Lily gently tipped into PJ, like she was going to sleep.
Before she closed her eyes, Mom told me to run.
I can't remember how long I stayed under the shattered remnants of Mom’s favorite table. The shadow was waiting for me to move, to make a noise.
I watched booted feet crunch through glass, getting closer and closer, and slowly, fight or flight began to take over.
Making it halfway across the living room, my palms slick with my mother’s blood, I thought I was going to live.
Cruel fingers wound their way through my hair and shoved me to my knees. I remember the phantom legs of a spider creeping down the back of my neck when the shadow with no face dragged the barrel of his gun down my spine.
“Turn around.”
The shadow had a voice.
When I didn't move, the protruding metal stabbed into my neck.
“Turn around, kid!”
I did, very slowly.
Behind him, my siblings still weren't moving.
They were asleep.
Lily was still smiling, strawberry blonde ringlets stained red.
I couldn't see PJ’S face anymore.
BANG.
I didn't feel the gunshot.
I didn't feel anything.
Looking down, I glimpsed slowly spreading red blossoming like a flower.
It felt like being cut from strings.
I hit the ground, just like my mother, my body felt heavy and wrong.
Paralysed.
I remember being unable to scream, unable to cry, the salty taste of metal filling my mouth. It was like being winded. Rolling onto my side, all I could see was flickering candlelight.
The air was thick, so hard to breathe.
I rolled onto my back trying to suck in air.
The shadow took a step back, opened the front door, and bled into the night.
I don't remember the pain, and I don't remember dying. I couldn't breathe, couldn't conjure words in my mouth.
I felt warm and sticky, lying in my own blood.
I think I tried to move.
But I was so tired.
I’m not sure what death feels like, because it's like going to sleep.
I remember my last shuddering breaths, a lulling darkness beginning to swallow me up. I don't know why I wasn't afraid.
Oblivion almost felt like I was sinking into lukewarm depths on a Summer’s day.
Oblivion wasn't pain, and there was a peaceful inevitability to it.
It was endless nothing, a nothing I found myself gravitating towards. But before I could envelope myself in that darkness, it was spitting me back out.
The next thing I knew, I was in a white room, a slow beeping sound tearing me from slumber. I had a vague memory of slow spreading roses blossoming across my shirt, like summer flowers blooming.
Everything was white.
The walls, the ceiling, and my clothes.
Sensation hit me in slow waves.
Exhaustion.
I felt it tightening its grip around my brain, dragging me back onto a mountain of pillows when I tried to jump up. My Aunt May was sitting next to me on a plastic chair, her warm fingers entangled in mine. Aunt May and Mom were practically twins, with the same thick red hair and pale skin.
Mom wore her hair in a casual ponytail, while May preferred a strict bun.
I had to bite back the urge to yank my hand away.
Aunt May was asleep, used tissues filling her lap.
There was a nurse pottering around, checking my vitals and prodding my arms. My eyes felt heavy. I had to blink several times to keep myself awake.
“Charlie?”
The nurse’s voice was like wind-chimes.
I pretended not to notice her forced lipstick smile, the way she stood with her arms folded, staring at me like I was one of my cousin’s experiments. “You were in an accident, sweetie,” the nurse spoke up. I could see her trembling hands. “Just, um, try and rest, okay?”
I wanted to ask where my family was, but I already knew the answer.
I think she knew that too.
“You died, Charlie.” The nurse’s voice was eerily cold. “You were dead for thirteen minutes.”
She took slow steps towards me, her eyes growing frenzied, like she couldn't understand me, like I was a puzzle she could not solve– and it was driving her crazy. I could see it in her twitching hands, her wobbling lips that were trying and failing to appear stoic.
“In fact, I just pulled you out of the morgue, honey. I opened up your body bag that I had just zipped up, and told your aunt that you were a miracle I just… can’t understand.” The nurse sounded like she was trying to choke down a laugh, or maybe a sob.
“Charlotte, you were pronounced dead at 3:02am from a gunshot wound to the chest.” Taking a slow, sobering breath, the nurse tried to smile. “The bullet went through the right ventricle of your heart and severely damaged your left lung, rendering you unable to breathe. Your heart stopped, and after four attempts to resuscitate, we called it.”
Something slimy wound its way up my throat when she began to pace the room. “I… did all the paperwork. It took me two minutes. Your death certificate was signed, and your body was taken to the morgue to be prepped for transportation. Then I had my lunch. Tuna salad with a protein milkshake. I’m not a fan of the chocolate flavor.”
She shook her head. “Anyway, when I came back to you, you were awake inside your body bag.” Her voice was starting to break. “You were…um, alive, and asked me for apple soda.”
The nurse moved closer, and yet kept her distance.
I could feel myself moving back, panic writhing through me.
“So.” The nurse spoke calmly. “How the fuck are you still alive, Charlie?”
I think I passed out after that.
When I woke up again, my head a lot less heavier, the nurse was gone.
Slowly, my foggy brain began to find itself and connect dots.
My mouth was dry, full of cotton.
There was a sudden tightness, a sharp and cruel sting in my wrists.
Something sharp was protruding into my flesh, and no matter how many times I violently wrenched my arm, it was stuck. It didn't feel right to be able to breathe so easily.
I knew the second I woke that my Mom was dead.
Lily and PJ were dead, and it was like losing them all over again.
As clarity came over me, I found my voice, a strangled cry escaping my lips.
“Get it out.” I whispered in a shrill cry.
Tugging at the IV in my wrist, I tried to yank the needle from my skin.
“Get it out!” I shrieked, my gaze glued to the tiny spots of blood staining the insertion point.
I could see it again.
So much blood.
Mom was curled up on the floor, lying in slow spreading red that wouldn't stop, seeping across her beaded rug.
She was all over me, slick on my skin and caked in my fingernails.
I couldn't wash her off of me.
“You're okay, Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice came from my right, stabling me to reality.
The world started to move again, started to make sense again, when she cupped my cheeks and told me to breathe. When I opened my mouth to ask where my family were, she lightly shook her head and I swallowed my words. Aunt May handed me a glass of water, and I drained it in one gulp.
She told me I was a miracle.
Aunt May didn't say much, and when she did, she broke into sobs.
Her eyes were raw from crying, clinging onto me, her shuddery voice reassuring me that I was going to be okay.
She told me I would be living with her from now on, before wrapping me into a hug and leaving to get coffee.
Once my aunt was gone, another nurse came to prod my IV.
I tried to sleep, but the uncomfortable tightness of the needle sticking into my skin and the sterile white lights in my eyes made it impossible. I waited for grief to catch up with me, drowning me in a hollow oblivion I wouldn't be able to claw myself out of. But I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel angry.
I wanted to know why my family were dead.
I wanted to know why I was breathing, and their skin was ice cold.
Rotting.
The sudden image of maggots crawling up my brother’s nose sent me lurching into a sitting position, my stomach heaving. Reaching for my glass of water, it was empty. The sensation of throwing up felt familiar, almost comforting.
Mom was always with me when I was sick, holding my hair back and lulling my hysteria with reassuring murmurs.
I was frowning at the trash can by the door, my cotton candy brain trying to figure out if I would be able to make it in time, when a small voice drifted from the doorway, startling me.
“I don't want you to come live with us.”
My cousin was peeking through the door, hiding behind a shock of dark brown curls. Jude was the only brunette in our family. The rest of us were redheads.
I wasn't sure why he was dressed up like a ghost, draped in a white cloak that was way too big for him. Jude was a weird kid. His mother, and my auntie, had inherited the family house, so in his mind, that made him superior.
Jude made it clear he didn't like his cousins, refusing to let us play with him and banning us from family gatherings.
When the adults were drinking cocktails and losing their awareness, Jude ordered us around. The times we did play with him, our cousin showed us his spider collection, or the raccoon brain he kept in a jar. PJ was convinced our younger cousin was a serial killer. Several months earlier, he'd happily showed us the roadkill he'd been growing bacteria on under his bed.
Jude’s ‘experiments’ were worrying.
He stuffed mushrooms down my brother’s ears while he was sleeping, to, and I quote, “Recreate The Last Of Us.”
When Lily had a nosebleed during Thanksgiving dinner, Jude collected all her bloody tissues and refused to tell us where he'd put them, and what he had done with them. Fast-forward two months, and I found them under a nest of spiders. Jude was trying to adapt the spiders to be able to feed on human blood. I was surprised my cousin hadn't immediately demanded to see my siblings’ dead bodies for autopsy.
Jude stepped into the room, shuffling his feet.
“I'm sorry about Lily, PJ, and Aunt Ivy.” He mumbled, glaring at the floor tiles.
My cousin made no move to offer real sympathy, instead speaking to the floor.
“But I don't want you to come live with us.” Jude lifted his head, looking me dead in the eye. “I don't like you, Charlie. I want you to stay away.”
Before I could reply, he stepped back like I was diseased.
“You should be dead.” Jude grumbled.
He scowled at me, getting my age purposely wrong as usual before running off.
“Happy 68th birthday.”
I was six months older than him.
In Jude’s eyes, I was ready for retirement.
Still, though, my cousin was right.
I was stone cold dead, and then I was somehow alive.
Which was wrong.
Growing up, I realized Death was not so subtly attempting to fix his mistake.
It started small. I'd choke on things I wasn't supposed to choke on.
Chips.
Candy.
Ice cream.
Aunt May had to perform the heimlich manoeuvre when I choked on a piece of chicken. I thought I was just really unlucky, but then I locked myself in a freezer that didn't have a lock, and almost drowned in the local swimming pool, catching my foot in stray netting.
At the summer fair, Jude convinced me to try apple bobbing, only for my head to conveniently get stuck underwater.
It started to make sense.
I was supposed to die with my family that night, and death was out to get me.
Death started to get clever, changing his tactic. Instead of using everyday things to try to kill me, he sent reinforcements.
I turned twelve years old, and my aunt threw me a huge party, inviting all my classmates. Aunt May was rich, rich.
Mom never explained it, but our grandparents left everything to May.
The house was like a palace, a labyrinth of floors I was yet to explore, and two swimming pools.
I was in the kitchen cutting myself a slice of cake, when, out of nowhere, a dead boy came rushing at me with one of my aunt’s favorite kitchen knives.
A dead boy who I immediately recognised.
Wren Oliver.
Several years prior, he'd gone missing from his parents' yard. The town launched a full investigation, only to find his body in a ditch a week later.
So, Death had sent a footsoldier.
Hiding under a hooded sweatshirt, Wren appeared older, like he had grown up with me. But there was a startling vacancy in his expression that drew the breath from my lungs, freezing me in place. Wren’s death was announced as an accident, though his wounds suggested the opposite, dried blood smearing his right temple and a cavernous hole in his chest, his clothes painted, stained, in bright red, glued in sticky mounds clinging to him.
The boy’s eyes were wild, feral, like an animal.
His hair was longer, a mess of reddish curls matted to his forehead.
Lip split into a demented giggle.
I remember taking a slow step back, my gaze glued to the knife.
Wren’s fingers were wrapped around the handle like he knew exactly how to use it, how to plunge it into my heart and kill me for good. He moved like a predator, zero self awareness or recognition, only driven to kill me.
The dead boy prided himself in slow, intimidating steps, shoving me against the wall and dragging the blade of the knife down the curve of my throat.
His eyes confused me, writhing with hatred that was artificial, programmed into him as Death’s official soldier.
He didn't speak, only smiled, revelling in my fear. I could tell it thrilled him, my trembling hands, my sharp, heavy breaths I couldn't control. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited to finally die.
I waited for the pain, and to lose my breath once again.
But death was playing with me.
When I opened my eyes, the dead boy was gone, and I was on my knees, screaming.
“Wren Oliver is trying to kill me!" I managed to hiss.
My aunt knelt in front of me, her expression crumpling.
*Sweetie,” She spoke softly, squeezing my hands. Aunt May was trying to appear calm for my sake, but I could tell she was scared, her frantic eyes searching mine. “Wren Oliver is dead.”
The kids surrounding me started to giggle, whispering among themselves.
In the corner of my eye, my cousin was leaning against the door, mid eye roll.
When my aunt was ushering kids back to the pool, Jude came to crouch in front of me. Ever since I started living with him, he'd made sure to keep his distance.
This time, though, Jude leaned uncomfortably close, a sparkle in his eyes I had never seen before. Inclining his head, he rocked back and forth on his heels, prodding me in the forehead.
“If you see the dead boy again, can you tell me?” His lips curved into a smile.
“I did see him.” I gritted out. “I’m not lying.”
Jude shrugged. “I never said you didn't,” he lowered his voice into a whisper, “I wanna know when you see him again.”
“Why?”
His lips curved into a smirk.
“So, I can catch him.”
My cousin got closer, his breath tickling my cheek.
“I seeeeeeee dead people.”
After that incident, death left me alone for a while.
I was fifteen, walking through the forest with a friend, catching fireflies in bell jars. Aunt May was lucky to live so close to the forest, the entrance just outside her back door. When we were littles, PJ would drag Lily and I down the trail to escape Jude’s weird experiments.
I decided to invite Jem Littlewood on a summer walk.
Jem was cute, but in a dorky way. He was chronically clumsy, and dressed like he'd been spat out of a John Hughes movie. We hiked all the way to the end of the river and had a picnic, watching the sun set over the horizon. I was having conflicting feelings for this guy.
Jem was obsessed with fireflies.
Though he seemed more interested in photographing them than me.
The guy couldn't seem to sit still, jumping to his feet to marvel at tiny specks of light dancing in the air.
“I'm just going to take photos!” Jem beamed, holding up his camera.
I had to bite back the urge to say, “Don't you have enough photos?”
I nodded, and he turned and sprinted back down the trail.
Before his footsteps ground to a sudden halt.
At first, I thought he was snapping polaroids.
When I got closer, though, blinking in the eerie dark, I caught something.
Bending down, I picked up a bell jar still spilling fireflies.
Further down the trail, Jem was lying crumpled in the dirt, his camera smashed to pieces next to him, blood running in thick rivulets down his temple. There he was. Leaning against a tree, his arms folded, was the ghost boy. Wren Oliver was growing up with me. Now, a teenager, and yet his face was carved into something else entirely, more of a monster, slight points to his ears and too-sharp teeth, eyes ignited.
Wren didn't look like a ghost boy anymore.
Death had dressed him in shackles of ivy, a crown of glass and bone forced onto his head, entangled in his curls. Death was torturing him.
Wren’s body was its canvas, and every time I got away, he was punished, painting his failures across scarred skin.
I should have been running for my life, but I was mesmerised by each symbol cruelly carved into his neck.
The boy did a slow head incline, like he couldn't believe I was standing in front of him.
His slow spreading smile caught me off guard.
I remembered how to run, stumbling over my feet.
But I couldn't move.
The burning hatred that death had filled him with, was stronger, hollowing him out completely. I managed two shaky steps, before I felt him, an unearthly force winding its way around my spine. This time, he didn't hesitate.
I watched his mouth move, a single curve of his upper lip that wrenched my body from my control, slamming me against a tree. There was something around my throat, choking the breath from my lungs, a thick fog spreading over my eyes.
Following his mouth curving into silent letters, I could feel my feet slowly leaving the ground, my legs dangling.
I was floating.
Hovering off of the ground, suspended by his words.
Through half lidded eyes, I caught the glint of a blade between his fist, but I couldn't move, couldn't scream.
He was drowning me, bleeding into my blood, spider webbing and expanding in my brain without moving a muscle.
Instead, the ghost boy stood silently, running his thumb down the teeth of his knife while he ripped my lungs apart.
It was like suffocating, sinking into that peaceful oblivion I met at eight years old.
This time, though, the darkness was starving.
“Charlie?”
My eyes found daylight, a scream clawing out of my mouth.
“Charlie, it's past curfew!”
Wren flinched, his stoic expression crumpling.
The dead boy’s lips moved again, this time in a curse.
Fuck.
“Charlotte!”
Staggering back, Wren’s eyes widened and the suffocating hold on me severed.
His head snapped in the direction my aunt was coming from.
“Charlie, answer me right now.”
He hesitated, his bare feet pivoting in the dirt, like he was considering finishing me off. Wren studied me with lazy eyes, sucking on his bottom lip. When my aunt's footsteps got louder, branches snapping under her shoes, something contorted in the boy’s face.
Fear.
I guessed the boy wasn't expecting other humans to intrude.
Wren fell over himself, shuffling on his hands and knees, before diving to his feet. When he turned and ran, I was released, slipping to the ground, trying and failing to draw in breath. I barely felt the impact, only a dull thudding pain. I could hear the ghost boy’s footsteps, his uneven, shuddery breaths as he catapulted into a run.
Under a late setting sun, I watched his dancing shadow disappear into the trees.
Mission unsuccessful, I guessed.
When I was fully conscious, Aunt May was checking over Jem, helping him sit up.
“Where did he go?” I managed to get out, scanning the darkness for Wren.
“He's okay, just concussed.” May whispered, dialling 911.
My aunt applied a dressing to Jem’s wound, ignoring the boy’s hisses.
“Keep still.” she murmured, smoothing his bandaid. “What happened, Charlotte?”
“She pushed me over.” Jem groaned, shuffling away from me. When my aunt told him to stay calm, he straightened up, leaning against the tree. “The psycho bitch tried to fucking kill me!”
When my aunt's gaze flicked to me, I shook my head.
“It was Wren Oliver.” I gritted, teetering on hysteria. I could tell she didn't believe me, but I couldn't stop myself.
I prodded at my throat, clawing for the indentations where his phantom fingers snaked around my neck, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
But there was nothing.
I could feel my mind starting to unravel. I nodded to my disgruntled classmate trying to dodge my aunt’s prodding.
“Ow, ow, ow! That stings!
“He knocked Jem out.” I managed. “Then he tried to kill me.”
Jem surprised me with a scoff. “You're seriously blaming your psychotic break on a dead kid?”
Aunt May pursed her lips, motioning for Jem to be quiet. Judging from her face, however, she agreed with the boy.
May forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. “Okay. Can you, uh, describe the boy to me, Charlotte?”
“He was wearing a crown,” I said, “And he looked my age.”
Aunt May cocked her head, and I saw real worry, like she was trying not to freak out. Jem made a snorting noise.
“I'm sorry, he was wearing a crown?”
“Yes!” I insisted, getting progressively more frustrated.
I tried to jump up, only for my aunt to gently lower me back down. “I know it sounds crazy, but death has sent Wren Oliver to kill me, just like my family. He tried to kill me when I was twelve, too!”
Jem let out a bitter laugh. “Your niece is a fucking wackadoodle.”
Aunt May’s eyes darkened. She grabbed my shoulders, her nails stabbing into my skin. “Charlie, I want you to listen to me, okay?” When my eyes found the rapidly darkening sky, my aunt forced me to look at her.
“Charlotte!”
She was as scared as me, her voice shuddering.
“Wren Oliver is dead.” My aunt said firmly, shaking me. Even then, though, I wasn't even looking at her. I was trying to find his ignited eyes lighting up the dark. “Wren died at eight years old in a terrible accident, and you can't keep using him as an excuse for your mental trauma.” There was something twitching in her expression I was trying to make sense of. When I risked a look at Jem, the boy was staring at me dazedly– like I really was crazy.
Aunt May pressed her face into my shoulder, and I could feel her tears soaking into my shirt. She was trying to hold it together, trying to understand.
“Charlie, I know you lost your family,” she whispered. “But you and Wren Oliver are not the same. You survived, and he didn't.” Her voice splintered.
“You need to come to terms with that, okay?”
When I didn't respond, she pinched my chin, forcing me to look at her.
“Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice turned cold. “I ignored this when you were a kid, but if you continue to use this poor boy as a coping mechanism, I will have no choice but to send you to a specialist.”
When Jem was taken away by paramedics, Aunt May held my hand, squeezing my fingers for dear life.
I caught her gaze scanning the tree's around us, delving into twisting oblivion. Every little noise sent her twisting around. She was looking for something.
“I'm going to get you help.” Aunt May said in a low murmur when we were back at the house. Jude was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging. I could feel his penetrating gaze burning into the back of my head.
Aunt May set a cup of cocoa on the table.
“No more fairytales.”
By the time I was eighteen, I had bitten three therapists.
They refused to believe that death was coming to reclaim my soul, and was using a dead boy to do his dirty work.
For my 16th birthday, I braced myself to come face to face with Wren Oliver’s ghost.
I wasn't even in town, staying at a friend's house.
But dead boys, and especially dead boys moulded into Death’s personal soldiers, could materialise anywhere.
I locked every door in the house, and taped up my friend’s window.
Nothing happened.
On my seventeenth birthday, I was sick in bed with gastritis.
Still no ghost boy.
Death seemed to have finally left me alone.
On my eighteenth birthday, I was stuffing books in my locker when my cousin popped up out of nowhere, scowling as usual. After an unexpected growth spurt and losing a tonne of baby fat, my cousin had scaled the high school hierarchy, swapping his weird experiments for a varsity jacket and experimenting with his sexuality.
The two of us had come to an unspoken truce.
I kept quiet about his spider collection to his popular friends, and he tolerated my existence until I left for college.
“Your surprise party is cancelled.”
Jude leaned against my locker, running a hand through thick dark hair tucked under a baseball cap. Jude never admitted it, but he was definitely embarrassed of being the odd one out.
My siblings may be dead, but they were still redheads.
I pulled off his cap with a smile, throwing it in his face. “Sure it is.”
My cousin’s eyes widened. He lost his slick bravado, grabbing for his cap.
“Hey!”
According to my cousin, my party was unexpectedly cancelled every year.
I wasn't sure if it was his weird superiority complex, or just plain jealousy, but it was getting exhausting.
Jude followed me down the hallway, matching my stride.
“Can you just not come home tonight?”
I quickened my pace. “It's only a party. I'm having some friends over, and no, we won't go anywhere near your room.”
“No, I mean.” Jude stepped in front of me, and for the first time in a while, he wasn't trying to hide disdain for me.
His dark eyes pinned me in place for a moment, the world around us coming to a halt. Sound bled away, and all I heard were his slow breaths. There was something there, an unexplainable twitch in his eyes and lips, that twisted my gut.
Jude stepped closer, his lip curling. He shoved me back, losing his facade.
“Stay the fuck away from the house tonight.” He said, and his voice, his tone, was enough to send shivers creeping down my spine. Jude had always hid behind a ten foot wall in his mind. It was jarring to see something in him finally start to splinter. Fuck. I thought.
This kid had serious Mommy issues.
I blinked, and the world resumed, kids pushing past us.
Jude seemed to catch himself, slipping back under his mask.
“I'm having friends over,” he rolled his eyes, “Your presence will ruin the vibe.”
“It's my birthday?”
He groaned, tipping his head back. “Yes, I know. But–”
“I think you can deal with the attention off of you for one night, Jude.”
“Will Wren Oliver be there too?” Jem Littlewood hollered.
Jude didn't respond for a moment, his lip curling.
“Shut the fuck up.” He spat at Jem, who immediately backed down. With an audience this time, Jude forced an award winning smile. “Fine.” His lips split into a grin I knew he hated. My cousin clamped his hand on my shoulder, hard enough to hurt. I could feel his fingers pinching the material of my jacket. “Have it your way, dude.”
Jude backed away with a two fingered salute.
“Happy 78th birthday!”
In a sense, I wish I listened to my cousin.
My party was a success, sort of.
Four of us, a crate of beers, and no sign of my cousin.
I was mildly tipsy, sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling my legs in the water when my friend demanded more beers.
I was also hungry for cake, so I stumbled inside in search of the goods.
The house was dark, lit up in dazzling blue from the pool's lights reflecting through the windows. Aunt May was in her office on the ground floor, and Jude was getting high in his room. In my drunken state, I found myself marvelling my aunt's house, and how much of it was left unexplored.
For example, in the foyer, past the spiral staircase she’d had custom made, was an elevator I had never questioned.
There was a girl my age standing on the staircase.
She was frozen, mid run, dressed in ragged jeans and t-shirt.
Everything about her stuck out to me, bringing me to a sobering halt.
The girl reminded me of my sister– or at least, if my sister had ever grown up.
I wasn't sure if I was drunk or hallucinating.
Her flower crown was pretty…
Lily had grown wings.
I was slowly moving towards her, a sudden bang sounding from the kitchen.
The bang of something shattering on the floor.
Twisting around, I found myself gravitating towards warm golden light.
The first thing I saw was the refrigerator door hanging open, and someone, no, something, rooting around inside it.
Glued to the spot, I dazedly watched them grab milk, guzzling it down, and then soda, cracking open each can and sucking them dry, before carving their fingers into my birthday cake.
But I wasn't looking at the spillage of food seeping across the floor. Instead, my gaze found a crown of antlers, both human and animal bone entangled with dead flowers and human remains glued to a head of familiar matted brown curls. There was something sticking from battered and bruised flesh, twin gaping slits sliced through a torn shirt resembling glass wings that were not yet formed, reminding me of a butterfly.
Wings.
But not the wings I dreamed of as a kid. These things were unnatural mounds that both did and didn't make sense on a human boy. I could see the trauma of them slicing through his flesh, monstrous, looming things protruding from what was left of a human spine.
Human, and yet I couldn't call his beautifully grotesque face human.
Wren Oliver had grown up with me, now an adult.
Eighteen years old.
His clothes confused me, a single white shirt and shorts.
Wren’s feet were bare, battered and bruised, blood smearing my aunt's tiles.
Angel.
Death had turned his footsoldier, and my future killer, into an angel.
But there was nothing angelic about the dead boy, his body and mind sculpted and moulded into Death’s own.
The boy no longer resembled a human, feral eyes and a manic smile, choking down pieces of cake. His face had been contorted into a monster, gnashing teeth and sharp points in his ears, a sickly tinge to malnourished skin.
And that's when it hit me, watching him stuff himself with food.
Something slimy inched its way up my throat.
The boy didn't move. I don't even think he'd noticed me, gorging himself on anything he could get his hands on.
Chicken, raw bacon, leftover salad.
When he moved onto cupcakes, licking frosting from his fingers, I glimpsed markings on his arms, a language I didn't understand, carved into him.
His wrists were shackled, bound, in entangled iron and vine, iron that was ingrained into his skin, vines and flowers and ivy entangling his bones, that were part of him, polluting his blood. Slowly, my eyes found stab wounds splitting open his torso.
Raw flesh, where his skin had been torched, melting, and then merging, ripped apart and put back together over and over again.
I found his heart, the gaping cavern in his chest where it should be.
And it was.
Marked, carved, and branded with a symbol resembling an X.
Wren Oliver was not dead.
But, just like me, he should have been.
I remember saying his name, my voice slurred slightly.
I didn't drink that much, but I could barely coerce words, my head spinning.
Wren’s neck snapped towards me, his eyes narrowing with resentment I couldn't understand, hatred that seemed to puppeteer him. Slowly tilting his head, the boy’s lips split into a grin, eyes filled, polluted, with mania.
I could see where his lips had been stitched shut, and then ripped open.
“Hi.”
He held up his hand in an awkward wave.
When one of my friends stumbled into the kitchen, Wren reacted on impulse.
He picked up a knife from the counter, throwing it like a dart, straight through the guy’s throat.
Something shattered inside my mind.
Ignoring my friend bleeding out, Wren stumbled over himself, abandoning his feast. He took a single step towards me, backing me against the wall, coming so close, close enough for me to feel his very real breath grazing my cheeks. Just like when he was a kid, he traced the teeth of his blade down my throat. I wasn't expecting him to burst out laughing, trembling with hysteria.
His eyes were wild, feral and wrong, almost euphoric.
With what all I could only recognise as relief.
BANG.
I was barely aware of the gunshot.
The bullet went straight through his head, the winged boy hitting the ground.
Dead.
I saw the blood stemming around him in a halo before the bleeding pool faltered, seeping back inside his head.
Like rewinding a VCR.
Wren was dead, and then he was alive.
Wren’s body contorted, his chest inflating.
His gasp for air was painful, strangled, eyes opening wide.
Terrified.
“You fucking idiot.”
Jude’s voice sent me twisting around.
My cousin stood in the exact same robes he wore as a child.
The world tipped off kilter, and I was on my knees, then my stomach.
I sunk to the floor, my thoughts swimming.
Jude’s murmur followed me, creeping into the dark.
“I told you not to come home.”
I can't remember how long I was unconscious for.
When I woke, I was dressed in an evening gown, a dress that used to be my mother’s.
My vision cleared, and I found myself sitting in an unfamiliar room resembling an abandoned swimming hall.
The pool itself was empty, the bottom stained revealing scarlet.
There were symbols carved into each tile.
Like a game.
“Sit up straight, Charlotte.”
I was sitting at a banquet.
Jude was in front of me, sipping on wine.
He caught my eye for half a second before averting his gaze.
At the far end of the table sat my aunt May.
Kissing the rim of her glass, her smile was twisted.
“I've been waiting so long to give you your birthday presents, Charlotte. Your memories should be returning soon.”
“Mom.” Jude muttered, hiding behind his glass. “Calm down. You're embarrassing yourself.”
Ignoring my cousin, May tapped her glass with a fork, and in walked my birthday presents.
No, dragged.
By their hair.
Wren Oliver, the dead boy, was in fact my aunt's prisoner.
Behind him, was the girl who looked so much like Lily.
I think that's why my aunt chose her.
Aunt May cleared her throat.
“For a long time, our family has lived among creatures who live in the forest you played inside. In exchange for keeping this town safe, they only ask for small favors. Wayward children who disappear into the woods are good enough payment. Charlie, you and your siblings do not share our inheritance. Your mother never wanted fae children. She wanted you to be human.”
Aunt May’s smile faded.
“After losing my sister, and my niece and nephew, I made a deal to give my last surviving niece 100 years of life.”
Her words were white noise, my gaze glued to my birthday presents. I couldn't call them human anymore.
I couldn't call Wren human, when his face was so beautifully grotesque, painfully hypnotising.
The monstrous things sticking from twin slits in his back were supposed to be wings, except they looked wrong, cruelly protruding from his exposed spine. Under the influence of alcohol earlier, the girl made me smile.
Her wings, to me, looked like one of a real fairy.
In reality, they were torn and shredded apart, bigger than the girl herself.
When she dropped onto her stomach, she was dragged back to her feet, her knees buckling under the weight. Her tiara of flowers and bone looked pretty to me when I saw her on the stairs.
Now, though, I could see the pearly white of a human child's skull forced onto her head, dead flowers threaded through cavernous, gaping eye sockets.
The two of them were violently shoved into the empty pool.
“Jude. Please demonstrate, sweetheart.”
Jude stood, pulling out a gun, and aiming it at the winged girl.
BANG.
The girl’s body hit the tiles, her blood seeping across stained white.
“Now, of course, our king did not give you life for free.” May continued.
“The King demanded a debt, as well as two heirs to join him in his court once your hundred years were complete.”
Her lips quirked into a smile.
“The king is smart. If a child cannot be stolen from the human world, they can, however, be made, moulded and shaped from their human forms, skinned of their humanity through their suffering, leaving a hollowed out shell in the child's place.” She was speaking so casually, ignoring Wren’s whimpers.
“The conversion takes a while. 100 years to birth a fully blooded fae heir, who will lose their human memories, in preparation to join their new family.”
Jude shot Wren in the chest, his eyes empty.
This time, he dropped his weapon, using finger-guns instead.
“Bang.” He deadpanned.
Then the neck.
I watched Wren come back to life, and then die.
Over and over again.
I think at one point, he screamed and cried.
But not now.
He was their puppet on display, dancing for their entertainment.
Half lidded eyes drowned in oblivion found mine, and I understood his hatred.
Before he was shot again.
Stabbed.
Branded and burned, and ripped apart.
At some point, I screamed at them to stop. I couldn't breathe, slamming my hands over my ears and begging them.
Aunt May didn't listen, ordering for my hands to be tied down.
“The King required two human sacrifices to suffer in your place.” She concluded. “For one hundred years.”
Aunt May’s smile was suddenly sad, and she lifted her glass in a toast.
I was watching their blood trickle down each tile in the pool, like every death, every time they suffered, my body became progressively less human.
I felt disgusting. I wasn't supposed to be alive. Every single year of my life, every breath I had taken, was stolen.
Aunt May nodded at me, her lips forming a proud smile. She stood up, and was handed a sacrificial knife.
Climbing into the swimming pool herself, she strode over to Wren.
The boy slumped to the floor, trembling, his knees against his chest.
Aunt May grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head up, and sliced the blade across his throat.
His eyes flicked to me, and I swore he smiled.
Spots of red dotted yellowing tiles, a river trickling under my aunt's heels.
“Happy 78th birthday, Charlotte.”
Last night ended with me being locked in my room.
It's been almost 15 hours, and the door is still locked. Please help me. I'm fucking terrified of what my aunt is planning.
I can't stop shgajing. FycjbfucibFUCK
If she is telling the truth, I shouldn't be here, right??
And I can't stop thinking.
Is Wren Oliver trying to kill me, or himself?