Sammie black and jenny hill
90's Hip Hop
2012.05.14 18:22 90's Hip Hop
A place to share '90s rap and hip-hop music.
2020.06.09 16:15 Lorddoener CHAZ: Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone discussion and updates
/CapHillAutonomousZone is the subreddit for the Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone or CHAZ (alternatively known as CHOP) located in Seattle, WA. CHAZ/CHOP was a police-free occupancy protest established in the wake of the global Black Lives Matters protests following the murder of George Floyd by police in May 2020. It had no central leadership and was open to to all as a place of culture, protest, and solidarity. ☂️
2013.02.25 01:36 SystemCrashOverRide Joe Hill
Everything to do with Joe Hill and his body of work as a horror author and graphic novel writer. News, rumors, and more.
2024.06.09 13:10 Prestigious_Base_510 (COMMENT⬇️) OnlyFans Ass OnlyFans Dick videos Homemade Furries plenty addict Blowjob Wet Full fantasy more and Ass on Deepthroat
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submitted by Prestigious_Base_510 to scorch_loop3163250 [link] [comments]
2024.06.09 12:40 teller_of_tall_tales Troublemakers: A field of Poppys
First: https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/14vo5lb/troublemakers_deaths_pity/
*previous:* https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/1d3yvie/troublemakers_parabellum/
......
Go'mon stormed through the castle corridors. He'd sensed something slip beside him during his encounter with the vampire lord. It wasn't just that damned top hat with the thief's prints. No, it was more subtle than that, it was the sound of a gossamer chain rattling against cloth. He scanned every square inch of the hallways as he walked, slowly twirling the Warhammer in his off-hand as he calmly held the pistol muzzle-up towards the ceiling. He'd barely gotten a glimpse of what almost looked like mist as he stomped through the grand halls with paranoia-fueled, seething anger. Abruptly turning a corner he fired the revolver at what he thought was that pesky invisible parasite.
The shimmer shuddered and he switched to the visible spectrum to find out it was just a tapestry in front of a heating vent.
Go'mon let out an enraged scream, tearing the tapestry apart with his bare hands after casting his weapons aside in a fit of rage and impotence. The visage of Monarch D'vinn looking out from the top of a bombed-out hill in battered armor at the shattered remains of the once human-occupied city, being shredded like single-ply latrine paper by go'mon's molecularly edged cybernetic claws. Having spent his rage on the tapestry, he panted dramatically as his heart pounded in its cask. Turning around he let out another furious scream, howling madly as he scanned the hall with thermals. His Hammer and revolver had disappeared without a trace.
The sudden blare of a Klaxon made him pause as he adjusted his armor, forcing himself to calm down as he examined his molecularly edged claws. The main enemy was at the gates, he should go meet them.
...
Cassius' Heart pounded as he took shallow breaths, Go'mon's backplate inches from his own chest as he held onto the Hammer and Pistol for dear life. As the general strutted outside, Cassius moved in perfect synchronization, his left leg rising with the general's before being placed down in sync. He'd been practicing for weeks with the security droids at the mansion, practicing to keep inches from their backs without touching their metal carapace. Now he strutted behind perhaps the second most powerful being he knew like a silent specter. As Go'mon slammed through a door, breaking it into splinters, Cassius lifted his right leg and rotated out of the way just as Go'mon's tail would've brushed against his Calf, giving him away. As the General strutted out into the middle of the courtyard, Cassius used the various straps attached to his gambeson to affix the weapons to his waist before grabbing his Kama and weighted chain from a small pouch at his belt.
Cassius tossed the weighted end of the chain over the wall of the castle after a short run-up, wrapping the gossamer chain around his hands with each rapid step he took up the wall. Reaching the top, he unhooked the weight from the small bar he'd tossed it around quickly disentangling his hands from the chain. He groped the air on the outside of the wall until he touched the enchanted ladder the Top-Hats had left him. Sliding down the ladder, he spotted Drake sitting astride Barney in the middle of the street. The rest were nowhere to be seen but that indeed was part of the plan. Sprinting over, Cassius leaped onto Barney behind Drake and slipped Go'mon's revolver into the empty holster at his belt. Drawing out no reaction save for a few words from Drake, who didn't turn his head lest he give the gambit away.
"Good work Cassius, Fall back and get a gas mask on. We still don't know what's in those canisters because they inked out the labels."
Cassius slipped off of Barney's back and slipped into a nearby building before De-cloaking as he pressed himself against the wall next to a Warmonger who passed him a spare gas mask. He pulled it on and checked the seal before sitting against the wall as his legs jellied beneath him. His mouth was dryer than the scrubland as he accepted a Volunteer's canteen, drinking heavily through a port in the mask as he rode out the adrenaline crash. He glanced over to where their fighters had pried open a sewer access hatch and were dropping in, the smell of sewage souring the air. A few warmongers closest to the opening had comically attached wooden clothesline clips to their noses.
...
Caz lay atop the second-tallest building in Golgatha, trash and debris piled up around her for camouflage ash she drew a bead on the strutting Go'mon. Her god-given eyes were able to see the purple miasma that rose from him like mercury vapors. She didn't even turn her head as she softly asked.
"Distance?"
The man with Heavy cybernetic augmentations pulled casually from a large pouch of grain alcohol, camera-lense eyes extending from his face as he chewed on a bullet thoughtfully. Slowly he stated.
"One thousand five hundred and sixty-seven meters, If you're keeping it under auto-ignition velocity, you should be able to hold it one mil above and..."
The sound of the bullet in his mouth getting chewed filled the air before he stated.
"Two mils right, wind fluctuates between us and the target, expect a half minute of angle deviation."
Caz adjusted her optic, bringing the point of aim directly onto her crosshairs. The man next to her had called himself "an Olympian" an old sect of bionically enhanced warriors from even before the betrayal wars. In the small amount of time she'd gotten to know the man, she'd found him palatable at the very least, soft-spoken with a touch of crazy, it was refreshing. She tried to ignore the artillery-sized rifle he laid behind, the barrel itself bigger around than a drainage pipe, a suppressor of equally massive size almost protruding over the edge of the building. She watched from the corner of his eye as he pulled the breech open to the side and selected a shell thicker and longer than her forearm with a fused tip. He rammed it into the gun with the same ease she loaded her flechettes with.
They both had different jobs despite sitting on the same roof. She'd take care of anything on two legs, and he'd handle anything that had an armored skin. From her vantage point, she watched as the Agri-bots moved into position, planting their artillery pieces against the ground in preparation to fire. They weren't using High explosives much to Remin and Destrier's chagrin, but with their attack plan, they couldn't risk collapsing the sewers. They were instead armed with a chemical weapon known as "CS Smoke" which would obscure visual sightlines for anyone with unaugmented vision. Lucky for her and the Olympian, that wouldn't be an issue with her clear-sight and his advanced optics. She slowly swiveled her focus onto Drake, keeping the center of the crosshair off him as she watched him.
Sitting astride Barney, Drake looked every bit the warrior he was. His dark helmet and armor were almost lost in the dark night. But the red shock of his Helm's mohawk could not be mistaken, glowing brightly against the darkness. As his palm came to rest on the pommel of his sword, she saw something entirely different for a moment.
A warrior in battered, rusty armor, the flesh falling from his bones as a pair of white lights gleamed behind the helmet. A skeletal hand held a rusty sword in its sheath, Its pale, emaciated steed's head hanging low, milky eyes soulless and empty.
But as soon as she saw it, the image faded and she swiveled her crosshairs onto the castle's inner courtyard. A small, dim red light blinked on the side of the Olympian's skull as the Geknosians organized into fighting lines. Hulking Geknosians in overbuilt power armor manned emplaced turrets and the looming Gas generators. A small feed from the Olympian's perspective overlaid itself on her scope before minimizing to one corner. She watched as his crosshair fell onto one of the two Gallicks. The horseshoe-shaped APCs presenting their bulk to the gate as a bulwark. Caz switched her aim to a heavily armored Geknosian, slowly dialing the small wheel on the forend of her rifle to half-power, just under auto-ignition velocity. The geknosian seemed to get uncomfortable as her crosshairs landed on his chest, fidgeting at the controls of their AA plasma Beam-cannon.
The moment the Agri-bots fired their artillery, she'd remove him from the gene pool and take that AA gun out of the fight so Destrier could get into position.
...
Destrier and Remin ran last-minute checks on the small fleet of two-wheeled land vehicles the Top Hats had called "Dirt bikes." The variable electric powerplant produced little to no noise, even now, powered on and ready to roll they didn't even humm. Stepping back, Destrier let the forearms of his power armor clamshell close as he retook the hand controls. Contrary to popular belief, the hands of power armor weren't at all like gloves. A handle with a pressure sensor for each finger was clasped in his hands, allowing him to manipulate the hands of the armor like his own. Destrier turned his head, helmet whirring on its bearing as he watched Remin mount one of the Dirtbikes, the black scimitar strapped to the suspension of the bike within arm's reach. The old man's Mongolian lamellar draped over either side of the bike like fabric, small metal plates clinking and clattering softly as he pulled his fabric-wrapped helmet back on. Destrier clomped over, hardly noticing the backpack with over two hundred rounds of 13x110 mm HEP.
Remin looked up with a grin and met Destrier's arm halfway in a forearm-gripping handshake, their metal hands clanking together as they slid their arms back into a grip around the base of each other's thumbs, then to a normal handshake before waggling their fingers at each other.
Destrier chuckled softly and looked up at the sky, night vision lenses making it appear stuffed to bursting with stars.
"What's on the black samurai's mind?"
Remin asked softly, head tilted back to also look at the stars between the rooftops.
"Well... I'm looking forward to the fighting to finally being over... Maybe I'll finally be able to settle down and invent something with Martha..."
Remin chuckled softly.
"A noble goal... I'd expect nothing less from you Destri... I'm actually hoping to catch a ride back to human-controlled space. I'm too old for this shit, I want to settle down and live out the last years of my life in peace..."
Destrier nodded in agreement, slowly turning his gaze back to the helicopter, blades slowly turning in preparation for takeoff.
"How old are you Remin? I don't think I ever asked."
The old man paused, thinking for a long time.
"Oh... I'd say I've made it past a century at this point. Got a cybernetic heart when I was a kid thanks to a car accident, Ol' things been keeping me going far past when I shoulda dropped."
Destrier nods and laughs softly.
"Damn, and I thought you were only in your fifties."
Remin laughed in agreeance, setting his hands on the handlebars.
"I don't blame ya, I feel like it. Especially now that my legs aren't filled with creaky arthritis."
Destrier sighed softly, gently punching the old man's shoulder as softly as he could in his power armor.
"See you on the other side old man... whether that be the living side or the dead one."
"Here's to hoping it's the former not the latter."
Destrier chuckled his agreement and boarded the helicopter, making the landing gear compress slightly as he put his weight on the flight deck. Unhooking the feed chain from the side of the backpack, he clipped it into the Ma-deuce's feed chute. It whirred as the heavy cartridges were funneled down the chain and into the gun with a click and a clatter.
...
Barney shifted from one leg to the other beneath Drake, Death's chosen reaching down and gently patting his neck fondly as he softly whispered.
"Just a moment longer boy... There's someone I need to talk to."
Drake closed his eyes, letting the Darkness envelop him for a moment before opening them again.
He looked at Death, who was casually swirling a glass of black bourbon thoughtfully.
"You said you wanted to talk to me right before the battle?"
Death nodded and slid the glass of black bourbon his way.
"I did, I want you to drink this before you go into battle."
Drake picked up the glass, inspecting the pitch-black, inky liquid curiously. Before sniffing it and coughing as his eyes water.
"No offense, But I think something died in your liquor bottle."
Death laughed jovially, pouring his own glass from a red crystal decanter.
"That's because this is made from the blood of my predecessor. I thought i might as well get it out of the way."
Drake suspiciously looked at the glass.
"Okay, what happens when I drink it?"
Death paused, slowly swirling his own glass of black bourbon pensively. Then, he slowly knocked his own back, eyes dilating wide before returning to normal.
"Well, It should allow you to control your power, bypassing the decades of training most need."
Drake gave Death a side eye, sniffing the foul drink one more time asking.
"What's the catch?"
Death frowned, then set his glass down.
"Considering that it's going to completely restructure your magical and circulatory pathways. It's going to hurt like nothing you've ever felt before. It also may or may not bind your guardians to your soul."
Drake's head snapped up.
"Guardians... you mean my parents?"
Death nodded softly.
"Guardians, souls that loved someone so much that they remained on after death to watch over them. Your parents loved you... loved you enough to stand by your side even in death... and before you give me some bullshit about this not being what your parents would want... Remember, they'll always be at your side until you die one way or another."
Drake slowly swirled the bourbon before nodding softly, bringing it to his lips, he downed it in a single gulp. It burned on its way down, the tingling feeling intensely spreading throughout his body and to his fingertips in a moment. His nerves burned, and his very being felt as though it was being scalded by burning hot water. But as he set the glass down on Death's desk, he smiled softly. There was a warmth to the pain, like a cold rag against a feverish forehead. The sting of a garlic poultice applied to a fresh whip-wound. It was the crack of his father's wooden sword against his knuckles during their sparring, the sweat that would drip into his eyes on long evenings working the fields. Drake opened his eyes slowly, no longer sitting in Death's office, but his own soulscape, looking at the long-neglected buildings halfway through construction. But he wasn't alone.
Drake smiled at his mother and father. His mother gave him a soft smile as she touched the scar across his face, the wound in his cheek where a gauss slug had torn it open, then, she took his hand to gently touch the scarred wound where Garravan's knife had pierced his hand. His father just sat cross-legged, drinking a stout mug of scrub tree tea with a proud smile on his face. drake looked between them before holding out his hands.
As his parents took them, they dissolved into motes of light that drifted into his chest. His veins burned, and his eyes and nose bled. His entire existence felt like a blistering inferno as the ground of his soulscape rumbled, small, red flowers the color of blood and the shape of gunshot wounds popping up from the ground. But even as the pain grew, and grew, and grew, He found himself simply laughing, grabbing what felt like an invisible pair of chains and pulling up on them as he stood.
The ground erupted in the middle of his soulscape, a massive, gnarled oak tree sprouting from the ground. Its sturdy trunk protecting a small patch of pink carnations interspersed with curly-petaled white Gardenias. Drake felt something form atop his head and reached up, feeling a thorny crown, he gently pulled it off, looking at the black-petaled roses fondly before returning it to his head. The thorny veins grew down from the crown, snaking their way deep into his flesh only to bloom into what felt like new muscles and tendons that weren't attached to his physical strength. Looking at his upturned palms, he curled his fingers, a steady, smokeless pale flame popping into existence in his palm with next to no effort.
As the pain subsided, Drake closed his eyes, relishing its departure before opening them to the shocked and concerned face of Death. Drake gave him a curious look and Death coughed softly as he composed himself before speaking.
"Look, I know I can hide pain well... But that smile you get when you're hurting is capital C Creepy."
Drake touched his grinning face with a soft laugh, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose.
"Well, guess I can add that to my achievements list, Creeping Death out with a smile."
They both chuckled softly at the joke before Death sighed softly.
"You should get back to them, they're almost ready."
Drake nodded and stood, stepping over to the door.
"Wish me luck."
"Good luck, my Champion. Give them hell."
Drake smiled softly and stepped out the door. When he opened his eyes, he was back in the real world, staring up at Go'mon who'd perched himself atop the castle wall, eyeing Drake hungrily.
Giving Go'mon his signature grin, He reached up and depressed a countersunk button on the side of his helmet.
"Hit 'em"
Drake stated, the sound of artillery rocking the city as Go'mon's hungry look quickly turned to rage. There was a loud, screeching whistle as the artillery shells streaked in, blanketing the area in stinging fog. Drake drew his sword, extending thorned vines of power into it as the blade ignited with pale flames. Barney snuffled excitedly and roared as Drake nudged him forward, the Dinosaur leaping over the wall in a single bound. The final battle for Golgatha had begun, after this, they would either be free...
Or they will have died free.
......
Part 112: will be linked here upon completion.
submitted by teller_of_tall_tales to HFY [link] [comments]
*previous:* https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/1d3yvie/troublemakers_parabellum/
......
Go'mon stormed through the castle corridors. He'd sensed something slip beside him during his encounter with the vampire lord. It wasn't just that damned top hat with the thief's prints. No, it was more subtle than that, it was the sound of a gossamer chain rattling against cloth. He scanned every square inch of the hallways as he walked, slowly twirling the Warhammer in his off-hand as he calmly held the pistol muzzle-up towards the ceiling. He'd barely gotten a glimpse of what almost looked like mist as he stomped through the grand halls with paranoia-fueled, seething anger. Abruptly turning a corner he fired the revolver at what he thought was that pesky invisible parasite.
The shimmer shuddered and he switched to the visible spectrum to find out it was just a tapestry in front of a heating vent.
Go'mon let out an enraged scream, tearing the tapestry apart with his bare hands after casting his weapons aside in a fit of rage and impotence. The visage of Monarch D'vinn looking out from the top of a bombed-out hill in battered armor at the shattered remains of the once human-occupied city, being shredded like single-ply latrine paper by go'mon's molecularly edged cybernetic claws. Having spent his rage on the tapestry, he panted dramatically as his heart pounded in its cask. Turning around he let out another furious scream, howling madly as he scanned the hall with thermals. His Hammer and revolver had disappeared without a trace.
The sudden blare of a Klaxon made him pause as he adjusted his armor, forcing himself to calm down as he examined his molecularly edged claws. The main enemy was at the gates, he should go meet them.
...
Cassius' Heart pounded as he took shallow breaths, Go'mon's backplate inches from his own chest as he held onto the Hammer and Pistol for dear life. As the general strutted outside, Cassius moved in perfect synchronization, his left leg rising with the general's before being placed down in sync. He'd been practicing for weeks with the security droids at the mansion, practicing to keep inches from their backs without touching their metal carapace. Now he strutted behind perhaps the second most powerful being he knew like a silent specter. As Go'mon slammed through a door, breaking it into splinters, Cassius lifted his right leg and rotated out of the way just as Go'mon's tail would've brushed against his Calf, giving him away. As the General strutted out into the middle of the courtyard, Cassius used the various straps attached to his gambeson to affix the weapons to his waist before grabbing his Kama and weighted chain from a small pouch at his belt.
Cassius tossed the weighted end of the chain over the wall of the castle after a short run-up, wrapping the gossamer chain around his hands with each rapid step he took up the wall. Reaching the top, he unhooked the weight from the small bar he'd tossed it around quickly disentangling his hands from the chain. He groped the air on the outside of the wall until he touched the enchanted ladder the Top-Hats had left him. Sliding down the ladder, he spotted Drake sitting astride Barney in the middle of the street. The rest were nowhere to be seen but that indeed was part of the plan. Sprinting over, Cassius leaped onto Barney behind Drake and slipped Go'mon's revolver into the empty holster at his belt. Drawing out no reaction save for a few words from Drake, who didn't turn his head lest he give the gambit away.
"Good work Cassius, Fall back and get a gas mask on. We still don't know what's in those canisters because they inked out the labels."
Cassius slipped off of Barney's back and slipped into a nearby building before De-cloaking as he pressed himself against the wall next to a Warmonger who passed him a spare gas mask. He pulled it on and checked the seal before sitting against the wall as his legs jellied beneath him. His mouth was dryer than the scrubland as he accepted a Volunteer's canteen, drinking heavily through a port in the mask as he rode out the adrenaline crash. He glanced over to where their fighters had pried open a sewer access hatch and were dropping in, the smell of sewage souring the air. A few warmongers closest to the opening had comically attached wooden clothesline clips to their noses.
...
Caz lay atop the second-tallest building in Golgatha, trash and debris piled up around her for camouflage ash she drew a bead on the strutting Go'mon. Her god-given eyes were able to see the purple miasma that rose from him like mercury vapors. She didn't even turn her head as she softly asked.
"Distance?"
The man with Heavy cybernetic augmentations pulled casually from a large pouch of grain alcohol, camera-lense eyes extending from his face as he chewed on a bullet thoughtfully. Slowly he stated.
"One thousand five hundred and sixty-seven meters, If you're keeping it under auto-ignition velocity, you should be able to hold it one mil above and..."
The sound of the bullet in his mouth getting chewed filled the air before he stated.
"Two mils right, wind fluctuates between us and the target, expect a half minute of angle deviation."
Caz adjusted her optic, bringing the point of aim directly onto her crosshairs. The man next to her had called himself "an Olympian" an old sect of bionically enhanced warriors from even before the betrayal wars. In the small amount of time she'd gotten to know the man, she'd found him palatable at the very least, soft-spoken with a touch of crazy, it was refreshing. She tried to ignore the artillery-sized rifle he laid behind, the barrel itself bigger around than a drainage pipe, a suppressor of equally massive size almost protruding over the edge of the building. She watched from the corner of his eye as he pulled the breech open to the side and selected a shell thicker and longer than her forearm with a fused tip. He rammed it into the gun with the same ease she loaded her flechettes with.
They both had different jobs despite sitting on the same roof. She'd take care of anything on two legs, and he'd handle anything that had an armored skin. From her vantage point, she watched as the Agri-bots moved into position, planting their artillery pieces against the ground in preparation to fire. They weren't using High explosives much to Remin and Destrier's chagrin, but with their attack plan, they couldn't risk collapsing the sewers. They were instead armed with a chemical weapon known as "CS Smoke" which would obscure visual sightlines for anyone with unaugmented vision. Lucky for her and the Olympian, that wouldn't be an issue with her clear-sight and his advanced optics. She slowly swiveled her focus onto Drake, keeping the center of the crosshair off him as she watched him.
Sitting astride Barney, Drake looked every bit the warrior he was. His dark helmet and armor were almost lost in the dark night. But the red shock of his Helm's mohawk could not be mistaken, glowing brightly against the darkness. As his palm came to rest on the pommel of his sword, she saw something entirely different for a moment.
A warrior in battered, rusty armor, the flesh falling from his bones as a pair of white lights gleamed behind the helmet. A skeletal hand held a rusty sword in its sheath, Its pale, emaciated steed's head hanging low, milky eyes soulless and empty.
But as soon as she saw it, the image faded and she swiveled her crosshairs onto the castle's inner courtyard. A small, dim red light blinked on the side of the Olympian's skull as the Geknosians organized into fighting lines. Hulking Geknosians in overbuilt power armor manned emplaced turrets and the looming Gas generators. A small feed from the Olympian's perspective overlaid itself on her scope before minimizing to one corner. She watched as his crosshair fell onto one of the two Gallicks. The horseshoe-shaped APCs presenting their bulk to the gate as a bulwark. Caz switched her aim to a heavily armored Geknosian, slowly dialing the small wheel on the forend of her rifle to half-power, just under auto-ignition velocity. The geknosian seemed to get uncomfortable as her crosshairs landed on his chest, fidgeting at the controls of their AA plasma Beam-cannon.
The moment the Agri-bots fired their artillery, she'd remove him from the gene pool and take that AA gun out of the fight so Destrier could get into position.
...
Destrier and Remin ran last-minute checks on the small fleet of two-wheeled land vehicles the Top Hats had called "Dirt bikes." The variable electric powerplant produced little to no noise, even now, powered on and ready to roll they didn't even humm. Stepping back, Destrier let the forearms of his power armor clamshell close as he retook the hand controls. Contrary to popular belief, the hands of power armor weren't at all like gloves. A handle with a pressure sensor for each finger was clasped in his hands, allowing him to manipulate the hands of the armor like his own. Destrier turned his head, helmet whirring on its bearing as he watched Remin mount one of the Dirtbikes, the black scimitar strapped to the suspension of the bike within arm's reach. The old man's Mongolian lamellar draped over either side of the bike like fabric, small metal plates clinking and clattering softly as he pulled his fabric-wrapped helmet back on. Destrier clomped over, hardly noticing the backpack with over two hundred rounds of 13x110 mm HEP.
Remin looked up with a grin and met Destrier's arm halfway in a forearm-gripping handshake, their metal hands clanking together as they slid their arms back into a grip around the base of each other's thumbs, then to a normal handshake before waggling their fingers at each other.
Destrier chuckled softly and looked up at the sky, night vision lenses making it appear stuffed to bursting with stars.
"What's on the black samurai's mind?"
Remin asked softly, head tilted back to also look at the stars between the rooftops.
"Well... I'm looking forward to the fighting to finally being over... Maybe I'll finally be able to settle down and invent something with Martha..."
Remin chuckled softly.
"A noble goal... I'd expect nothing less from you Destri... I'm actually hoping to catch a ride back to human-controlled space. I'm too old for this shit, I want to settle down and live out the last years of my life in peace..."
Destrier nodded in agreement, slowly turning his gaze back to the helicopter, blades slowly turning in preparation for takeoff.
"How old are you Remin? I don't think I ever asked."
The old man paused, thinking for a long time.
"Oh... I'd say I've made it past a century at this point. Got a cybernetic heart when I was a kid thanks to a car accident, Ol' things been keeping me going far past when I shoulda dropped."
Destrier nods and laughs softly.
"Damn, and I thought you were only in your fifties."
Remin laughed in agreeance, setting his hands on the handlebars.
"I don't blame ya, I feel like it. Especially now that my legs aren't filled with creaky arthritis."
Destrier sighed softly, gently punching the old man's shoulder as softly as he could in his power armor.
"See you on the other side old man... whether that be the living side or the dead one."
"Here's to hoping it's the former not the latter."
Destrier chuckled his agreement and boarded the helicopter, making the landing gear compress slightly as he put his weight on the flight deck. Unhooking the feed chain from the side of the backpack, he clipped it into the Ma-deuce's feed chute. It whirred as the heavy cartridges were funneled down the chain and into the gun with a click and a clatter.
...
Barney shifted from one leg to the other beneath Drake, Death's chosen reaching down and gently patting his neck fondly as he softly whispered.
"Just a moment longer boy... There's someone I need to talk to."
Drake closed his eyes, letting the Darkness envelop him for a moment before opening them again.
He looked at Death, who was casually swirling a glass of black bourbon thoughtfully.
"You said you wanted to talk to me right before the battle?"
Death nodded and slid the glass of black bourbon his way.
"I did, I want you to drink this before you go into battle."
Drake picked up the glass, inspecting the pitch-black, inky liquid curiously. Before sniffing it and coughing as his eyes water.
"No offense, But I think something died in your liquor bottle."
Death laughed jovially, pouring his own glass from a red crystal decanter.
"That's because this is made from the blood of my predecessor. I thought i might as well get it out of the way."
Drake suspiciously looked at the glass.
"Okay, what happens when I drink it?"
Death paused, slowly swirling his own glass of black bourbon pensively. Then, he slowly knocked his own back, eyes dilating wide before returning to normal.
"Well, It should allow you to control your power, bypassing the decades of training most need."
Drake gave Death a side eye, sniffing the foul drink one more time asking.
"What's the catch?"
Death frowned, then set his glass down.
"Considering that it's going to completely restructure your magical and circulatory pathways. It's going to hurt like nothing you've ever felt before. It also may or may not bind your guardians to your soul."
Drake's head snapped up.
"Guardians... you mean my parents?"
Death nodded softly.
"Guardians, souls that loved someone so much that they remained on after death to watch over them. Your parents loved you... loved you enough to stand by your side even in death... and before you give me some bullshit about this not being what your parents would want... Remember, they'll always be at your side until you die one way or another."
Drake slowly swirled the bourbon before nodding softly, bringing it to his lips, he downed it in a single gulp. It burned on its way down, the tingling feeling intensely spreading throughout his body and to his fingertips in a moment. His nerves burned, and his very being felt as though it was being scalded by burning hot water. But as he set the glass down on Death's desk, he smiled softly. There was a warmth to the pain, like a cold rag against a feverish forehead. The sting of a garlic poultice applied to a fresh whip-wound. It was the crack of his father's wooden sword against his knuckles during their sparring, the sweat that would drip into his eyes on long evenings working the fields. Drake opened his eyes slowly, no longer sitting in Death's office, but his own soulscape, looking at the long-neglected buildings halfway through construction. But he wasn't alone.
Drake smiled at his mother and father. His mother gave him a soft smile as she touched the scar across his face, the wound in his cheek where a gauss slug had torn it open, then, she took his hand to gently touch the scarred wound where Garravan's knife had pierced his hand. His father just sat cross-legged, drinking a stout mug of scrub tree tea with a proud smile on his face. drake looked between them before holding out his hands.
As his parents took them, they dissolved into motes of light that drifted into his chest. His veins burned, and his eyes and nose bled. His entire existence felt like a blistering inferno as the ground of his soulscape rumbled, small, red flowers the color of blood and the shape of gunshot wounds popping up from the ground. But even as the pain grew, and grew, and grew, He found himself simply laughing, grabbing what felt like an invisible pair of chains and pulling up on them as he stood.
The ground erupted in the middle of his soulscape, a massive, gnarled oak tree sprouting from the ground. Its sturdy trunk protecting a small patch of pink carnations interspersed with curly-petaled white Gardenias. Drake felt something form atop his head and reached up, feeling a thorny crown, he gently pulled it off, looking at the black-petaled roses fondly before returning it to his head. The thorny veins grew down from the crown, snaking their way deep into his flesh only to bloom into what felt like new muscles and tendons that weren't attached to his physical strength. Looking at his upturned palms, he curled his fingers, a steady, smokeless pale flame popping into existence in his palm with next to no effort.
As the pain subsided, Drake closed his eyes, relishing its departure before opening them to the shocked and concerned face of Death. Drake gave him a curious look and Death coughed softly as he composed himself before speaking.
"Look, I know I can hide pain well... But that smile you get when you're hurting is capital C Creepy."
Drake touched his grinning face with a soft laugh, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose.
"Well, guess I can add that to my achievements list, Creeping Death out with a smile."
They both chuckled softly at the joke before Death sighed softly.
"You should get back to them, they're almost ready."
Drake nodded and stood, stepping over to the door.
"Wish me luck."
"Good luck, my Champion. Give them hell."
Drake smiled softly and stepped out the door. When he opened his eyes, he was back in the real world, staring up at Go'mon who'd perched himself atop the castle wall, eyeing Drake hungrily.
Giving Go'mon his signature grin, He reached up and depressed a countersunk button on the side of his helmet.
"Hit 'em"
Drake stated, the sound of artillery rocking the city as Go'mon's hungry look quickly turned to rage. There was a loud, screeching whistle as the artillery shells streaked in, blanketing the area in stinging fog. Drake drew his sword, extending thorned vines of power into it as the blade ignited with pale flames. Barney snuffled excitedly and roared as Drake nudged him forward, the Dinosaur leaping over the wall in a single bound. The final battle for Golgatha had begun, after this, they would either be free...
Or they will have died free.
......
Part 112: will be linked here upon completion.
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submitted by Alternative_Rush_359 to bake_fiddle8099475 [link] [comments]
2024.06.09 11:24 FlashyGroup8964 My sister's small dog almost got taken away by a bird.
A black bird almost snatched up my sister's dog. he's about 5-7 pound Maltese dog. He's small and light. Luckily a friend saw it happen and picked up the dog just in time. We don't know if it was a crow or hawk. Not sure. It happened fast and flew over the roof of our house so he couldn't identify it. . Has anyone heard of small dogs getting snatched up from a bird, or what we should look out here in El Dorado Hills?
submitted by FlashyGroup8964 to ElDoradoHills [link] [comments]
2024.06.09 11:10 Strict-Can-9473 (COMMENT⬇️) Ass Sarabxby, Wet Blowjob OnlyFans Ass ✨ Big Furrys Dragons plenty Tattoos BBC OnlyFans videos Onlyfans slut Tits
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submitted by Strict-Can-9473 to smolder_strike3477192 [link] [comments]
2024.06.09 11:09 bl00dien0mn0mz I was kissed drunk and I liked it, but we're both in relationships
This week I went up to my brother's best friend's ranch with my brother, in hopes that I would keep his friend (lets call him Chris)'s girlfriend of 5 years(Darla) company as shes completely isolated. We were originally just supposed to stay one or two nights, get absolutely slammed and faded those nights, then go home. We ended up staying for almost a week.
The first 2 nights were nice, We would do farm chores, Chris would ask me to go smoke w him at noon, my brother would get blackout drunk, Chris and I would make fun of him and record him while Darla slept, then in the morning my brother, Chris, and I woukd watch Baki until Darla woke up. On the 3rd night, Chris showed me how to ride some of the heavy equipment and feed the animals, and after having driven out to god knows where on some private road and getting drunk, we all came home and Chris and I went out to get food as we had just taken dabs 30min prior, our first time being actually fully alone.
On the 4th morning, thursday morning, during our usual wake-and-bake Baki binge, I noticed Chris kept looking at me when I wasn't watchjng the screen, he was sitting much closer, and even made an almost flirty joke as I was trying to touch up my makeup.
That night Darla suggested we all go out to this private abandoned lake and hang out, so we packed the truck stock full of blunts and wine and other vices and drove out.
Turned out there was a pretty steep climb down to the lake from where we parked that Darla couldnt quite handle right, so I helped her the entire way down, holding her hand when she was scared, and even carrying her, but Chris only ever offered to help me.
When we got to the lake Chris would offer me drinks by holding them to my mouth and letting me drink as he held the bottle/can; he would ask me first to pass a blunt or drink; he even kept showing me the cool snail shells he found.
He barely talked to Darla, and she smoked for the very first time that night.
When we got back up to the truck, just before the sun began to set, Chris picked me up and sat me next to him on the truck roof when Darla was upset about something in the passenger seat.
You see, Chris and Darla had been fighting the entire time we had visited. Something always upset her, something always meant he didn't love her. He was so clearly stressed. On the roof of that truck, he told me all their problems. How she doesn't listen when he tries to talk, how the relationship feels stagnant, how she spends the money he doesn't have, how she doesn't reach out or talk to anyone but him, how he thinks the view is so pretty and the drinks are so good but he doesn't know what else to do.
After that, we decided to head home.
Mid-drive home, he pulled over and asked me to go out with him to the nearby hill to look at the sunset. I was too tipsy to walk and my outfit was too delicate and he didnt want it to ruin, so he carried me down. My brother, clearly black-out drunk at this point, didnt get the hint, so we had to keep sending him back to get us drinks that we didnt drink. Between these drinks, Chris confessed to me that he was so attracted to me and that terrified him and he cried. He told me he had been trying to make moves on me each night and felt so guilty. He told me the outfits I'd wear would drive him crazy. He told me he felt like he could confide in me. I told him I liked him back.
The problem is, I also have a partner. We're LDR and have never met IRL (dated 6 months). There was seemingly always a reason for him to not come by, either he didn't want to, or was scared, or didn't have the time despite making plans to stop by prior that I consistantly offer to pay in full for. I felt like I could never bring up an issue eithout it turning into him telling me we should probably just break up because he has issues. I couldn't set boundaries, either he'd tell me I was his only support system when I'd say if I couldn't handle his venting ATM but I could later, or he'd coerce me out of sexual boundaries by pouting or repeatedly begging me. He never showed me he cared about me unless he was insecure or horny. He was always mad at me over the slightest things, too. Me apologizing, annoying. Me talking to him st the wrong time, frustrating. Me talking about my friends, jealous. Me needing him to elaborate or reword something because I genuinely couldnt understand him, too much. I didn't feel loved. I felt more like a beat dog than anything human.
As we drove back for the final time, Darla and Chris had practically scream fought the entire time (I was in the bed of the truck so I couldn't hear anything of substance).
When we got back home, Darla kept bringing out more drinks and even took a small dab.
Chris and I stepped out for a moment to grab something from my brother's car (plus I was nauseaous from all the drinks and need air). He kissed me. I didn't expect it, but I didn't stop it. I hate it, but I loved it. So much. He hugged me and asked if I was okay. He kissed me again and we headed back inside. By then, Darla was vomitting and crying for Chris to help her and hold her hair back, but he couldn't be near her without feeling sick, so I went down to help her and he sat next me the entire time. He didn't touch her, even when she said she needed him. I just held her hair and rubbed her back and arm.
She lingered downstair when she was done, and Chris and I went back upstairs to watch a movie. He kept rubbing my leg as I sat on the floor by his bench.
Apparently, she always does this. She expects him to listen and fix all her problems, but drinks like a fish anytime he needs to bring up an issue and cries for him to take care of her. It was fairly evident they really only really got along when they're both passionately drunk. He was so done but he still loved her so much.
They had an arguement, he confronted her about her behavior, she wouldn't listen, so he just took her to their room to hopefully discuss this when shes sober. After sitting in silence for a bit, Chris and I headed out for a walk at around 2 am.
We mustve walked for at least a mile or two when we found a place to sit down and chat. He held me in his arms. He rubbed my back and pressed me close into him. We talked about what we wanted for our futures, what was so wrong about our relationships, our issues, what we found so attractive about each other, and any random bullshit. We kissed, we madeout, he cried, but we both agreed this could never be sexual. It was too pure, despite the circumstances. He told me that, if his future ever involved me, he'd want to get to know me first, platonically or not. He told me that even if we don't become anything, he wants me to break up with my bf because he doesn't think I deserve how I'm treated. He told me he doesn't know what I see in him. He asked me when last I'd been properly held.
Nobody had ever looked at me like that. Nobody had ever held me like that. I don't think I've ever even had just a conversation that nice before. I hadn't been touched in almost a year. Despite our different views, we got along so well in humor, conversation, wishes for our futures, and of course physical chemistry. It was all so.. nice.
It terrified me.
We got back to the house at 4am, we smoked some dabs, he hugged me so tight I could feel the tears soak my shirt and his heavy breathing, he showed me old photos and videos he was embarrassed about, and we went to sleep in our respective beds.
That morning yesterday he slept in twice as long as usual, he was distant and clearly tired. he wasnt avoiding me, but it wasnt the same. Not to mention, him and Darla seemed closer than ever. I basically spent my entire day avoiding his eye contact, smoking, and crying in my brother's car waiting for us to head out.
I honestly don't know what else I expected.
I got his number from my brother as he drove and I apologized to him for what I did to him. I apologized for taking advantage of him like that. He told me I shouldn't blame myself and I'm welcome back whenever, but he just couldn't live with himself right now.
Today, I told my boyfriend everything and told him I think we should break up.
I realized, admittedly partially because of Chris, that while I still love my bf so much, I just can't do this anymore. I still care about him with my entire sould, but I still have so much untreated trauma and mental issues I need to work through, and being in a relationship is just making it all worse.
As soon as I told him, he pulled out every line in the book. He compared me to his mom's drinking and cheating. He told me he still sleeps with the stuffed animal I gave him months ago. He told me he can change and that he can help me with my recovery. He told me he wrote a poem for me. He told me that that's 'not the real him'. He's said I love you more than he has in the entire relationship just today. He keeps begging me to say I still love him and that everything will be okay, and I can't stand any of it anymore. I do still love him so much, and I offered to wait until my next therapy appointment in a day to officially break up, but I just want it to be over. I can't be his onky friend, I can't be his 24/7 booty call, I can't be his punching bag when he's pissed.
Chris and I are probably never going to happen and he'll probably marry Darla in the end. My bf will block me and I'll end up back to where I was before.
I don't know what happened, but I fucked up so bad. I don't cheat, I never drink with people, I don't do these things. I hurt so many people and I don't know how I'll live with myself. I don't know how I'll stay alive.
Darla didn't deserve this, Chris didn't deserve this, and my bf didn't deserve this, yet here we are.
I honestly I think i just need this all to be out of my head and into the world so I can finally start to breathe again.
I'm so sorry for the whole novel TL;DR↓
My relationship makes me feel helpless. I got drunk with my brother's friend with relationship problems, too. He kissed me 3 times and I liked it but he regrets it. I'm trying to break up with my bf but I don't know what to do with my life after this all.
submitted by bl00dien0mn0mz to offmychest [link] [comments]
The first 2 nights were nice, We would do farm chores, Chris would ask me to go smoke w him at noon, my brother would get blackout drunk, Chris and I would make fun of him and record him while Darla slept, then in the morning my brother, Chris, and I woukd watch Baki until Darla woke up. On the 3rd night, Chris showed me how to ride some of the heavy equipment and feed the animals, and after having driven out to god knows where on some private road and getting drunk, we all came home and Chris and I went out to get food as we had just taken dabs 30min prior, our first time being actually fully alone.
On the 4th morning, thursday morning, during our usual wake-and-bake Baki binge, I noticed Chris kept looking at me when I wasn't watchjng the screen, he was sitting much closer, and even made an almost flirty joke as I was trying to touch up my makeup.
That night Darla suggested we all go out to this private abandoned lake and hang out, so we packed the truck stock full of blunts and wine and other vices and drove out.
Turned out there was a pretty steep climb down to the lake from where we parked that Darla couldnt quite handle right, so I helped her the entire way down, holding her hand when she was scared, and even carrying her, but Chris only ever offered to help me.
When we got to the lake Chris would offer me drinks by holding them to my mouth and letting me drink as he held the bottle/can; he would ask me first to pass a blunt or drink; he even kept showing me the cool snail shells he found.
He barely talked to Darla, and she smoked for the very first time that night.
When we got back up to the truck, just before the sun began to set, Chris picked me up and sat me next to him on the truck roof when Darla was upset about something in the passenger seat.
You see, Chris and Darla had been fighting the entire time we had visited. Something always upset her, something always meant he didn't love her. He was so clearly stressed. On the roof of that truck, he told me all their problems. How she doesn't listen when he tries to talk, how the relationship feels stagnant, how she spends the money he doesn't have, how she doesn't reach out or talk to anyone but him, how he thinks the view is so pretty and the drinks are so good but he doesn't know what else to do.
After that, we decided to head home.
Mid-drive home, he pulled over and asked me to go out with him to the nearby hill to look at the sunset. I was too tipsy to walk and my outfit was too delicate and he didnt want it to ruin, so he carried me down. My brother, clearly black-out drunk at this point, didnt get the hint, so we had to keep sending him back to get us drinks that we didnt drink. Between these drinks, Chris confessed to me that he was so attracted to me and that terrified him and he cried. He told me he had been trying to make moves on me each night and felt so guilty. He told me the outfits I'd wear would drive him crazy. He told me he felt like he could confide in me. I told him I liked him back.
The problem is, I also have a partner. We're LDR and have never met IRL (dated 6 months). There was seemingly always a reason for him to not come by, either he didn't want to, or was scared, or didn't have the time despite making plans to stop by prior that I consistantly offer to pay in full for. I felt like I could never bring up an issue eithout it turning into him telling me we should probably just break up because he has issues. I couldn't set boundaries, either he'd tell me I was his only support system when I'd say if I couldn't handle his venting ATM but I could later, or he'd coerce me out of sexual boundaries by pouting or repeatedly begging me. He never showed me he cared about me unless he was insecure or horny. He was always mad at me over the slightest things, too. Me apologizing, annoying. Me talking to him st the wrong time, frustrating. Me talking about my friends, jealous. Me needing him to elaborate or reword something because I genuinely couldnt understand him, too much. I didn't feel loved. I felt more like a beat dog than anything human.
As we drove back for the final time, Darla and Chris had practically scream fought the entire time (I was in the bed of the truck so I couldn't hear anything of substance).
When we got back home, Darla kept bringing out more drinks and even took a small dab.
Chris and I stepped out for a moment to grab something from my brother's car (plus I was nauseaous from all the drinks and need air). He kissed me. I didn't expect it, but I didn't stop it. I hate it, but I loved it. So much. He hugged me and asked if I was okay. He kissed me again and we headed back inside. By then, Darla was vomitting and crying for Chris to help her and hold her hair back, but he couldn't be near her without feeling sick, so I went down to help her and he sat next me the entire time. He didn't touch her, even when she said she needed him. I just held her hair and rubbed her back and arm.
She lingered downstair when she was done, and Chris and I went back upstairs to watch a movie. He kept rubbing my leg as I sat on the floor by his bench.
Apparently, she always does this. She expects him to listen and fix all her problems, but drinks like a fish anytime he needs to bring up an issue and cries for him to take care of her. It was fairly evident they really only really got along when they're both passionately drunk. He was so done but he still loved her so much.
They had an arguement, he confronted her about her behavior, she wouldn't listen, so he just took her to their room to hopefully discuss this when shes sober. After sitting in silence for a bit, Chris and I headed out for a walk at around 2 am.
We mustve walked for at least a mile or two when we found a place to sit down and chat. He held me in his arms. He rubbed my back and pressed me close into him. We talked about what we wanted for our futures, what was so wrong about our relationships, our issues, what we found so attractive about each other, and any random bullshit. We kissed, we madeout, he cried, but we both agreed this could never be sexual. It was too pure, despite the circumstances. He told me that, if his future ever involved me, he'd want to get to know me first, platonically or not. He told me that even if we don't become anything, he wants me to break up with my bf because he doesn't think I deserve how I'm treated. He told me he doesn't know what I see in him. He asked me when last I'd been properly held.
Nobody had ever looked at me like that. Nobody had ever held me like that. I don't think I've ever even had just a conversation that nice before. I hadn't been touched in almost a year. Despite our different views, we got along so well in humor, conversation, wishes for our futures, and of course physical chemistry. It was all so.. nice.
It terrified me.
We got back to the house at 4am, we smoked some dabs, he hugged me so tight I could feel the tears soak my shirt and his heavy breathing, he showed me old photos and videos he was embarrassed about, and we went to sleep in our respective beds.
That morning yesterday he slept in twice as long as usual, he was distant and clearly tired. he wasnt avoiding me, but it wasnt the same. Not to mention, him and Darla seemed closer than ever. I basically spent my entire day avoiding his eye contact, smoking, and crying in my brother's car waiting for us to head out.
I honestly don't know what else I expected.
I got his number from my brother as he drove and I apologized to him for what I did to him. I apologized for taking advantage of him like that. He told me I shouldn't blame myself and I'm welcome back whenever, but he just couldn't live with himself right now.
Today, I told my boyfriend everything and told him I think we should break up.
I realized, admittedly partially because of Chris, that while I still love my bf so much, I just can't do this anymore. I still care about him with my entire sould, but I still have so much untreated trauma and mental issues I need to work through, and being in a relationship is just making it all worse.
As soon as I told him, he pulled out every line in the book. He compared me to his mom's drinking and cheating. He told me he still sleeps with the stuffed animal I gave him months ago. He told me he can change and that he can help me with my recovery. He told me he wrote a poem for me. He told me that that's 'not the real him'. He's said I love you more than he has in the entire relationship just today. He keeps begging me to say I still love him and that everything will be okay, and I can't stand any of it anymore. I do still love him so much, and I offered to wait until my next therapy appointment in a day to officially break up, but I just want it to be over. I can't be his onky friend, I can't be his 24/7 booty call, I can't be his punching bag when he's pissed.
Chris and I are probably never going to happen and he'll probably marry Darla in the end. My bf will block me and I'll end up back to where I was before.
I don't know what happened, but I fucked up so bad. I don't cheat, I never drink with people, I don't do these things. I hurt so many people and I don't know how I'll live with myself. I don't know how I'll stay alive.
Darla didn't deserve this, Chris didn't deserve this, and my bf didn't deserve this, yet here we are.
I honestly I think i just need this all to be out of my head and into the world so I can finally start to breathe again.
I'm so sorry for the whole novel TL;DR↓
My relationship makes me feel helpless. I got drunk with my brother's friend with relationship problems, too. He kissed me 3 times and I liked it but he regrets it. I'm trying to break up with my bf but I don't know what to do with my life after this all.
2024.06.09 11:02 bl00dien0mn0mz I was kissed drunk and I liked it, but we're both taken
This week I went up to my brother's best friend's ranch with my brother, in hopes that I would keep his friend (lets call him Chris)'s girlfriend of 5 years(Darla) company as she's completely isolated. We were originally just supposed to stay one or two nights, get absolutely slammed and faded those nights, then go home. We ended up staying for almost a week. The first 2 nights were nice, We would do farm chores, Chris would ask me to go smoke w him at noon, my brother would get blackout drunk, Chris and I would make fun of him and record him while Darla slept, then in the morning my brother, Chris, and I woukd watch Baki until Darla woke up. On the 3rd night, Chris showed me how to ride some of the heavy equipment and feed the animals, and after having driven out to god knows where on some private road and getting drunk, we all came home and Chris and I went out to get food as we had just taken dabs 30min prior, our first time being actually fully alone. On the 4th morning, thursday morning, during our usual wake-and-bake Baki binge, I noticed Chris kept looking at me when I wasn't watchjng the screen, he was sitting much closer, and even made an almost flirty joke as I was trying to touch up my makeup. That night Darla suggested we all go out to this private abandoned lake and hang out, so we packed the truck stock full of blunts and wine and other vices and drove out. Turned out there was a pretty steep climb down to the lake from where we parked that Darla couldnt quite handle right, so I helped her the entire way down, holding her hand when she was scared, and even carrying her, but Chris only ever offered to help me. When we got to the lake Chris would offer me drinks by holding them to my mouth and letting me drink as he held the bottle/can; he would ask me first to pass a blunt or drink; he even kept showing me the cool snail shells he found. He barely talked to Darla, and she smoked for the very first time that night. When we got back up to the truck, just before the sun began to set, Chris picked me up and sat me next to him on the truck roof when Darla was upset about something in the passenger seat. You see, Chris and Darla had been fighting the entire time we had visited. Something always upset her, something always meant he didn't love her. He was so clearly stressed. On the roof of that truck, he told me all their problems. How she doesn't listen when he tries to talk, how the relationship feels stagnant, how she spends the money he doesn't have, how she doesn't reach out or talk to anyone but him, how he thinks the view is so pretty and the drinks are so good but he doesn't know what else to do. After that, we decided to head home. Mid-drive home, he pulled over and asked me to go out with him to the nearby hill to look at the sunset. I was too tipsy to walk and my outfit was too delicate and he didnt want it to ruin, so he carried me down. My brother, clearly black-out drunk at this point, didnt get the hint, so we had to keep sending him back to get us drinks that we didnt drink. Between these drinks, Chris confessed to me that he was so attracted to me and that terrified him and he cried. He told me he had been trying to make moves on me each night and felt so guilty. He told me the outfits I'd wear would drive him crazy. He told me he felt like he could confide in me. I told him I liked him back. The problem is, I also have a partner. We're LDR and have never met IRL (dated 6 months). There was seemingly always a reason for him to not come by, either he didn't want to, or was scared, or didn't have the time despite making plans to stop by prior that I consistantly offer to pay in full for. I felt like I could never bring up an issue eithout it turning into him telling me we should probably just break up because he has issues. I couldn't set boundaries, either he'd tell me I was his only support system when I'd say if I couldn't handle his venting ATM but I could later, or he'd coerce me out of sexual boundaries by pouting or repeatedly begging me. He never showed me he cared about me unless he was insecure or horny. He was always mad at me over the slightest things, too. Me apologizing, annoying. Me talking to him st the wrong time, frustrating. Me talking about my friends, jealous. Me needing him to elaborate or reword something because I genuinely couldnt understand him, too much. I didn't feel loved. I felt more like a beat dog than anything human. As we drove back for the final time, Darla and Chris practically scream fought the entire time (I was in the bed of the truck so I couldn't hear anything of substance). When we got back home, Darla kept bringing out more drinks and even took a small dab. Chris and I stepped out for a moment to grab something from my brother's car (plus I was nauseaous from all the drinks and need air). He kissed me. I didn't expect it, but I didn't stop it. I hate it, but I loved it. So much. He hugged me and asked if I was okay. He kissed me again and we headed back inside. By then, Darla was vomitting and crying for Chris to help her and hold her hair back, but he couldn't be near her without feeling sick, so I went down to help her and he sat next me the entire time. He didn't touch her, even when she said she needed him. I just held her hair and rubbed her back and arm. She lingered downstair when she was done, and Chris and I went back upstairs to watch a movie. He kept rubbing my leg as I sat on the floor by his bench. Apparently, she always does this. She expects him to listen and fix all her problems, but drinks like a fish anytime he needs to bring up an issue and cries for him to take care of her. It was fairly evident they really only really got along when they're both passionately drunk. He was so done but he still loved her so much. They had an arguement, he confronted her about her behavior, she wouldn't listen, so he just took her to their room to hopefully discuss this when shes sober. After sitting in silence for a bit, Chris and I headed out for a walk at around 2 am. We mustve walked for at least a mile or two when we found a place to sit down and chat. He held me in his arms. He rubbed my back and pressed me close into him. We talked about what we wanted for our futures, what was so wrong about our relationships, our issues, what we found so attractive about each other, and any random bullshit. We kissed, we madeout, he cried, but we both agreed this could never be sexual. It was too pure, despite the circumstances. He told me that, if his future ever involved me, he'd want to get to know me first, platonically or not. He told me that even if we don't become anything, he wants me to break up with my bf because he doesn't think I deserve how I'm treated. He told me he doesn't know what I see in him. He asked me when last I'd been properly held. Nobody had ever looked at me like that. Nobody had ever held me like that. I don't think I've ever even had just a conversation that nice before. I hadn't been touched in almost a year. Despite our different views, we got along so well in humor, conversation, wishes for our futures, and of course physical chemistry. It was all so.. nice. It terrified me. We got back to the house at 4am, we smoked some dabs, he hugged me so tight I could feel the tears soak my shirt and his heavy breathing, he showed me old photos and videos he was embarrassed about, and we went to sleep in our respective beds. That morning yesterday he slept in twice as long as usual, he was distant and clearly tired. he wasnt avoiding me, but it wasnt the same. Not to mention, him and Darla seemed closer than ever. I basically spent my entire day avoiding his eye contact, smoking, and crying in my brother's car waiting for us to head out. I honestly don't know what else I expected. I got his number from my brother as he drove and I apologized to him for what I did to him. I apologized for taking advantage of him like that. He told me I shouldn't blame myself and I'm welcome back whenever, but he just couldn't live with himself right now. Today, I told my boyfriend everything and told him I think we should break up. I realized, admittedly partially because of Chris, that while I still love my bf so much, I just can't do this anymore. I still care about him with my entire sould, but I still have so much untreated trauma and mental issues I need to work through, and being in a relationship is just making it all worse. As soon as I told him, he pulled out every line in the book. He compared me to his mom's drinking and cheating. He told me he still sleeps with the stuffed animal I gave him months ago. He told me he can change and that he can help me with my recovery. He told me he wrote a poem for me. He told me that that's 'not the real him'. He's said I love you more than he has in the entire relationship just today. He keeps begging me to say I still love him and that everything will be okay, and I can't stand any of it anymore. I do still love him so much, and I offered to wait until my next therapy appointment in a day to officially break up, but I just want it to be over. I can't be his onky friend, I can't be his 24/7 booty call, I can't be his punching bag when he's pissed. Chris and I are probably never going to happen and he'll probably marry Darla in the end. My bf will block me and I'll end up back to where I was before. I don't know what happened, but I fucked up so bad. I don't cheat, I never drink without people, I don't do these things. I hurt so many people and I don't know how I'll live with myself. Darla didn't deserve this, Chris didn't deserve this, and my bf didn't deserve this, yet here we are. I honestly think i just need this all to be out of my head and into the world so I can finally start to breathe again.
I'm so sorry for the whole novel TL;DR↓
My relationship makes me feel helpless. I got drunk with my brother's friend with relationship problems, too. He kissed me 3 times and I liked it but he regrets it. I'm trying to break up with my bf but I don't know what to do with my life after this all.
submitted by bl00dien0mn0mz to Vent [link] [comments]
I'm so sorry for the whole novel TL;DR↓
My relationship makes me feel helpless. I got drunk with my brother's friend with relationship problems, too. He kissed me 3 times and I liked it but he regrets it. I'm trying to break up with my bf but I don't know what to do with my life after this all.
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submitted by Savings_Agent4188 to swelter_listen5562064 [link] [comments]
2024.06.09 10:16 BruteSentiment Daily Minors Quick-Notes 6/8/24 - Hunter Bishop Keeps Rolling
 | Hunter Bishop had one of his biggest games since his move up to Sacramento, with two extra-base hits on the day. Meanwhile, Diego Velasquez quietly remains one of the best prospects in Eugene, and Hayden Birdsong had another strong start for Richmond. submitted by BruteSentiment to SFGiants [link] [comments] AAA: Albuquerque 7, Sacramento 4Linkhttps://preview.redd.it/7tclc76w8i5d1.jpg?width=2442&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=1744e14fe0a0dfdaf4fc7c95467f579ccca9e57a Player of the Game: CF Hunter Bishop: 3-4, 2 R, 2 RBI, 1 2B (5), 1 HR (3), 1 BB Another big game for Hunter Bishop. Those counting stats are for his 21 games in Triple-A, if you include his 26 Double-A games, he has 10 doubles and five home runs. For Sacramento, he’s got a .309/.383/.506 batting line. Other Players to Spotlight:
AA: Altoona 4, Richmond 3 (10 Innings)Linkhttps://preview.redd.it/oh1622zw8i5d1.jpg?width=2442&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=96060077e046849573541099991b2826ae1d0850 Player of the Game: SP Hayden Birdsong: 5.0 IP, 4 H, 2 R, 0 ER, 0 BB, 6 K Birdsong gave up a couple of unearned runs, but continues a great season, with a 2.05 ERA on the year. Other Players to Spotlight:
High-A: Eugene 3, Tri-City 2Linkhttps://preview.redd.it/dqgu5wrx8i5d1.jpg?width=2442&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=87a3f31727b387a197c8597ca34451105596e022 Player of the Game: SS Diego Velasquez: 3-4, 1 R, 1 2B (10), 1 BB Velasquez had his second 3-hit game in June, in which he’s 10-for-27 (.370). Velasquez has had a quietly solid season, with a batting line of .295/.385/.428. Other Players to Spotlight:
Low-A: San Jose 7, Stockton 1Linkhttps://preview.redd.it/kca8ksuy8i5d1.jpg?width=2442&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=5f7d5955992bab36664837f20e390435475ab93f Player of the Game: DH Scott Bandura: 3-3, 2 R, 2 RBI, 1 2B (3), 2 BB Bandura had a big day with a perfect day at the plate over five plate appearances. He raised his OBP from .390 to .425 just in this one game, and is hitting .279/.425/.324. Other Players to Spotlight:
ACL: ACL Giants 8, ACL Padres 7Linkhttps://preview.redd.it/evnlpfuz8i5d1.jpg?width=2442&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=0e22a8b45753c5e2c166de41f6752aa7b5cdc526 Player of the Game: 2B Ryan Reckley: 1-2, 2 R, 1 RBI, 1 HR (1), 2 BB, 1 K, 1 SB (2) Reckley picked up his first home run of the season in his eighth game. Reckley had just four home runs in 45 games at the ACL in 2023 for his season high (and only other home runs). Top Prospect Lines:
DSL: DSL Giants Black 7, DSL Giants Orange 1Linkhttps://preview.redd.it/ohu5gf119i5d1.jpg?width=2442&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=c4cce9de37fa7dd4acf6e4578621a8e49453f050 DSL Black Notable Lines:
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2024.06.09 10:11 PersonalCaramel7500 { +27733138119 } NO. 1 TOP BREAK UP SPELLS CASTER IN THE UNITED KINGDOM, BIRMINGHAM, GREATER MANCHESTER, LEEDS, SURREY & SUSSEX, GREATER LONDON, ENGLAND,+27733138119 CANDLE LOST LOVE SPELLS TO BRING BACK A LOVER IN 24HOURS FLORIDA, WASHINGTON,D.C, SAN { +27733138119 } NO. 1 TOP BREAK UP SPELLS CAS
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submitted by PersonalCaramel7500 to blackmagicspelling [link] [comments]
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2024.06.09 10:02 IV-TheEmperor Best Diss Tracks Pregame Thread
You've decided to save:
- Megan Thee Stallion - HISS with 14 votes
- Lil B - Fuck KD with 13 votes
- Lauryn Hill - Lost Ones with 12 votes
- Pavement - Range Life with 12 votes
SONGS IN:
- 2Pac, Outlawz - Hit 'Em Up
- Black Midi - ded sheeran
- Carly Simon - You’re So Vain
- Dr. Dre - Fuck Wit Dre Day (AndEverybody Celebratin)
- Eazy-E - Real Muthaphuckkin G’s
- Eminem - Killshot
- Ice Cube - No Vaseline
- Jay-Z - Takeover
- Justin Timberlake - Cry Me a River
- Kendrick Lamar - Euphoria
- Kendrick Lamar - Meet the Grahams
- Kendrick Lamar - Not Like Us
- Lauryn Hill - Lost Ones
- Lil B - Fuck KD
- Megan Thee Stallion - HISS
- Nas - Ether
- Pavement - Range Life
- Pusha T - The Story of Adidon
- Queen - Death on two Legs
- The Notorious B.I.G. - Who Shot Ya?
Round 1 results
Round 2 results
Lifesaver results
2024.06.09 09:57 Gautsu Connecting and interconnecting AP's within the same group (some spoilers for Giantslayer, Ruins of Azlant, and Rise of the Runelords)
TLDR: How many groups weave AP’s plots together, campaign after campaign, versus just function as disparate, stand-alone stories? Also, AMA for Giantslayer, Ruins of Azlant, and Rise of the Runelords.
Our current group started before one of my co-workers and I joined it, but in its current configuration we have been going for around seven years. We’ve finished three AP’s start to finish: Giantslayer, Ruins of Azlant, and as of last week, Rise of the Runelords. This post will contain spoilers for all three so please be aware. I entered Giantslayer at the start of Book 5 along with a co-worker who had never played a tabletop before, and for me it had been years since I played, I typically have been stuck in forever DM mode. We fit in pretty well as the group was willing to work around our extremely busy and complicated work schedule. Over the course of about a year and a half, including a change in venue, we managed to finish the two extremely large back-to-back dungeon crawls of books 5+6.
For our next campaign our DM wanted to do something different can gave us a 25 point buy and 35-point custom race creation, told us we were bred in a lab, and to go crazy. We came up with some unique creations and spent the next 3 years (thanks, pandemic) running our custom creations through a modified version of Ruins of Azlant, replacing the Azlanti Spindle Society with Aperture Science, including GlaDOS signing Still Alive to us. As we were winding down that campaign, our DM asked if I would be willing to DM the next one, since he wanted to get a chance to play. Considering that I had just had my longest uninterrupted period of time as a player, I said sure.
After some deliberation, I decided that we would play through Rise of the Runelords. Overall, I thought it seemed well paced and enjoyable, but three parts immediately stood out and made me want to run it: book 2’s hunt for a serial killer through a haunted house, book 3 effectively being Pathfinder’s version of the Hills Have Eyes, and the last books Wendigo assault on an isolated mining camp. Those three portions clinched the deal for me over other AP’s.
Each campaign I set myself a goal. For Giantslayer, it was to relearn the rules and the differences from 3.5. For Ruins, it was to master the intricacies of the feat system and combat maneuvers through playing a BrawleMaster of Many Styles combo. For this campaign as a DM, I had three goals: 1) allow the PCs to hit level 20, (2) tie all of our campaigns together somehow, and (3) having just finished replaying the Kingdoms of Amalur remaster, I wanted to throw a Crudok in there somehow.
After four years or so of playing at this point and topping out each AP at around 16, I wanted to give my players the opportunity to see 9th level spells and capstone abilities. I knew I was going to have to create a bunch of content to add in to get them there, but I can do a lot of that at work, so I wasn’t too worried. I knew I wasn’t going to be running Wrath of the Righteous right after either, so this was the only chance for the foreseeable future for them to get to 20.
The whole point of this post was the tying of campaigns together. I wanted to give some fanservice to our previous parties and their actions and started thinking over how to do this organically. Funnily enough the catalyst was Volstus the Storm Tyrant, easily one of the weakest antagonist’s (by background and characterization, not necessarily power) Paizo had written. I asked what if his fall from grace in greed and covetousness was caused by an external force, say the Runelord of Greed.
From that point of conjecture forward when Volstus ventured into the Kodar mountains and came back with an Orb of Dragonkind, it was from Xin-Shalast that he found it, and it came engraved with a Sihedron Rune on it. Volstus thus became Karzoug’s Proto-Mokmurian, and his death and loss of his army sent Karzoug back to square one. Additionally, when we started book 6 in Giantslayer we managed to avoid every confrontation before the cloud castle, so there were ready made adversaries to throw into later books already available. Krellan, the shadow giant inquisitor of Zon-Kuthon also gave my PC double middle fingers when she “noped” out before her death, so I knew I wanted vengeance. Our Ruins of Azlant tie ins were not as many, but we ended the campaign right after we killed Ochymua, so we never recovered or did anything with Auberon the Drowned’s phylactery. I figured we would bring him back somehow and go from there.
From advice on forums, this sub, and the Rise of the Runelords dm discord, I worked to tie in Aldern and Ironbriar to the pc’s from the get go; Aldern just with a little bit more roleplay and interactions with them. I had Ironbriar there for the dedication to the Sandpoint cathedral and my surviving Inquisitor (also a member of the Pathfinders) there upset over Cayden Cailean not getting a shrine within. After the party fought off the goblins Ironbriar threw some gold at one member in a private interview, seeming aloof but fair, and proposing sponsoring the group. Another member began a series of interactions with my old pc, the best part of which is that no one remembered his name, so they didn’t make the connection till book 4. I threw in a book in the marketplace that another pc bought, about fables and legends in Varisia, seeding the Sandpoint Devil, Black Magga, and Crudoks in general, and their progenitor, Grandfather Crudok, a rebellious Tane, in particular.
The rest of book one occurred as normal, with a few additions or changes; I fleshed out the rest of the Goblin Chieftains described by Shalelu. I had the pcs encounter them coming back from a meeting at Thistletop from meeting Nualia seeking alliances. Nualia became an Anti-paladin, which worked out really well.
Book Two went swimmingly as well. The pcs were setting into their sin/virtue characteristics by now, so when they got to Foxglove manor, I assigned each type of haunt to one specific sin, which they all were kind enough to have already began to roleplay. Aldern became a Serial Killer Vigilante, which I though fit in well with his multiple personalities, also making him a little more sympathetic. Searching for clues on the Sihedron lead them back to Bishop Malakon (my old character’s name), who revealed the tie-in to Volstus and sponsored them into the Pathfinders. The rest of book two went mostly to plan.
By the time they were making it close to Fort Rannick I was beginning the mass of insanity that would become the rest of the campaign, as I began to customize each encounter to either become easier or present more of a challenge. Almost every major encounter was rewritten from this point on, mostly due to adding another player (playing a pet class), and another pc taking leadership. Between the increased pace of leveling to get them to 20 before the Eye of Avarice and having effectively 9 party members (pcs and pets), it was the easiest way to continue to provide them challenges, but also be able to throw them a softball every so often, so each encounter wasn’t too stressful. Outside of customizing the Ogres and Ogre kin, most of book 3 stayed faithful; Lamatar became one of my friend’s characters from Giantslayer (I didn’t feel too bad about making him undead since he had ended the campaign dead and was only resurrected in our epilogue). He was later reincarnated as a gnome and chose to become the druid of the Shimmerglens after Myrianna passed on. Lucrecia managed to escape both the Fort and then the Clanhold, taunting the party before teleporting away.
Book Four was fun to set up. The Giant invasion ended up involving all of the Stone Giants and the dragon of the written encounters, but I added all of the Ash Giants, the siege weapons, and the Black Scorpion from Giantslayer book 6. The PCs gathered what allies they could, teleporting to Magnimar to spend their money and alert their friends, and built-up Sandpoint’s defenses as best they could. Also, through tracking the dates in game every session, the attack occurred in the middle of winter, with much of the water around Sandpoint frozen.
As the war drums started beating and the party saw the army of giants following a colossal scorpion with catapults on its arms and back firing at them, I could tell they felt I had maybe overplayed my hand, especially when the dragon set the Hagfish on fire. So even though the Deus Ex Machina was really tropey, when our current Swashbuckler’s character from Giantslayer came to the rescue with the flying castle she kept at the end of that campaign and proceeded to engage the Ash Giants with her friend Ferin (from Forge of the Giant God) and her murder chicken Axebeak mount, the expressions on my players faces made up for it. The players raced to engage the dragon before he burnt down Sandpoint and directly after the fight were engaged by Lucrecia and a party of assassins tailored to take out the party (it helped that one pc kept wearing the Sihedron Medallion until the Runeforge; scrying on them was always happening). After winning that fight, I threw them another curveball.
They had stationed all of the Sandpoint defender NPC’s defending the lower portion of Sandpoint, and they now had to play them, trying to hold the attacking Stone Giant’s off for the 10 minutes or so their character had already been engaged. So, they played a waiting game while running Ameiko, Tsuto (out on good behavior), Lyrie and Orik (whom they had spared), Sheriff Hemlock, and Father Zantus, and the only survivor from Fort Rannick, Vale Temros. They did an incredible job, managing to hold off a force of twelve Stone Giants and Teraktinus for almost 8 minutes before Zantus was killed, and Ameiko, Lyrie, Orik, and Sheriff Hemlock were captured; Vale and Tsuto managed to escape and point the pcs in the right direction. On the way to Jorgenfist the party encountered it’s first Crudok. On the bank of the river, outside of the Deathweb’s cave, the party also fought the undead body of Black Magga, who they happened to have killed in the encounter during the flood in book 3 (I used a Bloathsome from Green Ronin’s Freeport Bestiary for her). Outside of some stat changes the rest of book four went as planned. Same with book five.
I had been leaving little hints as to Trelmarixian throughout the campaign so far; I like him as a villain and I never would have expected Famine to be the most interesting Horseman, so kudos, Paizo. I had decided at this point that the Wendigo being themed around hunger would work with this. I statted up Grandfather Crudok as one of the Tane who had been corrupted and converted to a worshipper of the Horseman of Famine, and it was his corrupting influence who had drawn the Wendigo to that corner of the Kodar mountains. After defeating Karivek’s ghost and the Wendigo, the storm’s end revealed a summoning circle that activated a portal, through which Trelmarixian, Horseman of Famine, rode through on his Apocalypse Horse. Joining him was his summoner, Grandfather Crudok, a mythic version with druid and evangelist levels, who’s animal companion (sic) was a lesser Jabberwock, and for good measure, the Horror Tree became a Sard. The party froze, asses already kicked from their fights in the cabin, and a scroll case that they had been given back in book two and carrying since then, began to glow. A portal to a tropical area opened up, and our characters from Ruins of Azlant stepped through, leveled up and given four mythic ranks. Our old characters fought this battle in one of the most fun one-shots I have ever run, and all of the work I had put in to get my players to this point was worth it as I got to both challenge them and see them let loose with some member berry comfort food.
We just finished our fight with Karzoug last week and this coming week will be doing a campaign wrap up and session zero for our next AP, Strange Aeons. I think this one is going to mostly be going by the books, since I am going to be writing out 5 backstories as it is. I was just really curious how many groups last long enough to link campaigns, and whether or not any dms go through the efforts to do so.
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Our current group started before one of my co-workers and I joined it, but in its current configuration we have been going for around seven years. We’ve finished three AP’s start to finish: Giantslayer, Ruins of Azlant, and as of last week, Rise of the Runelords. This post will contain spoilers for all three so please be aware. I entered Giantslayer at the start of Book 5 along with a co-worker who had never played a tabletop before, and for me it had been years since I played, I typically have been stuck in forever DM mode. We fit in pretty well as the group was willing to work around our extremely busy and complicated work schedule. Over the course of about a year and a half, including a change in venue, we managed to finish the two extremely large back-to-back dungeon crawls of books 5+6.
For our next campaign our DM wanted to do something different can gave us a 25 point buy and 35-point custom race creation, told us we were bred in a lab, and to go crazy. We came up with some unique creations and spent the next 3 years (thanks, pandemic) running our custom creations through a modified version of Ruins of Azlant, replacing the Azlanti Spindle Society with Aperture Science, including GlaDOS signing Still Alive to us. As we were winding down that campaign, our DM asked if I would be willing to DM the next one, since he wanted to get a chance to play. Considering that I had just had my longest uninterrupted period of time as a player, I said sure.
After some deliberation, I decided that we would play through Rise of the Runelords. Overall, I thought it seemed well paced and enjoyable, but three parts immediately stood out and made me want to run it: book 2’s hunt for a serial killer through a haunted house, book 3 effectively being Pathfinder’s version of the Hills Have Eyes, and the last books Wendigo assault on an isolated mining camp. Those three portions clinched the deal for me over other AP’s.
Each campaign I set myself a goal. For Giantslayer, it was to relearn the rules and the differences from 3.5. For Ruins, it was to master the intricacies of the feat system and combat maneuvers through playing a BrawleMaster of Many Styles combo. For this campaign as a DM, I had three goals: 1) allow the PCs to hit level 20, (2) tie all of our campaigns together somehow, and (3) having just finished replaying the Kingdoms of Amalur remaster, I wanted to throw a Crudok in there somehow.
After four years or so of playing at this point and topping out each AP at around 16, I wanted to give my players the opportunity to see 9th level spells and capstone abilities. I knew I was going to have to create a bunch of content to add in to get them there, but I can do a lot of that at work, so I wasn’t too worried. I knew I wasn’t going to be running Wrath of the Righteous right after either, so this was the only chance for the foreseeable future for them to get to 20.
The whole point of this post was the tying of campaigns together. I wanted to give some fanservice to our previous parties and their actions and started thinking over how to do this organically. Funnily enough the catalyst was Volstus the Storm Tyrant, easily one of the weakest antagonist’s (by background and characterization, not necessarily power) Paizo had written. I asked what if his fall from grace in greed and covetousness was caused by an external force, say the Runelord of Greed.
From that point of conjecture forward when Volstus ventured into the Kodar mountains and came back with an Orb of Dragonkind, it was from Xin-Shalast that he found it, and it came engraved with a Sihedron Rune on it. Volstus thus became Karzoug’s Proto-Mokmurian, and his death and loss of his army sent Karzoug back to square one. Additionally, when we started book 6 in Giantslayer we managed to avoid every confrontation before the cloud castle, so there were ready made adversaries to throw into later books already available. Krellan, the shadow giant inquisitor of Zon-Kuthon also gave my PC double middle fingers when she “noped” out before her death, so I knew I wanted vengeance. Our Ruins of Azlant tie ins were not as many, but we ended the campaign right after we killed Ochymua, so we never recovered or did anything with Auberon the Drowned’s phylactery. I figured we would bring him back somehow and go from there.
From advice on forums, this sub, and the Rise of the Runelords dm discord, I worked to tie in Aldern and Ironbriar to the pc’s from the get go; Aldern just with a little bit more roleplay and interactions with them. I had Ironbriar there for the dedication to the Sandpoint cathedral and my surviving Inquisitor (also a member of the Pathfinders) there upset over Cayden Cailean not getting a shrine within. After the party fought off the goblins Ironbriar threw some gold at one member in a private interview, seeming aloof but fair, and proposing sponsoring the group. Another member began a series of interactions with my old pc, the best part of which is that no one remembered his name, so they didn’t make the connection till book 4. I threw in a book in the marketplace that another pc bought, about fables and legends in Varisia, seeding the Sandpoint Devil, Black Magga, and Crudoks in general, and their progenitor, Grandfather Crudok, a rebellious Tane, in particular.
The rest of book one occurred as normal, with a few additions or changes; I fleshed out the rest of the Goblin Chieftains described by Shalelu. I had the pcs encounter them coming back from a meeting at Thistletop from meeting Nualia seeking alliances. Nualia became an Anti-paladin, which worked out really well.
Book Two went swimmingly as well. The pcs were setting into their sin/virtue characteristics by now, so when they got to Foxglove manor, I assigned each type of haunt to one specific sin, which they all were kind enough to have already began to roleplay. Aldern became a Serial Killer Vigilante, which I though fit in well with his multiple personalities, also making him a little more sympathetic. Searching for clues on the Sihedron lead them back to Bishop Malakon (my old character’s name), who revealed the tie-in to Volstus and sponsored them into the Pathfinders. The rest of book two went mostly to plan.
By the time they were making it close to Fort Rannick I was beginning the mass of insanity that would become the rest of the campaign, as I began to customize each encounter to either become easier or present more of a challenge. Almost every major encounter was rewritten from this point on, mostly due to adding another player (playing a pet class), and another pc taking leadership. Between the increased pace of leveling to get them to 20 before the Eye of Avarice and having effectively 9 party members (pcs and pets), it was the easiest way to continue to provide them challenges, but also be able to throw them a softball every so often, so each encounter wasn’t too stressful. Outside of customizing the Ogres and Ogre kin, most of book 3 stayed faithful; Lamatar became one of my friend’s characters from Giantslayer (I didn’t feel too bad about making him undead since he had ended the campaign dead and was only resurrected in our epilogue). He was later reincarnated as a gnome and chose to become the druid of the Shimmerglens after Myrianna passed on. Lucrecia managed to escape both the Fort and then the Clanhold, taunting the party before teleporting away.
Book Four was fun to set up. The Giant invasion ended up involving all of the Stone Giants and the dragon of the written encounters, but I added all of the Ash Giants, the siege weapons, and the Black Scorpion from Giantslayer book 6. The PCs gathered what allies they could, teleporting to Magnimar to spend their money and alert their friends, and built-up Sandpoint’s defenses as best they could. Also, through tracking the dates in game every session, the attack occurred in the middle of winter, with much of the water around Sandpoint frozen.
As the war drums started beating and the party saw the army of giants following a colossal scorpion with catapults on its arms and back firing at them, I could tell they felt I had maybe overplayed my hand, especially when the dragon set the Hagfish on fire. So even though the Deus Ex Machina was really tropey, when our current Swashbuckler’s character from Giantslayer came to the rescue with the flying castle she kept at the end of that campaign and proceeded to engage the Ash Giants with her friend Ferin (from Forge of the Giant God) and her murder chicken Axebeak mount, the expressions on my players faces made up for it. The players raced to engage the dragon before he burnt down Sandpoint and directly after the fight were engaged by Lucrecia and a party of assassins tailored to take out the party (it helped that one pc kept wearing the Sihedron Medallion until the Runeforge; scrying on them was always happening). After winning that fight, I threw them another curveball.
They had stationed all of the Sandpoint defender NPC’s defending the lower portion of Sandpoint, and they now had to play them, trying to hold the attacking Stone Giant’s off for the 10 minutes or so their character had already been engaged. So, they played a waiting game while running Ameiko, Tsuto (out on good behavior), Lyrie and Orik (whom they had spared), Sheriff Hemlock, and Father Zantus, and the only survivor from Fort Rannick, Vale Temros. They did an incredible job, managing to hold off a force of twelve Stone Giants and Teraktinus for almost 8 minutes before Zantus was killed, and Ameiko, Lyrie, Orik, and Sheriff Hemlock were captured; Vale and Tsuto managed to escape and point the pcs in the right direction. On the way to Jorgenfist the party encountered it’s first Crudok. On the bank of the river, outside of the Deathweb’s cave, the party also fought the undead body of Black Magga, who they happened to have killed in the encounter during the flood in book 3 (I used a Bloathsome from Green Ronin’s Freeport Bestiary for her). Outside of some stat changes the rest of book four went as planned. Same with book five.
I had been leaving little hints as to Trelmarixian throughout the campaign so far; I like him as a villain and I never would have expected Famine to be the most interesting Horseman, so kudos, Paizo. I had decided at this point that the Wendigo being themed around hunger would work with this. I statted up Grandfather Crudok as one of the Tane who had been corrupted and converted to a worshipper of the Horseman of Famine, and it was his corrupting influence who had drawn the Wendigo to that corner of the Kodar mountains. After defeating Karivek’s ghost and the Wendigo, the storm’s end revealed a summoning circle that activated a portal, through which Trelmarixian, Horseman of Famine, rode through on his Apocalypse Horse. Joining him was his summoner, Grandfather Crudok, a mythic version with druid and evangelist levels, who’s animal companion (sic) was a lesser Jabberwock, and for good measure, the Horror Tree became a Sard. The party froze, asses already kicked from their fights in the cabin, and a scroll case that they had been given back in book two and carrying since then, began to glow. A portal to a tropical area opened up, and our characters from Ruins of Azlant stepped through, leveled up and given four mythic ranks. Our old characters fought this battle in one of the most fun one-shots I have ever run, and all of the work I had put in to get my players to this point was worth it as I got to both challenge them and see them let loose with some member berry comfort food.
We just finished our fight with Karzoug last week and this coming week will be doing a campaign wrap up and session zero for our next AP, Strange Aeons. I think this one is going to mostly be going by the books, since I am going to be writing out 5 backstories as it is. I was just really curious how many groups last long enough to link campaigns, and whether or not any dms go through the efforts to do so.
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2024.06.09 09:15 TheWorstThingy [UR] Ain’t No Fun When The Rabbit Got The Gun
Content Warning: Contains themes of drug trafficking, violence and profanity
Ain’t No Fun When The Rabbit Got The Gun
“Ay yo, Mo-Mo, maybe you should be careful what you wish for. Things is basically goin’ all right now but they can get worse for us real quick I think. We can prolly smooth this shit out. We should try and talk wit them, for starters at least. Shit.”
He just looked at me with something dark and dangerous swimming through the shallows behind his gray-green eyes.
Sure, it would have been easy to just go along with the rest’a them but my pops raised me to play chess, not checkers, from a young age and I learned a few things about thinking two or three steps ahead. I aint no dumb muthafucker. "Taking the long view", that’s what they call it. I never went to college and I don’t know my IQ score (I never even took the SAT) but I like to think I aint just some dumb nigga from down the block. I don’t know where you from but out here, where I stay, you best be at least a little bit smarter than these streets.
So when Big Mo said it was time to take out Nando and Nestor - N&N’s what everyone call them - and the rest of the crew all agreed, I was obligated to disagree. There was only 6 of us but I was still "The 10th Man", as they say, and I knew about the 10th Man Rule. (My pops taught me about that shit too.) I was Mo’s top lieutenant - we went to grade school together back at P.S. 157 in the Grove Hill section of the South Bronx - and we been together for a minute but things had gotten a little shaky between us just lately so I really didn’t want to speak out, but I had to.
“Ay yo, man. If you aksin’ me? I say we let em’ have that shit for now. We got like four more empty blocks going south that we can just stretch out into without bumpin’ up against no one and if we keep on putting out that good shit in the blue Comotosa bags these junkie muthafuckers are still gonna come to us, even if it’s a few extra blocks. Ay yo, I think you already know this, Papi. Let’s try to be smart about this shit for just a minute. Bullets is cheap but pay lawyers cost money, nigga. Big money for real.”
N&N sold coke and dope in our neighborhood of East Tremont way back before we did. Nestor’s dad was slinging out here before I was even born and his boy inherited the family business when pops got sent up to The Hill on an A-1 charge like, shit, at least 15 years back. I think that was his third. I was just a kid then but he still up there and I heard he killed a nigga and he aint comin’ back. Things was all good though until recently, when they started to push down onto the corners we been holdin’ down for years, them blocks between the Concourse and Jermone Ave just south of Tremont. Not even a courtesy convo. Those blocks always been ours but lately we’ve had beef, and now we got bodies.
When Berto got shot in the leg about a month back it set things off to start with but everyone was down with Tiny - that funny fat-ass muthafucker - and they was all heated up real good when he got smoked tryin’ to run off that corner in his baggy-ass pants. Tiny couldn’t run for shit and took three in the back. We just got home from the service with his family and all, everyone cryin’ and shit. Niggas was pissed off for real, out for blood. Six dudes, nine handguns and two cut-downs on the table, everyone ready to go out and buck.
“I done been smart for a long time, Primo. I think you know, else I wouldn’t be here now, right? But maybe this is a time for muscle tho’, not brains. What’choo think, man?” Mo raised his chin towards me. It was half a question and half a challenge. They all looked at me. I knew I was out on a real thin branch to begin with so I just backed the fuck off.
“Ay, obviously it aint my call. I’m just….tryin’ to give you sumthin’ else to think on, Mo-Mo, that’s all. Options, man. I’m wit you however it go, you already know this. Shit. Where I come from? Who my peoples?” I shrugged and lit a cigarette and then just looked down at the floor.
I knew he wasn’t gonna listen.
“All right, let’s mount up muthafuckers. We on the hunt and we aint comin’ back until we drop at least three of them bitches. We gonna start at that busy corner they got on 177th and roll on from there. I know where Nestor’s grandma live and that’s where he stay most of the time. Either there or his girl’s crib down Fordham. I know where she stay too. We gonna spill some blood. Straight up. Yo Willy-Boy, go pull the truck around and we’ll see you out front in like a minute.” He threw the keys to his Escalade to the youngest kid in the room. I had a real bad feeling about the whole thing. It was too quick. They would be waiting, ready.
We all piled into the truck and I took the passenger seat, snicked a round into the chamber of my pistol and clicked off the safety. Mo had one of the cut-down shotguns in his lap - a Benelli 12 gauge loaded with pumpkin balls - as he drove. He didn’t look at me. When we got down to 177th Street and circled the corner I was relieved to see there was almost no one out there. I just assumed the 5-0 came past and business would be back up and running in like ten or fifteen minutes. We started to circle the block.
“Yo, Mo-Mo, let me out up at the corner here. I need to grab a deck of smokes and something to drink. Y’all niggas want anything?” They were all tensed-up and no one wanted shit so I stepped out on the corner and told them I’d be right back, then I walked into the bodega.
I took my time. I stood in front of the cold case for a while and looked at my phone, even though I already knew what I wanted. Then I took a can of root beer up front and made some small talk with the counter man for a while, an old Dominican dude who had been running that place since I was just a kid. We was both Yankee fans. I bought a lottery ticket and then I bought a pack of Newports, opened it and lit one, and by the time I walked back out the store the Escalade was gone, as I knew it would be. This was a real narrow one-way street and there’s no way that Big Mo could just stay double-parked out there without blocking traffic for a minute or two. Like I said, my pops taught me to think a few moves ahead. Chess, not checkers.
I stood out there in front of the bodega for a minute, smoking my cigarette, and then I heard the pop…pop…pop of gunfire and the sound of a car crash, which is basically what I expected. Big Mo was always just a little too hot. A little too quick to get involved whenever shit was jumpin’ off.
I waited to see if the Escalade would come racing up the block towards me but when it didn’t I started to jog in that direction. I heard the police sirens right when I got close enough to see Mo’s Caddilac slammed up against a few parked cars with all the windows shot out and he was slumped over the wheel. The corner was empty by then. I turned around immediately and began walking back to my crib with my head down.
I laid low for a while, “going to ground” as they say, but I knew N&N’s hangouts better than Mo-Mo did. Shit, I knew the pizza place just off Fordham Ave where all them niggas like to eat. I just chilled at home for a minute and watched some movies on Netflix and waited til’ the time was right, about two weeks later.
“What up muthafucka, you aint get a slice for me? God damn, nigga! Who pay yo bills? You know I’m hungry like a Goddamn wolf, always. What’s up? I really gotta aks?” Nando hopped out of his Lexus with his phone in one hand and looked at his man Nestor with both palms raised in a gesture of insult and offense.
That’s when I came out of the alley behind the pizzeria with my hoodie tucked over my head and put down Nestor with three shots to his chest from my Springfield .45 from less than fifteen feet away. It’s a big gun and I knocked that muthafucker straight out his shoes, sent his pizza sailing into the gutter and the rest of them young‘uns just ran off towards the Concourse. Everyone but Nando. He was just too close, which is how I planned it, and he knew that runnin’ was pointless.
He tried to get all hard with me for a minute and I saw his eyebrows scrunchin’ up but as soon as he started talkin’ I just pistol-whipped that muthafucker in the mouth and knocked out a few of his teeth. He fell to the sidewalk and then pulled himself up against the wall.
“Sup’ Nando? Aint no fun when the rabbit got the gun, right?,” I said in a quiet, scratchy voice and then smiled and chuckled at him for a second or two while pointing the barrel of my pistol directly into the center of his face as he wiped away some of the blood running down his chin.
“Shit, I don’t think your boy Nestor’s gettin’ up over there. What’choo think, man? Looks like you fresh out of muscle.” I looked over at Nestor’s dead body lying half on the sidewalk and half in the street, his white NY Knicks jersey turned mostly red at that point and I smiled some more.
“Cuz yo, with y’all gone I think I’m taking over the rest of Tremont Ave, little man. We prolly could’a worked this shit out if you just came past to talk. But nah. Not you. You too big for talk, right? Too late for talk now though I think.”
I didn’t waste no time. I just looked around to make sure no one was witnessin’ up close and then I put two in his dome. I snatched up his pocket money, his rope chain, his rings and his Rolex (I mean, you gotta be stupid to just leave all that shit behind) but I left his Glock .40 on him and then I jogged off towards Fordham Ave with my head down and my hoodie up.
Yeah, Daddy. Fuck Nando. He got his. I paid some of the little shorties from around the way to go and shoot out them street lights the night before so I wasn’t trippin’ about no security cameras. It was dark and I ain't never heard nuthin’ about it afterwards. Nuthin’. I don’t think the police round here care about this shit really. Just one street nigga killin’ another. They prolly like it that way.
I wasn't worried. I had business to tend to anyways. I had new territory to run and I knew I might need to handle up for a minute; make sure no one got no problems with the new arrangements. It was all good though. I had peoples standing with me. I know how to muscle up, for real. Shit. People always need to get paid. It’s just a matter of money, like everything else. We can hold this down. Might be a few bodies but that’s just what they call “the cost of doing business.” Ain’t no thing.
And things was working out just fine, for a while. Only two bodies got dropped, neither of them on my team, when Spring turned to Summer and then it got real hot, real quick. Not the police, but the weather. It’s like that out here. All concrete, no trees.
I was out on East Tremont two blocks off the Concourse one day in late June, just tryin’ to stay cool in the shade and collecting some dollars and paying off some of my peoples when I seen this little kid coming down the block with a grape soda in one hand, minding his own business. I only noticed the little nigga because he looked at me for a second when he got closer. I didn’t really think shit about it. I run all these corners round here and the shorties all know whassup, so kids look at me all the time. Ain’t nothing unusual. They need work but I ain’t got enough to go round for every little nigga in the South Bronx. Shit.
I was just telling Red Light - we call him that cuz he ran a red light and hit an NYPD roller from the 48th a few years back and got his ass beat for real - that my boy Shiny would come past with a re-up package for him in about an hour or two, when all’a sudden this shorty drops his grape soda on the sidewalk and pulls a little deuce-deuce auto from his pants and before I know whassup I catch three in the gut and one skimmed the side of my neck. Little shorty motherfucker tried to put one in my head too but he was already running off at that point and he only took off the top of my left ear.
It didn’t matter. I coughed up some blood and I knew I wasn’t never gonna make it to the ER up at Misericordia. That’s the only Level-1 trauma unit round here and I seen enough niggas get dropped in these streets to know it’s your only chance when you catch a few. Shit. They take you to one of these other B-list hospitals round here they might as well just leave you where they found you.
I only ever done dope a few times back when I was just a kid but Red Light was leaning over me and aksin’ what to do, so I told him to just give me a couple of them blue bags. I didn’t have no works to shoot up with (I ain’t no dope fiend) and no time neither so I just dumped that shit out on a c-note and snorted it up. Then I told Red Light to give me two more. Shit, if I was going out slow I might as well try to kill the pain, right? I couldn’t get those next two bags down though. My throat was filling up with blood by then and I was choking on it.
I remember how everything just started to fade out around then. I seen Red Light take the bloody c-note from my hand along with the rest of the cash I spilled out onto the sidewalk. He started to hustle off down the block as the sirens got closer but then he ran back and grabbed my Patek Philippe wristwatch and my gold chain, that muthafucker. I was too weak to stop him or even to reach back for my Springfield.
I guess I forgot that Nando had a kid, or maybe I just didn’t think about it at all. I don’t know. I had other shit to worry about and I thought he was just a little nigga, and he was, but still big enough to pull a trigger though. It don’t take much.
When the EMTs came rushing up to me on the sidewalk they was aksin’ all sorts of questions but I remember the pretty white lady say, “What is your name?”
I spit out the blood in my mouth and my head was starting to feel real heavy. I just told her in a half-whisper, “Ain’t no fun when the rabbit got the gun…”
Then everything just went black.
THE END
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Ain’t No Fun When The Rabbit Got The Gun
“Ay yo, Mo-Mo, maybe you should be careful what you wish for. Things is basically goin’ all right now but they can get worse for us real quick I think. We can prolly smooth this shit out. We should try and talk wit them, for starters at least. Shit.”
He just looked at me with something dark and dangerous swimming through the shallows behind his gray-green eyes.
Sure, it would have been easy to just go along with the rest’a them but my pops raised me to play chess, not checkers, from a young age and I learned a few things about thinking two or three steps ahead. I aint no dumb muthafucker. "Taking the long view", that’s what they call it. I never went to college and I don’t know my IQ score (I never even took the SAT) but I like to think I aint just some dumb nigga from down the block. I don’t know where you from but out here, where I stay, you best be at least a little bit smarter than these streets.
So when Big Mo said it was time to take out Nando and Nestor - N&N’s what everyone call them - and the rest of the crew all agreed, I was obligated to disagree. There was only 6 of us but I was still "The 10th Man", as they say, and I knew about the 10th Man Rule. (My pops taught me about that shit too.) I was Mo’s top lieutenant - we went to grade school together back at P.S. 157 in the Grove Hill section of the South Bronx - and we been together for a minute but things had gotten a little shaky between us just lately so I really didn’t want to speak out, but I had to.
“Ay yo, man. If you aksin’ me? I say we let em’ have that shit for now. We got like four more empty blocks going south that we can just stretch out into without bumpin’ up against no one and if we keep on putting out that good shit in the blue Comotosa bags these junkie muthafuckers are still gonna come to us, even if it’s a few extra blocks. Ay yo, I think you already know this, Papi. Let’s try to be smart about this shit for just a minute. Bullets is cheap but pay lawyers cost money, nigga. Big money for real.”
N&N sold coke and dope in our neighborhood of East Tremont way back before we did. Nestor’s dad was slinging out here before I was even born and his boy inherited the family business when pops got sent up to The Hill on an A-1 charge like, shit, at least 15 years back. I think that was his third. I was just a kid then but he still up there and I heard he killed a nigga and he aint comin’ back. Things was all good though until recently, when they started to push down onto the corners we been holdin’ down for years, them blocks between the Concourse and Jermone Ave just south of Tremont. Not even a courtesy convo. Those blocks always been ours but lately we’ve had beef, and now we got bodies.
When Berto got shot in the leg about a month back it set things off to start with but everyone was down with Tiny - that funny fat-ass muthafucker - and they was all heated up real good when he got smoked tryin’ to run off that corner in his baggy-ass pants. Tiny couldn’t run for shit and took three in the back. We just got home from the service with his family and all, everyone cryin’ and shit. Niggas was pissed off for real, out for blood. Six dudes, nine handguns and two cut-downs on the table, everyone ready to go out and buck.
“I done been smart for a long time, Primo. I think you know, else I wouldn’t be here now, right? But maybe this is a time for muscle tho’, not brains. What’choo think, man?” Mo raised his chin towards me. It was half a question and half a challenge. They all looked at me. I knew I was out on a real thin branch to begin with so I just backed the fuck off.
“Ay, obviously it aint my call. I’m just….tryin’ to give you sumthin’ else to think on, Mo-Mo, that’s all. Options, man. I’m wit you however it go, you already know this. Shit. Where I come from? Who my peoples?” I shrugged and lit a cigarette and then just looked down at the floor.
I knew he wasn’t gonna listen.
“All right, let’s mount up muthafuckers. We on the hunt and we aint comin’ back until we drop at least three of them bitches. We gonna start at that busy corner they got on 177th and roll on from there. I know where Nestor’s grandma live and that’s where he stay most of the time. Either there or his girl’s crib down Fordham. I know where she stay too. We gonna spill some blood. Straight up. Yo Willy-Boy, go pull the truck around and we’ll see you out front in like a minute.” He threw the keys to his Escalade to the youngest kid in the room. I had a real bad feeling about the whole thing. It was too quick. They would be waiting, ready.
We all piled into the truck and I took the passenger seat, snicked a round into the chamber of my pistol and clicked off the safety. Mo had one of the cut-down shotguns in his lap - a Benelli 12 gauge loaded with pumpkin balls - as he drove. He didn’t look at me. When we got down to 177th Street and circled the corner I was relieved to see there was almost no one out there. I just assumed the 5-0 came past and business would be back up and running in like ten or fifteen minutes. We started to circle the block.
“Yo, Mo-Mo, let me out up at the corner here. I need to grab a deck of smokes and something to drink. Y’all niggas want anything?” They were all tensed-up and no one wanted shit so I stepped out on the corner and told them I’d be right back, then I walked into the bodega.
I took my time. I stood in front of the cold case for a while and looked at my phone, even though I already knew what I wanted. Then I took a can of root beer up front and made some small talk with the counter man for a while, an old Dominican dude who had been running that place since I was just a kid. We was both Yankee fans. I bought a lottery ticket and then I bought a pack of Newports, opened it and lit one, and by the time I walked back out the store the Escalade was gone, as I knew it would be. This was a real narrow one-way street and there’s no way that Big Mo could just stay double-parked out there without blocking traffic for a minute or two. Like I said, my pops taught me to think a few moves ahead. Chess, not checkers.
I stood out there in front of the bodega for a minute, smoking my cigarette, and then I heard the pop…pop…pop of gunfire and the sound of a car crash, which is basically what I expected. Big Mo was always just a little too hot. A little too quick to get involved whenever shit was jumpin’ off.
I waited to see if the Escalade would come racing up the block towards me but when it didn’t I started to jog in that direction. I heard the police sirens right when I got close enough to see Mo’s Caddilac slammed up against a few parked cars with all the windows shot out and he was slumped over the wheel. The corner was empty by then. I turned around immediately and began walking back to my crib with my head down.
I laid low for a while, “going to ground” as they say, but I knew N&N’s hangouts better than Mo-Mo did. Shit, I knew the pizza place just off Fordham Ave where all them niggas like to eat. I just chilled at home for a minute and watched some movies on Netflix and waited til’ the time was right, about two weeks later.
“What up muthafucka, you aint get a slice for me? God damn, nigga! Who pay yo bills? You know I’m hungry like a Goddamn wolf, always. What’s up? I really gotta aks?” Nando hopped out of his Lexus with his phone in one hand and looked at his man Nestor with both palms raised in a gesture of insult and offense.
That’s when I came out of the alley behind the pizzeria with my hoodie tucked over my head and put down Nestor with three shots to his chest from my Springfield .45 from less than fifteen feet away. It’s a big gun and I knocked that muthafucker straight out his shoes, sent his pizza sailing into the gutter and the rest of them young‘uns just ran off towards the Concourse. Everyone but Nando. He was just too close, which is how I planned it, and he knew that runnin’ was pointless.
He tried to get all hard with me for a minute and I saw his eyebrows scrunchin’ up but as soon as he started talkin’ I just pistol-whipped that muthafucker in the mouth and knocked out a few of his teeth. He fell to the sidewalk and then pulled himself up against the wall.
“Sup’ Nando? Aint no fun when the rabbit got the gun, right?,” I said in a quiet, scratchy voice and then smiled and chuckled at him for a second or two while pointing the barrel of my pistol directly into the center of his face as he wiped away some of the blood running down his chin.
“Shit, I don’t think your boy Nestor’s gettin’ up over there. What’choo think, man? Looks like you fresh out of muscle.” I looked over at Nestor’s dead body lying half on the sidewalk and half in the street, his white NY Knicks jersey turned mostly red at that point and I smiled some more.
“Cuz yo, with y’all gone I think I’m taking over the rest of Tremont Ave, little man. We prolly could’a worked this shit out if you just came past to talk. But nah. Not you. You too big for talk, right? Too late for talk now though I think.”
I didn’t waste no time. I just looked around to make sure no one was witnessin’ up close and then I put two in his dome. I snatched up his pocket money, his rope chain, his rings and his Rolex (I mean, you gotta be stupid to just leave all that shit behind) but I left his Glock .40 on him and then I jogged off towards Fordham Ave with my head down and my hoodie up.
Yeah, Daddy. Fuck Nando. He got his. I paid some of the little shorties from around the way to go and shoot out them street lights the night before so I wasn’t trippin’ about no security cameras. It was dark and I ain't never heard nuthin’ about it afterwards. Nuthin’. I don’t think the police round here care about this shit really. Just one street nigga killin’ another. They prolly like it that way.
I wasn't worried. I had business to tend to anyways. I had new territory to run and I knew I might need to handle up for a minute; make sure no one got no problems with the new arrangements. It was all good though. I had peoples standing with me. I know how to muscle up, for real. Shit. People always need to get paid. It’s just a matter of money, like everything else. We can hold this down. Might be a few bodies but that’s just what they call “the cost of doing business.” Ain’t no thing.
And things was working out just fine, for a while. Only two bodies got dropped, neither of them on my team, when Spring turned to Summer and then it got real hot, real quick. Not the police, but the weather. It’s like that out here. All concrete, no trees.
I was out on East Tremont two blocks off the Concourse one day in late June, just tryin’ to stay cool in the shade and collecting some dollars and paying off some of my peoples when I seen this little kid coming down the block with a grape soda in one hand, minding his own business. I only noticed the little nigga because he looked at me for a second when he got closer. I didn’t really think shit about it. I run all these corners round here and the shorties all know whassup, so kids look at me all the time. Ain’t nothing unusual. They need work but I ain’t got enough to go round for every little nigga in the South Bronx. Shit.
I was just telling Red Light - we call him that cuz he ran a red light and hit an NYPD roller from the 48th a few years back and got his ass beat for real - that my boy Shiny would come past with a re-up package for him in about an hour or two, when all’a sudden this shorty drops his grape soda on the sidewalk and pulls a little deuce-deuce auto from his pants and before I know whassup I catch three in the gut and one skimmed the side of my neck. Little shorty motherfucker tried to put one in my head too but he was already running off at that point and he only took off the top of my left ear.
It didn’t matter. I coughed up some blood and I knew I wasn’t never gonna make it to the ER up at Misericordia. That’s the only Level-1 trauma unit round here and I seen enough niggas get dropped in these streets to know it’s your only chance when you catch a few. Shit. They take you to one of these other B-list hospitals round here they might as well just leave you where they found you.
I only ever done dope a few times back when I was just a kid but Red Light was leaning over me and aksin’ what to do, so I told him to just give me a couple of them blue bags. I didn’t have no works to shoot up with (I ain’t no dope fiend) and no time neither so I just dumped that shit out on a c-note and snorted it up. Then I told Red Light to give me two more. Shit, if I was going out slow I might as well try to kill the pain, right? I couldn’t get those next two bags down though. My throat was filling up with blood by then and I was choking on it.
I remember how everything just started to fade out around then. I seen Red Light take the bloody c-note from my hand along with the rest of the cash I spilled out onto the sidewalk. He started to hustle off down the block as the sirens got closer but then he ran back and grabbed my Patek Philippe wristwatch and my gold chain, that muthafucker. I was too weak to stop him or even to reach back for my Springfield.
I guess I forgot that Nando had a kid, or maybe I just didn’t think about it at all. I don’t know. I had other shit to worry about and I thought he was just a little nigga, and he was, but still big enough to pull a trigger though. It don’t take much.
When the EMTs came rushing up to me on the sidewalk they was aksin’ all sorts of questions but I remember the pretty white lady say, “What is your name?”
I spit out the blood in my mouth and my head was starting to feel real heavy. I just told her in a half-whisper, “Ain’t no fun when the rabbit got the gun…”
Then everything just went black.
THE END
2024.06.09 08:59 TheWorstThingy [MS] Prosopagnosia v. Cotard's Syndrome
Content Warning: This story contains themes of mental health issues, suicide and physical violence.
Prosopagnosia v. Cotard's Syndrome
My new doctor - a bright and friendly guy named Sarbjit - took the time to explain his diagnosis to me. He told me my condition was mental, not physical, but it was hard to pay attention to everything he said because my left arm was numb and rotting from the inside out. I smiled and nodded and then when I got home I looked up Cotard’s Syndrome online. Here is what Wikipedia had to say on it.
“Cotard's syndrome, also known as ‘Cotard's delusion’ or ‘Walking Corpse Syndrome’, is a rare mental disorder in which the affected person holds the delusional belief that they are dead, do not exist, are putrefying, or have lost their blood or internal organs.”
I don’t know. Sounded extremely strange to me. I just knew my left arm was dying. Maybe my liver too. I used my right arm, the good one, to open my mail. Most of it was just the normal stuff but when I saw the letter from the Supreme Court of the State of New York I got a little worried. I was here legally - a citizen for almost ten years now - and I knew my rights but being summoned to testify at this criminal trial was a bit unnerving. I didn’t like it. I just try to do my best in this life and mind my own business and not cause problems for others.
When my trial appearance date arrived two months later I took the subway downtown and left my assistant, Stavvy, in charge of the office that day. I sat there on a hard wooden bench in the courtroom all morning listening to the testimony of other witnesses but I wasn’t called to the stand until sometime after we returned from lunch. Eventually, the lawyer for the defense called my name.
She mispronounced it of course - people here always mispronounce Albanian names - so I wasn’t surprised when she called me Mister Shka-Rell-Eee. My surname is Shkreli, after the place where my family comes from, and the proper pronunciation contains only two syllables - Shkrell-Eee. I was trying to hold my left arm in place when she asked her opening question.
Where was I at the time of the murder?
“Well, Miss Anderson” - I pronounced it Ahnd-REE-Sawn, drawing out the first and last syllables while placing too much emphasis on the middle one, intentionally - “I am not entirely certain. That was over a year ago and I travel all around this city on a daily basis for my job. I work in computer repair and IT support and I have customers in all five boroughs.” (This wasn’t exactly true. I wasn’t really willing to travel to Staten Island.) We had spoken four months earlier when she informed me of the questions she intended to ask at trial but I was fairly oblique then and I intended to remain so now. I had bigger problems. Could these people not see that my left arm was rotting away?
She looked at me with a furrowed brow and briskly walked back to the defense table, picked up a leather-bound notepad and opened it.
“Mister Shkreli, when you and I spoke on June 18th you confirmed that you were just leaving a client’s office, TRG Commercial Realty, located at 223 Broome Street here in lower Manhattan at approximately 3:30pm that day, shortly before the incident at issue took place less than one block away. Is that not correct?”
I turned up my native eastern European accent a bit and repositioned my left arm in my lap. I could barely feel it at that point. What was wrong with these people?
“If you say so. Like I said, that was over a year ago and it was just another workday for me.”
She stared at me for a beat or two longer than necessary and then flashed a quick look towards the jurors before continuing.
“Well yes, Mister Shkreli” - again it was Shka-Rell-Eee - “You did tell me that and I do have a recording of our conversation, which you consented to before we began, if the court would like this to be entered into evidence?”
She looked at the judge and the judge looked at me.
“Mister Shkreli,” - he too pronounced it Shka-Rell-Eee - ‘Are you refuting the testimony that Miss Anderson is referencing during your preliminary deposition or can we just move on at this point? If counsel for the defense claims to have this recording I am fairly certain this is true. Will it be necessary to enter this recording into evidence at this time or are you willing to acknowledge Miss Anderson’s claim?”
I repositioned my left arm in my lap and nodded.
“That’s fine, Your Honor. As I said, it was just another workday for me but if Miss Anderson says that is what we discussed I am sure she is probably right.”
The judge nodded back at me. “Very good. Let’s proceed then.”
Miss Anderson walked back to the defense table and dropped the leather-bound notepad before continuing with her final question for me, looking annoyed.
“Picking up where we left off, Mister Shkreli, can you please describe for the court what happened immediately after you left the offices of TRG Commercial Realty at 223 Broome Street on the date in question, October 22nd of last year?”
I didn’t like the way that she was trying to fence me in but I wasn't particularly concerned. I had bigger problems.
“Well, like I said, I don’t really remember that day. There was nothing memorable about it. It was just another day.”
She stared at me for a few seconds then flashed a quick look at the jury box with her eyebrows raised before returning her attention to the judge. “No more questions, Your Honor.”
I was dismissed from the stand but asked to remain in the courtroom as she called her next witness; a small, frail woman from Queens about my same age named Maureen Stewart. She had an odd, twitchy nature about her. I wanted to get home. I wanted to relax.
“Miss Stewart, can you please tell the court where you were on October 22nd of last year at approximately 3:30 in the afternoon?”
The witness looked down for a moment and then glanced towards the judge before removing the slightly confused look from her face and responding in a semi-automated tone.
“Yes, Miss Anderson. At that time, I was just leaving my day shift at the FedEx Office Store (she pronounced it ‘Staw’ in her thick New York accent) on Broome Street and I was walking towards the station for the Six Train to begin my ride back home.”
The attorney for the defense took a momentary pause and then asked her next question.
“And can you please tell us what happened then?”
The witness looked down again and then looked back at the judge, then the jury and, finally, at me. I didn’t like the way she looked at me.
“Yes, as I was leaving my workplace I crossed the street and I remember walking past the entrance to a narrow alleyway where I heard a commotion taking place. It made me stop and look for a second or two but I didn’t want to get involved so I just kept on walking towards the subway and I didn’t think too much about the whole thing until the Homicide detectives contacted me a few days later after they pulled the security camera videos. I came down to the police station the day after that and gave my statement. That was just over a year ago.”
Miss Anderson took a moment to stare at me. I didn’t like that either. I adjusted my left arm in my lap. It was completely numb.
“Thank you, Miss Stewart. Can you please be a bit more specific about what you saw occurring in that alleyway?”
Again, the witness looked down at the floor and then her eyes shot all around the courtroom before she responded.
“Well,” she said, before taking a brief pause. “At first I thought it was just a little scuffle but when I saw the shorter man in the black jacket punch the tall man in the belly a few times I saw some blood starting to spread on the side of his white button-down shirt and I saw what looked like a small knife or something in the shorter man’s hand. The tall thin man looked like he was starting to fall. I remember looking around for a police officer but I certainly wasn’t gonna do anything about it by myself. I mean, what could I do? When I didn’t see no one who could help I just kept on walking towards the subway. I guess I should have done more but I was scared and I just wanted to get back to Forest Hills to pick up my daughter from daycare before five o’clock.”
I glanced at the defendant seated at the table on the left. He looked both hopeful and nervous at the same time, but in a subtle way, like he didn’t want to appear to be either. He kept his head down and never once glanced towards the jury box. Miss Anderson asked her final question.
“Thank you, Miss Stewart. And do you see the man in the black jacket who stabbed the victim, Mister Baronston, on that day last October here in the courtroom now?”
Again the witness looked down at the floor between her feet for a moment and then looked back up, right at me. I felt my blood stop flowing through my veins, or at least through my left arm and the top of my right leg, when she raised up her hand and pointed her index finger at me.
“It was that man, there,” she said.
Miss Anderson nodded and paused for a moment, satisfied, letting it sink in for the jury members. I was stunned. The stylish defense attorney in the toney, expensive clothing began walking back in my direction and she too pointed an accusatory finger.
“If it pleases the court, let the record show that Miss Stewart has identified Mister Jack Shkreli as the attacker who she witnessed in the-”
Just then the witness on the stand, Miss Stewart, pointed her finger at the judge without really looking at him and suddenly blurted out, “Or him. It might have been him too. I’m not 100% sure...”
Miss Anderson paused, clearly nonplussed, and just stared at her witness. The judge also looked baffled for a second or two and then leaned over and whispered something to his court assistant and the two of them shared a quiet smirk.
Then the witness pointed at one of the jurors, a man in the front row about my size.
“Or him. It could have been him. I’m just not sure...” Then she went silent, as did the rest of the courtroom for a few moments. The State’s Attorney, a heavy-set bald man, broke the silence pretty quickly as he rose to his feet.
“Your Honor, the State would like to move to dismiss this witness along with all previous testimony.” He paused briefly and took a deep breath, choosing his next words.
“While we appreciate Miss Stewart’s willingness to appear at trial today, I think it’s clear that her recollection of events is…uncertain at best.” He glared at the defense table for a moment, then added “I’d just like to remind the court that Mister Shkreli” - and God bless him, he pronounced my two-syllable surname correctly - “is not on trial here and if this witness cannot distinguish the man she saw that day from yourself or a random member of our jury panel I don’t think we can accept this testimony or any further testimony from this witness.”
He hung his head respectfully, with the tiniest little smile on his face. He already knew he had won this argument and the judge quickly agreed, telling the jury to disregard what they just heard. Miss Stewart was dismissed from the stand and the defense had no other witnesses left to call. Less than two hours later the jury returned a guilty verdict against the defendant on all counts and the courtroom was cleared. The sentencing hearing would take place at a later date and I was not required to be there. My right leg was starting to feel numb by then but I still managed to get back to the office in time for Stavvy to head home at the end of his shift to make dinner for his kids. His wife was killed in a car accident two years earlier. He was a hard worker and I really liked him.
That night, back at my apartment, I did some research online and learned about a rare mental disorder known as Prosopagnosia. Here is what Wikipedia had to say.
Prosopagnosia, also known as face blindness, is a cognitive disorder of face perception in which the ability to recognize familiar faces, including one's own face (self-recognition), is impaired, while other aspects of visual processing (e.g. object discrimination) and intellectual functioning remain intact.
It all sounded pretty strange to me but if the doctors say it’s real who am I to argue? Apparently it is well documented in the DSM-5. I don’t know if this is the reason why I was able to walk away from the courtroom without consequence at first but I think it is the most likely explanation. I only know that when I left my client’s offices at TRG Commercial Realty on that day just over a year ago and hailed a cab I was stunned and confused when Mister Baronston, a complete stranger with a hostile face, suddenly attacked me, claiming that it was his cab and not mine.
He was bigger than me, tall and thin but strong, and I would have just given up the cab and caught the next one but he was clearly already very angry about something. When he backed me towards the alley, shoving me and then punching me around my head and neck, my backpack tumbled open and I saw my wallet and phone and some other items come crashing out onto the pavement. It was just a stupid and unnecessary altercation, the kind of thing that probably happens on the streets of this city every day, sadly. Too many people, not enough space. I did my best to fight back and protect myself but he was a good deal bigger than me.
Then I was getting punched some more and thrown against the alley wall as people passed by, disinterested, and I just instinctively reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the pen knife that has been attached to my keychain for years. Before I really knew what was happening it was open and then my right hand was growing warm and red and slick with his blood. Then I was moving again, not looking back.
What an odd thing. I remember seeing Miss Stewart stopping there on the sidewalk to look from the mouth of the alley that day. Of all the passers-by, she was the only one who paused to look at us, at me, right as I desperately punctured Mister Baronston’s rib cage for the fifth or sixth time with my little penknife and he began to drop, but she averted her gaze after a few seconds and moved on and then I was rapidly heading in the opposite direction. This is a huge city and I never expected to see her face again. Fortunately, she was apparently never really able to see mine.
Anyway, I have more important problems to worry about at this time. Stavvy received a letter from the Manhattan DA’s office yesterday ordering him to appear at a grand jury hearing next month related to my involvement in Mister Baronston’s death. He showed it to me. More importantly, my left arm is just about gone now, my right leg is quickly starting to feel the same way and in just the last day or two I have begun feeling that strange tingling sensation in the tips of the fingers on my right hand. I know my liver is failing. It won’t be long now.
I scheduled a meeting with my lawyer in the morning to legally put the business and the rest of my assets in Stavvy’s name in my will. I have no family here anyway and almost no relatives who I remain close with back in Albania or Montenegro anymore. Stavvy is a good man and he has kids to feed and I have already lived a full life.
So yes, I will just leave it all to him and after that’s done I think I will get the old Ford minivan that we sometimes still use for the business and drive it out to the George Washington Bridge while I am still able. I know that when I stop it and get out and leave it there on the center-span I will screw up traffic badly and inconvenience a lot of people but I can’t worry about that. I have to do what I have to do. There’s no point in waiting for this to get worse. I can barely feel the fingers on my right hand and I don’t have much time left.
Maybe I should have told the truth at the trial. I don’t know. I think I was just too distracted by all of my health problems. I didn’t really have any choice at the time. I don’t have any choice now. I’m actually surprised that I lasted this long. I was certain that I would already be gone a few months ago but I feel I have done my best with this life.
As my people back in Albania say, Mos pyet si vdiq, por si rrojti!
“Do not ask how he died, but how he lived!”
THE END
submitted by TheWorstThingy to shortstories [link] [comments]
Prosopagnosia v. Cotard's Syndrome
My new doctor - a bright and friendly guy named Sarbjit - took the time to explain his diagnosis to me. He told me my condition was mental, not physical, but it was hard to pay attention to everything he said because my left arm was numb and rotting from the inside out. I smiled and nodded and then when I got home I looked up Cotard’s Syndrome online. Here is what Wikipedia had to say on it.
“Cotard's syndrome, also known as ‘Cotard's delusion’ or ‘Walking Corpse Syndrome’, is a rare mental disorder in which the affected person holds the delusional belief that they are dead, do not exist, are putrefying, or have lost their blood or internal organs.”
I don’t know. Sounded extremely strange to me. I just knew my left arm was dying. Maybe my liver too. I used my right arm, the good one, to open my mail. Most of it was just the normal stuff but when I saw the letter from the Supreme Court of the State of New York I got a little worried. I was here legally - a citizen for almost ten years now - and I knew my rights but being summoned to testify at this criminal trial was a bit unnerving. I didn’t like it. I just try to do my best in this life and mind my own business and not cause problems for others.
When my trial appearance date arrived two months later I took the subway downtown and left my assistant, Stavvy, in charge of the office that day. I sat there on a hard wooden bench in the courtroom all morning listening to the testimony of other witnesses but I wasn’t called to the stand until sometime after we returned from lunch. Eventually, the lawyer for the defense called my name.
She mispronounced it of course - people here always mispronounce Albanian names - so I wasn’t surprised when she called me Mister Shka-Rell-Eee. My surname is Shkreli, after the place where my family comes from, and the proper pronunciation contains only two syllables - Shkrell-Eee. I was trying to hold my left arm in place when she asked her opening question.
Where was I at the time of the murder?
“Well, Miss Anderson” - I pronounced it Ahnd-REE-Sawn, drawing out the first and last syllables while placing too much emphasis on the middle one, intentionally - “I am not entirely certain. That was over a year ago and I travel all around this city on a daily basis for my job. I work in computer repair and IT support and I have customers in all five boroughs.” (This wasn’t exactly true. I wasn’t really willing to travel to Staten Island.) We had spoken four months earlier when she informed me of the questions she intended to ask at trial but I was fairly oblique then and I intended to remain so now. I had bigger problems. Could these people not see that my left arm was rotting away?
She looked at me with a furrowed brow and briskly walked back to the defense table, picked up a leather-bound notepad and opened it.
“Mister Shkreli, when you and I spoke on June 18th you confirmed that you were just leaving a client’s office, TRG Commercial Realty, located at 223 Broome Street here in lower Manhattan at approximately 3:30pm that day, shortly before the incident at issue took place less than one block away. Is that not correct?”
I turned up my native eastern European accent a bit and repositioned my left arm in my lap. I could barely feel it at that point. What was wrong with these people?
“If you say so. Like I said, that was over a year ago and it was just another workday for me.”
She stared at me for a beat or two longer than necessary and then flashed a quick look towards the jurors before continuing.
“Well yes, Mister Shkreli” - again it was Shka-Rell-Eee - “You did tell me that and I do have a recording of our conversation, which you consented to before we began, if the court would like this to be entered into evidence?”
She looked at the judge and the judge looked at me.
“Mister Shkreli,” - he too pronounced it Shka-Rell-Eee - ‘Are you refuting the testimony that Miss Anderson is referencing during your preliminary deposition or can we just move on at this point? If counsel for the defense claims to have this recording I am fairly certain this is true. Will it be necessary to enter this recording into evidence at this time or are you willing to acknowledge Miss Anderson’s claim?”
I repositioned my left arm in my lap and nodded.
“That’s fine, Your Honor. As I said, it was just another workday for me but if Miss Anderson says that is what we discussed I am sure she is probably right.”
The judge nodded back at me. “Very good. Let’s proceed then.”
Miss Anderson walked back to the defense table and dropped the leather-bound notepad before continuing with her final question for me, looking annoyed.
“Picking up where we left off, Mister Shkreli, can you please describe for the court what happened immediately after you left the offices of TRG Commercial Realty at 223 Broome Street on the date in question, October 22nd of last year?”
I didn’t like the way that she was trying to fence me in but I wasn't particularly concerned. I had bigger problems.
“Well, like I said, I don’t really remember that day. There was nothing memorable about it. It was just another day.”
She stared at me for a few seconds then flashed a quick look at the jury box with her eyebrows raised before returning her attention to the judge. “No more questions, Your Honor.”
I was dismissed from the stand but asked to remain in the courtroom as she called her next witness; a small, frail woman from Queens about my same age named Maureen Stewart. She had an odd, twitchy nature about her. I wanted to get home. I wanted to relax.
“Miss Stewart, can you please tell the court where you were on October 22nd of last year at approximately 3:30 in the afternoon?”
The witness looked down for a moment and then glanced towards the judge before removing the slightly confused look from her face and responding in a semi-automated tone.
“Yes, Miss Anderson. At that time, I was just leaving my day shift at the FedEx Office Store (she pronounced it ‘Staw’ in her thick New York accent) on Broome Street and I was walking towards the station for the Six Train to begin my ride back home.”
The attorney for the defense took a momentary pause and then asked her next question.
“And can you please tell us what happened then?”
The witness looked down again and then looked back at the judge, then the jury and, finally, at me. I didn’t like the way she looked at me.
“Yes, as I was leaving my workplace I crossed the street and I remember walking past the entrance to a narrow alleyway where I heard a commotion taking place. It made me stop and look for a second or two but I didn’t want to get involved so I just kept on walking towards the subway and I didn’t think too much about the whole thing until the Homicide detectives contacted me a few days later after they pulled the security camera videos. I came down to the police station the day after that and gave my statement. That was just over a year ago.”
Miss Anderson took a moment to stare at me. I didn’t like that either. I adjusted my left arm in my lap. It was completely numb.
“Thank you, Miss Stewart. Can you please be a bit more specific about what you saw occurring in that alleyway?”
Again, the witness looked down at the floor and then her eyes shot all around the courtroom before she responded.
“Well,” she said, before taking a brief pause. “At first I thought it was just a little scuffle but when I saw the shorter man in the black jacket punch the tall man in the belly a few times I saw some blood starting to spread on the side of his white button-down shirt and I saw what looked like a small knife or something in the shorter man’s hand. The tall thin man looked like he was starting to fall. I remember looking around for a police officer but I certainly wasn’t gonna do anything about it by myself. I mean, what could I do? When I didn’t see no one who could help I just kept on walking towards the subway. I guess I should have done more but I was scared and I just wanted to get back to Forest Hills to pick up my daughter from daycare before five o’clock.”
I glanced at the defendant seated at the table on the left. He looked both hopeful and nervous at the same time, but in a subtle way, like he didn’t want to appear to be either. He kept his head down and never once glanced towards the jury box. Miss Anderson asked her final question.
“Thank you, Miss Stewart. And do you see the man in the black jacket who stabbed the victim, Mister Baronston, on that day last October here in the courtroom now?”
Again the witness looked down at the floor between her feet for a moment and then looked back up, right at me. I felt my blood stop flowing through my veins, or at least through my left arm and the top of my right leg, when she raised up her hand and pointed her index finger at me.
“It was that man, there,” she said.
Miss Anderson nodded and paused for a moment, satisfied, letting it sink in for the jury members. I was stunned. The stylish defense attorney in the toney, expensive clothing began walking back in my direction and she too pointed an accusatory finger.
“If it pleases the court, let the record show that Miss Stewart has identified Mister Jack Shkreli as the attacker who she witnessed in the-”
Just then the witness on the stand, Miss Stewart, pointed her finger at the judge without really looking at him and suddenly blurted out, “Or him. It might have been him too. I’m not 100% sure...”
Miss Anderson paused, clearly nonplussed, and just stared at her witness. The judge also looked baffled for a second or two and then leaned over and whispered something to his court assistant and the two of them shared a quiet smirk.
Then the witness pointed at one of the jurors, a man in the front row about my size.
“Or him. It could have been him. I’m just not sure...” Then she went silent, as did the rest of the courtroom for a few moments. The State’s Attorney, a heavy-set bald man, broke the silence pretty quickly as he rose to his feet.
“Your Honor, the State would like to move to dismiss this witness along with all previous testimony.” He paused briefly and took a deep breath, choosing his next words.
“While we appreciate Miss Stewart’s willingness to appear at trial today, I think it’s clear that her recollection of events is…uncertain at best.” He glared at the defense table for a moment, then added “I’d just like to remind the court that Mister Shkreli” - and God bless him, he pronounced my two-syllable surname correctly - “is not on trial here and if this witness cannot distinguish the man she saw that day from yourself or a random member of our jury panel I don’t think we can accept this testimony or any further testimony from this witness.”
He hung his head respectfully, with the tiniest little smile on his face. He already knew he had won this argument and the judge quickly agreed, telling the jury to disregard what they just heard. Miss Stewart was dismissed from the stand and the defense had no other witnesses left to call. Less than two hours later the jury returned a guilty verdict against the defendant on all counts and the courtroom was cleared. The sentencing hearing would take place at a later date and I was not required to be there. My right leg was starting to feel numb by then but I still managed to get back to the office in time for Stavvy to head home at the end of his shift to make dinner for his kids. His wife was killed in a car accident two years earlier. He was a hard worker and I really liked him.
That night, back at my apartment, I did some research online and learned about a rare mental disorder known as Prosopagnosia. Here is what Wikipedia had to say.
Prosopagnosia, also known as face blindness, is a cognitive disorder of face perception in which the ability to recognize familiar faces, including one's own face (self-recognition), is impaired, while other aspects of visual processing (e.g. object discrimination) and intellectual functioning remain intact.
It all sounded pretty strange to me but if the doctors say it’s real who am I to argue? Apparently it is well documented in the DSM-5. I don’t know if this is the reason why I was able to walk away from the courtroom without consequence at first but I think it is the most likely explanation. I only know that when I left my client’s offices at TRG Commercial Realty on that day just over a year ago and hailed a cab I was stunned and confused when Mister Baronston, a complete stranger with a hostile face, suddenly attacked me, claiming that it was his cab and not mine.
He was bigger than me, tall and thin but strong, and I would have just given up the cab and caught the next one but he was clearly already very angry about something. When he backed me towards the alley, shoving me and then punching me around my head and neck, my backpack tumbled open and I saw my wallet and phone and some other items come crashing out onto the pavement. It was just a stupid and unnecessary altercation, the kind of thing that probably happens on the streets of this city every day, sadly. Too many people, not enough space. I did my best to fight back and protect myself but he was a good deal bigger than me.
Then I was getting punched some more and thrown against the alley wall as people passed by, disinterested, and I just instinctively reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the pen knife that has been attached to my keychain for years. Before I really knew what was happening it was open and then my right hand was growing warm and red and slick with his blood. Then I was moving again, not looking back.
What an odd thing. I remember seeing Miss Stewart stopping there on the sidewalk to look from the mouth of the alley that day. Of all the passers-by, she was the only one who paused to look at us, at me, right as I desperately punctured Mister Baronston’s rib cage for the fifth or sixth time with my little penknife and he began to drop, but she averted her gaze after a few seconds and moved on and then I was rapidly heading in the opposite direction. This is a huge city and I never expected to see her face again. Fortunately, she was apparently never really able to see mine.
Anyway, I have more important problems to worry about at this time. Stavvy received a letter from the Manhattan DA’s office yesterday ordering him to appear at a grand jury hearing next month related to my involvement in Mister Baronston’s death. He showed it to me. More importantly, my left arm is just about gone now, my right leg is quickly starting to feel the same way and in just the last day or two I have begun feeling that strange tingling sensation in the tips of the fingers on my right hand. I know my liver is failing. It won’t be long now.
I scheduled a meeting with my lawyer in the morning to legally put the business and the rest of my assets in Stavvy’s name in my will. I have no family here anyway and almost no relatives who I remain close with back in Albania or Montenegro anymore. Stavvy is a good man and he has kids to feed and I have already lived a full life.
So yes, I will just leave it all to him and after that’s done I think I will get the old Ford minivan that we sometimes still use for the business and drive it out to the George Washington Bridge while I am still able. I know that when I stop it and get out and leave it there on the center-span I will screw up traffic badly and inconvenience a lot of people but I can’t worry about that. I have to do what I have to do. There’s no point in waiting for this to get worse. I can barely feel the fingers on my right hand and I don’t have much time left.
Maybe I should have told the truth at the trial. I don’t know. I think I was just too distracted by all of my health problems. I didn’t really have any choice at the time. I don’t have any choice now. I’m actually surprised that I lasted this long. I was certain that I would already be gone a few months ago but I feel I have done my best with this life.
As my people back in Albania say, Mos pyet si vdiq, por si rrojti!
“Do not ask how he died, but how he lived!”
THE END
2024.06.09 08:57 Budget_Sentence_3100 1x or 2x mountain bike (for commuting)
 | Hi all, submitted by Budget_Sentence_3100 to ukbike [link] [comments] I've been riding an electric gravel bike for my commute for the last 2 years (6 miles each way, 3/4 bridleway with a bit of road, undulating, one steep hill) with the occasional use of my old backup mountain bike when (or whatever reason) the e-bike has been unavailable. I've got myself to a level of fitness now where I no longer get much benefit from the motor. I rode the mountain bike every day last week and actually got faster as the week progressed, and by Friday it was only taking me 3 mins longer than on the e-bike. The route I take is, to be honest, probably better suited to a mountain bike. It's very rocky and rooty in places and the mud has been wild this year. When I got the gravel bike I was anticipating more road riding. Anyway, I've decided to sell my e-bike while it still holds some value and get myself a reasonable mountain bike for the daily commute. My LBS (who I've got a lot of time for) are a Cube dealer so I've narrowed it down to two choices. The Attention https://www.cube.eu/uk-en/cube-attention-fireorange-n-black/476b8ec08e88ea20b723e67077f2d625 The Analog: https://www.cube.eu/uk-en/cube-analog-flashlime-n-black/4bcf7b9b876ac64da2815dad35c915d0 I was originally going to go for the Analog as I was thinking a 1x chainset was more appropriate for my needs (my e-bike is 1x, old mountain bike is 3x but tbh I only really use the middle ring for my commute), but the LBS have £100 off their in store Attention which makes them the same price. The Attention has Shimano components rather than SRAM and (please keep in mind I know very little about this stuff) I believe that's an advantage. So my question for you more experienced cyclists is, which should I go for? 2x with Shimano or 1x with SRAM? Any advice appreciated! https://preview.redd.it/vbxwew3zuh5d1.png?width=1688&format=png&auto=webp&s=a55d5d8801a15035c9378126650df673af9fd4c3 |
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