I was just returning back from another interview. It has been the third one this month.
I failed to make the cut yet again.
Life hasn’t been easy for an ex-soldier with the economic downturn currently underway.
The COVID pandemic had also wiped out all my savings.
So I was open to securing any job that would help me pay my bills.
I hadn’t eaten all day and just passed by a McDonalds. It was crowded and I thought to myself, ‘Let me just order a takeout’.
I could see a few vehicles waiting in front of me.
There was a guy in his motorcycle honking incessantly demanding the customer in front to keep it moving.
He was a tall man with long hair and clearly looked edgy and irritable. Both his arms were heavily tattooed. He stepped down from his bike and started to walk towards the car in front of him.
I couldn’t make out what he way saying but I could see the conversation was getting heated.
I got down from my car and walked towards the biker guy.
As I got closer, the biker banged on the hood of the car and was pointing his finger at the man threateningly.
The guy in the car was looking a little alarmed. He had a young boy seated next to him.
The woman working at the driveway counter appealed to the biker to maintain his cool. He would hear none of it.
She then proceeded to call the police and this made the biker more irate. He snatched the receiver from her and hit her face with it. She fell backwards and started bleeding from the nose.
The biker then proceeded to turn his gaze towards the man in the car. He opened the door and dragged the guy outside.
He drew his hand back to throw a punch at him.
I caught his arm from behind and kicked him hard in the shins. He yelped in pain and let go of the other man.
He then turned back angrily to take a look at me. He was wearing a black jacket with the name Kenny embossed in front.
I said, “Listen Kenny. I have had a really bad day. So you either stop this madness or I am going to break your bones.”
He snarled and threw a punch at me with all his might. I swerved to the right and ducked just in time, causing him to miss completely.
Next, he whipped out a switch blade from his pocket and lunged towards me with it. I side stepped him and counterattacked with a punch to his plexus. He went down on one knee.
I caught hold of his knife arm and ordered him to drop it.
“Drop the knife kenny!! This is your last warning”, I repeated.
He started to fidget with his other arm around his shoe. I realized he had another weapon hidden in his sock.
So before he could attempt anything else, I twisted his forearm and landed a crushing blow to his elbow. It snapped into two and he lay on the floor yelping in pain.
By this point, other people came forward to intervene and help with the situation.
As Kenny was being led away by the police, he kept staring at me with madness in his eyes.
“I am coming back for you. This is going to be the biggest regret of your life”, he yelled.
I didn’t care and started going back to my car.
Then the man who was threatened by Kenny came forward and shook my hand.
“Hi. I am Rupert. That is my son Henry”, he said.
I waved my hand at the boy and he waved back.
“I would like to thank you for what you did for me back there”, he said.
“You not only helped me maintain my dignity but also helped me save face in front of my son”, he continued.
“This means a lot to me as a dad” he said.
I nodded in acknowledgement not sure what I was to add to the conversation.
He then reluctantly asked,” Is there anything I can do to repay the favour? Please feel free to ask . Anything. I would be most grateful.”
I thought for a moment. I could see the man was wealthy.
“If it’s not too much of an ask, I would appreciate a job if available. If you feel that is difficult, no problem. Forget I asked. No worries.” I said.
He smiled back at me warmly. He reached into his pocket and handed me a card.
“Please come to my office tomorrow. We can talk” he signed off.
From that moment on, I became the personal bodyguard and chaperone of his 8 year old son Henry. We immediately hit it off and became pals. I looked after all his son’s travelling arrangements.
We would also go to McDonalds every week for his favourite Burger and fries. I later learnt that his father was a very wealthy man who made most of his money during the dot com bubble.
I also became friends with the female employee at the driveway counter who had earlier been attacked by that biker punk Kenny.
Her name was Stella and it didn’t take very long for the two of us to start dating.
With a fulfilling job and a loving girlfriend by my side, my life was finally back on track. I couldn’t be happier.
And then one day - it all came crashing.
Henry and I as usual visited the McDonalds joint and I was surprised to see Stella missing at the counter.
I asked the staff about her and they said she hadn’t turned up today.
I thought that was weird. She had stayed over at my place and I saw her leave for work in the morning.
I tried calling her number but it was unreachable.
I dropped Henry at home and headed towards Stella’s apartment.
She had given me a spare key and I opened the door with it. Everything was in its place.
I tried her number again. It remained not reachable.
I decided to go back to my apartment to check if she might be there.
When I reached the door, I could see the lock had been smashed. The door was left slightly open.
I took out my side arm and slowly entered the apartment.
I could see a life size figure of Ronald McDonald the clown sitting on my sofa.
The famous mascot was sitting cross legged with one arm resting on the backrest. Just like how he likes to sit on benches outside McDonald outlets all across the world.
I was a little taken aback, but quickly switched on the lights to take a closer look.
As I moved closer, my knees buckled under my own weight.
It was Stella. She was the one who was dressed as the clown.
There were injury marks around her neck. She had been strangled to death.
I managed to call the cops while still reeling from the shock.
I also noticed her right hand which was resting on her thigh, was close fisted. When I pried it open, there was a crumpled piece of paper inside.
It read -
“She was really begging me for mercy.
Where was soldier boy when she needed him huh?
Boo Hoo….I’m Lovin It!!
I’m Lovin it!!
Signed Yours Kenny”
I could feel a surge of anger envelop me. And yet I lay there helpless.
Had it not been for the surveillance cameras at the entrance of my home, I would have been in jail by now.
The police could clearly see Kenny carrying Stella’s body and breaking into my apartment.
They put out a nationwide notice for Kenny and he’s been on the run ever since.
Even after 2 months following Stella’s death, the police were not any closer to catching the culprit.
But I did apprise Henry’s dad of the situation. His life was also at risk after considering what happened to my girlfriend.
But our collective worry was for Henry. We didn’t want to see him suffer for no fault of his.
So I started training Henry to take his own safety seriously. I devised multiple safeguards to keep him protected while being outdoors. Always ensured that I was personally there to drop and pick him up from school.
My boss appreciated all that I was doing for his son. He knew I had taken Stella’s death hard.
He was a generous and compassionate man and I liked working for him.
Although he did notice I wasn’t my usual cheery self anymore.
One day when I was waiting at the office, he tossed the keys of his new car at me.
“This should perk you up. Take her for a spin” he said.
“And also go pick Henry up from school”, he finished as he left for a meeting.
I got down to the parking lot, and there she was … waiting. The new Bugatti Chiron.
I opened the door and took the driver’s seat. The fresh smell of the leather upholstery was already lifting my spirits.
‘Boss was right! I am perking up’, I thought to myself.
I drove around the block and stopped by McDonalds to pick up the usual order for me and Henry.
I felt a tinge of sadness when I could no longer see Stella at the counter.
Anyways, I picked the order and started my way towards school.
As I went past the restaurant, I saw an old jeep parked by the side of the road. I didn’t think much of it at that moment.
When I reached Henry’s school, I parked the car a few feet away from the entrance. A couple of minutes later, I noticed the same jeep I saw at McDonalds go past me and park 20 mts in front.
I would have never given it a second glance had I not spotted it at the restaurant.
The jeep had 3 passengers. They looked like bikers with tattoos, beard and long hair.
And then there was Kenny standing behind a tree to avoid detection. But I spotted him.
He was gesturing towards them to get ready. I could see his Harley parked just a few feet away.
They were planning some kind of ambush.
The school bell rang and the children were already out on the streets.
I could see Henry at a distance in the courtyard. He was slowly making his way towards the gate.
I immediately called him on the phone and told him to go to the Principals office and stay there. I made it clear under no circumstances was he to venture out until I gave him the all clear. He understood.
He was safe as long as he was within the school’s premises.
The next thing to do was move to another location. The children were already pouring onto the streets, and the last thing I wanted was to see a child getting hurt.
I started the car and went past the jeep before taking the next turn. I kept driving.
Few moments later, the jeep caught up with me and the driver violently swerved towards the left causing me to go off course. My car came to halt.
The guys quickly alighted from the jeep and they were all armed to the teeth.
Kenny came in his motorcycle and stopped his bike a few feet ahead of me. He took out his shotgun and had it aimed straight at my chest.
The firing started before I even had the time to react.
I instinctively ducked for cover with my eyes closed.
But in my heart, I knew my time was up!!
As the seconds went by, even with all those bullets being sent my way - my body felt strangely light.
‘Am I in heaven already?’ I thought to myself.
I slowly opened my eyes and tilted my head upwards to take a peak.
And I realized I was sitting in an armoured bullet proof car.
The entire biker gang were mad with rage, doing everything possible to penetrate that thick armour plate.
Kenny was barking orders at his gang to continue the onslaught. He then pointed his finger at me and yelled, “I am coming for you.”
I looked down at the seat next to mine and saw the takeout I had ordered.
Just to piss him off even further, I took out my Big Mac and slowly took a big bite.
I sat there in gastronomic bliss savouring my burger, while being under a continuous hail of bullets.
The firing suddenly stopped. Kenny the psycho was livid as hell - to see me have a good time.
I looked him in the eye while I took a sip of my favourite milkshake.
And then, continued to chomp on my burger.
He looked a little crestfallen at how his plan was misfiring and then frantically gestured his troops to keep at it. The firing started again.
But it didn’t last long. They eventually all ran out of ammo and his buddies began to flee the scene, as we could hear sirens at a distance.
The attack had taken a toll on the car. But it managed to withstand all that damage. All that firing.
A life saver!
I looked at Kenny again. Only one thought was running through my head now.
‘My Turn’.
I switched on the ignition and rammed the car straight into Kenny. He hit the bonnet hard while the car continued to race forward.
He was clinging on to dear life with his outstretched hands desperately clutching at the sides of the car.
Next in the demolition line, was his prized Harley Davidson.
I hit it full steam and watched it smash to smithereens - with parts scattering all across the road.
Then, I hit the brakes and Kenny was sent flying 10 feet forward.
After impact, he slowly staggered to his feet - all bloody and bruised.
His face was swollen like an apple.
He was pleading towards me with folded hands to show him mercy.
‘This is for Stella. And She’s lovin it’, I said out loud.
I hit the accelerator again.

Hi.
I recently got a tattoo sleeve on my forearm covering both sides.
I finished the upper side in 8 hours, the under side of the arm took 6 hours to complete 50% of it.
The tattoo studio doesn’t have a time slot until 6 days post tattoo.
The side of my tattoo that isn’t completed is slowly beginning to peel. My question is, will it affect the tattoo long term when my artist starts to tattoo my arm again?
He has lines, shadowing and colours remaining to add to the already half-finished sleeve.
Its my first tattoo, and im scared that if he goes over and tattoos on the peeling skin, it will distort/fuck up the tattoo long term.
What should i do?
Sorry if i didn’t explain it well enough. I have linked a picture to show you how my tattoo looks like.
https://postimg.cc/BP0hmZDS

I posted this in another subreddit but deleted it after ten minutes because somebody downvoted me and I'm embarrassed and ashamed.
Basically I was taken advantage of by a tattoo artist who owns his own shop. He asked me to come over after it closed and he had this stupid room decorated with a couch and a TV. He knew I was addicted and we would get high on drugs and drink before he pressured me for sex. He said if I gave him head, then he would help me out with drugs and money. I let him tattoo me as well because he asked to, and he basically didn't listen to what I wanted or plan like he said he would. The tattoos are fucked up and ugly and cover my entire forearm. He only ever tattooed me after the shop was closed at like 2 AM when we were both high. I had gone through a really traumatic experience before we met. I truly feel taken advantage of but what hurts the most is that I let him. Now I'm paying like 8k for extremely painful tattoo removal sessions meanwhile he gets to be in music videos and run his shop. I haven't told anybody this and cringe whenever anyone asks me about them. I started covering them up with makeup and should maybe do therapy but I don't want to confront these feelings yet because of the memories.
Edit:
After re-reading my post, I want to add something.
I hate the tattoos because they are a daily reminder of him. The coercion. It isn't purely an aesthetic thing because that I could deal with.
I never included everything he did to me in this post. I just know it wasn't ok.
I have heard rumours that he has been inappropriate with many others too. He uses his reputation (voted top artist in the city multiple years in a row, some success in the music industry) as bait

• Very slow to boot up, honestly thought my computer had crashed. It could be my computer. It's a gaming computer, but getting a little old now. It does run RimWorld, Minecraft, Skyrim, Borderlands, etc with no issues, though.
  
• Very minimal accessibility settings in the Settings menu. There's Audio with 4 sliders for overall volume, music, sound effects, and ambient volume. Graphics, with a checkbox each for fullscreen and V-sync, a slider for volumetric fog quality, and a dropdown each for quality preset, general quality, resolution, and clouds quality. There is a Controls menu with a slider for camera sensitivity (no numbers or visible markers, just a plain slider), and a checkbox each to make sprint a toggle, turn on auto-walk, toggle collecting, and toggle aiming. There is a single button to reset all settings from Audio, Graphics, and Controls all at once.
  
• 3 save slots available.
  
• Prologue map is what is included in the demo, and leaving that area will end the demo.
  
• Controller support not fully implemented yet, but controller scheme is in the Contols menu when paused. I tried using my controller and sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, but it's clearly on the docket.
  
• Character is customizable. 3 light skintones, one of which is light brown, 2 dark brown-- the jump between the last 2 brown tones is significant, whereas the 2 lightest skintones are only barely different. The character is generally pretty femme presenting no matter how you tweak the character settings. There's not really a flat-chested option if that's important to you. 2 of the 5 outfits are dresses, the other 3 have some other "feminine" touches like lace. Their name will always be Reka.
  

There are 5 tattoo options, 3 of which are fingehand tattoos, one very visible tattoo for the front of the neck, and one very small one for next to an eye-- or no tattoos. 2 curly hairstyles, a shorn style, 2 wavy braided styles, and the other 6 options are straight hair in various lengths/styles.
There are 2 sliders for Freckle Amount and Freckle Intensity. 12 eye color options, 3 or 4 shades each of brown, green, blue, and grey. No fantasy colors (pink, purple, etc). 3 sliders for hair Color, Warmth, and Brightness. 6 eyebrow types. Accessory options include a lacy choker, a set of rings for each hand (hard to see but cute), and 2 head kerchiefs that switch your hairstyle to the one that "goes with" the kerchief.

• Button Remapping seems to be available in the Pause menu during the demo.
  
• There is free-cam. This will require the use of both thumbsticks on a controller, or WASD + mouse. However, the game is paced slow enough (so far) that if you can only use one hand to play you may still be able to play. I didn't come across any quick-time events in the demo.
  
• Everything kinda melds into everything else visually. It all kinda has this grey-brown wash that makes things... harder on the eyes in terms of picking things out? Especially if you get glare from the in-game sun, which is tbh pretty painful.
  
• No colorblind mode or high contrast mode, which kinda ties in with the point above. In the character creation menu and pause menu, there are non-color indicators of what you've selected. A diamond shape next to the option in the pause menu, and a fancy second outline in the character creation menu for thumbnails, or a circle if you're using a slider like for eye color. But during gameplay there are some things that may be difficult to pick out if you're colorblind or have low-vision, just due to the lower tone contrast between things and only sometimes having sparkly indicators (there are none in some instances) like some games have for interactables.
  
• The sun does eventually go down, so there is a daylight/night cycle in the game.
  
• There's a bar-compass for navigation (like in Skyrim) and you must meet Baba Yaga to unlock a map. If you go in the right direction for a bit you'll see an icon for your house on the compass.
  
• The camera feels a touch jerky. I tweaked the camera sensitivity down, and even then sometimes the camera feels a little jerky. I struggle with vertigo, so for other folks who do, beware.
  
• Text is white, a serif font, and not adjustable in size, font, color, or contrast. No contrast box around the text to make it pop. So far the size of the text has been okay for me, but I think the dialogue text in specific would be a pain for anyone with low vision, playing on Steam Deck/ROG Ally, or anyone who's dyslexic as the font feels a bit narrow and crowded. Also the text for the button prompt is way too small even on my (good sized) monitor that I'm close up to. The text in the journal you eventually get is also on the small side, low contrast, and item headers are in "fun" fonts that may be a pain for dyslexic and low vision users.
  
• Typo(s?)-- minor quabble but one of the villagers told me to "stay save" instead of "stay safe".
  
• You get to carry a baby goat. For a lil quest from a villager.
  
• Rewards for villagers' tasks are often decor from what I've seen in the demo.
  
• There are some cute visual touches, like things you've gathered hanging off Reka's backpack.
  
• You can read and interact with other things while carrying something-- don't do it (yet). That's how I glitched the giant Fabergé egg under the floor of Baba Yaga's hut (I could see it between the planks, but couldn't interact/pick it back up.
  
• Gathering distant things requires holding two buttons at once, similar to aiming down sights and then firing in some games.
  
• Baba Yaga is sassy. 10/10, no notes, I love her.
  

All in all, I think it's fun and it'll be cute. But not terribly accessible for anyone with vertigo or visual issues, unless the devs tweak some things. I like the visual style, though I wish things were a little more distinct so it's a little easier to see things.

Looking for recommendations on someone who can do a good job with a lettering tattoo in the RO area.
2 lines from a poem, 10 words, 45 characters total in a modern block font, black letters maybe 1/2" tall. Inside of forearm.

Chapter 1 People are so…. Social. I grew up in a small town in Arizona and I’ve always loved the peace and quiet. But as I aged, graduating high school and spending a restless summer trying to divine what a broke carpenters son could do with his life (and probably drinking and smoking too much.) the small town gossip really started to wear on me. I’ve never been a social butterfly, preferring to mind my own business and let others mind theirs. But in a small town that’s a luxury you can’t afford. Everyone there has watched you mature from a scrawny kid with a stutter to a quiet but confident young man and, as such, feel that they have some obligation to be sure that your life is going to go in the right direction. There’s only so many questions a 19 year old can take about a lack of college and girlfriends. Only so many conversations following the familiar lines of “well you know, college is there to prove to employers you can show up at the same time and place for 4 years.” Or “don’t rush it, I found my wife when I finally gave up on looking!” Or, most aggravating “God works in mysterious ways!” (No shit Barbara, he’s an unknowable, omnipotent entity and you sell Sephora.(Don’t you have a bland youth group sermon to give?) I guess this is my way of explaining why I left my hometown so hastily the beautiful autumn after graduation. My folks were pleased to see I was going to “find myself.” As my mother so romantically put it. They hoped I’d find some kind of inspiration out on life’s grand highway. My dad chuckled, his eyes full of memories from the days he was young and free, a youthful joy that even 25 years in construction couldn’t dampen. “Go sow your wild oats son! Just remember you’ll reap them in the end.” He said, a mischievousness that was rare for him lightening the words. That is how I came to be here, in Golden Meadow, Louisiana. “Arizona plates? Well ain’t you a long way from home?” The deep southern drawl, by now familiar to me after a week of driving through Louisiana, cut through a perfectly quiet morning. Great. A socialite. Why did I have to choose the south for this roadtrip? I forced a polite smile and turned to face dreaded small talk as I began pumping my gas. “That’s right!” As I spoke I sized up my new best friend. A short, profusely sweating man stood before me. He must have been about 5’ 5”, well below my respectable height of 6’. His hair, greasy but trimmed nicely, his sheriffs hat…. Fuck. This is a cop. “Sheriff E. Gore, pleased to meet you!” He drawled again, his accent, I noted, more Texas than Cajun. He extended a sweaty hand, which I took as a good sign. (The law usually isn’t so friendly to suspicious people.) I shook his hand, surprised by the strength that this somewhat rotund sheriff had, his grip strong but measured. I returned his introduction. “David Lawrence.” “What brings you down to our little town son?” I took a deliberate look around before I answered, my gaze sweeping over the small gas station, the almost empty street, the abandoned buildings, a liquor store and a dilapidated dollar general. “Just passing through.” It probably wouldn’t take long, I thought to myself. I could see most of town from where I was. My gaze returned to Sheriff Gore, and I realized he was staring at me hard, gauging me for something. “I’m on a bit of a roadtrip.” I added, trying to remove his focus from my arms. “Well built aren’t ya?” The Sheriff said. Jesus, what a way to start a conversation with a stranger. I forced through the awkwardness. “Yessir.” Forced grin, wishing my gas would pump faster. “I try to stay active.” The Sheriff’s attentive gaze and fixed smile never strayed from me. “How nice! You know, you should stick around town awhile, we’ve got lots to offer!” I decided to myself that I didn’t like the Sheriff, my earlier thought that he likely wasn’t suspicious since he was so friendly now giving way to the feeling that he was too friendly. I gritted my teeth. “I really would, but I’m trying to make it to New Orleans.” I said, maintaining my politely measured tone. I had no interest in staying in this town. “That’s such a shame.” The Sheriff said, his voice betraying disappointment. “It’s a lovely town, it really is.” I was saved from my own awkward response to his too-friendly, begging statement by his radio crackling loudly from his cruiser, parked outside the gas station convenience store. The words, unintelligible to me, evidently made sense to Gore, as he swung around and strolled back to his cruiser. He was oddly quick for a guy of his stature. “Well, good luck on the road Lawrence.” He shouted over his shoulder as he left. “Be careful on the roads and come visit us again real soon!” I shook off the bile-like aftertaste of Gore’s stare and went back to doing what I do best. Minding my own damn business. I wouldn’t be in town long. What I’d told the Sheriff was true. I was headed to New Orleans. My red ‘69 mustang and I were scheduled to enjoy a beautiful city, far from the normal tourist season, here in early October. The food, the music, the bars, all promised to be excellent and uncrowded, allowing a drifting 19 year old a place to breathe and make decisions. Maybe I’d find some work and stay awhile. Or I’d stay a week and then continue “Dave’s Grand Tour” as I’d taken to calling my trip. The idea of Dave’s Grand Tour was simple; find a place that speaks to me. I had no interest in college, as I’d found during high school that an enterprising young man could make a good bit of money just by taking opportunities when they come. I’d worked at a county fair, for the railroad and for local farmers and ranchers and I had found that there were lots of ways to make money. And I didn’t want to tie myself to a career. After all, my dad had built a pretty great life doing carpentry, something that didn’t take much time to learn. (Of course I’d already learned, from helping him.) I contemplated these things as I pulled out of the filling station and back onto the road. Not much farther to New Orleans. As I drove through town, past a small town mechanic, a diner and a tidy row of houses, I almost felt bad for leaving. This town was clearly dying. Empty buildings, boarded windows and beat up cars told the story of a town in decline. The coastal fishing village was picturesque though, and its people were friendly and polite. With the exception of Sheriff E. Gore. What the hell was that guys prob.. I was tore from my thoughts as the unmistakable sound of a popped tire hissed above the growl of my car. “Shit.” I muttered, pulling over to assess the damage. The damage, as it turned out, was extensive and likely expensive. The ‘stang was equipped with beautiful whitewall tires, painstakingly sourced by my grandfather during the restoration I had helped him with during his final years. Cancer is a bitch, especially when you’re 72. He had handled it well though, and had the car (as well as some of his savings) to me when he passed. Grandma had gone ahead of him some years before. I reiterate, cancer is a bitch. And now my beautiful car was down two tires, both passenger side whitewalls punctured by a myriad of screws and nails. I stared in disbelief. Wandering back down the road I found their source, an overturned coffee tin which was clearly some tradesman’s “spare shit” bin. Shaking my head and muttering expletives I strolled back to my car. Of course I had a spare in the trunk, and all the tools to change a tire, but who carts a second spare tire around? Still muttering words I could never let my mother hear, I searched on my phone for the number to the mechanic I had passed, finding an oddly polished website. JP’s machine and tire shop had someone tech savvy on the payroll. And they were punctual. Less than 15 minutes later I was standing on the concrete shop floor, watching JP himself remove my tires. “Lord, you’ve had some bad luck!” He boomed. I’d decided I liked JP. He was a big man, with a tanned face and forearms, betraying many days spent on the sun-soaked waters of the bay. “How in gods name did you manage to get this many holes in such nice tires?” I laughed. “I’m Gods strongest soldier I guess.” JP roared out a laugh. Laughter came easy to him it seemed. “There’s good news and bad news.” He said, awhile later. I’d quietly sat in a comfy chair in the shops waiting area, reading, while he focused on his work. “What’s the bad news?” I asked. “You’ve got to wait two days for new tires.” JP replied. I’d figured as much. What kind of small town auto shop would have whitewalls for a 1969 mustang just lying around. “Good news is, I got you a helluva deal on them. Buddy of mine runs a classics restoration shop in Orleans. He’ll send a truck to deliver your tires, but he’s short handed, thus the wait.” This was excellent (and intriguing) news. I’d expected the wait to be much longer, and the cost to be higher. As JP broke down my bill, explaining the pricing, I couldn’t help but feel pretty lucky, all things considered. I paid JP (thank you Grandpa) and wandered out into the Golden Meadow sunshine, my backpack slung over my shoulder.
Chapter 2 It was a damn fine evening on the bayou. I was paddling along between small islands overgrown with thick river reeds, in a kayak I’d rented from a local fishing guide named Sam. I’d spent the afternoon fishing from the kayak, with a breakdown rod I kept in my backpack. Now, as the sun was sinking low, turning the water orange and pink in the dying light, I paddled gently back to town. As I made it to the dock where Sam had told me to leave the kayak (very trusting fellow, Sam was) I heard faint music. It grew louder as I came closer to the dock. A myriad of fishing vessels, speedboats and jet skis obscured it as I drew close. But as I tied the kayak in place at Sam’s dock, I made out the lyrics. I recognized the song. Brown Haired Blue Eyed Baby, by JD Clayton. Excellent song. That was when I saw her. Standing on a tall fishing boat at the next dock over. She. Was. Breathtaking. With dark brown hair and a deep tan, she looked to be about my age. She was coiling a rope, faced away from me, singing along to the music. I suddenly realized I was staring, not saying anything, and she had no idea I was there. Realizing that this could be a bad look for me, I cast my eyes downward and dropped my backpack onto the dock, letting it fall heavily. I glanced up as she swung around, pretending I hadn’t seen her until now. “Oh, hey!” I said, a bit too loudly. After a pause she returned the greeting somewhat cautiously. “Hey.” Words failed me. She had turned to face me now and I saw her eyes for the first time. They were a vivid blue, that reflected the light from the water, even as the sun sank. I had a sudden burst of confidence, thinking to myself that worst case scenario, e.g. rejection, I could always just leave in two days and never see her again. “Hey, listen, this might be a little too bold, but you are incredibly pretty.” I said, the words rushing from my mouth. She seemed shocked, and for a second I thought she was disgusted. Then her cheeks flushed and I realized she was blushing. I pushed on. “Sorry, sorry, that was probably a little too much, I’m so..” she cut me off with a laugh. Damn, even her laugh was cute. “It’s okay!” She exclaimed, breathlessly. “you just surprised me, that’s all.” I smiled broadly. She returned the smile. “I’m Dave.” I said, somewhat sheepishly. Extending a hand upwards to her perch on the boat. Still smiling she took it and said “I’m Emmy Lou.” Emmy Lou and I ended up talking for almost an hour as the sun disappeared and the moon shone brightly upon us. She told me about her life, growing up a local in this small town, working on one of Sam’s guide boats. I told her about Arizona, the summer I spent restoring my mustang (I mostly just wanted her to know I had a cool car), and all about Dave’s Grand Tour. She was sweet, a good listener, but she seemed tough, a girl who knew how to handle herself, even at 18. She was still living with her parents, saving up to move out. “Where will you go?” I asked her. “When you move out I mean.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Haven’t really thought that far ahead. Maybe to Texas? I’ve always wanted to be a cowgirl.” I grinned. “You’d certainly make a good one.” I replied. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” She exclaimed in a joking manner. Her and I had fallen into a rhythm of teasing and joking very easily. I laughed as I replied in protest, “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that! You just seem to be naturally good at most things you try.” She blushed again. It was almost a familiar sight to me now. She broke eye contact. She generally had to be the first one to do so, since I seemed to be frozen every time I looked in her eyes. “Listen.” She said, standing up. “This has been a lot of fun, but I’ve gotta get home. My folks will be worried.” I stood as well. “Oh, alright.” I couldn’t hide my disappointment. “Hey, I’ll be around town tomorrow, since my tires won’t be in. Maybe I could see you around?” She looked down at her toes and said quietly “I’d like that.” We wished each other good night and went our separate ways, her to her parents place and me to a quiet motel room near the mechanic, a 20 minute walk away. I was almost to the motel when the light flashed across me. It was a flashlight beam, coming from the sidewalk in front of me. I froze. “Well hey there son!” Came a long southern drawl. “Decided to stay in town after all?” For some reason, the Sheriffs voice made my skin crawl. What made it worse was him shining the light in my face. It made it impossible to see him. I squinted hard. “Hey Sheriff. Yeah I’m in town for a couple days more.” Before I could continue (ask him to stop blinding me) he jumped in. “Now what’s held you up young fella. Car trouble?” He said. I paused. There was something about the way he asked the question that I didn’t like. Like he already knew the answer. “Yeah, how did you..” “Oh damn me!” He interrupted, not acknowledging my question at all. “I forgot!” He finally stopped shining the light in my eyes. (Hallelujah.) As my eyes readjusted to the dimly lit sidewalk, the flashlight now pointing down, the sheriff said “This here’s Mr. Wellers.” A deep new voice, clearly articulated “Hello Mr. Lawrence, the Sheriffs told me a lot about you.” I raised my eyes to meet this newcomers and was startled. In stark contrast to the Sheriff, Mr. Wellers was tall, well built and spoke with no accent. He had brown eyes, perfectly trimmed and combed blonde hair and was wearing… a lab coat? I blinked, my brain trying to process. All I could think to say was “Mister? Not….. doctor?” I thought it might be an offensive question at first, as the Sheriff looked at me reproachably and Mr. Wellers cast his eyes downward as if embarrassed. “I uhhhhh… used to be. My license was revoked.” Wow. There’s a rabbit hole I don’t need to go down within seconds of meeting this man. “Oh I’m so sorry” I said lamely. “That sucks.” “You’re damn right it does.” Growled out Gore. He seemed more offended over my apparent faux pa than his friend. “He was my personal doctor for many years. He’s a damned fine doctor too!” “E.” Mr. Wellers said quietly. “It’s alright.” This interaction had passed into the realm of the surreal. I had no idea why these two were out alone together after dark, and frankly I didn’t want to know. (Once again, minding my own business.) “Right… well it was good to see you, and nice meet you Dr. I mean… Mr. Wellers.” I cringed at my own words. God, just let me out of this conversation. “And a pleasure meeting you as well young man!” Said Mr. Wellers. I felt bad. He seemed like such a normal, reasonable guy when compared to Gore. “By the way.” His deep voice rang out again as I moved down the street. “What’s your blood type?” My brain malfunctioned. “My… uhm… what?” I struggled for words. “Blood type!” He exclaimed. Seeing the confusion in my eyes he elaborated. “We’re having a blood drive tomorrow.” (Oh hallelujah lord, thank god this guy doesn’t want to steal my blood.) “we could really use all we can get, you know. Being in a remote place like Golden Meadows it’s important we have a little extra on hand.” His tone put me at rest once more. “I’m O negative.” I said. “Universal donor. If I’ve got time tomorrow I’ll stop by.” I said it mostly to placate him and get out of the conversation faster. But his tone as he thanked me profusely, as well as the obvious gratitude in his doe brown eyes made me actually want to go help. I resolved myself to actually stop by and donate tomorrow. Might as well right? Not like I’ve got anything else to do. I finally made it to my hotel room and by the time I was cleaned up and in bed I had almost forgotten about the awkward demeanor of the pair. Although the Sheriff still made me hellishly uncomfortable. He had a way of staring at you like you were a snack he was about to eat. I shuddered, decided not to think about that anymore and rolled over, thinking of Emmy Lou and the possibilities of tomorrow.
Chapter 3 I was having some difficulty finding Emmy. I’d been down to the dock, had breakfast at the cafe, wandered the town and even hung out in the bait and tackle shop Sam run in conjunction with his guide business. No sign of her. I was checking out an enormous tarpon mounted above some fly rods when Sam’s voice floated over to me. “She’s out on the boat.” I heard the mirth in his voice and turned to face him. He was behind the counter, tying a huge streamer, round glasses perched precariously on the end of his long nose. He was an older man, maybe 50, with a bald head, strong hands and several old school tattoos, harkening back to his days in the navy. He looked over his glasses at me, his heavy eyebrows raised and a cheeky smile on his face. “She didn’t stop talking about you until they left.” He said. “Oh.” I blushed heavily. Looking back it must have been pretty obvious that I wasn’t there for hooks or spinning lures. “When will she be back?” I said, deciding not to hide my true motives. “Sunset.” He said. “Maybe sooner if they catch a big bait of red drum.” I nodded. “Thank you.” I said, and I meant it. I had been going crazy, cursing myself for not getting her number at least. But now my hope was restored. She’d be back. And then I could see her again. I headed towards the door. “Hey kid.” Sam called. I turned back to him. He had his glasses in his hand now, and he was looking at me with his full attention. “Yes sir?” “Don’t hurt her. She’s an angel and we’re all pretty protective of her.” I nodded. Sam was surely referring to his crew of fishermen and guides, a tough group of seamen, some of whom I’d met yesterday while they were gearing up for the afternoon. I definitely didn’t want to get on their bad side. Now it was Sam’s turn to nod. “Good.” Was all he said as he turned back to his work. I wandered back down the boardwalk into town, wondering how I would kill the long hours until sunset, when I saw the Sheriffs squad car. It was parked outside the small town hospital, and suddenly I remembered our awkward conversation last night. The blood drive! There’s a good way to kill an afternoon in the quietest town on the planet. I strolled across to the hospital, and walked through the sliding doors (the only set in town.) “Mr. Lawrence!” Mr. Wellers greeted me enthusiastically. “Glad to see you my boy!” People in this town sure get familiar fast. “Hey Mr. Wellers, where do I go for the blood drive?” The once-doctor directed me to his exam room. “I’ll just need to give you a checkup, make sure you’re in good shape to donate.” It seemed odd that he had an exam room, since he had no medical license. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard of getting a checkup before blood donation, but I shrugged it off as another oddity of Golden Meadows. Weird Sheriff, too-friendly strangers and the most beautiful girl (I believed.) in the south. This town was a trip. Mr. Wellers was talkative as he took my blood pressure, temperature, stared down my throat and peered into my eyes and ears, writing notes on his clipboard as he spoke. “You’re in damn fine health young man.” I knew I was. Years of physical activity and decent genetics (thanks dad.) kept me strong and healthy. I rarely got sick, played football through high school and never seemed bothered by sweltering Arizona heat, something that had benefited me greatly in the humid southern states. Mr. Wellers asked questions about all of these things. He seemed genuinely interested and I got the feeling he was asking more for his own curiosity than any official reason. “Well son,” he was saying now. “You’re the picture of health.” “Thanks.” I replied. “So where do I go to donate.” “Actually,” he said, a bit too quickly. “We’ve had a lot of donations today, far more than expected.” “Oh, so you don’t want me to donate?” I was confused. He’d made it seem like they seriously needed more donations. I brushed it off. Over-selling a problem did make sense. Sometimes it was the only way to get things done in a small town. “No no, we’d still love for you to donate!” He said, once again speaking quickly. “Just give me some time to make my preparations! He smiled, kindly. “Alright… “ I said, at a loss. This seemed so weird, I was beginning to get a bad feeling. Were Mr. Wellers motivations entirely… pure? He seemed to be trying to achieve something with his interactions with me, although I wasn’t sure what. “Well, I guess I’ll stop by later then.” I said, my voice laden with confusion. Mr. Wellers pretended not to notice, uttering vague complacencies as he sent me on my way. I stepped back out of the hospital, vaguely wondering why I hadn’t seen a single living soul inside besides Mr. Wellers. The reception desk had been empty since I came in, the intercom was quiet and I saw no nurses, doctors or patients. I’m starting to really hate the emptiness of this town. I wonder if my tires had come in…
Chapter 4 After a snack from the convenience store and a stop by JP’s to see my car I was wandering town again, aimlessly. The sheriff had driven past twice, smiling at me through his squad car window unblinkingly. I wondered what had happened to him in his life for his social behavior to be so odd. Maybe he had a bad childhood or was raised by an alligator or something. That would explain the toothy smiles and the never-blinking at least. It was about 2 o’clock. JP had assured me my tires would be in tomorrow, which suited me okay. I was almost hesitant to leave, since Emmy Lou was still in town and good lord knows I had an interest in her. Goodness she was fine. I was walking down the street, not really paying attention to anything going on, listening to in thoughts of Emmy. Her hair, her eyes, her walk, she walked… right behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey Dave!” I spun around, my mind returning guiltily from the gutter. “Emmy! Sam said you wouldn’t be off the boat until sundown!” “We limited out. What can I say, I’m just that good.” she spread her arms in a kind of proud shrug, a sarcastic-cocky smile on her face. I smiled too. She had that effect on me. “Hey, I realized I never got your number!” She looked surprised. “You want it?” Now I was surprised. “I… yeah, I really do. I mean, I think you’re great and I don’t want to lose contact when I…” the air around us suddenly felt heavier. I was suddenly nervous. Had I misjudged her interest? Did she see me as some passerby, a very temporary friend? A smile cautiously returned to her face. “You can have my number.” She said. “But if you move back to Arizona forever I’m not going to text you back.” Thank god. I thought I’d totally dropped the bag. “Deal.” I said, smiling once more. Emmy and I spent the afternoon talking as we saw the meager sights in town. We had an ice cream at the cafe, (rocky road for me, strawberry for her.) stopped by the mechanic (I really wanted to show off the car.) and then wandered out to the towns hiking path. Half a mile down the coast, down a dirt road, it was a great spot to be alone. I was promising Emmy a proper date once my car was running and she was laughing at me. “Sonic is not a real date.” She said through giggles. “Sonic is the perfect date. It’s like going to a restaurant but you don’t have to see any people.” I replied, playing up my anti-socialism to seem quirky, and praying it was working. As we reached the trailhead I heard the now familiar sound of the Sheriffs car on the road behind us. He wasn’t smiling this time. He watched us as we silently walked onto the trail. “Jesus, this dude is everywhere.” I muttered, as the trees began to obscure him from view. Emmys brow furrowed. (God she looked cute when she did that.) “What do you mean? He just sits at the cafe usually.” She said. “Wait, what?” Now my brow furrowed. “I’ve seen him all over town today. It’s like he’s following me.” “Maybe he thinks you’re trouble.” She teased. I shook my head. “Maybe. He’s been weirdly polite to me ever since we met.” Emmy shrugged. “Southern charm I guess. He’s a weird guy.” “Yeah he is. It feels like he’s” I made my voice as provocative as I could. “Checking me out.” I mocked a sexy stance. Emmy thought I was hilarious. She laughed and slapped my chest gently, her hand resting against me. Suddenly the air was heavy again. Her cheeks turned red but her hand stayed on my chest. My hands rested comfortably on her hips. This is as close as we’d been. Our eyes locked, her bright blue meeting my gentle brown. We stood there for a long time.
Chapter 5 The best part of road-tripping? Besides actually tripping, as I’d done in White Sands, New Mexico and a secluded beach in Texas. Sleeping in. My hotel room was perfect. I’d spent a lot of nights on Dave’s Grand Tour camping under the stars and it was amazing. But it wasn’t better than sleeping until noon on a thick mattress with the A/C blasting. I couldn’t have asked for a better night’s rest to end my trip in Golden Meadows. As I walked down to JP’s shop I reflected on the small towns impact on me. I was happy. JP was sitting in a rocking chair with his shop doors wide open. My car was next to him, four whitewall tires underneath. “Wondered when you’d be by.” Boomed JP. “Truck came this morning, she’s all ready for you.” His broad grin rippled across his face as he watched me inspect his work approvingly. “Thanks JP, this is amazing.” He nodded graciously as I tossed my backpack in the trunk. “Hey JP?” He noted my tone become more business-like and focused his eyes on me seriously. “Yessir?” He asked, his curiosity apparent. “That friend, the one with the restoration shop. Is he hiring?” JP’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Well son, I believe he is. You looking for work?” I nodded. “I’m thinking about settling down somewhere in the area, staying for a while.” JP grinned broadly again, his eyes betraying a secret. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with little miss Emmy Lou would it?” I blushed heavily. JP had watched Emmy and I as I showed her my car, explaining all the places I’d repaired and restored. He’d been grinning then too. “Well” JP’s voice returned to business and his eyebrows returned to their resting place. “Based on what I’ve seen of your work.” He gestured to the mustang. “I’d be willing to put in a good word with him.” “Thanks JP. I really do appreciate it.” And I did. The point of Dave’s Grand Tour was to find a place I could call home. And it was beginning to seem that I’d found it. I was on the road now, headed to New Orleans. JP had set up an interview for me with his friend and I was hopeful that it would work out. I’d been on the road about an hour, listening to music and texting Emmy, (don’t text and drive kids.) when I got the call. A blocked number. I didn’t answer the first three. But I finally decided it wasn’t scammers or something when the fourth call came, seconds after I’d sent the third to voicemail. “Hello?” I said. “Hello there Lawrence.” Came the Sheriffs voice, low and dripping with anger. “I have someone here who wants to talk to you.” “What the… what’s this all” I was cut off by Emmy’s voice. “Dave? Dave?!” There was panic in her tone and she sounded like she’d been crying. The brakes on the mustang squealed as my muscles responded on their own. I had turned around and was flying back to Golden Meadows as fast as the thought crossed my mind. “What is this?” I yelled. “Emmy what’s happening?!” Gores voice came crackling through the phone. “Meet me at Mr. Wellers office. Sundown.” And the line clicked off before I could answer. What was happening? “Oh god, oh god.” I said shakily as I pushed the mustang to new speeds. What was happening? What did the Sheriff want? Why did he have Emmy Lou?!
Chapter 6 GRAPHIC CONTENT. GRAPHIC CONTENT. DO NOT READ IF SQUEAMISH. I WARNED YOU. That was the longest drive of my life. I’d driven from Arizona to Louisiana, crossed Texas end to end in that car, but this drive was the worst. I was panicking. My tires slid easily as I gunned the engine, turning into the hospital parking lot. I stopped right in front of the doors and left the engine running as I sprinted headlong through them, barely giving them time to open. “GORE!” I yelled as I stepped into the lobby. “GORE WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” The lights were off, the air desperately still as I spun, looking every direction. Gore showed himself. He looked smug, his service pistol pressed against Emmys temple, her arm locked in his vice-like left hand. “There you are boy.” His thick accent dripped venom. “I didn’t find the perfect specimen just to let it slip away.” My mind reeled. Specimen? What was happening? And why did he have Emmy? What WAS this? Before I could collect my thoughts he spoke again, Emmy shaking in his grip, wordless, staring at me helplessly. “There’s a rag on the counter. Put it over your mouth and breathe in.” “What?” Why are you doing this?!” I said, the air in my lungs seemingly not enough to yell. “DO IT.” The Sheriff screamed, his face turning red. “DO IT OR I WILL SHOOT HER, SHOOT YOU AND HAUL YOUR LIFELESS BODY TO THE O.R.” His voice shook with rage, every syllable seeming to enrage him further. “Okay! Okay, I’ll do it.” I walked to the counter, my hands up, palms forward. I took the rag, placed it over my mouth and nose and breathed deeply. “Wake up Lawrence!” Came a singsong voice, breaking through my sleeping mind. “Waaaake upppp.” My eyelids were heavy. So heavy. I forced them up. Blue eyes stared down at me. Was that… Mr. Wellers? I tried to sit up, tried to speak, tried to move. I couldn’t. Mr. Wellers looked overjoyed. “Ahh the serum worked! Total paralysis, with a fully functioning mind!” His eyes. What was wrong with his eyes? Were they always… “I bet you’re wondering what’s happening to you.” Mr. Wellers said, his tone jovial. “You see Dave, I didn’t lie, we do desperately need donations. Just not blood.” He was holding… my eyes struggled to focus on the shining silver tool. A scalpel? “No no, we need far more precious donations.” A searing pain shot across my chest. Was he cutting into me?! He was staring at my chest as his hands worked, out of my view. The pain was unbearable. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even tense my body against the pain. Instead, my mind screamed, the searing feeling of a cold blade tracing below my ribs blocking all thought. “You know, I started the practice of organ transplants.” I heard Wellers speak as if underwater. “That was long before even your parents were born.” The cutting subsided, leaving a sharp ache that made me pray I’d black out. “I’ve been replacing parts as they get wore out ever since. A kidney here, a hand there. Much like you do with that car of yours.” His eyes met mine. Why were they… “of course, I need constant donations for this lifestyle.” He was speaking so calmly. “And you’ve got some shiny parts in here.” My stomach. What was he doing? “Like this lovely one here!” I felt a tugging sensation in my gut and Wellers voice faded away. Those eyes. My last thought made me wish I was dead. Those eyes. They weren’t his. They were Emmy’s. I don’t know how long it was before I awoke. But when I did I could move. I was in a stupor. All I saw were blurs. My body seemed to move on its own accord. I heard crying. I smelt something. Sweat. My mind was not working, but on some deep level my consciousness took hold. Sweaty pig. The thought slid across my delirious mind as my arms made contact with something solid but pliable. My lower consciousness took hold and I felt it give way beneath my strength. My hands felt wet. How odd. A voice. What a calming voice that is. Too bad. Such a shame. The thoughts slid across my mind, meaning nothing as my arms went about their task, levering some thing against something else. There was quite a bit of resistance. I felt it give way and a scream rippled across my absent mind. Hope I’m not breaking anything important. Another strange thought. Not mine. Whose? Why were my hands so wet? My chest too. What’s going…. I woke up for the second time. This time I could move and think both. Emmy Lou was beside my bed. I was in a hospital room. She was sleeping, a mask covering her eyes from the midday sun streaming through a window. I… remembered. “Emmy!” I yelled, tears coming to my eyes. I tried to stand but was held down by searing pain. Emmy rushed to my side, the mask still on her face. Wait. Not a mask. A bandage. “What happened?” I said, tears rolling down my face as I remembered everything that had happened. “Emmy? What happened?” She didn’t say anything. She was crying too, but no tears would come.
Epilogue That’s the story. What I can remember of it anyways. The cops told me the rest later. Mr. Wellers and Sheriff Gore had kidnapped Emmy and I. We were held in the hospital for days as everyone in town searched the river for our bodies. My mustang had been found submerged off the dock, and everyone thought Emmy and I were together in it. Her parents had cursed my name to a wordless ocean, screaming at the man who took their daughter, all while going to church with the Sheriff there to console them. The cops found us when Emmy Lou stumbled out into the street, screaming and blind. It had taken her hours to find her way out of the hospital. It’s hard to navigate when you can’t see. I had to hear the rest of the story from her. After our kidnapping they had operated on her. Removing her eyes, a third of her blood and one of her kidneys. Then they went to work on me. I’m still not entirely sure what they took from me. Everything seems to still be intact, my body healing from the meaningless surgeries well. Emmy says she pretended to pass out after hearing my screaming stop. The sheriff, receiving instructions from Wellers had then tried to move her to a different room. She managed to slip away from him, while blind and run to where she’d heard my screams. She found me, and a syringe. In a moment of madness she stabbed the syringe into my shoulder and empty its contents into me, hoping to kill me and end my suffering. Turns out the syringe had a potent mix of drugs, including pure adrenaline. The restraints that held me tore like paper. According to Emmy, all she heard from then on was me humming a tuneless song and Wellers and E. Gore screaming. She made her way out of the room and started trying to find the exit to the hospital. When she finally made it out and Sam called the state police they found me in the operating room, standing above the broken bodies of the malicious pair, humming and swaying back and forth. Yep, they tazed the shit out of me. When they noticed my injuries they rushed me to an actual hospital where I was remained for a week as my body worked through the drugs, the surgery recovery and the concussion I got after the cops tazed me and I fell into a medicine cabinet. Didn’t feel a thing. (Thank you drugs.) All of this happened five years ago. I wrote this story under the direction of my therapist. She thinks I need to let go. But I can’t. I found a record of Dr. Wellers license revocation. Only problem, it’s from the 1850s. I tried to learn anything I could about either Dr. Wellers or Sheriff E. Gore, but they were ghostlike. I can’t get over the questions I have. Questions like, why? And how? The police think they were selling organs on the black market, but I know what I saw. Wellers was wearing Emmy’s eyes. That’s why she’s blind. The cops don’t believe me, and in my drug stupor I destroyed any evidence there might have been. There wasn’t much left of either of my tormentors. I’m gonna stop writing now. These memories are painful. They are the reason I have a blind wife, a guilty conscience and a deeply scarred chest that’s painful to see in the mirror. They are the reason my hand bones are crooked, broken against a thick skull. I have many unanswered questions, and now I’m building a life on unsteady ground. But that’s enough now. I’m late for my meeting. I’ve got a client who wants me to restore a 78’ impala and then I have to pick Emmy up from her art studio. I hope my story helps someone out there. But for me, it just hurts.
Credits: The idea for the monster that is Wellers came from an episode of supernatural where they fight an organ stealing ancient doctor. This is also kind of an adaptation of the story of Frankensteins monster, with Dave playing the part of the monster at the end. I also leaned heavily on other creepy storys told on creepcast and I hope I didn’t step on any toes doing so. This is my first time writing something like this and I enjoyed it a lot, even if you guys don’t. Thank you for reading!

Chapter 1 People are so…. Social. I grew up in a small town in Arizona and I’ve always loved the peace and quiet. But as I aged, graduating high school and spending a restless summer trying to divine what a broke carpenters son could do with his life (and probably drinking and smoking too much.) the small town gossip really started to wear on me. I’ve never been a social butterfly, preferring to mind my own business and let others mind theirs. But in a small town that’s a luxury you can’t afford. Everyone there has watched you mature from a scrawny kid with a stutter to a quiet but confident young man and, as such, feel that they have some obligation to be sure that your life is going to go in the right direction. There’s only so many questions a 19 year old can take about a lack of college and girlfriends. Only so many conversations following the familiar lines of “well you know, college is there to prove to employers you can show up at the same time and place for 4 years.” Or “don’t rush it, I found my wife when I finally gave up on looking!” Or, most aggravating “God works in mysterious ways!” (No shit Barbara, he’s an unknowable, omnipotent entity and you sell Sephora.(Don’t you have a bland youth group sermon to give?) I guess this is my way of explaining why I left my hometown so hastily the beautiful autumn after graduation. My folks were pleased to see I was going to “find myself.” As my mother so romantically put it. They hoped I’d find some kind of inspiration out on life’s grand highway. My dad chuckled, his eyes full of memories from the days he was young and free, a youthful joy that even 25 years in construction couldn’t dampen. “Go sow your wild oats son! Just remember you’ll reap them in the end.” He said, a mischievousness that was rare for him lightening the words. That is how I came to be here, in Golden Meadow, Louisiana. “Arizona plates? Well ain’t you a long way from home?” The deep southern drawl, by now familiar to me after a week of driving through Louisiana, cut through a perfectly quiet morning. Great. A socialite. Why did I have to choose the south for this roadtrip? I forced a polite smile and turned to face dreaded small talk as I began pumping my gas. “That’s right!” As I spoke I sized up my new best friend. A short, profusely sweating man stood before me. He must have been about 5’ 5”, well below my respectable height of 6’. His hair, greasy but trimmed nicely, his sheriffs hat…. Fuck. This is a cop. “Sheriff E. Gore, pleased to meet you!” He drawled again, his accent, I noted, more Texas than Cajun. He extended a sweaty hand, which I took as a good sign. (The law usually isn’t so friendly to suspicious people.) I shook his hand, surprised by the strength that this somewhat rotund sheriff had, his grip strong but measured. I returned his introduction. “David Lawrence.” “What brings you down to our little town son?” I took a deliberate look around before I answered, my gaze sweeping over the small gas station, the almost empty street, the abandoned buildings, a liquor store and a dilapidated dollar general. “Just passing through.” It probably wouldn’t take long, I thought to myself. I could see most of town from where I was. My gaze returned to Sheriff Gore, and I realized he was staring at me hard, gauging me for something. “I’m on a bit of a roadtrip.” I added, trying to remove his focus from my arms. “Well built aren’t ya?” The Sheriff said. Jesus, what a way to start a conversation with a stranger. I forced through the awkwardness. “Yessir.” Forced grin, wishing my gas would pump faster. “I try to stay active.” The Sheriff’s attentive gaze and fixed smile never strayed from me. “How nice! You know, you should stick around town awhile, we’ve got lots to offer!” I decided to myself that I didn’t like the Sheriff, my earlier thought that he likely wasn’t suspicious since he was so friendly now giving way to the feeling that he was too friendly. I gritted my teeth. “I really would, but I’m trying to make it to New Orleans.” I said, maintaining my politely measured tone. I had no interest in staying in this town. “That’s such a shame.” The Sheriff said, his voice betraying disappointment. “It’s a lovely town, it really is.” I was saved from my own awkward response to his too-friendly, begging statement by his radio crackling loudly from his cruiser, parked outside the gas station convenience store. The words, unintelligible to me, evidently made sense to Gore, as he swung around and strolled back to his cruiser. He was oddly quick for a guy of his stature. “Well, good luck on the road Lawrence.” He shouted over his shoulder as he left. “Be careful on the roads and come visit us again real soon!” I shook off the bile-like aftertaste of Gore’s stare and went back to doing what I do best. Minding my own damn business. I wouldn’t be in town long. What I’d told the Sheriff was true. I was headed to New Orleans. My red ‘69 mustang and I were scheduled to enjoy a beautiful city, far from the normal tourist season, here in early October. The food, the music, the bars, all promised to be excellent and uncrowded, allowing a drifting 19 year old a place to breathe and make decisions. Maybe I’d find some work and stay awhile. Or I’d stay a week and then continue “Dave’s Grand Tour” as I’d taken to calling my trip. The idea of Dave’s Grand Tour was simple; find a place that speaks to me. I had no interest in college, as I’d found during high school that an enterprising young man could make a good bit of money just by taking opportunities when they come. I’d worked at a county fair, for the railroad and for local farmers and ranchers and I had found that there were lots of ways to make money. And I didn’t want to tie myself to a career. After all, my dad had built a pretty great life doing carpentry, something that didn’t take much time to learn. (Of course I’d already learned, from helping him.) I contemplated these things as I pulled out of the filling station and back onto the road. Not much farther to New Orleans. As I drove through town, past a small town mechanic, a diner and a tidy row of houses, I almost felt bad for leaving. This town was clearly dying. Empty buildings, boarded windows and beat up cars told the story of a town in decline. The coastal fishing village was picturesque though, and its people were friendly and polite. With the exception of Sheriff E. Gore. What the hell was that guys prob.. I was tore from my thoughts as the unmistakable sound of a popped tire hissed above the growl of my car. “Shit.” I muttered, pulling over to assess the damage. The damage, as it turned out, was extensive and likely expensive. The ‘stang was equipped with beautiful whitewall tires, painstakingly sourced by my grandfather during the restoration I had helped him with during his final years. Cancer is a bitch, especially when you’re 72. He had handled it well though, and had the car (as well as some of his savings) to me when he passed. Grandma had gone ahead of him some years before. I reiterate, cancer is a bitch. And now my beautiful car was down two tires, both passenger side whitewalls punctured by a myriad of screws and nails. I stared in disbelief. Wandering back down the road I found their source, an overturned coffee tin which was clearly some tradesman’s “spare shit” bin. Shaking my head and muttering expletives I strolled back to my car. Of course I had a spare in the trunk, and all the tools to change a tire, but who carts a second spare tire around? Still muttering words I could never let my mother hear, I searched on my phone for the number to the mechanic I had passed, finding an oddly polished website. JP’s machine and tire shop had someone tech savvy on the payroll. And they were punctual. Less than 15 minutes later I was standing on the concrete shop floor, watching JP himself remove my tires. “Lord, you’ve had some bad luck!” He boomed. I’d decided I liked JP. He was a big man, with a tanned face and forearms, betraying many days spent on the sun-soaked waters of the bay. “How in gods name did you manage to get this many holes in such nice tires?” I laughed. “I’m Gods strongest soldier I guess.” JP roared out a laugh. Laughter came easy to him it seemed. “There’s good news and bad news.” He said, awhile later. I’d quietly sat in a comfy chair in the shops waiting area, reading, while he focused on his work. “What’s the bad news?” I asked. “You’ve got to wait two days for new tires.” JP replied. I’d figured as much. What kind of small town auto shop would have whitewalls for a 1969 mustang just lying around. “Good news is, I got you a helluva deal on them. Buddy of mine runs a classics restoration shop in Orleans. He’ll send a truck to deliver your tires, but he’s short handed, thus the wait.” This was excellent (and intriguing) news. I’d expected the wait to be much longer, and the cost to be higher. As JP broke down my bill, explaining the pricing, I couldn’t help but feel pretty lucky, all things considered. I paid JP (thank you Grandpa) and wandered out into the Golden Meadow sunshine, my backpack slung over my shoulder.
Chapter 2 It was a damn fine evening on the bayou. I was paddling along between small islands overgrown with thick river reeds, in a kayak I’d rented from a local fishing guide named Sam. I’d spent the afternoon fishing from the kayak, with a breakdown rod I kept in my backpack. Now, as the sun was sinking low, turning the water orange and pink in the dying light, I paddled gently back to town. As I made it to the dock where Sam had told me to leave the kayak (very trusting fellow, Sam was) I heard faint music. It grew louder as I came closer to the dock. A myriad of fishing vessels, speedboats and jet skis obscured it as I drew close. But as I tied the kayak in place at Sam’s dock, I made out the lyrics. I recognized the song. Brown Haired Blue Eyed Baby, by JD Clayton. Excellent song. That was when I saw her. Standing on a tall fishing boat at the next dock over. She. Was. Breathtaking. With dark brown hair and a deep tan, she looked to be about my age. She was coiling a rope, faced away from me, singing along to the music. I suddenly realized I was staring, not saying anything, and she had no idea I was there. Realizing that this could be a bad look for me, I cast my eyes downward and dropped my backpack onto the dock, letting it fall heavily. I glanced up as she swung around, pretending I hadn’t seen her until now. “Oh, hey!” I said, a bit too loudly. After a pause she returned the greeting somewhat cautiously. “Hey.” Words failed me. She had turned to face me now and I saw her eyes for the first time. They were a vivid blue, that reflected the light from the water, even as the sun sank. I had a sudden burst of confidence, thinking to myself that worst case scenario, e.g. rejection, I could always just leave in two days and never see her again. “Hey, listen, this might be a little too bold, but you are incredibly pretty.” I said, the words rushing from my mouth. She seemed shocked, and for a second I thought she was disgusted. Then her cheeks flushed and I realized she was blushing. I pushed on. “Sorry, sorry, that was probably a little too much, I’m so..” she cut me off with a laugh. Damn, even her laugh was cute. “It’s okay!” She exclaimed, breathlessly. “you just surprised me, that’s all.” I smiled broadly. She returned the smile. “I’m Dave.” I said, somewhat sheepishly. Extending a hand upwards to her perch on the boat. Still smiling she took it and said “I’m Emmy Lou.” Emmy Lou and I ended up talking for almost an hour as the sun disappeared and the moon shone brightly upon us. She told me about her life, growing up a local in this small town, working on one of Sam’s guide boats. I told her about Arizona, the summer I spent restoring my mustang (I mostly just wanted her to know I had a cool car), and all about Dave’s Grand Tour. She was sweet, a good listener, but she seemed tough, a girl who knew how to handle herself, even at 18. She was still living with her parents, saving up to move out. “Where will you go?” I asked her. “When you move out I mean.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Haven’t really thought that far ahead. Maybe to Texas? I’ve always wanted to be a cowgirl.” I grinned. “You’d certainly make a good one.” I replied. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” She exclaimed in a joking manner. Her and I had fallen into a rhythm of teasing and joking very easily. I laughed as I replied in protest, “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that! You just seem to be naturally good at most things you try.” She blushed again. It was almost a familiar sight to me now. She broke eye contact. She generally had to be the first one to do so, since I seemed to be frozen every time I looked in her eyes. “Listen.” She said, standing up. “This has been a lot of fun, but I’ve gotta get home. My folks will be worried.” I stood as well. “Oh, alright.” I couldn’t hide my disappointment. “Hey, I’ll be around town tomorrow, since my tires won’t be in. Maybe I could see you around?” She looked down at her toes and said quietly “I’d like that.” We wished each other good night and went our separate ways, her to her parents place and me to a quiet motel room near the mechanic, a 20 minute walk away. I was almost to the motel when the light flashed across me. It was a flashlight beam, coming from the sidewalk in front of me. I froze. “Well hey there son!” Came a long southern drawl. “Decided to stay in town after all?” For some reason, the Sheriffs voice made my skin crawl. What made it worse was him shining the light in my face. It made it impossible to see him. I squinted hard. “Hey Sheriff. Yeah I’m in town for a couple days more.” Before I could continue (ask him to stop blinding me) he jumped in. “Now what’s held you up young fella. Car trouble?” He said. I paused. There was something about the way he asked the question that I didn’t like. Like he already knew the answer. “Yeah, how did you..” “Oh damn me!” He interrupted, not acknowledging my question at all. “I forgot!” He finally stopped shining the light in my eyes. (Hallelujah.) As my eyes readjusted to the dimly lit sidewalk, the flashlight now pointing down, the sheriff said “This here’s Mr. Wellers.” A deep new voice, clearly articulated “Hello Mr. Lawrence, the Sheriffs told me a lot about you.” I raised my eyes to meet this newcomers and was startled. In stark contrast to the Sheriff, Mr. Wellers was tall, well built and spoke with no accent. He had brown eyes, perfectly trimmed and combed blonde hair and was wearing… a lab coat? I blinked, my brain trying to process. All I could think to say was “Mister? Not….. doctor?” I thought it might be an offensive question at first, as the Sheriff looked at me reproachably and Mr. Wellers cast his eyes downward as if embarrassed. “I uhhhhh… used to be. My license was revoked.” Wow. There’s a rabbit hole I don’t need to go down within seconds of meeting this man. “Oh I’m so sorry” I said lamely. “That sucks.” “You’re damn right it does.” Growled out Gore. He seemed more offended over my apparent faux pa than his friend. “He was my personal doctor for many years. He’s a damned fine doctor too!” “E.” Mr. Wellers said quietly. “It’s alright.” This interaction had passed into the realm of the surreal. I had no idea why these two were out alone together after dark, and frankly I didn’t want to know. (Once again, minding my own business.) “Right… well it was good to see you, and nice meet you Dr. I mean… Mr. Wellers.” I cringed at my own words. God, just let me out of this conversation. “And a pleasure meeting you as well young man!” Said Mr. Wellers. I felt bad. He seemed like such a normal, reasonable guy when compared to Gore. “By the way.” His deep voice rang out again as I moved down the street. “What’s your blood type?” My brain malfunctioned. “My… uhm… what?” I struggled for words. “Blood type!” He exclaimed. Seeing the confusion in my eyes he elaborated. “We’re having a blood drive tomorrow.” (Oh hallelujah lord, thank god this guy doesn’t want to steal my blood.) “we could really use all we can get, you know. Being in a remote place like Golden Meadows it’s important we have a little extra on hand.” His tone put me at rest once more. “I’m O negative.” I said. “Universal donor. If I’ve got time tomorrow I’ll stop by.” I said it mostly to placate him and get out of the conversation faster. But his tone as he thanked me profusely, as well as the obvious gratitude in his doe brown eyes made me actually want to go help. I resolved myself to actually stop by and donate tomorrow. Might as well right? Not like I’ve got anything else to do. I finally made it to my hotel room and by the time I was cleaned up and in bed I had almost forgotten about the awkward demeanor of the pair. Although the Sheriff still made me hellishly uncomfortable. He had a way of staring at you like you were a snack he was about to eat. I shuddered, decided not to think about that anymore and rolled over, thinking of Emmy Lou and the possibilities of tomorrow.
Chapter 3 I was having some difficulty finding Emmy. I’d been down to the dock, had breakfast at the cafe, wandered the town and even hung out in the bait and tackle shop Sam run in conjunction with his guide business. No sign of her. I was checking out an enormous tarpon mounted above some fly rods when Sam’s voice floated over to me. “She’s out on the boat.” I heard the mirth in his voice and turned to face him. He was behind the counter, tying a huge streamer, round glasses perched precariously on the end of his long nose. He was an older man, maybe 50, with a bald head, strong hands and several old school tattoos, harkening back to his days in the navy. He looked over his glasses at me, his heavy eyebrows raised and a cheeky smile on his face. “She didn’t stop talking about you until they left.” He said. “Oh.” I blushed heavily. Looking back it must have been pretty obvious that I wasn’t there for hooks or spinning lures. “When will she be back?” I said, deciding not to hide my true motives. “Sunset.” He said. “Maybe sooner if they catch a big bait of red drum.” I nodded. “Thank you.” I said, and I meant it. I had been going crazy, cursing myself for not getting her number at least. But now my hope was restored. She’d be back. And then I could see her again. I headed towards the door. “Hey kid.” Sam called. I turned back to him. He had his glasses in his hand now, and he was looking at me with his full attention. “Yes sir?” “Don’t hurt her. She’s an angel and we’re all pretty protective of her.” I nodded. Sam was surely referring to his crew of fishermen and guides, a tough group of seamen, some of whom I’d met yesterday while they were gearing up for the afternoon. I definitely didn’t want to get on their bad side. Now it was Sam’s turn to nod. “Good.” Was all he said as he turned back to his work. I wandered back down the boardwalk into town, wondering how I would kill the long hours until sunset, when I saw the Sheriffs squad car. It was parked outside the small town hospital, and suddenly I remembered our awkward conversation last night. The blood drive! There’s a good way to kill an afternoon in the quietest town on the planet. I strolled across to the hospital, and walked through the sliding doors (the only set in town.) “Mr. Lawrence!” Mr. Wellers greeted me enthusiastically. “Glad to see you my boy!” People in this town sure get familiar fast. “Hey Mr. Wellers, where do I go for the blood drive?” The once-doctor directed me to his exam room. “I’ll just need to give you a checkup, make sure you’re in good shape to donate.” It seemed odd that he had an exam room, since he had no medical license. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard of getting a checkup before blood donation, but I shrugged it off as another oddity of Golden Meadows. Weird Sheriff, too-friendly strangers and the most beautiful girl (I believed.) in the south. This town was a trip. Mr. Wellers was talkative as he took my blood pressure, temperature, stared down my throat and peered into my eyes and ears, writing notes on his clipboard as he spoke. “You’re in damn fine health young man.” I knew I was. Years of physical activity and decent genetics (thanks dad.) kept me strong and healthy. I rarely got sick, played football through high school and never seemed bothered by sweltering Arizona heat, something that had benefited me greatly in the humid southern states. Mr. Wellers asked questions about all of these things. He seemed genuinely interested and I got the feeling he was asking more for his own curiosity than any official reason. “Well son,” he was saying now. “You’re the picture of health.” “Thanks.” I replied. “So where do I go to donate.” “Actually,” he said, a bit too quickly. “We’ve had a lot of donations today, far more than expected.” “Oh, so you don’t want me to donate?” I was confused. He’d made it seem like they seriously needed more donations. I brushed it off. Over-selling a problem did make sense. Sometimes it was the only way to get things done in a small town. “No no, we’d still love for you to donate!” He said, once again speaking quickly. “Just give me some time to make my preparations! He smiled, kindly. “Alright… “ I said, at a loss. This seemed so weird, I was beginning to get a bad feeling. Were Mr. Wellers motivations entirely… pure? He seemed to be trying to achieve something with his interactions with me, although I wasn’t sure what. “Well, I guess I’ll stop by later then.” I said, my voice laden with confusion. Mr. Wellers pretended not to notice, uttering vague complacencies as he sent me on my way. I stepped back out of the hospital, vaguely wondering why I hadn’t seen a single living soul inside besides Mr. Wellers. The reception desk had been empty since I came in, the intercom was quiet and I saw no nurses, doctors or patients. I’m starting to really hate the emptiness of this town. I wonder if my tires had come in…
Chapter 4 After a snack from the convenience store and a stop by JP’s to see my car I was wandering town again, aimlessly. The sheriff had driven past twice, smiling at me through his squad car window unblinkingly. I wondered what had happened to him in his life for his social behavior to be so odd. Maybe he had a bad childhood or was raised by an alligator or something. That would explain the toothy smiles and the never-blinking at least. It was about 2 o’clock. JP had assured me my tires would be in tomorrow, which suited me okay. I was almost hesitant to leave, since Emmy Lou was still in town and good lord knows I had an interest in her. Goodness she was fine. I was walking down the street, not really paying attention to anything going on, listening to in thoughts of Emmy. Her hair, her eyes, her walk, she walked… right behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey Dave!” I spun around, my mind returning guiltily from the gutter. “Emmy! Sam said you wouldn’t be off the boat until sundown!” “We limited out. What can I say, I’m just that good.” she spread her arms in a kind of proud shrug, a sarcastic-cocky smile on her face. I smiled too. She had that effect on me. “Hey, I realized I never got your number!” She looked surprised. “You want it?” Now I was surprised. “I… yeah, I really do. I mean, I think you’re great and I don’t want to lose contact when I…” the air around us suddenly felt heavier. I was suddenly nervous. Had I misjudged her interest? Did she see me as some passerby, a very temporary friend? A smile cautiously returned to her face. “You can have my number.” She said. “But if you move back to Arizona forever I’m not going to text you back.” Thank god. I thought I’d totally dropped the bag. “Deal.” I said, smiling once more. Emmy and I spent the afternoon talking as we saw the meager sights in town. We had an ice cream at the cafe, (rocky road for me, strawberry for her.) stopped by the mechanic (I really wanted to show off the car.) and then wandered out to the towns hiking path. Half a mile down the coast, down a dirt road, it was a great spot to be alone. I was promising Emmy a proper date once my car was running and she was laughing at me. “Sonic is not a real date.” She said through giggles. “Sonic is the perfect date. It’s like going to a restaurant but you don’t have to see any people.” I replied, playing up my anti-socialism to seem quirky, and praying it was working. As we reached the trailhead I heard the now familiar sound of the Sheriffs car on the road behind us. He wasn’t smiling this time. He watched us as we silently walked onto the trail. “Jesus, this dude is everywhere.” I muttered, as the trees began to obscure him from view. Emmys brow furrowed. (God she looked cute when she did that.) “What do you mean? He just sits at the cafe usually.” She said. “Wait, what?” Now my brow furrowed. “I’ve seen him all over town today. It’s like he’s following me.” “Maybe he thinks you’re trouble.” She teased. I shook my head. “Maybe. He’s been weirdly polite to me ever since we met.” Emmy shrugged. “Southern charm I guess. He’s a weird guy.” “Yeah he is. It feels like he’s” I made my voice as provocative as I could. “Checking me out.” I mocked a sexy stance. Emmy thought I was hilarious. She laughed and slapped my chest gently, her hand resting against me. Suddenly the air was heavy again. Her cheeks turned red but her hand stayed on my chest. My hands rested comfortably on her hips. This is as close as we’d been. Our eyes locked, her bright blue meeting my gentle brown. We stood there for a long time.
Chapter 5 The best part of road-tripping? Besides actually tripping, as I’d done in White Sands, New Mexico and a secluded beach in Texas. Sleeping in. My hotel room was perfect. I’d spent a lot of nights on Dave’s Grand Tour camping under the stars and it was amazing. But it wasn’t better than sleeping until noon on a thick mattress with the A/C blasting. I couldn’t have asked for a better night’s rest to end my trip in Golden Meadows. As I walked down to JP’s shop I reflected on the small towns impact on me. I was happy. JP was sitting in a rocking chair with his shop doors wide open. My car was next to him, four whitewall tires underneath. “Wondered when you’d be by.” Boomed JP. “Truck came this morning, she’s all ready for you.” His broad grin rippled across his face as he watched me inspect his work approvingly. “Thanks JP, this is amazing.” He nodded graciously as I tossed my backpack in the trunk. “Hey JP?” He noted my tone become more business-like and focused his eyes on me seriously. “Yessir?” He asked, his curiosity apparent. “That friend, the one with the restoration shop. Is he hiring?” JP’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Well son, I believe he is. You looking for work?” I nodded. “I’m thinking about settling down somewhere in the area, staying for a while.” JP grinned broadly again, his eyes betraying a secret. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with little miss Emmy Lou would it?” I blushed heavily. JP had watched Emmy and I as I showed her my car, explaining all the places I’d repaired and restored. He’d been grinning then too. “Well” JP’s voice returned to business and his eyebrows returned to their resting place. “Based on what I’ve seen of your work.” He gestured to the mustang. “I’d be willing to put in a good word with him.” “Thanks JP. I really do appreciate it.” And I did. The point of Dave’s Grand Tour was to find a place I could call home. And it was beginning to seem that I’d found it. I was on the road now, headed to New Orleans. JP had set up an interview for me with his friend and I was hopeful that it would work out. I’d been on the road about an hour, listening to music and texting Emmy, (don’t text and drive kids.) when I got the call. A blocked number. I didn’t answer the first three. But I finally decided it wasn’t scammers or something when the fourth call came, seconds after I’d sent the third to voicemail. “Hello?” I said. “Hello there Lawrence.” Came the Sheriffs voice, low and dripping with anger. “I have someone here who wants to talk to you.” “What the… what’s this all” I was cut off by Emmy’s voice. “Dave? Dave?!” There was panic in her tone and she sounded like she’d been crying. The brakes on the mustang squealed as my muscles responded on their own. I had turned around and was flying back to Golden Meadows as fast as the thought crossed my mind. “What is this?” I yelled. “Emmy what’s happening?!” Gores voice came crackling through the phone. “Meet me at Mr. Wellers office. Sundown.” And the line clicked off before I could answer. What was happening? “Oh god, oh god.” I said shakily as I pushed the mustang to new speeds. What was happening? What did the Sheriff want? Why did he have Emmy Lou?!
Chapter 6 GRAPHIC CONTENT. GRAPHIC CONTENT. DO NOT READ IF SQUEAMISH. I WARNED YOU. That was the longest drive of my life. I’d driven from Arizona to Louisiana, crossed Texas end to end in that car, but this drive was the worst. I was panicking. My tires slid easily as I gunned the engine, turning into the hospital parking lot. I stopped right in front of the doors and left the engine running as I sprinted headlong through them, barely giving them time to open. “GORE!” I yelled as I stepped into the lobby. “GORE WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” The lights were off, the air desperately still as I spun, looking every direction. Gore showed himself. He looked smug, his service pistol pressed against Emmys temple, her arm locked in his vice-like left hand. “There you are boy.” His thick accent dripped venom. “I didn’t find the perfect specimen just to let it slip away.” My mind reeled. Specimen? What was happening? And why did he have Emmy? What WAS this? Before I could collect my thoughts he spoke again, Emmy shaking in his grip, wordless, staring at me helplessly. “There’s a rag on the counter. Put it over your mouth and breathe in.” “What?” Why are you doing this?!” I said, the air in my lungs seemingly not enough to yell. “DO IT.” The Sheriff screamed, his face turning red. “DO IT OR I WILL SHOOT HER, SHOOT YOU AND HAUL YOUR LIFELESS BODY TO THE O.R.” His voice shook with rage, every syllable seeming to enrage him further. “Okay! Okay, I’ll do it.” I walked to the counter, my hands up, palms forward. I took the rag, placed it over my mouth and nose and breathed deeply. “Wake up Lawrence!” Came a singsong voice, breaking through my sleeping mind. “Waaaake upppp.” My eyelids were heavy. So heavy. I forced them up. Blue eyes stared down at me. Was that… Mr. Wellers? I tried to sit up, tried to speak, tried to move. I couldn’t. Mr. Wellers looked overjoyed. “Ahh the serum worked! Total paralysis, with a fully functioning mind!” His eyes. What was wrong with his eyes? Were they always… “I bet you’re wondering what’s happening to you.” Mr. Wellers said, his tone jovial. “You see Dave, I didn’t lie, we do desperately need donations. Just not blood.” He was holding… my eyes struggled to focus on the shining silver tool. A scalpel? “No no, we need far more precious donations.” A searing pain shot across my chest. Was he cutting into me?! He was staring at my chest as his hands worked, out of my view. The pain was unbearable. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even tense my body against the pain. Instead, my mind screamed, the searing feeling of a cold blade tracing below my ribs blocking all thought. “You know, I started the practice of organ transplants.” I heard Wellers speak as if underwater. “That was long before even your parents were born.” The cutting subsided, leaving a sharp ache that made me pray I’d black out. “I’ve been replacing parts as they get wore out ever since. A kidney here, a hand there. Much like you do with that car of yours.” His eyes met mine. Why were they… “of course, I need constant donations for this lifestyle.” He was speaking so calmly. “And you’ve got some shiny parts in here.” My stomach. What was he doing? “Like this lovely one here!” I felt a tugging sensation in my gut and Wellers voice faded away. Those eyes. My last thought made me wish I was dead. Those eyes. They weren’t his. They were Emmy’s. I don’t know how long it was before I awoke. But when I did I could move. I was in a stupor. All I saw were blurs. My body seemed to move on its own accord. I heard crying. I smelt something. Sweat. My mind was not working, but on some deep level my consciousness took hold. Sweaty pig. The thought slid across my delirious mind as my arms made contact with something solid but pliable. My lower consciousness took hold and I felt it give way beneath my strength. My hands felt wet. How odd. A voice. What a calming voice that is. Too bad. Such a shame. The thoughts slid across my mind, meaning nothing as my arms went about their task, levering some thing against something else. There was quite a bit of resistance. I felt it give way and a scream rippled across my absent mind. Hope I’m not breaking anything important. Another strange thought. Not mine. Whose? Why were my hands so wet? My chest too. What’s going…. I woke up for the second time. This time I could move and think both. Emmy Lou was beside my bed. I was in a hospital room. She was sleeping, a mask covering her eyes from the midday sun streaming through a window. I… remembered. “Emmy!” I yelled, tears coming to my eyes. I tried to stand but was held down by searing pain. Emmy rushed to my side, the mask still on her face. Wait. Not a mask. A bandage. “What happened?” I said, tears rolling down my face as I remembered everything that had happened. “Emmy? What happened?” She didn’t say anything. She was crying too, but no tears would come.
Epilogue That’s the story. What I can remember of it anyways. The cops told me the rest later. Mr. Wellers and Sheriff Gore had kidnapped Emmy and I. We were held in the hospital for days as everyone in town searched the river for our bodies. My mustang had been found submerged off the dock, and everyone thought Emmy and I were together in it. Her parents had cursed my name to a wordless ocean, screaming at the man who took their daughter, all while going to church with the Sheriff there to console them. The cops found us when Emmy Lou stumbled out into the street, screaming and blind. It had taken her hours to find her way out of the hospital. It’s hard to navigate when you can’t see. I had to hear the rest of the story from her. After our kidnapping they had operated on her. Removing her eyes, a third of her blood and one of her kidneys. Then they went to work on me. I’m still not entirely sure what they took from me. Everything seems to still be intact, my body healing from the meaningless surgeries well. Emmy says she pretended to pass out after hearing my screaming stop. The sheriff, receiving instructions from Wellers had then tried to move her to a different room. She managed to slip away from him, while blind and run to where she’d heard my screams. She found me, and a syringe. In a moment of madness she stabbed the syringe into my shoulder and empty its contents into me, hoping to kill me and end my suffering. Turns out the syringe had a potent mix of drugs, including pure adrenaline. The restraints that held me tore like paper. According to Emmy, all she heard from then on was me humming a tuneless song and Wellers and E. Gore screaming. She made her way out of the room and started trying to find the exit to the hospital. When she finally made it out and Sam called the state police they found me in the operating room, standing above the broken bodies of the malicious pair, humming and swaying back and forth. Yep, they tazed the shit out of me. When they noticed my injuries they rushed me to an actual hospital where I was remained for a week as my body worked through the drugs, the surgery recovery and the concussion I got after the cops tazed me and I fell into a medicine cabinet. Didn’t feel a thing. (Thank you drugs.) All of this happened five years ago. I wrote this story under the direction of my therapist. She thinks I need to let go. But I can’t. I found a record of Dr. Wellers license revocation. Only problem, it’s from the 1850s. I tried to learn anything I could about either Dr. Wellers or Sheriff E. Gore, but they were ghostlike. I can’t get over the questions I have. Questions like, why? And how? The police think they were selling organs on the black market, but I know what I saw. Wellers was wearing Emmy’s eyes. That’s why she’s blind. The cops don’t believe me, and in my drug stupor I destroyed any evidence there might have been. There wasn’t much left of either of my tormentors. I’m gonna stop writing now. These memories are painful. They are the reason I have a blind wife, a guilty conscience and a deeply scarred chest that’s painful to see in the mirror. They are the reason my hand bones are crooked, broken against a thick skull. I have many unanswered questions, and now I’m building a life on unsteady ground. But that’s enough now. I’m late for my meeting. I’ve got a client who wants me to restore a 78’ impala and then I have to pick Emmy up from her art studio. I hope my story helps someone out there. But for me, it just hurts.
Credits: The idea for the monster that is Wellers came from an episode of supernatural where they fight an organ stealing ancient doctor. This is also kind of an adaptation of the story of Frankensteins monster, with Dave playing the part of the monster at the end. I also leaned heavily on other creepy storys told on creepcast and I hope I didn’t step on any toes doing so. This is my first time writing something like this and I enjoyed it a lot, even if you guys don’t. Thank you for reading!

As the title suggests, I'm at the point where I'm returning to regular activities with no aggravation or re-appearing of symptoms! It's been a bit of a journey, so here's the story and how I recovered. I had a double crush type injury stemming from my neck, as well as my Thoracic Outlet, producing symptoms from my neck to my hand on the affected side, as well as some minor bilateral involvement into the other arm.
Firstly as some background, I have a diagnosed auto-immune inflammatory arthritis called Ankylosing Spondylitis (since age 9, I'm 30 now) - this is what made things a bit more complicated. The disease attacks your spine and essentially any other joint / tendon attachment / ligament attachment, which can lead to a whole host of muscles getting affected among other things. I am on immunosuppressant medication for this which generally keeps it well managed. It's EXTREMELY unlikely anyone here has this as a cause of their RSI - but I have this along side an RSI and have essentially fully recovered. I'm sharing this because even with a serious inflammatory condition I managed to fix the RSI issue - so there is hope.
My RSI issues started around 8-9 months ago. I was/am a regular bouldereclimber, and my day job was/is a VFX artist (self employed, so no paid holiday or sickness). I work from home, and often go long stretches of using a computer and mouse with no rest, then immediately go to a climbing gym after work and continue to assault my forearms and arms. I was also a gamer in my spare time too. Recipe for disaster...
Symptoms started minorly, and I brushed them off as usual muscle soreness or perhaps my arthritis playing up a bit (my neck basically always hurts, but was this due to AS (ankylosing spondylitis) or partly the RSI issue starting? (YES, IT WAS). Playing WoW after work, I noticed my arms getting so horribly fatigued from mashing my keyboard I could barely lift them. This is where it all began and gradually got worse and worse. I started getting shooting pains into my face. Then into my arm...
Below are the symptoms I started to have, which gradually got worse and worse, to the point I could barely use a knife and fork, wash my hair in the shower, brush my teeth, and of course, work and climbing were now impossible for me. Withing 5 minutes of work using a keyboard and mouse, my forearms would be so painfully tight I couldn't hold anything, and my hands would be cramping up. These symptoms were mostly all right sided, but maybe at 20% intensity on the left arm at the worst point.
Symptoms List

• My forearm pronators would easily fatigue, and get what I would describe as 'bricked' or 'pumped'. Like I'd been climbing for an hour, but I had just chopped up a carrot or brushed my teeth for example.
  
• Loss of dexterity - particularly in my thumb and forefinger, causing me to drop things
  
• Doing anything with my arms elevated was impossible, and my arm lacked blood flow when raised above my head
  
• Muscle Cramps and twitching from my shoulders down to my hands, and even my chest and face.
  
• Intense neck pain (back of neck)
  
• Jaw Pain
  
• Tightness and pain in my arm muscles and tendons (bicep, forearm, they literally felt like bone they were so tense)
  
• Rotator Cuff pain
  
• Incredibly tight scalene muscles
  
• My hands felt clumsy and uncoordinated
  
• Waking up with completely numb arm and pins and needles throughout the night
  
• Sudden shooting pains into my forearms and the back of my hand / fingers
  
• Terrible shoulder blade / rotator cuff pain
  
• Perceived weakness / feeling that something was 'off' in my arm
  
• Hand would go cold quickly
  
• Neuralgia/shooting pains into my face and right eye
  
• Intermittent tingling in various fingers and thumb
  
• Tingling in the side of face
  
• I'm sure there are many more symptoms I'm forgetting now, but basically my entire right arm was toast.
  

I went down various rabbit holes and made myself incredibly anxious thinking I had every possible terrible illness possible causing this. I tried stretching my arms out myself, and my neck, which only made things worse. I needed to keep working, and had just been hit with a huge repair bill for my flat. This caused my stress and anxiety levels to sky rocket even more.
I was still trying to do everything I was previously doing, and causing more damage to myself in the process. This plus stress then caused my arthritis condition to flare up too. I now was unable to use my arms, barely able to walk, unable to sleep due to my arms constantly getting pins and needles and going numb, in tremendous pain, feeling completely useless, and all in all not in a good way.
So, what was happening?
My first port of call, and ultimately the thing that made the biggest difference, was seeing an Osteopath. Luckily I know a brilliant one that has helped me since I was a child with my arthritis condition. He assessed me, and quickly noted my first right rib had become elevated and locked, and my right clavicle was swollen (the swelling was due to my arthritis, as the disease had been active here in the past). Everything pointed towards TOS, something I'd not heard of before.
My neck was also in a terrible way due to my (lack of) work ergonomics and AS, and had caused a gigantic knot of muscle to form, along with crepitus all along my traps, and into my shoulder blade. He would press in one particular region in the top of my traps / shoulder and it would send the exact shooting pain into my face and eye.
As well as my poor posture at my desk (sitting slumped slightly to one side in my chair, with one arm extended clicking a mouse) I was also sitting in a similar position on the sofa in the evenings, often to one side (leaning towards where my girlfriend sits on the sofa to watch TV). I was doing the same thing in bed, laying on my side and watching stuff on my laptop with my head in a forward posture.
The combination of poor ergonomic working position which was bleeding into my out of work activities, plus climbing on top of that (and 10 years of neck pain due to Ankylosing Spondylitis), caused a chain reaction of muscles getting overworked, and their work getting passed onto the next muscle group. This next group would then fatigue to the point of exhaustion, pass their workload to the next group, until clicking my mouse was involving muscles in my upper neck. I was so incredibly tense that basically everything from my neck downwards was locked in place, and was causing nerve compression. Not only in my neck (I have issues from C2-T3), but my brachial plexus / thoracic outlet too. This caused a host of downstream issues into my arms and hands.
This is what is typically called a Double Crush type injury where there are two areas of compression. The osteopath said it’s usually seen in people that have been in a car crash. You can get triple and quintuple crushes the more points of compression there are. He suspected there was some compression going on in my upper forearm too, luckily that area resolved the fastest. The neck however is another story!
Recovery Journey
I was still sceptical after the first osteopath visit, and couldn't help endlessly searching reddit and google for answers: Pro Tip, this will almost never help, and definitely didn't for me. I have terrible health anxiety, and this ended up making me even more tense, contributing to further symptoms and causing me to spiral.
Eventually, I gave up on endlessly googling and decided to more seriously follow the osteopaths advice, and started to see some improvement. But also made a lot of mistakes.
Mistake 1
Not following the professionals advice properly, and going too hard with stretches. He gave me just 4 stretches to do, and ICE ICE ICE my neck, this didn't directly target my forearms though which was my main complaint. The stretches I was prescribed were mostly for my Hips and Thoraccic spine, with one in what was my opinion at the time, rather tame stretch for my forearms. Despite him explaining exactly why, I couldn't see how this would help, so I added more of my own stretches into the regime thinking it would expedite my recovery. Big mistake. Suddenly everything was getting worse despite taking time off work. For example I was trying to stretch my tight scalene muscles in particular, which actually caused them to tighten even more. I told my osteopath, he told me to do exactly as he said, do not deviate, and rest.
Mistake 2
Going crazy with what I could do - running. The initial stress had died down after a month or so, and so had my arthritic symptoms. All my hobbies involve my hands, so I went balls to the wall with running, which I hadn't done that regularly in a while. Now I had issues with my knee and foot because of my tight hip. (I ran 3 10Ks within a week and a half from not having run since 10 months prior). This then meant I was spiralling even more thinking symptoms were spreading even more. Additionally, long runs then started to aggravate my neck as well which was in a fragile state. Slow running, and even better, walking, is what I switched to eventually.
Mistake 3 -- this is a MAJOR ONE
This is the biggest one, I KEPT trying to test myself to see if I was healing or getting worse. I was using a hand dynamometer to test my grip strength (I had this from climbing). I was seeing how long I could dead hang. I was seeing how many times I could blink my hands open and closed with the Roos test. I made a small amount of progress in recovery then went to the gym to see how easily I could deadlift 130kg. This immediately set me back to where I was 2 months previous. I could go on and on with all the stupid stuff I was doing. I've come to realise my health anxiety is most likely OCD because of this. I'm constantly 'checking' - and this was causing even more damage.
Mistake 4
Not managing stress and anxiety. I got off reddit and google - low and behold I was not now focusing 24/7 on my symptoms and googling various diseases all the time - this made me not only feel better mentally, but actually get better physically too.
What Worked
It's definitely easier to rule out things that didn't work or made it worse, so it's hard to say what was the most effective. But here is what I tried and what I believe gave me good results. I'll also list some of the things that didn't work so well.

• I'll say it again, but getting off google / reddit looking for answers. If you're spiralling, it wont help.
  
• Changing my desk / keyboard / mouse. I use a split keyboard, a wacom tablet as a touch pad plus use the pen and occasionally a vertical mouse. I set my desk at a proper ergonomic height, as well as my monitor.
  
• Stopped work and HEAVILY limited what I did with my arms for 2-4 months. It's a long time, but it was necessary. No cooking, no carrying shopping, no DIY, nothing. I luckily could afford to stop work for a month and a half and just rest.
  
• Ice. I Iced my neck, shoulder, elbow, forearm. Everyday constantly. I had about 4 ice packs constantly rotating in and out of the freezer.
  
• Posture - no more slouching, and even when walking, I'd focus on keeping my head up and shoulders slightly engaged. Don't use posture trainers/braces. They do more damage.
  
• Stretches focusing on full spine mobility, but in particular my Thoracic spine (Despite most of my issues being cervical). I did about 20 minutes of stretching at least 3 times a day. I used an app called Bend to help remind me to do this.
  
• Stretches focusing on my hips and lower body. Hard to make sense of, but there was one particular stretch for my hips, that when I did it, I could actually feel a pull in my forearm and across my chest. (I have arthritis in my right hip which is very tight, so issues can stem from here too, arthritis or not)
  
• Sleeping flat on my back using a contoured pillow. This was hard at first as a side sleeper.
  
• Walking, and using a spin bike with no arms - basically kept me from going stir crazy. I added in some gentle running when my knee got better and kept it casual.
  
• Once my first rib became more mobile from the back stretches, I was able to add in more full body stretches including my arms, following the osteopaths advice.
  
• Seeing my osteopath - exercise and stretching plans, and reassurance
  
• Sauna - I did this 2-3 times a week
  
• Ice Bath - Whenever I used the Sauna
  
• Getting enough sleep, I tried to get 9 hours each night and still aim to!
  
• Magnesium supplementation at bed time, and magnesium gel on my neck and arms in the day.
  
• Wim Hof Breathing. This helped with anxiety hugely and stress management. It's something I did years ago and fell out of practice with a bit. Happy to have this back.
  
• Limiting mobile phone use - it was just more stress on my arms. I used screen time and limited myself to an hour a day combined across my apps that I frequent.
  
• Arm Aid Massager - Really helped my forearm tension / tightness ease off.
  
• Increased protein intake. I eat a healthy non-processed diet already, this was my only diet change.
  

These next ones might be overkill, and you don't need to over complicate things, however...

• Additional Supplements(?) This is hard to quantify exactly how and whether they helped, but once I started on a supplement regime (My sister is a nutritionist so I got advice there) my recovery really started to progress much faster. Would it have happened anyway? Who knows. I wouldn't advise to take what I did as it is all individual based. You need to see someone qualified, but here's what I took anyway: Omega 3, Turmeric, a Joint Complex with Glucosamine and Vitamin C, Vitamin D3+K2 Spray (A couple of these I was already taking)
  
• Mushroom Extract supplements. This is something I've not seen mentioned before on the subreddit. I took Lions mane mushroom which supposedly, and has some evidence to suggest, can help with nerve healing. I also took Cordyceps mushroom extract as well to help with muscle recovery.
  
• CBD Balm - not really sure about this one - felt slightly soothing on the skin, not sure it did anything though. Save your money as it is rather expensive.
  
• Cutting out diet drinks (Coke zero etc) - again hard to say if this actually helped, but I've stopped this and I'm now better. Kombucha I find to be a great alternative.
  

What Didn't Work

• Nerve Glides - seemed to just make everything worse and exacerbate symptoms. I couldn't work out in my head how dragging an irritated nerve through a compressed tunnel would help either. (my Osteopath told me not to do these when I asked him about them after trying them myself) Some people swear by them though, and I'm sure they are effective in some cases, just not mine.
  
• Trackball mouse. Seemed to make symptoms worse. I tried the Slimblade Pro for a week, didn't like how I had to click the thing, it strained my arms.
  
• Only using a vertical mouse - the pinching of the mouse with my fingers and thumb aggravated my forearm after a while. Using a touchpad/tablet 80% of the time, and having the mouse for certain things seems to be the best balance for me.
  
• Braces - in my case they weren't helpful - I was advised against using them. I did however try a cubital tunnel one to keep my arm straight in bed (I would get more pins and needles as my arms would bend / curl up in my sleep), but the brace itself was causing irritation, and caused my arm to cease up from being in one position and also caused it to go numb. Just sleeping on my back, with my arms very slightly raised on a fairly flat pillow helped. After waking and repositioning my arms for a month, my body eventually just learnt to keep my arms straight in my sleep.
  

How Am I now?
I went climbing for the first time in many months recently. I took it very easy as I'll need to build back to where I was, but I feel absolutely fine afterwards. In my next osteopath visit we will be talking about exercises to add in to strengthen weakened muscles that contributed to this RSI. I'm sure it will be another 3-4 months, if not more until I'm climbing has caught up to where it was (If anyone else is a climber, my grade was around 6c+ font, and upon returning I could still easily climb a 6a, but tried nothing harder, and mostly stuck to climbs around 4-5b just to get moving, without putting too much pressure/load through my forearms and fingers. Slab is your friend, don't go on anything overhanging as tempting as it may look!)
I'm back to working full time with NO issues. I take regular breaks multiple times a day to stretch every, and still do all my longer stretching routine every morning and evening. I use reminders on my phone and smart watch to remind me to stand up and move around every 40 minutes.
I stripped varnish, sanded and re-varnished my kitchen counters this weekend. It took 11 hours of using my arms. Again, I'm totally fine and have none of the old symptoms back, other than some slight DOMS in my forearms.
My biggest change is my work-life balance. I was burning myself out working far too late into the evening and always in work mode. I changed my desk to one that folds up, so at the end of the day I can pack up my work stuff (despite working from home) and physically shut it away. This way I don't always have a visual reminder putting my body into a tense and stressed state. Out of sight, out of mind. This also stops me sitting in the same desk chair I work in all evening too (playing computer games, carrying on with work etc).
On that note, I've decided to pretty much stop gaming though. I wasn't finding it as fun as I once did, and figured it's probably for the best. Not to say I can't, but there are just other things I value much more now. Life is basically back to what it was before, but I will never stop stretching each day now, and keep up my new found ergonomic habits to prevent any future issues!
It is also clear to me from reading posts on this subreddit, among others, that most of us seem to have some sort of mental health involvement too, whether it be anxiety and stress (in my case) or depression, and so on. It's a self fulfilling cycle. Symptoms appear, we focus on them, become stressed and anxious, which makes the symptoms become heightened, and the cycle continues.
Did I see a medical doctor at any point?
I didn't - however two of my best friends are both medical doctors, and were in agreement with my Osteo. All 3 advised if I didn't see any improvement in a couple of months to go to the GP. I did have an appointment booked with my GP to start the whole process, but when I started seeing improvement, I ended up cancelling it. My Osteopath also reassured me if he was even .5% uncertain of the cause he'd send me off for imaging. He'd treated many people with the same symptoms as me in the past.
Given I live in the UK, the timeline of when I'd actually get seen by a specialist (would this be neurology/MSK/sports PT/back to my rheumatologist/all of the above?) would have likely have taken quite a while. I also have regular blood tests and imaging done due to my auto immune arthritis (fusion of my SI joints bilaterally, damage to my sternoclavicular joint (collarbone) and inflammation in essentially all my cervical vertebrae and large parts of thoracic), and I see my Rheumatologist 1-2 times a year for check ups. In my next appointment I will of course update them with the fun I've had in the past year! Thankfully, as I was seeing progress after I accepted the cause, I carried on with what I was advised to from my osteopath. I would advise seeing a doctor though, particularly if you can't find results with an osteopath, or symptoms get worse.
These RSI issues are complicated to treat and diagnose, and there seems to be a want to label every one of these conditions/syndromes so we fit into a set of statistics with a pre-programmed recovery program. Because so many muscles get involved, and it is NOT the same for everyone, it gets complicated when it comes to which muscles you can safely stretch/massage, and start to recover. I think this is where a lot of people go wrong, and I believe osteopathy really helps as it can be a full body problem, and the root cause needs to be addressed before you can make any sort of recovery.
Lastly, recovery is not linear, it goes up and down, so try not to get disheartened when progress feels like it isn't moving forward. Day to day the progress was imperceptible, even across weeks it was impossible for me to measure whether it was getting better, until one day it was - and that was part of my issue, as I was trying to measure it in the first place. You have to trust the process and go with it.
EDIT
As people are asking, I've added the stretches I did below. Remember depending on muscle involvement that you have, it may not work in exactly the same way, and if anything is painful, don't push it. Try the first set, and if everything feels okay move onto the more advanced versions which are in the second list. Don't push past pain!
STRETCHES - BE CAUTIOUS
First 4

1. Knees to chest. Lay on the floor, hold your knees and squeeze them gently into your chest for 5 seconds, release, rest for 10 seconds, repeat. (my forearms were so painful, I actually couldn't do this at first)
   
2. Cat Cows (simple to do, google it if unsure! I'd do these for about 3 minutes)
   
3. Thoracic Extension with a towel Link here - I also supported my head with 2 fluffy pillows, and when my arms came back, I would rest them on the pillow next to my head as well. Only move your arms as you breath out, both going up and down. I did not interlock my hands, and just had them by my side. 15 or so reps. Take it slow.
   
4. Knees side to side Link here - this was the one that really pulled my forearm muscles. 15 or so reps each side. Again, go slow and controlled.
   

Once I was comofotable with these (which was after 1 session of just these to test the waters), we also added in:
Advanced 4

1. Spinal Twist Link here This is a more advanced version of the knees side to side stretch. I'd hold each side for at least a minute and then repeat. This was quite painful on my hip at first so I had to go gently. You can really feel the stretch up your lats too, and for me, into my biceps.
   
2. Seated Twist Link here This was good for both lower and upper back mobility. Hold for 20-30 seconds, but start with lower times to ease into it. Hold for longer when you're more used to it.
   
3. Sit and reach Link Here This one I found very difficult to do at first, and couldn't reach my foot at all, I was barely halfway down my shin. now I can grab my foot! Hold for 5-10 seconds. Repeat a few times.
   
4. Revolved Lunge Pose Link here Important extra step on this one. Before twisting upwards, I was told to fold down onto my elbows in the lunge position and try drop my head to the floor too, focus on breathing. I still cant get my head anywhere close to the floor, but can just about get my elbows down. After that I'd do the upward twist part of the stretch.
   

After all of this I'd do child's pose for a couple of minutes:

1. Childs Pose Link here

I'd repeat this whole process every single morning when I got up, and run through the whole routine twice. Then again at lunch time, and bed time. Sometimes I'd do this 5 times a day. These really are the only stretches I needed, but I did add in one forearm stretch which I was told to do.
Forearm Stretch

1. Interlock fingers at waist with palms facing downwards, gently press until you feel a pull.
2. Repeat step 1 but with arms extended in front of you.
3. Repeat step one, but with fingers interlocked behind you.
4. Sit on the floor as if you are going to do child's pose. Instead of hinging forwards and dropping your chest, place your palms on the floor in front of your knees, with arms rotated so fingers are pointed towards you. Gently push palms downwards to feel the stretch.
5. Repeat previous stretch, except place the backs of your hands on the floor. This will target the top of your forearm instead.

Hope this helps!

I am looking for an artist to work with! (I looked for a hiring flair, but didn't see one - sorry.)
For the book, it's a YA fantasy involving magical creatures. There are also lots of geometrical marks (not really sure what to call them — think of tribal tattoos) on different groups of people that play a large role in the story that I think could be fun visually. This is less of a "Lord of the Rings" fantasy and more of a "His Dark Materials" fantasy. Just for general vibes. (If there's anywhere else I should be posting/looking please let me know!)
For the project, I'm prioritizing a book cover. Ideally though, I'd love to partner with someone who is open to doing something more collaborative. I'm thinking a book cover, but also special markings for chapters/change of perspectives, stickers, some card/print design. Ideally, ideally, there would even be some illustrations in some of the more pivotal scenes in the book. This is all dependent on pricing.
Looking for an artist has actually been the hardest part of self-publishing for me, so I admit, I'm a bit overwhelmed. So a book cover would be the minimum, but I'd really love to find someone who is open to more of a cohesive book/print experience. But I'll take what I can get!
A little about my approach so far. I've been told to use Canva or AI. That's just not the route I want to go. I really would love to get creative with someone. Full transparency so I'm not wasting anyone's time: budget is tight. So just know pricing is a big part of my decisioning as this will be my first book. Doing the best I can. Totally open to take someone with less experience that might be more affordable. But willing to talk through items and find a good spot where we're both stoked. For reference, I'm starting off with a budget for book cover alone from $500-$1k. And then other items mentioned above would be added on/discussed from there.
Things I like/Catch my eye:

1. I think 90% of the time showing human characters on a cover can look corny. 10% of the time, it can be amazing.
2. I don't love super busy covers.
3. Not a fan of super curly/cursive font.
4. I like artists with really distinct styles that stand out and will choose them over someone who can make what's popular now. (I'm considering A/B testing two covers - one more original and one that is more "on trend".
5. Love someone with opinions and preferences on how things should be done.
6. If an artist can do book design/layout too, that's a plus.

Please comment with information about yourself or let me know if you have any questions. I will look at every portfolio shared and reach out from there. Please do not send me DM's. I've found whenever Inquire for an artist, I get flooded with messages with lots of work that's awesome but not super specific to what I've described above. Right now I just need to see what your work looks like and if I like it, I'll let ya know!
Thank you! I've been lurking on this channel for a bit, and already have checked out some of your work and have ya'll in my notes. Would just love to see if the description above brings out any artists that connect with the post. Thanks!

Hello everyone, I'm seeking opinions from tattoo experts. I'm contemplating tattooing the Bible phrase "μείνατε ἐν ἐμοί" on my inner forearm. Could someone please recommend several fonts for me to consider? Since this will be my first tattoo, I'm aiming for something clean and classy. Thank you!

I’m looking to get my first tattoo in honor of my grandparents. Their birthdays are 7/11 and 11/7 I want to get Roman numerals on my forearm but am having a hard time trying to design in.
Examples:
VII XI IX IIV
VII XI IIV
These were my original ideas hoping that you could read it both ways and get 7/11 11/7 but thin I realized it just reads 7/11 and then 7/11 backwards.
Any suggestions, tips, or ideas would be awesome

The Striking Serpent

Nefarian Serpine stood at the door of his home, his hand on the knob, as he calmly quelled the violent urge to murder the man that had been set on his tail since he’d landed in this damned dimension. Traveling his home Dimension torn apart by endless war and death with the dopplegangers of old foes under the threat of death or worse, he had always known that they had been tasked with ending his life if he stepped over the line. But returning to this new Dimension had also confirmed the suspicions he had privately held since the journey: he was supposed to have joined those rotting corpses back home. While the others had been rewarded with favour and praise, he’d been cast to the shadows, a hidden shame. Despite helping destroy the portals that his old master, his old friend, had built in order to survive so that this world would be free of the Draugr scourge, he had been gifted with constant surveillance.
Mevolent.
The memory of the Elemental caused a ripple of something foreign go through Nefarian’s body. Something that made his skin go cold and his chest constrict slightly. Sighing deeply, he shook the feeling away and walked out into the bright day, immediately sensing his hidden shadow moving in synchronicity with him. His lip slightly curled in disgust, he made his way to the Roarhaven markets. His shadow had become sloppy recently, his presence having become far more discernible, almost to a point where Nefarian was beginning to wonder if it was even the same shadow.
As he walked in the clothes he’d purchased for himself, for the clothes delegated to him by the High Sanctuary were of poor design and poorer dimensions, and he felt far more comfortable in rich leather and soft silk, his pocket jingled softly with the monthly allowance given to him by the Sanctuary. Just another way to manipulate and control him. The jingle within his pockets provided a song that lured in more shadows, but these ones he didn’t care about, for the neglected children of the dead did not threaten him.
As he walked, he milled over his situation. Though Sorrows was no longer Supreme Mage, Creed left a broken man in hiding and Bespoke dealing with militant sorcerers, Serpine knew he was a target. Already the victim of a dozen attacks, ranging from physical assault, attempted murder and flying bullets, Serpine had grown more and more frustrated. The City Guard weren’t willing to help him, Pleasant and Cain laughed at him, and all of those who had attacked him had fled before he could deliver some painful retribution.
‘Not that it was so easy, anymore.’ Serpine thought mournfully. Despite the new hand Cain had granted him, he still experienced the phantom memory of the hand he’d once had. That beautiful red that glistened and shone alongside his magic, which vibrated with the screams of its victims. When the skeleton had cut it off, he’d felt a fragment of his Soul break away from him, and it had left a hole in him ever since. A hole he’d patched with a cold hatred and determination that carried him forth. But he’d heard tales of the version of him that was from this world. Another Serpine who wielded multiple forms of magic with cruelty and mastery. A version of him who had been free to experiment and revel in magic. Another thing the rebels had taken from him.
As such, he’d long since decided that living a static, immobile life in a city of sorcerers who hated him was not something he approved of. Nefarian Serpine was a proactive creature, always on the move and on the hunt. He was looking for a way to escape this city and make his way back to the place he’d always called home: His castle.
Walking down the street, he didn’t bother to react to the townsfolk as they recoiled from him, or as they made faces or performed threatening gestures. None of them mattered, and none of them posed a threat. He did keep his eye on the scattered members of the City Guard though, most of whom glared at him with unflinching hatred. He allowed his eyes to pass over them, mentally noting them but not sparking their hostility by directly challenging their stare. Today was not a day to tempt their wrath, for today, Nefarian was prepared to reclaim his freedom once more. After months of planning, he was finally ready. Ignoring them, he walked over to a vendor, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a City Guard approaching. This had happened too many times for his liking, but they’d been smart enough to always do it in public, refusing him the dignity of retaliation. But this one was different from the others. His boots weren’t laced up the way others were, and he wasn’t wearing the City Guard stripes properly, overlapping when they should’ve rested side-by-side. And even from a distance, from his peripherals, Nefarian saw the Guard’s eyes darting from left to right, never truly focussing on him. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t part of the City Guard.
Remaining calm, having already prepared for such an occasion, he pinched a few of the coins out of his pocket and placed some of them onto the vendor’s table, selecting a red apple from the assorted food items and turning on his heel, winking at the small children milling nearby. Sensing opportunity, they followed and he let them, and he made his way over to meet his hunter halfway.
“Stop, civilian!” The imposter ordered, his hand straying towards the baton strapped to his waist. As he did so, his coat moved, and the cold steel of a dagger winked at him as it caught the morning sun.
Nefarian raised an eyebrow and took a bite out of his apple, raising his right hand to wiggle his fingers at the imposter. As he’d expected - and hoped - the man flinched at the sight of the gloved right hand, and Nefarian opened up his left hand, allowing the coins within to spill onto the ground between them. The effect was instant, as the children on the street scrambled to procure their share of the riches, and there was a swarm of bodies that separated Nefarian from the man. Giving his stalker a sweeping bow, Nefarian turned and began walking in the opposite direction, beelining for an alleyway he’d taken note of days prior. As he neared the alleyway, the fingers on his left hand twitched, and he felt the icy cold tendrils of his magic curl around his arm, and he sent the purple vapour snaking on the cobbled ground towards the barrels stacked against the brick wall. He continued walking, his eyes on the small mirror he’d attached to the wall the day before, and he saw another figure further up ahead. His eyes flickered to the grate on the street a few steps away from him, even as he heard his city guard imposter behind him turning the corner. He looked at the mirror, seeing the man walk past the barrels, and he yanked his hand across his body and the barrels fell and scattered. The figure up ahead started running forward as Nefarian heard the man behind him trip over the tumbling barrels. Undeterred, he carried onward, taking another bite of his apple before pegging it at his new adversary. The man howled but continued forward, and Nefarian stepped into the arc of a punch, seeing the discipline and power behind it, and used it to his advantage. Shifting his feet, he swung the man sideways, knowing he would reach out to the wall with his remaining arm and miss the grate at his feet. Nefarian guided him all the way, ensuring that his foot wedged itself in between the bars.
The man grunted in pain, and they looked at each other. “Need a hand going down?”
Nefarian lashed out a kick into the man’s ankle, snapping it and letting the man fall further into the grate, his entire leg now broken with a compound fracture and stuck within the iron bars. Nefarian loomed over the screaming man, quelling the quick surge of excitement that rose within him. Business first.
“Who sent you?” He demanded. He winced, taking a step back and running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. That was a bit sudden. It’s been a while since I’ve been in this position, and I’m a little rusty. Usually there’s more exposition, talking, getting to know each other.”
“Please… please just… just let me go.” The shock of the injury had erased the pain and left him shaking.
Nefarian held up his hands in mock indignation. “Hey, I’m not the one keeping you here. Blame the grate that you carelessly stepped in.”
“You shoved me into it!”
“Actually, I tried shoving you into the wall. You stepping into the grate was just what I wanted to happen. Now,” Nefarian kneeled down beside him, “I don’t have my right hand anymore. Not the one that can torture someone without all the messy business. Which means we’re going to have to improvise.”
Nefarian reached out, grabbing hold of the exposed bone bleeding through the skin, and tugged. The man opened his mouth to scream, and Nefarian shoved a bundle of rags into his mouth, silencing him. He waited calmly for the man to stop thrashing, watching the blood trickle over his pale knuckles, the vividness of the colour mesmerising him for a moment. Once the man had calmed himself, he removed the makeshift gag.
The man spluttered, and Nef smiled at him. “See what I mean about getting to know each other? Just from that little tug, I discovered your pain tolerance, the warmth of your blood, the pitch of your screams. That’s the beauty of torture and pain - you get to know someone in a way no one else can.”
“You’re sick,” his would-be killer spat. “You’re a twisted, demented monster.”
“Who’s in control of your nervous system,” Nefarian replied. “Now, I’ll ask you the question again. Who sent you?”
“I don’t know! I swear I don’t know. But he sent a dozen or so of us, all hired muscle, telling us to stop you. He’s some bastard in the underground tunnels marketplace. Old. Looks like someone tried to melt his face.”
“An ugly one then?” Nefarian murmured. “And a dozen of you?”
“Roughly.”
Nefarian rose to his feet. “Well, thank you for -”
He heard a scraping sound from above, and the quick breath of someone preparing themselves. He twisted around, his purple vapour already coiling up to intercept the leaping figure from above. The new assailant found himself tethered by the vapour, and Nefarian watched as his trajectory was abruptly cut-off, introducing his new opponent to the ground with a satisfying crunch. In his peripherals, he saw his friend in the grate watch the entire spectacle with a surprised look on his face.
‘Great,’ he thought. ‘A party crasher.’
Keeping the man ensnared with his vapour, the purple coils sending chills up his arm and down his spine, he approached with cautious curiosity. “So. My shadow finally decides to step out into the light, and discovers that it burns. And who, may I ask, are you? Because I’ve been making all sorts of friends today, and I’m beginning to fill up my quota.”
The man managed to raise his head, and glared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Ahh,” Nefarian nodded to himself. “You’re one of the slow ones. What I mean is, I’m thinking I’ll kill you, because my tolerance has reached its end with the lot of you trying to end my life. And at least this guy,” he pointed behind him, “didn’t stalk me for days on end. For some, that’s romantic. Others, it’s creepy. I found it creepy.”
“I… I think you should kill him and let me live.” Said grate man weakly.
Nefarian turned to him. “You stepped into a grate and broke your leg. You don’t get a say in this.” He turned back to his shadow.
The man in question, whom Nefarian noticed was wearing a ridiculous outfit designed to hide his features and physique, struggled for a moment. “Let me out of this Serpine,” he growled, “or the Sanctuary will throw you in a cell to rot.”
Nefarian knelt down, so his face was aligned with his shadow’s. “I’ve been doing this a long time. Interrogations. Experiments. For fun. But the consistent thing about it, regardless of the reason, were the stages of emotions that people went through. Of course there was first defiant anger, a certain belief in their durability. Now, for a Sanctuary agent, you haven’t done the greatest job of tailing me, have you? I’ve gone missing a few times. Given you the slip. Left you dangling. It must be embarrassing for you, having to come up with random crap to cover for it.”
“And at first it amused me. The whole cat and mouse game. I did it quite a lot, back in the day. It’s… fun, being the mouse for a change. But then I started getting attacked, and the game very quickly lost its appeal.” He leaned in, his right hand flexing.
The man’s eyes flickered down to his hand, and there was a flicker of fear that was replaced by gloating. “Don’t you bluff me, I know you lost your hand in the other Dim-”
His gloating ended in a choke as Nefarian lashed out, clamping his hand around the man’s neck, rage coursing through him. “That skeleton had no right for what he did. Dragging me back into that wasteland with that device attached to me. Cutting my hand off. And then he comes back and is celebrated. For what? He didn't succeed in killing Mevolent. He lost one of his own and he tortured and mutilated me. You know who blew up those godforsaken portals? I did. You know who retrieved the Sceptre of the Ancients? Me! Can you guess who helped them get into Mevolent’s palace in the first place!! It was me!” He took a moment, and, noticing the man turning blue, let go of his neck and closed his eyes, quenching his anger. It wouldn’t do for the occupants of the bar beside them to get curious about the loud noises around the back.
Nefarian sighed, and he glanced back at the man in the grate and realised he’d fainted from the pain. Walking over, he frisked him, finding the prize he was searching for. Shifting his body so his shadow couldn’t see what he was doing, he slipped the object into his jacket.
“Well, you have my undivided attention at least,” he turned slowly. A predator’s grace. “We’ve even passed the next stage! Denial, which is a crucial development here. Because soon, once the blustering and the bluffing and the false bravado has passed, there isn’t much left but fear. But before you become a blubbering mess, I have a question for you.”
The robed man said nothing, just staring warily, his face slowly receiving colour after going pale during his outburst.
“I brought us here for a reason . I was hoping it would stimulate your memory, since we both have a history with this alleyway. I was attacked, last week, by someone here. We struggled for a little bit, not because I was struggling against my assailant, but because I was curious,” Nefarian dipped his head lower, his eyes fixed upon the robed man’s. “I was curious as to what you would do, my shadow. If you’d react.”
The man swallowed, his eyes darting sideways looking for help. None came, and his eyes went back to Nefarian’s emerald green. “It’s…. It’s not my job to help you out of every struggle you find yourself in, Serpine. The Sanctuary instructed me to follow you, make sure you weren’t doing anything illegal, and that was it. If you’re looking for a nicer answer as to why I didn’t help you last week, go find it somewhere else.”
A tilt of the head. A narrowing of the eyes. Triumph coursed through the snake as he caught the mouse in the trap.
“Now, that’s interesting,” Nefarian said softly, revelling in the other man’s fear, “because there was no fight last week. And I’ve never come down this alleyway.”
“Then it must of been another alley-”
“No, it wasn’t,” Nefarian hardened his voice. “Whoever you are, you aren’t the same shadow I had a few weeks ago. That shadow was competent, quiet, gave me a challenge whenever I managed to evade them. They kept up. But then things changed. The shadow became slower. More predictable. Noticeable. You.
The robed man started to tremble. “Please. Please, just… I had to. He made me do it!”
“He, who?”
“The old man from the underground hall!”
Nefarian nodded to himself and got up, looming over the man. “Ahh, now this part is particularly delicious. Where not one but two stages of the procedure present themselves. Grief and pleading. Where you have lost all hope and have developed the ridiculous notion of reaching my empathy. My kindness. As if I hadn’t been causing pain for hours by that point. You’ve grown hopeful, deliriously so, hoping that I will stop.”
“And this is usually the part where the mind games begin. I let them have that hope. Pretend like I’ll let them go. Give them a second chance. Tell them I won’t kill their wife and child right in front of them. And as soon as I see that glimmer, I tear them down,” Nefarian tilted his head. “What’s the saying? It’s the tallest trees that fall the hardest.” He brought out the prize he’d acquired from the man in the grate, and the dagger’s sharp edge shone.
A single tear slid down the man’s cheek. “No…”
Nefarian nodded. “The last stage was acceptance. Not many reach that far, so don’t feel too bad.” He stepped forward, and with a practiced flick of his hand, slashed the dagger across the man’s throat. Despite the speed of which the cut occurred, his mind caught onto all the tugs and tears as the dagger caught on hardened flesh and tore through the tracheal wall. He watched the blood seep out like a fountain, and he felt that delicious warmth spread from his spine to the rest of his body.
Kneeling, he left the knife near the grate man’s hand and reached over to his exposed bone, wrenching it further. After a moment, he nodded. He was experienced enough to know when a pool of blood was one that none came back from.
‘An old man. A horribly burnt face.’
A face swam into his vision. It was a familiar one.
Kneeling down, making sure his knee didn’t scrape the ground - he didn’t enjoy the idea of getting his attire dirty - Nefarian scooped up his apple and held it before him. For a moment, he examined it, seeing the dirt and dust covering it. Then his sight shifted, and he quietly examined how the vivid red blood on his hand mixed and disappeared into the fruits red colouration. He felt his stomach growl softly, and with a noise of contempt, he tossed the apple into a nearby bin as he began walking. Leaving the two corpses where they laid, he wrung his hands, watching the warm crimson lifeforce of the pair flying away. He was unduly worried, for the bar beside the alleyway was well known for its violent, drunken brawls, and Nefarian was confident that the scene would be viewed as yet another drunken mishap gone terribly wrong. The blood stains that had inevitably appeared on his gloves and cuffs of his sleeves on the other hand…
As he passed one of the windows of the bar’s kitchen, he snatched at the kitchen towel that rested there. Passing it over his face and scrubbing at his glove and his cuffs until they were reasonably clean, he tossed it into a nearby drainage pipe and, after briefly checking his shoulder, moved into another alleyway. He walked down the dark alleyway, its once red brickwork covered in dark grime, moss and dirt, with flecks of what seemed to be old blood almost giving the brickwork back its red colouration. Empty bottles of drink littered the ground, some broken, some whole, sitting alongside random pieces of litter. Of course, sigils had been carved at the entrance of the alleyway, which, for any passerby, made the alleyway appear to be simply another alleyway - pristine, with some mess to avoid suspicion.
Approaching the iron door at the very end, he knocked once. After a moment, a voice emanated from within. “Who did that?”
“I, the One Who Knocked.” Nefarian said clearly. He mentally rolled his eyes at the passcode and took a step back. After a moment, he heard bolts being thrown open and locks turning, and the door opened before him.
Entering, he was immediately hit with the smell of magic. It was intoxicating, the smell of raw magical power and dangerous chemicals that bubbled and boiled in various corners of the grand space. Dimly lit, with clouds of scent covering the ceiling, he walked through the large hall, navigating past various merchants and makeshift market stalls and stores. There weren’t many down here brave enough to attempt jostling or haggling him, and many found their eyes darting down towards his gloved right hand. Fewer, but still some, in the crowd couldn't help but admire his features. Handsome, with a regal aura emanating from behind eyes that burned with passion and danger. Down here, danger was attractive. And threatening. It invited challenge.
But none came and he walked freely. In the Underground, magic was explored like nowhere else in the world. Inhibitions were loose, morals were staggeringly low and magic was seen being used at every corner. Nefarian could only assume that the musicians and radios stationed at certain places were playing music, for they were being vastly drowned out by the store owners and shop keepers that yelled and called out for the crowd’s attention, waving bottles of potions, fistfuls of magic and food items that looked like it would give you ulcers. There were promises of enhancing one’s magic through ‘Splash,’ a drug that Nefarian had discovered and had temporarily enjoyed, before realising the nasty side effects of fluctuating magic levels. Signum Linguists walked around acting like beacons, promising the utmost quality tattoos and sigil inscriptions for relatively low prices.
Further down, Nefarian skirted around the fighting pit, where Enhancers fought for the favour of the crowd and large sums of money. A sensitive had set up a small stall offering to glean into the future and a necromancer was offering his services as a hitman. There were bars filled with people of all disciplines and ages, laughing and cheering and occasionally fighting. Dancers spun around and swayed their hips, sparkling skin and bright flashes of colour from sigils on their hips winking out from the dim-lighting of the bars. Down here, anything went and the law held no jurisdiction.
But there was a type of enforcement that held the people in check. Men and women dressed in rough attire, not mingling, not conversing. They in equal parts stood out like they didn’t belong, and yet acted and moved like this was a natural place for them. Over the past few months, Nefarian had witnessed them dragging struggling and screaming people away, destroying shop stalls and taking whatever they wanted without paying. They were the enforcers and the bullies, and their master didn’t care how they acted as long as they kept the Underground in check. Nefarian had tried looking into them, but the urchins and beggars he’d bribed and connected himself with had turned up nothing but a black hole. However, he’d managed to evade them so far, and so they weren’t his primary concern.
Sticking to the middle of the crowd to avoid being accosted, as well as keeping a hand near his purse to deter pickpockets, he had reached halfway across the hall before he saw his intended target. A small, old man with peeling skin and mottled arms that gave him the appearance of a horrifically burned individual who’d never truly recovered. Nefarian watched him as he approached, seeing him carefully and methodically move his wares around his table. Acting as Nefarian had always known him; a man of cleanliness and pickiness, which is why he’d selected him for the job he’d had in mind. But reaching closer, he began to notice other signs. A slight shake in his hands. A slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. Despite appearing to be heavily focused on the contents on his table, his eyes darted all over the place, concentrating on faces as people walked past. The calm demeanor that had always exhuded from the man was utterly absent, replaced by an air of trepidation, caution and fear.
Inwardly, Nefarian sighed. Though he’d always been a solitary creature at heart, it had been nice speaking to someone who hadn’t tried killing him immediately. But he’d always suspected he’d be let down eventually - the vendor was selling to the black market, afterall. Flicking his wrist to slide his sleeve up, he tapped his wrist as if he were checking his watch, and a sigil lit up briefly on his skin. Looking at the vendor, he saw the man jerk up, and he stooped briefly to check something underneath the table. Nefarian imagined he was using the cameras under his stall, augmented by magic and connected to his house, to check the alert they were most certainly emitting. Nefarian imagined, with a small smile on his face, that the vendor was currently seeing his house burning, courtesy of a few sigils carved in strategic areas.
“Please, sorry, I have to-” The vendor struggled his way through the crowd, desperately making his way towards one of the exits. After a moment, Nefarian followed, and as he met the jostling crowd, he raised his gloved hand slightly, reaching over and tapping a sigil on his forearm, and there was a muted flash. When the transformation was complete, leaving his hand prickling, his eyes flickered back up, a smile with teeth creeping onto his face.
The chase. It had been so long since he’s experienced the adrenaline rush of hunting. Not that it was really a chase in the traditional sense. Whereas the vendor struggled through the teaming crowd examining wares at various stalls and leisurely walking through the hall, Nefarian cut through like a shark's fin through the surface of the ocean, the crowd backing away and spreading apart as they recognised him. Emerging out from the underground lair from one of the many exit’s, Nefarian took a moment to breathe in deep. The magic in the Underground was intoxicating, too an addicting point. It would be far too easy to disappear down there forever.
Rolling his shoulders, Nefarian began following the scrambling vendor, keeping his distance and looking around as if simply on a walk. Though the house was far, the smoke trailing up into the sky acted like a beacon. Slowly moving away from the main thoroughfare of the main streets and going deeper into the isolated houses of the wealthy, isolated by lengthy driveways and lush vegetation, Nefarian followed the vendor straight to his house. With elementals living in a city of magic, one didn’t need to wait for the firetruck or the experts to arrive, but they weren’t able to prevent the house from becoming a crumbling skeleton of what it once was.
He watched the vendor stumble into the remnants of his home, frantically scrounging for anything that may have survived the inferno. Nefarian watched him for a moment, keeping an ear out for any potential witnesses. Though a part of him wanted to hang back and admire his handiwork, he knew to make this quick, before the City Guard came investigating. Making his way forward, he placed his left hand on what remained of the doorway, feeling the warmth scalding his flesh slightly. After a moment, he stepped one foot into the house, and the sense of deja vu hit him from centuries ago.
“Hello Vector.”
The vendor seemed to freeze, his hands twitching slightly over a ruined picture frame lying on the ground. Turning slowly, Vector spotted Nefarian standing before him and his knees gave out. “Mr… Mr Serpine. What… what are you…?”
“Doing here? Well,” Nefarian gestured around him, “a house burning to the ground caught my attention. I must say, I was a bit surprised to find out that it was your house.”
Vector looked up at him silently, then, stiffening his lip, he picked himself back up. “And I suppose our meeting here was a coincidence?”
Nefarian saw the false bravado on the other man’s face and laughed. “Ok fine, I’ll drop the pretense. I knew this was your house because I followed you here. Because I looked at all of your treasured family photos while I carved sigils into the walls of your home. This,” he spread his arms out, gesturing to the house, “was entirely planned. But its execution was entirely up to you, my friend.”
“You set my house on fire!”
Nefarian shook his head and held up a finger. “Vector, you had a very simple task laid out ahead of you. Getting me out of this goddamned city. But my money wasn’t enough for you was it? Someone else paid more.”
“I have expenses, Serpine, and you’re not as scary as you’d like to believe yourself to be,” Vector said, his balled fists slowly glowing yellow. “Go die in a hole somewhere.”
“Oh, don’t worry about expenses, I’m pretty sure the fire took care of those. As for being scary…” he started walking forwards, raising his right hand.
Vector made a noise of disdain, but his feet carried him away from Nefarian until his back was against his fireplace. “I thought you’d dropped the act, Serpine. We all know what happened to-” His voice cut off as Nefarian pulled the glove off of his hand, revealing a glistening, red skinless hand. Nefarian reached out, clamping his right hand around Vector’s throat, and held him there.
“You have a job that I paid you to do,” he whispered, “and you’re going to do it, or you’ll go out the way you came into the world. Screaming.”
Vector managed a nod, gurgling some kind of affirmation. As he nodded, Nefarian attached something to the man’s arm, letting his sleeve slide back down. He backed away and let Vector drop, coughing and spluttering.
“Come now, we have to leave.”
Vector shook his head, remaining on the ground. “You’ll just kill me, and if you don’t, the people who want you gone will.”
“And leave a body to be traced back to me? I don’t think so. You do this for me, we walk in different directions and never have to deal with each other again. And you’re a resourceful man, I’m certain you’ll be able to keep yourself alive.”
“You burned my house to the ground and threatened me with death. I have nowhere safe to go now. Why should I do anything for you?”
Nefarian smiled, kneeling down to look Vector in the eyes. “Because all of this could have been avoided if you’d simply done as I asked. Because right now I’m here and they’re not. Because the pain disk on your arm will leave you screaming for hours, unable to be taken off unless I deactivate it or,” Nefarian tilted his head, “you cut your arm off. It’s up to you.”
Vector seemed to deflate before him, and he sighed. “Ok. Ok. I’ll take you to the castle. Get into my car.”
“My castle.” Nefarian corrected. “And your car, that’s this mobile object, correct?” He asked as he reached the silver automobile.
“Yes, get in.”
They began driving, and as they reached the gate, Nefarian asked the burning question that hadn’t been answered. “Who paid you?”
Vector’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “You have to unders-”
“I don’t want to hear the apologies and promises. They’ll mean nothing to either of us. Just spit the name out,” he held up the pain device’s controller, and the vendor grimaced.
“Christopher Reign is the man who had me paid.”
As they reached Shudder’s Gate, Nefarian’s mind raced. He knew of this man, but had never personally met him. ‘That’ll have to change,’ he thought to himself.
The vendor bribed the man at the gate and they continued forward, and as they drove on, Roarhaven fast becoming a solitary dot in the distance, Nefarian finally felt the vestiges of something he hadn’t felt in centuries. Freedom.

Hi! My husband and I are wanting to travel to Morocco for the eclipse in a couple years. We're both trans guys,I pass fairly well, they're working on it. To make matters more complicated, we're polyamorus and will be traveling with my (cis) boyfriend. How exactly should we go about our vacation? Are there rules that apply to tourists on homosexuality? Thanks. EDITED: I completely forgot but my husband also has a pride tattoo (just the colors) on his forearm! If that's covered will he be okay or is that trip-ending?

Last time, Dennis showed up at my door in the middle of the night... DRUNK. Up to that point, he’d claimed to be a virtuous teetotaler, but something had apparently gone amiss. He staggered into my apartment, hurled tequila all over the place, and claimed to have pooped his pants. Neither seeing nor smelling evidence of dookie, I surmised that he was pretending to need clean underpants because he wanted to wear mine for some damn reason. And my lovesick, dong-struck, smitten AF ass was flattered.
The freshly showered, drunken little horned-up weasel finally stretched out on the couch, wearing a pair of my black boyshots. His semi-alert junk was pitching a tent, and the sack was hanging out of the small undergarment that wasn’t made to contain a male package. He kept slurring something about certain body parts being blue. I knew better. Mr. Butt-Blaster over there was in the Psych Research program, while I was in the MFT/Sex Therapy program, although we had to take a few of the same classes. Having some sex therapy training under my belt, I knew for sure that BBs are a MYTH. Genito-pelvic pain resulting from prolonged and unreleased arousal may feel subjectively painful to a small number of delusional horndogs (although self-report measures are notoriously unreliable). However... more often than not, manipulative horndogs use blue balls to coerce potential partners into pity bangs, pity tugs... pity what-have-yous. And I have receipts. Or as we say in academia... REFERENCES.
Me: Dude, that’s not a real condition. Plus, your... stuff’s hanging out of my underwear. Nothing’s blue. I’d feel better if you covered yourself with that blanket.
Dennis: It’s real, I swear! I’m in so much pain!
Me: Go yank it in the bathroom if it’s bothering you so much.
Dennis: But that’s a sin.
Me: Oh for fuck’s sake. I won’t tell Jesus.
Dennis: I need to call my friend first. We gotta paray. Pray.
Me: You need to sleep it off. You can paray in the morning.
I covered him up with the blanket as he continued to mumble about his private parts. I think I heard him apologize for being drunk, but I don’t know if he was talking to me or to Jesus. No matter. I got in bed and stared at the ceiling, both irate and elated that Dennis was on my couch. I didn’t sleep at all.
As the dawn crept through the curtains and provided a gentle golden glow in my little studio apartment, I heard The Golden God stir. Footsteps. I heard the bathroom door close. Water running. Toilet flushing. There was a bit more rustling around. And then I heard the door open. I watched through half-closed eyes as he tip-toed towards the door in clothes that still looked damp. He gingerly turned the deadbolt.
Me: Sneaking out?
Dennis jumped. “Uh. No. I didn’t want to wake you.”
Me: You really think I’d be able to sleep? I’ve been writing stories in my head all night. You’re in them...
Dennis. Sweet! Can I play myself in the movie version?
I glared at him, but I don’t think he could see my face clearly. His glasses were perched on top of his head.
Me: Anything you’d like to say to me?
Dennis: Honestly, babe. I don’t remember much. I think they goofed and put alcohol in my drink even though I ordered a virgin.
Me: Don’t call me babe.
Dennis. Oh. Okay. Sweetie, I really don’t remember last night.
Me: Do you remember the past MONTH? You asked me for a really revolting sexual favor, I declined, and you dropped off the face of the Earth. It really hurt my feelings. Am I nothing more to you than a butt to screw?
Dennis: Noooo! Babe! Uh. Sweetie... It was just an idea. I love you and I... (He said some more words, but that Delphic L-bomb was making the blood rush through my ears to the point where I couldn’t hear anything else he was saying.)
He was leaning down to kiss me when I floated back into my body. “What?”
Dennis: See you next week?
Me: Ummmm.. Yeah. Text me the details. I’m half-asleep and I’m not sure I’ll remember.
Dennis. I got you, babe.
Me: Hold up. Are you still wearing my underwear?
Dennis grinned. “Yep!”
I shook my head, laughing a little and feeling slightly flattered that he wanted to keep something of mine so close to himself. “Keep them. Consider them a reminder of the treacheries of tequila.”
He nodded, kissed my hand, and sauntered out the door. What the actual fuuuuu had just happened???
Girl Talk
The next evening, I met up with Lucy and two of her friends from a recent show, Pick-Me and Doormat. These three had bonded over a shared burning desire for a forever love. Out of the three, Lucy remained the most jaded and skeptical. After all, she could override her own desires and read people well enough to discern the possibility that Scooter (her crush) was a skin-fluter. Skin-flautist? He was GAY. He’d at least had the decency to come out to her when he picked up on her romantic feelings for him. But Scooter was still deep in the closet to the rest of the world, though.
Doormat: Lucy, what’s going on with Scoots??? You guys would make suuuuuch a cute couple.
Lucy: Yeah, that’s not happening. He’s got too much baggage from his ex-wife.
Pick-Me: Well, maybe you could find out what she did to run him off and do the exact opposite???
Lucy: Yeah, I don’t have the money for that...
(Lucy and I both laughed. Doormat and Pick-Me didn’t get the joke.)
Lucy: Okay, Val. These are my boy-crazy backstage gal pals. Present your case!
Me: The whole case? As in... butt stuff...
Lucy: No! Maybe no butt stuff with this crowd.
Pick-Me giggled. “Butt stuff? I can handle talking about that. What’s going on? Your guy wants to try anal?”
Lucy: Okayyyyy... Apparently they’re fine with it?
Me: Yeah. But that’s not even the worst of it. He disappears. And then he reappears acting like nothing was ever wrong. And he’s a religious fanatic when it’s convenient, but he’s never mentioned actually going to church. He doesn’t even wear a cross. And he lied about this summer camp...
Doormat: Girl, just give him the booty!!! That’s why he’s being shifty. He wants something taboo. Most guys need to feel like they’re bending the rules a bit.
Me: Yeah, but I don’t...
Pick-Me: Do you love this guy or not? At least try things his way.
(Yeah, that thought had unfortunately already occurred to me. And I’d dismissed it.)
Lucy: I don’t know. Ladies, we’ve gotta consider her personal limits. Then again, if you really think it’ll land you the love of your life, what’s 30 seconds of discomfort?
Pick-Me and Doormat giggled.
Me: It’s not always that quick....
Lucy: Okay, girl. But George Gay and I have already started scripting a sketch called “The Prematurely Popping Butt-Blasting Hobbit!” We’re doing it in a show at The Imp as soon as it’s ready! And I talk about him in my stand-up. He’d be good at border control ‘cause he’s a MINUTE MAN. A miniature Minute Man. He’s already a one-pump chump, and he seriously wants to put it in the donut instead of the eclair??? “Hey babe... Sorry I haven’t called. How about we... Uhhhh! Uhhhh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Damn. I didn’t even get my pants off! But I at least I GOT MY ROCKS OFF.”
I tapped her on the head with my straw, secretly trying not to laugh. “RUDE! Please never let him hear that.”
Lucy: I promise you that no good Christian boy would ever come to an open mic night at The Raunch Room. Or a show at The Imp. That place has gotten vile. The other girl in our troupe up and quit, and the director replaced her with this fatass sex manic. She’s disgusting. She’s obsessed with George Straight and she won’t stop going on about how much she needs some Georgie Porgie sexy time... Because she’s got “blue lips.” And then she sits there in her micro-miniskirt with her fleshy hoo-hah hanging out, rambling on about all this freaky stuff she wants to do with this dude who’s like my freakin’ brother. I can’t stand it.
Me: Gross.
Pick-Me: Wait... Lucy, did you say Denny’s a good Christian boy? Val, you have to reel him in!!!
Me: That’s the problem... I’m not sure I believe him when he says he’s a Christian. George Gay thinks he’s using religion as an excuse to ask for weird stuff in the sack.
Doormat: I bet he’s totally a Christian. They make the best husbands. You do what you gotta do to lock this one down! And if you can’t give him exactly what he wants in bed, give him something close. He’s a man. You can’t blame him if he goes looking for it elsewhere.
(I felt my fists clenching. Pick-Me and Doormat were making my brain implode.)
Me: Or maybe I need to admit that I’m not right for him and walk away? I mean, that sounds impossible right now, but I think it’d be for the best in the grand scheme of things.
Pick-Me: Nooooo! As a woman, it’s your duty to make yourself into exactly what your man wants. It sounds old-fashioned, but old-fashioned WORKS. That’s why our grandparents never got divorced!
(Yeah, I’m not sure Grandpappy was running around trying to put in in Granny’s hiney.)
How (NOT TO) Prepare for a Date
My lovestruck brain convinced my lovestruck ass to prepare itself for the possibility of an invasion. Dennis had texted me that he was coming over on Saturday night around 8:00 PM, and that he wanted nothing more than conversation and respectful making out. But he also asked me to wear lingerie...
On Friday, I went to Victoria’s Secret and abused my credit card with a very pretty, very flattering halter teddy with Swarovski crystals adorning the plunging neckline. I’m pretty flat-chested, but I’m also short-waisted, so the plunge gives the illusion of length. Once I was all set for lingerie, I got my hair professionally done, extensions and all. Then I went to the dentist and had my teeth whitened with medical grade lasers. This plunged me even further into debt, and it hurt like hell. I was crying and shaking by the end of the procedure. And my teeth hadn’t been even slightly yellowed beforehand. But I wanted Hollywood-caliber blinding white teeth.
And then, feeling like I’d just been punched in the mouth, I went to the day spa to have every bit of body hair removed, save my eyebrows. Dennis disparaged body hair on women, even the vellus hair (peach fuzz) that tended to crop up when you’re a bit malnourished. So I had everything waxed. And when I emphasize the word “everything,” I’m not just talking about my crotch and my armpits. I’m talking about my forearms. My back. My cheeks. My toes. It was like he wanted a plastic doll. And I was more than willing to get as close to that as I possibly could.
And, listen. I know this was dumb AF. No matter how much I abused my credit card with flattering garments and beauty services and cosmetic dentistry, I’d never be “Hollywood Hot.” I was “regular person attractive with a former scene kid slant,” which basically meant that nerds, theatre weirdos, and recovering scene kids found me irresistible, normal attractive dudes flirted with me some, gross guys gushed over me (although I still didn’t know how to describe or even identify a bona fide neckbeard... remember this was the 20-tweens), and image-conscious posers didn’t give me the time of day because I was a bit weird.
And I’d always been relatively fine with the way I looked until Dennis and his hot and cold whiplash got into my head. If only I were Hollywood Hot enough to serve as a trophy on his arm, maybe he’d consistently pay attention to me? BARF. And sure, I had considered that our personalities didn’t quite mesh. Even so, he kept calling (sporadically) and I kept answering (faithfully), so I decided to focus on something that I could pretend to have some semblance of control over... I could waste a shit-load of money on superficial crap that most straight guys probably wouldn’t even notice (but that might make me feel more confident in my own unnaturally hairless skin). Oh, and then there was the butt stuff...
On Saturday morning, I went to the Sal Paulo Center for Wellness and Healing and got my very first high colonic... just in case. I wish I had a disgusting story to share, but it actually wasn’t that big of a deal. My colon hydro-therapist was named Harmony, and she was able to put me at ease. I explained that I might try anal sex with my boy... with a guy I was dat... With this guy I’d been kinda seeing. So I wanted to be clean. Harmoney enthused, “Oh, that’ll be fun! But these are sooo good for you, even if you’re not planning on having visitors in there. A high colonic flushes out years and years of toxins that get trapped in the pockets of your large intestines.
This was complete BS, but Harmony was really sweet and she did a good job of keeping my mind off what was happening. Ultimately, it wasn’t painful (just a bit uncomfortable), and I did feel better and lighter and more energized when it was over. Probably no different than the way the average person would feel after taking a giant dump. Before I headed home, I popped by another salon for eyelash extensions, a mani/pedi, and a bottle of snake oil that was allegedly packed with pheromones. Well then... I suppose I was as prepared as I could be. Lightheaded and woozy from the emptying of my lower intestines, combined with the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything since Wednesday of that week, I made the long drive back to my apartment in Wellsprings and started tidying up.
As the 8:00 hour grew nearer, I wiggled into the halter teddy. I checked my hair and makeup. I changed my shoes three times. And I poured myself a small glass of Rosé to take the edge off. I gently brushed my insanely white (and incredibly sensitive) teeth and gargled with Listerine so that Dennis wouldn’t be able to smell booze on my breath... and to counteract any fasting-related halitosis that might have been present. The clock said 8:15, so I dimmed the lights, lounged on the couch, and waited.
He never showed.
Laugh at me. I’m not kidding. Please laugh. Or at least cringe. This was some of the dumbest BS I’ve ever done in an effort to please some dude. And then to get stood up... It felt like the end of the fucking world at the time, but it just seems pathetic when I look back on it. Although... to give my lovesick younger self some grace, it really was a pretty harsh blow to my little ego. I mean, at least call to cancel! Right?! Oh, that’s too much to ask from a spiritually confused young man? Okaaayyyyy... For whatever it’s worth, I wore the halter teddy for Axton a few years later and he seemed to really appreciate it. He also didn’t give a fuck about the peach fuzz on my forearms. M’kay, back to the story!
Stood Up? Stand-Up!
George and Lucy soon figured out what was going on, came over with hard liquor and a carton of Marlboro Lights, listened to me cry, shared some of their own stories of being sorely disappointed by men, and cracked me up with their “Prematuely Ejaculating Butt-Blasting Hobbit” sketch... which would eventually lead to me becoming a regular at The Imp. But, in the meantime, how did I cope with the crushing disappointment that seemed to permanently permeate my mind long after The Golden Weasel went completely radio silent... AGAIN?
Well, once we were in tech week for Cats, I barely had time to eat or sleep, let alone obsess over Dennis. And once the show opened, I took up smoking again, I dyed my hair purple, and I had a green finch, a linnet bird, a nightingale, and a blackbird tattooed on my ribs to commemorate my first leading role in a semi-professional production. It’s a very pretty and meaningful tat, and I’ve never regretted it. I loved having purple hair, although I eventually got tired of the upkeep. And I finally managed to quit smoking for good just last year. That may have been the hardest freakin’ thing I’ve ever done. But I’m a soprano again!!! In my world, that’s very, very important.
So... About halfway through the run of Cats, my phone rang at 2:00 AM. It was a number I didn’t recognize. 716 area code. Must have been a wrong number. I pressed Ignore and rolled over. The phone rang again. Same number. Again. Same number. Why the hell am I trying to create suspense??? I finally answered the butt-fucking weasel’s call.
Me: Who the fuck is this???
Dennis: Uhhh... Hey, babe. Good to talk to you, too!
Me (with as much venom as I could muster): YOU. I had written you off as a lost cause.
He laughed. “Nah, babe. I told you. I’m staying with my bro here in Buffalo. But I’m coming back to Cali in a few weeks. Whatcha... wearing?
Me: Dennis, it’s 2:00 AM...
Dennis: Ah. Darn it. It’s 11:00 here. Didn’t think about the time difference.
Me: Yeah, well. I have a matinee tomorrow. If you really wanna talk to me, call me tomorrow evening.
Dennis: Sa-sweet! What show ya doing?
Me: Cats. I told you that.
Dennis: Ew. Nobody likes that play anymore!
Me: I DO. Our audiences seem to.
Dennis: Hey, you wanna hear about the show that I just helped direct here in New York?
Me: Tomorrow.
I hung up on him and silenced my phone.
But he didn’t call the next evening. Midway through the following week, I tried to call the 716 number. No answer. I had fumed and stewed and cursed his name and gotten dangerously intoxicated and written about a hundred pages of scorned woman rage after he’d stood me up. But in time, I put my focus into rehearsals. I planned activities with my parents and my brothers since they were coming to Wellsprings to see Cats. I got back into burlesque. I enjoyed mocking “the weasel” with Darius during my voice lessons and I admitted that he’d been absolutely right about the intolerably arrogant character of the man I’d idealized. And while I wasn’t taking summer classes, I looked forward to the classes I’d be taking in the fall. Things had evened out, and I had pretty much gone back to being my perky, happy-go-lucky self.
And then Dennis rang again, claiming to be back in town. He claimed he was desperate to see me. I caved and agreed to meet him at his place. Things got spicy. And then he clutched his nuts, hung his head and begged me to whip him as he wept over his wicked sin of desire. NO. A little light BDSM (just for fun) between consenting adults isn’t shocking or off-putting to me. But this felt unhealthy.
Even students of psychology battle with mental health issues just as med students sometimes get physically ill. Dennis needed help. My best guess was that he needed some combination of psychological and spiritual counseling, but I’m not sure that an ideal hybrid exists. I tried to assure him that I was perfectly happy to avoid engaging in anything “intimate,” I offered to lend an ear, and I assured him that I didn’t think less of him because he had certain *ahem* fantasies. But he banished me, accusing me of being a wicked siren.
And my head was re-fucked after that bizarre encounter. So before long, due largely to my insistence on making things much, much weirder than they needed to be, things... got suuuuuper weird. Still dazed by Dennis’ bizarre behavior and ensuing radio silence, I decided to take drastic measures in an attempt to forget about The Golden God once and for all. That drastic measure was... Scumbanger. I’d rather not talk about that again. It’s embarrassing. Apologies to anyone who applies Rule 34 to Cats. No smut for you!
But fun random fact! Furries are NOT into Cats (the musical). They despise it. Mainly because the actors in Cats don’t wear fur suits (we wore elaborately decorated leotards and tights). And the actors in Cats have human faces (we were wearing heavy makeup, but you could still completely tell that we were people). There isn’t the anonymity that a “fursona” would allow. So, no. We didn’t have to deal with any furries yanking it in the audience or skulking around by the stage door.
Let’s pop back over to The Imp! Once Cats had opened, it was much, much easier to see the weeknight shows. The improvers were elated since George Gay’s rehearsal schedule (which was the same as mine) no longer forced them to rehearse during absurd hours. And once “The Prematurely Popping Butt-Fucking Hobbit” was ready to perform, I started seeing shows at The Imp on the regular.
It was tons of fun at first! Moe hadn’t disclosed to me that I was in his boom-boom crosshairs, so I thought he was just some eccentric old dude who made up bizarre stories using tarot cards as prompts. The fatass sex maniac that Lucy had told me about was terrible at improv. But holy crap... I laughed my ass off at her outfits, and at the fact that she often got onstage, plopped down with truckloads of grub, and proceeded to engage in what we’d now call a “mukbang” while the real comedians acted out a sketch. Was she ahead of her time???
Within the month, Cats wrapped up. Moe divulged his disgustingness and pitched a hissy fit because he was being rejected by an “older woman.” Even so, I continued to spend my Thursday nights at The Imp, careful to avoid Moe and determined to keep a safe distance from Mary. But the fall semester was upon us before I’d had enough time to completely get Dennis out of my system.
I’m embarrassed to admit that Moe had given me a “love banishing” spell that involved a candle, a pendulum, a few drops of my own blood, and myrrh oil. He’d passed on this “super chill Wiccan bro wisdom” before he revealed his romantic intentions, and he lorded his generosity of spirits and spells over me when I rejected his advances. Whatever. I still nicked my skin, mixed the blood with myrrh, smeared it on the crystal pendulum and let the it swing over the flame, allowing the ideomotor effect to “magically” push the pendulum clockwise or counterclockwise depending on what I wanted to hear. If I’m being brutally honest, it comforted me in those moments. And, no. The skin-nicking wasn't self... Are we allowed to use those words together? Let me put it another way. I didn't get any kicks from the nicks. I didn't even believe in spells. I just felt like I needed a ritual. It was dumb. Moving on!
The Fall Semester (just before the events of Married Mary)
The golden weasel, prematurely popping butt-blasting hobbit, religious fanatic horndog, women’s underwear wearing weirdo... indeed resurfaced when our class schedules forced him to. We had Biological Psychology together, which didn’t exactly thrill me. That had been my favorite class as an undergrad, and I was psyched to experience the grad school version. I wasn’t about to let Dennis ruin it for me. So I vowed to keep my contact with him purely surface level. Even if that meant busting out Moe’s bullshit spell every week after class.
Of course, Dennis tried to yank me around a little more once the fall semester was in full swing. Though it was heartbreaking to keep him at arm’s length (and though I faltered many times), I realized that I simply liked him more than he liked me. And that was nobody’s fault. We met. We clicked. We low-key dated. We hooked up. And it all meant one thing to me and quite another thing to him. The longer things carried on and the more opaque the emotional connection became, the harder I tried and the harder I loved. Meanwhile, he slacked off and loved far more lightly (if indeed at all). My feelings waxed as his waned. Yes, he should have manned up and had a conversation about his waning feelings with me. That would have suuuuucked in the moment, but it would have saved me heaps of heartache in the long run.
The Diary...
Where did I go wrong with Dennis??? I think I went wrong right off the bat when I dreamt up my own version of him, fell madly in love with it, and then gave that pompous ass undue attention and too much forgiveness because he was the avatar of the dream guy I’d invented. It’s happened to me before. I think I’ve been in love with fictional characters (mostly my own) more times than I’ve been in love with real human beings.
Is that weird? It’s probably weird. I’ve also heard it’s an aro/ace thing. I’m grey aro and grey ace in case anyone’s confused by my undying love for Dennis and the crrrrazzzy hot sex with Axton. Oh, I left that part out of the Funky epilogue, didn’t I? Best to keep those details private. And I’m not gonna launch into an explanation about what “grey aro/ace” means. I realize that it’s annoying to go on about such things. If you know, you know. If you don’t, you probably don’t care. I’m not offended at all. It’s a completely understandable indifference.
So what else went wrong with Dennis? Does he deserve to get tarred and feathered, drawn and quartered, locked in the stocks to have rotten food thrown at his face? I don’t think so. I think he might have been on the spectrum. I think he was far less experienced than he let on when we entered into something vaguely resembling a romance. Eventually, I succeeded in backing away from him, although I never dramatically cut ties. That would have required giving him more undeserved attention. I simply allowed myself to lose touch with him.
Am I angry that he led me on? Not anymore. Early into the fall semester, he tried to recreate the vibe we’d had initially, but I just couldn’t trust him. I still liked him more than I cared to admit, but I politely refused his quasi-romantic advances... for the most part. But as I slipped a few times and found myself alone with him (resulting in varying degrees of intimate contact), a bizarre new behavior emerged. Dennis would sometimes ignore me at school. Grad school? Nah, son. We were back in middle school. It was infuriating. The ignoring usually happened when things had gotten spicy between us. But it wasn’t consistent. Sometimes, he was extra sweet and touchy-feely after things got spicy. It was unpredictable, inconsistent, senseless, smokin’ hot, ice cold, and completely maddening.
And I captured every little thing that transpired between us in that dreadful, dramatic diary of mine, which was brimming with saccharine statements about my undying adoration of... Dennis? The Golden God? The Golden Weasel? The Prematurely Ejaculating Butt-Blasting Hobbit? His moniker depended on my mood. I often took inspiration from Sex and the City and tried to write like Carrie when she was pining over Big. I wrote terrible poems. I tried to close the door on Dennis by writing a definitive ending to our dalliance. I tried to rewrite some of the more confusing interactions and make them make sense. I cried myself to sleep in an effort to maximally suffer because I still believed in the notion that one must reach a “suffering quota” before she’s earned the right to be happy. That’s total BS.
But now that Dennis was partially reinforcing my pining, the emotional high was off the charts whenever he would randomly pop up and express romantic desires. The high was even higher when he continued to acknowledge my existence following an expression of romantic desires. I briefly became a Behaviorist and worked privately with one of my professors to research schedules of reinforcement and the Partial Reinforcement Extinction Effect in relation to a phenomenon that Dr. Helen Fisher calls “frustration attraction.” In layman’s terms, we were researching The D.E.N.N.I.S. System. So my unintentionally hilarious giga-cringe diary also included crap-tons of research notes, many of which were terrible ideas. If you’ve ever made notes on a project, you know that the cutting room floor is there for a reason. As for me? I had accidentally saved my cutting room floor as a word document...
A year or so later, Funky hacked into my computer, found my diary, and posted it to Tumblr. I wouldn’t find out about this “publication” until a few years after I dumped Funky. And by that time, an older, even weaslier version of Dennis had seen it... More on that in The Abridged Goblinization.
Pre-Funky
I suppose I have to close this out with a small mention of Whiskers. Ugghhhh... He didn’t leave much of an impression on me until he upped his game and got waaaaay more obvious with the flirting. My head was rammed so far up Dennis’ ass (even when I hated him... perhaps most of all when I hated him), I paid no attention to any other man. With the obvious exception of the superficial attention I paid to Scumbanger.
At some point, once Mary fully loathed Whiskers and once Whiskers was able to socialize freely without Mary keeping tabs on him, I basically told him exactly what I wrote in this post about my feelings waxing while Dennis’ waned, and how I was working on accepting things for exactly what they were instead of what they might have been under different circumstances, blah, blah, blah. He sniffed out my weakness and put on this creepily consistent “attentive, emotionally available guy” act. It didn’t work on me at first because I still thought Whiskers was butt-ass ugly. But then I checked myself for being shallow and decided to give him a chance since he’d been consistently kind for several months.
After some awkward initial missteps, Whiskers (now Whisky, not yet Funky) and I got along really well and I felt proud of myself for finally being able to enjoy male attention from someone other than Dennis. I gave myself too much credit for helping Whisky escape the crazy clutches of Mary, and I broke Girl Code when I dated the bearded giant (even though Mary had been through four new men since the night of the Christmas show... and was still MARRIED). Girl Code is tricky when you’re dealing with a delusional maniac. Some would probably say that I didn’t break Girl Code. Mary said that I did. And that had some suuuuuper dramatic consequences that I’ll touch on later.
I neglected to mention this in the first Dennis chapter, but it's relevant to the story; so I'm mentioning it now. Remember how I wasn’t able to sleep next to Dennis at first because I didn’t feel comfortable enough (even though I was fine with banging him). Was that weird? It seemed a little weird to me. And I had a long think about it after I began to accept that Dennis was a douche. So I made up a new rule. No banging until I felt comfortable enough with the guy to literally sleep next to him.
I broke that rule with Scumbanger. Of course, I wasn’t trying to have a relationship with that dreamy, depthless douche. I also broke that rule with “Whisky.” Once. And by the time he convinced me that he had simply been too “in his head” because he cared so very much, I flat-out told him that I wasn’t going to bed him again unless I reached a point where I felt more comfortable with him. And... Dude managed to make me feel at ease. Was this an act? Of course! But how was I supposed to know it was an act? Especially when he was being infinitely kinder and more attentive to my emotions than Dennis had ever even come close to being? It honestly felt like an improvement in the beginning.
So. I fell asleep in Funky’s Whisky’s bed one night. And I took that to mean that I must have trusted him and that he might be worth considering as a legitimate romantic partner. I had established a boundary for myself long before things got real with that masked beard. And although I had faltered a few times, I felt like I was finally getting it right. I felt confident that I had somehow walked into a hidden gem of a relationship. I was dating a guy who wasn’t my typical “type” (theatre weirdo/attention-seeking pretty boy). But he had been consistently kind. Even when he was weird at first, he was awkward and apologetic. And once things settled down and I convinced him to stop worrying about boom-boom and focus on being a genuine gentleman... He did just that. It was honestly a legitimately enjoyable companionship. AT FIRST.
And that’s how it began. Dennis, by being a middling piece of shit, had paved the way for Funky, a bona fide piece of shit alcoholic psycho, to do his very convincing impression of a normal human being (an impression that he’d honed over the many years he’d spent as Vert’s maître D), to seem like an improvement over the last guy and the guy before... Which resulted in a sense of accomplishment and personal growth when I began to catch feelings for this "hidden gem of a man." Or so I thought.
I’m still not sure if these chapters really explain anything... I think if you’re determined to dismiss my reality, you’ll never accept anything I say. I spent a few weeks writing very defensive entries in my journal, and I think I got all the poison out. So that wasn’t intended to be a passive-aggressive statement. Just a statement that hopefully demonstrates my current understanding of human nature. On the flipside, if you’re already an ally to me, you probably didn’t need this long-winded explanation in order to feel some semblance of empathy. But hopefully it was a little bit funny?
So is Dennis an entertaining character? I’m breaking the fourth wall and asking ReddX as well as the audience. Because I personally feel like this trash fire of a relationship belongs in the book version. And I’m already deep into the re-writes, so the Dennis mess is woven in from the get-go. Also... I’m not dropping any hints that Whiskers is pre-Funky. I think letting the audience in on Whiskers' future identity creates more confusion than comedy. Plus, it's probably not that hard to figure out, so I should let the audience/readers solve that mystery. I’m totally open to constructive feedback! Even if you're politely saying that I suck, I'll take it in stride and try to do better.
Alright. I’ve taken you very patient people on the lamest romantic journey of my life! And with that out of the way, let’s go have a drink at nasty-ass Beer Goggles next time! That's Married Mary (Part 9), which I posted several months back, before I decided to shoehorn the Dennis debacle into the story. Sorry if that creates any confusion. And thank you, as always, for being here!!!!
And here are some peer-reviewed articles debunking BLUE BALLS!!!
https://academic.oup.com/smoa/article/11/2/qfad016/7148610
https://www.researchgate.net/profile/Peter-Anderson-38/publication/10707600_Tactics_of_sexual_coercion_When_men_and_women_won't_take_no_for_an_answelinks/59874c9745851560584cede8/Tactics-of-sexual-coercion-When-men-and-women-wont-take-no-for-an-answer.pdf