I have been living in a 2-bed apartment for a year and it was bliss to have an apartment all to myself. I have been dreading my landlord to get another tenant to live in the apartment. I have been able to afford the rent and at the same time just relishing having my own space. I have always been a loner who liked to spend time doing things on my own. I do have the odd friends and I do go to gatherings like weddings and funerals, but it's when the events are over that I feel the bliss and joy of being lonely.
Then my landlord told me that he had found someone to have the second bedroom and I was disappointed but I guess it was going to happen at some point. Then after many days of waiting my landlord came into the apartment and in his hand was a baby boy. It wasn’t his baby and I asked where the parents were as I assumed the second bedroom would be taken by a family. It is actually big enough to fit a married couple and a small baby.
The landlord said that there were no parents and that he was just going to put the baby in the second bedroom. I was not allowed to go in the room and I was just supposed to leave that room. The landlord placed the baby in the second bedroom and closed the door, and he then went on his way home. I was in a flat with a crying baby. It was unusual and the baby was crying and then the baby would be soothed by something and would start laughing.
I was really freaked out by this and on many nights the baby would be making baby noises all by himself. Then one night I heard a deep musky voice in the baby room but I listened to the landlord and kept to my own business. Then something was calling my name from the baby room and its deep voice woke me.
“Rob wake up, I want to give you 3 wishes,” the voice from the baby told me
I tried to go into the room but it was locked now and the voice in the room kept saying that it wanted to give me 3 wishes. Then the voice said “I can grant 3 wishes but I am not sure where those wishes would go. You will also have to pick 2 other people as well who you don’t mind the wishes to go to”
I had wondered why this thing wanted to answer my wishes and it simply told me that answering wishes was its main function in life. The thing in that room was being generous at first and gave away the first 3 wishes for free but they had to be small. This was to prove to me that it wasn’t lying to me.
So I included my mom to be part of this and my manager who I did not like. My first wish was for death, a teapot and a thousand pounds in cash. Death randomly went to my mother, I got a new teapot and my ass hole of a manager had won a thousand pounds which he bragged about at work.
My mother had died and the voice told me that he couldn’t control where the wishes went. The voice then told me “To increase the chances of good wishes going to you, you should do something called good karma collecting. Where you will voluntarily let people do bad things to you so that good karma shall come round to me. So be a pushover and too overly nice that people take advantage so that the good wishes have a higher chance of coming to you”.
So I did just that and I let people at work take advantage of me and I walked around in rough places where I was showing my expensive items so that someone could rob me. For a whole year, I let people just be horrible to me and I even went out with a woman who was a known serial cheater. I would still sometimes hear that baby either crying, laughing or just making baby noises.
Then the voice said “Are you ready to make 3 proper wishes that will choose themselves who they go to”
“yes,” I said confidently
“Have you chosen two more people to be a part of these wishes,” the voice asked me
“yes and I choose my horrid manager and my father” I replied
“the 3 wishes have to be different and one has to be good, one has to be bad and one has to be mediocre” the voice told me
After a moment of silence, I said “First wish for a billion pounds, the second wish for cancer and the third wish for a mini car!”
I then got a text from my dad telling me that a mini car appeared in his garage out of nowhere and on the news it was showing my manager winning a billion pounds on the lottery. I then started coughing blood and started feeling sick and I looked confused.
The voice then told me “Your landlord took his chances with the 3 wishes and he chose you as one of the people. One of his wishes was for bad fortune and that fell on you, which is why collecting good karma wouldn’t have worked for you”
I then fell to the ground and my landlord came in and he went into that room and picked up the baby. He then looked down at me with a smile and said “Now I can sell my flat without the worry of a tenant living here. Landlord and tenancy rules have made it harder for landlords to sell flats with tenants living inside them”

I have been living in a 2-bed apartment for a year and it was bliss to have an apartment all to myself. I have been dreading my landlord to get another tenant to live in the apartment. I have been able to afford the rent and at the same time just relishing having my own space. I have always been a loner who liked to spend time doing things on my own. I do have the odd friends and I do go to gatherings like weddings and funerals, but it's when the events are over that I feel the bliss and joy of being lonely.
Then my landlord told me that he had found someone to have the second bedroom and I was disappointed but I guess it was going to happen at some point. Then after many days of waiting my landlord came into the apartment and in his hand was a baby boy. It wasn’t his baby and I asked where the parents were as I assumed the second bedroom would be taken by a family. It is actually big enough to fit a married couple and a small baby.
The landlord said that there were no parents and that he was just going to put the baby in the second bedroom. I was not allowed to go in the room and I was just supposed to leave that room. The landlord placed the baby in the second bedroom and closed the door, and he then went on his way home. I was in a flat with a crying baby. It was unusual and the baby was crying and then the baby would be soothed by something and would start laughing.
I was really freaked out by this and on many nights the baby would be making baby noises all by himself. Then one night I heard a deep musky voice in the baby room but I listened to the landlord and kept to my own business. Then something was calling my name from the baby room and its deep voice woke me.
“Rob wake up, I want to give you 3 wishes,” the voice from the baby told me
I tried to go into the room but it was locked now and the voice in the room kept saying that it wanted to give me 3 wishes. Then the voice said “I can grant 3 wishes but I am not sure where those wishes would go. You will also have to pick 2 other people as well who you don’t mind the wishes to go to”
I had wondered why this thing wanted to answer my wishes and it simply told me that answering wishes was its main function in life. The thing in that room was being generous at first and gave away the first 3 wishes for free but they had to be small. This was to prove to me that it wasn’t lying to me.
So I included my mom to be part of this and my manager who I did not like. My first wish was for death, a teapot and a thousand pounds in cash. Death randomly went to my mother, I got a new teapot and my ass hole of a manager had won a thousand pounds which he bragged about at work.
My mother had died and the voice told me that he couldn’t control where the wishes went. The voice then told me “To increase the chances of good wishes going to you, you should do something called good karma collecting. Where you will voluntarily let people do bad things to you so that good karma shall come round to me. So be a pushover and too overly nice that people take advantage so that the good wishes have a higher chance of coming to you”.
So I did just that and I let people at work take advantage of me and I walked around in rough places where I was showing my expensive items so that someone could rob me. For a whole year, I let people just be horrible to me and I even went out with a woman who was a known serial cheater. I would still sometimes hear that baby either crying, laughing or just making baby noises.
Then the voice said “Are you ready to make 3 proper wishes that will choose themselves who they go to”
“yes,” I said confidently
“Have you chosen two more people to be a part of these wishes,” the voice asked me
“yes and I choose my horrid manager and my father” I replied
“the 3 wishes have to be different and one has to be good, one has to be bad and one has to be mediocre” the voice told me
After a moment of silence, I said “First wish for a billion pounds, the second wish for cancer and the third wish for a mini car!”
I then got a text from my dad telling me that a mini car appeared in his garage out of nowhere and on the news it was showing my manager winning a billion pounds on the lottery. I then started coughing blood and started feeling sick and I looked confused.
The voice then told me “Your landlord took his chances with the 3 wishes and he chose you as one of the people. One of his wishes was for bad fortune and that fell on you, which is why collecting good karma wouldn’t have worked for you”
I then fell to the ground and my landlord came in and he went into that room and picked up the baby. He then looked down at me with a smile and said “Now I can sell my flat without the worry of a tenant living here. Landlord and tenancy rules have made it harder for landlords to sell flats with tenants living inside them”

Basically today, I (24m) cussed at my boss's cousin for joking about one of our coworkers dying. The cousin in question works in the same place as us, but he has his own crew and my boss has his own, wich I am part of, the coworker in question works under a third crew, but for the sake of clarity I'll only adress him as coworker. To add context, this coworker left our workplace 2 weeks ago for health reasons, yesterday he was scheduled to be operated and many of us were worried about him. Well today when our boss was driving us home, he suddenly told us that he heard from his cousin that our coworker passed away, apparently complications appeared during his operation and he lost to much blood and passed away, we believed him and we got really sad about, one guy in our crew even suggested, for each one of us in the workplace to put together a little bit of money to send to his parents for the funeral. Well after a while during our drive, our boss called his cousin and asked him if what he said was true, both of them then started laughing and then we realized it was all a joke, I cussed at the cousin and he laughed even more at my reaction, after the call ended my boss was upset with me for talking like that to his cousin and someone older than me, i didn't talk anymore as this whole situation left a bad taste in my mouth.
Another thing, apparently I found later that the cousin, already told this "joke" around in the workplace and the people he told, actually believed him. My boss denies knowing before hand it was a joke, but his sudden laugh during the call tells me otherwise.
So AITA for insulting the cousin for his joke?s

My grandparents passed away recently. I followed the guidelines my grandma set up for her final event. Her Church, her burial plot, her casket and the same for my grandpa. I just didn't expect for it to be a joint funeral. I sent out the notifications to friends of theirs and family after the date was set in stone. Their friends all came, so did most of my grandma's church but no family showed up. I wasn't surprised, I hadn't seen most of them in about 4 years.
I had a great time with my grandparents friends and then I went back home and cried my heart out. I had been their sole caregiver and I didn't know what to do without them. I had taken care of them for 15 years. It started with little things like lifting heavy things and escalated to needing to change the bed twice a night sometimes. I was empty and started to scroll through my grandpa's facebook to see pictures he posted before his memory went..
I found a group, started about 3 years ago that was being flooded with activity. When I went poking around I found out it was my mother who was hosting a funeral at her church and was 'trying to get final expenses taken care of.' I was stunned. Here was the woman I hadn't spoken to since throwing her out of the house for stealing jewelry and upsetting grandma terribly by using her Alzheimer's against her. 'How could you forget my birthday! You promised to give me this!'
I went to the funeral my mother had planned and listened to the pastor and then my mother got up to talk. She told everyone how hard it was taking care of them and something inside me roared to life. I don't remember everything I said, but it did include that she didn't pay for anything for them, not their caskets, not their burial plots, not their cremation, nothing. I told everyone I put them to rest at the funeral grandma planned herself 4 days prior. I said she'd never paid for any of their care or even seen them for 4 years.
I was asked to leave and drove home. Later, a cousin asked me if what I said was true and when I said it was and I could provide proof, they explained my mother had been taking funds from the family for years to pay for their care at a facility because they had outlived their insurance policy. They also explained I got a lot of people in trouble because somewhere in the speech I shouted I had done it all alone for years without any help. A lot of family members used my grandparents as an excuse to get out of work and had invited their coworkers to the funeral. By hearing my outburst they were now in trouble for lying as for the reasons to leave work or miss days.
She then went on to ask me about the inheritance and when that would be passed out. I told her that if anyone had earned the inheritance it had already been taken care of. I thought I was in the right, but now I'm doubting myself after so many cousins and family members are calling to tell me I handled it really poorly.
AITA? Did I handle this badly? Everyone's telling me I did.

This story just broke in our city - https://carsonnow.org/story/05/16/2024/dead-bodies-are-piling-carson-city-funeral-homes-waiting-cremation-months-investiga
This is a sad story, it’s a frustrating story, what the hell’s going on with the public administrators office?

It took me three attempts to pass the bar exam and here is what I did differently that seemed to help.

July 2022

The first time I coasted through Barbri videos while planning my wedding, then I was shocked to receive a 257 (insert eyeroll at overly confident and naive past self). I only did 700 Multiple Choice and I didn't understand some concepts, but I hoped I could skirt through like some of my peers. What killed me though was my anxiety. I didn't sleep for two days before the exam and I had two panic attacks during the writing day so I left two essays only half finished and one of my MPT's sucked. Also, because I was so tired, I missed HUGE issues. What I'm saying is that, in hindsight, I absolutely deserved that 257. I hadn't done enough hard work and I hadn't worked on the parts of myself that were self-destructive (procrastination, multi-tasking, anxious-avoidant habits).

Feb 2023

The second time I was so embarrassed and depressed about failing the first time, I self-sabotaged again. I had to work full time so I had to start studying immediately and aggressively, but I didn't take rest days or do anything to take care of my mental health. Instead, I drank too much and watched a lot of Sisterwives while building a massive color-coated outline. The outline was great, but I didn't ACTIVELY study enough. I did about 900 multiple-choice questions and reviewed the Barbri videos on the topics I didn't understand. Some of the lecturers would go on tangents that were not helpful, which made me panic about wasted time, then angrily pour myself a tequila soda. so stupid. (Sidenote: this was also my first Alaska Winter and I was unprepared for the Alaska version of seasonal depression)
Again, I couldn't sleep the nights before the exam because I didn't think I was ready, even though I had done about 10 practice MPTS, 50 practice Essays, and built an impressive collection of study guides, outlines, and flashcards. I did not have a panic attack during the exam this time, but I did make a rookie mistake and waste a bunch of time formatting an MPT answer (self-sabotaging unintentionally?) I received a 255. I drank, cried, puked, ate dumplings, moped around, took a week off work, then picked myself up and got my shit together.

July 2023

Now I was really in my head. I couldn't stop thinking about that stat that suggests the more times you take the bar the less likely you are to pass. I started to think I was an idiot that my law school had bamboozled me into giving them federal loan money even though they knew I was too stupid to pass. I started to do a lot of introspection here. I knew the material after the second attempt, but I couldn't get the points. I had blown off friends, family, my husband, my life for over a year and I was struggling to stay positive with the looming debt and continued failures.
I started going to therapy in March. I read The Mountain is You and Fck The Bar. I listened to podcasts about the science of learning and memory retention. I saw more sunshine. I drank much less. In May, I built a realistic but aggressive study schedule that coordinated with my work schedule. My boss agreed to give me a month off before the bar exam. I had weekly meetings with the Bar Instructor from my University. I started the first month with ten multiple-choice questions per day and 1-2 Essays. I kept a log of the questions that I got wrong and WHY I got them wrong. I was anxious, but things were going well and I was determined.
But then, shit really hit the fan. One of my best friends died out of fucking nowhere. I took a week off to fly home for his funeral, which I ended up organizing because his family was barely keeping it together. I came back to work and told my boss I couldn't do it but he pushed me to keep going. Thank the lord.
I got it together. I focused on staying positive, which somehow I was only able to do with an odd grief-stricken nihilism. This is a test. This is just a stupid test and we could die at any moment. It finally clicked for me: I still am valuable if I can't pass this exam and I can't waste my time being alive beating myself up for my failures. Maybe some of you already learned this in your childhood, but I didn't learn it until this summer.
I bought the John Grossman videos and adaptibar. I drilled multiple-choice questions, totaling 1,300. I reviewed my progress tracking document with all the questions I missed each night. I didn't drink during the week. (I'll share the schedule if it's of interest) I had two accountability buddies who asked me what I learned each day. I went to bed early, ate well, went running - I took care of myself because if you spiral, the money-hungry study programs and examiners win. The day before the exam, I stopped studying at two pm, though I was told not to study at all. I drank tea, played video games, and embarrassingly I had a little weepy grief moment at my professor's kitchen counter where I was staying. But I went to bed saying, "This is just a fucking test and it doesn't define me. I could die any moment and I don't deserve to punish myself. Whatever happens will happen." I had no panic attacks. I finished all of my essays. I was a grizzled veteran in a room full of first-time takers.
And I passed: 272. I cried and jumped for joy, which terrified my dog.
So here's the point: It's just a test. You've taken so many tests to get here. You can pass this one. I promise. Build a good study schedule, get the John Grossman videos, be honest with yourself about why you haven't passed so far, drill multiple choice, make a running document of the questions that you miss and review it each night, get lots of sleep, go to therapy to make sure your mental health isn't the reason you're not passing, and most importantly, remember that you could die at any moment so don't make yourself suffer. If you need to take time off to fix something emotional or internal, there is no shame in that, but knowledge builds and success here requires vigilant wellness and consistent practice.
You can do this. I promise.
​

Late shift due to a funeral last night and back in the office for my 9-5 the very next day.
Thankfully, there's only 3.5 hours left and I have a brief drive home.
I cannot wait to park my car, shut off the ignition and then shut off my mind later on. My eyes, as well as my mind, need rest.
For now, I'm depending on a steady diet of Jolly Ranchers to keep me awake.

Emer O'Loughlin was a 23 year old Irish woman who was brutally murdered on April 8th 2005. Despite a known suspect, no motive has ever been uncovered and the person of interest hasn't been located, leaving this case unresolved.
Emer O'Loughlin was a student from Galway. She was studying art at college in the city and was described as a "talented artist with a love for photography and drawing". Her family also described her as a "gentle soul who loved living in the rural country". Emer and her long-term boyfriend, Sean, had arrived back in Ireland after a year long world trip and were sharing a caravan in an effort to save money. They planned to live on the site in Ballybornagh, County Clare until they could save enough to build their own house. Friday the 8th of April 2005 was a bit different for Emer as normally she would be at college but it was a public holiday due to the funeral of Pope John Paul II so she was off. Sean had to leave for work that morning but recalled that the electricity supply to their caravan had encountered a fault and so wasn't working. Emer's phone had died and she needed to charge it so he suggested that she go and ask their neighbour in an adjoining field to charge it for her. He then left for work, not knowing he wouldn't see Emer again.
At some stage during the day, while at work, Sean got a call to inform him that there was a caravan on fire at his site. He rushed back home to discover that the caravan owned by his neighbour, a man called John Griffin, was fiercely ablaze. Horrifically, after the fire was extinguished, human remains were found among the wreckage. It was stated that the body was so disfigured and mutilated, investigators couldn't tell if they were male or female. A week later, the remains were positively identified as Emer O'Loughlin. John Griffin, the owner of the caravan, was nowhere to be found however and a Garda search began. He was eventually located in Galway City and when interviewed, stated that he had stayed with a relative the night before and had no idea about the fire.
Two days after being interviewed, John travelled to the island of Inis Mór and barricaded himself inside the ancient fort of Dun Aengus. After a 9 hour standoff with Garda, he was eventually subdued and taken to a psychiatric hospital in Galway city. However, only 5 days later, John walked out of St Bridgid's psychiatrist hospital in Ballinasloe. He had shaved his head and beard and was last seen boarding a ferry back to the island of Inis Mór. Garda later found a pile of his clothes, neatly folded, at the edge of a cliff on the island.
At the time of Emer's demise, the coroner was unable to accurately determine a cause of death due to the condition of her remains. However, her family were adamant she had met foul play and that this wasn't an accidental death. After much campaigning on their behalf, her body was eventually exhumed in 2010 and a second autopsy was conducted. This investigation revealed some very concerning things, most notably numerous cuts on the skull and spine. It was concluded that Emer had met a very violent and aggressive death with a machete-like knife prior to the fire and that the caravan was destroyed to conceal the crime scene. It was also revealed that a traditional Nepalese knife had been recovered from the wreckage at the time. The case was immediately upgraded to a murder investigation and an Interpol notice for John's arrest was sent out.
Garda and Interpol don't believe that John ended his own life and that he faked his own death before fleeing the country. It has now been over 19 years since Emer's life was cruelly cut short and the key suspect has never been caught. However, there have been numerous alleged sightings in that time. It's believed that he is living under an alias somewhere in Europe. He had previously lived in Scotland under the name 'John McDermott' prior to returning to Ireland. In 2014, it was revealed that Griffin might have been living in Edinburgh after an alleged paper trail was discovered. Then, in 2022, he was tracked down to a drug rehabilitation facility in Scotland following co-ordination between gardaí, Scottish police and Interpol. However, by the time his whereabouts were revealed, he had been discharged. He has not been seen or heard from since. Emer's family has still not received any justice and believe that he may not be caught, stating that "He could be anywhere in the world now, using any name". The Garda investigation continues to this day but unless John Griffin is apprehended, Emer's case won't be closed and her family will never receive the peace and justice they so desperately deserve.
Sources: https://m.independent.ie/irish-news/family-of-emer-oloughlin-appeal-for-information-on-19th-anniversary-of-her-violent-death/a902392677.html
https://m.sundayworld.com/crime/irish-crime/sister-of-murdered-emer-oloughlin-publishes-last-known-image-of-chief-suspect/a176727619.html
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-13287177/The-tragic-murder-Emer-OLoughlin-suspect-faked-death-19-years-later.html

Hello, I have been harboring a resentment in regards to my college roommate. To set the scene: When she got married 15 years ago, I set aside an entire weekend to engage in her pre wedding and wedding activities… even driving home ((over an hour each way) in between to take care of childcare stuff and then driving back down to prewedding things in one day so as not to miss out on anything as my roommate had a bunch of things including photo sessions planned (to be clear: I was not in her wedding. These were photo sessions that included all of her old college friends) Anyway, a few years later, my father died. I called her on a Monday to let her know, and to also let her know that the memorial service was planned for Friday. She lived about an hour away. Her reply was that she already had plans, it was her father‘s birthday, or something like that…. Which was fine. I understand that not everybody can always be free the night of a funeral or memorial service. I guess I just figured she would reach out to me again and maybe plan a visit to see me in a couple weeks. That never happened. As a matter fact, I didn’t hear from her for several years. Anyway, this has been eating away at me. My husband says I need to let it go and that it’s not that big of a deal. But I feel like it is. Am I the asshole ?

Background; my mum is an alcoholic and has been my whole life, she made me homeless multiple times as a young adult and as a young mother, she completely disregarded me and my children in our time of need. She has also rang social services on me with a load of lies and malicious intent multiple times. I have created a beautiful life for me and my children in a home full of love and laughter. On the day my daughter was born, she ran off and got drunk in a ditch because they wouldnt let her into the hopsital as i was in a seperate room as i had an emergency c section. One month before my son was born, she punched me in the face. She continues to emotionally neglect us, but I know it's the Alcoholism so I still try to maintain a relationship with her. My mum and dad had been separated for a few years before his death, but were still kind of on and off. As I was by his side in the days leading up to his death, she would send nasty messages which he wasn't able to read, she sent nasty messages to my dad's family on the day of his funeral which she wasnt allowed to attend. She has a victim mindset and refuses to acknowledge or take responsibility for how she contributed to all the turbulent relationships she has had.
My mum has a neighbour who moved in less than a year ago, this neighbour is a young single mother who has got herself out of a bad situation and is still getting her life in order. My mum gets distressed because she can hear her shouting at what my mum assumes is her children. My mum rang social services, housing and the police on her before she had even introduced herself to her. They first met face to face when there was an issue with a joint drain overflowing and it turned ugly, with the girl knocking on my mums door being defensive as she now sees my mum as a threat due to her calling everyone which could have potentially resulted in her losing her home and children, my mum slammed the door in her face. I couldn't stand my mum being in a state of distress without trying to help, so I introduced myself to this girl after the school run as our children attend the same school, just so she can associate my mum with me, a friendly face, and so I could step in if needed. I cut my mums hedge and I couldn't reach the top on her side, so I knocked on the door but there was no answer, i found her on Facebook and asked if she would like me to do her side; she declined as she wasn't in but appreciated the offer. Since then, I have had messages from her regarding the disputes between her and my mum and I have tried to stay unbiased and help keep the peace. This girl is exactly where I was less than 5 years ago, just overcome homelessness and abuse, traumatised and trying to fix her life with no support. I really see myself in her and i have so much compassion for her and her situation. I have shared the things that helped me find peace in my own mind and by extention, create a peaceful loving life all round. My advice must have helped as my mum said she didn't hear anything at all for half a week when before it was every single day. But then my mum decided not to cut her side of their shared front garden. I asked my mum how much ot would have cost to do it and she didnt want to tell me. I asked was it a pathetic amount and she said yes; it would have cost £5 extra to do it. I said you have done it out of spite and that's wrong. If you can take a little bit of stress off of a struggling mother than £5 is worth it. She asked me to not talk to the girl anymore and I said I'm not going to stop being kind just because you are choosing to be angry. She then blocked me and we haven't spoken for 2 weeks, except when she unblocked me to send me more abuse and then I blocked her. I haven't spoken to the neighbour either until 2 days ago where she told me my mum has been screaming through the walls that she has called social services again. The neighbour told me the social services have been in contact again. My nan has told me that my mum hasn't done it, but I don't believe her at all because she done the same to me and then tried to deny it but soon admitted it was her because I knew for a fact it was her.
I've taken myself out of the situation as my efforts of keeping the peace were obviously wasted and the only positive impact I had on this situation was I helped this girl feel that she has a choice of peace and love when all she has known is trauma and abuse. Another positive thing is I have realised so much of my energy was wasted on being sad that my mum doesn't love me (or show that she loves me) and now I am emotionally available to be overwhelmed with love and awe for my own children.
Am I the asshole here?

Aita? Me and my (now ex) girlfriend met a few years ago and it was love at first sight(not the good kind) it started off with drama and her hearing things about me(not even anything actually true, just things like people saw me as flirty when I was just being kind, not even anything that happened during our talking stage either) and it causing a fight before we got together and she stormed out of my house. We make it passed this in a few days after I basically beg for her to trust me, and I know it was an immature choice on both our part but we moved in together right after. We have our differences( she comes from more of an affluent family and I come from the dirt basically) and it made me value certain aspects of maturity that she wasn't really ready for like she wanted to take up a portion of our bills when we moved in together but after a few months she lost her job. I had just taken up a new job at the time so I was able to cover it all but this is when the real problems started. I do have autism and bpd and she has bpd so you might be able to tell where this is going. She would regularly do things to trigger my autism like yell at me in high traffic when I had to make a maneuver, yell at me for explaining I need a minute to compile my thoughts whenever we had any sort of disagreement and once she even yelled at me and made fun of me in front of her friend because I was having trouble expressing that I didn't want her to go to a party with a friend who has tried to convince her to cheat in prior relationships. She went anyways and she came home saying she didn't remember what happened at the party. This did create a rift for a while and she found ways to break up with me 5 times in total before actually breaking up over arguments about this. One time we fought and we talked about it, we both got emotional and she walked out with her friend. And when she walked out and I saw her it looked like she turned around and smirked and laughed when she got far enough, so I texted her "fuck you too then" we moved back in together that night after she left. Then came the financial support, she wasn't able to meet her obligations because she didn't have a job and I was covering both of our expenses. She started to complain that I wasn't home more and more, and in a weak moments, she would gaslight me into feeling like I don't care about her and that I don't lover her and all this stuf I would always come home early to be with her and find excuses to stay home, taking me away from work and making it harder for us both to meet our goals. I tried explain ng this but she fought me on it saying she didn't care about the bills and Just wanted me around. But to be honest my sex drive started to dip. I won't lie and pretend I'm proud of it but I turned to porn for comfort, sometimes even paying for it(loser shit I know) and she found out when I was at my father's funeral. We got through it for the time being but I just felt done at the time and we never really made it passed the porn thing ultimately. At the time I'll admit I did have an addiction and didnt stop when I should have, and whenever we talked about it I would argue that she was actually just gaslighting me into doing everything she liked while she treated me any which way, which I now understand as Coming from a place of trauma rather than rationality, but I felt she created this distrust in me and felt justified. She took money from our shared account without telling me and bought a plane ticket home( she paid me back but the whole taking it angle really made it hard to be more reasonable). Fast forward to now, it's been a year and I've been on a few dates hut so has she, albeit a lot more and intimate than me, I haven't even had the courage to sleep with anybody else. And we both have been talking about maybe getting back together since I've been to therapy and she's been growing and learning more about responsibilities. But I've been slowly icing her and fence sitting because I don't know if I should trust her again or if we should be together am I being TA

Welcome to Max A. Sass & Sons Funeral and Cremation Service in Milwaukee, South Milwaukee, Greenfield, Franklin, and Muskego, WI

When you have experienced the loss of a loved one, you can trust Max A. Sass & Sons Funeral and Cremation Service to guide you through the process of honoring their life. At Max A. Sass & Sons Funeral and Cremation Service, we pride ourselves on serving families in Milwaukee, South Milwaukee, Greenfield, Franklin, Muskego, and the surrounding areas with dignity, respect, and compassion. Our staff is experienced in a variety of funeral services and can help you celebrate your loved one no matter your religion, culture, or budget. Since 1937, Max A. Sass & Sons has been a caring, trusted source in funeral services.

About Us

A caring, dependable source to turn to in one of life’s most difficult times. Since 1937, Max A. Sass & Sons has been the source that people trust for their funeral services.
Max A. Sass & Sons Funeral Homes have been helping Milwaukee families in times of need since 1937. As the most dependable provider of funeral and cremation services in the areas of Greenfield, Franklin, Muskego, South Milwaukee and Milwaukee, we’ve grown close to many families in your community.
Max A. Sass & Sons Funeral Home is and always will be dedicated to serving people like you. In fact, we’ve grown close to many families in your community, serving them through as many generations as we’ve been in business. We hope to carry on that tradition by earning your trust and being the source you’d rely on to make the difficult times easier.

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Planning a funeral can be overwhelming, but you are not alone in this. We’re here to support you throughout this journey and make this process one of love, healing, and life celebration. Below is some information to help you get started, but you can contact us at any time if you need help.

Service Pricing

If you need any assistance or have questions regarding payment and pricing, to help you understand all of the costs associated with a funeral service and make an informed decision, we have put together a chart showing our most popular packages and the prices for those services. Funeral pricing can be difficult to understand, if you should need any assistance or have questions, please don’t hesitate to contact us. Our staff is happy to help you explore all the options available to you.ur staff is happy to help you explore all the options available to you.

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Milwaukee – Oklahoma Chapel
Phone: (414) 645-4992
1515 West Oklahoma Avenue
Milwaukee, WI 53215
South Milwaukee – South Shore Chapel
Phone: (414) 304-5745
1314 Manitoba Avenue
South Milwaukee, WI 53172
Greenfield – Greenridge Chapel
Phone: (414) 282-4050
4747 S. 60th Street
Greenfield, WI 53220
Franklin – Mission Hills Chapel
Phone: (414) 427-0707
8910 W. Drexel Avenue
Franklin, WI 53132
Muskego – Westwood Chapel
Phone: (262) 679-1560
W173 S7629 Westwood Drive
Muskego, WI 53150
Website: https://www.maxsass.com/

I'm new to the sub and assume you guys get plenty of these posts, but I'm pretty mad about this and felt the need to post somewhere for advice.
My 2 year old son has been attending daycare since he was about 3 mo old. The daycare we sent him to was not our first choice, it was just the only daycare in the area with an opening and I promise you we tried looking early. We even got on a few wait lists but we're never called back or told after waiting 6 months that they don't have a wait list and never did.
This place was not great. It was down the road from a pawn shop, a funeral home, and a rehab facility. We've seen a homeless person at a tent up a block down the road in an empty lot. They have a constantly rotating door for staff. They recently increased the price to $250 a week for part time after they just raised prices at the beginning of last year. My wife and I have had our eyes and ears open for openings, but now we really hit the phones hard until we found one other place with one opening. It's right down the road, it was $25 cheaper for full time (they don't offer part time) and the facility wasn't a dump! It's right across the street from his doctor and a nice local park. Great! ...Or so we thought.
We told them why we were leaving the previous daycare, mentioned the area, the bad staff, and the price increase and amount. We signed him up 2 weeks ago. This week, we submitted the first payment for next week when our son starts....
...aaaaand they just called my wife to say they are increasing the price by $25 and they had no idea this would be the case at any point over the last 2 weeks that we've been in constant contact with them. We are now right back to $250 a week where we started price wise. My wife and I are pissed to say the least. I have no idea how they could do this and I can't believe there are no consumer protections for parents dealing with ridiculous daycare prices and annual price increases with seemingly no added benefit.
Has anyone else dealt with something like this? How did you handle it? I was already heading in tomorrow to drop off some paperwork about my sons personality and needs and I plan on politely bringing it up to them (as polite as I can manage anyway, given the bait and switch they pulled). Any advice on what I should say?
We are on other wait lists, but it doesn't seem like anything else will open up soon.

Write a pitch for a product that seems morbid, but can actually happen.
I'll start.
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With the global market for funeral services being significant and the demand for personalized memorials growing, the Eternal Memories Gravestone stands out as a unique blend of technology and tradition. By offering this innovative product through individual sales, subscription services for continuous photo updates, and partnerships with funeral homes and cemeteries, we are poised to transform how we celebrate and remember our loved ones. Invest in the Eternal Memories Gravestone and provide families with a dynamic, evolving tribute that keeps memories alive.''

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

So for a bit of context, I (18M) need to begin 4 years before today when during the middle of covid lockdown in the UK my sister (28F) selfishly decided to bring her new boyfriend (27M) over who we had never met before to stay at my parent's house for a week given we had never talked to him and his first impressions such as not bringing gifts or a thank you gift for letting him stay his awful habits like lacking on personal hygiene. It is from here that my dislike for this chap began. He claimed to hold a senior position in the judiciary something we have since disproven given that no ceremony has occurred and he was only called to the bar a year prior meaning he couldn't hold the position he claimed to have. Recently after years of privately caring for my grandmother (102) now deceased alongside both my parents and my brother, we were saddened to hear of her death despite our best efforts in caring for her.
My sister at no stage helped us care for my grandmother and I should point out that I had been caring for her including with toiletries since I was 14. My sister hardly visited my grandmother despite living with us even when she was asked too and her boyfriend talked to my grandmother for less than 5 seconds leading to my grandmother referring to him publicly as a 'tight bastard'. Nevertheless without the permission of my parents invited him the funeral for 'emotional support' yet again i refer to my point that my sister actively avoided my grandmother despite her severe decline in health and now wants to actively defy my grandmothers preference for close family only at the funeral.
This week I am planning to confront my sister for overstepping the boundaries consistently only looking after herself and always making everything about herself regardless this included passing on all my information in regard to GCSE results, A-level grades and where im going to Uni to her boyfriend. Under this premise of confronting her and refusing to come back to my home for Christmas unless my parents stopped their preferential treatment of her over everyone else. For a bit of context on this treatment, my parents have previously allowed my sister to get away from stealing hundred's of pounds that I saved in a money box from the age of 8-13. In addition to openly calling me a mistake always letting my sisters boyfriend stay and catering to the every need of them.
I wouldn't have such an issue with them if they were honest with when they were staying and when they were leaving. and for instance the lack of transparency and her constant lies. This year I have already threatened my brother that unless my parents start calling out all my sister's stunts I will not return for Christmas when my sister and her boyfriend will be staying for a few weeks.
So in summary I know this was a bit of a ramble and I'm happy to clarify anything in the comments.
WIBTA

As the last orange light of day drained from the sky, the living dead in Club Vlad rose. Max the skeleton and Jessie the…not skeleton…sewed up the gaping Y-shaped incision on Dom’s chest under Merrick’s direct supervision. Dom sat there, feeling nothing, thinking nothing. He’d woken with a headache and a feeling of cold, and even now, he could feel the dull throb above his left eye. It felt like someone was tearing his brain apart with a fork. He had told Merrick, and Merrick had nodded sadly. “Is my brain rotting?”
“Most likely,” Merrick had said.
There was a certain peace in the idea of losing his cursed humanity. As Merrick had said, he would feel no pain, know no quandaries. He would live only for the night and for his master. On the other hand, watching someone like Matt sit and stare into the distance, drool coursing down his chin and nothing happening behind his dead eyes, scared Dom. He didn’t want to be a braindead idiot. He didn’t care about keeping his emotions, he just wanted to function.
Like Merrick.
There wasn’t much he could do, however. He was dead and that was the end of it.
Once Dom was patched up and dressed in a pair of jeans and a hoodie, Merrick called his children before him. “I have done my best to love and protect all of you,” he began. “Jessie, you were miserable with your grandmother, were you not?”
“Yes,” Jessie said tonelessly.
“You were depressed, bipolar, and cut yourself. Now you’re happy.”
“Yes,” she replied again.
“Joe, you were a two bit nobody staring down a ten year stretch in jail.”
“Yes.” Thin yellow liquid dripped from his nose.
“But now you are free.”
“Yes.”
“You appreciate what I’ve done for you.”
“Yes.”
Merrick flashed then, slamming his fist onto the arm of his wheelchair. “Then why do you keep fucking up? The police were here earlier. They have messages between you and Jessie. I told both of you to delete those. Then I find out that you bit someone and turned them despite my orders. We have an endless supply of blood here but you still went off on your own. How many are there?”
“Just one,” Joe said.
“Are you being honest with me?”
“Yes.”
Merrick sagged back in his chair, looking somehow older. “Joe, take Matt and go to her. Bring her back here before she causes any more problems. God alone knows how many people she’s changed. Too many vampires without a father will bring heat on us, and you know what happens in that case? We get pieces of wood shoved in our chests.”
Turning to Dom, Merrick said, “I have a job for you and Jessie. We’re nearly out of embalming fluid. You haven’t had your first dose and the rest of us are starting to get ripe as well. I have a contact at a funeral home. He texted earlier that the order he placed on my behalf has come in. I want you to pick it up and to pay him.”
Dom had never been picked for anything in his whole life. No one had ever wanted him on their team and no one had ever placed their trust in him the way Merrick was now. He was honored, proud, and would do anything to not let Merrick down.
“That cop who came here might be a problem,” Merrick went on. “We may have to deal with him, but we’ll leave that for another night. In any case, I want this place cleaned from top to bottom. If the police come, I want them to see nothing out of the ordinary.”
Now that everyone had their marching orders, they dispersed. Merrick handed Dom an evelope stuffed with cash, and Dom slipped it into the pocket of his hoodie. The other team - Joe and Matt - left, while the remaining vampires began tidying up.
A fleet of vehicles waited in the parking lot behind Club Vlad. Dom and Jessie took a black pedo van with no back windows. They drove in silence, the radio off. Dom did not want to hear music, nor did he wish to speak to Jessie. Their kinship was one of blood and circumstance, not one of words and emotions. He had no questions for her and wished to answer none of his own. The only thoughts he had were of the mission ahead and of the growing pain in his skull. He thought of the staring stupid Matt, of the decayed Max, and a shiver went down his spine.
What was left of his humanity recoiled at the idea of becoming like them.
The pain grew hotter, more intense. He forced it away and focused on driving.
The funeral home was on North Allen Street, next to a restaurant called Pepperjack’s. A tall, white house with dark shutters and a sign out front, it looked like a quiet, peaceful place. “Pull around back,” Jessie said.
Dom pulled the van around back and parked under a balcony, killing the headlights. They got out and went to the back door, Jessie in the lead. He assumed that she had done this before and that the seller would recognize her. She knocked, and a few moments later, the door opened. A youngish man with a shaved head appeared, wearing an apron and gloves. He saw them and tensed a little. Dom could smell, rather than sense, his fear, and his throat panged with thirst. “Come on,” the man said quickly. He stepped aside and allowed them to enter. Dom noticed that he walked behind them, wary of putting his back to them. “Do you have the money?”
“Do you have our order?” Jessie countered.
“Yes,” the man said, “I’m really risking my neck for this. They don’t just give embalming fluid away, you know. They keep track of it and if they realize I’m over ordering, someone from the state’s going to come down here and check.”
He led them into an embalming room. Three boxes sat on a table. Dom gave the man his money, and he and Jessie carried the boxes outside, loading them into the van. The whole time they were there, the man was edgy, like he was afraid they were going to attack him. Dom would be a liar if he said that the hot smell of the man’s blood didn’t excite him. Perhaps once his brain rotted away, he wouldn’t be able to control himself, but for now, he could.
A lightning bolt of pain shot through his head and he nearly dropped the last box onto the ground.
Once the man was paid, Dom and Jessie drove back to Club Vlad. In fifteen minutes, they were drinking side by side from two passed out partygoers, their reward for a job well done.
Meanwhile, across the city, Joe and Matt weren’t doing as well. They were standing outside of Heather’s apartment. Joe, slightly annoyed (anger being another emotion vampires could feel, along with fear) pounded on the door. He knew she was in there; he could smell the putrid odor of decay. “Let us in,” he said. “We won’t hurt you.”
Joe could barely remember changing her. He didn’t mean to, it just…happened. Like an unwanted pregnancy. You can bite someone as much as you want and drink as much as you want, but if you take too much at once and they die, you get the vampire equivalent of a baby. Joe liked the hunt. It was exciting. Having his meals brought to him Club Vlad didn’t arouse the same level of excitement. It was like shooting an animal tied to a tree. Or hiring a prostitute instead of wooing someone. No real satisfaction to it.
That was probably his greatest downfall. He had lured Jessie the same way, though Merrick was indeed interested in rescuing her from her grandmother. People you have saved obey just as well as people with no brains.
He felt fluid on his upper lip and sniffed. “Come on, let us in,” he said.
No response.
He looked at Matt and nodded to the door. Together, they rammed their shoulders against it. It shook in its frame. They were both dead and weak, but modern American architecture is even weaker, and the door eventually slammed open. The apartment beyond was dark, messy, and reeked of death. They searched high and low, and eventually found Heather huddled in a corner, trying to hide. She was naked save for a pair of panties, her body bloated and beginning to turn black. Her skin hung from her frame and her eyes were filled with blood and fear. It was a wonder no one had called the police yet. The smell was overpowering. “We’re here to help,” he said. “You have to come with us.”
She shook her head and trembled. Maybe she remembered that he was the one who did this to her. Maybe her memories had rotted away. Those were usually the first to go. Then your emotions, then your personality. Finally, your capacity for higher reasoning. “I’m sorry I did this to you,” he said. That was a lie. He was not remorseful. Nor was he proud, for that matter. It just happened. Like rain. “But I want to help you. We can fix you.”
No amount of coaxing or conjoling could induce her to move. Joe weighed his options. He doubted anyone would call the cops even if they heard the door coming down - people who lived in places like this rarely called the cops, which helped Joe and his cause immensely. Even so, there was the possibility. Every minute they spent here was a minute that something could go wrong, and Joe had a lot to lose.
So, too, did Merrick.
Giving up, Joe took out his cellphone and called Merrick. “She refuses to come,” he said simply.
The line was quiet for a moment, then Merrick’s voice came back. Cold. Calculating. “Then do what you must.”
That was the go ahead.
Hanging up, Joe looked around the apartment and found a wooden chair in the kitchen. He lifted it over his head and slammed it on the counter, shattering it into a million pieces. He selected the longest, sharpest, and sturdiest looking one. He went back into the room and directed Matt to hold her down. She fought, kicked, and spat, but she was weaker than even they were. They had been embalmed. She hadn’t.
Matt pinned her hands above her head and Joe straddled her. Animal terror filled her eyes and she whipped her head from side to side. Joe lifted the makeshift stake with both hands, and brought it down as hard as he could, driving it deep into her heart. Her eyes bulged from their sockets and a high, otherworldly scream ripped from her throat. She bucked, thrashed, and kicked her feet. Her resistance began to ebb away until she was twitching…until she was still.
Heather from OKCupid was dead.
Truly dead.
Joe couldn’t help wondering what it was like.
Pulling the stake out, he tossed it aside and got to his feet, Matt doing likewise. A soul petrifying scream might be cause for even the tightest of lips to start talking. “Let’s go,” he said. And together, he and Matt fled, leaving the poor, dead body of Heather behind.
***
As it turned out, one of Heather’s neighbors did call the cops. At 10;13pm, Vanessa Rodregiez arrived with two patrolmen and found the front door of Apartment 237 knocked down. Guns drawn, they entered, Vanessa at the head. The first thing she noticed was the smell. It jammed itself into her nostrils, shoved its tongue down her throat, and violated her - all without even buying her dinner first.
Vanessa hadn’t been at this as long as her buddy Bruce had, but she knew a dead, rotting body when she smelled one. They searched the premises, and sure enough, they found a vic in the bedroom, lying in the gap between the bed and the wall; it looked like the former had been moved, perhaps in a struggle. Vanessa knelt down to check the vic’s pulse, but stopped.
There was no need.
The vic - who looked like a female but could have been an overweight male - hadn’t had a pulse in a very long time.
Examining the body, Vanessa found a wound in the chest, just above the heart. Black, stinking goo leaked from it, and Vanessa gagged. She fisted her hand to her mouth, retched, and then ran for the kitchen sink. Her partner for the night, Jim Walsh, stared down at the stiff before him, and his face turned a sickly shade of green. He avoided puking because he didn’t nose fuck the wound like Vanessa had, but he wasted no time in getting out there, dry heaving in the hallway where the air was somewhat fresh.
After leaving her lunch in the sink, Vanessa radioed back to headquarters, and before long, the place was crawling with cops. The assistant medical examiner - who had taken over after Ed Harris quit the previous night - knelt over the body and studied it. A solidly built black man with a mustache, his name was Leon and he knew death just as well as his old boss, so when he said the vic had been dead nearly two weeks, Vanessa accepted it.
That begged the question: Who broke in and screamed just now? A relative? The caller clearly heard screaming and peeked out her door to see two males fleeing on foot. Maybe they found the vic and freaked out? Or maybe they were the killers returning to the scene of the crime. After all, the vic had clearly been murdered.
In fact, they found a likely murder weapon. A long sliver of wood soaked in black goo. Blood turns black after a while, but there was something different about this stuff. “What is it?” Vanessa asked Leon.
“I’m not sure,” Leon said and pulled off a pair of Latex gloves he’d donned to examine the vic, “could be blood or…”
“Or what?” Vanessa asked.
“Or something,” Leon said. “Give me a few hours.”
And a few hours it was. Just before 1am, Leon called Vanessa at her desk. “I think you should come down here,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, Vanessa stood over Leon as he pulled the vic’s chest open with a pair of tweezers. “That’s the heart,” he said, “whoever stabbed her scored a direct hit, but this…this is what concerns me.”
He prodded a furry lump with the tip of his scalpel.
“What is it?” Vanessa asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, “it looks like mold.”
That word - mold - triggered a memory in her brain. “Ed said something about mold last night. He found it in -”
“The Mason boy,” Leon finished.
“Yeah. The one who got up and ran off.”
Leon turned away from Vanessa and looked at the dead woman - for it was a woman. Vanessa got the impression that he didn’t want her to see his expression. “I’ve known Ed ten years. I know something happened last night, but a stiff getting up and walking off? I thought he was confused. Now…I don’t know. That makes two bodies in 24 hours. And get this. The chest wound? It was done post-mortem. I can’t find a cause of death anywhere. Except maybe blood loss but it’s hard to tell at this point. And speaking of blood…”
“What?” Vanessa asked quickly.
“When I opened her stomach up, a whole shit load of blood spilled out. And a lot of it was a lot fresher than she is.”
Vanessa furrowed her brow in confusion. “You mean…?”
“It’s not hers,” Leon said. “I can’t be 100 percent sure until I run tests, but I’d put money on it.”
Vanessa’s head spun with information both new and old. You know that full, heavy feeling you get when a poo is brewing in your guts? That’s kind of what Vanessa was feeling, only in her head instead of her stomach.
Leon was just as mystified by the whole thing as she was and stayed up late to run a few preliminary tests. By sunrise, he had confirmed that the blood inside of Heather’s stomach was not hers. In fact, it had come from at least three different sources. “Is it human?” Vanessa asked over the phone.
“Yes,” Leon said, sounding troubled, “it’s human.”
In the cobalt hour before sunrise, Vanessa sat at her desk and tried to piece this whole thing together. They had:

1. A corpse that (allegedly) woke up and dipped out
2. A dead girl who’d been stabbed in the heart with a piece of wood after somehow ingesting the blood of three different people.
3. Some missing kids
4. Oh, and both bodies - the girl’s and the runaway corpses’ - had the same weird fungus in their heart cavities.

All of this - even the missing kids, Vanessa felt - was related. She just didn’t know how. The only answer that half way fit was that both of those bodies were vampires. Like…what’s a vampire but a dead body that gets up and walks around at night? And how do you kill a vampire? Why, you drive a piece of wood through its heart.
The idea that vampires were real was dumb, but the more she turned it over in her mind, the more she became convinced that it was at least an option. A lot of things people thought were fantastic and made up turned out to be real, so why not vampires too?
Shortly after 8, Bruce came in. He was just sitting down when Vanessa came in and slapped her report on the desk. “Buckle up, bitch,” she said, “things just got weirder.”
He stared up at her with one of those grumpy - but cute -expressions he was so good at putting on. As he read, however, his brow knitted. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a weary sigh.
“I have a theory - kind of,” Vanessa said, “but I don’t want to say it.”
“You might as well,” Bruce said. “It can’t be more kooky than reality these days.”
“Okay,” Vanessa started, “what if - and I’m just thinking out loud here - what if there are vampires in Albany?”
She expected Bruce to give her a dirty look, but he chewed it over, actually taking it seriously. “And those missing boys are victims?” he asked finally.
“Yeah,” Vanessa said. “That girl’s been dead two weeks. Maybe she bit Dominick Mason and he came back for revenge after realizing he was cursed to be a goddamn shit sucking vampire forever.”
Bruce nodded. “Yeah, but who turned her?”
“I don’t know,” Vanessa said, “I don’t know.”
***
Before dawn painted the eastern sky, Merrick Garvis sat in his chamber like a withered king, a mess of IVs hooked into his arms and neck. The vault was silent save for the soft noise of the machines as they filtered out the old embalming fluid and replaced it with new embalming fluid. Embalming fluid always made him spacy, like a drug. The others had gone first, and even now lay near comatose around him like addicts in an opium den.
As far as he knew, Merrick was the oldest vampire in the world, perhaps, even, the oldest vampire to ever live. Though he was not fully honest with Dom, he was not lying when he said that vampires rotted like any other dead thing. Conditions considered, you had a few weeks tops if left untreated. There may be living vampires in remote corners of Egypt or the northern most reaches of Russia, where the climate preserved dead things, but unless you made it to one of those places, you were pretty well fucked.
Merrick was not a proud man, nor was he concerned with saving face - the dead have no need for that. He was being truthful when he said that he feared death. What’s more, he feared being helpless. Deep down, vampires are people, and people don’t exactly have the greatest track record with caring for their infirm. He read once that the first sign of a civilization was a broken leg that had healed, as it showed that someone stayed with and cared for a fellow human long enough for them to get well again. In Merrick’s opinion, that was true…and thus there was no civilization. Merrick was fifty-one when he died in the year 1982. In his lifetime, he had seen The Great Depression, World War II, and a million small acts of cruelty and selfishness in between. He’d seen beggars starving in the streets, abused children shuffled out of sight and out of mind, and disdain for the poor and the weak.
The living were awful, and the living dead were no different. Once their humanity rotted away, they cared only about filling their stomachs. They were like ticks - they would drink until their bellies literally ruptured…and then keep on drinking.
That left him in a precarious position. He was old, his body was weak. He couldn’t stand unassisted and if left to fend for himself, he would decay into a pile of bones within days. He would be cursed to lay in one spot for all eternity, aware and hungry, little more than a ghost tethered to a black and still beating heart.
He refused to let that happen to him. Thus, he had created a family, a clan of vampires loyal to him and to him alone. He did this through acts of simple kindness and understanding…but also through deception. He knew, for instance, how to preserve the brain. He’d figured out how to do it early on - you pickle it. Like a fetus preserved in a jar. He sawed off the top of his own head and filled it with a special solution that kept his brain - and his intelligence - intact. It slowly drained out through the nose and ears in a thin, yellow liquid, but it worked well enough. He couldn’t save everything, however, and had lost vital things in the process, such as most of his human memories, his sense of humor, and some motor functions. He shared this secret with only Joe, and a few others before, because he needed a strong captain. He kept the others in the dark because vampires - like people - are easier to control when they don’t think for themselves.
Right about now, however, Merrick was beginning to regret sharing the formula with even Joe. Joe had brought him nothing but grief. Joe, you see, could think for himself. He could make decisions. He could go behind Merrick’s back. Joe had something called free will, and free will is a worse affliction than vampirism. Free will is messy, free will is dangerous.
Free will could very well turn Merrick into a pile of bones.
That was, of course, if they weren’t discovered first. Joe had made several mistakes lately, not least of which was the turning of Heather. Sitting there in the predawn hour, attended by Tony, his gay bartender and human familiar, Merrick decided to have Joe killed. There are only two ways to kill a vampire: The stake and the flame. The latter seemed somehow appropriate in this case. After Joe, there would be no more captains, only him, one father with absolute power. That was how it had to be. One man, one vision. Democracies didn’t work. That was especially clear today. Everyone was so divided and nothing ever got done. If the humans had one strong leader, they might go in the wrong direction, but at least they would go somewhere. Instead, they stagnated.
Merrick didn’t particularly look forward to killing Joe, but it had to be done. To protect the family. To protect him.
And Merrick would do anything…anything at all…to protect himself.
***
Vampires.
Bruce kept coming back to that single wor, hoping each time that he would chuckle at the absurdity of it.
But he never did.
Did that mean he believed it? Not necessarily, but damn it, he considered it a possibility, and that alone was enough to make him feel like a fucking clown. All the evidence he had pointed to vampires, but then again, it might point to other things as well. Like aliens.
But let’s say the whole vampire thing was real. Who, like Vanessa asked, was patient zero? Who started this whole mess?
A name came to mind.
Merrick Garvis.
He had not had time to check into Garvis the previous day, but by God, he was going to do it now. He ran his name and social through the system and everything seemed to check out. Merrick Garvis was born on June 31, 1963 in -
Wait a minute. Weren’t there only 30 days in June?
Bruce checked, and there were, indeed, only 30 days in the month of June. Hm. Bruce did a little digging and found something out. Before 1987, social security numbers weren’t issued at birth. You had to sign up, using other forms of ID. Merrick Garvis applied for his in April 1984 and the date of birth on his state issued driver’s license was June 31. Bruce spent an hour on the phone with the DMV and learned that they had never issued a license to a Merrick Garvis. He then spoke to the Social Security Administration, and after much wrangling and frustration, he managed to get a photocopy of the license Garvis used to get his social security number. It was dated 1983.
The face staring back at him was almost exactly the same face he’d seen at Club Vlad, except maybe a touch less stiff and waxy. Though not as rough looking, there was no way in hell Garvis was 20 in that picture. It had to be a fake,
Bruce thought back to the events of the previous two days. Missing bodies, staked corpses, hearts that still beat after death.
Vampires didn’t seem like such a crazy explanation.
And if anyone was a fucking vampire around here, it was Merrick Garvis.

(You should read the previous two parts to understand the rest of the story - Part 1, Part 2
The thief-in-law Viktor Korostylev, nicknamed Korostyl, stood at the origins of organized crime in the Kemerovo -Kuzbass region. Originally from the small town of Prokopyevsk, Korostyl eventually became one of the most influential figures in the region's criminal world. Korostylev narrowly avoided going to a juvenile colony in 1971 when he was just 15 years old. He got caught for petty hooliganism, so he received a two-year suspended sentence. However, a year later, Korostyl began committing serious crimes. Soon he was arrested again, this time for robbery, and was sentenced to nine years in prison, including his previous suspended sentence for hooliganism. It was in prison that Viktor Korostylev became acquainted with the criminal underworld and thieves-in-law. With a considerable sentence ahead of him, Korostyl decided to join the "denying" camp, which refused to cooperate with the administration and held a favorable position under the thieves' control.
During the initial years in prison, Korostyl was not much different from other inmates. He was, so to speak, part of the general prison population that adhered to criminal traditions. His young age and the need for adaptation to prison life required time. After serving about five years, Viktor had fully embraced his allegiance to the thieves-in-law, and by the age of 25, he was an established criminal authority.
Upon his release, Korostyl did not linger in freedom. The expression "prison is a home for a thief" was precisely about him. However, each of the charges against Korostylev was far from theft-related. In 1981, he committed murder and was sentenced to serve his term in a maximum-security prison. As a repeat offender, he received 9 years out of a possible 10 for this charge, as the murder was committed without aggravating circumstances.
While in prison, Korostyl positioned himself as an experienced figure in criminal affairs. In the Tobolsk prison, he mediated a conflict between two groups of inmates. Later, Korostylev was transferred to Zlatoust zone, where he was eventually crowned at the age of 31 by prominent thieves in Law such as Valery Mitin (Motyl), Suren Kukunyan (Gray Bakinsky), and Farit Khabibullin (Farit Rezany).
During his time in prison, Korostyl spent periods in many facilities, including a stint in a Georgian prison. It was in the Georgian prison that he formed close ties with many thieves, and subsequently, Viktor Korostylev leaned more towards the Caucasian criminal clan than the Slavic thieves Clan.
Prokopievsk Group
When Korostyl once again returned to freedom, he was no longer just a common thug. After all, a thief-in-law status gives its holder a lot. In a short time, he assembled an organized criminal group from former convicts. Just as racketeering began to flourish, Korostyl managed to almost completely take over Prokopievsk. Later, his influence spread to the entire southern Kuzbass region. In the northern part of the region, the situation was controlled by one of the authoritative thieves, Oleg Chernyshev, nicknamed Cherny. They often met with Korostyl. During one of these meetings, it was agreed that thieves would not encroach on each other's territory. Thus, a strong thieves' alliance emerged in Kuzbass.
Korostyl subjugated practically every street stall in Prokopievsk and neighboring cities. At least he put under his protection only those who did not already have it. In general, he acted wisely, avoiding making enemies. He even attempted to infiltrate the mining industry, sending his messengers to the director of one of the mines. However, they made it clear that it was a strategic object under the control of the KGB. Korostyl understood everything, and his interest in the mining industry disappeared.
Instead, the thief-in-law began to show interest in business. He invested money in various enterprises, subsequently receiving decent dividends from them. This was not forbidden, as Korostyl replenished the thieves' common fund, so if questions arose about this matter, arguments about the necessity of supporting the business prevailed, as the zones and prisons benefited from this money.
Novokuznetsk Killers
In 1991, a gang was formed in Novokuznetsk from lowlifes thugs. In the criminal history of Russia, it will be known as the Labotsky Gang. This phenomenon also has another name - the Shkabary Barybin Gang. Young and audacious, they immediately made a loud statement about themselves with brutal murders of local entrepreneurs. Then it was the turn of criminal authorities, who were killed by members of the gang on the orders of their leader, Nikolai Labotsky.
It is strange that despite being under the control of thieves-in-law, the region could not resist this gang. The Labotskys were not afraid of consequences. They seized almost the entire commercial sphere of Novokuznetsk and continued their onslaught on other cities in the Kuzbass region.
Typically, Labotsky would send a messenger to criminal authorities, offering them to peacefully surrender their territory to the gang. At first, they were sent away. But then there was always the killing of the authority. Thus, Labotsky and his right-hand man, Shkabara-Barybin, earned such a reputation that many eventually willingly handed over their controlled points to the gang.
In early 1992, representatives of the ruthless gang also arrived in Prokopievsk. They met with Viktor Korostylev and calmly explained that it was time to share the commercial structures. The thief had heard of Labotsky, but apparently did not think he himself could become their victim. After all, Korostylev had significant influence in the region, and it would have been too costly to go to war against him. So he sent Labotsky's bandits a negative response.
But the lawless gang always pushed forward, seeing no authorities around them. In the spring of 1992, a criminal authority, Arslan Sattarov, who was considered Korostylev's "right hand," was killed. The thief did not immediately grasp the essence of what was happening, at least he did not swear to avenge Sattarov's murder on Labotsky. And as it turned out, it was a mistake. It was Labotsky who began to push him out of the territories he occupied. By killing Sattarov, he simply did not leave a "successor" for Korostylev. Viktor Korostylev himself would be killed seven months later, on October 2nd, right at the cemetery, where he arrived as part of a funeral procession, bidding farewell to his relative.
*As fate would have it, Viktor met his death at the cemetery. On October 2nd, Korostyl, a notorious thief in the Kuzbass region, was attending the funeral of his uncle's mother. During the farewell ceremony, two 17-18-year-old boys in "Zhiguli" cars approached the cemetery and opened fire: one fired five shots from a revolver at Viktor Korostylev, while the other punctured the tires of Korostylev's car, parked nearby, using a Makarov pistol.
At 14:35, Korostylev was taken to the 2nd city hospital with severe chest injuries. Several hours later, he passed away.*

(You should read the previous two parts to understand the rest of the story - Part 1, Part 2
The thief-in-law Viktor Korostylev, nicknamed Korostyl, stood at the origins of organized crime in the Kemerovo -Kuzbass region. Originally from the small town of Prokopyevsk, Korostyl eventually became one of the most influential figures in the region's criminal world. Korostylev narrowly avoided going to a juvenile colony in 1971 when he was just 15 years old. He got caught for petty hooliganism, so he received a two-year suspended sentence. However, a year later, Korostyl began committing serious crimes. Soon he was arrested again, this time for robbery, and was sentenced to nine years in prison, including his previous suspended sentence for hooliganism. It was in prison that Viktor Korostylev became acquainted with the criminal underworld and thieves-in-law. With a considerable sentence ahead of him, Korostyl decided to join the "denying" camp, which refused to cooperate with the administration and held a favorable position under the thieves' control.
During the initial years in prison, Korostyl was not much different from other inmates. He was, so to speak, part of the general prison population that adhered to criminal traditions. His young age and the need for adaptation to prison life required time. After serving about five years, Viktor had fully embraced his allegiance to the thieves-in-law, and by the age of 25, he was an established criminal authority.
Upon his release, Korostyl did not linger in freedom. The expression "prison is a home for a thief" was precisely about him. However, each of the charges against Korostylev was far from theft-related. In 1981, he committed murder and was sentenced to serve his term in a maximum-security prison. As a repeat offender, he received 9 years out of a possible 10 for this charge, as the murder was committed without aggravating circumstances.
While in prison, Korostyl positioned himself as an experienced figure in criminal affairs. In the Tobolsk prison, he mediated a conflict between two groups of inmates. Later, Korostylev was transferred to Zlatoust zone, where he was eventually crowned at the age of 31 by prominent thieves in Law such as Valery Mitin (Motyl), Suren Kukunyan (Gray Bakinsky), and Farit Khabibullin (Farit Rezany).
During his time in prison, Korostyl spent periods in many facilities, including a stint in a Georgian prison. It was in the Georgian prison that he formed close ties with many thieves, and subsequently, Viktor Korostylev leaned more towards the Caucasian criminal clan than the Slavic thieves Clan.
Prokopievsk Group
When Korostyl once again returned to freedom, he was no longer just a common thug. After all, a thief-in-law status gives its holder a lot. In a short time, he assembled an organized criminal group from former convicts. Just as racketeering began to flourish, Korostyl managed to almost completely take over Prokopievsk. Later, his influence spread to the entire southern Kuzbass region. In the northern part of the region, the situation was controlled by one of the authoritative thieves, Oleg Chernyshev, nicknamed Cherny. They often met with Korostyl. During one of these meetings, it was agreed that thieves would not encroach on each other's territory. Thus, a strong thieves' alliance emerged in Kuzbass.
Korostyl subjugated practically every street stall in Prokopievsk and neighboring cities. At least he put under his protection only those who did not already have it. In general, he acted wisely, avoiding making enemies. He even attempted to infiltrate the mining industry, sending his messengers to the director of one of the mines. However, they made it clear that it was a strategic object under the control of the KGB. Korostyl understood everything, and his interest in the mining industry disappeared.
Instead, the thief-in-law began to show interest in business. He invested money in various enterprises, subsequently receiving decent dividends from them. This was not forbidden, as Korostyl replenished the thieves' common fund, so if questions arose about this matter, arguments about the necessity of supporting the business prevailed, as the zones and prisons benefited from this money.
Novokuznetsk Killers
In 1991, a gang was formed in Novokuznetsk from lowlifes thugs. In the criminal history of Russia, it will be known as the Labotsky Gang. This phenomenon also has another name - the Shkabary Barybin Gang. Young and audacious, they immediately made a loud statement about themselves with brutal murders of local entrepreneurs. Then it was the turn of criminal authorities, who were killed by members of the gang on the orders of their leader, Nikolai Labotsky.
It is strange that despite being under the control of thieves-in-law, the region could not resist this gang. The Labotskys were not afraid of consequences. They seized almost the entire commercial sphere of Novokuznetsk and continued their onslaught on other cities in the Kuzbass region.
Typically, Labotsky would send a messenger to criminal authorities, offering them to peacefully surrender their territory to the gang. At first, they were sent away. But then there was always the killing of the authority. Thus, Labotsky and his right-hand man, Shkabara-Barybin, earned such a reputation that many eventually willingly handed over their controlled points to the gang.
In early 1992, representatives of the ruthless gang also arrived in Prokopievsk. They met with Viktor Korostylev and calmly explained that it was time to share the commercial structures. The thief had heard of Labotsky, but apparently did not think he himself could become their victim. After all, Korostylev had significant influence in the region, and it would have been too costly to go to war against him. So he sent Labotsky's bandits a negative response.
But the lawless gang always pushed forward, seeing no authorities around them. In the spring of 1992, a criminal authority, Arslan Sattarov, who was considered Korostylev's "right hand," was killed. The thief did not immediately grasp the essence of what was happening, at least he did not swear to avenge Sattarov's murder on Labotsky. And as it turned out, it was a mistake. It was Labotsky who began to push him out of the territories he occupied. By killing Sattarov, he simply did not leave a "successor" for Korostylev. Viktor Korostylev himself would be killed seven months later, on October 2nd, right at the cemetery, where he arrived as part of a funeral procession, bidding farewell to his relative.
As fate would have it, Viktor met his death at the cemetery. On October 2nd, Korostyl, a notorious thief in the Kuzbass region, was attending the funeral of his uncle's mother. During the farewell ceremony, two 17-18-year-old boys in "Zhiguli" cars approached the cemetery and opened fire: one fired five shots from a revolver at Viktor Korostylev, while the other punctured the tires of Korostylev's car, parked nearby, using a Makarov pistol.
At 14:35, Korostylev was taken to the 2nd city hospital with severe chest injuries. Several hours later, he passed away.