Cannabis has now been – at least partially – legal in Germany for a good five weeks. Will there soon be THC drinks in this country? Will Germans then drink less alcohol? And where can the substances actually be consumed? While the answers to this will probably take a while to come, many, including those in the beverage industry, are looking with excitement to Canada, where marijuana has been legal since 2018.
The approval there quickly led to the introduction of a wealth of new mixed drinks. The beverage manufacturer Truss Beverages from the province of Ontario brought non-alcoholic drinks enriched with THC and CBD in a wide variety of, mostly fruity, flavors and different, precisely defined potencies onto the market under the brand names XMG, Little Victory, Mollo and Bedfellows. Truss is a joint venture between brewing company Molson Coors and cannabis company Hexo.
THC drinks soon in Germany too? It's no wonder that, given the opportunities offered by a completely new category, companies in this country are already positioning themselves to be among the pioneers if cannabis extracts are also approved as beverage additives here. For example, the Hamburg company “Good Drinks” is currently discussing whether THC in its drinks could be a useful brand addition, as co-owner Frank Maßen reports.
Good Drinks is currently on the market with vodka and energy drinks, for example. Well-known Hamburg restaurateurs such as Axel Strehlitz and John Schierhorn, both of whom have deep roots in the local club scene, are involved in the start-up. Maßen sees THC as a logical progression for a brand that has partying in its DNA, but “the idea of ​​introducing a THC variant raises a lot of questions, especially in terms of brand image and acceptance,” said Maßen.
Discussions are currently underway internally about how to handle this potential expansion without damaging the essence of the brand, which is strongly linked to the club culture. There are intensive discussions with the licensors of the Hamburg Club Combine, which launched the brand together with Good Drinks to support the local club scene as a social business ( we reported ).
Some THC drinks already on the market in Canada Some THC drinks already on the market in Canada (Product photos: Truss Beverages) Breweries would certainly also be potential manufacturers. But the German Brewers Association considers it unlikely that many breweries could jump on the cannabis bandwagon. “Germany is and remains the country of beer drinkers. With 1,500 breweries and almost 8,000 brands, we have a beer variety that is unique in the world,” says Managing Director Holger Eichele. Beer is still the national drink, although consumption has been declining for years, as in many other European countries.
“Edibles” are still banned under EU law Apart from that, an introduction would not yet be legally possible, because drinks with THC or CBD fall under “edibles” in the EU; This refers to foods and drinks that contain cannabis. They are therefore affected by the Novel Food Regulation, explains the managing director of the Bavarian Cannabis Association, Wenzel Cerveny. This means that they can only be placed on the market once they have been tested as safe by the EU.
“This is something that a small manufacturer cannot do - this test would have to be initiated by a large company,” says Cerveny. He himself is currently working with the small brewery “Unertl” from Haag in Upper Bavaria on an alcohol-free beer with hemp extract. However, without THC or CBD, but with hemp as a special taste.
To provide a more detailed explanation, the EU states that there has been no evidence of any significant consumption of the individual substance CBD (cannabidiol) before May 15, 1997. It is therefore assessed as novel in the European Commission's Novel Food Catalog under the entry “Cannabinoids” and therefore requires its own approval. As long as this does not exist, such products are not marketable. The same applies to products containing THC.
Alcohol consumption in Canada fell after legalization It's not just new products that could affect the German beverage industry if they are allowed in the future. Using Canada as an example, it is clear to see that cannabis consumption has a direct influence on consumers' drinking behavior. A joint study by the University of Manitoba, Memorial University and the University of Toronto has shown that Canadians are drinking significantly less alcohol since they were legally allowed to consume cannabis.
For example, the study published in the journal Drug and Alcohol Dependence observed an average monthly decline in beer consumption of 136 hectoliters per 100,000 people after legalization. In this context, the authors speak of a “substitution effect”, in which consumers choose cannabis instead of beer as their intoxicant of choice.
Mixing with alcohol is not advisable Both together are considered by “connoisseurs” to be not very digestible. Even Truss Beverages advises against consuming its THC drinks mixed with alcohol on its website, citing recommendations from the Canadian Health Authority. Again and again, the product description in connection with the dosage is about ensuring a “controlled and predictable consumption experience”.
Clear warnings label drinks containing THC in Canada. Clear warnings label drinks containing THC in Canada. (Photo: Truss Beverages) A look at the 2022/23 financial year shows how strong cannabis legalization can have on the alcohol industry. Accordingly, Canada received more excise tax revenue from cannabis ($660 million) than from wine ($205 million) and beer ($450 million) combined.
It is still completely unclear whether the industry will have to adapt to similar shifts in this country. The German Brewers Association is rather relaxed: It is still far too early to speculate about possible effects, emphasizes DBB boss Eichele. “There are studies from abroad where markets have been examined in more detail. However, these studies cannot be transferred one-to-one to Germany; the starting points are far too different. We don’t expect any visible effects in this country.”
Where smoking is allowed, you can also smoke weed The question of how to deal with marijuana users in the catering industry is already very current; It is being hotly debated all over the country. While the use of the drug indoors is usually prohibited, there is scope for freedom in outdoor areas and, for example, beer gardens.
The German Hotel and Restaurant Association (Dehoga) says that initial feedback from the industry shows a tendency not to allow the consumption of marijuana. The legal situation varies from federal state to federal state, as Dehoga managing director and legal expert Jürgen Benad knows: “Where smoking is still permitted according to the legal regulations of the federal states, cannabis consumption is also generally permitted.”
But it is also clear: “Every restaurateur is allowed to prohibit guests from consuming cannabis – even in smoking bars – based on their house rules,” says Benad. This also applies to outdoor catering. Cannabis may not be consumed “in the immediate presence” of minors. What this specifically means in the catering industry will not be easy to define in individual cases.
Zero tolerance or laissez-faire? While the beer gardens in Munich, for example, will remain consumption-free until further notice due to Bavaria's zero-tolerance policy, people in Berlin are more open-minded. “Since the cannabis law was approved, the consumption of cannabis in the catering industry has been considered synonymous with the consumption of cigarettes and other tobacco products,” says Tony Ettelt-Brundiers, managing director of “Zenner”, a cultural and gastronomic ensemble consisting of a vineyard, beer garden and organic ice cream parlor , concert hall, club space and event location in the capital.
“We are not questioning this law,” said Ettelt-Brundiers. “Regardless of what our guests smoke in the Zenner’s outdoor areas, we ask everyone to be considerate, especially if other guests could feel disturbed by someone else’s smoke, regardless of its origin.” This principle of mutuality Consideration has worked surprisingly well in Zenner for more than 200 years, which the aforementioned amendment to the law should not change, according to the managing director.
How much cannabis will ultimately change the beverage industry and social life surrounding beverages is still entirely unknown.
https://getraenke-news.de/cannabis-legalisierung-bald-gras-statt-hopfen/
NOTE: Some of the getraenke-news research goes back a few years and ownership of TRUSS is now 100% owned and operated by Tilray Brands that is also a multi year, In Country producer of German Medical Cannabis.

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Having read a comprehensive book detailing the Hart Family/ Stampede Wrestling, as well as books by Bret Hart, Bruce Hart and Dynamite Kid, I can say it was great to hear from someone who was spoken about in all those books. It is fascinating to see all the intersecting points of view when it comes to anything Hart Family related.
Bret Hart book
Bruce Hart book
History of Stampede Wrestling book
History of the Hart Family as documented in various books
Dynamite Kid book
This book was short and a quick read, but you could tell it was written with honesty and truth. She doesn't shy away from her own mistakes and issues while detailing the own POV on a relationship where most people have only heard from Bret.
As always, it's done in chronological order. I hope you find it as interesting as I did...
Julie had a truly wild and horrific youth experience between being sent to juvenile detention centers and dealing with genuinely abusive step parents. She is honest and critical of her own behaviors as well and doesn't like the choices she made. I grew up in the area where she spent her teenage years, and I can confirm that the seedy ghetto areas of Saskatchewan are genuinely gross and terrifying places to be when you're young and directionless.
She talks about how she was r*ped while hitchhiking as a teenager and got pregnant. She gave the baby up for adoption and tried to press charges but got cold feet and ran to another neighboring city. She was afraid the man who assaulted her would escape the charges and come after her again. She was young and naively thought that if she had just switched towns, she could escape everything. When a cop found her, he accused her of running because she was lying about the assault. This type of bullshit is why women don't come forward.
Julie was working in Regina, Saskatchewan, at the arena where wrestling was held when it came in town. That's where she first saw Bret Hart, and Bret saw her too. He ended up asking her boss Gil to introduce the two. Bret spoke about this in his book, too, how Julie caught his eye while he was in the ring. Gil later warned Julie that dating a wrestler is risky because they have a lot of "stops on the road." Julie didn't understand that Gil wasn't criticizing or accusing Bret of anything, but how he knew how wrestlers were on the road, in terms of meeting women.
Julie speaks favorably on how Bret treated her younger sister Michelle (the future wife of Dynamite Kid) but I remember in Bret's book, him describing in detail how attracted he was to the underage Michelle when he met her. Julie says Bret treated her like a sister, and her book came out after Bret's, so I'll take her word for it.
Julie moved in with Bret in Calgary just a few months into their relationship and she remembers being a wreck of nerves and anxiety ay the start, unable to cook or even attend the big Hart Family Sunday dinner. Eventually, Bret got her out to the Hart house where she met Stu and Helen Hart. Helen was a sweetheart, but she remembers Stu eying her up and down, with Julie saying, "He gave me the once over." Adding, "Stu judged women on their teeth and legs." She said Stu stared at her teeth and legs as if she were a race horse he was inspecting.
Julie remembers how Stu would turn any conversation into something about wrestling. She mentioned being a Saskatchewan Roughrider fan (Canadian football team), and Stu went on a rant about Gene Kiniski, who briefly played for the Edmonton Eskimos This made me chuckle as Stu and Gene had a but of a rough relationship since Stu gave up on Gene when he was a rookie and hurt his knee. Gene went to Toronto where "Whipper" Billy Watson essentially turned Gene into the big name star he was known for.
In Bret's book, he described the first night Julie came to the Sunday Hart dinner and when Julie passed on the salad, Bret's sister Diana Hart snapped on her saying, "What, you're too good for fuckin' salad!?" Bret says his mom responded by saying to Julie, "So you met Bret's sister Diana." In Julie's book, she describes this event as well but doesn't mention the funny line from Helen. She says Bret just took Julie and decided to leave immediately. Bret's other sister, Georgia, followed them outside and apologized on behalf of Diana and excused Diana by pointing out how pregnant Diana was at the time.
Julie actually puts over Diana quite a bit and says she actually came to admire Diana for how outspoken she was. She says Diana had a great style and was a gifted artist. After reading so many Hart related books, it's refreshing to hear something positive about Diana. Diana is the "Black sheep" who married "The British Bulldog" Davey Boy Smith. Diana would write a scandalous and legal minefield of a book in 2001 called "Under the mat." It was quickly pulled from shelves after Owen Hart's widow Martha threatened legal action over what was said about her and Owen. Bret and Bruce Hart also denounce the book, calling it mostly lies, but not everything can be written off as fiction, including stories, some wild stores about Dean Hart. I desperately need this book.
Julie said she never got over the sight of Bret Hart eating an avacado as if it were an apple.
While Bret was in Japan wrestling with his brother Keith, Julie said she spent a lot of time with Keith's girlfriend. It was Keith's girlfriend who smartened Julie up to how wrestling works. Up to this point, she believed it to be legit, and even Bret had been selling it like this to her. She was furious, and when Bret called, she told him they were done and hung up on him. The next day, Bret's older brother Bruce stopped by to help her understand kayfabe and how silly it all was. Julie says she ended up feeling bad for reacting like that and yelling at Bret, but she says he forgave her immediately. Bret tells this same story in his book, adding details of how Julie would worry and stress about Bret Hart being brutalized every night.
Here's something I dont remember from Bret's book. He knocked up Julie very early into their relationship, and Julie got an abortion. She said they both weren't ready for being parents, but Julie says she was deeply saddened by their choice. She never expressed these misgivings with Bret, and assumes Bret was relieved, she didn't make it any more difficult on them. To Bret's credit, maybe he didn't mention it in his book for Julie's benefit. Or he did mention it very briefly, and I missed it.
Julie remembers accompanying Bret on a trip overseas where they went to a freaky sex show place where they had "baby tigers and lions and torture rooms."" She says at one point Bret got tied up on a table and was playfully whipped.
On this trip, Julie remembers a woman hitting on Bret right in front of her and had to yell at her to back off while Bret laughed. Julie was pissed and made them go back to the hotel. Once there, Julie was mouthing off to Bret before he grabbed her and "bodyslammed" her into the flower bed. He offered to help her up afterwards but she told him to fuck off.
A week later Bret came home smelling of perfume and Julie says she just snapped. She said she grabbed him and dug her finger nails into his face and eyes. She says Bret later would tell her that he never saw her the same after this incident. I don't remember Bret describing Julie ever getting physical like that in his book, but he did describe a lot of shouting matches.
Julie says she and Bret got married after her younger sister and Dynamite Kid. She says they got married in secret because Bret didn't like his siblings much and said they didn't deserve to be part of it.
When Julie was pregnant again this time they felt ready to start a family. Though Bret made Julie not tell anyone for the first 5 months of her pregnancy and when he "told" his parents, it was through a letter he left on their bed before he left for a wrestling tour. Julie remembers feeling hurt by this because Bret would say his parents always wanted their children to start families with someone who had money, a significant name and an education. Julie had none of those things and while she doesn't say it, you get the feeling that she thinks Bret was ashamed or embarrassed by her.
When she got pregnant again, she says Bret was mad at her for not being more careful with birth control. She says she became very irritable and bitchy throughout the pregnancy and always found something to be mad at Bret for. She is super critical of her behavior here and doesn't excuse it.
The night she gave birth, Bret left to go out for drinks, despite Julie asking him not to in case her water broke. When she woke up at 5am to her water breaking, she was furious that Bret didn't come home yet and had to call a friend to get her to the hospital. Bret was a no-show for her entire delivery and missed his second child being born. Julie says she was furious and seriously considered divorcing him then.
When Bret started touring with WWF, he was gone for much longer periods of time and this strained their marriage. Working for WWF really put a strain on Bret and filled him with confidence issues as well. She said between his self doubt and her loneliness, their marriage was barely holding on.
She remembers how Bret would call from the road and bemoan about how lonely he was. I'm reminded of his book, how he would complain about feeling lonely, then complain that the guilt of cheating on Julie was too much.
Julie says she got a literal itch and went to a doctor who told her that she caught "something" from a public washroom. A suspicious Julie went home and threw all her bedding in the garbage and then thought to check on her suspicion. She looked through their phone bills to find that Bret was placing a ton of calls to a girl from New Jersey and that he even kept the receipt for a Christmas present he bought this girl!
Julie describes how Bret called and she just screamed "I want a divorce!" Before she hung up and ripped the phone cord out of the wall. Eventually she agreed to go meet him and they started yelling at each other in a parking lot after a show. She says at one point Bret through a can of budweiser at her head, hitting her! She says wrestler Les Thorton got between the two and tried to calm them down. She remembers screaming how she won't get in the car with Bret and Bret yelled back, "Don't be stupid, get in the car! Your embarrassing yourself!" She says Bret later said the girl meant nothing to him and Julie should be greatful that Bret isn't addicted to drugs. Wild. At one point when they were back in the hotel room, a girl called the room asking for Bret and Julie snapped, breaking a lamp.
In Bret's book, he described how he decieved both Julie and this girl from New Jersey, neglecting to tell this side girl that he was married until she was head over heels in love with him. Bret talks about how tough this was for him and says that Stu and Helen Hart talked Julie out of leaving him.
Julie says their relationship was never the same after the affair. She couldn't trust him again.
Julie says when her grandmother died a few months after the affair, Bret was calling her everyday to check in but she said "I couldn't have cared less about those calls."
Julie says it was around this time that she and Bret started to regularly do cocaine. She said the coke helped her not think about the affair and how she would ask Bret to score some if she couldn't get it out of her head. She said she would do coke and sleep in the car just to avoid Bret. She suggests this all slowed down when Vince started cracking down on coke use with drug tests.
She speaks highly of Vince McMahon, this book was written in 2013, and she is greatful for what Vince was able to provide for her family and the opportunity he gave Bret. She says when she first met Vince, he was wearing a suit and sneakers. When she asked Bret why he wore sneakers, Bret said "so he can get around." During the show she noticed Vince was all over the place during matches, never sitting still and always running around from one person to another.
Julie remembers meeting Ozzy Osbourne at Wrestlemania 2 and "marking out" because he was her idol as a teenager. After the show, she says Ozzy was present as everyone had drinks at the hotel and Dynamite Kid spiked her drink. She said she could barely stand and Dynamite just laughed at her the whole time.
Julie notes how devoted Bret was to making sure his kids had the best toys, and how Bret would drive to every toy store before Christmas and find what the kids wanted. She appreciates this but also wishes Bret didn't miss so many plays and dances and activities due to his schedule. She was starting to really resent wrestling and wanted Bret to quit. She hated having this big house that felt empty most of the time without Bret home. In Bret's book, he wanted her to get a job to fix her loneliness.
She says her 3rd pregnancy was easier than her second and Bret was very sweet to her and praised how good she looked.
Julie brings up how devastated Bret was when his brother Dean died in 1990. She remembers watching him wrestle the next night at Survivor Series ppv and seeing the pain on his face. Bret talks about how tough this was in his book and how much shame he felt. Dean needed a kidney transplant and none of the Hart brothers stepped up. Bret didn't want to derail his career. Though you can't blame anyone more than Dean himself, who was stubborn and often went against doctors orders, so even with a mew kidney, Dean may have still died.
Julie talks about continuing her partying and drug lifestyle into the early 90s when she would party with a local band and inviting them to live at her house. She said Bret was very understanding and never pushed her for details on those nights out. Some nights Bret would watch the kids all night while Julie was getting fucked up and partying.
On of those musicians, Marc, was very close with Julie and while Julie never says she hooked up, she does say her younger sister Michelle did hook up with Marc, a bunch of times in secret. She doesn't specify if this was before or after Michelle left Dynamite Kid, but she says Marc did move in with Michelle and help her with the kids. This would have been after Dynamite went back to UK, since I'm sure Dynamite would have kicked the door down and attempted to murder Marc if this were in the final months of of Michelle and Dynamite's marriage.
Julie's brother committed suicide and Julie didn't have the support system around to prevent her from spiraling into heavy drinking.
In 1996, Bret Hart was filming a movie (Sinbad) in South Africa and halfway through, asked Julie to come join him. Julie is very honest about how she was self sabatoging her life at this point but was still deeply in love with Bret. She was excited to read an early draft of some Shakespeare work that was at a museum, but Bret couldn't be bothered to go with her so she went by herself.
She says her and Bret shared a perfect moment watching the sun set, but Bret got mad at her when she decided to record it.
Julie describes sneaking cigarettes because Bret didn't know she picked the habbit up again.
The trip ended when Julie was asking Bret something but he just ignored her several times in a row. When she finally looked at what had his attention, she saw he was gawking at a topless sunbather on the beach. She stormed off to the hotel room after telling Bret to show her more respect than that. Julie says Bret followed her to the room, with him saying she always ruins these trips. When Julie started packing her bags, she says Bret pushed her hard onto the bed. She started spewing insults at him, before, she says, Bret grabbed her by the hair and threw her from the bed and onto the floor! Julie says she started crying and demanding that Bret get her home immediately or else she would find someone who would. Bret screamed at her "Get the fuck out! I've had it with you! We're fucking done! I will put you on a plane tonight, but don't expect to win me back!"
Having read Bret's book, he does mention the trip to South Africa where he filmed the Sinbad movie. But Bret makes no mention of inviting Julie on the trip and instead points out how it coincided with a WWF tour in South Africa at the same time. Bret does talk about how the Dutch found the area and how beautiful itnwas there, which was something Julie mentioned as well that Bret talked about. Bret does mention getting a lot of ladies phone numbers on the last few days of the trip and seeing a drunk Yokozuna swapping spit with some South African PR woman when they were both very drunk. Bret makes no mention of Julie being there or how he got physical with her.
The Hart's always try to shy away from controversial truths, just ask any one of them where Bruce Hart met his wife. They will all say at a wrestling show, and neglect to mention how Bruce Hart was a 33 year old substitute teacher who knocked up his 17 year old student. Gross. (I'll never not bring this up when talking about the Hart's btw)
Julie talks about Mathew Hart, Georgia and BJ's son who died in 1996 from Necrotizing Fasciitis, a legitimate flesh eating virus. From everyone's account, the poor boy suffered for 2 weeks until he died. Julie says she and Bret took their kids on vacation when the poor kid died. A lot of people act as though the Hart Family curse started at the Screwjob in 1997, but really it started with Dean in 1990 and Mathew in 1996.
Julie remembers how gleeful Bret was when he called her up and bragged about giving a drunken Vince McMahon his tag team finishing move. Julie warned Bret that Vince wasn't the type to forget that and she suspects that it played a part in the screwjob. This sounds silly imo but what do I know, I found it an interesting and unique take if nothing else.
Julie remembers the morning of the 1997 Survivor Series ppv, someone warned Bret that Vince and Shawn were seen the night before talking and getting into an elevator together.
Julie says she and her lawyer were sitting somewhere in the arena as the Montreal Screwjob happened. Julie says she got up, looking at the monitor and said, "Holy shit, that's not supposed to happen!" And her lawyer, also shocked, said, "No, it is not."
Julie says she and the layer had to sprint to catch up to Bret and Vince and she describes her scolding of Triple H and Shawn Michaels, saying the words just poured out of her. It's maybe the most memorable scene of that documentary, watching Triple H and HBK shrink into children as Julie dresses them down.
Julie says the 1997 holidays were anything but cheerful and says she was boozing a lot and doing coke "from time to time."
Julie wanted to get a nanny or house keeper but Bret refused and put his foot down on the subject.
Julie says Bret asked for a divorce in early 1998 and she handled it poorly. She is critical of her immediate response to run away from home and stay at a hotel. When she returned home for clothes, her confused daughter asked her what was going on and a rageful Julie said "Your dad wants a divorce and I can't stay in the same house as him anymore! Julie says she was so blinded by her anger she didn't see the damage she was doing then.
Julie says that the Wrestling with Shadow's documentary crew needed Julie and Bret to reshoot something that didn't come out right when they originally shot it. So Julie and Bret had to pretend to be a in a marriage again talking things out about Bret's career. Julie says her and Bret slept together after they shot the scene and she was hurt when Bret said afterward, "One for the road, I guess."
The next time she heard from Bret, he told her to get a lawyer because he had one already.
Julie says she and Bret spent many nights yelling at eachother over the phone, with Bret calling her a whore and saying he didn't take all those bumps so Julie to take all his money. This is a statement Bret would repeat a lot to Julie over the years of them fighting. He would call her a money grabbing whore and how he didn't take a bunch of bumps so Julie could end up with the money.
Just as Julie was ready to sign custody papers, Bret's personal assistant contacted Julie and told her that Bret had been seeing some girl in the States for months. The assistant said she felt guilty arranging their meetups behind Julie's back. Julie said she later told Bret that she isn't signing shit and she needed to contact her lawyers with the new developments. She said Bret first tried denying it, calling his assistant jealous and a liar. Then Bret blamed Julie because Bret said he "couldn't get past her traumatic past." What the fuck Bret, I'm pretty sure he is referring to Julie being sexually assaulted as a teenager. (He makes this clear later in the book) Then he bragged about his new girl looking better than Julie and being younger than Julie, with Bret also saying the kids will love the new girl. Bret even later said Julie was getting heavier and letting herself go.
Pretty wild story here. Julie says that Bret started neglecting the kids, even when he was in town, and often skipped out on seeing them altogether. For Canada Day 1998 Bret promised to take them out and to the fireworks. Julie says they waited all day, expecting a fun evening with their dad. But Bret didn't show up with their friend Dean, until after 9pm, (stoned and drunk according to Julie) after Julie tried to call Bret repeatedly and got no answer.
Julie isn't proud of this, but says before Bret arrived that night, Julie had sat the kids down and told them Bret was off smoking pot with a new girlfriend. Julie knew immediately she shouldn't have said it, she saw her kids starting to cry and knew she tarnished how they look at their dad.
Bret was pissed off that Julie decided to take the kids to the fireworks, and when Julie had herself and the kids in the car, an enraged Bret started punching the drivers side window until Julie agreed to get out and talk.
Bret grabbed and dragged her off around the corner of the house where Julie defiantly told him that the kids know he smokes pot and is seeing someone else.
Julie says Bret snapped, slammed her hard up against the wall and yelled, "You bitch! I hate you! I hate you!" Then Julie claims that Bret grabbed her by the throat and slammed her on the ground where he continued to choke her until their son Blade came around the corner and screamed at Bret to get off his mom!
As Julie was catching her breath, their friend Dean, who was still there and in shock, tried to help Julie up. Bret took off with their son Blade and a panicked Julie called the police. She foolishly said to the 911 opperater that her husband pro wrestler, Bret Hart, had taken her child againt her will. The police arrived and seemingly didn't know who Bret was, tried to get Julie to press charges. The police were able to call Bret and convince him to bring the kid to the police station, so the cops could bring him home. Bret makes no mention of this in his book.
Julie says Bret stopped by the next day and apologized and tried to ask her to sit down for coffee. Julie explained how they scarred their children for life the night prior and she wasn't interested in speaking to him in friendly terms yet.
Julie defends Bret a bit by saying she could see in person that she wasn't the cause of his anger and that he was just deeply angry and disappointed with things. This would be 1998 and even Bret describes how bitter and despondent he was at this time. Julie says he stopped being around the kids and it hurt them, especially their boys Blade and Dallas who started getting a chip on their shoulders and seeking conflict. One time Julie asked Dallas about Bret and Dallas said, "He never calls and is never around."
Julie says things were getting stable but she and Bret started secretly sleeping together again and complicated things. She says Bret would pick her up and drove to a seedy part of town before casually dropping her off at home after. She says she was initially amused by this but eventually began to wonder how many other women Bret does this with. It made her feel uncomfortable to say the least.
One time as she was being dropped off, Julie asked Bret if he was happy. Bret said no and that he couldn't get happy. Then Bret asked if Julie was seeing anyone, but didn't let her answer, he just said "of course you are." Julie realizes now that Bret was suffering some deep depression and at the time she mistook codependency for love.
Eventually Bret's other girlfriend caught wind of his and Julie's rendezvous and made Bret break things off. Julie could hear the woman on the other end of the line when Bret called to inform Julie that they need to set boundaries in their relationship now.
Julie says Bret once called her to say he tested for hepatitis and that Julie should get checked out as well.
Julie later found out that the girl Bret was seeing was nearly the same age as their daughter.
Julie says her and Bret continued to sleep together behind his girlfriends back though, with Bret always asking for "coffee" before making a move, which Julie always reciprocated.
Bret would break up with his girlfriend near the end of 1998 and ask Julie if he can spend the holidays with her and the kids. Julie relents, and soon they seem to be trying to salvage their relationship with Bret more present then he ever has been.
Soon after the new year, Bret and Julie take a trip together to Hawaii. Julie finally builds up the courage to ask Bret what he thinks of them getting back together, and Bret says he doesn't want to get "trapped" again. Julie snapped and said, "That's it I'm done, I can't keep playing these games with you!"
During this conversation, as Julie was walking away, Bret randomly said, "My therapist said that sometimes girls, like the ones your age when all that stuff happens to you, they like it." Julie burst into tears and ran out of the room. What the fuck Bret, to imply that that when his wife was a 16 year old girl, she liked getting r*ped!
Helen Hart died a few weeks after 9/11 in 2001. She was from New York, and Julie remembers how devastated Helen was following the September attacks. Helen went back to New York a few weeks later to visit her sister, but due to the border concerns, she was held up for hours after her plane landed back in Calgary. She wasn't able to reach her insulin and eventually went into a coma.
Helen was on an off ventilation a few times while at the hospital, and one day Alison (Bret's sister) called and told him to come visit asap, because Helen was back on a ventilator and it wasn't looking good. Bret thought Alison being an alarmist and decided to visit the next day. Julie says she wishes they had visited that night, because Helen passed away a few hours later.
One afternoon, Julie came home to find her son Dallas on the phone, when she asked him who he was speaking to, Dallas said, "It's dad, but he sounds drunk." Bret told Julie that he fell off his bike and couldn't get up. He wasn't speaking clearly and couldn't properly explain where he was. Julie and her daughter Beans, drove around looking for Bret based off his perception and directions.
Julie and Beans found him laying casually in the grass, as if he was resting. She said one of Bret's eyes was wide open and the other was closed, and half his mouth was dropping. She struggled to move him as he slurred his words and insisted he was fine. Eventually an ambulance was called and Bret was loaded in.
Julie says the stroke changed him, made him mooder and more depressed. She isn't casting judgment, just pointing out changes she noticed as she spent every day at the hospital with him, helping to feed and cloth Bret, even helping him to the bathroom.
Julie remembers one night that Bret confided in her that he feared he got a stroke as punishment for all the bad things he done. He told her that the morning he got a stroke, he was planning on signing the divorce papers.
Several months later, with Bret moving aorund more, he spent Easter with Julie and the kids, but Julie found an email from some woman in Italy, directed to Bret and it suggested some heavy sexual stuff. Julie felt stupid and used again. When she confronted him on it, he denied anything and she reluctantly believed him.
A week later as Bret prepared for a trip, she found a plane ticket to Italy, when she asked Bret where he was going, he said England. Julie drove him to the airport and told him to get the fuck out.
Bret went to Italy to be with a fan he met at a contract signing, who was obsessed with him since she was a little girl. Julie says she is exactly what Bret needed to feel like the Hitman again. After reading Bret's book, this assessment is completely accurate.
The Italian woman's name was Cynthia and she was also just a year older than Bret's daughter Jade. Julie said Jade had the hardest time accepting Cynthia, whom Bret was determined to integrate into the family.
When Bret's dad Stu died, Julie remembers how she, Bret and Stu's granddaughter Jenni all stood by the bed and watched as he passed. She remembers how she kissed his cheek and told him he could go see Helen now, he didn't need to be here and longer. I remember the speech Stu gave at Helen's funeral, with one line in particular staying with me, "I'm glad for the time I had with her," he said full of love, but his pain was on display too, "Ill never get over this" he finished solemnly, "I don't have enough time."
Julie remembers one day that their son Blade called her from Bret's house, begging for her to pick him up. Blade and Bret started arguing about Cynthia, with Bret saying to his own son, "Don't make me pick between you and Cynthia, because I'll pick Cynthia! And if you don't like it you can get the fuck out!"
Julie started calling Bret "Hitman" when he acted like this to his children, with Julie telling them that their father still loves him and not to worry about what The Hitman says, because it's coming from a broken mind.
One day after Julie bought a house, Bret randomly showed up with a turkey and tried to hit on her. Julie found it amusing and asked him if Cynthia knew he was there. Bret tried to make a move on her but Julie made it clear that won't happen so Bret left. As he left, he told Julie, "I still have cravings for you and I'm not sure I'll ever get over them." To which Julie just cooly responded with, "You will."
After Bret left that day, Julie called his assistant who confirmed that Cynthia was literally on a plane back to Italy right then. Julie laughed at how pathetic it was for Bret to say goodbye to Cynthia and then an hour or two later, show up at Julie's with a turkey and looking for sex.
Bret secretly married Cynthia and months later told the kids after the fact. Their son Blade was so furious he could barely speak to Julie when he got home and eventually blurted out, "Dad married that girl!" Their other son Dallas was also furious and explained how Bret callously told the kids "tell your mom, make sure you tell your mom." He was clearly trying to hurt Julie and used the kids to do so.
When Bret was inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame in 2006, Julie insisted on going and told Bret if he doesn't find a way for her to be there, then she would call Vince McMahon herself and arrange it. Bret promised her she would be there but asked her to be discreet about it.
Julie got asked to do an online interview leading up to the Hall of Fame, and she let slip that she would be at the show to support Bret. Later, an irate Bret called her, yelling about how she was supposed to be discreet. Julie clued in on the fact that Bret didn't tell his new wife yet about Julie coming and now he was in hot water. In the end, Bret refused to allow Julie to come to the Hall of Fame to support him.
In Bret's Hall of Fame speech, he just talked about his new wife and how Cynthia was there for him after his stroke and just put her over big. He didn't mention Julie and only mentioned 2 of his 4 children. She says her children were extremely hurt by this and calls it the ultimate betrayal.
Julie started running low on money in 2008 and even attempted to be on a reality show. It was all a BS scam though and she had to invest money into it and eventually it all fell through. She speaks of this with a bit of shame while framing it as something she learned from.
Julie was facing bankruptcy and foreclosure on the house, so as a last resort, she called Bret. She asked him for 9 grand to cover 3 mortgage payments so she can sell the house. Bret chastised her for having money problems before ultimately saying no. He suggested that she rent the house out or have the kids pay rent. As they left, Julie warned him that if she loses the house, Bret may need to take the kids at him place. She doesn't say what he said to this, but she does say, "His response was too cruel to put into writing." Good lord, considering all she told so far, I wonder what Bret said that was so bad, Julie didn't want to even write it down?
Julie does point out that Bret didn't owe her a damn thing and she was in this situation by her own doing. Julie felt like she was letting her kids down most of all.
Julie would move in with her daughter Beans where they split the rent together. She got a job making $14/hour working as a janitor at a local middle school and Julie notes that she was living well below the poverty line.
Julie remembers how absurd it was for her to show up to her janitor job driving a Lexus.
Julie ended up selling her Lexus to her daughter Beans, and Julie bought herself a 1999 Sunfire. It was the first car she ever bought with her own money.
Julie's father died in 2012 and Julie says she wrote a letter to him, promising to make him proud, and stuffed it inside his coffin.
Julie says she spends most of her days being a grandma to Jade's daughter and how grateful she is to be close to her kids still.
Bret can't say the same, Julie notes how he travels alone or with his wife and never offers invites to his kids. She says it breaks her heart to see how far Bret drifted away from their children, even if all her kids insist that they don't care. This was in 2013, so potentially Bret and his kinds could have a better relationship by now.
Julie spends the last several pages of the book detailing her kids and all the ways she loves them. You can tell she is a mother first and foremost, you can tell she loves them unconditionally. Jade, Dallas, Beans and Blade, weird names for kids but I also have a weird name so I can't judge.

NOTE FROM AUTHOR: Hello Hello! I am a first-time writer embarking on my first dumpster fire; input is most welcome. I'm not the best self-editor, so get your hiking boots on. It's rough out there. Whenever I read it, I find or create more errors (:
OPTIONAL READS: For the Retro Computer or Programming Enthusiast OR if you are open to other formats of story telling. I tried to combine my love for programming as an UNDERSTANDABLE way to tell a story through a Visual Experience in the Command Line Interface;
A Stand-Alone VISUAL ASCII 'Programming Terminal' Story Prologue. Follow through(Screen Shots of my Command Line Interface) the UNE-EYE Observational Satellite Terminal as Kable extracts Classified Data about his Beloved Military Unit, THE HUMMINGBIRDS, a flying exoskeleton unit. This includes the origin story of a Technology Tree in Book 1.

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INDEX

1. DEADCOAST - THE HUMMINGBIRDS PROLOGUE -> HERE <-
   
2. DEADCOAST - COMPLETE ILLUSTRATED INTRO -> HERE <-
   
3. HEAT & GRIZZLY REDS - CHAPTER 1 ILLUSTRATED -> HERE <-
   

"Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" transports readers to a 2063 Earth, a world on the brink, where the scarcity of fresh water has led to previously unseen geopolitical tensions. Amidst this backdrop, the nation-backed militant group DAGGR has emerged as a formidable force, leveraging advanced technology to assert control over Canada’s abundant water resources. At the heart of their arsenal is 'slugTech,' a technology pioneered by James Broadshaw, intended for ecological restoration but repurposed for militaristic dominance.
The story unfolds with the chilling invasion of Vancouver, marking a turning point as DAGGR makes its ambitions clear, culminating in the assassination of the Canadian Prime Minister. This act of aggression leaves the country reeling, exposing vulnerabilities and igniting a global reaction.
The UNE-EYE satellite is central to the international response, a significant narrative element representing the world's most advanced orbital tracking system. Once decommissioned in favour of privacy, the Dutch reactivated the satellite as a strategic move to monitor DAGGR's movements and coordinate a unified international effort against the aggressors. This revival of UNE-EYE symbolizes a crucial turning point, highlighting the global stakes and the interconnectedness of nations in the face of a common enemy.
As Canada grapples with its plight, the DAMU (Deserted American Military Units) rise in solidarity, breaching borders to fight alongside their Canadian counterparts. This act of defiance is mirrored by international forces, including the Netherlands and Ukraine, each bringing their unique strengths to the coalition, underscored by the strategic oversight provided by the UNE-EYE satellite.
Amidst the geopolitical chaos, a man who had all but given up, a boxer on the ropes, emerges from Vancouver's Gastown. Known as HEAT, this leader of the Grizzly Reds becomes a symbol of resistance and hope. HEAT's story, and that of the Grizzly Reds, is one of resilience, rallying not only Canadians but also global citizens to stand against DAGGR's tyranny.
" Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" is a compelling narrative of survival, alliance, and resistance. It deftly weaves together elements of advanced technology, international politics, and the indomitable human spirit. The inclusion of the UNE-EYE satellite serves as a testament to the complexities of modern warfare and the critical role of global surveillance and coordination in maintaining security and freedom. But something else stirs amongst it. The UNE still shrouds its use, albeit assuring it is for record-keeping purposes- there is no way to be sure. Join HEAT and the Grizzly Reds as they navigate the challenges of Time, War, Science and liberating their fellow man in Vancouver. THE GRIZZLIES NEED YOU, in this action-packed, emotional saga, speaks to the resilience and camaraderie inherent in the human condition.
CHAPTER 1 - The Blood Spattered Maples
ILLUSTRATED VERSION -> HERE <-
The early morning sun cast a serene glow over Vancouver, its golden rays gently coaxing the city from its slumber. The harbour lay still, bathed in a tranquil blend of crimson and amber, defiantly calm as if aware of the day's latent potential for tumult. The awakening streets, pulsating with the vibrant beat of daily enterprise, transformed into bustling arteries of life.
Amidst this urban renaissance, Ryan stood by his apartment window, one eye still tinged a fading shade of deep lavender from last night's ordeals. He absorbed the duality of the world outside – a peaceful façade masking an undercurrent of chaos, much like his own existence. The apartment, a silent guardian of his life's chapters, was awash with tangible memories; some stood proudly like trophies, and others lingered like indelible scars.
"Eugh, need to sort out this money mess," Ryan muttered, his voice a gravelly mix of resolve and weariness. He gingerly touched the bruise beneath his eye, a stark reminder of the previous night's fight. He wasn't just a boxer but a living, breathing paradox. His undefeated record of 12-0 was more than a tally of victories; it was a map of a life spent dancing in and out of shadows. At 17, he was a beacon of hope for Canadian Olympic Futures. Now, at 33, he was a spotlight in his subconscious, illuminating the relentless passage of time and a road riddled with 'what ifs.' Eleven of those wins were echoes from a past steeped in the sweat and blood of the ring before life's currents swept him into the city's gritty underbelly. There, he became an enforcer, not out of choice but a necessity, bound by ties, not of blood but of unbreakable bonds forged in adversity. Stepping back into the ring at 33, Ryan wasn't chasing glory; he was hunting redemption, a chance to rewrite a narrative that had veered off course.
Today's boxing was far from what he once knew; it had transformed into a digital spectacle, a charade he refused to partake in. The sport now paraded fighters adorned with loud chains and face tattoos, pretending to live a life of crime they don't. Vile symbols of fame he doesn't wish for. Ryan had always skirted the fringes of the spotlight, respecting the sport but despising what it had become - a glorified masquerade that he believed led the youth astray. He stared out at the awakening city, contemplating his place in this ever-changing world, just as the first notes of a familiar yet unwelcome voice crackled from the vintage radio on his shelf.
"Ah, jimmy2piece," he scoffed, the name leaving a bitter taste. The vintage radio crackled on, announcing the dazzling exploits of the heavyweight boxing champion, an embodiment of everything Ryan detested about the sport's current state. Ryan's hand lingered over the old radio, a relic amidst the bountiful thrift and trinket that abundantly filled his apartment. The announcer's voice, overly flamboyant in its praise of 'jimmy2piece,' clashed with the morning's tranquillity, grating against Ryan's every nerve. With a flick brimming with contempt, he silenced the intrusive chatter. The ensuing silence was a stark reminder of his path's divergence from the once-noble art of boxing to a life mired in moral ambiguity.
"Enough of this nonsense," he muttered, the disdain in his voice mirroring the snarl on his lips as he spun the dial back to silence.
*Click*
Ryan was a man of contemplation; opening his balcony door, he let the morning breeze mingle with the memories that haunted him daily. These reflections were a tormenting ritual, no matter the joys and love surrounding him. His only respite was constant movement – hobbies, work, art – anything to fend off the sharp claws of the past that threatened to shred the remnants of his self-respect. He had lost ten years to choices and actions that replayed in his mind relentlessly every single day.
"This 'jimmy2shoes' or whatever...pal throws pillows, a poser pretending he's about that gang life; I can see it in his eyes, he's not a killer," he grumbled, gazing out at the awakening city. This day promised a respite from his underground fights – at least for a while. His recent backstreet brawls, a far cry from the glory of the boxing ring, were what paid the bills now. "At least I've bought myself three more months..."
Leaning on the railing of his miniature balcony, Ryan cradled a cup of steaming coffee, his gaze drifting over the streets below. At this moment, the chaos of his life seemed distant, replaced by a transient calm. Despite his bruised, rough presentation, a certain peace enveloped him, a rare stillness that belied the storm of his existence. His thoughts meandered through the serene hum of the city and the gentle brush of the ocean breeze. The skyscape, with clouds dancing to the ocean's rhythm, offered a brief escape from his turbulent past.
Memories of Robin, his mentor and friend, floated into his consciousness. Robin's untimely death in Dubai was a wound that never healed. The sacrifices he had made to keep Robin safe, only to be absent on the fateful trip that claimed his friend's life, weighed heavily on him. "Why did it have to be you, Robin?" he whispered to the horizon, the question, a haunting torment upon his daily routines.
Ryan was a thinker; as he slid over his ashtray from the stool, he sparked up A morning 'dart' (cigarette), as he called them. His past began to creep into his head, as it did every morning. With each inhalation of addiction-soothing nicotine, his blazing thoughts followed as his brain began to become fully active from his sleep. It was a raven on his shoulder tormenting him, pecking at him ever haunting his consciousness. No matter the love he may have found or the happiness, friends, or family surrounding him. The time to reflect was always grim and consistently unbearable. If he stood still, the Ravel's claws sunk more profoundly; the only reprieve was constant distractions. It's why he kept so busy, creative, and active. Ryan constantly kept moving with hobbies, work, or art. Pushing off the switchblade thoughts ready to cut into his subconscious and bleed out whatever self-respect he had left that day. He threw away ten years of his life, and he relives them every. Single. Day.
"Damn man, what's the point of it all?" Ryan's voice was barely a whisper, lost in the morning breeze. His gaze lingered on the horizon, eyes clouded with confusion and pain. "Robin's gone, and here I am, a ship adrift; up shits creek without a paddle. What good can I do? What purpose do I serve? My skillset? My knowledge? Ive wasted my life, nothing is applicable." The questions hung in the air, unanswered. Ryan's life had indeed been a storm of violence and turmoil, from the gritty days working alongside Robin, watching his back to his hard-fought victories in the boxing ring. He had dreamt of leaving the world of fights behind, yet fate seemed to have woven a different path for him, one that he couldn't escape...
The distant sound of boat horns broke his train of thought. These weren't the usual rhythmic calls that echoed along Vancouver's shores; they carried a sense of urgency, growing louder and more frantic by the second. Ryan leaned forward, squinting into the morning light. The sight that greeted him was anything but ordinary. Dark, ominous and foreboding shapes were cutting through the waters toward the Seawall – military-grade ships that seemed like phantoms against the sun's bright backdrop.
"What the...?" Ryan murmured, a wry smile touching his lips as he recalled a line from a 1930s radio show. "Ah yes, the 'Anti-Frackers' upping their game, bravo!" He often found solace in humour, a shield against the world's harsh realities. Ryan was an unbreakable anvil to the world, always struck to sharpen others' steel. But what about his iron resolve? He bore the burdens so others didn't have to, a silent guardian shouldering the world's weight in stoic silence. Yet beneath that armour of stoicism beat the heart of a man grappling with his vulnerabilities, a man with a core as soft as it was intense.
Just like that- The world as we knew it, changed forever.
The morning's peace shattered abruptly as sirens wailed into life, slicing through the air with a sense of impending doom. The tranquil dawn was now a backdrop to a nightmare unfolding in real time. Ryan's eyes, mirroring the turbulent hues of a stormy sea, narrowed in primal alertness. These were not friendly vessels coming to grace the city's harbour; they were harbingers of chaos, their arrival a silent scream in the gardens of Vancouver's tranquility. As the city around him carried on, blissfully unaware of the looming threat, Ryan's mind shifted into high gear, honed by years of confrontation, conflict and reading other peoples intentions. He understood the unspoken language of death, the subtle shift in the air that preluded catastrophe. The serene calm that had greeted the day now seemed like the deceptive stillness before a devastating storm.
PFFFFT~~
Ryan's coffee ejected out his mouth, a clean mist dispersed, dancing in the ocean winds.
His eyes widened in shock. "That... No, that's not right. That honeycomb structure on the bow – that's rumoured military tech, not something you'd find on a civilian vessel. That's definitely not one of our decommissioned ships; Canada has always had a modest military budget- It's not the U.S. either; they've moved on to those massive city carriers," he muttered, recalling the recent unveiling of the U.S.'s latest naval behemoth designed to be a self-sustaining war ecosystem.
"These are destroyers...carriers...and what in the world are those landing crafts?" His voice trailed off as a wave of realization washed over him. A heavy breath escaped his lips, his heartbeat thundering in unison with a growing sense of dread. This kind of military might, sleek and menacing, was straight out of the pages of a dystopian novel. Ryan's pulse quickened, adrenaline coursing through his veins, mingling with an unsettling fear. Vancouver, with its serene beauty and peaceful reputation, was the last place one would expect a military invasion. Yet, as he stood there, the city around him persevered in blissful ignorance. Laughter and the sounds of daily life echoed up to his balcony, starkly juxtaposed against the darkening horizon of his thoughts.
Something sinister was unfolding, and he felt an urgent need to act. "Ah, damn it!" he exclaimed, frustration boiling over as he hurled his mug to the ground, where it shattered into razer sharp ceramic shards—a glimpse of futures past.
The walls of Ryan's apartment, once a gallery of memories from a life half-lived, now felt like they were closing in on him. The space that had been his refuge, adorned with mementos of a tumultuous past, suddenly felt like a prison. He felt trapped, not by physical barriers, but by the weight of the unfolding crisis. Who could he call? Who would believe him about an impending military assault? Was there even time?
Each option seemed as hopeless as the next, leaving him feeling powerless. His fists, which had once brought him victory in the ring, now seemed futile in the face of this immense and unknown threat.
BOOM
A thunderous crash tore through the city's fabric, piercing the veil of laughter and routine. Giggles changed to Shrieks, the buzzing of cars in the city turned screeching of panicked tires. It was a boom resonating with such force that it seemed to shake the very resolve of the most robust steel, a sound that demands attention and captivates a person, a sound of death; it rattles you to the bone. This explosion marked a pivotal moment that would forever alter the course of Vancouver's history and, indeed, the world's.
The resounding echo of the first explosion heralded a declaration of war on all that was ordinary. In Ryan, the shockwave ignited a transformation. Despair morphed into an unyielding determination, a fire kindled deep within. His skin prickled, each hair standing on end as if his nerves were braille, spelling out the moment's urgency.
"Are they firing at us?" Ryan's voice was a mix of disbelief and rising panic. The thought seemed almost too surreal to entertain. He hesitated momentarily, grappling with the reality of the situation. The explosion's roar, so fierce it shook the foundations of his apartment, jolted him back to the present. Racing back to his balcony, what he saw confirmed his darkest fears.
The ships in the harbour were no longer silent, ominous spectators; they had unleashed their fury, sending plumes of smoke and debris skyward. Vancouver's skyline, once a proud testament to peace and progress, now served as a harrowing backdrop to an unfolding apocalypse. Below, the streets descended into chaos. People scattered in a frantic attempt to escape, their screams piercing the air, a chorus of dawning terror.
Ryan's heart pounded against his chest, each beat a call to action. He was no hero, never the 'good guy' in his story, but he did value life above all. Standing there, witnessing his city being torn apart, he knew he couldn't remain a passive observer. Indecision and shock gave way to resolve.
"MOTHA FU-" he cursed, his words lost in the burst of an explosion, spotted at the last second.
The world around him had erupted into a maelstrom of fire and fury.
An air burst shell detonated with ferocious intensity a mere 50 meters from Ryan's sanctuary. The explosion ripped through the building, an unforgiving hatred that jolted reality itself. The blast wave, a monstrous force of destruction, assaulted his apartment, shattering the windows with an ease that mocked Vancouver's fragility. Glass shards, transformed into lethal projectiles, hurtled through the air with a hunter's precision, each piece seeking its target. Instinctively, Ryan lunged for cover, his only protection a vintage oak promotional board, a relic of a bygone era. This wooden guardian, decorated with the iconic image of Stan Lee, stood as a stoic defender, a symbol of comic heroism now repurposed to shield flesh and blood from the brutal onslaught.
A low hum erupts from the depths of his being as the fireball swirled around him. "Breathe... I can't... don't fall asleep... don't...sleep..." he whispered, fighting the encroaching darkness. His cobalt eyes, glazing over open, fighting to the last light, flickered between consciousness and oblivion. The distant, muffled voices of mentors past echoed in his mind, a fading chorus in the theatre of his memories. Ryan looked to his left, cast one last lingering look at the Vancouver sky, a canvas of blue that seemed so distant now. As his vision began to narrow, a tunnel drawing him away from the light, Ryan felt the grip of darkness pulling him under heavy, yet weightless. Once so vivid and alive, the world around him was fading into shadows.
Amid shrapnel-induced unconsciousness, Ryan's mind catapulted him back to a pivotal moment from his youth – the Ontario Canadian Olympic Trials.
The stadium's noise swirled around him, but it was an entirely different world within the ring. There, it was just Ryan and his opponent, every move a testament to the sacrifices he and Robin(Ryan's longtime mentor both inside, and outside the ring) had made together.
Ryan's style in the ring was unique, a blend of calculated ferocity in speed and agility. He adopted the elusive, angular movements that Robin had honed while serving alongside the hardened Ukrainians on the frontlines of Kyiv. This style was compelling and unpredictable, frustrating his opponents with swift and efficient strikes. Ryan's ability to slip away from counters, almost serpentine in its execution, left them grasping at straws.
Point fighting for the Olympics was a system that worked well with Ryan's style but not necessarily with his mindset. Ryan was a fighter at heart, and sometimes, when pushed, the disciplined techniques would give way to a rawer form of combat. Robin, who always believed in Ryan's potential, saw this as his greatest fault and biggest asset to "push past." In his gruff but encouraging voice, Robin would often spew "The stink in that mind, You've got a head on you that'd make an onion cry," highlighting Ryan's occasionally impulsive nature, and inability to control his emotions when it mattered. This characteristic made Ryan fearless in the ring but also sloppy, open, and vulnerable. It often led him into trouble outside of the solace in prizefighting.
In these trials, Ryan's physical attributes – his slender frame, broad shoulders, wide back and a peculiarly long wingspan that gave him an imposing presence in his weight class – it made him stand out. His frame synchronized with his style, creating a truly unique spectacle of genetic gifts, hard work, and skill.
These memories blended nostalgia and pain as they flickered through Ryan's mind. They were reminders of a path once trodden, a journey shaped by the influence of a mentor and the determination of a fighter's spirit.
As the Olympic Trials set to begin, Robin looked to Ryan to instill confidence for his upcoming bouts, but Ryan was in his element. It was fight day, the fun day, the day to show off all of the hard work. Ryan had confidence, and his style in the ring displayed it in full. He moved with an angular rhythm that was both art and battle – slipping, landing a quick stiff counter cross, then gracefully stepping out of reach inches from returning fire. He made it look fun and easy, as if playing with his prey before fangs clench throat, delivering the killing bite. Looking closer, you can only see fire and determination in his bright eyes. He found purpose in the beautiful science of boxing. His strategy was that of a technical boxer, The Counterpuncher; 1. To bait his opponent into committing, then counter, fight long, fight smart. 2. Beat em' up, Frustrate em', then start slinging the heat in the uppercuts and lead hooks.
The bell rang and the fight was officially underway. Ryan controlled the ring with his long frame. Each exchange was rapid yet controlled, a dance of precise strikes and evasive maneuvers. The world's complexities faded in these moments, leaving only Ryan and the pure essence of the sport he loved. He felt invincible, a force of nature within the confines of the ring. To Ryan, the fight was more than a competition; it was a performance, an exhilarating escape from the mundane. It was true Purpose.
The intensity of the round reached a frustrating outburst by his opponent, who grabbed Ryan by the back of his head– 'SPLIT' called by the referee, his hand placed between them. A judge calls for a correction, catching the referee's attention only for a split second. In this second, Ryan's Opponent saw an opportunity. Lifting his head to move away, Ryan locks eyes with his Opponent, sporting a grin and delivering a sly headbutt as a parting gift. It's against the rules, but part of the game's harsh reality if gone unnoticed. Expelling energy and detesting it was a waste of fuel. It was a jolting reminder of "at all times"(protect yourself), a stark contrast to the discipline and respect Ryan upheld, starting his boxing journey in Thailand under "Muay Thai" rules, ideology of the worrior spirit and discipline. There was a sense of Honor in Lumpinee Stadium.
The outcome of these unsavoury tactics here is an advantage for the opponent. Ryan's inner pools erupt, his mind swirled with raging white waters, crashing and colliding against each other, two oceans with opposite currents meeting in his consciousness. His once technical thoughts, muscle memory mixed with fight iq burst with flames, erupting and incinerating all strategy in his path. His eyes widened, open like he'd found his primal genetic ancestry hidden deep within. The slaughter and the war of history. The bloodshed of 1000 lifetimes. He felt it all. Manic in thought. Ryan wanted to take his glove off and rip his cheeks open from the inside out--
BREAK - Ryan snaps back into it, erupting in stoic, silent, primal rage.

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The fight escalated, Ryan's disciplined technique unravelled under the seething tide of his rage. The finesse and agility that once defined his footwork gave way to a heavier, more aggressive stance. His feet, usually light and swift under his commanding frame, now felt anchored to the floor, each step driven more by fury than finesse. This transformation in style played perilously into his opponent's advantage. Ryan, usually a master of stick-and-move tactics, found himself engaging in close-quarter brawls, trading his advantage for a risky gamble. His in-and-out maneuvers, once a blur of grace, turned into brutish, in-the-pocket exchanges. This was a terrain where his more muscular and compact opponent had the upper hand. A raw, primal contest of power replaced the tactical dance that Ryan excelled at. Ryan's precise strikes became wild swings, his movements predictable to his seasoned adversary. Seizing the moment, the opponent unleashed a devastating barrage of inside hooks with their compact frame. A vicious right hook, lands clean in the exchange, thrown with the grace of a milkbag, the power hooks brute force, cut through Ryan's defences. The blow landed with a bone-jarring impact, sending a shockwave through Ryan's frame. His world spun as he stumbled, his once dominant presence in the ring now faltering under the weight of his unchecked emotions.
The ground rushed up to meet him as he crashed onto the canvas, the taste of iron and the sting of defeat mingling in his mouth. The crowd's roar faded into a distant echo, a stark reminder of how quickly the tides of battle could turn. Robin's voice sliced through the ringing from the corner, resonating with a force that commanded attention.
"Get your shit together, JUMPIN JESUS RYAN! HEART OF GOLD AND HEAD OF STONE – GET UP, YOU LITTLE COWARD! YOU'RE LETTING IT WIN, AGAIN! STOP THIS ONION HEAD NONSENSE AND DANCE, BOX THIS FELLA – YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS, ACT LIKE IT, BELIEVE IN IT!"
His words were more than just a call to action; they were a lifeline thrown into the stormy seas of Ryan's mind. Each syllable was drenched in the raw, unfiltered wisdom that only a life spent in the cauldron of combat could forge. Robin's tone was a volatile cocktail of fury and concern, the urgency palpable in his voice. His palms crashed against the ring mat; each hit thunderous punctuation to his fiery sermon.
"You've got the talent, kid, but it's as good as ash if you keep burning it to the ground. I'M HERE FOR YOU, IM RIGHT HERE. SNAP OUT OF IT AND BOX THIS PLASTIC PATTY! MOVE GOD DAMNIT, GET UP!"
On the canvas, Ryan lay dazed, the echo of Robin's voice ringing in his ears. It was more than a mere pep talk; it was a wake-up call that struck a chord deep within him. Amidst the haze of the crowd murmurs and the pulsating pain that coursed through his body, clarity began to emerge. Lying there, Ryan grasped the essence of Robin's message –
"coward? letting it win? Playing my ego are ya Robin...hes right though. Im throwing this shit away."
This moment, sprawled on the canvas under the glaring lights and the crowd's gaze, became a crucible of transformation. The raw emotion and the hard-hitting truth in Robin's words ignited a spark in Ryan. It was time to rise, shake off the shadows of rage, and embrace a fighter's true spirit like he had learned in Thailand – not just with fists but with heart and mind in unison.
Staggered yet stirred by the dual impact of the physical hit and Robin's piercing words, A padded fist crushed into the rings canvas, followed by a kneee and the eruption of the crowd. Ryan was back, and he began to pull himself up from the canvas. His resolve, momentarily dimmed, now reignited with a fierce, clear, calculated intensity. Memories of the gruelling hours spent in the gym flooded back to him – the relentless sparring sessions, the time spent in Thailand, the sweat and toil, and the invaluable lessons etched into his being under Robin's stern tutelage.
With a renewed spirit, Ryan stepped back into the battle, his movements now embodying controlled power and a fluidity to his step. He recalled his time fighting beside the backdrop of the "Sarama" a traditional Thai music played when in combat. The times of learning to move, fight with the music, to flow, to be fluid, to be concise. Ryan finally put it all together in the heat of battle. He had merged his inherent ferocity with the disciplined technique that Robin relentlessly drilled into him, and the mindfull practises of the years he spent under Burklerk Pinsinchai in the jungles of Chiang Mai. His style was now fully displayed, raw and visceral yet refined by countless hours of practice in mind, body and spirit.
The final rounds bell clang to a start in a clinic of skill and sheer willpower. Ryan, driven by a blend of desperation and unwavering determination, unleashed a barrage of calculated and explosive strikes. Each punch and maneuver was a nod to the efficient, no-nonsense Ukrainian style that Robin had imparted to him. Ryan moved rhythmically across the mat, steps measured and precise, executing short, angular movements and deft outside counterpunches. He had returned to his element – the dance of combat, where he felt most alive, a symphony of movement where every step and punch was a testament to his life's journey and experiences as a human being first, and as a fighter second.
In this wake-up call, Ryan reinvigorated and reminded himself of his love for the sport, the exhilarating blend of art and athleticism. He was not just fighting to win; he was celebrating boxing, combat, honouring the path he had walked with Robin, and reclaiming what it meant to be a true fighter through Burklurk Pinsinchai's Teachings.
The round pressed on, and Ryan executed his maneuvers with a surgeon's precision. First;
-- The counterpuncher; a display in timing and accuracy, delivered with the full force of training and innate skill. --

1. He deftly slipped his opponent's cross, a move as fluid as it was swift.
   
2. He angled off, creating a space wide enough for his next move.
   
3. With an almost predatory precision, Ryan unleashed a powerful right cross, targeting his opponent's cheek from the angle he had just created. But Ryan wasn't done yet.
   
4. He slipped out again, evading any potential counter from his disoriented opponent. The rhythm, he danced in and out with his precise timing, perfected down to inches and angles.
   
5. In a final, decisive movement of the exchange, Ryan slipped in. He timed his step with a long cross that came off-beat, catching his opponent utterly off-guard. The punch landed with a satisfying impact, culminating in a perfectly executed combination. As he watched his opponent stagger, Ryan couldn't help but think, 'cya sleepy boi,' a silent acknowledgment of his dominance in this singular exchange.
   

This sequence was a statement. Ryan was not only back in the fight but also commanding it.
ONE!…TWO!…THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!…SIX!...SEVEN!..EIGHT!
Ryan's opponent stands, admirable, but futile, driven by sheer will but hampered by sluggish movements, the man rose to his feet, it was clear the fight was reaching its zenith.
The opponent, gathering his remaining strength for a final stand, launched a jab, a last-ditch effort relying more on brute force than finesse. But this was a fatal mistake in Ryan's world – playing right into what Ryan was best at. Counters.
Ryan read the move with the clarity of a seasoned fighter. As the jab came, he effortlessly slipped to the right, evading the punch with a short angular step that spoke of his ring intelligence. Instantly, he countered with the same sharp cross from his right hand, followed by a devastating hook that cut through the air with lethal intent in his left. Grasping at straws, reeling from the counter, Ryans opponent threw a desperate, looping last stand punch, Ryan dipped down and left, rolling the punch with an elegance that made it seem almost effortless. He was Hunting for the Kill Shot. Seizing the moment, Ryan unleashed a ferocious left uppercut, the force of the blow lifting his opponent's chin skyward. He followed up with a right overhand, but just before impact, he halted the punch. There was no need for it; his opponent was already collapsing, the "Lights were on, but no one was Home". The fight was effectively over, Ryan's last combination is the final note, a crescendo that echoed through the ring.
As his opponent hit the canvas, the crowd erupted. Ryan stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, every fibre of his being alight with the thrill of victory. This wasn't just a win; it was a performance, a display of skill, heart, and the indomitable spirit of a fighter who had walked through fire and flames to the otherside and emerge victorious.
The final bell Rings with not a single chair in the arena warm; a thunderous clap erupts from the crowd. It was more than just applause; it was an acknowledgment of a battle fiercely fought by both men. In that moment ringside, in a triumphant victory, Ryan and Robin shared a look that spoke volumes, a connection far beyond the usual bounds of mentor and protégé. Their bond, tempered in the crucible of hardship and struggle, was now sealed in the glory of this defining triumph.
Standing amidst the cheers and the adrenaline-fueled euphoria, Ryan found himself momentarily lost in the tide of memories. It was a poignant reminder of the journey that had brought him here, a path marked by triumphs and losses. Robin's teachings transcended the confines of boxing; they were life lessons imprinted deep onto him. Ryan began to slowly step out of the ring; the weight of these reflections settled upon him. The victory was sweet, but it carried the weight of all sacrificed to achieve it. Robin's presence was felt strongly, a guiding force that continued to shape his path, illuminating the way forward even in the most challenging times.

Hello everyone, I'm Swappy and I am a relatively new Muv-Luv fan. Despite this and against my better judgement I have decided to run a Muv-Luv Tabletop, titled Muv-Luv Conative. I am not using the Muv-Luv TTRPG system, but rather a homemade system utilizing the Operation V system, a Gundam TTRPG system made for the Feddie Scum podcast (great podcast). Specifically a finished version made by a fan and one of my players, as the official version is still undergoing play testing via the podcast.
Now let's introduce the party:
Alexander Kurylenko (33): A Soviet pilot from Belarus who has the misfortune for being born right as the war with the BETA broke out. He's had his home taken, he's seen friends die, and he has developed a fatalistic viewpoint on life. He believes in the Soviet Union, but isn't necessarily zealous about it. He dislikes aristocrats and the US government and he is the flight leader of the party.
Dana von Romer (23): An American pilot hailing from Texas. Dana von Romer is a guitar playing, shotgun wielding, hat wearing Texan in every way you can imagine. She believes in the principles American was founded upon, but that doesn't mean she believes in the US government and would follow it's orders without question. Her father was killed, and Dana believes it was an assassination on the part of a US Major General, and she wants answers.
Lloyd Aymar (25): A Canadian pilot who's been part of the UN since he graduated from flight school. He believes humanity should be united in the fight against the BETA, and serves as a middle ground between Dana, Alexander, and the next party member. He too has developed a fatalistic view, but he is far more sociable and friendly than Alexander. He simply believes that he'll probably die to the BETA, but he'll attempt to take as many of them with him before he goes out.
Chiyoko Kinoshita (19): Introduced at the start but joining the party later, and played by me for the sake of rounding out the party to a number of four. Chiyoko is a Japanese Fudai who is part of the Kinoshita family, a family who overlooks Japan's TSF development and manufacturing alongside the Takamuras. She is the youngest and greenest of the party, but is still a member of the Royal Guard. Her family relationship seems to be tense, especially with her older brother, and Chiyoko has a lot of expectations on her as a member of this family.
These four are part of the United Nations squadron known as the Wild Stallions. A Squadron with the on paper purpose of showing the capabilities of cooperation between countries via being comprised of pilots from different countries and utilizing all kinds of TSFs from American, to Soviet, to even Japanese TSFs.
One Shot Prologue:
The year is 1999, and the three party members (Alex, Dana and Lloyd) find themselves in Japan during the events of Operation Lucifer. The squadron is waiting to sortie, to fight the Yokohama hive, and as they wait they pack up the belongings of their recently killed wingman. Making small talk, the party soon runs into a Squadron of Japanese teenagers and meet Chiyoko Kinoshita. Chiyoko and Dana talk, but soon have to part ways as they have to sortie. Boarding their F-15E Strike Eagles, our brave pilots begin their sortie to push towards the BETA hive. Of course, they soon encounter a horde of BETA and combat starts. Dana utilizes her missiles to cause a rock slide which inures some grappler class, Lloyd charges in with his melee Halberd and begins cutting beta apart, and Alexander gives orders and lays down covering fire. Despite murdering a bunch of BETA more seems to come making their push forwards slow to a crawl. Alongside that, they can hear their apart list several other Wild Stallion flights being shot down. Eventually the two are suddenly told to retreat, as it seems US forces are going to be dropping something with little to no warning. Before they can retreat however, the party spots Chiyoko by herself in an damaged F-4J, seemingly being the sole survivor of her squad. Alexander tries to have the squad just leave her, as he is more concerned with their survival than hers, but Lloyd quickly comes to her rescue, pulling her out of the F-4 and placing her in the cockpit with him, and the party retreats. They just barely manage to get out of the blast radius of the G Bombs, getting front row seats to their detonation. As they go off, the party feels as though something about the world itself shifts, but they are more concerned with the absolute destruction left before them. Returning to base, the Stallions get Chiyoko to a medic, giving her comforting words. Chiyoko cries over the loss of her own team. With that, the Stallions retire for the day, and the one shot ends with the opening scene of Muv-Luv Alternative; the Discovery of human brains in the BETA hive.
Session 1:
It has been two years since the events of Operation Lucifer, and it is early February of 2001. Our party of three find themselves on a plane heading over to Yukon base in Alaska in order to potentially get involved with Project Prominence (my excuse of having players potentially get upgrades later one). The players now flaunt new TSFs, with Alexander piloting a MiG-290VT Fulcrum, and Dana piloting a very interesting F-18E Super Hornet. Lloyd however, doesn't seem to have his TSF on him, as Alexander managed to get into contact with an old Soviet contact and politically maneuvered his way into potentially getting Lloyd a Soviet TSF. Arriving at Yukon base, the crew first make their way to the Soviet side of the base in order to meet with Alex's contact, with Dana getting looks from the Soviets on the base, but she pays them little to no mind. Arriving at the hangar, the gang meets Alex's contact, one Jerzy Sandek. It is revealed Alexander managed to negotiate and get his hands on an SU-37 Terminator in exchange for proving the superiority of soviet TSFs, as well as a more personal favor from Jerzy. The gang also sees and are introduced to the Scarlet Twins, Inia and Cryska.
With that out of the way, the gang makes their way to the US/UN side of the base and talk with the base commander, before going off to meet the Argos Test Flight. Meeting them, the teams get along, with Alex scolding Tarisa a bit. It is then stated that the two will be going up against each other in a mock fight in order to determine if the Wild Stallions can be brought onto Project Prominence in a limited capacity. The two teams face off, with Lloyd in his new Terminator immediately eliminating Tarisa and then Ibrahim before getting gunned down by Valerio and Stella. Alexander is also shot down, but Dana manages to barely scrape out the win via a combat knife into Valerio's cockpit. With the mock fight finished, Dana and the Argos test fight go out drinking while Alexander forces Lloyd to do push-ups considering he got shot down. Alexander and Jerzy then meet, and Jerzy tells him to forget the personal favor, as he doesn't believe the two don't have what it takes to help progress what he's working on (the twins). The next day, with their objective complete, the Stallions leave back to Yokohama base, ending the session.
Session 2:
Back at Yokohama, the Stallions are missing a member as Lloyd is busy tweaking his SU-37. To compensate however, the team is joined by Chiyoko Kinoshita, now an official member of the Royal Guard and sporting a Shiranui. The gang talks over breakfast, with Alex being cold towards Chiyoko due to her status, and Dana cursing the difficulty of using chop sticks. The players are also introduced to another member of the Stallions, Jason Whiteford (a Brit). Finishing their food, the crew make small talk and head to the hangar before coming across quite the sight. It seems that over the night, someone had come in and VANDALIZED Dana's TSF with provocative words written in Japanese. After practically strong arming Chiyoko into translating for her, Dana laughs like a mad woman which makes everyone in the hangar uncomfortable before dragging the party off to investigate who did it. Making their way to security, they review the footage and see younger folks commiting the deed. Initially believing them to be trainees, Alexander heads to the training grounds and talks to Sergeant Jinguuji Marimo about this, but the cadets are soon dismissed from suspicion as they are all girls, while the culprits on camera seem to have been men. Deciding to ask Jason about any other squadrons who could harbor anti American sentiments, they are pointed to Cracker Squadron. Alexander pulls the Captain of the squadron aside while Dana decides to be less civil about it, getting into a fight with the other aggressive pilots of the flight, who were indeed behind the vandalization. With the MPs and the Captains breaking up the fight, after giving their accounts to the MPs, Alexander orders Dana to several hours of firing drills in her TSF before being called to Brigadier General Paul Radhabinod's office. Arriving, he is informed that he and his squadron will most likely be involved in the defense of Niigata, as it seems a BETA force is planning an invasion there. The two are then interrupted by one Professor Kouzuki Yuuko, and Alexander is dismissed. He leaves due to this, and due to Professor Yuuko's vibes. Late into the night, early morning in fact, Dana finally finishes her punishment and is greeted by Chiyoko, who managed to get her guitar fixed (which had been damaged in the brawl). The two talk about their ideals and the two then promise to win the war against the BETA so everyone can have Wagyu steaks. With that, they go off to make late night burgers as the session ends.
Session 3:
It is now time for the defense of Yokohama! The Wild Stallions are given a briefing by their commanding officer, one Colonel Augustine Gil, about the defense line that has been established at the Niigata shoreline. The Stallions alongside other UN and IJA forces will intercept the BETA hordes at the shores and perform an active defense against this invasion. Colonel Gil also informs them that Chiyoko will be accompanying their squadron as she is on loan from the Royal Guard to the Wild Stallions. With that out of the way, the Wild Stallions sortie (with Lloyd literally doing warm up exercises with his Terminator while taxying towards the runway) towards Niigata. The squadron arrives as the shoreline, and wait for the BETA to arrive. Once they do, the defense begins, starting with air support and artillery supporting hounding the initial waves of the BETA. Of course despite that they keep coming, and the Stallions alongside other squadrons begins to intercept the BETA. Chiyoko and Lloyd prove to be excellent Melee fighters, which is expected from Lloyd, while Dana and Alex fire on the BETA. Alex rolls a critical fail and then a critical success, which confuses all of the characters including Alexander himself. Of course they hear over the radio as people die horrible deaths, but at that point it's white noise. Suddenly, Laser class BETA appear and shoot down any air support! This naturally causes the Stallions to book ass to cover, with the members doing evasive maneuvers against the incoming laser fire. Before they can try to intercept the laser classes, they are ordered to support one of the other defensive lines which is suffering heavy casualties.
Arriving at the scene and seeing a pilot die, Alexander barely manages to use artillery to get rid of the laser class present and the Stallions begin to clean up the BETA. Lloyd actually fails a melee check for once, and Chiyoko fucks up an evasion roll against a Destroyer class and gets hit hard. At that moment, however, more reinforcements appear. They are a squadron of Shiranui's being led by a Takamikazuchi. The pilot is non other than Chiyoko's older brother, Yamato, who witnessed Chiyoko be hit and tells her off while being rude to the other party members. They are then allowed to return to base for resupply. Arriving back at base, Chiyoko is visibily upset by the interaction with her brother, but the others (including Alexander surprisingly) try and cheer her up which kind of works. With that, the session ends with the Stallions put on standby.
Session 4: It is near the end of February and the defense of Niigata is still ongoing! The Wild Stallions are on standby at a forward operating base, with Lloyd and some of the other Stallions drinking, Alexander sulking, and Dana writing a letter to an old friend. While basically partying, Lloyd spots Chiyoko practicing her swordsmanship with a sad expression. Correctly guessing this what still about her brother, Lloyd drags her ass to the party and attempts to offer a drink, but she declines. Lloyd messes around with Jason and then gets into a discussion about Soviet ideals with Alexander after the captain (Alexander) heard him talk about despite Soviet ideals on materialism, they party hard. Of course Lloyd takes the piss out of him in a scene worthy of the Chibi art style before they are informed that they will be sortieng soon. While Lloyd is literally hosing down some of the members of the Stallions, Chiyoko comments on how seemingly free he seems, as he doesn't exactly have to worry about things like familial obligations. Alexander stays silent because he doesn't like her, as her status makes her the enemy to him. Dana comes out the post office to witness Alexander standing there by himself before being informed of the briefing. Arriving, they are once again briefed by Colonel Gil, who explains they'll be intercepting the last of the BETA at a nondescript city. The Stallions once again sortie, with Chiyoko now having a maxed out maneuverability skill, and arrive at the city. While other squadrons intercept the BETA in the city, Alexander has the Stallions hold back and let the BETA come to them. Making quick work of them, they push in only to see two Fort class beta. Thinking quick, Dana fires off her missiles at one of the Fort Class and successfully eliminated it, while Chiyoko and Lloyd go for the other one. Lloyd uses his large halberd to carve into the Fort Class, but doesn't manage to kill it. He lands in front of it's stinger, and it tries to stab into his cockpit with it, but Lloyd barely manages to dodge and promptly cuts the Fort Class in half with his sword, soaking his Terminator in red and laughing, taking enjoyment in killing BETA. At that moment, they receive laser warnings and Lloyd and Alex dodge much larger than usual laser fire.
Off in the distance they see two Heavy Laser BETA. As Alexander barely managed to dodge the laser, he could nearly feel his blood literally boil from the heat. At that moment, he receives a vision, both clear and barely intelligible, both seemingly real and fake, of the heavy lasers eliminating some of the other Stallion pilots, but he chocks it up to adrenaline. Chiyoko and Dana then make quick work of the heavy lasers, as Alexander uses his admittedly broken skill to eliminate all of the remaining BETA on the field. This sudden increase of skill shocks everyone in the squadron, but Alexander brushes it off and they return to base. Considering the strain he put on his body through his intense maneuvering while eliminating the remaining BETA, Alexander vomits up some blood and bile and passes out, as he is taken to the infirmary. Dana spots Colonel Gil with a change in his expression, and the two exchange nods as he returns to his tent. The session then ends with him informing a certain professor about this strange increase in skill.
Session 5:
It is now mid March, and the Stallions find themselves boarding a plane back to America, specifically Dana's homestate of Texas. Oddly enough Chiyoko, now dawning a UN Uniform, is accompanying them. It seems she's gotten orders to continue accompanying the Stallions. Alexander is slightly annoyed by this, but fellow squadron member and Soviet, Nairi Oganesyan, jabs at him for this and notes that despite his dislike of her, he could probably pass off as her father in a civilian setting considering their looks, despite the fact he's only 33. This shakes Alexander to his core, and he turns to dust. Boarding the plane, they head off to America and arrive at US Air Force Plant 4 for, even stranger, an escort mission. They are greeted by Dana's old commanding officer, Major General Jairo Campbell, the person Dana suspects had her father killed, and Dana's old squadron captain and friend Crystal Myers. The two catch up and Dana is dragged off by her old squadron, the Braves, off to the plant, ditching the other three. Arriving at the plant, the Stallions head off to unpack, not before the two captains of each squadron share some words with each other. After unpacking, Dana mentions wanting to see if her old "stache' was still around, and Alexander and Lloyd leave with Alexander saying it's due to what Dana mentioned and how he can't be complacent in it despite overlooking it, and Lloyd wanting to go drinking. This leaves Dana and Chiyoko by themselves, and Chiyoko finds herself being dragged away by Dana, being given looks of worry and concern from other people in the base who knew Dana. Dana takes Chiyoko to an abandoned storage building, and enters. The hangar is home to some abandoned F-16 prototypes and various other containers as Dana takes her to some old, hidden lockers. She kicks the door open, and Chiyoko fails a movement check and gets hit right in the face by the locker door, causing a nosebleed. Dana apologies and lands her a handkerchief before the two look at the contents of the locker. Inside the locker are the belongings and picture of her father. Dana explains to Chiyoko that despite his skills and accomplishments as a pilot, Campbell practically wiped him from the records, and Dana believes it's because he knew something Campbell was planning. That's why she became a pilot, and despite Campbell's attempts to get rid of her, she persisted and soon joined the UN. This shocks Chiyoko.
Alexander meanwhiles runs into Crystal Myers again, her seemingly friendly and upbeat demeanor gone as she smocks a cigarette. The two talk, Crystal mentioning how he's Belarusian, which surprises Alexander a bit. She explains how she fought in the Soviet areas during her own brief time as a UN pilot, and she laments that despite the fact humanity seems to be on the verge of losing against the BETA, humanity still conspires against each other. She then tells him to keep an eye out for his squad, and leaves to go do a flight. This comment kicks Alex's paranoia into overdrive. Back to Chiyoko and Dana, Dana let's slip that she knows about the existence of Alternative IV which one again shocks Chiyoko. However, the two agree to keep this between them out of concern about the Major General potentially hearing about their suspicions. The two shake hands, with Dana spitting on her palm and grossing out Chiyoko a little. They then exit the storage building. Cutting back to Alexander, he spots Colonel Gil and Major General Campbell walking and discussing something in hushed tones. Against his better judgement and rolling a critical success, he listens in. Campbell states that despite being given orders to hand the XG-70s to Yokohama base for the Alternative IV Project he views it as a waste of time and that they should be used for Alternative V. Gil tells him that despite what he thinks, Alternative V is still the backup to alternative IV and he has to comply. They then enter a very large storage building.
Returning to base with Chiyoko still nosebleeding, with Dana saying to tell anyone it's from Texas' dry air, they run into Alexander. The three then being to make their way to the infirmary, not before spotting a new TSF with the monicher of X-35 painted on its jump jets taking off alongside some F-16s. Dana correctly summarizes that Crystal is the pilot of this new TSF and that it could be the replacement for the F-18 and F-16. Alexander curses the "Americans and their toys." Dana then comments on how Chiyoko seems to be fine despite the bleeding, but at that moment Chiyoko begins to feels dizzy and they carry her to the infirmary and retire for the day. Later that night, Chiyoko is greeted by Colonel Gil who asks her to gather up Dana and Alexander, and she does. Walking through the base Gil informs Alexander that he did notice him, and has decided that they should know as the lead flight as to what they are transporting (Lloyd is too drunk to inform). Arriving at the large storage building, the three pilots are out face to face with the two colossal XG-70s that they are to be escorting. Dana and Chiyoko are absolutely surprised by the sheer size of the machine, but Alexander isn't as impressed when informed that mass production would be very difficult. He is also informed of what happened to the test pilots, but is assured they won't be flying it. With that, they return to their rooms. The session ends with Gil apologizing to Chiyoko for getting her wrapped up in this, but Chiyoko tells him that it's fine, and that those machines may be what Humanity needs...
Session 6:
The latest session! The Wild Stallions wake up, with Lloyd hungover. Dana provides coffee to the pilots while Lloyd yells at them to wake up. Making their way to the cafeteria, the Stallions are introduced to another member of the Braves, Ariane Baker, a younger pilot who looks up to Dana. Ariane seems slightly annoyed about how close Chiyoko and Dana seems to be, but Dana manages to (maybe) settle her down. The two young pilots shake hands. They also talk about the F-35, mentioning how they hadn't managed to change the X-35 monicher that had been painted on yet, and how that America will be selling them to other countries as their new 3rd generation TSF. After breakfast and small talk, the stallions are briefed on their mission. The different flights will be accompanying the transport vehicle all the way to Yokohama, with the main party being given the responsibility of escorting the transport off American soil from California. Alexander questions why they need an escort in friendly territory, but Colonel Gil says it's simply a precaution while giving them a knowing look, which Lloyd doesn't pick up on. Boarding the plane, Jason, Lloyd and Nairi make bets on what the cargo is, with Nairi being suspiciously close to what it actually is. Dana takes up Nairi's bet. The trip to California is met with no issues, with Alexander having the rookie pilots stop ceaseless chatter, and they arrive at California. At the California airport, Dana references Quattro Bajeena in the second opening of Zeta Gundam and Lloyd asks her what's wrong, with Dana saying it's nothing. The Stallions take off, however this time they sortie without their heavier weapons, only having their assault cannons and combat knives. This annoys Lloyd greatly, but when Chiyoko says it isn't that big of a deal, Lloyd surprises everyone by agreeing and stopping his complaints.
Getting far enough from the shore, the Stallions are informed by their operator of five unknown IFFs heading right for them, and Alexander visually confirms two F-15Es and three F-16Cs with no markings and painted in dark colors. Being fired upon, the party is given clearance to intercept the TSFs. The team makes quick work of them, proving far too experienced and skilled for the mysterious assailants. Alexander and Dana agree on capturing a target, and the other two agree. Lloyd and Dana successfully manage to capture two TSFs, but they are informed of a self destruct signal coming off from them. Lloyd drops his, but Dana manages to rip out the cockpit block from the TSF before it explodes, and the party witness an explosion only capable from an S-11 self destruction device. Seemingly managing to save their prisoner, Dana is caught by surprise when, from directly behind her, a TSF arm reaches out and stabs the cockpit block in her hands with its knife before her F-18E is grabbed and shoved aside. The party is met with a mysterious unmarked TSF (an F-22A Raptor), but it breaks off and disappears into a horizon. Dana however barely manages to succeed an observation check and her suspicions are confirmed. It seems Crystal was the pilot of that unknown TSF. The session ends with Dana saying "Et tu, Crystal?" before they are forced to return to the California airbase.
And that about sums up every session so far of Muv-Luv Conative! I hope you enjoyed reading that extensive and long recap of the events of the story so far. I know there may be some hiccups with lore and what not, but me and my players have really enjoyed what we made so far, and I hope you do as well. I'll hopefully continue this once we get some more sessions done. Thank you for reading.

V was completely and utterly awe-struck by the sheer number of exotic cars parked in the garage as the lights came on one after the other. Rolls Royce, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Aston Martins. They all clamored out of the Bentley, V taking slightly longer due to the Brit-Pole being more focused on the absolutely stunning cars in the garage instead of getting out of the car.

“Cars caught your eye, huh?” J asked, her voice lacking that taunting edge she had while she spoke with N, who was already making his way across the ceramic floor and out the garage door, into the manor without as much as a word. J’s Austrian-accented words were laced with genuineness, as she chuckled slightly. “You’ll get used to it.”

So the group made their way out of the garage and into the manor, and holy shit was this place huge.

The interior itself was something to marvel at on its own. The sleek lines, minimalist design elements, , it was a perfect mix of sophistication and sleekness. V was utterly starstruck at the glitz and glamor of it all. It was like stepping into a world that seemed all closed off just yesterday, something she could only glance at through YouTube videos and vlogs. A silver chandelier hung from a double-height ceiling. Two staircases akin to that of the Titanic’s grand staircase swept upwards to the upper floors. The glass railings shimmered under the chandelier’s light, and the marble floor below could damn well have been one gigantic mirror.

Under the right staircase, V caught a slight glimpse of a floor-to-ceiling window that allowed for a breathtaking view of the cityscape right before the sounds of footsteps filled the air. N and J both seemed to stop exchanging death glares and immediately turn their optics to the middle-aged woman slowly walking down the staircase, her eyes surveying every person there.

“James,” She began, her voice eerily soft and honeyed. The driver’s head raised up to meet the woman’s, a weary expression on his face as he mumbled a slight “Yeah, Louisa?” He walked over to the nearby coat hanger, taking off his coat and neatly hanging it before shuffling up the steps towards the bedrooms without waiting for a reply. The woman’s gaze fell to V, and the Brit saw Tessa’s expression go from a moderately jovial one to that of pity. She had far too much makeup on, particularly that of eyelash makeup, and she had noticeable bags under her eyes. She was gothically dressed in an all-black dress and hat.

‘Rather.... Stylish home clothes.’ V thought to herself.

Her eyes sharpened and narrowed, and her expression changed from one of neutrality, to one befitting of a rich woman's anger. Her face contorted in anger as she stared V down, before tearing her gaze away and fixating it on Tessa.

“Tessa James Elliot.” Louisa’s grip on the rail tightened as she loudly stated Tessa's name. Her voice did not raise nor lower, but the anger evident in her words made even N wince. J, however, was frozen in place, daring not to move a muscle. “N, J. You were supposed to pick up our cargo, and leave. Instead, along with our ordered cargo, you bring in another drone. How many times must I stress this to you three?”

She took one step down.

“We,”

Another step. V glanced over to N, who was now noticeably tense.

“Are,”

Another.

“No charity. We are not a homeless shelter. We are a prestigious family of humans that produce weaponry, and various other sciences for human use.” She said, emphasizing the word human while glaring at the three drones, as if they had never truly belonged. “As for you, Tessa,”

She descended the steps, walking past the three drones and towards the taken aback human. V turned around slightly, curiosity getting the better of her as she looked on. Louisa towered over Tessa, and she bent down to whisper something in Tessa's ear that made her freeze. J glared at the back of Louisa’s head, her fist clenched. N, on the other hand, quickly and quietly sneaked up the stairs, eager not to get caught up in what was happening.

‘Fuckin' hell, she's tall.’ V thought, inwardly laughing at her height. She must've been at least 5’11, and most of the doorways she had seen were low. Her child mind immediately went to work, drawing up countless instances of the woman bumping her head on low doorways.

She slowly slinked around Tessa with the deadly grace of a cobra, before strutting off into one of the rooms. Tessa lost her tense form, breathing a sigh of relief, though she looked incredibly shaken. J relaxed, looking at Tessa with a hint of solemnity.

“You okay?” She asked, quickly rushing to the human's side. J’s voice was laced with concern as she rubbed her friend’s back as the smell of cannabis and tobacco filled the air, and Tupac’s faint rapping coming from upstairs. J told Tessa something V couldn’t hear, but the overwhelming stench caused V to cover her face with her sweater as best she could. N growled in annoyance, looking over to V and gesturing upstairs. “Yeah, that’s Cyn. You’ll meet ‘er later. She’s a smoker, you’ll get used to the smell.”

“I could really go for a drink right now.” N mumbled, rubbing his temples and walking up the stairs, leaving V completely shocked at his words. He looked like he could be at least her age, and he was mumbling about wanting to drink alcohol?! V shook her head, trying to push that thought away. He could've meant anything by saying drink.

‘Don't overthink this, V.’ Taking two breaths, and rolling her shoulders in a vain attempt to calm herself down, and trying her best to ignore the frankly nauseating stench of cannabis that clung to her clothes as she walked away, wandering the house in an attempt to get familiar with her new home.

“We can talk about this over a drink, right?” J said, her voice soothing and below a whisper as she continued to rub Tessa’s back. Beading tears in Tessa’s eyes threatened to spill over before she quickly wiped them away. Tessa took two quick, sharp breaths before she relaxed and shook her head.

“Gotta check on Cyn. Make sure she isn't too high.” Tessa broke into a short but hollow chuckle before lightly pushing past J and proceeding up the stairs. The more steps Tessa trudged up, the louder the music was. The music itself wasn't abrasively loud, but it was very noticeable. Cyn must've turned up the music after Louisa left. Not that she would've cared that Louisa was upstairs in the first place. Cyn had a track record of being one of those no-fucks-given type of people, and it was probably the reason why Tessa and Cyn got along so well.

The closer Tessa got to her room, the more of the song she could hear. It wasn't obnoxiously loud, not yet at least. But the overwhelming smell of cannabis made her cover her nose in her sleeve and almost gag. Jesus, how much did Cyn smoke?! This is overdoing it, even for her. Trying to wave away the smell, she proceeded forward, suppressing another gag.

The feds is watchin', they all plottin' to get me, will I survive? Will I die? C'mon, let's picture the possibilities, givin' me charges, lawyers makin' a grip, I told the judge I was raised wrong and that's why I blaze shit. Was hyper as a kid, cold as a teenager, On my mobile, callin' big shots on the scene major, packin' hundreds in my drawers, fuck the law…

Tessa knocked on the walnut door twice, trying in vain to suppress another gag. “Oi, Cyn.” The music seemed to grow louder the moment Tessa called her name. And accompanying that, the Aussie girl could barely hear a muffled groan of irritation.

Say money bring bitches, bitches bring lies, one fucker gettin' jealous and motherfuckers died, depend on me like the first and fifteenth, they might hold me for a second, but these punks won't get me. We got fo’ brothas’, in low riders, in ski masks, screamin' “Thug Life” every time they pass, all eyes on me…

Rolling her eyes and sighing in annoyance, Tessa opened the door slightly. To the left was Cyn, sitting on the plush bed, a cigarette trapped between her fingers. Her optics were hollowed, and she slightly waved back and forth, a sign that she was most likely as high as a kite. The various other high quality furnishings were clean and kept in an orderly manner, a stark contrast to Cyn’s incredibly messy bed.

Relax and take notes, while I take tokes of the marijuana smoke, throw you in a choke—gunsmoke, gunsmoke! Biggie Smalls for mayor, the rap slayer, the hooker layer, motherfucker, say your prayers! Hail Mary, full of grace, smack the bitch in the face, take her Gucci bag and the North Face off her back, jab her if she act, funny with the money oh, you got me mistaken, honey…

Cyn's neon yellow eyes met Tessa's brown orbs, the drone quirking an eyebrow as she took another drag. “Hm?” Cyn slightly shifted in the hoodie she was wearing, exhaling the smoke into the already smoke-filled room. The edge of one of Cyn’s twin tails peeked out of the hood she was wearing. It nested comfortably in her neck, slightly drooping down to her upper chest. It had a slight braid to it, akin to what a Jedi Padawan would sport. Tessa sighed and dramatically rolled her eyes in a mix of irritation and a growing sense of concern.


“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Six.”

“Okay, now how many?”

“Eight.”

“Okay, you're not overly stoned.” Tessa muttered, stepping into the room and sitting down with Cyn. The stench of weed clung to her clothes, the bedsheets, and the music player next to the large mirror on the dresser. “You got a spare or…?”

“No. This is my last one. J smoked off most of them, being the consistent smoker that she is. Unless you are keen on sharing saliva, you are out of luck, Tessa.” She said, expecting a refusal from the Aussie girl. Her hollowed-out neon-yellow ovals distorted slightly as she once again took another drag, almost disappearing entirely before stabilizing. And like the drone had expected, Tessa shook her head in reply, not making any eye contact with her drone friend.

“I swear, you two are going to kill yourselves someday. Either the cancer sticks’ll send you down six feet, or ya’ll both will piss someone off while you’re as high as a kite, and you both get killed. Wouldn’t put the second one past J, though. You?” Tessa’s brown eyes met Cyn’s hollowed-out neon yellow optics as the question hung in the air for what seemed like a century.

“Yeah. She can be… Too direct at times.” Cyn replied, her gaze falling down to her legs dangling off of the edge of the bed, lost in thought. Her face changed from one of weed-induced relaxation to a more pained expression, though the expression quickly faded away, replaced by a forced smirk. “I….” She paused, as if to gather her thoughts. “Well, N keeps her in check. I doubt he would care if J expires one day.”

“I’m surprised you can speak this normally.” Tessa quipped, laying back on the bed, the smell of weed clinging to her whole body. Cyn, on the other hand, remained on the edge of the bed, taking another drag before flicking the cig away.

“Fuck that s’posed to mean?” The drone replied, shooting a playful side eye glare toward the human, who only shrugged in response, letting her hood fall back, revealing the rest of her silver twin tails. They were much slimmer than J’s, and they lacked the curls that the Austrian had, setting the two apart. “It is what’cha make of it, mate.”

The sound of two cars screeching to a halt in front of their home made both ladies look to the open window from the bed. The first one was a ‘54 Impala, Tessa knew the car by the sound of its engine, as she had heard it far too many times to count. It had to be an Impala. Hell, it was the generic gangster vehicle. What the hell were they doing here, though? Normally, they'd be out in the city shooting some poor bastard dead because they didn't pay on time, or holding up a rich kid that went off too far. The drill rap playing on the radio of the Impala loud enough for Cyn and Tessa to hear faintly. The other was a ‘57 BMW i4, the soft hum of its electric motor being overtaken by the rumble of the Impala’s engine. Their headlights lit up a portion of the road as they rolled down towards the house.

“Tessa,” Cyn said, her monotone and usually emotionless voice laced with a concern Tessa never knew she could display as she snapped her fingers at the Aussie twice, making the teen straighten up quicker than she’d ever done, concern written all over her face. “Do you have a weapon by any chance? A ranged one, preferably?”

“N-no, why?” She replied, her voice growing more and more concerned. The headlights of the cars once again glowed to life as they began to move, circling around the house like vultures surveying their prey. Cyn jumped off the edge of the bed with a quickness that could only be compared to a child trying to avoid a belting, straightening herself up as best she could from her usual slouched position. Tessa could tell that it probably hurt like hell, given the occasional wince and twitch of Cyn's optics, but she fought through it, like she always had. It was the only thing she knew how to do anyways: Fight, fight, fight. Hard to break offa’ something one grows up doing.

“Hell,” Tessa drawled, trying to suppress another gag by covering her mouth with her sleeve, despite the noise still escaping her lips. “This weed smell’s killing me. You sure you're not just high off your ass and seein’ things? Last time you got this high, you held up one of the rich kids on our block while he was on a late-night drive. If your nerves need this much steadying…” Tessa trailed off after she neared to the edge of the bed, and heard the rumble of the car engine slowly fading away.




The cool air almost calmed N and steadied his frayed nerves as he stepped into the dark cellar, flipping on the lights as the smell of various liquors filled the air. N stopped a moment to roll his shoulders, closing his optics and letting the combined sensations of the cold air and the smell of liquor wash over him before he continued.

N brushed his hand on a wooden pillar next to the open doorway before walking over to a neat set of brandy elegantly positioned on the various barrels full of liquors, he casually took one of the bottles of Hennessy from the set, pulling off the cork with no effort. The smell wafted out of the open bottle, flooding into N’s sensory receptors. It was a welcome smell, and one that N had grown accustomed to smelling, even though it gave him a burning feeling if he were to stick his head down to the top of the bottle. N took a swig, gulping down the brownish liquid without as much as a hitch. The phantom taste of vanilla and oak lingered on his tongue as he once again took another swig. He stuffed his hand in his pocket, brushing against a hand-rolled cigarette. A small smirk crosses his face.

“Well, someone's been trinken ihr Leben weg.” (Well, someone's been drinking their life away.) A voice N knew all too well echoed off the quiet walls of the cellar, and instantly wiped that smirk away. N once again gulped down the brown liquid before turning to the pigtailed drone leaning on the very wooden pillar beside the doorway, a smug smirk on her face as she watched the Canadian put the cork back on the drink and put it back as neatly as possible.

They made eye contact. “What do you want?” He asked, his tone exasperated and almost resigned as J just lightly chuckled in response. N raised an eyebrow, irritation written all over him as the Austrian continued. “How many times have I caught you drinking? Ten? Nineteen? No, forty times over?” N’s eyes narrowed as she cockily listed the times she had caught him drinking. “An eleven year old really shouldn't be drinking, much less a drone. What would that say about them? Gott weiß, Louisa würde doch nicht wollen, dass ein Straftäter im Haus herumläuft, oder? You know the risks, N. And we got a newbie runnin' around. Feel bad for her. We found 'er at a cargo ship, so she probably got sold off. Poor girl." J's tone changed from a cocky one to a more somber one as she tore her gaze away from N, instead finding the concrete very interesting. An almost pained look crosses her features for a moment, but before N could get a glimpse of it, it was wiped away.

(God knows Louisa wouldn't want a delinquent running around the house, now would she?)

“Don't you try to baby me, J.” Now it was J’s turn to bear an irritated expression, as her optics snapped back to meet N's. “Do I have to bring up all of the times I've caught you smoking half the world's supply of weed? Or the times where you've come home pockets lined after wiping some poor bastard’s nose for their valuables, so you can stock them up in your room like fucking trophies? You're not as innocent and impenetrable as you think you are, J.”

J’s only response was a dead silence and a death glare. N only sneered in response. “What's the matter? Got nothin’ to say? No snappy comeback?”

“She's going to know you've gone and downed some again. I mean, look at the thing, it's already at half.” She said, gesturing to the bottle, which was now at half. “She's never caught me smoking once in my life, and I'm her favorite child by far. Who will she believe? Me, or you? After all, you have the largest track record of drinking your pains away second only to Cyn.” She continued, rummaging through her pockets for her cigarette.

N held up a hand-rolled cigarette, a wry grin on his face as he presented it to the shocked drone. “Missing something?” He said in a condescending voice, watching as J’s expression morphed from a slightly irritated one to one of pure shock. “I wonder what Lousia’ll think if she finds this in your room. Nobody here's that much of a perfectionist to hand-roll a cigarette, besides a certain girl standing right in front-a’ me.”

The sound of tires on pavement broke their little spat.
Author's Ramblings: SIBLING FIGHT!!!!
I AM SO SORRY! I WAS SO LATE ON THIS! SCHOOL, AND OTHER STUFF HAMPERED ME FROM PUSHING THIS OUT ON TIME! I AM SO, SO FUCKING SORRY! I'll try to post more often, but until then, I'll catch ya'll later.

29th November 1964;

Sioux Lookout, SCS;

As he walked through the town’s centre, there was a strange air around the place, which Elias later noted in his notebook, one which he usually filled with pencil sketches that would form the rehearsal for his well-liked paintings. Looking up into the sky, there was only blue skies, with only a few wispy clouds within the sky, although these were a menacing dark-grey. From Elias Saunes’s accommodation, the streets had already mostly emptied, even though the day was now a Sunday when most would be shopping or taking to leisure. Even despite the extra funding being received from the government to promote more food production, the many in the town revered their free Sundays.
Elias took to the quietness with caution. Was there a coming storm that everyone was sheltering from? Well, stopping into the local everything-shop, to pick up his shopping for the week, he overhead the weather forecast toiling it’s tone upon the entire shop. Of course it was being broadcast over the tannoy - the shop-owner had left that tannoy on as he went for his break, so Elias knocked on the door to enter into the storeroom.
Even gentle knocking was enough to open the door.
Inside, the storeroom was as disorganised as Elias had expected. Even so, there was no owner inside, and none of the other three employees either that would stock the shop at the current time. On the wall were pinned a few notices. Surely these would explain the absence? The pins were for schedules, with one holding a torn-off piece, with a small sliver still attached.
Trying to make out some letters, Elias arrived at the conclusion that the letters present were ‘E LEA’.
He was duly interrupted.
“Hoi! Why are you back there, old man? Private areas, you’ve not stolen anything, haven’t you?” came a shout from the shop door. That was the owner.
“No, no, I was just wondering… where were the minders? I wanted to buy this milk and some cigarettes, and everyone else just seemed to have disappeared. Where were you, Joe?”
“All alright, I was at the station. Some members from the Maple Leaf Society came through the station and got out. They ran down the street, shouted for everyone to get out and see them. Wanted to deliver a message, told us about the recent changes to government policy regarding pensions, about them abandoning the idea of pursuing state pensions, and asked why they were doing the bare minimum for everyone? Asked us to show the petitions they sent to each and every one of us some days ago through our post office. Loved the look on their faces when most came back unsigned.”
That explanation from Joe, the shop-owner, was fair, but Elias wanted to know more. Weren’t that organisation quite anti-immigrant, weren’t they going to hate him being here?
“And me? What would they have said about me?” asked Elias, expectantly.
“They said they wanted this to be an area for Canadians to prosper, for all proper Canadians and they say that to exclude the Quebecois for some bastard reason, I’ve family in Saguenay and they’re fine enough people. By the way, were you asleep an hour ago or so, just wondering? Tis Sunday after all, and it’s only 10.”
“I was Joe. Also, didn’t the government just invest in their national insurance policies to improve unemployment wages? Why didn’t they mention that, were they just lying? And what about the fact that those pensions things were just rumours?”
“Eh. Some papers said it was fact, some didn’t and said it was rumours, and one called it a baseless claim, and people say all the media is the same. Hah, they get me every time. The bit about the time was just because they knocked on my door at 1015, assumed you didn’t hear because of the sleep. Anyways, want that milk and cigarettes? You told me before you wanted those.”
“Ah yes! Okay, so three packs for the fortnight, and then I’d like two pints of milk, pasteurised please. All fine?”
“Uh huh. Make sure not to tangle with those MLS people though - doubt you can land a fist if you needed to, at your age anyways. Stay safe, use the back-ways they’re clueless about if needed. I can escort you if needs be.”
“I’ll be fine. My hands can kill a fish, for sure they could land a strike. Bye Joe!”
“Bye pal, a better day!”
{DP to Agri / State Welfare}

“Are you ready?” Yasmin Raiz places a MASSIVE bowl of fried rice onto the table. “Hi everyone, it’s Yasmin Raiz, your Season 4 Mx Congeniality, and I’m here to host our REUNION of Season 5 of Chronologica’s Drag Race!” Yamin stands to welcome the monarchs. “Welcome back the lovely contestants of CDR Season 5! Madam Maine!”
Madam Maine re-wears her finale look: a top hat, fitted black and white suit and a pair of silver boots with a cane. She bows and smiles broadly, looking nervous.
“Kaia K. Beauvoir!”
Kaia strides out confidently in an elaborate gold and silver pageant dress, with silver hair that glitters with metallic extensions.
“Cwunchie!”
Cwunchie is dressed as a little yellow plastic flower, with big petals and a tiny narrow stem. Her arms and legs are constricted at her sides in the stem and she hops along the runway towards her chair, grinning wildly.
“Now, let’s welcome the elephant in the room.” Yasmin smiles. “Bates Baghdashi, everyone!”
Bates arrives in a sepia-painted Agatha-Christie-esque detective look, with decadent shades of tan, brown, and black, an oversized magnifying glass, a briefcase, and a messy mop of Sherlockian curls.
“Oh, I love this.” Yasmin claps.
Bates lights an oversized origami faux cigarette, pretends to smoke from it, then flicks it away, where it unfurls into a bird, already aflame, and blasts away into the air, powered by a miniature firework.
Madam Maine looks very afraid for a moment, and starts to stand up.
“Before we continue, I want to let everyone know that their safety is assured! You are not in danger.” Yasmin smiles at Maine. Bates blushes.
Maine sits back down.
“Say hello, it’s Mermaid princess, Cleo Mertoris!”
Cleo wears a golden seashell bikini top stoned to the gods, showcasing some clear, recent work done on her chest, as well as a tight blue mini dress, as she flicks back her long luscious ginger hair with a smirk.
“Drag Princesita!”
Princesita waves in a sepia coloured maxi dress and bald head look, with bronze glitter on the top of her now shaved head, as she spins around with a smile on her face.
“It’s Briar Midnights!”
Briar walks out dressed quite similar to Ambrose’s traditional look- a tophat and sleek black trench coat, with jet black, wet hair and a half-smirk.
“Ms Stripes, Starzanne!”
The others look unimpressed as Starzanne walks out in an American Eagle style look, with feathers, glitter and fringe wrapped around her body.
“Ambrose NOIR!”
Amborse wears a black plaid mini skirt and white linen shirt, going for a rare fem drag look, with long black braids with hundreds of little pins wrapped into the braids.
“S-S-e-v-e-r-a!”
Severa rocks BODY on the main stage, wearing a bikini top and denim short combo, as well as a sensible pair of blue boots and pigtails to add the final touch.
“Magenta! Leigh! Simmons!”
Magenta gaps, wearing a Magenta coloured plaid look, wrapped around her body to create a fitted garment, along with a Magenta pair of sneakers.
“Jupiter Sterling!”
Jupiter rocks a head to toe, douchebag Vuitton look- jacket, shirt, pants, glasses and a backwards baseball cap.
“Apocalyptica!”
Apocalyptica looks slightly displeased- wearing a bright, toxic green look that appears to have toxic slime wrapped around her, in a similar vein to a past look.
“Lupe LaBelleza!”
Lupe wears a sensible pussycat wig, red coat and matching pencil skirt, with a black sheer turtleneck and a red fedora, along with a pair of black sheer socks being held up by garter belts and classic black pumps with a smile.
“And our winner, Nymphe d’Azote!”
Wearing her crown on her shoulders, her head too small for her crown, Nymphe is dressed in a glittering yellow robe, wearing a matching facemask looking ready for a spa moment, along with a wig, made entirely of bubbles!
Yasmin smiles, handing people plates of rice. “Now, today we're spilling ALL of the TEA. At the start of our season, we said goodbye to some girls that some fans really wanted to see more of. Say hello to Madam Maine, Miss Kaia K. Beauvoir, and…”
“CWUNCHIE!!!!” Cwunchie interrupts happily.
Severa rolls her eyes.
Cleo rolls her eyes.
Kaia rolls her eyes.
Severa glares at Cleo.
Cleo glares at Kaia.
Kaia glares at Severa.
Yasmin smiles. “Madam Maine. Once and for all, can you tell us why you’re named after a state you’re not even from?”
“Oh! Haha.” Madam Maine laughs nervously, eyeing the cameras. “I really like Maine. I have a French Canadian aunt who lives up there.”
“French Canada? Is she related to French Montana?” Magenta asks.
“Oh…no.” Madam Maine smiles awkwardly.
“A lot of our viewers this season questioned whether you were totally ready for the Drag Race experience. What’s your take?”
“I will be honest. I wasn’t.” Maine flushes. “I don’t think that I totally understood the caliber of some of these performers, and…I was in such awe of them. I feel really lucky that I’ve gotten to know some of my castmates, including all the first outs before me. Jupiter and Princesita especially, I really feel have shown me love.”
“You’re a sweetheart, honey.” Princesita smiles. “I hope you get your chance to come back someday too.”
“Are we going to do that every few seasons? Because it’ll get old, QUICK.” Severa responds. “Twists are only twists if we don’t see them coming.”
“Agreed.” Kaia says.
Princesita frowns.
Yasmin looks at Kaia. “Kaia, you represented, I believe, our first instance of a child of Drag Race–that is, your drag mom, The Mother Delilah, competed on season 2.”
“That’s right.” Kaia nods, keeping one eye warily on Severa and Cleo. “As a trans woman, it was important to me to be part of a legacy of successful trans women.”
“Delilah was successful?” Severa half jests with a smirk. “I think there have been plenty of trans women on the show who were more successful.”
Lupe looks like she wants to say something, but doesn’t.
“Whatever, I’m proud to be a daughter of Miss Delilah regardless and even more proud of having a healthy and kind relationship with the woman who inspired my craft.” Kaia says haughtily. “Not all of us can say that after all.”
“Ooooooooo…” the room roars.
Severa makes a displeased face and shrugs.
“One question about your time on the show, Kaia.” Yasmin looks around. “Why do you, in particular, think you ended up going home so early? A lot of fans were very surprised.”
“I think it’s quite obvious that Cleo’s leadership in that challenge was disastrous for me and everyone else on it. I’d assume that Cleo’s current appearance reflects how people received her during this season.”
“You mean my gorgeous knockers?” Cleo shimmies.
“I mean, your cheap bra and panty set.” Kaia snaps. “And-”
“You’re so smug.” Cleo interrupts. “As if you have anything to be smug about. Not with that mug, you don’t, mate.”
“At least I can still afford my makeup.” Kaia shoots back.
Cleo huffs and crosses her arms.
“Cwunchie! You were a force of nature for a short time with us this season.” Yasmin looks nervous to even speak to Cwunchie.
“WOOOOOOHOOOOO!” Cwunchie yells. “This show did NOT disappoint! I–”
It then cuts to an ad break.
~
“Welcome back to the Chronologica’s Drag Race Season 5 Reunion! Onto, the infamous, Bates!” Yasmin smiles. “You had one of the most DRAMATIC moments, ever in history. Let’s look back.”
Bates grins as the cast turns to watch the TV screen.
~
Will the following-
Wait.
Everyone looks concerned. For a moment, the stage is perfectly still, as the judges and racers wait with uncertainty.
In the distance, sirens are heard. The sirens get closer. And closer.
Suddenly, a group of police officers in full riot gear burst into the room through a production door. Crew members and producers look shocked and frantic. The police officers are led by a stern-faced man with a badge that reads "Officer Jeffery," who steps forward, his hand gripping a pair of handcuffs.
What?
Office Jeffrey points directly towards the racers. Everyone looks to see who he’s pointing at.
Bates stares back at the officer expressionless, blood still dripping from their look.
"Mahdi Hakimian?” The police officers crowd onto the stage towards Bates.
“Oh my god.” Magenta gasps.
Princesita starts to say something, and Jupiter reaches over to cover Princesita’s mouth.
“Yes.” Bates gulps.
Officer Jeffery reaches towards Bates. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”
Bates stands silently, his face expressionless.
“I am placing you under arrest in connection with the murders of Javad Tahmasb, Hamidreza Entezami, Mohamad Askari, Mostafa Shahi, Ali Reza Arjmand, Arman Nousari, Elahe Nousari, Setareh Tarokh, and Mohammed Tarokh."
Magenta falls to the ground in her bra and panty set, as everyone looks in stunned silence.
Bates slowly raises their hands as the police officers move closer, handcuffing them.
Everyone looks in disbelief. The judges look shocked and horrified.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
Bates looks at Apocalyptica, still expressionless, and speaks softly. “Christian…I’m sorry.”
“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?”
Bates gives a nearly imperceptible nod.
Apocalyptica’s eyes well with tears. “Batesy?”
~
“Traumatic.” Apocalyptica looks at Bates, who exhales.
“To explain this….” Yasmin looks over. “Rachelle Mirage!”
Rachelle walks in with a smile.
“You two have worked hard together- tell us, what happened?!”
“I am, as we’d all know, originally from Iran. And- I knew it was a risk.” Bates exhales. “And they found out, and tried to have me extradited back from the US, for an alleged murder.”
“You killed someone?” Magenta gasps.
“A set up. Some of my former schoolmates had reported to the government that I had been cast here. So they falsified police records to make it look like I had done something which… was just because I, a Queer person, was representing the country in a way that didn’t match their… image.” Bates nods.
“Then comes… me.” Rachelle grins. “I could not let this happen.”
“Thank you, Rachelle.” Bates smiles.
“I felt something was off. And, I served as a character witness in the International Criminal Court, where… Eventually, after little evidence, we were able to not only have this gorgeous artist freed- but, I pulled some strings…”
“And I am now living in Denver.” Bates responds, holding Apocalyptica’s hand.
“What a shocking story.” Yasmin smiles. “And Apocalyptica, I must ask- are you two…?”
“We live literally across the street from each other.” Apocalyptica smiles.
The two grin.
“Now next up! She was one of our famous RETURNEES- Ms Cleo Mertoris, who won her first challenge- then proceeded to go home. Cleo, how did you feel about your journey?”
“I think… I should’ve gone much further than I did, to be honest.” Cleo shrugs.
“Girl...” Severa stares at Cleo for a few seconds. “You deserve exactly what you got- because you weren’t talented enough to survive a lipsync.”
“Not Miss ‘Double Sashay’ talking.” Cleo gasps. “At least I could pay for my tits myself, and not resort to sugar daddies huh Sevvie… Fucking bitch!” In a flash, Cleo, angrily standing, throws her drink onto Severa, who yelps.
In a flash, Yasmin tries to pull Cleo away from Severa, but Cleo does her best to claw at Severa.
“The fuck?” Jupiter yells.
“Don’t fucking call me Sevvie ever again!” Severa yells, scrubbing at her ruined dress and crying while subtly drinking the cocktail on her face.
“I’ll call you whatever I fucking want! Coming for my fucking gig!” Cleo shrieks.
“Let’s stop this-” Yasmin raises her hand.
Cleo spits at Severa. “Fuck you, fucking whore. You only transitioned to copy me! I MADE YOU! I-”
“WE’RE GOING TO ANOTHER BREAK!” Yasmin yells.
~
Severa tries to shake cocktail out of her wet wig.
Lupe covers her mouth with one hand. Kaia is laughing.
Nymphe suddenly stands and aggressively wrings out Severa’s wig, as Severa winces.
“Well!” Yasmin says sharply. “Are you okay, Severa?”
“I’m fine.” Severa huffs, bent over as Nymphe wrings her wig out. “I started my transition because, since the season aired, I came to terms with a lot about myself. Including how some of my behavior on the season was…rash. I’ve definitely been hiding from this moment. And Cleo has nothing to do with it.”
Lupe apologetically speaks up. “Pienso que, Severa, that Cleo might just be jealous of you.”
“You know it, mami.” Severa sighs. “I also really want to express some sincere apologies to you.”
Lupe looks startled.
“I think that with our time on the show, I was often jealous of you. Unlike me, or Cleo, or Kaia, you have been confidently living in your womanhood for a long time. I’ve followed you for a long time…and I fucked up.” Severa nods. “I am sorry.”
“I accept your apology, darling.” Lupe smiles. “It’s all I ever needed.”
“Now, these two were our OTHER, non finalist returnees, and both have… wild journeys.” Yasmin smiles.
“Non finalist.” Princesita frowns.
“You did good, Mami.” Lupe smiles. “I know it was hard…”
“I lip synced- a lot.” Princesita nods. “And it was hard.” Princesita begins to tear up. “Because, I believed I could do better, you know?”
Magenta holds Princesita’s hand.
“But- you must keep going. You can never push yourself too far, and maybe this wasn’t my journey. I think… I think I've accepted that now.” Princesita sighs.
“Regardless of how it ends, know that you should be proud of yourself, girl.” Kaia shrugs. “Like, we can’t all win.”
“Like me.” Starzanne jokes.
Nobody laughs.
“Well, turning to you, Starzanne, you had a controversial moment this season, in your makeover moment….” Starzanne turns. “How did it feel, watching it back?”
“I feel bad.” Starzanne closes her eyes. “And… I’m learning, I’m working on what I know, how to do it better, how to…” Starzanne sighs. “Do more than what I did, and truly, I feel shame.”
“I kinda think it’s bullshit.” Severa looks at Starzanne. “Because I think you knew better.”
Ambrose and Briar nod in agreement.
“HOWEVER…” Severa shrugs. “Good for you.”
Starzanne pouts, before nodding. “I aim to really deliver, I p-promise.”
The others look uncertain.
Bates sighs. “As the Middle Eastern refugee here, I can’t speak for Mohammed, who it’s obvious you really hurt and mistreated…and I hope he never has to see or work with you again. Because I hope you do learn, Starzanne. But also know the work is on you, not people of color.”
Severa gulps.
“Moving onto a power couple, or power ex-couple, this season. Briar and Ambrose…”
Jupiter woofs.
“How are we going since the season?” Yasmin asks.
“We’ve reconciled.” Ambrose looks at Briar with a knowing glance.
“I think both of us felt intense pressure this season.” Briar nods. “We both wanted to exist separate, but were so intrinsically tied to each other…”
“Ultimately I did think it led to our failure.” Ambrose sighs. “And- that’s fair, because it was a lesson to learn.”
“The lesson, being?”
“We are powerful- together.” Ambrose smiles, holding hands. “But, we believe it’s important to make space.”
“So, where does that mean for you now?” Yasmin asks. “The both of you.”
The two look at each other.
“We’re creating space, yet, collaborating.” Ambrose nods. “And-”
“They’re fucking again, BUT not doing duo gigs. Only attending gigs together.” Magenta chuckles.
Everyone gasps.
“Well… true.” Briar shrugs.
“Now, finally- the shocking moment… right before the semi final.” Yasmin nods. “Let’s look.”
~
I’ve made my decision.
Jupiter Sterling, Shantay you stay.
“Thank you.” Jupiter exhales. “Thank you.”
Severa closes her eyes, whispering to herself. “Severa, shantay…”
Severa and Magenta Leigh Simmons…
The others look on.
Thank you for being here, and doing great work this season. Now, I must say… sashay away.
“Damn!” Magenta yells, as Chronologica chuckles.
Everyone in the back of the stage look flabbergasted.
“No, thank you for this.” Magenta bows.
Severa looks at the judges for a split second, before walking off without a word.
“...Damn!” Magenta says again, as the others laugh. “I’m strutting off with GRACE.”
Magenta raises her hands in the air, as she walks off with a cheer.
~
“First, you- Severa, how are you feeling with time?” Yasmin asks.
“I feel as if that’s a different girl. Kinda. She’s thinking she’s giving nothing, not caring- but she cares too much, she’s lost that war. I think of myself as effortlessly fierce- but I did get stressed. I wish I… walked off and stomped the stage.” Severa sighs. “Instead of that.”
“And that’s okay, because we all- get there, sometimes.” Princesita says. “It’s about what you do next.”
“I’m going to win, girl.” Severa jokes. “They gotta make another All Stars so this diva can take the title.”
Everyone chuckles.
“Magenta, how did you feel, about being the other half?”
“I am happy, because if I’m being damn honest, I didn’t expect to make it this far!” Magenta laughs. “And I was me the whole damn time.”
“I love you for being you.” Jupiter adds. “You’re real, Ms Simmons. We honor that.”
“And not everyone can say that.” Nymphe smirks.
Apocalyptica grips Bates' hands.
“Now, it’s time for us to celebrate… some titles.” Yasmin smiles. “First, our GOLD BOOT title of the Season- ugliest outfit. Winner of a $5000 grand prize….”
…
Starzanne Stripes and September Remembers arrive in what else, but red, white, and blue. September looks patchy- his face is painted red, white and blue, in an attempt to cover his beard. Starzanne and September are both wearing fringe dresses that look straight out of a car wash, and it’s the epitome of… awkward.
“Starzanne!”
Starzanne chuckles, grabbing the trophy.
“Anything to say, Starzanne?”
“I am now wearing a lot LESS red, white and blue.” Starzanne nods.
The others awkwardly chuckle.
“Now, our title of SHADE- The Shadiest C.U.N.T this season.” Yasmin smiles. “Can I have a drumroll?”
“Cleo?” Severa looks over at the empty seat laughing.
“SEVERA!” Yasmin cheers. “Condragulations, you’ve won $10,000!”
Severa chuckles, grabbing the sash. “Thank you,I’d like to thank Cleo, Alcohol, and the rest of you for being too boring to get confessionals!”
Lupe laughs dramatically.
“I’d say I’m surprised, but I’m not!”
Everyone laughs.
….
“Finally, MY successor.” Yasmin smiles. “This year, the Congenial title will win $20,000, sponsored by Virtue Beauty.”
Everyone looks excitedly.
“The Winner is… MAGENTA LEIGH SIMMONS!” Yasmin cheers, as everyone starts clapping.
“Yes, yes!” Magenta cheers, as Yasmin puts the sash on her.
“Do you have anything to say, my Queen?”
“I-” Magenta smiles. “Damn.”
Everyone cheers.
“She’s finally out of things to say everybody!” Kaia laughs.
“Ugh…” Apocalyptica whimpers, wiping her eyes, as the others look over.
“Popsicle, are you okay?” Lupe asks.
“I’m- I’m fine.” Apocalyptica sighs. “I just- am really happy for Magenta.”
Magenta smiles.
“Bullshit.” Nymphe looks over.
The room is quiet.
“You expected this win, and again, you’re inauthentic, you’re lying, and you’re not owning up to when you want something.” Nymphe responds.
“I-” Apocalyptica tears up, holding onto Bates. “I-”
“I do have a question to ask, actually, as the crowned Ms SHADE.” Severa smirks. “Ms, Popsicle- we noticed your lack of presence at the crowning. You weren’t at any of the cast parties we held to celebrate or any of the events we planned, so what’s really up?”
Nymphe looks over.
“What happened?”
“I didn’t feel up to it. I was a bit sad, and I really did want to be there- but I-I felt physically ill, and…”
“Bullshit, again.” Severa rolls her eyes.
“Alright, you guys can have your opinions on everyone’s actions, but we don’t need to gang up on her.” Bates says, raising their voice a little..
“I don’t know what any of you mean…” Apocalyptica sighs. “I just-”
“You wanted to win, so you’re bitter. You kept denying it- but clearly, you positioned yourself in a way to do well. And you lost. So, why not own up to it?” Nymphe asks.
“Ugh, Can you go fuck yourself?” Apocalyptica snaps.
“Woah.” Magenta says.
Everyone looks spooked.
“Popsicle… You don’t have to acknowledge them…” Bates whispers.
“Of course I wanted to win.” Apocalyptica exclaims loudly. “I wanted to prove alt drag, to prove myself, and I don’t think that trying to be nice while doing so is a sin. ” Apocalyptica says. “LIKE-”
“Because you weren’t being real.” Severa looks at Apocalyptica. “Not the sweet girl who always happens to copy others.”
“I- You can think whatever you want. I…Actually I’m not going to continue to engage with this narrative.” Apocalyptica stutters as she turns to hold onto Bates.
“If you owned being unoriginal, maybe you’d have won.” Nymphe shrugs.
“Okay hold up- I’m mad she didn’t show up to our get togethers either but unoriginal?” Kaia inserts herself into the conversation. “We all get inspired and learn and take notes from others, like that’s the point of drag families, Delilah taught me so much, does that make me unoriginal? Have none of us ever felt inspired after seeing a good drag show or look?”
“I learned a lot from everyone in my short time here, my drag has changed a lot from all of you.” Madame Maine smiles.
“Girl, there’s a difference between being inspired and trying to steal my signature move the week after I leave.” Severa turns back at Kaia and Madame Maine.
“And were you the first to ever do that move? You came up with it with absolutely no influence from anyone else.” Apocalyptica bites.
“I don’t remember getting any credit or even a shoutout.” Severa stares at Popsicle.
“Do you give credits to who helped teach you how to dip every time you do it?” Apocalyptica retorts. “Whatever, i'm just so over this conversation.”
“Cool.” Nymphe bluntly states.
Apocalyptica rolls her eyes. “Cool.”
A couple of seconds pass of silence.
“Well, thank you all for a lovely season.” Yasmin smiles breaking the tension. “Now, before we go… Here's a sneak peak of SEASON 6 of Chronlogica’s DRAG RACE, coming soon!”
~
This has been… magic.
“It sure has.” Nymphe nods, sipping her pink tea. “But the magic… lives on and continues, as does the journey of the forest. It is… eternal.”
It's magic, you know…
Thirteen figures flash, as someone grabs a potion labeled ‘IMMUNITY’.

As Napalm
It felt frustrating in Chongqing. I was rather stuck in Hechuan. I got accustomed to lajiao (spice) there. I was a Midwesterner at the age of 22. I was raised in Illinois. I became a manic—a Ferris wheel on fire—I was hiding under a bed in a hotel. Bold like napalm. Sometimes I can never stop. Even when I was 18 in a ward arguing with staff. Always want to fight things. That’s why I refused the meds and went on a plane from America to China. I was going to be an English teacher. And like a light switch, the change and SSRIs turned me into a mess. It would be my first time experiencing psychosis. My biggest issue. I never imagined I would be stuck illegally in a country suffering a psychotic episode in my early twenties.
Transplanted as pollen. I was left with a backpack and a cellphone. With a downloaded app called WeChat. I had arrogantly quit a university job in a fit. Spent the past months full of energy and not sleeping and neglecting myself, including not eating, to work on a novel. Not considering myself normally religious, I had obsessed over occult ideas during that time. Spending nights reading Aleister Crowley—haven taken a rusty pocket knife to carve a pentagram on my chest for spiritual protection.
I did not have funds to fly home. My visa was connected to my previous job, which meant I had now made it void. I was an illegal resident now in China.
I used a nifty app called WeChat as a messaging app, it allows users to find people near them that are also looking for others. It was like a virtual pond. All kinds of people, including sex workers trying to make things happen.
It could with luck be used to find people looking for people in terms of other kinds of work. It was helpful on many occasions for finding gigs working at English training schools and also finding work as a private tutor for people.
WeChat also works as a digital wallet.
Mania makes me irritable. Enough to tell a boss to fuck off. Thoughts ricochet within me. Bumper cars collide.
Being stuck and angry sucks. I scrolled and scrolled on a Huawei phone.
Absolutely pissed off at this world.
Pissed at the times police wanted to take me away for being a mess.
Sometimes women get pissed. Scrolling through their phones. Angry at their cheating husbands. It really is not that hard to have flair—be a damn white oddity. Like moths to a porchlight. Particles of sand through hands. This is when I first started the habit of it…
I rather go by a rather empty name of Taishen… with further explanation needed but now is not convenient. But I assure it is interesting enough and has some importance.
Habits are various in nature in how they attach to and eat at marrow—like atom bombs flashing as rays evaporating DNA—sets in a way less than human as putting myself in the cage of bad things taken up—my time as a former heroin addict is left as stretch marks on me in various ways. The same goes for the first time I found myself making arrangements with middle aged married women while desperation of waves whiplashed me like sandpaper hands coming at me to leave me in a tiring state of abrasion.
I had spent a night snuck away into a hotel. Found someone on a business trip. Instead of registering I waited to sneak along into the hotel elevator amongst a group of others attending the hotel, as I had no card. I headed to a designated room number. Originally I was sitting in a park. Playing on WeChat and found someone in their mid-thirties. Pictures were exchanged and I said no. She brought up paying for the hotel if I arrived. I agreed and went along.
When I met I washed up after her and we used our phones to awkwardly translate what we would do.
Room service knocked. I found myself hidden under a bed as I was not registered to be there.
It seems unusual that it was around this time I had started working on a story of my life as a heroin addict when I got caught up in my worse manic episode ever experienced during my age of 22. Finished half that story before never going back to it after my manic episode had ended. Now I am here writing about it and wondering if the same can happen again in the process of this work.
It feels extremely cliché I would write a novel about struggles with heroin addiction. It has been done many times. It’s just lame of me.
I feel like my thoughts are bit off. I left the hotel the next morning with the little money I did have on a debit card. Turns out the woman was from Taiyuan. It is a city in the northern part of China in the province of Shanxi—coal country with the worst air pollution in China. She has a colleague in Taiyuan that takes courses at an English training center. I was able to contact this place in the morning via a shared contact on WeChat given to me by the stranger I met that night.
Before I knew it I was sending my information and documents in my backpack at an internet café in a fax—with the intent that the woman agreed to share my information to the training center as she shared my contact to its hiring manager. It would land me a job that day that would help me out of my situation. Things turned not quite out as I expected though. I was shifted like a ball to somebody else to contact for a training center geared to teaching children.
I took what I had and ran off to a train station after taking the public transit. Unfortunately I was shit for money and could not afford a high speed rail pass. The slow train would take thirty-two hours to get to my destination. I would have taken a room with a bed but all I could afford was a hard seat for the travel.
Things were getting better for me in the circumstance considering I had found someone willing to take me for work despite my visa situation.
The thirty-two hour train ride was horrendous in some ways, but mostly I was in excitement despite the circumstances. I’m always giddy when disappointed. I moved up and down the aisle of the train. I could not speak mandarin, but it did not stop me from trying to interact with everyone. I talked many ears off during the train ride. I went up and down the aisle trying to interact as a moth to porchlights—I could not stop even if I had wanted to. I found great enjoyment the times I did get to sit across a table from somebody my age heading to Taiyuan from Chongqing. They were a university student returning to their hometown. Another passenger who sat beside me was an elderly man with hard boiled eggs, he was eating one after another one. I highly enjoyed each and every conversation that I had. It was like my head was a lightbulb wanting June bugs to bang against it with the intensity of Roman candles shot at my mouth of nicotine tinged teeth.
“If you find someone in Shanxi it is practice to pay the family money before you can get married. You would also have to already own a home and a car,” told my new friend across in their seat from me—a university passenger friend named David.
“Not necessarily what I was looking for. When is the next stop for snacks?” When the train stops I am able to get out and to have a walk onto the platform to buy various goods from the vendors to take back with me to eat along the ride to Taiyuan.
I had all my important documents tucked in my bag. This included my health clearance and obviously I made no mention of my mental health diagnosis or history to the doctor who had to evaluate me. My diploma and TEFL certificate were tucked away securely. A TEFL is a certificate that stands for Teaching English as a Foreign Language, it qualifies me to teach English as a second language abroad—it had only took a few months of taking a course online that I had paid for to obtain.
It is easy to be happy when you can trick yourself as your own con artist. Mania can make you deceive yourself. One can be doused in napalm and still not fully recognize what is actually going on. Same goes the flicking of psychosis. Even when I have nothing I find myself in my radiating irritation the most qualified of things—the velocity of my rhythm sets me out of an orbit.
The pressure cooker keeps me moving like a propeller at times. I finally arrived at Taiyuan. I arrived at the station to be greeted by Ryan my manager and his assistant Jennifer. We had our hello and introduction and they helped me get to a taxi that would bring me to my new apartment. I finally had a residence again. Apparently they were desperate for a teacher. The last teacher was from New Mexico and apparently they pulled a midnight run—that is when a teacher in the middle of the night disappears onto a plane back home without any notification of it.
The apartment was okay. On the fourth floor with no elevator, so it was a bit of a climb up a dark stairwell not lit correctly.
My job was a training center that had a location near Yingze Park in the center of the city. I was to be paid in cash via envelopes. I would assist in teaching kindergarten all the way up to high school aged students there in private lessons paid by their parents. I would also be assigned by my company to various primary schools in the city. I would take public buses to various schools paid by the company I worked for to give English lessons as I bounced around to various classrooms and schools in the city. Often I would receive a phone call to avoid going to work that day if my boss got inside input that officials would be doing raids to check foreigners’ visas that day.
A taxi ride would always be a thrill. Caused me nerves at first, but I came to love the flying in dangerous ways along a busy road. I remember a driver beeping their horn away as they drove onto the sidewalk to pass people. They treated the pedestrians as if they were in the wrong. I came flying in front of a primary school at its front gates. I was going to start teaching a first grade classroom and a kindergarten classroom. The way schools are set up is with a wall around the entirety of the exterior of the school. There is a gate at the front where one or two security will be waiting to let people in and out of the complex of the school.
I walked in front of the gate to greet the security. It was my first time with an assignment at this school. The guard said they had never seen me before and wouldn’t let me in. Not a big nuisance while I called my boss who then called the school to sort out the situation.
I miss the classroom so much. I ended up teaching in China for five years at various training schools. After returning to Illinois, I still taught as a primary school teacher in a public school.
I often feel extremely ugly from inside to my outside, but something is attractive there. This does not come just in terms of flirting and relationships—mania makes me a genuine lightbulb that flickers in a way that encourages the insects to me—everyone looks like a June bug—this is what I have come to understand about life. But that ugly does kind of stay like rot in a cavity that leaves a bad taste in the mouth that smells foul—hoping nobody catches the smell near me—it must tie into my struggles with bulimia over the years.
The same goes for my years as a teacher—in relation to the whole lightbulb phenomenon—I’m positive it is tied to mania and hypomania. The younger students always were fixated on the information I was teaching to them. I kept over the years methods taught to me and self-taught that I found extremely effective with younger students when it comes to teaching.
Everything was physical in learning in terms of intensity and ambition. When teaching my first grade classroom I would create flashcards for the vocab we would work on and implement in creating new sentences with. We would chant these words together in a way that made me a clown while teaching. Students would yell out the word that I presented with intense enthusiasm. As I walked by students it was expected that while they yelled out the word they would also physically hit the card. Later I would also work on physical gestures and acting out of vocab words and they would follow the actions and phrases with me.
I would often eventually turn the class into two teams. When students got an answer right I would behave comically and full of energy—I would give them a high five and pretend they were so strong with it that it hurt my hand in the process with much exaggeration—the students always seemed to never get tired of this act.
One game I would play involved drawing two stick figures with happy faces on them. Each figure would represent one of the teams for the classroom. I would draw a hungry alligator under the figures. Their faces would also be comical in appearance and full of exaggerations. Each figure had a parachute placed over them and four strings attached. During the game the students would race to say the word correctly represented on the flashcard or the correct word for the gesture I was making. The team that was not the slowest would lose a string on the parachute. If a team lost all four strings they would fall to the alligator who would eat them. The students found it hilarious with my actions involved in it. I would also draw tears and a person praying to represent anticipation and worry of falling down each time they lost a string.
I had a tooth game too. I would draw too large faces for each team. The team that could answer the flashcards and gestures the quickest would have a tooth drawn in their mouth. The team with the most teeth would win and it would look rather funny as the mouth grew and grew with an abnormal and extreme amount of teeth.
I often did other physical and interactive games like having students run to the word I showed a card to or gestured—each word would be attached to a point in the classroom on a wall.
I know it sounds grandiose, but the parents always seemed to think I was great at my job.
The word vulnerable means so many things to me. That word is like the coal to form the generator that makes the guiding energy for the ethics I follow in my life—I hold very strongly to these values that have developed on how to live—I can express it more later but I greatly attach a kind of Christian value system to it, which makes sense considering I was raised in a Lutheran household and always went to church, Sunday school, and went to my courses and went through my confirmation—everyone is a bit of a mop—some pick up clean water and others dirty or a mix of it—waiting to find the people to drain them voluntarily or involuntarily. I was born vulnerable. I walk pigeon-toed and grew up tripping on my feet—I speak with a soft feminine voice. Bipolar disorder makes somebody vulnerable. There was much vulnerability in being eighteen and hospitalized involuntarily for my first manic episode—tied to a stretcher. I have almost a sense of us vs them—the vulnerable and those that harm the vulnerable—take advantage of the vulnerable—I feel this is a very much Christian in the idea of the unfortunate are more holy than the rest of the bunch—children are like that in terms of being born into a cruel existence—a cruel existence I felt at times in my life and so many do—making sure harm does not come to those in need gives the light of purpose to go bright inside like a Christmas tree in my brain—this light of happiness and warmth. I never expected I would fall in love for teaching due to the antidepressant effect provided. It would become my career for a decade. Some grow up wanting to be a teacher, I became one by accident, desperation, and being saved.
Sometimes I inflate on self-hate like a helium balloon that needs to be tied to a wrist. The vulnerability equation is imprinted on my brain.
In my early teens I started struggling with bulimia and image. I remember when my mother caught me in the act. I was not offered help but criticized. I was called a girl for my problems and threatened to be taken somewhere to be fixed of my confusion. I don’t identify as transgender. I identify as a man that struggles with bulimia and happens to have feminine qualities.
I attribute it to circumstances that happened to me—a justification for the pain at times—an attack on aspects of bisexuality.
After a long day of work I did what my young self often did. I went clubbing with friends. I feel like even if I hide aspects of myself such as being bisexual, people can spot it regardless. I’m extremely secretive about it and not comfortable displaying that vulnerable aspect of myself.
My friend from England went with me. He was about six years my senior. Big guy. Tall. The clubs name was Maoye.
I always enjoyed the free drinks available to foreigners—it was done to attract Chinese clients, as the idea was foreigners being there would attract people.
Amongst the hot and sweltering crowd a man grabbed ahold of me. I felt stuck. I was taken off guard. Pushed and cornered. While on me I managed to push him off. But it all serves as a reminder of the vulnerability of my life.
A nail was placed into my hand—a constant burn and reminder of that vulnerability.
Part 2
From self-hate I can also be so grandiose. I am like a Christmas tree that is lit up. Sparklers so pretty that you cannot let go of them, even if it burns your fingertips and hurts.
From heroin to sex, you can smother the pain. You drain the ocean to fill a void in these times. It ties to mania as well. That restlessness and irritability is extinguished by the paradox of throwing kerosene to everything burning. I’m so grandiose to hide my insecurities, I mistake my misfortune as a mark of something ugly virtuous—the neon of vulnerability pulsating like a star within me. Swelling on a pain.
Bad habits. I want you to judge me and tell me what’s wrong with me. Give me a verdict.
Stress a trigger for mania, and I was stressed from the incident I had experienced at the club. I bloated like a tick to distract from locusts of thoughts that could not shut up with their commotion.
I had been sleeping around more than before. My brain was Christmas tree lights. I accelerated on a generator—I made a mixed episode worse.
Tease a disaster when you are heightened like a blimp. Full of hydrogen. Hoping to burn up ad rain down like napalm.
When the pretty candles on the Christmas tree are left untouched—not looked at like a kettle on burner that has been forgotten—the dry neglected tree will into a house fire.
I’ve had four attempts in my life so far.
When I attempt I don’t cry for help. I feel too vulnerable. I’m afraid.
Hate police and wards.
Downing pills.
My past failed attempts made me aware of everything done wrong before. The sleeping pills alone might not do what I was looking for at that time. I bought an electrical cable. This way if it failed I would still be unconscious and choked out by the cord—fail safe plan to end my life.
The words coming out of my mouth slowed down. I started getting second thoughts. Stuck my face towards the toilet bowl while on my knees. Sticking my fingers down my throat. Leaving blood vessels bursting in my eyes.
Went stumbling outside and waved a taxi down and asked to be taken to the local hospital.
Never expected finding myself checked into a psych ward in a foreign country.
Nietzsche has a quote in reference to chaos in life and how it is needed to create a star—this reference holds so much value to me. Sometimes stars hit together just right to create fate out of the worst of things. The ward lead me to meet the woman made of paper. She would one day become my wife. I would have two daughters with her. Forge together as soldiers to face the obstacles in life. Someone who would save my life during a future attempt when I was found unconscious from an overdose. The smartest and toughest woman I have ever known. Someone to build trenches with.
I liked it when she stuck that needle in me for an IV. It must correlate to being a heroin addict. The pushing of something in my vein correlates to happiness and purity.
The woman made out of paper was my nurse in the ward I was stuck in. What attracted her to the mess that is me I will never understand fully.
The woman made out of paper is named Lilu. She was one year older than me and one of my nurses at that ward in Taiyuan. She was from Zhengzhou—a city in the province of Henan that is based in the center of China. I am sure as the reader it would be nice to know why I call her the woman made of paper.
She struggled with her own demons. She also deserves much praise for her resilience and brains. When she was born she was raised by a family that adopted her and often neglected and abused her growing up. Her biological family is distant from her, even though she has an identical twin—they felt too poor to take care of her and made the choice that they needed to be less of one child as she also has an older sister—her twin got to stay with that family but she was given up and adopted. I am sure this must bother her even if she never will talk about it to anyone in her life—as she is one to refuse ever discussing emotions and feelings, as this is not her personality type—she is very much a fighter. I think most would struggle with wondering why they were the one let go of—it also must hurt her knowing that the family would have a son and keep him.
Despite all these circumstances, she graduated top of her class of four thousand students—Chinese high schools can be quite large serving a large region—they often serve as boarding schools. She was a smart and hardworking student. Circumstances never made her stop trying to be the best and moving forward and she never made excuses for herself. In university she also did well and got accepted at the most studious and hard to obtain nursing position at the number one hospital in Shanxi.
I have already ranted and gone on about my affection and feelings tied to heroin. Drinking of entire oceans to fill voids.
Paper is a void. It asks for calligraphy to be written on it to make braille. This way when fingers run over skin, it tells worth—the reason for troubles—it forms connection through those words of declaration—the whining for why things are the way they are—the filling of a void like a heroin addict needing a cure—two papers come together to write upon one another—as a paper I am her typo—I stand as a falling mess with nerves like tripwire, I keep failing and losing my composer, while she stands stronger as a declaration that has been written on—when I was chased I listened to her and joined as one. I wish and intend to always serve the woman made out of paper who has saved my life and has always been there for me, being so strong despite circumstances—amongst the wind of turmoil in life I follow along her path.
It was love at first sight for her but not for me. I had no interest in dating her at the time. I worked across the street of that hospital in an office building for a training center as a part time job. I would teach adults English who paid for private lessons near to Yingze park in the center of Taiyuan. She signed up for classes for me to teach her and brought me food on almost every other day that she had prepared. Eventually we found ourselves coupled fully.
In a pit. I get to burn as paper amongst another’s paper. Eternally. With a life that will keep reoccurring.
Part 3 Liu
A woman like Chang’e lived on a moon. Far away.
You can refer to me as Liu.
At the age of 19 I was diagnosed with a severe nerve pain condition. It is called trigeminal neuralgia but you can call it TN for ease.
I was frustrated. I had completed a degree in international finances from Chongqing University of Business and Technology. The boom of the economy was not the same. There was an urge to “lay flat”—to not try as a form of opposition to everything going on in a waning economy in China.
All are elephants chained for an audience. People love to peek and stare as though they are glass doors without hinges—to be made feel useless.
I developed TN at the age of 19, and was now 22. It came as an arrow, and quite literally to the face. It’s a rare nerve pain disorder often considered one of the most painful conditions known.
The illness involves intense nerve pain throughout the left side of my face. It felt like someone was trying to pull all of the teeth on the left side of my face without anesthesia. The pain can leave me falling to the floor unable to speak or move while screaming profanities while choked by pain. A feeling of a knife to my face over and over again. It leaves me in absolute shock. Like Roman candles to the face. An absolute hindrance. The anticipation of not knowing when it will happen again is a nightmare at times.
The disease is often called the suicide disease, apparently up to 26% try to take their lives. In a state of panic during one of the nerve attacks I began swallowing any pill near to me. I went to the hospital to have my stomach pumped when I was found comatose by my mother.
I want to be Chang’e and on the moon and away from a world I have had enough of.
Gossip spread around the workplace that I attempted suicide over an affair with a married man. There was too much guilt to return to the workplace. COVID did have an impact to the economy. I still remember my hometown having dirt and trees piled onto the exits and entrances to the city keep people in their places.
The work I did find felt beneath me. China has what is called the great firewall that keeps something in and out of the country’s networks. A VPN was necessary to access American TikTok as it was used as opposed to the Chinese version.
Feels humiliating the nature of the outcome for me—I gave up in many ways like so many Chinese youth. For work I would go to a local office building. Amongst a long hall would be a room for live stream performers. I would entertain with watchers while trying to obtain virtual gifts for actual money. I despised it—sometimes the conversation could be funny or interesting but it felt hollow.
I would paint flowers on my face and wear hanfu clothing while doing ASMR.
I had a mind of sparklers burning until it burnt and stung like wax—like I had the option to stop and cry and those tears stuck as wax and burnt or I soldiered on and grew accustomed to the pain. I was an elephant chained. The audience watched and interacted with me on the live. I was a chained elephant when it was found out about my previous attempt and when the rumors spread.
Too many thorns in life. Nails hitting at the wrong points like an equation for something terrible to eventually happen.
My favorite dish was Henan noodles. I often cooked it with my mom. It provides great memories of childhood. I hadn’t talked to my mother as much as before. She moved to a job in Taiyuan.
Sometimes I would go up to visit her. But it was harder as she worked more and more hours. Sometimes voids build even when going through extreme nerve pain. And with trigeminal neuralgia, the pain was so intense that I would freeze and scream in pain. It cannot always be hid. It made me an elephant tethered.
Life can be like a pressure like no other. Too much stress. Makes one feel irritable with a mouth like a sprinkler of napalm when someone is too close. Life feels like a lit fire cracker held—in the end it would tear my hand up. Things kept building while the other side of my face began to hurt too recently. This was rare and not so common. My eyesight was becoming blurry too and it seemed I might have multiple sclerosis as the pain was on both side, it was not common for my age, and the blurry eyesight. An appointment was scheduled and I felt terrified to know what was going on and wondered if it was best to not even know my health.
I walked out of the studio and had a cigarette. My boss came out and joined to talk. He was concerned about view count and wanted me to do things to increase it that made me feel uncomfortable. He made a few comments I found incentive.
The boss sure liked to criticize and apply pressure. He was not impressed with my work and thought I could do something different. In China an application is used called WeChat. This application has many uses. People can display and share moments like a Facebook wall, message each other, send money, video chat, and even has a feature to find people near to you who are also looking for people near to them. I was to attract people onto dates. The idea was they would be lured in and the men would go to a set destination to a planned tea house that served snacks. When the men arrived (they had no knowledge of the setup) the bill would be at an absurd rate and if the men refused to pay larger men would use their size to force them to pay up.
I was not sure at the time yet if I wanted the job. Being worried about ethics and safety. It was something I would have to think about.
My medical expenses were growing and I knew the nerve disease could be expensive to treat with surgery. All I had was thoughts while looking at the moon.
Part 4 Taishen
My former roommate in the ward I shared a room with had paranoid schizophrenia. I was stuck in the same place due to mania, and just had gotten my diagnosis of bipolar disorder.
I was so pissed being stuck there and felt I had no business being there. I found my diagnosis to be an insult to me. I was only 18 at the time—taken in on a stretcher. Made me feel very vulnerable and irritated.
My roommate was having delusions related to Christianity and could not stop waking me up in the middle of the night to ask and talk about Jesus. Left me beyond frustrated.
He was drifting from his wife and would go on and on about intending to leave her. Felt he was spied and plotted against by her. So we were both frustrated with being there.
The toilets were special. They would flush what needed to be flushed but not certain things like pills—it helped to keep people from hiding they were not taking their medications.
He had tried to flush his wedding ring down the toilet but he did not realized it didn’t flush. I went to use the restroom later and saw the ring. I told him. He took it out. He found it to be a sign form God that he is to stay with his wife, and there was immense happiness in his eyes.
Part 5 Liu
I’m a missile from Zhengzhou
Where my face is printed with flowers
Left university with hope
A blimp
To be ripped
Abrasion and termites
Eat me whole until I undo
Caught to the wires around me
Laying flat
Hoping for something new.
My name is Michelle. I had been at the local foreigner bar. I was raided in Zhengzhou. I lost my job recently. I’m 22 and wanted to work in business, but it will not do. Lost
Now I was working at a TikTok farm. I’m a busy ant.
I can’t remember much. My anti-convulsion meds make my mind feel muddy. I spend nights playing with my tarot cards wondering what I got to do to get to a place better.
Driving me crazy taking meds because my face started to hurt me. Feels like a bolt to my face—absolute torture!—suicide disease—that is what the doctors told me.
So I had an attempt and all my coworkers thought I had an affair.
All the gossip was like blitzkrieg so I ran away—I quit. And I need to make money because I’m sick and don’t want the nerve pain. Hoping surgery can save me. So I found myself working making money on live streams doing ASMR. I put on beautiful hanfu and paint flowers on my face. I’m waiting for gifts. But my boss hates me. Maybe because I don’t fit the picture. It’s not in my character to lay flat.
I speak English fluently. So my boss thinks I’m perfect for something new. I go on WeChat waiting for strangers to go on the social app looking for affairs. Foreigners that are easy to pull likes moths to lights. I flirt with them. Ask them to me in the middle of the night. We go to predestined positions. Guys thinking they are getting something that night. A couple larger men come to force the unexpected men to pay an astronomical bill that is not just for the snacks served.
This became my routine. But onetime it really bad. A Canadian I met in the street did not act right. He appeared to be bouncing and deranged. Like he was on some kind of upper. Offered me white powder. My sensors went off. I’m a missile. I know when something is off. Ready to do what I have to. He came close. I shoved him. I was near the location for the setup. My colleagues heard the commotion. Hands went. The crazed Canadian fell to the ground and never woke up again. Not knowing what to do. I went off like a missile and ran. The fear…
Part 6
I thought of it as I got lost. I’m a butterfly from Zhengzhou. From the center of Henan in China. I float off. Cause I’m stuck. No symmetry in my fate. Came under the ground as a Cicada. Went looking for something great but I’m not far. Just stuck, like a sun that won’t rise up. Call me Liu.
I developed the suicide disease when I was 19. It leaves my facing in tremendous pain on the left side. Makes me fall down and want to die. 26% will commit suicide. I often painted flowers on the side to grant some beauty to what happens to me. This disease caused all my teeth, gums, and entire left side to turn to intense electrical stabbing pain. There would be no warning before an attack. Paranoia of not knowing when the next one will come.
Had a decent job that seemed to be fit and good for me. The attacks brought me to my knees and made me eat carpet. Brought me to a frantic spell that caused me to overdose. Rumors spread at work that it was due to shame I had for having an affair with a married man.
I left the career devastated. I was shamed out of it.
I had temporarily found myself stranded into a career on a TikTok farm in Zhengzhou performing ASMR.
I was transplanted to a new career after a horrible incident. I had ran off to Guangzhou to where my cousin lives.
I want symmetry in my life. There is none. Just instability and pain.
Do you believe in the transplantation of thoughts? I do.
Do you believe in the transplanting of thoughts? I do. Learned about it before in a book. My friend beside me nodded after having taken their fentanyl based medicine earlier. Tiring doing odd jobs to pull off getting ahold of things.
I walked by and entered my workplace. I walked into the studio that was based in Guangzhou. I was handed my flyers. I headed to the street and began passing them out to advertise for a local KTV with women wearing little to no clothing on them.
A man walked by on the sidewalk. Some man looked like someone I must know before. Ever ad that feeling? But I could not know for sure or remember exactly. I awkwardly stared him up and down.
The man I had a hard time recognizing started to feel all too familiar. It was like I could read his thoughts. I have a projector head. Sometimes I can see everything. I feel it like rays of the sun on my skin—so natural and calling. Like Chang’e on the moon so far away looking down on a lover she misses—this man was sending radio signal signals from his marrow. A special type of attraction. Need attention like the world has been cruel to me. A world that has abandoned me.
The books were right that I had been reading. He must of noticing my odd staring. He took a flyer from me. Stumbled a bit while trying to understand what was going on. I pointed at the establishment I worked and told him he should visit. He gave a smile before departing it. I’m sure heaven can talk—gave orders to lift the anchors to provide transportation to a new fate.
It was exciting to know I might get to meet him, but I had concerns. In the evening I would work within the KTV. Depending on the occasion I would sometimes get to dress in hanfu, which I enjoyed. I sometimes search for distraction as there is something wrong with the way my thoughts transfer. When you live a life under threats and violence—feelings of being trapped in life—you naturally see people with masks. They either pose a threat or are safe and you must view them in black and white. There is no time to see things in grey—too much danger in doing that. I must have a negative perspective on the world around me like a cocoon to stay safe. Like a butterfly I go to faces to see if they bite or have pollen. I believe the man today had pollen. I truly can read minds.
Part 7
Black and white thinking originates like an atom bomb. It tears a mind into a black hole of horrible events. Leaves craters like hole as cheese in the brain—provides the surface to create something that absorbs like a sponge. Pain that radiates through to create the velocity of irritated atomic steam engine that can send signals out. It burns. Cheese head with holes right through like a particle accelerator went right through. Fox holes in the brain when it feels in danger. A life of a perpetual civil war. It is painful.
Such thinking with holes causes one to be prone to have memories fall through black holes and be forgotten. Never can be found. Blanks.
The man that thoughts transpired to earlier in the day went by the name of Muchen. It was like seppuku in attraction. Fusion. We met at the designated room he had gotten with his friends to rent out to have there to host. Drinks are bought as a form of payment. Transplanting of thoughts wears the brain like sandpaper waves of abrasion.
I don't trust you as the reader. You been holding for a long time And I feel attachment with you that makes me very unsafe. I don’t trust you anymore. I rather you stop putting eyes on me. It makes me run off very fast. I’m uncomfortable. The most benign things come across as dangerous to me. And I want you to step away.
Part 8
I like this man I met. He makes me whole. He is the light for everything dark around me. My boss made me feel what I never felt before. He is so nice! Not like the other guys who talk with words that split my insides. I can do the same. Like a cycle hate goes around in love.
He get so lonely at night. But I have the right company.
I’m feeling so nice
Everything just so happy
Tapping away on my phone
Writing poetry
Because my heart grows
Swell like a balloon
Don’t you want to pop it?
Simmer
Like acne to pop.
I kept writing poetry about my feelings of this man. I could not get him out of my head. The strength of transplanted thoughts. I keep going forever. Like a phony I feel. My boss was the man I transplanted thoughts with. He worked at a local host club. For where women and gay men could go and pay drinks for male hosts to sit with them and keep them feeling loved and entertained. I fused to him like atoms in the sun. He was a host at this club. I would host at my location and meet him. We were each other’s. Eating ourselves together.
to be continued..

So I'm in Bye Bye Birdie for the first time. There are SO many references that I feel like I had to do research to figure out. I can't believe how much I miss of the references and context. The only place I found these compiled was this text-based personal website last dated 16 years ago, and even then it's only a few (though really key ones!) and some of them don't show up in my 2024 copy - I wonder if they were pared down. Regardless, figured I'd make a context and reference list based on the copy I have!
I can't fit it all in one post, I exceed the text limit, so we'll start with Act 1 with general context stuff and the second post will be Act 2 only :)

Context

How Dated Was the Musical When Released?
Bye Bye Birdie is famously a direct reference to Elvis Presley getting drafted in 1957 and the stir it caused. But note the musical was written and published in 1958, and went on Broadway in 1960. It's like if a musical went on Broadway this year (2024) about a blonde-haired pop star named Tay-lee Quick (instead of Taylor Swift) who performed a world tour, but didn't initially book any dates in Canada, causing a massive outcry, leading to several Canadian officials and the president "Justice Troodoo" to beg her to stop there and... something else silly happens involving her, then she gets punched by a jealous girlfriend, and silliness ensues.
That is how on-the-nose this musical really is. There are many references to what would have been VERY modern events in this musical. For that reason, I'll try to give some equivalences of how the references in the musical would sound if it was written today.
Elvis' Perception in America
This extensive Wikipedia article does a great job of saying in many words that Elvis was insanely influential and deeply controversial. 1956 was a major year of stardom for Elvis -
Phone Calls
Phones are obviously a huge part of this musical! Wanted to combine all the phone references here.
Kim's Phone Number: Kim's number is, according to Rosie in Act 1, Scene 1, "Capitol 7 - 8820". In the 50s, the previous system which used 6-digit phone numbers started to be replaced by one that used an "exchange prefix" and 5 digits after. (Source) (Source) At the time, phone numbers that didn't connect to anyone were given out for shows like I Love Lucy, so that may be what happened here as well, though I don't know.
One Phone Line to Share: Kim's mother asks her to get off the phone early in the play so she can take a phone call. For a long time before cell phones, each home had a "home number" and you couldn't use it at the same time. This is why Kim's mother is asking her to finish up her call so she can call someone and eventually get a phone call as well.
Picking Kim's Number: Rosie uses a rolodex she randomly flips through to pick Kim - which would have been very standard in the 1950s.
The Operator Trying to Get Through: Calls were pushed through using real people, usually women, plugging lines into a "switchboard" to connect them manually. So when Kim's mom says the operator has been trying to get through for nearly three quarters of an hour, she's been trying to not get a busy signal when manually connecting the lines for 45 minutes! That's dedication!
Mr. MacAfee Frustrated with Long Distance Calls: Cost of international calls at this time was per-minute - so calls to New York, Chicago, Fairbanks, Alaska, and Hong Kong would have cost a pretty penny - over $100 for the first 3 minutes in a similar estimation! It sounds like Conrad and Albert didn't really offer to cover this cost, so you can see why Mr. MacAfee is so cross.
Getting Pinned/Going Steady
"Going steady" referred to, in short, being exclusive with someone. "As Time reported in 1957, "Boys and girls who go steady dance together exclusively (cutting in is frowned upon), sip their sodas, absorb their double features and spin their platters in each other's company or not at all. Steady-going girls indicate their unavailability in various ways, [like] the old-fashioned fraternity pins." (Source) It's mentioned in other sources that this could also be school pins, or rings. Something to show your commitment. One of the heads of my production described it like a "promise ring". It's definitely a firmer promise and commitment then just going out with someone, but not quite an engagement.
However, why, if this is such a sweet gesture of romantic love and commitment, would everyone be freaking out about it, and Kim's parents potentially not reacting well to "getting pinned" or "going steady"? (Kim has a line where she exclaims to her mother that she thinks her dad took the announcement "awfully well"). Truth be told, going steady in high school was actually highly discouraged by adults and especially church at the time. This article/Reddit thread sheds some light. I'll copy the first comment here by u/Gfrisse1. "It was felt that going steady would encourage the relationship to develop into one of physical intimacy, something parents wished to avoid. On the other hand, dating a wider, more diverse number of individuals would give them the experience of being exposed to a greater number of character and personality types, thereby helping to hone their mate-selection skills for later on. In the meantime, the short-term relationships were not expected to get much beyond the first- or second-date stage of intimacy. (One-night-stands, or casual hook-ups were not as common-place as they are today.)"
Cigarettes/Age
There are many references to smoking, cigarettes, and how old you should be in this play. It's complicated, but just know that in the 1950s, EVERYONE smoked. Everywhere. In the early 1950s, though, the first studies were coming out with the link to lung cancer, and tobacco companies used every trick in the book to try to squash that. It's genuinely fascinating (and terrifying) how much money and strategy was poured into this misinformation campaign. Read about it here. Anyway, what this means is in the late 1950s, it's not like most were giving up smoking, but because tobacco companies had started more explicitly advertising to minors, several states were in debate about the smoking age. It varied from 21 to 16, but just know that Kim was not considered old enough to be doing it. (Source.)) However, MANY minors did. Think of it like underaged drinking today as the best analogy. There's some specific cigarette references that will pop up in specific scenes, but just know that's the standard.
Patriotism
Fresh(ish) off of the victory of World War II, which was filled with MASSIVE pushes for increased American patriotism (to the degree that Disney even got in on it!), love for the USA was very culturally acceptable and a way to show you were a good person! It was easy to rally around (especially if you ignored the growing civil rights movement of Black people trying to achieve equality, which many white people at the time were very happy to do until they could no longer ignore it - obviously, not touched on in this musical, but significant. Several racist references have been either removed or are requested to be removed by current versions.) But that's why we hear so many classic American anthems in this play!

References by Order of Appearance (Act 1)

Almaelou Music Corporation

This is the end of Almaelou Music Corporation!

Almaelou may very well be a parody of Aldon Music, which would fit due to its major success being in the late 50s, and it's influence in music written for teen girls at the time.
Arpege

Rosie: A five-dollar raise in 1954 and a bottle of Arpege last Christmas.

Arpege is a perfume that was released in 1927 and remained the best-selling perfume of well-loved fashion line Levine for decades. (Source) Albert is quoting a commercial tagline tied to the perfume that was very well-known at the time. It continued to be used in commercials for many years. (Commercial example). It was possible to see 1/2 oz bottles at the time (Source), but Albert gave her a laughably small amount at 1/16 of an ounce. You can still buy this perfume today!
A five-dollar raise in 1954. Secretaries in metropolitan areas could earn around $75 a week. (Source) A five-dollar raise bringing that to $80 a week would, ironically, be about a 1/16 increase in earnings. Also, Rosie is pointing out in an earlier line she has put in 90 hour weeks and hasn't gotten a raise in four years.
Modern example:

Rosie: My last raise was four years ago and you got me that jewelry from Kay Jewelers once
Albert: "Every Kiss Begins with Kay", Rosie. Rosie: Not when that "Kay" is a .25 karat discontinued friendship ring!

Music Business Bum Vs. English Teacher
This is related to the prestige of being an English teacher who is helping people learn a scholarly subject vs. the "seedy" music industry.
Ugga Bugga Boo

"When you wrote Conrad's last hit 'Ugga Bugga Boo' then I knew this was it/You were thru with English forever."

Ugga Bugga Boo is a real song released 1947. It's a comedy song, written by voice acting legend and radio host Mel Blanc (voice of Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig, and many others) for his comedy radio show. I do wonder if Elvis had a song in this vein, as the Jetsons did a similar parody with an Elvis expy a few years later, but I couldn't find one.
Geoffrey ChauceWilliam Morris

"It was goodbye, Geoffrey ChauceHello, William Morris"

Geoffrey Chaucer is considered one of the greatest English writers, specifically poets, of all time. Born in the 1400s.
As for William Morris, this could be two references, possibly combining.
William Morris Agency was an incredibly famous music talent agency that would have likely been known by some audience members in the 1950s. They've represented tons of major talent. This is what I believe is the most likely reference given the song context.
However William Morris was a man also considered a legendary poet during his life, born in the 1830s. However, he also made wallpapers and textiles. After his passing, he became infinitely more famous in the public eye for his wallpaper designs than he did for his poetry. This is could be a dig at that Alfred could be great in the English world, but like Morris, his legacy will be for something "silly" instead. (Important to note that his works, both art and poetry, had great impact - and this may just be a coincidence reference, I don't know)
Bliss! Kiss! That rhymes! I wonder if anyone's ever used it before?
Many people had and have, this is a joke of him being unaware of current trends. Dean Martin had a #1 song in 1955 with this very rhyme for instance that audiences may have remembered at the time.
Dentifrice

Albert: Oh one last kiss; it gives so much bliss... what is your dentifrice! No, that's too clinical...

Basically, toothpaste. Which is, kind of, related to kissing? It could actually be a paste or powder for cleaning the teeth, though in the 50s it wouldn't have been the default way to refer to what you used it seems from my research, like in this commercial. May be a way to show off that Albert really does have an excellent English teacher level vocabulary!
A modern example may be "do you use fluoride? No, that's too clinical..."
"What's the story? Morning glory?"
This is most likely a reference to the song "What's Your Story, Morning Glory?" by jazz legend Ella Fitzgerald released in 1958, another topical reference. It's very possible Helen, the teen who says this line, would be aware of the song because Ella Fitzgerald in 1956 had released her "Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Song Book" album, her attempt to pull in a non-jazz audience. (Source on Ella's Discography)
"What's the tale, nightingale" is most likely an original line to match the "Morning glory" one, same with the hummingbird line.
"Go to a fancy night club and stay out after ten!"
A nightclub was different from what we think of today. Think tables and chairs, late night musical performances (not the NSFW kind), and in some of the most famous like the Copacabana night club, rubbing elbows with the rich and famous. And drinking, of course! Source on Nightclub Definition
18 in World War II

Mr. MacAfee: I am not an old man! I was 18 in World War II.

This is one that may get a bit better with time. WWII ended in 1945, but the play is in 1958 at the earliest. It's better to demonstrate with a modern example written for 2024. "I am not an old man! I was 18 when Facebook first launched." Not quite the same impact as WWII, but the timeline is similar. Essentially this is not a flex and just shows he definitely is old to a teenager.
No Smoking 'Till You're 14

Albert: Remember the Conrad Birdie Creed dear. No smoking till you're fourteen.

As mentioned in my blurb above, 14 was too young to smoke. A modern version may say "No drinking 'till you're 16" or something. Similar to the line "and stay out of the bar!" later on.
"Go down to Track 12"

Albert: Why don't you girls go down to Track 12 and I'll talk to her.

This is one of the many train tracks that must have run through this station. This station is located in New York, so it would make sense for there to be at least 12.
Wear your rubbers

"Keep your money in your inside pocket. Wear your rubbers. And eat a hot lunch..."

While "rubber" as slang for a condom definitely did exist in the 1950s, I believe it's far more likely Mae is referring to overshoes due to the context, though to be fair, I can't find a source to this being "official slang" besides casual mention in posts like these. Something tells me Mae is not randomly mentioning condoms lol.
A Plain G.I.

Albert: Proud to be a plain G.I.!

Mentioning this because it's faded away from current use and surged in usage most recently at WWII, this is just referring to being a soldier. (Source) Hence, G.I. Joe, if you're old enough to remember that.
Appealing for the Draft

Albert: And that's why he volunteered for...

Men were drafted to join the US armed forces until 1973. (Source)
Jerries

Albert: "Say Mr. Peterson," he cried eagerly, "Do you suppose I can get assigned to the front-line trenches? That way I'll be sure to get one of those dirty jerries..."

"Jerries" is slang for German soldiers and was most popular during WWII. The joke here is that WWII is over at this point - the enemies Conrad would be facing at this time would be the Vietnamese, not the Germans. When Rosie tries to correct him, he just says "whoever's dirty this time!".
2024 equivalent: "Conrad said 'Is there any way I could be placed on Seal Team 6? That way I'll be sure to get that Osama Bin Laden for sure!'" "Albert!" "...Or whoever the terrorist is this time!"
Rosie + Albert's "Origin Stories" for Conrad
Just a few references from Rosie's and Albert's stories in "Healthy Normal American Boy" that may be interesting.
Old Virginie - This may be known as a historical fact for people in Virginia, but Carry Me Back to Old Virginny was popular enough in the state of Virginia that it was the state song starting in 1940. In 1940, the version that became the state song had "Virginia" instead of "Virginny", but people watching the musical would definitely be familiar with the original version as this play was only 20 years later.
Indo-China - An eastern territory that got independence from France claim in 1954, and comprised Cambodia, Laos, and parts of Vietnam. Audiences would have been very aware of what Indochina was - according to Wikipedia, "The events of [Indochina getting independence in 1954 through the Geneva Convention and the political tensions of that between S/N Vietnam and other countries] marked the beginnings of serious United States involvement in Vietnam and the ensuing Vietnam War." (Source) Remember, that's the current war during the events of the play!
Dirty Hong Kong moon - We had a complicated relationship with Hong Kong in the 1950s-60s. Read more here. Though I'm not sure if this is meant to be a mis-insult like when Albert said "dirty Jerries".
A wire to New York

Another Reporter: I'll make sure we've got a wire to New York.

This is almost certainly setting up a telegraph communication to New York, which was still happening (though declining in popularity) by 1960. (Source)
I mean I really feel that girl

Conrad: When I sing about a tree/I really feel that tree!/When I sing about a girl,/I really feel that girl,/I mean I really feel sincere!

This isn't necessarily specific to the 50s or 60s but I think this joke gets missed because it seems so tame today. A huge part of Elvis' appeal was his explicit sex appeal at the time (in the form of - gasp! - hip thrusts!) so he's slipping in accidentally a reference to "feeling up" a girl%20for%20sexual%20pleasure) here. Yeah, that slang started in the 1930s!
Mr. MacAfee's Speech
Just know that this is a lot of great historical references, nothing specific to 1950 - 60.
Ed Sullivan
Ed Sullivan was the nationwide sensation that lead The Ed Sullivan Show, a TV program considered one of the most iconic of all time in US television history. You have to understand just how influential and huge the Ed Sullivan Show was at this time. It's genuinely difficult to think of an equivalent in 2024 - today, people get entertainment from tons of sources on the internet, TV, etc. but in 1960 there were THREE television channels. That was it. THREE. To be fair, there were many, many more radio stations that could deliver information and entertainment, but by 1960 it was a TV nation - as the Library of Congress says, "In 1950 only 9 percent of American households had a television set, but by 1960 the figure had reached 90 percent." The Ed Sullivan Show was well watched and well loved by all of the United States. (And Albert saying that they would appear on Sunday at 8:05 was right, as that's when it aired in real life!)
One reason Ed Sullivan is specifically picked is the absolute bombshell of a privilege to be a normal family on this show beamed in practically every household in the United States. But another is Elvis' relationship with the show. When Elvis finally appeared on the show in 1956, it set a record of the most-viewed TV program ever in the US. In fact, it still holds the record TODAY of having the highest share of TV viewers in all of television history in the US. No other TV program has ever had a higher percentage of people tune in vs. other stations. (I mean, that's helped by the fact that there were only 3 choices, but still!) So yeah - this was a cultural phenomenon that was easy to reference in this show!
Margo out of Shangri-La

Mrs. Peterson: She looks like Margo when they took her out of Shangri-La.

Going to take this one right from that personal website I referenced above!

In the 1937 [movie] "Lost Horizon)" [...] a group of travelers are stuck in a utopia called Shangri-La, somewhere in the Himalayas. One of the residents of Shangri-La is Maria, played by Margo), a Mexican dancer and actress. When the travelers finally escape, Maria insists on going with them. But outside the realm of Shangri-La, her youthful beauty can no longer be maintained and she reverts to her true age, causing her to die and her appearance to transform to the hideously withered, wrinkled features of someone who has lived way beyond a normal life span.

You can watch the movie free with ads here, if you're curious! Also, according to the synopsis, Maria never actually escapes Shangri-La. She just dies and "reverts to her true age". AKA looks very very very decrepit. I'm guessing this is more of an easy thing to misremember and better shorthand, though. See the face at 2 hr 3 minutes in abouts!
Suwannee River

Gloria: Mae, can you hum Suwannee River?

While this is a nice convenient copyright-free tune, it would definitely have been publicly known at the time. It had been sung at least partially by Bing Crosby, on the Honeymooners, etc. in recent years before the musical premiered. Unsure if this is what they were going for, but the original lyrics are racist - no wonder it was Mae's "favorite selection".
Ruby Keeler

(Stage direction) Gloria tap dances as Mrs. Peterson hums gaily. Sort of Ruby Keeler-ish steps with a lot of feet-slapping.

Ruby was a well known actress and dancer in the 1920s-30s (and then later after a break). Here's some footage of her dancing! Interestingly, in her early career she was cast in a musical called Bye, Bye, Bonnie. In a newspaper article review, it seems the plot wasn't very similar to Bye Bye Birdie, though it did involve someone going to jail. (Source)
The Touch System

Mrs. Peterson: I'll find you a typewriter (Exits) Albert: [TO GLORIA] Do you use the touch system? Gloria: Whenever possible.

Albert is just referring to the touch system of typing - basically, not looking at the keyboard while you type. Still relevant today, though not with typewriters, which were standard until the 1980s, so that fits here. Of course, Gloria is of course referring to, uh, something a bit more sensual. (Read: She wants to touch him and not like a friend.)
Kodak Ad

Sullivan: So remember: your surest way to the best in color slides is to insist on the new Kodak! And now, the young man you've all been waiting to see.

Just like media today, the Ed Sullivan Show certainly included ads. This included ad deals where Ed himself would promote a product, kind of like YouTubers do with "This video is sponsored by...". And, as you can guess, one of those products was Kodak cameras and camera related products. Kodak was still a huge brand at the time (there were not cell phone cameras as competition, so it was way more likely your home owned a camera or two), Kodak absolutely was sponsoring the Ed Sullivan show and had been for a few years (Source). Here's an example from the time period. What you may miss about this ad in the musical is that it's not actually advertising a camera! Cameras at the time required physical film be loaded into them, and wouldn't you know it, Kodak released a new high-speed color film in 1959! (I think this may be a coincidence, as Kodak had been selling color film for quite a bit before this) Yet another reference that's right on the nose of the current times (of the time)!
Wear it in good health

Albert: Who let that kid in here? Rosie: I did Albert. Albert: Rosie! Rosie: It's a sort of farewell present to you and Miss Rasputin. Wear it in good health.

Not invented in the 50s by any means, but this phrase really isn't used as much today I think. There's not really a deeper meaning here besides sarcasm that I can find - it's just wishing someone well. Obviously, the sarcasm is dripping here lol.
Dinah Shore

STAGE DIRECTION: ...as Mr. MacAfee throws a tremendous Dinah Shore kiss to the audience.

Dinah Shore was an actress and entertainer that had been popular for years at that point. Super interesting career if you want to give it a read. This is referencing her famous "Dinah Shore kiss" that she would give at the end of her show broadcasts and was a huge part of her brand. Here's an example!
Stay tuned for Part 2! :)

So, the law enforcement pretending to work at places you frequent, while you’re being investigated by other law enforcement, is the most obnoxious form of gang stalking of them all. The bank teller at CIBC being one of the most obnoxious of them all. This woman is so egregious because she talks like she’s so innocent, overly polite, shakes if you raise your voice even a little like, “omg dear me”, she’s so repulsive and vile. She makes my ass itch. This lady manages to keep that bank empty of any other employees. Idk a bank that has had only one employee (self-titled supervisor) for months on end. The first time I went there and saw her she literally raced me there to the point where her Korean counterpart didn’t even have time to get into character. She had him show up in a covid mask because she needed someone to throw under the bus at all times that’s not her. And when I returned and asked for my bank statements, she saw this older law enforcement official enter and damn near held me hostage until he left. Insisting she keep stamping every page of my bank statements for no particular reason. All while staring out the window waiting for him to leave. Then when I asked her why my statement on the ATM was password protected, she started to shake and say I don’t know why. A whole manager. The only employee there, apparently. I began having problems with my card every where I went. Getting declined, saying too many pin entries before I even enter a pin. Then saying I need to go to my nearest bank branch. The next time I return she has an African scammer beside her ready for me. My card was purposely getting declined because she was literally summoning me to the bank. Anyways back to the African scammer. They drag these people to throw under the bus later. Once she realizes I have no intentions of speaking to her and head straight to the ATM machine (which by the way, magically worked, without me speaking to anyone), she’s annoyed. I end up leaving the bank, but then I return. This time she has the African woman in front of her with her child and is now making this woman, who was apparently an employee 5 minutes prior, a new card. Anyways I leave again, the next time I return, she not only has an African scammer present, but behind the scammer they have a random Somali kid, then me behind him, then some random Somali man in a khamis/thobe come in, mind you I’m dressed in Muslim attire myself this day, so now it’s looking like we are a family apparently lmao. And she has the Somali kid backed up to right where the surveillance is. Mind you, while we are all in line , she has an Indian family laid on the couch, viewing us like a spectator sport, because she’s not giving up and is recruiting a new group every time, but needs them around just in case things go sour. This woman will have the whole city in handcuffs to avoid being detected. She accepted money to get me in jail no matter what and this little group she’s working with is working OVERTIME. Well she works with two groups. One group that she has doing her dirty work that’s waiting for payment and the other group that she already ate with and they’re trying to wipe the crumbs off their faces. Another time she sent a bunch of flying Monkeys was when I went to a pub called Mona Lisa Pub. She had another LE woman behind the bar, while they had some weird Ethiopian guy they sent to watch me lurking in a corner. He ends up leaving. Mind you the way they send these men to you is by making fake stories about you to these men to get them down with harassing you. In this instance they riled up some Habesha community with lies about me. But anyways back to this lady. Her disposition is rude as hell. There’s no customer service. As soon as she cards me, she knows all she needs to know, because flying monkeys duh. That’s really how I know when police are entering the venue. Because they switch up so quick. All of a sudden they wanna engage you in conversation. I hear that “don’t be suspicious” song playing in my head. As soon as the L.E guy gets to the casino area, she’s just a bundle of joy. When he leaves, here comes the wicked witch. At one point she begins telling me she’s worked at the bar for 15 years. Then begins to run to the bathroom yelling out to a “regular” of hers named “Chica”. The nickname is so lazy. She starts wielding around this Native girl like it backs up her story that she’s worked there for 15 years.(Been there many times never seen her) The chica girl is too busy blowing up the bathroom. (btw they also have riled up a community of natives against me too. I’ll talk about that in part 5). I then ask someone if I can buy a cigarette off them and the lady behind the bar says I might have one for you. Give me a minute. She then leaves. And comes back, like “here I got you a Canadian Classic”. Then proceeds to tell me to step outside, so that the law enforcement outside can see me like hey go smoke. Before I go for a smoke I’m like 1. how the hell do you know I smoke Canadian classics and number 2. This is a Canadian Lights, which is some poor ass, made in the rez cigarette and a Canadian woman behind a bar for 15, who allegedly smokes enough to have cigarettes on hand, would know the difference. But anyways, I digress. I go out and come back and now she’s like where you going again? I’m like I’m going to buy some smokes, she’s like the gas stations right there. So I go and as per usual they have people there ready to swipe their cards and make the same purchase as you. Some stereotypes are just true. And a gas station in Edmonton, I have neverrr seen a white man behind the counter. Especially 118ave, the most ethnic strip there is here, outside of 107st I guess. Anyways I can name 30-40 different instances in which these people have trailed me tried to beat me to places through Uber app, Co-Op Taxi. In the beginning it was a group of just African scammers, but eventually they started reporting me and now it’s a law enforcement harassing me too. Like one time, my sister, some friends and I went to a place called Activate, one of the employees there was some African guy who kept following me around the place. My eldest sister who wasn’t present at the time let me use her card, again these people arrive to the same place to make it seem like the purchases line up. I’ll get more into that Part 5/6

Wolverine Issue #3: Loyalty Gaijin, Part 3
 
Written by: u/PresidentWerewolf Edited by: u/FrostFireFive
Previous Issue
 
From the files of Professor Charles Xavier Audio//Digital//Logan12X14C.WAV
XAVIER: Your students miss you, you know.
LOGAN: It ain’t been but a couple a’ days since I talked to ‘em. If they can’t get along without me for that long, and then I wasn’t much of a teacher, Chuck.
X: I mean, if you are gone, then they are alone with Wade.
L: You trying to make me feel guilty?
X: Am I telling you something you didn’t already know?
L: Look…right now, those kids are better off with Wade Wilson than with Wolverine.
X: So it’s Wade Wilson versus Wolverine, and not Deadpool versus Logan? I fear you may be selling yourself short.
L: I ain’t here for affirmations, Chuck. Wade does just fine with ‘em. It ain’t my place to be their teacher any more.
X: No?
L: No.
X: Why not?
L: I...
X: Well, Logan, I run a school. Let’s go down the list. Did you do something illegal?
L: Guess not.
X: Did you attack a student?
L: No...
X: Not even Quentin Quire. Admirable. Are you attracted to a student?
L: No! I get it, Chuck.
X: Maybe. Tell me this, Logan. Have your students expressed a desire to see you gone?
L: They’re just kids.
X: Hm. Just kids. Logan, when people go through a sudden change in their lives, their own self image can be affected. When that happens, a very common, very persuasive thought is that everybody else’s image of them has changed as well. They may be expecting praise or scorn where none is coming.
L: So, the rest of ya just need some time to hate me as much as I hate myself?
X: Do you truly hate yourself, my friend? No, I am talking about loyalty, in this case. The people who know us the best don’t forget so easily, Logan. You can’t erase all the good you have done.
L: Don’t be too sure.
X: Oh, please. Do you know where your students are right now?
L: I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me either way.
X: They are leaving. They are setting out on their own, as a team. You’re a better teacher than you think.
 
 
Now
One thing a healing factor doesn’t do is fill you in on lost time. Believe me on that. You can have your memory poked full of holes by some Canadian mad scientist, drink yourself under the table with a blue, German elf, or get shot in the head by an angry Japanese heiress, and when you wake up, you’re gonna be just as confused each and every time.
I don’t wake up tied to a bed very often, though. The beeping sounds, the venting air, the scent of disinfectants, they all tell me I’m in a hospital. The rattle of the chain tells me that I’m handcuffed to the bed frame. Forget coming to Japan as some roamin’ gaijin. They know I’ve got a metal skeleton. They know I can take a bullet to the head. Might as well have brought Wade and shot our way to the old guy’s mansion. Woulda been a lot less trouble.
Still...maybe I can do something for old Haru yet, or at least his granddaughter. Still a lot of ground left for my nose to follow. I listen and smell...no guard outside the door. I yank on the chain to test it. Thing is, this is gonna break at its weakest point. Between the steel cuffs, the aluminum bed, and my adamantium bones, guess which one gives up first? I’m out of the room, walking away in my own clothes in under a minute, and I got something I can follow: the scent of the fuel that cyborg used, and the scent of the man inside it.
He was a smoker and a drinker. Every bar I ever heard of has its own unique mix of the two; I could find my own favorite dive from a hundred miles away. I can find his in this city. His filterless, nasty cigs and expensive sake are still clinging to me, and to the men who carted his body off. My nose first leads me down to the morgue, where they must’ve put him away.
There is a single, bored man at a desk. Easy to sneak past, and then I’ve got the body on the table. I took him apart pretty good. Looks like the EMTs picked up every little piece they could find. None of it’s working now, but I poke through anyway, just in case...
There. Got a manufacturer and lot ID that I can look up later. I turn the piece over, and it’s stamped on the silicon: Hayashi Unlimited. Unless Mariko’s bending over backwards to get herself killed, this guy was sent by her uncle. Not that I had any doubts, but this is evidence that rules out any other business rival, period.
I snap a couple pictures with my phone, and I pocket the fragment. Shingen’s cleaners are coming for this thing, but I ain’t waiting around for them. I’m gonna find this guy’s friends, and then I’m working up the ladder.
 
 
It takes me all night, following the smell of my guy across the city and back. He had a fast food addiction, and I stopped countin’ brothels pretty quick. I end up in San'ya, a neighborhood stuffed to the gills with everything but money, and down an alleyway I find the bar. It’s a storefront, and that’s about it. A sullen old man is cooking prawns on a little grill facing the alley, and next to him is the bar, a short, shiny table with six seats lined up.
Four of the seats are taken. My guy’s favorite set, the second one from the alley, is empty. I take it.
The old man turns my way, his voice crackin’ like a whip. “Ugoke, gaijin hito.”
“Gimme a beer,” I say, and I slap a twenty on the bar.
The old man shuffles over and he peers down at the bill. “Anatahadaredesu ka?”
“He’s an American,” says the guy next to me. He’s got a split lip, a nicked ear, and neck tattoos crawling up over his jawline. Guy’s a fighter, and he don’t like me bein’ in this seat.
“Canadian,” I correct him. “Canadians like beer.”
“And Juro likes his favorite seat,” the man sneers.
Well that was easy.
“Juro ain’t comin’ by tonight,” I growl, and I get the reaction I wanted.
The man jumps back and pulls a switchblade. I’m on him before he realizes he’s made the biggest mistake of his life. I barrel into him, slamming him against the wall, and the claws come out. Knife arm is pinned, and I’m a wild animal right in his face.
“Your pal Juro came after a pal of mine. I gotta complaint to file with his boss.”
He’s smart enough to get scared, at least. “I don’t know anything about Juro!”
“You’re saving his seat for him.”
“Just...just protecting the bar, man. Right? Canadians are nice, right?”
“You tell me,” I say, and I twist my wrist. The claws cut gouges in the wall, and his forearm starts to bleed where he’s pinned.
“Okay! Okay! Juro is a friend.”
“Coworker?”
He snaps his mouth shut, fights his fear. He’s gonna lose.
“Just tell me who your boss is, and you get to keep the hand,” I say.
Cold steel cuts through me, and I drop Juro’s buddy. I look down, and the end of a sword, a whole damn sword, is coming outta my stomach.
“Shingen’s men work together,” a voice whispers in my ear. The guy I dropped stands up, a cruel little smile on his face, and he gets his knife ready. I almost feel sorry for them.
 
 
About five minutes later, the bartender’s decided to take my money after all. The beer is pretty good. I’m about the furthest thing from a beer snob you can get, but I like them a little heavier. Juro’s seat is comfortable. He knew how to pick ‘em. The bartender hands me a damp rag, and I start to wipe the blood off my knuckles.
He dumps a pile of rags on the counter, and waves around at the room. He wants me to clean the counter. And the seats that are left. And the whole damn floor? Nah.
“Make him do it.” I point to Juro’s buddy, who is sitting up against the wall, cradling what used to be his left hand. The old man yells something in Japanese and tries to take the beer out of my hand. This guy isn’t afraid of anything.
“Fine.” I get up and I walk over to Juro’s friend. “You want to talk?”
He spits at my feet.
I crouch down next to him. He leans away in fear. “You smell like it, too,” I say, sniffing around him. Underneath the sour booze and old smoke, it’s that fuel again. Juro must have been running on something custom made. I picked this up earlier, on my way here. A new, clean warehouse near the water. Security roaming around. Enough lights and sensors to spot a couple of mosquitos flyin’ by.
I’m outside the place as the afternoon sun is starting to slip away. It reeks so bad anyone could’ve found it. I don’t wait around, as I don’t plan on making an appointment.
The first few guards surprise me by firing tranquilizers instead of bullets. The sudden burst of cold as they hit me slows me down, but they don’t have enough to keep me there. I can feel my body metabolizing the drug, feel its effects rise and fall every time I get stung with a new volley. I’m in check as I attack, claws out. I’m not killing anyone. I don’t want to see the blood fly. I’m not here to put them down.
The weapons, though, end up diced and cubed on the asphalt, and I got no problem sending a security guard to dreamland. Sirens are already going as I cut through the side door and get inside. More security, and they’re lined up with real guns. Behind them...good god, enough gas to blow us to Asteroid M, refining equipment, cracklin’ ozone, and drugs. Stimulants, opiates, and some new stuff I can’t pick out.
And I just noticed, this place goes down. Way down. There are echoes under my feet.
“Well, boys?” I ask. At this point, they’ve all got a pretty good idea of who I am, even if they haven’t heard of me. “Let’s get started. We ain’t doin’ this the easy way.”
They part right in the middle, like good soldiers. This is because they are good soldiers. This is the level of the organization I’m at, the true believers, the ones who are doing this for either lots of money or more than just money. Standing there between them is the guy on top, at least at the moment. He’s wearing silk robes, hair in a top knot, belt with a long sword. Beneath it all, the way he carries himself, he’s a killer.
“Mr. Logan,” he says in a deep, measured tone. He’s going for unconcerned, restrained, superior, but I can hear his heart pounding. He’s furious.
I sniff the air. Yep. “You’re a Harada.” It catches him by surprise, but he hides it well. “Shingen’s son, is my guess.”
“Close enough. Harada Kenuichio. Proper men from Japan know to fear the name.”
“I ain’t never been accused of bein’ proper, bub.”
“I have no doubt. You have been acting like a true gaijin, Mr. Logan, putting your nose where it does not belong.”
“Where Haru Hayashi is concerned, I got more right to be here than you do.”
He flashes me a smug little smile. “As I said, a true gaijin. You should know, regardless of what you do now, the contract has been sealed. Your mission is a failure.”
Mission? Mariko mentioned a contract before she shot me. “Look, bub, I don’t speak the local language, and your English ain’t makin’ sense either.”
Now he looks concerned. “Wait. You are not here for...but you are a mutant?”
“Last I checked.”
That smug smile again. “It is too bad you will not speak with Mariko again. I would enjoy seeing the look on your face.” Harada holds out one hand, and then he lowers it. His men lower their weapons at the same time, same speed. “You have a mutant ability to heal. I have no desire to throw my men’s lives away if they cannot inflict lasting damage.”
He draws his blade, a steel katana that glints emerald in the factory lights. Suddenly, it flashes with energy, taking on a bright glow of its own. He slashes down, and the tip of the sword goes clean through the concrete floor, leaving a crescent at his feet.
“That honor now falls to me.”
 
Next: The oldest friends

It occurred to me today I never showed this stuff or reviewed it. I got it from Ciggiesworld in Indonesia along with a few packs of actual kreteks. This is not a clove tobacco, nor is it a halfzware, it's just really deep dark strong rolling tobacco in a shag cut, with little bird's eye pieces. It smells a little bit fruity I suppose, I'm not sure but man is it fragrant! That's the best word I could come up with. It is absolutely delicious smelling, rich dark tobacco with sort of a fruity undertone.
I've hand rolled a few cigarettes with this, but mainlyI've been using this in filter tubes. This stuff is very strong, but also very harsh. The taste is very rich and sweet and toasty. I can't really compare it to any other type of tobacco or cigarette. Unfortunately it is extremely hard on my throat. Almost like smoking a really strong joint. It makes me cough every time. I have a real love-hate relationship with this stuff. I got two pouches and I'm almost finished with my second one. I dunno man, I'm confounded by this stuff. Absolutely delicious, but painful! LOL
Like I posted before, I'm not really a reviewer. Just offering some opinions and pictures of products I've been trying.
I'm not really into giving number reviews, but this is a special case. For flavour and aroma it's a 10. For the cut and moisture content and overall quality of the tobacco, another 10. For smokeability......maybe a 5. This is one of those times I I wish I had some light tubes around to try. I'll enjoy the rest of this little pack, but I don't think it'd be something I'd buy again. Again, Canadian here. Tobacco taxes are through the roof, and Customs usually catches this stuff so it makes it pretty expensive. Just a treat here and there for me.

edit: i dont know if anyone will ever look at this again but I got my grade back and got a 150/150 😌 thank you all for your kind words and feedback i haven’t been this proud of something i’ve written in a long time!!!
Hi SocietyOfTheSnow , I hope you're all having a great night. I've been lurking on this subreddit for a few months while I was working on this, so I figured it was only fair for me to share it here now that it's done (I think?). I am an undergraduate student at an university in the U.S., and I wrote this for my media ethics class. If you don't wanna read it, that's cool! If you do read it, thank you, and if you have any suggestions feel free to let me know (but be nice about it pls! I worked hard and am sensitive!)!! <3 also formatting is weird sorry I don't feel like fixing it lmfao, films are in italics, books are in bold
On October 12, 1972, a chartered Fairchild FH-227D departed from Montevideo, Uruguay en route to Santiago, Chile. The plane carried forty passengers and five crew members, including the nineteen members of the “Old Christians” rugby team, the team physician and his wife, as well as some supporters, family members, and friends of the team. Although scheduled to land the same day, the pilot decided to make a one-night stopover in Mendoza, Argentina due to bad weather. The plane departed again on October 13, 1972, at 2:18 pm. Because they couldn't go directly over the towering peaks of the Andes Mountains, the plane was supposed to take a 370-mile route south to Malargüe, west through the Planchon Pass to Curico, and north to Santiago. This should’ve taken an hour and a half. Clouds were obscuring the mountains, so the pilots were likely using radio navigation to get through the pass. Here, one of the pilots made a deadly error, incorrectly piloting the plane north and beginning the descent. Due to the heavy cloud cover, they didn’t realize their mistake until it was too late. The plane slammed into a mountain, losing both of the wings and the tail, causing seven passengers to fall from the open fuselage, all of whom were later found deceased. The crash is briefly described in an excerpt from a 2016 National Geographic interview with survivor Dr. Roberto Canessa. It reads:

“It was a very abrupt moment. We had rented an air force plane to go from Uruguay to Chile. We were trying to cross the Andes when the pilot said, “Fasten your seatbelts, we are going to enter some turbulence.” Rugby players like to fool around and play macho. So we were throwing around rugby balls and singing a song, “Conga, conga, conga: the plane is dancing conga.” The next thing, someone looked out the window and said, “Aren’t we flying too close to the mountains?!” The pilot had made a huge mistake: He’d turned north and begun the descent to Santiago while the aircraft was still in the high Andes. He began to climb until the plane was nearly vertical and it began to stall and shake. Then we smashed into the side of the mountain. I was thrown forward with tremendous force and received a powerful blow to my head. I thought, “You’re dead.” I grabbed my seat and recited a Hail Mary. Someone cried out, “Please God, help me, help me!” It was the worst nightmare you can imagine. Another boy was screaming, “I’m blind!” When he moved his head I could see his brain—and a piece of metal sticking out of his stomach.”

The plane's fuselage came to rest in the cirque of the Glacier of Tears, at an elevation of 11,710 ft. Including the aforementioned seven that fell out of the plane during the initial impact, twelve passengers died in the crash and five more died from various injuries and ailments over the next few days.
Inside the fuselage, the survivors had found a meager amount of chocolate bars, jam, almonds, and dried fruits, as well as several bottles of wine. They rationed what they had, but it lasted only a week, and so, left with no alternative, the survivors resorted to anthropophagy. Survivor Dr. Roberto Canessa writes of the situation in his book I Had To Survive: How A Plane Crash In The Andes Inspired My Calling To Save Lives, excerpt adapted for The Daily Mail:

“Our common goal was to survive — but what we lacked was food. We had long since run out of the meager pickings we’d found on the plane, and there was no vegetation or animal life to be found. After just a few days we were feeling the sensation of our own bodies consuming themselves just to remain alive. Before long we would become too weak to recover from starvation. We knew the answer, but it was too terrible to contemplate. The bodies of our friends and teammates, preserved outside in the snow and ice, contained vital, life-giving protein that could help us survive. But could we do it? For a long time we agonized…Maybe a miracle might occur just in time to avoid what seemed to us a hideous transgression. Never had the consequences of time seemed so gruesome. But true hunger is atrocious, instinctive, primordial, and God witnessed the groaning of my insides. In time, a rational and loving answer emerged to calm my fears and give me inner peace…Gradually, each of us came to our own decision in our own time. And once we had done so, it was irreversible. It was our final goodbye to innocence. We were never the same again.”

Aircrafts from Argentina, Chile, and Uruguay searched for the missing flight for 8 days, after which they decided to call off the search under the assumption that there were no survivors and resume looking when the snow starts to melt to recover the bodies. The survivors saw aircraft fly over the crash site on three separate occasions, but the rescuers were unable to spot the white fuselage against the snow. Intense snowstorms often kept them trapped inside the wreckage of the plane for twenty-four hours at a time. During these first few weeks, the survivors began making small excursions to explore the general vicinity of the airplane. However, they didn't have any clothing made for the cold weather, causing hypothermia, and also struggled against snow blindness, dehydration, malnourishment, altitude sickness, and the extreme nighttime cold, which made it impossible for them to travel a meaningful distance away from the fuselage. Despite this, by the last week in October, a group had been chosen to leave the crash site and try to reach help - Nando Parrado, Roberto Canessa, Adolfo “Fito” Strauch, and Numa Turcatti - and the survivors had begun to make preparations for the impending trek.
On October 29, a bit more than two weeks after the crash, tragedy once again befell the group when an avalanche struck the fuselage, burying it in snow and ice, and filling the cabin within just a few feet of the ceiling. This disaster killed eight and trapped the remaining survivors inside. Survivor Nando Parrado describes the aftermath in his book Miracle in the Andes: 72 Days on the Mountain and My Long Trek Home:

“The snow that invaded the fuselage was so deep that we couldn’t stand; we had barely enough headroom now to crawl about the plane on hands and knees. As soon as we had the stomach for it, we stacked the dead at the rear of the plane where the snow was deepest, which left only a small clearing near the cockpit for the living to sleep. We packed into that space - nineteen of us now, jammed into an area that might have comfortably accommodated four - with no choice but to squeeze together, our knees, feet, and elbows tangled together in a nightmare version of a scrum.”

After three days, six survivors worked together and managed to dig their way through the cockpit, squeeze past the dead pilots’ bodies, push through the window and the snow, and reach the surface, only to be met with a blizzard that kept them in the fuselage under the snow for another three days. Upon emerging from what could’ve easily become their tomb, the nineteen remaining survivors were filled with determination to survive this ordeal and once again began preparing to search for help.
The plan was to allow the expedition group that was selected before the avalanche to get more rations, the best sleeping spots, and excusal from chores to build up their strength. The survivors agreed that the expeditionaries would travel east. Since the mountain peaks were slightly less daunting in this direction, the group hoped that once they got over the mountains they could find a valley that would turn around and bring them into Chile. Antonio “Tintin” Vizintin also joined the expedition, however, Adolfo “Fito” Strauch became afflicted with a severe case of hemorrhoids and needed to stay behind. It was also decided by the expeditionaries that Numa Turcatti would stay behind as well due to an infection in his leg, which, due to his aversion to eating the human flesh that was necessary for their survival, his body was unable to fight off. On the morning of November 17th, the remaining group of three expeditionaries set off away from the crash site. After about an hour and a half of hiking, Roberto Canessa, who was in the front of the group, spotted the tail. In the tail, they found luggage with more clothes, some rum, a box of chocolates, three small meat patties, a moldy sandwich, some cigarettes, a small camera loaded with film, and the batteries needed to power the radio in the fuselage. With no turning point towards the west in sight, the expeditionaries decided it would be best to turn back towards the crash site with the stuff they had found. However, the batteries were too heavy to carry all the way back in the snow, so they left them and decided instead to grab the radio from the Fairchild and bring it to the tail. The group made it back to the crash site on November 21st, and a few days later, they went back to the tail with the radio to try and get it to work. Unfortunately, these efforts were in vain, as the electronic components were too damaged to repair.
The expeditionaries returned to the fuselage, and at this point, the survivors realized their only chance at survival was to head directly west and find help in Chile. During the first week of December, they began to prepare, cutting extra meat and storing it in the snow, as well as sewing a sleeping bag using quilted batts of insulation and a sewing kit taken from the tail. On December 12, Nando Parrado, Roberto Canessa, and Antonio “Tintin” Vizintin left the wreckage of the Fairchild behind and began their trek up the mountain to the west. On the third morning, the expeditionaries reached the peak. Expecting to find the green valleys of Chile just beyond the mountain, they were shocked as they were faced with a seemingly never-ending view of the snowy cordillera. Despite the seemingly impossible circumstances, Canessa and Parrado still believed they could make it to the Chilean countryside, but didn’t have enough food to sustain all three of the expeditionaries for a trek of that caliber. So, it was at this point that the group decided to send Vizintin back to the crash site, while Canessa and Parrado would continue to the west. Three days after Vizintin had turned back and six days after they began the hike, the pair found a river with running water, which they began to follow down the mountain, and the day after they found an empty soup can, a horseshoe, a pile of feces, trees, and they even saw some cows from a distance. On December 20, after setting up camp for the night, Canessa spotted a man on a horse on the opposite side of the river. The man yelled to them but was drowned out by the river, however, they made out one word: “tomorrow”. The next day, the expeditionaries awoke at dawn to find three men around a fire on the other side of the river. Since the roar of the river was so loud, one of the men threw a pencil and paper tied to stones across the river, and Parrado wrote a message. That message read:

“I come from an airplane that crashed in the mountains. I am Uruguayan. We have been walking for 10 days. I have a wounded friend up there. In the plane, there are still 14 injured people. We need to get out of here quickly and we don't know how to. We don't have any food. We are very weak. When are you going to come to get us? Please, we can't even walk. Where are we?”

The men across the river threw the expeditionaries some bread and made motions indicating they understood, and that the duo was to wait. Less than 12 hours later, the men had helped Canessa and Parrado to the huts they used when tending to the flocks in the high pastures, and the pair got to eat real food and sleep in beds. The police showed up the day after that, along with Sergio Catalan, the man they had originally spotted on horseback, who had ridden 10 hours each way to the nearest police outpost to get help. A heavy fog descended on Los Maitenes, the mountainous region of the Chilean province of Colchagua, and so Canessa and Parrado went on horseback down to Puente Negro, they hoped the helicopters would be able to take off for the rescue operation. After the fog had cleared a bit, the helicopter crews, along with Parrado, took off for the crash site. The two helicopters reached the crash site on the afternoon of December 22nd. Because of the steep terrain, the pilots were only permitted to touch down with a single skid, and due to the altitude and weight limits, this first rescue mission was only able to take half of the survivors. Four of the rescuers volunteered to stay behind with the remaining eight survivors for their last night on the mountain, and the second flight of helicopters arrived the following morning at daybreak. The last of the survivors were rescued on December 23, 1972, more than two and a half months after the crash.
Ethically adapting true events for cinematic or literary purposes, especially in cases where lives were lost, raises complex questions about representation, storytelling, and the responsibilities of creators to both the subjects of the events (alive and deceased) and their audience. The TARES test is a framework that media professionals use to help assess ethical communication and influence. TARES is an acronym that stands for Truthful, Authentic, Respectful, Equitable, and Socially Responsible. These five elements represent the ethical communication criteria that are used to evaluate the ethical impact of a message. I will be using the TARES test to analyze the films Alive (1993) and Society of the Snow (2023), both based on the Miracle of the Andes, intending to empirically determine which adaptation is more ethical.
Alive, directed by Frank Marshall (Arachnaphobia) and written by John Patrick Shanley (Moonstruck, Doubt), was released in 1993 by Paramount Pictures. The film features an all-white cast, including stars Ethan Hawke and Josh Hamilton and narrator John Malkovitch. The film is named after and based on the book of the same name by Piers Paul Read, a British novelist, historian, and biographer, which was published in 1974. In the dedication, the survivors write that they “decided this book should be written and the truth known because of the many rumors about what happened in the cordillera”. Grossing slightly less than $37 million domestically, the experience of watching the Hollywood-ified adaptation of Read’s award-winning book is most aptly described by Robert Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times film critic, in 1993. He writes:

“The problem is, no movie can really encompass the sheer enormity of the experience. As subtitles tick off ‘Day 50’ and ‘Day 70,’ the actors in the movie continue to look amazingly healthy (and well-fed). Although some despair, most remain hopeful. But what would it really be like to huddle in a wrecked aircraft for 10 weeks in freezing weather, eating human flesh? I cannot imagine, and frankly, this film doesn't much help me.”

Alive had a budget of $25 million and was shot on a glacier in British Columbia, and the cinematography by Peter James (27 Dresses, Meet the Parents) featuring this landscape is arguably the best part of the entire movie. With its poorly written dialogue and questionable acting choices, this film not only struggles to keep the viewer’s attention, but additionally doesn’t do much in the sense of helping the viewer understand what the passengers of Flight 571 went through.
Society of the Snow was directed by J. A. Bayona (Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom, The Impossible) and released in 2023 by Netflix. It features 40 actors of Argentine and Uruguayan nationality, many of whom made their debut in this movie, and had an estimated budget of $65 million. The film is named after and based on the book of the same name by Pablo Vierci, a Uruguayan journalist who grew up with many of the people who were on Flight 571 and is credited as one of the associate producers of the film. The book also includes reflections written by some of the survivors. In a 2023 interview with The Hollywood Reporter, Director J. A. Bayona said that “at the heart of the book, there is this message that says that when everything has been taken from someone, you still have a chance of deciding what to do — why do you want to live? For whom do you want to die for?”. Bayonoa described the shoot as an exploration looking to answer these big questions, and it was with these questions in mind that they began doing interviews with all sixteen of the survivors, collecting over one hundred hours of recordings. Throughout the process of making the film, all the actors were in contact with not only the survivors, but also the families of the deceased, and the development and release of this film marks the first time all the survivors and families of the deceased have allowed their real names to be used. In an IndieWire exclusive, survivors Roberto Canessa and Gustavo Zerbino write of the film:

“We and others have been telling our story for half a century, but the filmmaker J.A. Bayona has captured it in ways that we find inspiring and fresh all over again…But more importantly, he has captured the spirit of what got us off of that mountain. Society of the Snow reflects our experience in how we refused to give in to the bleak nature of our plight.”

Society was shot mostly in Sierra Nevada, Spain, but additional scenes were filmed in Montevideo, Uruguay, and in different locations in the Andes, both in Chile and Argentina, including The Glacier of Tears. With breathtaking cinematography by Pedro Luque (Don’t Breathe, Antebellum), and a chilling score by Michael Giacchino (The Batman, Star Wars: Rogue One), J. A. Bayona’s Spanish-language disaster film should be known going forward as the principal film about the Miracle of the Andes.
The first element of the TARES test that will be assessed is Truthful. This element questions whether the claims, both verbal and visual, are truthful, and, if the film communicates only part of the truth, if any omissions are deceptive. However, even if some facts are omitted, a film would pass the test if it meets a genuine human need to provide truthful information. Additionally, filmmakers should be able to verify with viewers the truthfulness of claims, and they should provide information to their audiences that will allow them to verify the truthfulness of claims in messages aimed at the public. "Unlike Alive, which is based solely on the facts of the story, Society of the Snow offers a much more philosophical take on what happened…It's not just about reiterating the facts. It's about engaging philosophically and spiritually on a deeper level with the story and exploring the true meaning of what happened in those mountains", Society of the Snow director J. A. Bayona says of the books that inspired the films. Despite this, after reading not only the books each movie is based on but additionally books written by survivors, Society is overall a more accurate depiction of the ordeal that the survivors went through in the Andes. There are always going to be differences when a book gets adapted for film, however, the differences between Paul Piers Read’s “classic” work of survival literature and the lukewarmly received 1993 adaptation are astounding. David Ansen summarizes it perfectly in an article for Newsweek, where he writes:

“Piers Paul Read's acclaimed 1974 book… paid special attention to the social structure that evolved among the group: the emergence of a warrior class and the counterbalance of a civilian government that looked out for the welfare of the weak and wounded. Marshall downplays the fascinating sociological details-and the ambiguities of character-in favor of action, heroism and a vague religiosity that's sprinkled over the story like powdered sugar.”

Meanwhile, Society is remarkably reflective of the experiences Pablo Vierci captured in the pages of his 2009 book. Whereas its predecessor Alive is known for being commercialized, religious, and at times shockingly lighthearted, Society of the Snow is a brutal, dark, horrifying, and immersive viewing experience, which more accurately reflects the nightmare that the passengers of Flight 571 went through.
The second component of the TARES test, Authentic, suggests it's important not only to do the right thing, but also “to do it with the right attitude”, and is closely linked to the concepts of sincerity and disclosure. In a 2023 interview with The Hollywood Reporter, when asked about how he convinced the survivors and their families that he was going to handle everything sensitively and not in an exploitative way, Society of the Snow director J. A. Bayona responded that “[he] was worried…but the fact that [he] was putting the point of view from the other side made them very interested…somehow it’s the first time [they’re] telling the story of the whole society and that was very important, not only for the survivors but their families.” In the same interview, it gets brought up that the story of this disaster had been told before, so was it that he felt it needed to be told from a different perspective? He responds:

“I had the impression when I finished Pablo’s book that what was in that novel was something I hadn’t seen in a film. [Pablo] was great at getting into the minds of the characters and explaining not only the facts but what happened to them on the inside. And then we found a perspective that gave me the key to tell the story in a way that I hadn’t seen before.”

On the other hand, according to an article from The Baltimore Sun, Frank Marshall chose to direct Alive for different reasons. In 1991, Disney offered Marshall, longtime producer for Stephen Speilberg, several projects, including Alive. The passage describing Marshall’s rationale reads:

“Mr. Marshall chose Alive for a number of reasons: the challenge of shooting 10,000 feet up in the Canadian Rockies; the opportunity to film one of the most dramatic — and prolonged — plane-crash sequences in movie history; the story of “ordinary people in extraordinary, impossible situations”; and the fact that just as Mr. Marshall was on the car phone with Disney’s Jeffrey Katzenberg, a pickup cut in front of him with a bumper sticker that read: ‘Rugby Players Eat Their Dead.’”

Moreover, in the acknowledgments for Alive: The Story of the Andes Survivors, Piers Paul Read reveals that when he showed the manuscript of the book to the survivors, “some of them were disappointed by [his] presentation of their story”. Alive is a film made by a director who seemingly chose the project on a whim, based on a book that, according to the survivors, doesn’t convey “the faith and friendship which inspired them in the cordillera”. It is evident, not just through interviews, but through the film itself, that J. A. Bayona not only made Society of the Snow with “the right attitude”, but is able to justify making yet another feature film about the passengers of Flight 571.
The next component of the TARES test deals with respect. When adapting true events, especially tragedies such as this, it's important to show respect to the people involved, both living and dead. This aspect has the creator consider if they are willing to take full, open, and personal responsibility for the content of the film. Frank Marshall’s Alive was aptly described in a review by Janet Maslin of the New York Times upon its release in 1993, which reads: “Alive, an account of plane-crash survivors who had to resort to cannibalism to last out their ordeal in the Andes, is a study in madness, not on the parts of the Uruguayan rugby players who are the film's principals but on those of the Hollywood filmmakers who felt this story had the makings of upbeat, big-budget entertainment”. Indeed, even Marshall himself insists “it’s one of those great Hollywood stories”. In his book, survivor Carlitos Páez writes that in Alive, “the magnitude of the avalanche was not portrayed in full force[, and] when he mentioned this to director Frank Marshall…he answered [that] he needed light to shoot and besides, it wasn’t his fault what [they] went through”. Society of the Snow seems to laugh in the face of this, depicting the avalanche in a horrifying and believable fashion. Additionally, as previously stated, director J. A. Bayona based much of his film on testimony from survivors, both from Society of the Snow and footage that they compiled during pre-production, as well as maintaining lines of contact between the actors portraying the people and either the people themselves or their families, if deceased. Through J. A. Bayona’s meticulous attention to detail, a general sense of empathy toward the passengers of Flight 571 from the entire cast and crew, and a thorough commitment to honoring the experiences of the victims and survivors, Society stands as a poignant example of how to show respect to the people involved in the real-life tragedies that are being adapted for the silver screen.
Equitable generally means dealing fairly and equally with all concerned, but in relation to the TARES test, it refers to whether the viewer is on the same level playing field as the film’s creator, or, in order to correctly interpret the film, must the viewer be abnormally well informed, unusually bright or quick-witted, and completely without prejudice. When comparing two films based on equitability in the context of ethical adaptation, the film that allows a wider range of viewers to engage with its themes and moral complexities without requiring exceptional cognitive abilities or specialized knowledge would be deemed more ethical. In this case, the films are evaluated based on how well they convey the survivors' experiences, challenges, and moral dilemmas without requiring viewers to have extensive knowledge of survival techniques or deep insights into the human psyche. One of the main differences between the two films is that Frank Marshall’s Alive has two distinct main characters - Nando Parrado and Roberto Canessa, the two survivors who would eventually trek 38 miles to find help, portrayed by Ethan Hawke and Josh Hamilton, respectively, whereas J. A. Bayona’s Society of the Snow focuses instead on the group as a whole, with the only possible main character being the film’s narrator, Enzo Vogrincic Roldán’s Numa Turcatti, the last passenger to die on the mountain. Although some criticize Society for this decision, citing that it is harder to connect with each of the individual characters, this is the story about the survival of a group of people, not just two. Although Canessa and Parrado’s efforts to get the survivors off the mountain were invaluable, it cannot be understated the importance that each person in the society had, a sentiment the viewer comes to understand by the end of Society. Viewers may not emerge from Society knowing everyone's names, but they will have a significantly better understanding of what the passengers endured and what it took, mentally and physically, to get off the mountain than if they watched Alive.
The final component of the TARES test is Socially Responsible. This element questions whether if everyone who was able to view this film did, if society as a whole would be improved, keeping in mind that recreation and self-improvement are worthy social goals. Additionally, it asks if the film increases or decreases the trust the average person has for persuasive messages, and if this film takes the notion of corporate responsibility, both to make money and to improve human life and welfare, seriously and truthfully. It emphasizes the significance of considering not just the content of persuasive messages, but additionally their broader impact on societal values, trust, and ethical considerations, highlighting the importance of responsible storytelling in the media landscape. A major distinction between the two films is the way in which they each handle religion. As Richard Lawson says in his review of Society of the Snow for Vanity Fair, “maybe the 50-year span has given [Pablo] Vierci’s recounting a crucial perspective that Alive often lacks. [John Patrick] Shanley’s adaptation swaps in grand platitudes about God where specific human dimensions are better suited.” It is true that a majority of the passengers on the Fairchild were religious and relied heavily on prayer, and it is an important part of both films, however the degree to which religion is emphasized in Alive is laughable. It would be easy to convince a first-time viewer with zero knowledge of the production of the film that it was created by some sort of church organization. In the same article, Lawson also states that “Marshall’s film is demure, casual in comparison [to Society]. Alive is more concerned with human spirit than human suffering; it’s lit and warmed by Tinseltown glow.” It is clear that Frank Marshall’s 1993 adaptation lacks the essence of what draws people to this story in the first place, instead creating a white-washed religion commercial that reeks of early 90s Hollywood and big corporations. Society, on the other hand, handles religion delicately and efficiently, not spending a second longer on it than necessary while still emphasizing the passengers’ faith. As survivors Roberto Canessa and Gustavo Zerbino write, “[i]t is not a film that aims to make the audience suffer. It is a film that aims to rouse the viewer’s faith in the person sitting next to them.” If everyone with access to Netflix watched Society of the Snow, society as a whole would be improved, not only for recreational reasons, but additionally because Society is a film that promotes empathy, resilience, and the strength of human spirit in the face of adversity.
The story of the ethical dilemmas, survival, and resilience of the passengers of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 has been the subject of many media adaptations, such as the films Alive (1993) and Society of the Snow (2023).Through the lens of the TARES test, which evaluates the truthfulness, authenticity, respect, equitability, and social responsibility of communication, it becomes clear that Society of the Snow emerges as a more ethical and responsible adaptation. The truthfulness of Society of the Snow lies in its deep exploration of the survivors' experiences, not just in terms of facts but also in understanding the emotional and psychological impact of the ordeal. Society director J. A. Bayona's approach in creating his Spanish-language disaster film, which was based on extensive research, interviews with survivors, and sensitivity to their perspectives, creates a more accurate and meaningful portrayal of the events than in Frank Marshall’s award-losing survival drama. In terms of authenticity, Society stands out for its genuine commitment to representing the survivors' story with respect and empathy. The filmmakers' engagement with survivors and their families, as well as their dedication to portraying the internal struggles and moral complexities faced by the passengers, reflects a sincere effort to do justice to the real-life experiences. Respect is a key aspect of ethical adaptation, and here again, Society excels. The film treats the subject matter with dignity, avoiding sensationalism or exploitation. By focusing on the collective experience of the survivors and honoring their journey, the film earns the respect of both the audience and the survivors themselves. Equitability in storytelling refers to the accessibility and relatability of the narrative to a wide audience. While Alive may have focused more narrowly on specific characters, allowing the audience to have individual characters to connect with, Society takes a broader approach that allows viewers to connect with the overall themes of survival, camaraderie, and resilience without requiring specialized knowledge or biases. By emphasizing themes such as empathy and the strength of the human spirit and promoting a deeper understanding of the survivors' experiences, Society of the Snow contributes positively to societal values and encourages empathy and compassion. Society is not only well-written, well-acted, and well-shot, but also sets a high standard for ethical adaptation through its thoughtful and sensitive portrayal of a harrowing ordeal and how it fictionalized the survivors' very real experiences respectfully and accurately. The film leaves a lasting impact on its audience, fostering empathy, resilience, and a deeper appreciation for the human capacity to overcome adversity.
sources: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1G-B8BPNSLy1RC9y5M4pPddZAiKuOsRaxnL65Z5rRnOk/edit

First impressions: very good, the tobacco itself is between a ribbon and shag cut, with a combination of light and dark brown strands. TBH it does not smell exotic or remarkable, it just smells like American cigarette tobacco. It comes in a ziplock pouch, my pouch is nice and fresh and the tobacco is just about exactly where you would want it to inject into tubes. It comes with a flat pack of 32 Top uncreased rolling papers. I can tell while handling it that it that is definitely of good quality, there is not much shake or powder in the bag.
Injected into 20mm filter tunes. Taste wise, it is not too strong or too light, the nicotine is definitely there but it is not too strong or overpowering. There are no off-putting smells or flavours while smoking. Again, I must state that it is pretty plain and unremarkable. To me it just tastes like an American cigarette. I'm a Canadian and have lived in Canada my whole life so access to American cigarettes is pretty limited. Canadian cigarettes are only manufactured with virginia-type tobacco, whereas this is definitely a combination of virginia, Burley, and maybe Oriental but most likely not.
You could definitely hand roll this stuff with the included papers, but my slightly arthritic fingers are not very good at that. I did use a rolling machine with the included papers and the cigarette turned out just fine.
I'm not really a reviewer, so I'm only just sharing this for those interested parties. If you have any questions, comments or concerns, please leave a comment below and I will reply.
Would I buy it again? Yes for sure. It's one of the least expensive tinned or pouch RYO tobaccos. Because I like smoking a lot of different things I would definitely keep this in my rotation if it were easier to get. Again, I'm Canadian and our tobacco taxes are pretty high so bringing this stuff in from the US is a little cost prohibitive.

Nikolai came into the house I shared with a dozen other employees of Bureau 39. I could see the bulge of the gargantuan black pistol he always kept holstered under his suit jacket. He rubbed one callused hand over his freshly-shaved head before taking a deep drag of his cigarette and flicking the ashes all over the wooden floor. He smoked Yves St. Laurent, a brand of cigarettes that Kim Jong-Un also loved. They cost $60 a pack, the equivalent of a month’s wages for most North Koreans.
We lived in very cramped conditions. I slept on the floor on a blanket, feeling the hardwood like a bed of nails under my back. Computers and tables took up the entire front room of the two-bedroom house. Nikolai pointed at me and my brother with his half-smoked cigarette. He narrowed his cold blue eyes at us. They looked like the eyes of a Siberian husky, the faded color of melting glaciers.
“Moon,” he said, nodding at me, “take your brother Shin and come with me.” Shin pushed his large, black-framed glasses up his bulbous nose. His greasy black bowl cut flew around his head as he turned away from his laptop, jumping up without a word. I got up just as fast. We were never allowed to leave the embassy here in Cambodia. We were kept as virtual prisoners.
***
Everyone in Bureau 39 was at the top of their field. We had hackers, programmers of ransomware, manufacturers of methamphetamine and fentanyl, and much darker trades than that. Throughout its history, the Bureau had sold chemical weapons, biological agents, nuclear secrets, torture and murder. To get the cash back to North Korea, we would use diplomats from the embassies, since they had immunity and couldn’t be stopped even if caught carrying millions of dollars.
In North Korea, the average person makes about $1,000 a year. Most have no electricity in their homes. People often defecate in the bushes or in buckets, and all farm labor is done with animals and antique plows. Going to the rural areas is like taking a time machine back to the 1700s in a way. So people signed up for Bureau 39 or any other elite agency by the droves in order to escape these intolerable living conditions. The government had the pick of the litter.
To get into the capital city of Pyongyang, a citizen of North Korea needs a special permit. Only the elites are allowed to step foot inside city limits. And yet, even here, electricity often only runs for 2 or 3 hours a day. According to North Korean law, if a building has ten stories or less, it doesn’t need an elevator. Not that an elevator matters much in a country with barely any electricity for civilian purposes. But this means starving people are regularly climbing up dozens of stories in buildings with no electricity, central heating or air conditioning. So even though Bureau 39 agents are kept like prisoners in the embassy, we still have luxuries the average North Korean can only dream of.
Perhaps 30 or 40% of their entire North Korean GDP goes to nuclear and intercontinental missile research. Even in the military, the soldiers regularly eat grass, snakes, rats and other pests. North Koreans who have escaped to South Korea often have advanced parasite infections from eating such garbage their entire lives. The South Koreans recently found thirty-five feet of tapeworm in a single starving North Korean soldier who drove and then ran across the DMZ, getting shot multiple times in the process.
So perhaps you understand why I preferred to work in Bureau 39 at a foreign embassy rather than stay in North Korea. Bureau 39 exists for only one reason: to give hundreds of millions of dollars to Kim Jong-Un for mansions, cars, women, luxury cigarettes, exotic foods and whatever else he desires. It is a slush fund for the Great Leader.
While the rest of his people starve and live in freezing poverty without medicine or hope, Kim Jong-Un lives like a god among men. At each of his many mansions, he has harems waiting for him filled with all the most beautiful girls in the country, taken out of schools by faceless agents of this Stalinist kingdom.
***
Nikolai walked out into the tropical Cambodian sun. I felt blinded for a minute. I saw Shin shielding his eyes and blinking rapidly, as if he had just woken up from a long nightmare.
“Please enter your password,” the female robotic voice said in a tone so cool it reminded me of ice cream on a scorching day. “The alarm will sound in five seconds.” Sweating heavily in the heat, Nikolai straightened his collar and began pressing a series of numbers. Once he realized I was watching, he swore at me and tried to cover the pad with his other hand, but I had seen the code: 2023. It was just the year. I repressed an urge to laugh.
“Come on, scumbags,” Nikolai said, taking his designer sunglasses out of his front suit pocket. “We have a meeting to attend. I’ll explain on the way.” He unlocked the Mercedes Benz with the North Korean diplomatic plates on it and we got in. The car still felt cold from the air conditioning. The smell of Nikolai’s overpriced cigarettes and even more expensive cologne hung in the air.
I got in the passenger’s seat and Shin got in the back. We drove out through the open gate. Once the car had passed the end of the private drive, sensors automatically caused the gate to swing shut, locking the other North Korean prisoners inside- including my wife.
We drove past the Buddhist temples and modern skyscrapers of the Cambodian skyline, a combination of ancient stone and gleaming glass. Nikolai lit up a cigarette and, without looking at me, started speaking, as if to himself.
“We have a deal, bigger than any we have had in a long time,” he said, staring ahead at the heavy traffic of tuk-tuks, taxis, farm trucks and cars. He swore as he checked his watch. “A group is willing to pay handsomely for the serum.” I looked up sharply at those words.
“The serum is not ready,” I protested. Shin stayed silent in the back. I spun to see his expression. His glasses magnified his wide, shocked eyes to owlish proportions. Nikolai swatted his hand at my comment, as if shooing away an imaginary fly.
“Haven’t human subjects responded to the effects of the serum?” he asked, his tone turning icy. “You have had over three years and tens of millions of dollars to experiment. I know you two are some of the best biologists from the entire country of North Korea. Now, are you telling me that you have made no human progress?”
“Of course not,” I protested, “but we still have some kinks to work out. It has most of the properties that the Supreme Leader requested. It’s just that some subjects have different cellular membranes, and it can lead to quite horrifying reactions…” Nikolai laughed, a deep, booming laugh that cut off my protestations.
“I don’t give a shit about side effects. We are selling the serum- right now, today. If not, you can consider your experiment over. We have a… group, let’s say… who is willing to pay $100 million for a single crate of it.” My jaw dropped.
“And what will happen to our project if we sell some of the serum?” Shin asked, speaking up in his nasally voice for the first time. “Project Wailing Banshee is not yet complete. We need more time.” Nikolai turned to us, grinning like a hyena, his faded killer’s eyes sparkling with glee.
“If you sell the serum to our good friends,” Nikolai whispered in a low, psychopathic voice, “your funding will be guaranteed for the next two years. The serum doesn’t have to be perfect, it just needs to work.” I sighed. Clearly, I had no real choice in the matter. I turned to Nikolai and gave a brisk nod. I saw Shin do the same. “Good. I’ll have a panel van bring it over to our meeting area now. These men we’re dealing with might have some questions for you. Just answer them and let’s get out of there. No problems, right?”
“Right,” Shin and I said together in unison. An icy wave of dread ran down my back, a premonition of things to come.
***
We arrived at the warehouse at the edge of the city at dusk. The sky glowed a bloody red, reflecting off Nikolai’s dark sunglasses. I saw the black panel van following close behind us with some more of Nikolai’s armed goons sitting in the front.
An intercom buzzer stood at the side of the garage door. Nikolai pressed it. After a few moments, a voice boomed on the other end, slightly obscured by static.
“Who is it?” a man with an Arabic accent asked brusquely.
“You know who it is. Open up,” Nikolai said. The door rolled up slowly, revealing only a curtain of shadows. We drove in and got out. I heard my shoes clicking against the concrete floor.
The place looked abandoned. An open floor stretched out for hundreds of feet in every direction. From the office door in the back, a few men dressed in all black with balaclavas on their heads walked out. I saw they all had automatic rifles slung around their shoulders. A small boy in the same attire followed closely behind the group.
Nikolai’s two goons got out of the black panel van. I saw them reach under their seats and pull out micro Uzis. The tension in the air felt electric. No one said anything for a long moment as we surveyed each other across the dark no-man’s land between us.
“I’m glad to see you made it,” Nikolai called out, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. I jumped. Next to me, Shin looked down at the ground, nervously chewing on his lip.
“Did you bring it?” the leading man asked as they strode purposefully towards us. “Where is the serum?”
“Hang on, hang on,” Nikolai said, giving them a crooked half-smile. “I need to see the money first.” He motioned with his head to his soldiers. They raised their Uzis. The leading man called out something in Arabic, and more black-clad soldiers came out of the back office, dragging dozens of heavy black bags. Nikolai and his goons walked quickly forward. I followed close behind, taking Shin’s arm and pulling him along.
Nikolai unzipped one bag. I saw it stuffed to the brim with stacks of hundred-dollar bills. The next bag over was filled with Euros, and the third with gold and diamonds. I had never seen so much money in a single place in my entire life. He kept going through each one in turn, and I saw more precious stones, all sorts of gold bars, Canadian dollars, Japanese yen and some other currencies with Arabic writing I didn’t recognize. Nikolai grunted.
“Can’t you guys ever just give us all dollars or Euros? Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take me to count this? And what am I supposed to do with all these diamonds? Are they marked with lasers?” Nikolai asked. Their leader shook his head furiously. Nikolai sighed. “Go get the serum.” He motioned to his goons. They practically ran to the van, desperate to get this deal over with and take their share of the profits.
Nikolai’s goons pulled out a small crate, only a foot across. I heard the jingling of many shatterproof vials stacked carefully inside. It was over 90% of our entire stockpile of serum, the fruit of many sleepless nights and many dead test subjects.
The leader called out to the little boy in Arabic. He grabbed the crate of serum, cracking the lid off with a crowbar. He looked down excitedly at the containers laid out in front of him.
I saw the leader pull one of the vials out and put it up to his eye. The liquid shone a robin’s egg blue in the headlights of the cars. It sparkled as he turned it, as if with thousands of pieces of glitter. The leader gave a short prayer in Arabic, his face splitting into a grin. He pulled out a syringe and called the boy with the balaclava over.
“Hey, you should wait until we leave to…” Nikolai protested, but the leader waved him off. Without a moment of hesitation, he filled the syringe with the serum, raised the boy’s sleeve and injected it into his arm. He spoke a few words in Arabic, and the boy responded, nodding, still smiling. Then his face began to change.
The boy’s eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent scream. His hands clenched into fists, the fingernails biting deep grooves into his skin. Blood trickled down onto the floor. He started to turn blue, falling down on his back with a thud and a woosh of air, seizing and kicking. The men in the balaclavas started shouting at us, raising their guns. I put my hands up.
“Wait!” I cried, and surprisingly, they did. Only the boy’s choking, gurgling cries broke the silence. The leader looked at me expectantly. “The transformation takes a minute. This is expected.” The leader nodded, looking back at his men and raising his finger. They lowered their rifles. Nikolai wiped a heavy trickle of sweat out of his eyes. His gaze flitted from me to the boy and back again, like some sort of deadly metronome. I knew if the boy died, I would die also.
The boy had gone silent, his lips turning blue, his pupils dilating. He gave one last choking death rattle and went still. I checked my watch, raising a finger like I had seen the leader do.
“Ten seconds,” I said. The room had gone deathly silent. All I could hear was the frantic thudding of my heart within its cage of bones. “Five seconds.” I counted down, praying to a God I didn’t believe in for this to work.
The boy jerked, taking a deep breath. His eyelids fluttered open. I saw his eyes had turned pure white. He grinned, showing off the many twisted, vampiric teeth jutting out of his blackened gums. With a hiss, he pushed himself off the ground, flying through the air and landing on his feet ten feet away.
“So thirsty,” the boy growled in a demonic voice. His lifeless eyes flitted towards one of Nikolai’s goons. In a blur, he jumped across the room and landed on the hulking figure.
The man tried to fire his Uzi at the boy, but the boy swatted it out of his hand without the slightest indication of effort. Hanging off the man’s chest like some giant tick, the boy grinned down at him and then bit deeply into his neck. A torrent of bright-red blood rushed out, soaking into the man’s suit. I could hear the boy’s throat working as he drank furiously, sucking each precious gulp of blood with fluttering eyelids.
“Kill him!” Nikolai screamed. Automatic rifle fire rang out from all around me. I couldn’t tell who was shooting or at what. Screaming, I ran and crawled under the panel van. I waited, my ears ringing. Another burst of gunfire rang out and then rapidly got cut off. I saw a body fall only a few feet to my right. I looked over and saw Nikolai laying there, staring blankly ahead with sightless eyes, his throat torn out. I started whimpering, trying to cover my mouth to keep any sounds from coming out.
I heard soft footsteps approaching. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see my own death.
Yet a moment later, I heard the shrieking of metal. I waited a few moments and opened my eyes, seeing street light stream in. I waited with bated breath, not believing it. A few minutes later, after I still hadn’t heard anything, I crawled out from under the van, checking all around me for any signs of movement.
Everyone was dead. I saw Nikolai and his goons with their throats torn out. Some of the black-clad men had their hearts ripped out of their chests, the bones jutting out like razor-wire around the edges of the cavernous wounds. My brother Shin had his head twisted all the way around, the skin spiraling up in a nightmarish way. I bent over and retched, my mind swimming in these disturbing visions of mutilation and gore.
I looked at the entrance and saw the boy had ripped the locked door off its hinges and walked out into the tropical night. And then it struck me. I was free.
I looked back at the money, laughing and dancing. I grabbed a bag of the cash, feeling just how heavy it was. I marveled at the stacks of hundred-dollar bills inside, each fresh and new, smelling like hopes and dreams.
A shadow fell over me. In the doorway, I saw the boy. His clothes hung in tatters around his rapidly changing body. As I watched him, he grew taller, his arms and legs lengthening. His tanned, Middle Eastern skin lightened until it shone like bleached bones. Claws ripped their way out of his fingers and toes. His cheekbones rose into prominent bulges as his face seemed to sink in on itself. All the hair on his body fell out as his mouth opened and a sound came out, either a laugh or a shriek. I couldn’t tell which, and I guessed it didn’t matter anymore.
The ten-foot-tall vampiric abomination stood before me, gruesome and emaciated with teeth like nails and claws like razor blades. I stepped back, terrified and pleading for my life.
“Please, please, don’t kill me,” I said. “My wife is pregnant. She is back at the…” In a frenzy, the abomination ran forward and slashed at me. I felt an icy numbness run across my arm. Looking down in shock and horror, I saw the monster’s claws had slashed through the meat, all the way down to the bone. Four deep gouges ran through my flesh.
The monster growled, shaking the floor. My life flashed before my eyes as it advanced, opening its mouth and showing far too many twisted, razor-sharp teeth. Its breath smelled like dead meat. My eyes watered.
And then a man yelled something in Cambodian. A dozen other voices followed. The creature and I both turned. Dozens of police in SWAT gear sprinted into the warehouse, all pointing their guns at the creature. It hissed and spat at them, jumping onto the nearest one and biting at his face-shield. I heard it crack like the snapping of bones. A moment later, the police officer’s face exploded in a fountain of blood and gore as the creature’s dozens of teeth ground into his head.
The police opened fire on the creature. I ran towards the back of the warehouse, praying I would find another exit there and find a way out of this chaos and bloodshed. In the darkness, I saw the red lights of a fire door. I pushed my way through it and found myself in a fetid alleyway. The sound of automatic rifle fire and men screaming in agony followed me down the street as I ran.
I escaped that monster, but I fear for the future. Because there’s a lot more serum coming, and I know from experience that Bureau 39 will sell it to any buyer.

Nikolai came into the house I shared with a dozen other employees of Bureau 39. I could see the bulge of the gargantuan black pistol he always kept holstered under his suit jacket. He rubbed one callused hand over his freshly-shaved head before taking a deep drag of his cigarette and flicking the ashes all over the wooden floor. He smoked Yves St. Laurent, a brand of cigarettes that Kim Jong-Un also loved. They cost $60 a pack, the equivalent of a month’s wages for most North Koreans.
We lived in very cramped conditions. I slept on the floor on a blanket, feeling the hardwood like a bed of nails under my back. Computers and tables took up the entire front room of the two-bedroom house. Nikolai pointed at me and my brother with his half-smoked cigarette. He narrowed his cold blue eyes at us. They looked like the eyes of a Siberian husky, the faded color of melting glaciers.
“Moon,” he said, nodding at me, “take your brother Shin and come with me.” Shin pushed his large, black-framed glasses up his bulbous nose. His greasy black bowl cut flew around his head as he turned away from his laptop, jumping up without a word. I got up just as fast. We were never allowed to leave the embassy here in Cambodia. We were kept as virtual prisoners.
***
Everyone in Bureau 39 was at the top of their field. We had hackers, programmers of ransomware, manufacturers of methamphetamine and fentanyl, and much darker trades than that. Throughout its history, the Bureau had sold chemical weapons, biological agents, nuclear secrets, torture and murder. To get the cash back to North Korea, we would use diplomats from the embassies, since they had immunity and couldn’t be stopped even if caught carrying millions of dollars.
In North Korea, the average person makes about $1,000 a year. Most have no electricity in their homes. People often defecate in the bushes or in buckets, and all farm labor is done with animals and antique plows. Going to the rural areas is like taking a time machine back to the 1700s in a way. So people signed up for Bureau 39 or any other elite agency by the droves in order to escape these intolerable living conditions. The government had the pick of the litter.
To get into the capital city of Pyongyang, a citizen of North Korea needs a special permit. Only the elites are allowed to step foot inside city limits. And yet, even here, electricity often only runs for 2 or 3 hours a day. According to North Korean law, if a building has ten stories or less, it doesn’t need an elevator. Not that an elevator matters much in a country with barely any electricity for civilian purposes. But this means starving people are regularly climbing up dozens of stories in buildings with no electricity, central heating or air conditioning. So even though Bureau 39 agents are kept like prisoners in the embassy, we still have luxuries the average North Korean can only dream of.
Perhaps 30 or 40% of their entire North Korean GDP goes to nuclear and intercontinental missile research. Even in the military, the soldiers regularly eat grass, snakes, rats and other pests. North Koreans who have escaped to South Korea often have advanced parasite infections from eating such garbage their entire lives. The South Koreans recently found thirty-five feet of tapeworm in a single starving North Korean soldier who drove and then ran across the DMZ, getting shot multiple times in the process.
So perhaps you understand why I preferred to work in Bureau 39 at a foreign embassy rather than stay in North Korea. Bureau 39 exists for only one reason: to give hundreds of millions of dollars to Kim Jong-Un for mansions, cars, women, luxury cigarettes, exotic foods and whatever else he desires. It is a slush fund for the Great Leader.
While the rest of his people starve and live in freezing poverty without medicine or hope, Kim Jong-Un lives like a god among men. At each of his many mansions, he has harems waiting for him filled with all the most beautiful girls in the country, taken out of schools by faceless agents of this Stalinist kingdom.
***
Nikolai walked out into the tropical Cambodian sun. I felt blinded for a minute. I saw Shin shielding his eyes and blinking rapidly, as if he had just woken up from a long nightmare.
“Please enter your password,” the female robotic voice said in a tone so cool it reminded me of ice cream on a scorching day. “The alarm will sound in five seconds.” Sweating heavily in the heat, Nikolai straightened his collar and began pressing a series of numbers. Once he realized I was watching, he swore at me and tried to cover the pad with his other hand, but I had seen the code: 2023. It was just the year. I repressed an urge to laugh.
“Come on, scumbags,” Nikolai said, taking his designer sunglasses out of his front suit pocket. “We have a meeting to attend. I’ll explain on the way.” He unlocked the Mercedes Benz with the North Korean diplomatic plates on it and we got in. The car still felt cold from the air conditioning. The smell of Nikolai’s overpriced cigarettes and even more expensive cologne hung in the air.
I got in the passenger’s seat and Shin got in the back. We drove out through the open gate. Once the car had passed the end of the private drive, sensors automatically caused the gate to swing shut, locking the other North Korean prisoners inside- including my wife.
We drove past the Buddhist temples and modern skyscrapers of the Cambodian skyline, a combination of ancient stone and gleaming glass. Nikolai lit up a cigarette and, without looking at me, started speaking, as if to himself.
“We have a deal, bigger than any we have had in a long time,” he said, staring ahead at the heavy traffic of tuk-tuks, taxis, farm trucks and cars. He swore as he checked his watch. “A group is willing to pay handsomely for the serum.” I looked up sharply at those words.
“The serum is not ready,” I protested. Shin stayed silent in the back. I spun to see his expression. His glasses magnified his wide, shocked eyes to owlish proportions. Nikolai swatted his hand at my comment, as if shooing away an imaginary fly.
“Haven’t human subjects responded to the effects of the serum?” he asked, his tone turning icy. “You have had over three years and tens of millions of dollars to experiment. I know you two are some of the best biologists from the entire country of North Korea. Now, are you telling me that you have made no human progress?”
“Of course not,” I protested, “but we still have some kinks to work out. It has most of the properties that the Supreme Leader requested. It’s just that some subjects have different cellular membranes, and it can lead to quite horrifying reactions…” Nikolai laughed, a deep, booming laugh that cut off my protestations.
“I don’t give a shit about side effects. We are selling the serum- right now, today. If not, you can consider your experiment over. We have a… group, let’s say… who is willing to pay $100 million for a single crate of it.” My jaw dropped.
“And what will happen to our project if we sell some of the serum?” Shin asked, speaking up in his nasally voice for the first time. “Project Wailing Banshee is not yet complete. We need more time.” Nikolai turned to us, grinning like a hyena, his faded killer’s eyes sparkling with glee.
“If you sell the serum to our good friends,” Nikolai whispered in a low, psychopathic voice, “your funding will be guaranteed for the next two years. The serum doesn’t have to be perfect, it just needs to work.” I sighed. Clearly, I had no real choice in the matter. I turned to Nikolai and gave a brisk nod. I saw Shin do the same. “Good. I’ll have a panel van bring it over to our meeting area now. These men we’re dealing with might have some questions for you. Just answer them and let’s get out of there. No problems, right?”
“Right,” Shin and I said together in unison. An icy wave of dread ran down my back, a premonition of things to come.
***
We arrived at the warehouse at the edge of the city at dusk. The sky glowed a bloody red, reflecting off Nikolai’s dark sunglasses. I saw the black panel van following close behind us with some more of Nikolai’s armed goons sitting in the front.
An intercom buzzer stood at the side of the garage door. Nikolai pressed it. After a few moments, a voice boomed on the other end, slightly obscured by static.
“Who is it?” a man with an Arabic accent asked brusquely.
“You know who it is. Open up,” Nikolai said. The door rolled up slowly, revealing only a curtain of shadows. We drove in and got out. I heard my shoes clicking against the concrete floor.
The place looked abandoned. An open floor stretched out for hundreds of feet in every direction. From the office door in the back, a few men dressed in all black with balaclavas on their heads walked out. I saw they all had automatic rifles slung around their shoulders. A small boy in the same attire followed closely behind the group.
Nikolai’s two goons got out of the black panel van. I saw them reach under their seats and pull out micro Uzis. The tension in the air felt electric. No one said anything for a long moment as we surveyed each other across the dark no-man’s land between us.
“I’m glad to see you made it,” Nikolai called out, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. I jumped. Next to me, Shin looked down at the ground, nervously chewing on his lip.
“Did you bring it?” the leading man asked as they strode purposefully towards us. “Where is the serum?”
“Hang on, hang on,” Nikolai said, giving them a crooked half-smile. “I need to see the money first.” He motioned with his head to his soldiers. They raised their Uzis. The leading man called out something in Arabic, and more black-clad soldiers came out of the back office, dragging dozens of heavy black bags. Nikolai and his goons walked quickly forward. I followed close behind, taking Shin’s arm and pulling him along.
Nikolai unzipped one bag. I saw it stuffed to the brim with stacks of hundred-dollar bills. The next bag over was filled with Euros, and the third with gold and diamonds. I had never seen so much money in a single place in my entire life. He kept going through each one in turn, and I saw more precious stones, all sorts of gold bars, Canadian dollars, Japanese yen and some other currencies with Arabic writing I didn’t recognize. Nikolai grunted.
“Can’t you guys ever just give us all dollars or Euros? Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take me to count this? And what am I supposed to do with all these diamonds? Are they marked with lasers?” Nikolai asked. Their leader shook his head furiously. Nikolai sighed. “Go get the serum.” He motioned to his goons. They practically ran to the van, desperate to get this deal over with and take their share of the profits.
Nikolai’s goons pulled out a small crate, only a foot across. I heard the jingling of many shatterproof vials stacked carefully inside. It was over 90% of our entire stockpile of serum, the fruit of many sleepless nights and many dead test subjects.
The leader called out to the little boy in Arabic. He grabbed the crate of serum, cracking the lid off with a crowbar. He looked down excitedly at the containers laid out in front of him.
I saw the leader pull one of the vials out and put it up to his eye. The liquid shone a robin’s egg blue in the headlights of the cars. It sparkled as he turned it, as if with thousands of pieces of glitter. The leader gave a short prayer in Arabic, his face splitting into a grin. He pulled out a syringe and called the boy with the balaclava over.
“Hey, you should wait until we leave to…” Nikolai protested, but the leader waved him off. Without a moment of hesitation, he filled the syringe with the serum, raised the boy’s sleeve and injected it into his arm. He spoke a few words in Arabic, and the boy responded, nodding, still smiling. Then his face began to change.
The boy’s eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent scream. His hands clenched into fists, the fingernails biting deep grooves into his skin. Blood trickled down onto the floor. He started to turn blue, falling down on his back with a thud and a woosh of air, seizing and kicking. The men in the balaclavas started shouting at us, raising their guns. I put my hands up.
“Wait!” I cried, and surprisingly, they did. Only the boy’s choking, gurgling cries broke the silence. The leader looked at me expectantly. “The transformation takes a minute. This is expected.” The leader nodded, looking back at his men and raising his finger. They lowered their rifles. Nikolai wiped a heavy trickle of sweat out of his eyes. His gaze flitted from me to the boy and back again, like some sort of deadly metronome. I knew if the boy died, I would die also.
The boy had gone silent, his lips turning blue, his pupils dilating. He gave one last choking death rattle and went still. I checked my watch, raising a finger like I had seen the leader do.
“Ten seconds,” I said. The room had gone deathly silent. All I could hear was the frantic thudding of my heart within its cage of bones. “Five seconds.” I counted down, praying to a God I didn’t believe in for this to work.
The boy jerked, taking a deep breath. His eyelids fluttered open. I saw his eyes had turned pure white. He grinned, showing off the many twisted, vampiric teeth jutting out of his blackened gums. With a hiss, he pushed himself off the ground, flying through the air and landing on his feet ten feet away.
“So thirsty,” the boy growled in a demonic voice. His lifeless eyes flitted towards one of Nikolai’s goons. In a blur, he jumped across the room and landed on the hulking figure.
The man tried to fire his Uzi at the boy, but the boy swatted it out of his hand without the slightest indication of effort. Hanging off the man’s chest like some giant tick, the boy grinned down at him and then bit deeply into his neck. A torrent of bright-red blood rushed out, soaking into the man’s suit. I could hear the boy’s throat working as he drank furiously, sucking each precious gulp of blood with fluttering eyelids.
“Kill him!” Nikolai screamed. Automatic rifle fire rang out from all around me. I couldn’t tell who was shooting or at what. Screaming, I ran and crawled under the panel van. I waited, my ears ringing. Another burst of gunfire rang out and then rapidly got cut off. I saw a body fall only a few feet to my right. I looked over and saw Nikolai laying there, staring blankly ahead with sightless eyes, his throat torn out. I started whimpering, trying to cover my mouth to keep any sounds from coming out.
I heard soft footsteps approaching. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see my own death.
Yet a moment later, I heard the shrieking of metal. I waited a few moments and opened my eyes, seeing street light stream in. I waited with bated breath, not believing it. A few minutes later, after I still hadn’t heard anything, I crawled out from under the van, checking all around me for any signs of movement.
Everyone was dead. I saw Nikolai and his goons with their throats torn out. Some of the black-clad men had their hearts ripped out of their chests, the bones jutting out like razor-wire around the edges of the cavernous wounds. My brother Shin had his head twisted all the way around, the skin spiraling up in a nightmarish way. I bent over and retched, my mind swimming in these disturbing visions of mutilation and gore.
I looked at the entrance and saw the boy had ripped the locked door off its hinges and walked out into the tropical night. And then it struck me. I was free.
I looked back at the money, laughing and dancing. I grabbed a bag of the cash, feeling just how heavy it was. I marveled at the stacks of hundred-dollar bills inside, each fresh and new, smelling like hopes and dreams.
A shadow fell over me. In the doorway, I saw the boy. His clothes hung in tatters around his rapidly changing body. As I watched him, he grew taller, his arms and legs lengthening. His tanned, Middle Eastern skin lightened until it shone like bleached bones. Claws ripped their way out of his fingers and toes. His cheekbones rose into prominent bulges as his face seemed to sink in on itself. All the hair on his body fell out as his mouth opened and a sound came out, either a laugh or a shriek. I couldn’t tell which, and I guessed it didn’t matter anymore.
The ten-foot-tall vampiric abomination stood before me, gruesome and emaciated with teeth like nails and claws like razor blades. I stepped back, terrified and pleading for my life.
“Please, please, don’t kill me,” I said. “My wife is pregnant. She is back at the…” In a frenzy, the abomination ran forward and slashed at me. I felt an icy numbness run across my arm. Looking down in shock and horror, I saw the monster’s claws had slashed through the meat, all the way down to the bone. Four deep gouges ran through my flesh.
The monster growled, shaking the floor. My life flashed before my eyes as it advanced, opening its mouth and showing far too many twisted, razor-sharp teeth. Its breath smelled like dead meat. My eyes watered.
And then a man yelled something in Cambodian. A dozen other voices followed. The creature and I both turned. Dozens of police in SWAT gear sprinted into the warehouse, all pointing their guns at the creature. It hissed and spat at them, jumping onto the nearest one and biting at his face-shield. I heard it crack like the snapping of bones. A moment later, the police officer’s face exploded in a fountain of blood and gore as the creature’s dozens of teeth ground into his head.
The police opened fire on the creature. I ran towards the back of the warehouse, praying I would find another exit there and find a way out of this chaos and bloodshed. In the darkness, I saw the red lights of a fire door. I pushed my way through it and found myself in a fetid alleyway. The sound of automatic rifle fire and men screaming in agony followed me down the street as I ran.
I escaped that monster, but I fear for the future. Because there’s a lot more serum coming, and I know from experience that Bureau 39 will sell it to any buyer.

Nikolai came into the house I shared with a dozen other employees of Bureau 39. I could see the bulge of the gargantuan black pistol he always kept holstered under his suit jacket. He rubbed one callused hand over his freshly-shaved head before taking a deep drag of his cigarette and flicking the ashes all over the wooden floor. He smoked Yves St. Laurent, a brand of cigarettes that Kim Jong-Un also loved. They cost $60 a pack, the equivalent of a month’s wages for most North Koreans.
We lived in very cramped conditions. I slept on the floor on a blanket, feeling the hardwood like a bed of nails under my back. Computers and tables took up the entire front room of the two-bedroom house. Nikolai pointed at me and my brother with his half-smoked cigarette. He narrowed his cold blue eyes at us. They looked like the eyes of a Siberian husky, the faded color of melting glaciers.
“Moon,” he said, nodding at me, “take your brother Shin and come with me.” Shin pushed his large, black-framed glasses up his bulbous nose. His greasy black bowl cut flew around his head as he turned away from his laptop, jumping up without a word. I got up just as fast. We were never allowed to leave the embassy here in Cambodia. We were kept as virtual prisoners.
***
Everyone in Bureau 39 was at the top of their field. We had hackers, programmers of ransomware, manufacturers of methamphetamine and fentanyl, and much darker trades than that. Throughout its history, the Bureau had sold chemical weapons, biological agents, nuclear secrets, torture and murder. To get the cash back to North Korea, we would use diplomats from the embassies, since they had immunity and couldn’t be stopped even if caught carrying millions of dollars.
In North Korea, the average person makes about $1,000 a year. Most have no electricity in their homes. People often defecate in the bushes or in buckets, and all farm labor is done with animals and antique plows. Going to the rural areas is like taking a time machine back to the 1700s in a way. So people signed up for Bureau 39 or any other elite agency by the droves in order to escape these intolerable living conditions. The government had the pick of the litter.
To get into the capital city of Pyongyang, a citizen of North Korea needs a special permit. Only the elites are allowed to step foot inside city limits. And yet, even here, electricity often only runs for 2 or 3 hours a day. According to North Korean law, if a building has ten stories or less, it doesn’t need an elevator. Not that an elevator matters much in a country with barely any electricity for civilian purposes. But this means starving people are regularly climbing up dozens of stories in buildings with no electricity, central heating or air conditioning. So even though Bureau 39 agents are kept like prisoners in the embassy, we still have luxuries the average North Korean can only dream of.
Perhaps 30 or 40% of their entire North Korean GDP goes to nuclear and intercontinental missile research. Even in the military, the soldiers regularly eat grass, snakes, rats and other pests. North Koreans who have escaped to South Korea often have advanced parasite infections from eating such garbage their entire lives. The South Koreans recently found thirty-five feet of tapeworm in a single starving North Korean soldier who drove and then ran across the DMZ, getting shot multiple times in the process.
So perhaps you understand why I preferred to work in Bureau 39 at a foreign embassy rather than stay in North Korea. Bureau 39 exists for only one reason: to give hundreds of millions of dollars to Kim Jong-Un for mansions, cars, women, luxury cigarettes, exotic foods and whatever else he desires. It is a slush fund for the Great Leader.
While the rest of his people starve and live in freezing poverty without medicine or hope, Kim Jong-Un lives like a god among men. At each of his many mansions, he has harems waiting for him filled with all the most beautiful girls in the country, taken out of schools by faceless agents of this Stalinist kingdom.
***
Nikolai walked out into the tropical Cambodian sun. I felt blinded for a minute. I saw Shin shielding his eyes and blinking rapidly, as if he had just woken up from a long nightmare.
“Please enter your password,” the female robotic voice said in a tone so cool it reminded me of ice cream on a scorching day. “The alarm will sound in five seconds.” Sweating heavily in the heat, Nikolai straightened his collar and began pressing a series of numbers. Once he realized I was watching, he swore at me and tried to cover the pad with his other hand, but I had seen the code: 2023. It was just the year. I repressed an urge to laugh.
“Come on, scumbags,” Nikolai said, taking his designer sunglasses out of his front suit pocket. “We have a meeting to attend. I’ll explain on the way.” He unlocked the Mercedes Benz with the North Korean diplomatic plates on it and we got in. The car still felt cold from the air conditioning. The smell of Nikolai’s overpriced cigarettes and even more expensive cologne hung in the air.
I got in the passenger’s seat and Shin got in the back. We drove out through the open gate. Once the car had passed the end of the private drive, sensors automatically caused the gate to swing shut, locking the other North Korean prisoners inside- including my wife.
We drove past the Buddhist temples and modern skyscrapers of the Cambodian skyline, a combination of ancient stone and gleaming glass. Nikolai lit up a cigarette and, without looking at me, started speaking, as if to himself.
“We have a deal, bigger than any we have had in a long time,” he said, staring ahead at the heavy traffic of tuk-tuks, taxis, farm trucks and cars. He swore as he checked his watch. “A group is willing to pay handsomely for the serum.” I looked up sharply at those words.
“The serum is not ready,” I protested. Shin stayed silent in the back. I spun to see his expression. His glasses magnified his wide, shocked eyes to owlish proportions. Nikolai swatted his hand at my comment, as if shooing away an imaginary fly.
“Haven’t human subjects responded to the effects of the serum?” he asked, his tone turning icy. “You have had over three years and tens of millions of dollars to experiment. I know you two are some of the best biologists from the entire country of North Korea. Now, are you telling me that you have made no human progress?”
“Of course not,” I protested, “but we still have some kinks to work out. It has most of the properties that the Supreme Leader requested. It’s just that some subjects have different cellular membranes, and it can lead to quite horrifying reactions…” Nikolai laughed, a deep, booming laugh that cut off my protestations.
“I don’t give a shit about side effects. We are selling the serum- right now, today. If not, you can consider your experiment over. We have a… group, let’s say… who is willing to pay $100 million for a single crate of it.” My jaw dropped.
“And what will happen to our project if we sell some of the serum?” Shin asked, speaking up in his nasally voice for the first time. “Project Wailing Banshee is not yet complete. We need more time.” Nikolai turned to us, grinning like a hyena, his faded killer’s eyes sparkling with glee.
“If you sell the serum to our good friends,” Nikolai whispered in a low, psychopathic voice, “your funding will be guaranteed for the next two years. The serum doesn’t have to be perfect, it just needs to work.” I sighed. Clearly, I had no real choice in the matter. I turned to Nikolai and gave a brisk nod. I saw Shin do the same. “Good. I’ll have a panel van bring it over to our meeting area now. These men we’re dealing with might have some questions for you. Just answer them and let’s get out of there. No problems, right?”
“Right,” Shin and I said together in unison. An icy wave of dread ran down my back, a premonition of things to come.
***
We arrived at the warehouse at the edge of the city at dusk. The sky glowed a bloody red, reflecting off Nikolai’s dark sunglasses. I saw the black panel van following close behind us with some more of Nikolai’s armed goons sitting in the front.
An intercom buzzer stood at the side of the garage door. Nikolai pressed it. After a few moments, a voice boomed on the other end, slightly obscured by static.
“Who is it?” a man with an Arabic accent asked brusquely.
“You know who it is. Open up,” Nikolai said. The door rolled up slowly, revealing only a curtain of shadows. We drove in and got out. I heard my shoes clicking against the concrete floor.
The place looked abandoned. An open floor stretched out for hundreds of feet in every direction. From the office door in the back, a few men dressed in all black with balaclavas on their heads walked out. I saw they all had automatic rifles slung around their shoulders. A small boy in the same attire followed closely behind the group.
Nikolai’s two goons got out of the black panel van. I saw them reach under their seats and pull out micro Uzis. The tension in the air felt electric. No one said anything for a long moment as we surveyed each other across the dark no-man’s land between us.
“I’m glad to see you made it,” Nikolai called out, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. I jumped. Next to me, Shin looked down at the ground, nervously chewing on his lip.
“Did you bring it?” the leading man asked as they strode purposefully towards us. “Where is the serum?”
“Hang on, hang on,” Nikolai said, giving them a crooked half-smile. “I need to see the money first.” He motioned with his head to his soldiers. They raised their Uzis. The leading man called out something in Arabic, and more black-clad soldiers came out of the back office, dragging dozens of heavy black bags. Nikolai and his goons walked quickly forward. I followed close behind, taking Shin’s arm and pulling him along.
Nikolai unzipped one bag. I saw it stuffed to the brim with stacks of hundred-dollar bills. The next bag over was filled with Euros, and the third with gold and diamonds. I had never seen so much money in a single place in my entire life. He kept going through each one in turn, and I saw more precious stones, all sorts of gold bars, Canadian dollars, Japanese yen and some other currencies with Arabic writing I didn’t recognize. Nikolai grunted.
“Can’t you guys ever just give us all dollars or Euros? Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take me to count this? And what am I supposed to do with all these diamonds? Are they marked with lasers?” Nikolai asked. Their leader shook his head furiously. Nikolai sighed. “Go get the serum.” He motioned to his goons. They practically ran to the van, desperate to get this deal over with and take their share of the profits.
Nikolai’s goons pulled out a small crate, only a foot across. I heard the jingling of many shatterproof vials stacked carefully inside. It was over 90% of our entire stockpile of serum, the fruit of many sleepless nights and many dead test subjects.
The leader called out to the little boy in Arabic. He grabbed the crate of serum, cracking the lid off with a crowbar. He looked down excitedly at the containers laid out in front of him.
I saw the leader pull one of the vials out and put it up to his eye. The liquid shone a robin’s egg blue in the headlights of the cars. It sparkled as he turned it, as if with thousands of pieces of glitter. The leader gave a short prayer in Arabic, his face splitting into a grin. He pulled out a syringe and called the boy with the balaclava over.
“Hey, you should wait until we leave to…” Nikolai protested, but the leader waved him off. Without a moment of hesitation, he filled the syringe with the serum, raised the boy’s sleeve and injected it into his arm. He spoke a few words in Arabic, and the boy responded, nodding, still smiling. Then his face began to change.
The boy’s eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent scream. His hands clenched into fists, the fingernails biting deep grooves into his skin. Blood trickled down onto the floor. He started to turn blue, falling down on his back with a thud and a woosh of air, seizing and kicking. The men in the balaclavas started shouting at us, raising their guns. I put my hands up.
“Wait!” I cried, and surprisingly, they did. Only the boy’s choking, gurgling cries broke the silence. The leader looked at me expectantly. “The transformation takes a minute. This is expected.” The leader nodded, looking back at his men and raising his finger. They lowered their rifles. Nikolai wiped a heavy trickle of sweat out of his eyes. His gaze flitted from me to the boy and back again, like some sort of deadly metronome. I knew if the boy died, I would die also.
The boy had gone silent, his lips turning blue, his pupils dilating. He gave one last choking death rattle and went still. I checked my watch, raising a finger like I had seen the leader do.
“Ten seconds,” I said. The room had gone deathly silent. All I could hear was the frantic thudding of my heart within its cage of bones. “Five seconds.” I counted down, praying to a God I didn’t believe in for this to work.
The boy jerked, taking a deep breath. His eyelids fluttered open. I saw his eyes had turned pure white. He grinned, showing off the many twisted, vampiric teeth jutting out of his blackened gums. With a hiss, he pushed himself off the ground, flying through the air and landing on his feet ten feet away.
“So thirsty,” the boy growled in a demonic voice. His lifeless eyes flitted towards one of Nikolai’s goons. In a blur, he jumped across the room and landed on the hulking figure.
The man tried to fire his Uzi at the boy, but the boy swatted it out of his hand without the slightest indication of effort. Hanging off the man’s chest like some giant tick, the boy grinned down at him and then bit deeply into his neck. A torrent of bright-red blood rushed out, soaking into the man’s suit. I could hear the boy’s throat working as he drank furiously, sucking each precious gulp of blood with fluttering eyelids.
“Kill him!” Nikolai screamed. Automatic rifle fire rang out from all around me. I couldn’t tell who was shooting or at what. Screaming, I ran and crawled under the panel van. I waited, my ears ringing. Another burst of gunfire rang out and then rapidly got cut off. I saw a body fall only a few feet to my right. I looked over and saw Nikolai laying there, staring blankly ahead with sightless eyes, his throat torn out. I started whimpering, trying to cover my mouth to keep any sounds from coming out.
I heard soft footsteps approaching. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see my own death.
Yet a moment later, I heard the shrieking of metal. I waited a few moments and opened my eyes, seeing street light stream in. I waited with bated breath, not believing it. A few minutes later, after I still hadn’t heard anything, I crawled out from under the van, checking all around me for any signs of movement.
Everyone was dead. I saw Nikolai and his goons with their throats torn out. Some of the black-clad men had their hearts ripped out of their chests, the bones jutting out like razor-wire around the edges of the cavernous wounds. My brother Shin had his head twisted all the way around, the skin spiraling up in a nightmarish way. I bent over and retched, my mind swimming in these disturbing visions of mutilation and gore.
I looked at the entrance and saw the boy had ripped the locked door off its hinges and walked out into the tropical night. And then it struck me. I was free.
I looked back at the money, laughing and dancing. I grabbed a bag of the cash, feeling just how heavy it was. I marveled at the stacks of hundred-dollar bills inside, each fresh and new, smelling like hopes and dreams.
A shadow fell over me. In the doorway, I saw the boy. His clothes hung in tatters around his rapidly changing body. As I watched him, he grew taller, his arms and legs lengthening. His tanned, Middle Eastern skin lightened until it shone like bleached bones. Claws ripped their way out of his fingers and toes. His cheekbones rose into prominent bulges as his face seemed to sink in on itself. All the hair on his body fell out as his mouth opened and a sound came out, either a laugh or a shriek. I couldn’t tell which, and I guessed it didn’t matter anymore.
The ten-foot-tall vampiric abomination stood before me, gruesome and emaciated with teeth like nails and claws like razor blades. I stepped back, terrified and pleading for my life.
“Please, please, don’t kill me,” I said. “My wife is pregnant. She is back at the…” In a frenzy, the abomination ran forward and slashed at me. I felt an icy numbness run across my arm. Looking down in shock and horror, I saw the monster’s claws had slashed through the meat, all the way down to the bone. Four deep gouges ran through my flesh.
The monster growled, shaking the floor. My life flashed before my eyes as it advanced, opening its mouth and showing far too many twisted, razor-sharp teeth. Its breath smelled like dead meat. My eyes watered.
And then a man yelled something in Cambodian. A dozen other voices followed. The creature and I both turned. Dozens of police in SWAT gear sprinted into the warehouse, all pointing their guns at the creature. It hissed and spat at them, jumping onto the nearest one and biting at his face-shield. I heard it crack like the snapping of bones. A moment later, the police officer’s face exploded in a fountain of blood and gore as the creature’s dozens of teeth ground into his head.
The police opened fire on the creature. I ran towards the back of the warehouse, praying I would find another exit there and find a way out of this chaos and bloodshed. In the darkness, I saw the red lights of a fire door. I pushed my way through it and found myself in a fetid alleyway. The sound of automatic rifle fire and men screaming in agony followed me down the street as I ran.
I escaped that monster, but I fear for the future. Because there’s a lot more serum coming, and I know from experience that Bureau 39 will sell it to any buyer.

Nikolai came into the house I shared with a dozen other employees of Bureau 39. I could see the bulge of the gargantuan black pistol he always kept holstered under his suit jacket. He rubbed one callused hand over his freshly-shaved head before taking a deep drag of his cigarette and flicking the ashes all over the wooden floor. He smoked Yves St. Laurent, a brand of cigarettes that Kim Jong-Un also loved. They cost $60 a pack, the equivalent of a month’s wages for most North Koreans.
We lived in very cramped conditions. I slept on the floor on a blanket, feeling the hardwood like a bed of nails under my back. Computers and tables took up the entire front room of the two-bedroom house. Nikolai pointed at me and my brother with his half-smoked cigarette. He narrowed his cold blue eyes at us. They looked like the eyes of a Siberian husky, the faded color of melting glaciers.
“Moon,” he said, nodding at me, “take your brother Shin and come with me.” Shin pushed his large, black-framed glasses up his bulbous nose. His greasy black bowl cut flew around his head as he turned away from his laptop, jumping up without a word. I got up just as fast. We were never allowed to leave the embassy here in Cambodia. We were kept as virtual prisoners.
***
Everyone in Bureau 39 was at the top of their field. We had hackers, programmers of ransomware, manufacturers of methamphetamine and fentanyl, and much darker trades than that. Throughout its history, the Bureau had sold chemical weapons, biological agents, nuclear secrets, torture and murder. To get the cash back to North Korea, we would use diplomats from the embassies, since they had immunity and couldn’t be stopped even if caught carrying millions of dollars.
In North Korea, the average person makes about $1,000 a year. Most have no electricity in their homes. People often defecate in the bushes or in buckets, and all farm labor is done with animals and antique plows. Going to the rural areas is like taking a time machine back to the 1700s in a way. So people signed up for Bureau 39 or any other elite agency by the droves in order to escape these intolerable living conditions. The government had the pick of the litter.
To get into the capital city of Pyongyang, a citizen of North Korea needs a special permit. Only the elites are allowed to step foot inside city limits. And yet, even here, electricity often only runs for 2 or 3 hours a day. According to North Korean law, if a building has ten stories or less, it doesn’t need an elevator. Not that an elevator matters much in a country with barely any electricity for civilian purposes. But this means starving people are regularly climbing up dozens of stories in buildings with no electricity, central heating or air conditioning. So even though Bureau 39 agents are kept like prisoners in the embassy, we still have luxuries the average North Korean can only dream of.
Perhaps 30 or 40% of their entire North Korean GDP goes to nuclear and intercontinental missile research. Even in the military, the soldiers regularly eat grass, snakes, rats and other pests. North Koreans who have escaped to South Korea often have advanced parasite infections from eating such garbage their entire lives. The South Koreans recently found thirty-five feet of tapeworm in a single starving North Korean soldier who drove and then ran across the DMZ, getting shot multiple times in the process.
So perhaps you understand why I preferred to work in Bureau 39 at a foreign embassy rather than stay in North Korea. Bureau 39 exists for only one reason: to give hundreds of millions of dollars to Kim Jong-Un for mansions, cars, women, luxury cigarettes, exotic foods and whatever else he desires. It is a slush fund for the Great Leader.
While the rest of his people starve and live in freezing poverty without medicine or hope, Kim Jong-Un lives like a god among men. At each of his many mansions, he has harems waiting for him filled with all the most beautiful girls in the country, taken out of schools by faceless agents of this Stalinist kingdom.
***
Nikolai walked out into the tropical Cambodian sun. I felt blinded for a minute. I saw Shin shielding his eyes and blinking rapidly, as if he had just woken up from a long nightmare.
“Please enter your password,” the female robotic voice said in a tone so cool it reminded me of ice cream on a scorching day. “The alarm will sound in five seconds.” Sweating heavily in the heat, Nikolai straightened his collar and began pressing a series of numbers. Once he realized I was watching, he swore at me and tried to cover the pad with his other hand, but I had seen the code: 2023. It was just the year. I repressed an urge to laugh.
“Come on, scumbags,” Nikolai said, taking his designer sunglasses out of his front suit pocket. “We have a meeting to attend. I’ll explain on the way.” He unlocked the Mercedes Benz with the North Korean diplomatic plates on it and we got in. The car still felt cold from the air conditioning. The smell of Nikolai’s overpriced cigarettes and even more expensive cologne hung in the air.
I got in the passenger’s seat and Shin got in the back. We drove out through the open gate. Once the car had passed the end of the private drive, sensors automatically caused the gate to swing shut, locking the other North Korean prisoners inside- including my wife.
We drove past the Buddhist temples and modern skyscrapers of the Cambodian skyline, a combination of ancient stone and gleaming glass. Nikolai lit up a cigarette and, without looking at me, started speaking, as if to himself.
“We have a deal, bigger than any we have had in a long time,” he said, staring ahead at the heavy traffic of tuk-tuks, taxis, farm trucks and cars. He swore as he checked his watch. “A group is willing to pay handsomely for the serum.” I looked up sharply at those words.
“The serum is not ready,” I protested. Shin stayed silent in the back. I spun to see his expression. His glasses magnified his wide, shocked eyes to owlish proportions. Nikolai swatted his hand at my comment, as if shooing away an imaginary fly.
“Haven’t human subjects responded to the effects of the serum?” he asked, his tone turning icy. “You have had over three years and tens of millions of dollars to experiment. I know you two are some of the best biologists from the entire country of North Korea. Now, are you telling me that you have made no human progress?”
“Of course not,” I protested, “but we still have some kinks to work out. It has most of the properties that the Supreme Leader requested. It’s just that some subjects have different cellular membranes, and it can lead to quite horrifying reactions…” Nikolai laughed, a deep, booming laugh that cut off my protestations.
“I don’t give a shit about side effects. We are selling the serum- right now, today. If not, you can consider your experiment over. We have a… group, let’s say… who is willing to pay $100 million for a single crate of it.” My jaw dropped.
“And what will happen to our project if we sell some of the serum?” Shin asked, speaking up in his nasally voice for the first time. “Project Wailing Banshee is not yet complete. We need more time.” Nikolai turned to us, grinning like a hyena, his faded killer’s eyes sparkling with glee.
“If you sell the serum to our good friends,” Nikolai whispered in a low, psychopathic voice, “your funding will be guaranteed for the next two years. The serum doesn’t have to be perfect, it just needs to work.” I sighed. Clearly, I had no real choice in the matter. I turned to Nikolai and gave a brisk nod. I saw Shin do the same. “Good. I’ll have a panel van bring it over to our meeting area now. These men we’re dealing with might have some questions for you. Just answer them and let’s get out of there. No problems, right?”
“Right,” Shin and I said together in unison. An icy wave of dread ran down my back, a premonition of things to come.
***
We arrived at the warehouse at the edge of the city at dusk. The sky glowed a bloody red, reflecting off Nikolai’s dark sunglasses. I saw the black panel van following close behind us with some more of Nikolai’s armed goons sitting in the front.
An intercom buzzer stood at the side of the garage door. Nikolai pressed it. After a few moments, a voice boomed on the other end, slightly obscured by static.
“Who is it?” a man with an Arabic accent asked brusquely.
“You know who it is. Open up,” Nikolai said. The door rolled up slowly, revealing only a curtain of shadows. We drove in and got out. I heard my shoes clicking against the concrete floor.
The place looked abandoned. An open floor stretched out for hundreds of feet in every direction. From the office door in the back, a few men dressed in all black with balaclavas on their heads walked out. I saw they all had automatic rifles slung around their shoulders. A small boy in the same attire followed closely behind the group.
Nikolai’s two goons got out of the black panel van. I saw them reach under their seats and pull out micro Uzis. The tension in the air felt electric. No one said anything for a long moment as we surveyed each other across the dark no-man’s land between us.
“I’m glad to see you made it,” Nikolai called out, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. I jumped. Next to me, Shin looked down at the ground, nervously chewing on his lip.
“Did you bring it?” the leading man asked as they strode purposefully towards us. “Where is the serum?”
“Hang on, hang on,” Nikolai said, giving them a crooked half-smile. “I need to see the money first.” He motioned with his head to his soldiers. They raised their Uzis. The leading man called out something in Arabic, and more black-clad soldiers came out of the back office, dragging dozens of heavy black bags. Nikolai and his goons walked quickly forward. I followed close behind, taking Shin’s arm and pulling him along.
Nikolai unzipped one bag. I saw it stuffed to the brim with stacks of hundred-dollar bills. The next bag over was filled with Euros, and the third with gold and diamonds. I had never seen so much money in a single place in my entire life. He kept going through each one in turn, and I saw more precious stones, all sorts of gold bars, Canadian dollars, Japanese yen and some other currencies with Arabic writing I didn’t recognize. Nikolai grunted.
“Can’t you guys ever just give us all dollars or Euros? Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take me to count this? And what am I supposed to do with all these diamonds? Are they marked with lasers?” Nikolai asked. Their leader shook his head furiously. Nikolai sighed. “Go get the serum.” He motioned to his goons. They practically ran to the van, desperate to get this deal over with and take their share of the profits.
Nikolai’s goons pulled out a small crate, only a foot across. I heard the jingling of many shatterproof vials stacked carefully inside. It was over 90% of our entire stockpile of serum, the fruit of many sleepless nights and many dead test subjects.
The leader called out to the little boy in Arabic. He grabbed the crate of serum, cracking the lid off with a crowbar. He looked down excitedly at the containers laid out in front of him.
I saw the leader pull one of the vials out and put it up to his eye. The liquid shone a robin’s egg blue in the headlights of the cars. It sparkled as he turned it, as if with thousands of pieces of glitter. The leader gave a short prayer in Arabic, his face splitting into a grin. He pulled out a syringe and called the boy with the balaclava over.
“Hey, you should wait until we leave to…” Nikolai protested, but the leader waved him off. Without a moment of hesitation, he filled the syringe with the serum, raised the boy’s sleeve and injected it into his arm. He spoke a few words in Arabic, and the boy responded, nodding, still smiling. Then his face began to change.
The boy’s eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent scream. His hands clenched into fists, the fingernails biting deep grooves into his skin. Blood trickled down onto the floor. He started to turn blue, falling down on his back with a thud and a woosh of air, seizing and kicking. The men in the balaclavas started shouting at us, raising their guns. I put my hands up.
“Wait!” I cried, and surprisingly, they did. Only the boy’s choking, gurgling cries broke the silence. The leader looked at me expectantly. “The transformation takes a minute. This is expected.” The leader nodded, looking back at his men and raising his finger. They lowered their rifles. Nikolai wiped a heavy trickle of sweat out of his eyes. His gaze flitted from me to the boy and back again, like some sort of deadly metronome. I knew if the boy died, I would die also.
The boy had gone silent, his lips turning blue, his pupils dilating. He gave one last choking death rattle and went still. I checked my watch, raising a finger like I had seen the leader do.
“Ten seconds,” I said. The room had gone deathly silent. All I could hear was the frantic thudding of my heart within its cage of bones. “Five seconds.” I counted down, praying to a God I didn’t believe in for this to work.
The boy jerked, taking a deep breath. His eyelids fluttered open. I saw his eyes had turned pure white. He grinned, showing off the many twisted, vampiric teeth jutting out of his blackened gums. With a hiss, he pushed himself off the ground, flying through the air and landing on his feet ten feet away.
“So thirsty,” the boy growled in a demonic voice. His lifeless eyes flitted towards one of Nikolai’s goons. In a blur, he jumped across the room and landed on the hulking figure.
The man tried to fire his Uzi at the boy, but the boy swatted it out of his hand without the slightest indication of effort. Hanging off the man’s chest like some giant tick, the boy grinned down at him and then bit deeply into his neck. A torrent of bright-red blood rushed out, soaking into the man’s suit. I could hear the boy’s throat working as he drank furiously, sucking each precious gulp of blood with fluttering eyelids.
“Kill him!” Nikolai screamed. Automatic rifle fire rang out from all around me. I couldn’t tell who was shooting or at what. Screaming, I ran and crawled under the panel van. I waited, my ears ringing. Another burst of gunfire rang out and then rapidly got cut off. I saw a body fall only a few feet to my right. I looked over and saw Nikolai laying there, staring blankly ahead with sightless eyes, his throat torn out. I started whimpering, trying to cover my mouth to keep any sounds from coming out.
I heard soft footsteps approaching. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see my own death.
Yet a moment later, I heard the shrieking of metal. I waited a few moments and opened my eyes, seeing street light stream in. I waited with bated breath, not believing it. A few minutes later, after I still hadn’t heard anything, I crawled out from under the van, checking all around me for any signs of movement.
Everyone was dead. I saw Nikolai and his goons with their throats torn out. Some of the black-clad men had their hearts ripped out of their chests, the bones jutting out like razor-wire around the edges of the cavernous wounds. My brother Shin had his head twisted all the way around, the skin spiraling up in a nightmarish way. I bent over and retched, my mind swimming in these disturbing visions of mutilation and gore.
I looked at the entrance and saw the boy had ripped the locked door off its hinges and walked out into the tropical night. And then it struck me. I was free.
I looked back at the money, laughing and dancing. I grabbed a bag of the cash, feeling just how heavy it was. I marveled at the stacks of hundred-dollar bills inside, each fresh and new, smelling like hopes and dreams.
A shadow fell over me. In the doorway, I saw the boy. His clothes hung in tatters around his rapidly changing body. As I watched him, he grew taller, his arms and legs lengthening. His tanned, Middle Eastern skin lightened until it shone like bleached bones. Claws ripped their way out of his fingers and toes. His cheekbones rose into prominent bulges as his face seemed to sink in on itself. All the hair on his body fell out as his mouth opened and a sound came out, either a laugh or a shriek. I couldn’t tell which, and I guessed it didn’t matter anymore.
The ten-foot-tall vampiric abomination stood before me, gruesome and emaciated with teeth like nails and claws like razor blades. I stepped back, terrified and pleading for my life.
“Please, please, don’t kill me,” I said. “My wife is pregnant. She is back at the…” In a frenzy, the abomination ran forward and slashed at me. I felt an icy numbness run across my arm. Looking down in shock and horror, I saw the monster’s claws had slashed through the meat, all the way down to the bone. Four deep gouges ran through my flesh.
The monster growled, shaking the floor. My life flashed before my eyes as it advanced, opening its mouth and showing far too many twisted, razor-sharp teeth. Its breath smelled like dead meat. My eyes watered.
And then a man yelled something in Cambodian. A dozen other voices followed. The creature and I both turned. Dozens of police in SWAT gear sprinted into the warehouse, all pointing their guns at the creature. It hissed and spat at them, jumping onto the nearest one and biting at his face-shield. I heard it crack like the snapping of bones. A moment later, the police officer’s face exploded in a fountain of blood and gore as the creature’s dozens of teeth ground into his head.
The police opened fire on the creature. I ran towards the back of the warehouse, praying I would find another exit there and find a way out of this chaos and bloodshed. In the darkness, I saw the red lights of a fire door. I pushed my way through it and found myself in a fetid alleyway. The sound of automatic rifle fire and men screaming in agony followed me down the street as I ran.
I escaped that monster, but I fear for the future. Because there’s a lot more serum coming, and I know from experience that Bureau 39 will sell it to any buyer.

I may be getting interviewed in the coming days for my dream job, one that will likely require a drug test. I occasionally smoke weed at night (yes, that EVIL legal marijuana that does HORRIBLE things to people, unlike alcohol and cigarettes) and I need to sweat it out of my system.
I'm already a member at a gym and don't really want to switch just for this. Daily gym rates are insanely expensive. I checked Crunch and Goodlife, and I can't afford 25/day for 3 weeks.
Do you know where one can go to access a sauna that won't break the bank?
Thanks!
Edit: Well ladies and gents, the application for my dream job was rejected today. I didn't even make it to the test phase. Was my cover letter too wordy? Does the fact I quit jobs make my resume look as if I keep getting fired? Maybe I shouldn't have cold-emailed the recruiter. I sincerely believe no one is a better fit for this job, but that's none of my business. The job posting has been up for 49 days, it's STILL up, and shows 0 applicants. I have no idea how LinkedIn algos work, but it almost seems like they'd rather choose no one over me. Too all the people who offered advice, thanks. To everyone who was rude, I hope your life gets better. I can't imagine happy people go out of their way to post rude comments to strangers online. This is a rant- I'm not expecting replies. Just need an outlet. If anyone needs me, I'll be heading to Canadian Tire. Whether it's to drop off a resume or buy 10' of rope, stay tuned.