City of warwick ri city hall

Hi, I am currently a college student in the Uk and I dislike this place quite a lot I have always loved city’s and recently been looking into Montreal and it has caught my attention which is why I was wondering what I would need to do to prepare for this move. (I am currently learning French to be able to make this easier plus it just feels disrespectful to move somewhere and not know how to communicate with a massive group of people that live there) I like the winter a lot it’s my favourite season so I am fine with the weather although adjusting to it may be hard. I just came on here to ask people that have done this, how they did it, how they found adjusting and whether it was worth it. Anyways I highly appreciate any help that anyone could provide me with, much thanks.

My (29F) sister, Hannah (26F), and I recently lost our mother after a long battle with cancer. It’s been an emotional rollercoaster, and we’ve been trying to support each other through the grief. However, the topic of inheritance has started to cause tension between us.
Mom had a will that left the family home and a significant amount of money to me. Hannah received a smaller inheritance, including some sentimental items and a smaller sum of money. The reason for this, as explained by Mom in her will, is that I have been her primary caregiver for the past five years, while Hannah has been living her life in another city, rarely visiting or helping out.
When the will was read, Hannah was visibly upset. She confronted me afterwards, saying it’s unfair that I got more, and she feels entitled to half of everything. I explained to her that Mom made her decisions based on the care I provided and the sacrifices I made, including putting my career on hold and moving back home to take care of her.
Hannah argued that I was being selfish and that Mom was unfairly biased towards me. She believes that as siblings, we should split everything equally, regardless of the circumstances. She has been calling me names and involving other family members, who have mixed opinions on the matter.
Some relatives think I should honor Hannah’s request for the sake of family harmony, while others agree that Mom’s wishes should be respected. I’m torn because I want to keep the peace, but I also feel that I deserve what Mom left me, considering the years of dedication and the financial impact it had on my life.
AITA for telling my sister she’s not entitled to my inheritance and for sticking to what Mom’s will states?

I'm new to this subject but I found it interesting, and I'm going to test it to see if it really works after reading enough, I was thinking about mixing it with some things I already have proficiency in like scenario memorization (mainly to memorize things), visualizing these real scenarios or fictitious and the sensations we feel in reality.
Do you think there is a way to create Tulpas for specific places? For example, you close your eyes and imagine yourself in a specific scenario, perhaps your house where you meet a Tulpa who is your brother, she can only know about things that happened in that house, how she would perhaps go out to work or in a library she would know about the things that would happen if she and I were there, but let's suppose that after I mentally went through that house and then mentally went to a house in another country, to another Tulpa's house and talked to her, there's a way they only appear in these certain places, and if they left they had a good reason, for example, if there was a licensed Tulpa, I could pay him to send a letter to another Tulpa on the other side of the world, there might be a Tulpa who works as a wallet and send messages to multiple places?
I'm not sure if this is possible but I'd love to hear what you guys think, maybe someone has tested something similar?
Could I mentally create a city with the population being a bunch of Tulpas?

I have a flight out of Austin this afternoon to JFK and the city just announced a severe thunderstorm warning and it’s apparently supposed to hail. My flight has not been cancelled or delayed yet but my stomach is in knots
Ive been a member of this group long enough to know turbli is the worst place to look to track turbulence but I couldn’t help myself and it said it’s going to be a bumpy flight. Also I know they would cancel the flight if it was going to be dangerous but I’m nervous. Can anyone provide me with some sort of insight for flying in hail to help calm the nerves?

I'm [38M] in another country for an educational program for about three weeks now, and I started dating one of my classmates [23]. She is from India and this is a religious educational program. She was raised into the religion that I converted to. There were religious pilgrimages involved as part of the program, etc. I wasn't much attracted to her at first and basically thought nothing of her for about a week. The first interesting thing she said was when we were out in the city with a few other people and I went to exchange some currency. She exclaims that it's a lot of money and I shush her with my finger to my mouth and she jokingly asks if I'm going to be getting prostitutes.
Then eventually I thought I got some pretty clear signs that she was interested in me, and I started to develop feelings for her. At a group dinner one night, she chose a seat next to me and spooned some ice cream into my mouth at one point. She mentions a restaurant she wants to go to, so I ask her out a couple days later to that restaurant and she brings a guy/girl somewhat-couple from our class along. While we're walking to dinner, she asks me if I'm married, and I explain that I'm a widower since about a year ago. At that dinner, she takes a couple fries individually from my plate and the other guy points this out and I just shrug it off. Generally, she gave some strong eye contact at times during this outing. I gave her some playful nudging with my elbow at some point, that's about as far as I went in terms of being flirty.
A few days later, I ask her out on a date explicitly, and she eagerly accepts and this time doesn't bring anyone else along. The dinner date goes well enough, although I don't touch her at all or make any moves. At the end, she offers to walk to a second location and buy some tea for us at a popular religious landmark. This part goes well also, and we have some stimulating conversation. Eventually, I say I'm ready to go to bed and we walk together through a large crowd for a bit until we reach the road where she's staying and I just say "goodbye" and keep walking through the crowd to where I'm staying. Shortly after I get to my room, I receive a text asking if I reached, and I make my response really short and tell her good night.
Here's the part that seems to be where I started fucking up. The next morning, I send her a somewhat long message saying that I had a good time and I don't want her to think I'm not interested in her because I really am. I explain to her that this was my first date in almost 12 years and my dating skills are really rusty and not what they used to be when I was in my 20s. I explain that I didn't try to kiss her, but I actually really want to. Then I proposed a second date of some expensive tour in the area since I'll only have one free day left in the country to do such a tour, and I'd enjoy her company.
She responds saying that she didn't realize that I actually meant "date" when I said "date" and only understood I was being serious after receiving this message. She said she never imagined herself going on a date, and especially not with me, because I'm older and wiser than her. She declined my offer and says that she will not continue this with me. I may have forgotten some exchanges in between, but I eventually said that I didn't understand how she could think I was joking about a date. I told her I'm 38 years old, I know what I want, and I don't play games. I told her that she broke my heart. I say that I won't lash out at her, but I wanted her to know this so that she can avoid breaking other guy's hearts in the future . We're eventually texting more, and she explains that she isn't ready for a relationship. She says she wants to settle her life, finish school, etc. before getting married and starting a family. (I never mentioned marriage and family.) She also says she's not into long distance, since we're both going back to our home countries next week. She doesn't say anything along the lines of not being interested in me or not having feelings for me. She seemed to imply that she never had a boyfriend and never even went on a date before, although she didn't answer directly when I asked if that was the case, since there were multiple questions in one message.
I try to explain to her that we don't need to be thinking about marriage and a family right now. She says she's not ready for the "big things" right now, so then I ask if it's a "big thing" to have a boyfriend. She says it is a big thing to have a boyfriend. She needs to have feelings for him and she can't just be in a relationship and leave the relationship the next week. I took this as a test to see how serious I am about her, but who knows.
Later she says she will see me the next day, but then she changed her mind the next morning and I haven't seen her outside of class since that only full one-on-one date we had a few days ago. We're now in a different part of the program where there's no more classes together. So, there's no real reason we'd ever see each other again unless we intentionally meet.
I ask her if she just doesn't have any feelings for me and she just repeats that she isn't interested in any relationships right now but doesn't actually answer my question. I responded with a crying emoji and got really grovelly and self-debasing toward her. Then I deleted those messages and just said "Ok 🙏" and she reacted with 🙏
At this point, I'm just leaving it and waiting to see if she reaches out to me again before I leave. But I'm really confused by this one, reddit. Any thoughts?

This is school brawl type of story.
Mc saw as few huligans kill his friend by forced drink bier with cigarets without any reaction of anyone, eveny police, and his anger and fear call ancient soldier in cat form, who offer him spartan type training, mc later train or inspire another people.
I remember that boys trained by cat and mc general create resistance/millitia type organization on city scale in moment when I read this last time.

A multifamily property spanning 0.74 acres located at 811/813 Covey Lane in Coal City has been sold for $1,400,000. The transaction was facilitated by Lori Mensik of Hoff & Realtors representing the buyer and Michael Fleming & Ricardo Del Toro of Marquette Properties representing the seller. The property offers 8,320 square feet of space, equating to a price per square foot of $168.

Summary of transaction details:

• Property Type: MultiFamily
• Transaction Amount: $1,400,000
• Address: 811/813 Covey Lane
• Market: Coal City
• Buyer's Rep: Lori Mensik - Hoff & Realtors
• Seller's Rep: Michael Fleming & Ricardo Del Toro - Marquette Properties
• Square Footage: 8,320
• Price Per Square Foot: $168

Lori Mensik of Hoff & Realtors represented the buyer in the acquisition of the multifamily property, showcasing their expertise in real estate transactions. On the other hand, Michael Fleming and Ricardo Del Toro of Marquette Properties led the seller side of the deal, ensuring a successful and profitable closing for the property at 811/813 Covey Lane in Coal City.
Learn More: Lori Mensik Of Hoff & Realtors Represents Buyer In $1.4M Coal City MF Sale

An hour after getting back from the Mason apartment, Bruce Kenner had the distinct misfortune of meeting Bertha Henderson.
A plump, gaudy woman with wrinkles and sun beaten skin only an alligator could love, Bertha Henderson wore bright red lipstick, bright red rouge, and way too much mascara. Her tangled hair was a dull red color and her clothes - pink pants and a white floral top - stretched tight across her bulbous frame. She looked like the kind of woman who lived in a trailer with velvet pictures of Elvis on the wall and pink flamingos in the front yard.
She acted like one too.
From the moment she stormed into his office, she hadn’t shut up once. She scolded, chided, accused, and badgered, sometimes even wagging one fat finger in his face like he was a naughty little boy. Ten minutes into the dressing down and Bruce was beginning to fantasize about police brutality.
It took him another ten minutes to find out what the hell she even wanted.
“It’s my granddaughter,” she shot back, “she’s missing in your town.”
My town? Lady, this is barely my office. I share it with three other people.
“Well, if you’ll calm down, maybe I can help.”
Jesus Christ was that the wrong thing to say. She hit the roof and didn’t come down again until Bruce was this close to arresting her for assault on a police officer. “Young man, I do not appreciate the way you’re talking to me. My tax dollars are the only reason you have a job. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be working at a car wash.”
At least I wouldn’t have to deal with you.
Bruce took a deep breath and held his tongue in check. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I told you, my granddaughter is missing. If you listened to me, you’d know this already.”
Bertha produced a picture and slid it across the desk. Bruce studied it. A girl, roughly sixteen with black hair, blue eyes, and dimples smiled back at him. “She;’s with that Rossi man, I just know it,” she said bitterly.
“Who?” Bruce asked.
Rolling her eyes like he was stupid, the old woman told him the story. Jessie - the dimple faced girl - had the rotten luck of having to live with Grandma Bertha after her parents went to jail on drug charges. They lived in Sand Lake, a little town in the mountains outside Albany, where Bertha was no doubt loved and admired by all. One day, Jessie, who her grandmother lovingly described as “A little troublemaker”, ran off. Bruce didn’t blame her. He’d known Bertha for half an hour and he wanted to run off. Bertha did some snooping on Jessie’s laptop and found that the “little whore” had been chatting with an older man, Joe Rossi. Rossi, or so Facebook said, lived in Albany and worked at Club Vlad.
“I want him arrested for pedophilia,” Bertha said and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. “He’s a dog just like all men. She’s probably pregnant already. Another mouth I have to feed.”
Behind the old battle ax, Vanessa appeared in the doorway and lifted her brows as if to say What a piece of work. Knowing her, she’d probably been standing just out of sight this whole time with McKenny, the elderly evidence clerk, and snickering into her hand like a little girl. LOL she called him young man.
Bertha noticed him looking over her shoulder and started to turn. Vanessa’s face went white and she ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding detection. “I’m glad you think this is funny,” Bertha said to Bruce. “Meanwhile, if I don’t get Jessie back, the state’s going to stop sending me my checks. I need that income. I can’t work, you know. I have gout.”
Too bad being an asshole isn’t a job, you’d be world-famous
“I’ll go talk to him,” Bruce said.
“I want more than talk, young man, I want action.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Bertha finally decided to waddle off and ruin someone else’s day, Vanessa came in and sat in the chair the old woman had so recently occupied. “Oh, my God,” she said, “that was intense. I was this close to radioing in a 1015.”
1015 was code for officer down.
“Funny,” Bruce said without a trace of humor. He had kids going missing, a dead guy someone moved around like a goddamn Barbie doll, and now this. What next, hemorrhoids?
“What do you think? Code 1 or code 2?”
Code 1 meant top priority. Code 2 meant not a top priority. Bruce thought for a moment. It didn’t sound like Jessie Henderson was in danger. It sounded like she met a guy - granted, one too old for her - and decided to hide out with him from her psycho grandma. Maybe it could be something more, but he had a gut feeling that it wasn’t…and his gut feelings were usually right. “2,” he finally said. “I got shit to do.”
By shit, he meant “Talk to the families of those missing boys again.” He’d been interviewing them for two days looking for clues, but there was nothing. It’s like they just vanished. Bruce didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Vanessa said and slapped the desk.
When she was gone, Bruce sighed.
Never a dull moment, he thought.
***
Ed Harris - no relation to the Hollywood actor - had been the medical examiner for the City of Albany since 2002, and in all that time, he had never seen anything quite like this.
It was Wednesday evening and Ed was locked away in the cold, sterile space beneath the city offices that comprised his domain. With its puke green tiles, harsh lights, and cloying smells of disinfectant, the .coroner's office creeped most people out, but not Ed. He was at home here, as comfortable surrounded by toe-tagged bodies as a cactus was surrounded by desert. A thin man in his fifties with curly, steel gray hair thinning in the middle, he wore a white smock, blood stained over his clothes that made him look like a butcher instead of a low level government functionary. He had a dark and dry sense of humor, but then again, so do all people who play with dead bodies for fun and profit.
The coroner’s office was a vast, utilitarian vault segmented into multiple different rooms. Here, where the magic happened, three stainless steel tables stood in a row; a bank of refrigerated drawers kept watch, making sure nothing funny happened. One of the cold fluorescent lights overhead flickered with a hum of electricity, and water dripped rhythmically from a faucet. It was a cold, eerie place, but to Ed, it was home.
On most nights, only one of the tables was occupied, but tonight, two were. On one lay an old lady who died of what appeared to be cyanide poisoning. On the other was Dominick Mason.
Naked save for a white cloth draped over his groin to protect his dignity, Dom was the most corpsy corpse you’d ever hope to see. In fact, if you looked up dead guy in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him. His body was pale and sunken, one side covered in purple splotches where his blood had pooled, and his eyes were closed. His abdomen was slightly distended with the expected build up of gas, and his flesh stuck fast to the bones beneath. In other words, he was text book. A normal corpse.
Mostly normal.
As men of his trade are wont to do when strange bodies mysteriously appear, Ed had opened Dom up, making a Y shaped incision from his neck to his groin. He hummed to himself as he did so, his hands wielding his sharp and shiny tools with the deft assuredness of a seasoned surgeon. Done cutting, he dipped his gloved hands into the cavity and started removing organs. A spleen here, a liver there, nothing Dom would miss. When he got to the heart, however, he stopped.
There was something…off…about it. At first glance, it was black and withered like an oversized raisin. An odd and putrid odor emanated from it and though he was familiar with the various smells and stenches the human body produced after death, this wasn’t one of them. Try as he might, he couldn’t place it, couldn’t even compare it to anything. Plucking a magnifying glass from the metal cart next to the table, he peeled back part of Dom’s chest and examined the heart closer.
That’s when things got really weird.
Dominick Mason’s heart was, indeed, shriveled, but it was not black. Instead, it was almost entirely covered by an interlacing crisscross of what appeared to be black mold. Here and there, Ed could glimpse flashes of the heart beneath: It was wrinkled and a sickly gray color. “What is this?” Ed asked himself at length. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from the tray and carefully, very carefully, attempted to remove a piece of the mold for analysis. The moment the cold metal tips touched the heart, it gave a violent spasm that sent Ed falling back with a shocked gasp, the tweezers falling from his hand and clinking to the tiled floor.
The heart began to pulse like an alien egg sac, slowly at first, then more rapidly. For a moment, Ed was frozen in place, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Once you die, your heart ceases beating. That’s that. Only living hearts beat, and Dominick Mason was certainly dead. He was dead from the moment Ed first laid eyes on him earlier that day and he was dead now. Yet there was his heart, beating anyway.
It could be a muscle spasm. They usually aren’t that violent and consistent, but dead bodies sometimes do strange things. As he watched the blackened muscle expanding and contracting, however, Ed had the most eerie feeling. He went to rub the back of his neck, realized he was still wearing blood soaked gloves, and stripped them off. He was spooking himself out; he needed a break and a hot cup of coffee. He’d come back fresh and start over again.
With that mold.
Could you really blame him for being creeped out? That stuff wasn’t normal. He’d never seen anything like that before, not even in textbooks. Dom was scrawny and didn’t get enough vitamins in life, but overall, he was healthy; that mold…or whatever it was…had no business being there.
Going over to the coffee pot, which stood in the same room to save travel time, Ed grabbed a styrofoam cup. When he was done here, he planned to go home and -
A terrible, metallic clatter rang out, and Ed jumped. He turned around, and when he saw Dominick Mason standing next to the table, hunched slightly over and staring at him, an electric burst of fright shot up his spine and exploded in his brain, so strong it made the edges turn gray. Pale, hands hooked into talons, and the flaps of his chest hanging open to reveal the cavity beneath, Dominick Mason looked for all the world like a boy who’d been caught sneaking out to meet his girlfriend. A weak, involuntary, “Oh, God,” slipped from Ed’s trembling lips, and the spell was broken. Dom came alive and ran toward the door leading out to the parking lot. He slammed through it, and the sound of it crashing open and then falling closed again echoed through the empty chamber.
Shaking, panting for air, and soaked in piss, Ed sank to the floor in a sitting position, his eyes wide and staring like those of a soldier returning damaged from the front.
It was a long time before he composed himself enough to call the police.
***
Dazed and caught in a nightmarish twilight realm where nothing made sense, Dominick Mason limped painfully down the sidewalk, a stranger lost in a strange land filled with danger and hostile creatures. Barefoot and shrouded in a white sheet, he trembled with cold and struggled to ignore the dark, threatening shapes looming from the fog in his brain, shapes that would turn into unspeakable truths if he let them.
Passersby openly stared at him, their expressions either morbidly curious, disgusted, or alarmed. A man put his arm protectively around his girlfriend; a woman pulled her little boy to her breast, and another man sneered at him, his nose crinkling. Dom, his glazed eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the many street lamps, headlights, and storefronts, lumbered headlong toward nowhere, his fear growing until he was shambling. He imagined he could hear every cough, every whisper; smell the odor of every unwashed body. Each car horn was deafening, every whiff of ass or armpits sent his stomach churning. The rustle of a passing pedestrian’s jacket jammed into his ears like icepicks, and the approaching globes of LED headlamps burned his eyes. He gritted his teeth and groaned against the pain.
The dense mist wrapping his brain made it hard to think. Like a frightened animal, he made his way on instinct alone. Home. He needed to get home. Out here, on the street, he was exposed. At home, locked away in his small apartment, he would be safe.
A car passed in the street, bass heavy rap music blaring from its open windows, and Dom’s brain exploded with agony. He threw himself against a street sign and held on for dear life, his legs weak. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he almost went down. He was also cold.
So, so cold.
People around him quickened their step; they never took their eyes off him, as though he were a venomous snake that would strike at any moment. He needed to get away from them. They were going to hurt him; people always hurt him.
Pushing away from the sign, he began to hobble once more toward home, wherever home was. He looked over his shoulder several times as he made his way down Central Avenue, and each time, he saw that no one was following him as he had feared.
No one, that is, except for the man in sunglasses.
Tall and lank with curly hair, he wore dark Aviators and a leather motorcycle jacket over a button up shirt. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and his face showed no expression. He was always there, always a few steps closer. Outside Capital Fried Chicken, a group of people openly stared at him, He heard their whispers as he passed. What’s wrong with him? Dude’s straight tweakin. And the one that struck him the most. That guy looks dead.
Dom hobbled faster, as if to outrun the realization that he was, in fact, dead. The man in sunglasses was closer now, his footsteps so loud that Dom winced. He turned around, and the man was impossibly in front of him. Dom ran into him and bounced backward, going ass over tea kettle and landing on the former. They were in front of a church on a darkened corner, the lights here either burned out or shot out - you could never tell in Albany. Even though it was dark, Dom could see everything with crystal clarity. Dom tried to scurry away, but he was too weak to escape. Right there and then, he decided to give up. Come what may, he just wanted this nightmare to be over.
The man stared down at him, emotionless, unspeaking.
Dom squirmed.
“You’re real lucky I came along,” the man said. His tone was flat, even.
Dead.
“Get up,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”
Home?
Yes.
Dom wanted to go home.
The man helped him up, and Dom followed him into the night.
***
Bruce Kenner stood in the middle of the medical examiner’s office at half past nine that evening with his hands on his hips and stared doubtfully down at Ed Harris. The lonely cavern was alive with activity as cops went over everything, all of them looking either bemused or a mused. Bruce was neither. He’d been at home, sitting in his chair and having a beer in front of AEW Dynamite when Vanessa called. “You might wanna get down here,” she said, sounding confused, “something really strange is going on.”
Ed Harris - no relation to that one guy - sat in a straight back chair beside his cluttered desk and gripped a styrofoam cup of coffee in both hands, putting Bruce - for some reason - in mind of a monkey. When Bruce came in, the old man was white as a sheet and shook like a leaf. In the last half hour, little had changed.
“Tell me again,” Bruce said.
He and Ed were pretty good friends. He knew that Ed knew standard police procedure. Cops don’t ask you to repeat your story a thousand times over because they’re forgetful fucks, they do it because telling it again and again helps to jog loose details that you might have forgotten. Ed, therefore, did not protest. “I turned my back,” he said and chopped the chair like Jackie Chan, “and I heard the noise.”
His voice was thick, unsteady, and halting. He sounded as squirrely as he looked…and he looked pretty damn squirrelly right now.
“I turned around…and he was looking at me. He was standing there and he was looking at me.”
This was the fourth time he’d had Ed go through the story, and nothing had changed. Bruce felt something stirring deep inside his gut. It was either disquiet…or he had to fart. He opened his mouth to speak, but sighed.
“You don’t believe me,” Ed said.
“I dunno, Ed. Dead bodies don’t just get up and walk away.”
Ed flashed. “I know that, goddamn it, but this one did.”
Bruce glanced at Vanessa. She looked uncomfortable.
“Are you sure he was dead?” Bruce asked.
Ed opened his mouth, closed it again, and said, “I did the autopsy.” His voice broke on the last word, and he sounded almost like he was pleading. “His fucking liver’s on the floor. He stepped on it. The man has nothing in him. I-I’m telling you, there’s no way he’s alive.”
During the autopsy, Ed had sat Dominick Mason’s organs on the little tray table where he kept his pointy things. Mason knocked it over while getting up. Indeed, there were human organs on the floor, and one of them did look kind of squished. Bare, bloody footprints led to the exit door, up a set of concrete steps, and then disappeared in the alley behind the office.
“You said you left his heart,” Bruce said.
“And his brain,” Vanessa helpfully added.
Ed pinched the bridge of his nose like a put upon professor dealing with two particularly stupid students. “Even with his heart and his brain, he’s dead. You saw the livor mortis. He was cold, he was stiff. His heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t breathing. He was in one of those drawers for nine hours, not breathing, no blood flow - it’s impossible. It’s just…it’s impossible. I don’t care what you think, he was dead. And even if somehow he wasn’t, I cut out almost everything. I opened his stomach, I took his spleen - you don’t just get up from that. You don’t walk away from that, much less run.”
Bruce chewed the inside of his bottom lip because he didn’t have a Twix. He didn’t look like the smartest man in the world…and he wasn’t…but he knew a dead body when he saw one, and the body they took out of Dominick Mason’s apartment was D.E.A.D. And like Ed said, even if by some freak fluke of nature he wasn’t, he couldn’t just get up and go about his day with no liver, spleen, or kidneys. Hell, Bruce had his gallbladder out and he couldn’t even walk away from that.
“You said there was something funny about his heart,” Vanessa said.
Ed finished off his coffee. “Yeah. It was…moldy. I-I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Is it possible that…has something to do with it?”
“Unless the rules of biology have changed overnight, no,” Ed stated.
While Ed poured himself another cup of Joe, spilling some because he was still shaking, Vanessa took Bruce aside. “So what do you think?” she asked. “Is he telling the truth?”
For that, Bruce did not have an immediate answer. All else aside, he was a cop. He followed the evidence - and his gut instinct - wherever it led him. Ed was a sober man - he was not a drunk, insane, or stupid - and no man on earth could fake the look of trauma in his eyes. Bruce’s eyes went to the bloody footprints leading away from the exam table and his stomach roiled. It might be cliched, but there had to be a rational explanation. “Yeah,” he finally said. “The kid got up like he said, but there’s no way he was dead. Maybe…I dunno, he had a surge of adrenaline or something. I’m not a doctor.”
“That’ll only get him so far,” Vanessa said. “We’ll probably find him on the street somewhere.”
He went back to the purple splotches on Dom’s face, to his cold stiffness. There’s no way he was dead?
Bruce was confused, and he hated being confused.
“I dunno,” he said, “maybe.”
But he had the gnawing feeling that they wouldn’t. They would never find him…and Bruce would be confused forever.
Goddamn it, Mason, he thought, where are you?

I’m working on a project(New Gig Economy Portal for Skilled Workers) and would love to get your thoughts and feedback.
We’re developing a portal designed to help skilled workers to use their expertise directly for clients, cutting out the middleman and ensuring fair pay for their services.
Here’s how it works:

• If you’re a skilled worker, say a mechanic, who’s gained valuable experience over the years, our platform will connect you directly with people who need your services.
  
• This means the money you earn goes directly to you, not the corporation you work for.
  
• It’s a way for skilled professionals to earn what they deserve based on their experience and skill set.
  

And it goes the same for everyone else as well. Let’s say you repair cellphones, fix electronics, or are a barber. Any skill you employ for a corporation/a person with means etc., you can now offer directly to clients.
For instance, instead of a big corporation(Tommy gun) charging $35 for a haircut, a client could pay you $20 directly.
This way, you still earn a good income, and clients pay less. It’s a win-win!
This is more than just passive income. It directly connects you with people who need your services, and the platform will be review-based. I’m committed to ensuring it’s peer-reviewed and that we put significant effort into making it reliable and effective.
I was hoping to launch it Intially in three cities: Kamloops, Kelowna, and the lower Mainland Vancouver area.
I’m aware there could be downsides and challenges, but we believe this could empower workers and provide affordable services to clients.
What do you think? Would you be open to participating in this experiment or using such a service? Your input would be incredibly valuable to us as we refine this idea.
Looking forward to your thoughts!

https://www.amtrak.com/home.html <- station codes "BTN" for Burlington and "NYP" for New York
Starting on June 3, 2024, Amtrak updated the schedule for the Ethan Allen Express train #290 from Burlington to New York City to depart at 9:50 AM and arrive at 5:17 PM, instead of departing at 10:10 AM and arriving at 5:46 PM as previously. This means that trains will arrive in NYC ~30 minutes earlier, giving you more time in NYC that evening, with approximately 10 minutes of time saved on the trip.
Most travelers on this train are familiar with waiting for 20-30 minutes at the Rutland, VT station. Amtrak removed much of that dwell time, which will also make trips to places like Saratoga Springs and Albany slightly more competitive with driving, useful for people who can't/don't want to drive. In addition, Ethan Allen train #290 frequently has to wait near Whitehall, NY before a single-tracked section to let another Amtrak train, the Adirondack, go by. This schedule update should also remove that conflict, making train travel more reliable.
Note that, at least for the time being, the northbound train 291 from New York City to Burlington does not appear to have received a schedule update, but historically has been more reliable and arrives in Burlington Union Station 10-15 minutes early most days anyway.

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An hour after getting back from the Mason apartment, Bruce Kenner had the distinct misfortune of meeting Bertha Henderson.
A plump, gaudy woman with wrinkles and sun beaten skin only an alligator could love, Bertha Henderson wore bright red lipstick, bright red rouge, and way too much mascara. Her tangled hair was a dull red color and her clothes - pink pants and a white floral top - stretched tight across her bulbous frame. She looked like the kind of woman who lived in a trailer with velvet pictures of Elvis on the wall and pink flamingos in the front yard.
She acted like one too.
From the moment she stormed into his office, she hadn’t shut up once. She scolded, chided, accused, and badgered, sometimes even wagging one fat finger in his face like he was a naughty little boy. Ten minutes into the dressing down and Bruce was beginning to fantasize about police brutality.
It took him another ten minutes to find out what the hell she even wanted.
“It’s my granddaughter,” she shot back, “she’s missing in your town.”
My town? Lady, this is barely my office. I share it with three other people.
“Well, if you’ll calm down, maybe I can help.”
Jesus Christ was that the wrong thing to say. She hit the roof and didn’t come down again until Bruce was this close to arresting her for assault on a police officer. “Young man, I do not appreciate the way you’re talking to me. My tax dollars are the only reason you have a job. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be working at a car wash.”
At least I wouldn’t have to deal with you.
Bruce took a deep breath and held his tongue in check. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I told you, my granddaughter is missing. If you listened to me, you’d know this already.”
Bertha produced a picture and slid it across the desk. Bruce studied it. A girl, roughly sixteen with black hair, blue eyes, and dimples smiled back at him. “She;’s with that Rossi man, I just know it,” she said bitterly.
“Who?” Bruce asked.
Rolling her eyes like he was stupid, the old woman told him the story. Jessie - the dimple faced girl - had the rotten luck of having to live with Grandma Bertha after her parents went to jail on drug charges. They lived in Sand Lake, a little town in the mountains outside Albany, where Bertha was no doubt loved and admired by all. One day, Jessie, who her grandmother lovingly described as “A little troublemaker”, ran off. Bruce didn’t blame her. He’d known Bertha for half an hour and he wanted to run off. Bertha did some snooping on Jessie’s laptop and found that the “little whore” had been chatting with an older man, Joe Rossi. Rossi, or so Facebook said, lived in Albany and worked at Club Vlad.
“I want him arrested for pedophilia,” Bertha said and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. “He’s a dog just like all men. She’s probably pregnant already. Another mouth I have to feed.”
Behind the old battle ax, Vanessa appeared in the doorway and lifted her brows as if to say What a piece of work. Knowing her, she’d probably been standing just out of sight this whole time with McKenny, the elderly evidence clerk, and snickering into her hand like a little girl. LOL she called him young man.
Bertha noticed him looking over her shoulder and started to turn. Vanessa’s face went white and she ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding detection. “I’m glad you think this is funny,” Bertha said to Bruce. “Meanwhile, if I don’t get Jessie back, the state’s going to stop sending me my checks. I need that income. I can’t work, you know. I have gout.”
Too bad being an asshole isn’t a job, you’d be world-famous
“I’ll go talk to him,” Bruce said.
“I want more than talk, young man, I want action.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Bertha finally decided to waddle off and ruin someone else’s day, Vanessa came in and sat in the chair the old woman had so recently occupied. “Oh, my God,” she said, “that was intense. I was this close to radioing in a 1015.”
1015 was code for officer down.
“Funny,” Bruce said without a trace of humor. He had kids going missing, a dead guy someone moved around like a goddamn Barbie doll, and now this. What next, hemorrhoids?
“What do you think? Code 1 or code 2?”
Code 1 meant top priority. Code 2 meant not a top priority. Bruce thought for a moment. It didn’t sound like Jessie Henderson was in danger. It sounded like she met a guy - granted, one too old for her - and decided to hide out with him from her psycho grandma. Maybe it could be something more, but he had a gut feeling that it wasn’t…and his gut feelings were usually right. “2,” he finally said. “I got shit to do.”
By shit, he meant “Talk to the families of those missing boys again.” He’d been interviewing them for two days looking for clues, but there was nothing. It’s like they just vanished. Bruce didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Vanessa said and slapped the desk.
When she was gone, Bruce sighed.
Never a dull moment, he thought.
***
Ed Harris - no relation to the Hollywood actor - had been the medical examiner for the City of Albany since 2002, and in all that time, he had never seen anything quite like this.
It was Wednesday evening and Ed was locked away in the cold, sterile space beneath the city offices that comprised his domain. With its puke green tiles, harsh lights, and cloying smells of disinfectant, the .coroner's office creeped most people out, but not Ed. He was at home here, as comfortable surrounded by toe-tagged bodies as a cactus was surrounded by desert. A thin man in his fifties with curly, steel gray hair thinning in the middle, he wore a white smock, blood stained over his clothes that made him look like a butcher instead of a low level government functionary. He had a dark and dry sense of humor, but then again, so do all people who play with dead bodies for fun and profit.
The coroner’s office was a vast, utilitarian vault segmented into multiple different rooms. Here, where the magic happened, three stainless steel tables stood in a row; a bank of refrigerated drawers kept watch, making sure nothing funny happened. One of the cold fluorescent lights overhead flickered with a hum of electricity, and water dripped rhythmically from a faucet. It was a cold, eerie place, but to Ed, it was home.
On most nights, only one of the tables was occupied, but tonight, two were. On one lay an old lady who died of what appeared to be cyanide poisoning. On the other was Dominick Mason.
Naked save for a white cloth draped over his groin to protect his dignity, Dom was the most corpsy corpse you’d ever hope to see. In fact, if you looked up dead guy in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him. His body was pale and sunken, one side covered in purple splotches where his blood had pooled, and his eyes were closed. His abdomen was slightly distended with the expected build up of gas, and his flesh stuck fast to the bones beneath. In other words, he was text book. A normal corpse.
Mostly normal.
As men of his trade are wont to do when strange bodies mysteriously appear, Ed had opened Dom up, making a Y shaped incision from his neck to his groin. He hummed to himself as he did so, his hands wielding his sharp and shiny tools with the deft assuredness of a seasoned surgeon. Done cutting, he dipped his gloved hands into the cavity and started removing organs. A spleen here, a liver there, nothing Dom would miss. When he got to the heart, however, he stopped.
There was something…off…about it. At first glance, it was black and withered like an oversized raisin. An odd and putrid odor emanated from it and though he was familiar with the various smells and stenches the human body produced after death, this wasn’t one of them. Try as he might, he couldn’t place it, couldn’t even compare it to anything. Plucking a magnifying glass from the metal cart next to the table, he peeled back part of Dom’s chest and examined the heart closer.
That’s when things got really weird.
Dominick Mason’s heart was, indeed, shriveled, but it was not black. Instead, it was almost entirely covered by an interlacing crisscross of what appeared to be black mold. Here and there, Ed could glimpse flashes of the heart beneath: It was wrinkled and a sickly gray color. “What is this?” Ed asked himself at length. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from the tray and carefully, very carefully, attempted to remove a piece of the mold for analysis. The moment the cold metal tips touched the heart, it gave a violent spasm that sent Ed falling back with a shocked gasp, the tweezers falling from his hand and clinking to the tiled floor.
The heart began to pulse like an alien egg sac, slowly at first, then more rapidly. For a moment, Ed was frozen in place, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Once you die, your heart ceases beating. That’s that. Only living hearts beat, and Dominick Mason was certainly dead. He was dead from the moment Ed first laid eyes on him earlier that day and he was dead now. Yet there was his heart, beating anyway.
It could be a muscle spasm. They usually aren’t that violent and consistent, but dead bodies sometimes do strange things. As he watched the blackened muscle expanding and contracting, however, Ed had the most eerie feeling. He went to rub the back of his neck, realized he was still wearing blood soaked gloves, and stripped them off. He was spooking himself out; he needed a break and a hot cup of coffee. He’d come back fresh and start over again.
With that mold.
Could you really blame him for being creeped out? That stuff wasn’t normal. He’d never seen anything like that before, not even in textbooks. Dom was scrawny and didn’t get enough vitamins in life, but overall, he was healthy; that mold…or whatever it was…had no business being there.
Going over to the coffee pot, which stood in the same room to save travel time, Ed grabbed a styrofoam cup. When he was done here, he planned to go home and -
A terrible, metallic clatter rang out, and Ed jumped. He turned around, and when he saw Dominick Mason standing next to the table, hunched slightly over and staring at him, an electric burst of fright shot up his spine and exploded in his brain, so strong it made the edges turn gray. Pale, hands hooked into talons, and the flaps of his chest hanging open to reveal the cavity beneath, Dominick Mason looked for all the world like a boy who’d been caught sneaking out to meet his girlfriend. A weak, involuntary, “Oh, God,” slipped from Ed’s trembling lips, and the spell was broken. Dom came alive and ran toward the door leading out to the parking lot. He slammed through it, and the sound of it crashing open and then falling closed again echoed through the empty chamber.
Shaking, panting for air, and soaked in piss, Ed sank to the floor in a sitting position, his eyes wide and staring like those of a soldier returning damaged from the front.
It was a long time before he composed himself enough to call the police.
***
Dazed and caught in a nightmarish twilight realm where nothing made sense, Dominick Mason limped painfully down the sidewalk, a stranger lost in a strange land filled with danger and hostile creatures. Barefoot and shrouded in a white sheet, he trembled with cold and struggled to ignore the dark, threatening shapes looming from the fog in his brain, shapes that would turn into unspeakable truths if he let them.
Passersby openly stared at him, their expressions either morbidly curious, disgusted, or alarmed. A man put his arm protectively around his girlfriend; a woman pulled her little boy to her breast, and another man sneered at him, his nose crinkling. Dom, his glazed eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the many street lamps, headlights, and storefronts, lumbered headlong toward nowhere, his fear growing until he was shambling. He imagined he could hear every cough, every whisper; smell the odor of every unwashed body. Each car horn was deafening, every whiff of ass or armpits sent his stomach churning. The rustle of a passing pedestrian’s jacket jammed into his ears like icepicks, and the approaching globes of LED headlamps burned his eyes. He gritted his teeth and groaned against the pain.
The dense mist wrapping his brain made it hard to think. Like a frightened animal, he made his way on instinct alone. Home. He needed to get home. Out here, on the street, he was exposed. At home, locked away in his small apartment, he would be safe.
A car passed in the street, bass heavy rap music blaring from its open windows, and Dom’s brain exploded with agony. He threw himself against a street sign and held on for dear life, his legs weak. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he almost went down. He was also cold.
So, so cold.
People around him quickened their step; they never took their eyes off him, as though he were a venomous snake that would strike at any moment. He needed to get away from them. They were going to hurt him; people always hurt him.
Pushing away from the sign, he began to hobble once more toward home, wherever home was. He looked over his shoulder several times as he made his way down Central Avenue, and each time, he saw that no one was following him as he had feared.
No one, that is, except for the man in sunglasses.
Tall and lank with curly hair, he wore dark Aviators and a leather motorcycle jacket over a button up shirt. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and his face showed no expression. He was always there, always a few steps closer. Outside Capital Fried Chicken, a group of people openly stared at him, He heard their whispers as he passed. What’s wrong with him? Dude’s straight tweakin. And the one that struck him the most. That guy looks dead.
Dom hobbled faster, as if to outrun the realization that he was, in fact, dead. The man in sunglasses was closer now, his footsteps so loud that Dom winced. He turned around, and the man was impossibly in front of him. Dom ran into him and bounced backward, going ass over tea kettle and landing on the former. They were in front of a church on a darkened corner, the lights here either burned out or shot out - you could never tell in Albany. Even though it was dark, Dom could see everything with crystal clarity. Dom tried to scurry away, but he was too weak to escape. Right there and then, he decided to give up. Come what may, he just wanted this nightmare to be over.
The man stared down at him, emotionless, unspeaking.
Dom squirmed.
“You’re real lucky I came along,” the man said. His tone was flat, even.
Dead.
“Get up,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”
Home?
Yes.
Dom wanted to go home.
The man helped him up, and Dom followed him into the night.
***
Bruce Kenner stood in the middle of the medical examiner’s office at half past nine that evening with his hands on his hips and stared doubtfully down at Ed Harris. The lonely cavern was alive with activity as cops went over everything, all of them looking either bemused or a mused. Bruce was neither. He’d been at home, sitting in his chair and having a beer in front of AEW Dynamite when Vanessa called. “You might wanna get down here,” she said, sounding confused, “something really strange is going on.”
Ed Harris - no relation to that one guy - sat in a straight back chair beside his cluttered desk and gripped a styrofoam cup of coffee in both hands, putting Bruce - for some reason - in mind of a monkey. When Bruce came in, the old man was white as a sheet and shook like a leaf. In the last half hour, little had changed.
“Tell me again,” Bruce said.
He and Ed were pretty good friends. He knew that Ed knew standard police procedure. Cops don’t ask you to repeat your story a thousand times over because they’re forgetful fucks, they do it because telling it again and again helps to jog loose details that you might have forgotten. Ed, therefore, did not protest. “I turned my back,” he said and chopped the chair like Jackie Chan, “and I heard the noise.”
His voice was thick, unsteady, and halting. He sounded as squirrely as he looked…and he looked pretty damn squirrelly right now.
“I turned around…and he was looking at me. He was standing there and he was looking at me.”
This was the fourth time he’d had Ed go through the story, and nothing had changed. Bruce felt something stirring deep inside his gut. It was either disquiet…or he had to fart. He opened his mouth to speak, but sighed.
“You don’t believe me,” Ed said.
“I dunno, Ed. Dead bodies don’t just get up and walk away.”
Ed flashed. “I know that, goddamn it, but this one did.”
Bruce glanced at Vanessa. She looked uncomfortable.
“Are you sure he was dead?” Bruce asked.
Ed opened his mouth, closed it again, and said, “I did the autopsy.” His voice broke on the last word, and he sounded almost like he was pleading. “His fucking liver’s on the floor. He stepped on it. The man has nothing in him. I-I’m telling you, there’s no way he’s alive.”
During the autopsy, Ed had sat Dominick Mason’s organs on the little tray table where he kept his pointy things. Mason knocked it over while getting up. Indeed, there were human organs on the floor, and one of them did look kind of squished. Bare, bloody footprints led to the exit door, up a set of concrete steps, and then disappeared in the alley behind the office.
“You said you left his heart,” Bruce said.
“And his brain,” Vanessa helpfully added.
Ed pinched the bridge of his nose like a put upon professor dealing with two particularly stupid students. “Even with his heart and his brain, he’s dead. You saw the livor mortis. He was cold, he was stiff. His heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t breathing. He was in one of those drawers for nine hours, not breathing, no blood flow - it’s impossible. It’s just…it’s impossible. I don’t care what you think, he was dead. And even if somehow he wasn’t, I cut out almost everything. I opened his stomach, I took his spleen - you don’t just get up from that. You don’t walk away from that, much less run.”
Bruce chewed the inside of his bottom lip because he didn’t have a Twix. He didn’t look like the smartest man in the world…and he wasn’t…but he knew a dead body when he saw one, and the body they took out of Dominick Mason’s apartment was D.E.A.D. And like Ed said, even if by some freak fluke of nature he wasn’t, he couldn’t just get up and go about his day with no liver, spleen, or kidneys. Hell, Bruce had his gallbladder out and he couldn’t even walk away from that.
“You said there was something funny about his heart,” Vanessa said.
Ed finished off his coffee. “Yeah. It was…moldy. I-I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Is it possible that…has something to do with it?”
“Unless the rules of biology have changed overnight, no,” Ed stated.
While Ed poured himself another cup of Joe, spilling some because he was still shaking, Vanessa took Bruce aside. “So what do you think?” she asked. “Is he telling the truth?”
For that, Bruce did not have an immediate answer. All else aside, he was a cop. He followed the evidence - and his gut instinct - wherever it led him. Ed was a sober man - he was not a drunk, insane, or stupid - and no man on earth could fake the look of trauma in his eyes. Bruce’s eyes went to the bloody footprints leading away from the exam table and his stomach roiled. It might be cliched, but there had to be a rational explanation. “Yeah,” he finally said. “The kid got up like he said, but there’s no way he was dead. Maybe…I dunno, he had a surge of adrenaline or something. I’m not a doctor.”
“That’ll only get him so far,” Vanessa said. “We’ll probably find him on the street somewhere.”
He went back to the purple splotches on Dom’s face, to his cold stiffness. There’s no way he was dead?
Bruce was confused, and he hated being confused.
“I dunno,” he said, “maybe.”
But he had the gnawing feeling that they wouldn’t. They would never find him…and Bruce would be confused forever.
Goddamn it, Mason, he thought, where are you?

Hey so I've usually had bad experiences on SSRIs and SNRIs and MAOIs in the past (I get the rare side effects). But my circumstances are really difficult at the moment post autism diagnosis and so I wondered if I should start a med to help me regulate my nervous system? I currently use lorazepam as needed but the problem is it is needed a lot lately and I don't want to get dépendant it or worse. I'm unable to regulate my system as I'm currently trapped somewhere I do not want to be and I can't yet get back to my life and routines and happy place because I don't have the financial freedom to choose to go back to my adopted home city. I'm unable to settle where I am because I'm being forced to stay, and as I so desperately want to go home. So I think meds are the only answer (I try all the other things too, walking, exercise, mindful activites and so on) but I'm past the point of them helping to reduce my anxiety as it is so severe right now.

In my younger years I was always a person that liked to stay at home and play video games. That kind of changed starting with age 18 and me getting to know myself better, gaining confidence and other things. I had a relationship which was nice, but lead to me not going out too much.
I somehow knew deep down I wanted to experience more from life, than the standard things, and after a long time of consideration last semester I went to study abroad for one semester. I had the time of my life. I made so many friends, had the chance to hook up with lots of girls (it's not something I would do again, but it was good for my experience) and went out a lot to parties or just to hang out. It was so exciting meeting so many new people, who are open and like to go out and see things as me.
Well I came back now, and I realize why I wanted to do this in the first place. My life home is more boring. It is not just because studying abroad is so exciting, no, it is also because I miss having so many people around me. I think in this time I really learned that what I cherish most in life and that is making human connections.
This sounds fixable as I am in college and I learned in my time abroad that I am a really open and sympathetic guy as I was friends with a looot of people, but the thing is that, as a Computer Science student, most my classes are online, and I will be honest, it is not the study with the most outgoing people. I will say I missed out on meeting new people when starting to study. It is also negative that there are not many girls, not for hooking up, but I really miss having close female friends.
The other thing is that I feel like in my country the studying is way less social, but this could also be due to my close friends group being less social. I get jealous when I hear about friends having university events, having real classes together where you have to interact with each other and going for drinks with their colleagues. I am missing that a lot, especially in my field. When I look at BeReals of people I know and see them hanging with lots of people, studying together, spending a whole day at university, I feel like I would so much prefer this lifestyle.
But I really don't know how. I'm 23 now and still living at home. I think the first step would be to move out and get a room in the city (I live really close, so I'm not sure if it is worth it). Maybe it would allow me to live more of a student life and be independent? But it also scares me a bit as most my friends wouldn't be so close anymore ... I also think maybe studying next semester I should go more often to classes. It's just stupid that my university really doesn't enable it, so I am not too optimistic about it. I can talk really easily with new people, but it is not easy to make friends here, at least for me.
I didn't try everything. I would like to dance, do more sport, go out more... So there are clubs and things I should probably sign up for, but I am not sure.

I love music but it seems I REALLY only love listening to music in my car. Don't get me wrong, I'll still be playing my music 24/7 but nothing beats listening to it while in my car.
First off there's base. Sure you could get computer speakers with a sub BUT I like to be mindful of others (even if others aren't mindful of me..) so maybe I could get it, turn it up to like 10 volume in my apt and be fine but I need volume.
Then there's phone, tablet, speakers. None of which have base. Headphone you can blast music but again no base
BUT there's cars that check off all of the boxes. My car has amazing base, check. Volume? Check. Mindful of others? Check.
I'll turn it down whenever I'm driving in tbe city and still get great base and volume but when I'm in the highway? Volume goes all the way up.
When I got my car one of the first things I upgraded was the speakers and put in a sub
Edit: beats powerpro earphones have just a tiny bit of base for the gym. Just realized, is it base or bass

I have to share this. It’s not just a story; it’s a warning. If you value your sanity, stop reading now.
I spent my junior year of college studying art history in Rome. It was everything I’d hoped for: the architecture, the paintings, the endless history. But what happened during my last week there still haunts me. The Vatican City tour was supposed to be the highlight of my trip, but it became a nightmare I can’t escape.
Our guide, an older man named Marco, led us through the usual tourist spots, but he seemed distracted. His eyes kept darting to a small, unmarked door at the end of a corridor in the Vatican Museums. After the tour, I lingered, watching as Marco slipped away from the group and towards the door. Curiosity got the better of me. I followed.
I approached the door, and to my surprise, it was ajar. I peeked inside and saw a dimly lit staircase leading down. I hesitated, but then I heard voices – chanting, whispering. I descended, my heart pounding. The air grew colder with each step, the walls narrowing, until I emerged into a cavernous underground chamber.
At first, I thought it was some kind of ancient chapel, but the sight before me was far from holy. There were robed figures gathered around a long, stone table, chanting in Latin. On the table lay a human body. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I tried to convince myself it was some kind of bizarre reenactment or performance art, but the smell of decay and the horror etched on the lifeless face told me otherwise.
I hid behind a pillar, my heart racing, praying they wouldn’t see me. The chanting grew louder, more frenzied, and then they began…eating. The realization hit me like a freight train. These were no actors. This was a ritual, a feast – cannibalism. I could barely keep from vomiting as I watched them consume the flesh with a grotesque reverence.
They started with the organs, tearing into the liver and heart with their bare hands, the sound of ripping flesh and the sight of blood running down their chins making me dizzy with horror. They passed around pieces of flesh, some searing it over candles, others eating it raw. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the stench of death.
One of the robed figures held up a severed arm, chanting in a low, guttural voice before biting into it, tendons snapping under the pressure of his jaws. The others followed suit, tearing at the body with a hunger that was both primal and ritualistic. Their eyes rolled back in ecstasy, mouths stained red, as if they were partaking in some unholy communion.
Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I turned, expecting the worst, but it was Marco. His face was pale, eyes wide with fear. “You weren’t supposed to see this,” he whispered. “They’ll come for you now.”
He dragged me back up the stairs, but it was too late. The chanting had stopped. I could hear footsteps, quick and purposeful, coming up from behind. We ran through the labyrinthine corridors of the Vatican, the ancient stone walls seeming to close in on us. I could hear them – the robed figures, their whispers echoing in the halls.
We burst out into the daylight, but the Vatican guards were waiting. Marco was seized and I was dragged away, screaming, trying to explain what I’d seen. They locked me in a small, windowless room, and for hours I sat there in darkness, waiting for whatever fate awaited me.
Eventually, a cardinal entered. He was calm, composed, and utterly terrifying in his placidity. He sat across from me, his piercing eyes examining my soul. After what felt like an eternity of silence, he began to speak.
“What you witnessed,” he said, his voice smooth and unsettling, “is a sacred rite, a tradition older than Christianity itself. Long before the establishment of the Church, our ancestors discovered a way to commune with the divine, to gain knowledge and power beyond human comprehension.”
He leaned in closer, his breath cold against my face. “This rite, this consumption of the flesh, is a way to absorb the essence, the life force, of the departed. It grants us visions, strength, and longevity. It binds us to the ancient ones, those who walked the earth when it was young and untamed.”
I could feel the bile rising in my throat, but I couldn’t look away. “But why?” I stammered. “Why would you do something so… monstrous?”
His smile was chilling. “Have you ever wondered why the Eucharist, the Communion, is such a central sacrament in Christianity? When Jesus said, ‘This is my body… this is my blood,’ it was not merely symbolic. It was a continuation of an older, more powerful tradition. By consuming the flesh and blood, we become one with the divine.”
The cardinal stood, his robes rustling like whispers of the damned. “But the bread and wine are just a shadow of the true rite. Here, in the depths of the Vatican, we keep the original covenant. The flesh we consume is sanctified, chosen. It is our way of maintaining the connection to the divine, of ensuring the Church’s power endures.”
I was horrified, but he continued, his voice a soothing monotone that belied the horrors he described. “The world is filled with darkness, with forces that seek to corrupt and destroy. We are the guardians, the keepers of balance. To fight such evil, we must embrace the forbidden, the unthinkable. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “You have seen too much. But fear not, for your silence will be assured. You will return to your life, but you will never speak of this. Not to anyone. For if you do, the consequences will be dire.”
I was released the next day, warned never to speak of what I’d seen. Marco was gone. I returned to the States, trying to forget, but the nightmares won’t let me. Every night, I see their faces, hear their chanting. I feel their hunger.
I don’t expect you to believe me. I’m sharing this because someone needs to know. If you ever visit the Vatican, stay with the group. Don’t stray. And if you see a small, unmarked door, turn around and run. Some secrets are worth dying for.

Hi Charlotte i am your bigest fan and More with the AITA story and please consider english isn't my first language.
In my country Mother's Day is on Saturday but in my school they celebrate it on Friday, and we students had to tell our mothers when the celebration was and for context I and my mother do not have a good relationship since since I'm small, she didn't care if she cried because of the hits she gave me for misbehaving and for her it was very dramatic and it got to a point where she hit me with a cable and pulled my hair (my hair is very sensitive and she knew that) and older she would slap me and at one point I thought about leaving my house but I couldn't since my dad and brother lived in another city since my parents were divorced, and during all those years I stopped having a good relationship with my mother and I wasn't on good terms, and those were one of the reasons why I didn't invite her, and because I didn't invite her she got angry and told me over the phone that I was an AH.
so AITA?

Hi there, my rig is officially 10 years old, and while it was beefy when I built it, it's finally starting to struggle. The only thing I have replaced has been the graphics card and the case itself. To start, let me explain what I use my PC for.
I do digital art. Starting to get into 3D rendering. I make very basic pixel art games. I can play most games in my library, but Cities Skyline lags, City Skylines II is unplayable. A gamer, not extraordinarily hard-core about it.
Ok. Onto current specs.
Mobo: MSI Z97 Gaming 5 (does not support modern equipment) (looking for suggestions)
Processor: Intel Core i5-4690k cpu, 4 core @3.50GHZ (looking for suggestions)
Graphics Card: Nvidia GeForce RTX 2060
I do not remember what RAM I installed but it's functional at 16 GB
No wifi, ethernet connected.
And... I think that's all...? I honestly haven't built a PC in a decade and I know the landscape is totally different so I'm feeling kinda clueless on where to start.
I know I need a new mobo and a new CPU. (Can't even upgrade to Windows 11) I plan on reusing the graphics card for now, and keeping my current case, and I'm pretty sure you guys have some opinions on the appropriate amount of RAM to use.
My job has been a bit rocky lately including some late payments to us, so I don't know what my budget is and if they'll catch up on the ~1000 they owe me, hense the "strictly necessary" part of my title. I do use my PC for side gig work so technically this is an investment too. I just can't afford a whole overhaul.
Could someone kind of give me a run down of what's on the market and what my options are? Ryzen products are almost completely alien to me. Ideally I want to get to a "modern base level" so I can upgrade as I go.
Thank you very much!

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

Source: https://www.bungie.net/7/en/News/Article/twid-05-16-2024
This week in Destiny, we are a little over two weeks away from the launch of The Final Shape. From The Witness to the Dread to Prismatic to Exotic class items, and more, there are so many things to be excited about. And today, we have even more to share with you, including some system updates and reworks that will also happen at launch. So, without further ado, let’s get into it!
Topics for this week:

• Weapons tuning recap.
  
• Build your arsenal shorts.
  
• Enhanced perk updates.
  
• Memento changes.
  
• Reduced Fragment costs at Ikora in The Final Shape
  
• New boss profile for The Pantheon.
  
• Zero Hour Exotic mission is live.
  
• METORO webcomic feature.
  
• Destiny 2 Content Vault updates.
  

Weapons Tuning Recap

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Yesterday, we shared details about our plans for weapons tuning in The Final Shape. This includes a change to some weapon mod specs, weapon balancing, and perk updates. For more details, check out our Dev Insight: Weapons Tuning Preview blog.

Build Your Arsenal

As the excitement for The Final Shape is ramping up, we’re sharing a first look at some of the Exotic weapons and armor you can expect to see. Check them out and start cooking up those builds!

Microcosm Heavy Ammo Trace Rifle
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Khostov Auto Rifle
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Mataidoxia Warlock Exotic Chest Armor
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Gifted Conviction Hunter Exotic Chest Armor
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Hazardous Propulsion Titan Exotic Chest Armor
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Enhancement in The Final Shape

During the Lightfall year, players have gotten a taste of weapon enhancement with the raid Adept weapons from Root of Nightmares and Crota's End. In The Final Shape, you'll see that this system has undergone some upgrades, making enhancing your weapons easier and allowing us to comfortably expand this system to include more weapons. Here’s a quick recap on how weapon enhancement will work alongside some of the changes:

• Weapon enhancement allows the weapon to be upgraded to receive enhanced traits, a weapon level, and a memento socket. To upgrade your weapon, players can navigate to the inspection screen and insert the enhancement tier mod for standard currencies (raid Adept weapons will continue to use Spoils of Conquest).

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• Enhancement Tier 1:
  
  • Replaces your Masterwork and provides the weapon with an enhanced intrinsic that matches the stat of your old Masterwork.
  • Provides a weapon level, a date when you first enhanced the weapon, and a memento socket.
  • Raid Adepts only: Since these weapons have a base-crafted version, we want the Adept versions to feel like a meaningful upgrade. Therefore, these weapons can visit the Relic on Mars to adjust their first two columns (typically barrels/magazines) in a similar fashion to how crafted weapons can augment these perk columns.
• Enhancement Tier 2 (weapon level 11 requirement):
  
  • Once the player inserts this mod, the left column trait(s) will automatically be upgraded to their enhanced perks. If you have multiple perks, this will update all traits in the column. Players will not need to visit the Relic on Mars to update these traits anymore.
• Enhancement Tier 3 (weapon level 17 requirement):
  
  • Once the player applies this mod, the right column weapon trait perks will automatically be updated to be enhanced. Like the left column, this will upgrade all of the traits present and does not require visiting the Relic.

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We've heard the feedback that weapons should have more avenues to acquire enhanced traits. In The Final Shape, all new weapons will either be craftable or have access to weapon enhancement. In addition, weapons that remain active drops in the following activities will be eligible for enhancement:

• Vow of the Disciple raid Adepts
  
• Guardian Games
  
• King's Fall raid Adepts
  
• Gambit
  
• Competitive Crucible (all of them)
  
• Trials of Osiris
  
• Crucible
  
• Iron Banner
  
• Vanguard Ops
  
• Nightfalls
  
• Prophecy Dungeon
  

This will include older instances of these weapons, as long as they have an origin trait. Unfortunately, due to some technical constraints, there are a handful of weapons instances from before Season 17 that have origin traits and are active drops, but they will not be eligible for weapon enhancement. If a weapon is not actively dropping in these activities and playlists or it’s under the legacy focusing options, it will not be enhance-able when The Final Shape releases. If weapons are reissued and become a part of a playlist's active drops once again, we'll update older versions that have origin traits to enter weapon enhancement.

Mementos in The Final Shape

We've received a lot of feedback on weapon mementos, especially as new mementos have released in our seasonal events. In The Final Shape, we have a few changes coming that impact how you store mementos and apply them to your weapons.

• Crafted and enhanced weapons will no longer need to visit the Relic on Mars to apply mementos. Players can apply the memento of their choosing directly in the weapon inspection screen.
  
• Memento stack cap limits will be raised from 1 to 3.
  
• Mementos will no longer be stored alongside the player's consumables. When The Final Shape launches, your mementos under consumables will show as faded. Then, once the faded memento is dismantled, you'll see +1 memento added in the weapon inspection screen as a virtual currency. For players who figured out how to get around the original memento stack size limits, this will allow you to dismantle all those mementos safely, even if you temporarily go over the intended stack limit of three. If you are holding three (or more) of a particular memento, it will not drop again until you spend your mementos to be under the stack size limit of three.
  

Reduced Fragment Costs at Ikora In The Final Shape

Subclass Fragments purchasable from Ikora are expensive, particularly considering how many there are, especially for New Lights. In The Final Shape, we have reduced the cost of Fragments from 25000 Glimmer to 10000 Glimmer. Our goal here is to make these vital build-crafting elements more accessible for new and returning players.

The Pantheon Grows Stronger

Another week, and your task has become more difficult, Guardians. Rhulk, Disciple of the Witness, has joined The Pantheon, and we’ve gathered intel for your mission.
VANGUARD – GUARDIAN DISPATCH – ALL POINTS BULLETIN
DEFENDERS OF THE CITY,
You are tasked with the elimination of the following target:

-RHULK, DISCIPLE OF THE WITNESS-
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CLASSIFICATION

• The last-known Lubraean
  
• First Disciple of the Witness
  
• Other names: The Upender, Worm Father
  
• Dread
  
• Resonant
  

HAZARDS

• Darkness mastery
  
• Immeasurable strength and durability
  
• Powerful Lubrae’s Ruin Glaive
  
• Suns of Lubrae attack and debuff
  
• Savage Strike kick
  
• Umbral Suffocation attack
  
• Teleportation
  
• Resonant Spikes area effect
  
• Guardians rated Sigma-3 or lower are advised not to engage
  

INTEL

• Rhulk was born on the planet Lubrae, a world originally blessed by the Traveler that spiraled into an authoritarian regime when the Traveler left. Fueled by rage, Rhulk sought to destroy the regime, but his bloodlust led to being ostracized from his clan. Eventually, afraid of what he’d become, his clan attempted to kill him.
  
• Decrypted records from the Pyramid indicate that the Witness made contact with Rhulk during this time, restored him, and empowered him as the first Disciple. Rhulk took his vengeance on Lubrae, annihilating its parent star and destroying the planet.
  
• Vanguard power assessments place Rhulk far above any previous enemy faced by any Guardian. Battle scholars theorize the bold fireteam that stormed the sunken Pyramid only prevailed due to Rhulk’s humoring a fight to begin with. But prevail they did.
  

OF NOTE

• Hidden cipher-sequences buried in the symbols throughout have been decrypted by a pioneering Cryptarch, thanks to countless fireteams keeping the way clear. The solved sequence is believed to be astronomical coordinates to Lubrae. (Probe dispatched… awaiting arrival.)
  
• The creation of the Hive was majorly influenced by Rhulk. The first Disciple of the Witness subjugated the Worm mother, Xita, and forced her spawn into union with the Krill, which led to the Hive species and the Hive Gods themselves.
  
• Cryptarchs have uncovered communications between Rhulk and Savathûn in which Savathûn derides Rhulk’s simplicity as a tactician. According to the Witch Queen, the first Disciple only values strength, and his downfall will be his brute force approach to every situation.
  

Zero Hour Exotic Mission Is Live

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The Zero Hour Exotic mission is now live. If you haven’t jumped in yet, you can find it in the Into the Light node in the Director. Completing the mission in the required timeframe will earn you the Outbreak Perfected Exotic Pulse Rifle.
As we mentioned last week, we’re celebrating the release by asking you to share your favorite moments with TR3-VR. Post your favorite art, screenshots, videos, or memes — anything that shows your love for our favorite overly attached robot. Just use the hashtag #MyFriendTR3VR. We’ll be giving our favorites an Art or Movie of the Week emblem and sharing your creations in a future TWID.

METORO Webcomic Feature

Do you like cute webcomics? Of course you do! Check out these weekly panels from Japanese webcomic artist METORO that detail her first journey into Destiny 2! Remember what it was like the first time you got your hands on the Gjallarhorn? How about your first raid? Piecing together the story behind the Light and Darkness saga? Well, METORO has put her Destiny 2 adventures into art form. You can catch her original work over on TwitteX in Japanese or read it translated into English below:

METORO Discovers Destiny 2

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METORO Challenges Onslaught

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METORO Teaches a History Lesson

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METORO Runs Vault of Glass

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METORO Takes on The Pantheon

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Player Support Report

"I would die for Archie” did not mean I wanted him to actively be the death of me.
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Known Issues List Help Forums Bungie Help Twitter

DESTINY CONTENT VAULT UPDATES

With the start of Year 7 of Destiny 2, on June 4 certain items will be deprecated from player inventories that correspond with vaulted activities and seasonal campaigns. They will then be moved into the Destiny Content Vault.
We have updated the Destiny Content Vault article to reflect these changes and created a new article fully outlining Items Being Deprecated at the Start of Year 7 for players to reference.

PARENTAL CONTROLS

Parents, guardians, and other responsible adults are now able to adjust their child’s Destiny 2 settings.
To set up parental controls, both the child and their adult need a Bungie.net account, and we will need to verify that the person providing consent and setting controls is an adult. We have created a Parental Controls Help article with details explaining how to create an account and instructions on linking it to your child's.
We have also updated our privacy policy. Please visit Bungie.net to create or manage your account and set your preferences today.

KNOWN ISSUES

While we continue investigating various known issues, here is a list of the latest issues that were reported to us in our #Help Forum:

• Capturing a zone in the Collision PvP game mode while having full super energy will slightly reduce Super energy.
  
• Tormentors can push turrets away in Onslaught with their slam or grab attacks.
  
• The Zero Deaths Triumph only unlocks when completing Zero Hour on the Legend difficulty, which should unlock on both Normal and Legend difficulties.
  

For a full list of emergent issues in Destiny 2, players can review our Known Issues article.
If you observe other issues, please report them to our #Help forum.

Who’s The Fairest Of Them All?

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This is what happens when someone asks you to draw your favorite Ghost Shell. The classic 77-way first-place tie.
Cheeese Lord on TwitteX
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A Titan’s Sacrifice

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Why does it always seem to be Titans dying in spectacular fashion? Is it because they are the bravest class, charging into battle to protect others without worrying about their own well-being? Uh... yeah, we can just go with that.
Movie of the Week:
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That’s everything we have for this week. Hopefully you’ve been having fun on the new PvP maps. We know there is a lot to do in these final weeks before The Final Shape, but if you haven’t checked the PvP maps out yet, jump into the New Territory playlist to give them a try. Not only are they beautiful and fun, you can also earn the Slaycation emblem by checking them out.
We’ll be back next week with another TWID and more details to share on The Final Shape. In the meantime, be good to each other, and thanks for hanging out with us.
Destiny 2 Community Team